"scurrilous" poems
On days like this
cool, with little winds
desert birds forage for sticks
they build nests perched in cactus
some build green in palo verde trees
always I think of baby birds in spring
hatchlings, the fledglings that fly
I travel far beyond the noise of towns
watch the movement of cooling clouds
the roundness of rain upon the ground
the grey banked scurrilous skies
of hurried birds, their silhouettes before a storm
daisies that close, cold amid the stones
beneath where snakes and lizards go
slither and crawl in this landscape of saguaros
and I, ever tethered can only dream to fly.
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 7:45 AM UTC
There is nothing here
Not the façade of a façade
Can’t you see our idea fading?
We thought we were Hobbes’ Leviathan
The modern alchemists of state
We’re nothing more than rodents!
Scurrilous, maladapted membranes
Spewing from democracy forth
Ought they to encapsulate us?
They must needs encapsulate the naïve!
Whiling away at the trough as though livestock
I’m to be ground on the wheel regardless;
Nay, stretched on the rack of modernity!
By the comforts of progress and superficiality
Sought after as if vital
By the people, “We the people!”
Rallying cry for throngs, imprisoning themselves
With society, a subtle hocus pocus
The trite, aged argument
Of those who’d force you build your very tenement
Paying rent to breathe,
Countless yet believe
Tripartite consumer, greed and slavery
Surrounding you and me
Separating ignorance from squalor
In a ghetto of the mind
You're right, we're alright
Jul 28, 2010
Jul 28, 2010 at 9:11 PM UTC
He’s a spoiled rich kid
In the land of the one percent.
He feels no remorse for
Those who can’t pay their rent.
He’s popular with fools
And a bunch of toothless boozers
All the while laughing
And calling them all losers.
The favorite son of the GOP
Says nothing with specificity.
He just makes vague promises
He has no idea what his platform is.
He only knows if he stirs up hate
He will win certain delegates.
He won’t be held to the fire
Half-truths work for him just fine.
He’d prefer you not inquire.
Nobody makes him toe the line.
He is paraphrasing fascism
Like he’s the one who invented it.
It’s like Germany in 1930s
They could have easily prevented it.
The favorite son of the GOP
Says nothing with specificity.
He just makes vague promises
He has no idea what his platform is.
He only knows if he stirs up hate
He will win certain delegates.
Here’s the way to make it
Work the best for a new dictatorship.
You take the populace along
On your traveling one-man ego trip
After your party has published
Scurrilous big lies about the opposition
Then spread a lot more rumors
Which gives the voters their ammunition.
The favorite son of the GOP
Says nothing with specificity.
He just makes vague promises
He has no idea what his platform is.
He only knows if he stirs up hate
He will win certain delegates.
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 3:35 PM UTC
I had a boss
When I worked,
A black-hearted sycophant
We'll call Bert.
There was no escaping
From this ****
Unless Daddy'd sheathed
Before his squirt.
He was the smiling villain,
With a glad-handshake,
And a slap on the back:
One never knew of his scurrilous attacks
On reputation,
On self-esteem,
This viper slithered
In my Garden of Eden.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 5:00 PM UTC
Our Father
Woe! to these demonic determined downtrodden deceivers,
Woe! Oh Thine merciless mendicants of misery and maleficent mendacity
Woe! Oh common corrupt conniving cunning calumnious crusaders of crucifixion...
scurrilous screeds scribbling sorrows
The Lord will sharpen thou pencils...
Thou pocket protectors whilst melt into thine *******
Thou spectacles opaque and permanently smudged...with other assorted
myriad miseries
Thou mittens will be smitten with interminable degeneracy...
Oh languid leaders of licentious lubricious larceny..
Oh craving calculating copious concupiscent calumnious falsifiers...
Oh maudlin mocking manipulators, multitudinous marauding machinations
**Thy God is an angry God
a vengeful God
a jealous God**
Oh **** pots and gall! Oh sordid ****** insalubrious denizens of depraved degeneracy
Take heed thou names mightn't appear in the almighty book of life when judgement deigns an
opprobrious order of objurgation
terrible tragic tempestous tribulations of treachery
Oh Woe! Alas!
They are fallacious febrile fabricators, fallen , fragmented flawed fugacious furtive falsifiers!!
scalawags and rapscallions..rascals of ribaldry..forlorn fallen away backslidden recalcitrants…
Oh misguided miserable miscreants, maladies and agitation be thy lot!
This rant has been brought to you by:
The Most High and Holy Priest of the Ignoble Church of Alliteration & Utter Skepticisim
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 5:54 PM UTC
On days like this
cool, with little winds
desert birds forage for sticks
they build nests perched in cactus
some build green in palo verde trees
always I think of baby birds in spring
hatchlings, the fledglings that fly
I travel far beyond the noise of towns
watch the movement of cooling clouds
the roundness of rain upon the ground
the grey banked scurrilous skies
of hurried birds, their silhouettes before a storm
daisies that close, cold amid the stones
beneath where snakes and lizards go
slither and crawl in this landscape of saguaros
and I, ever tethered can only dream to fly.
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 8:49 PM UTC
.
Scurrilous birds fly by,
To nest in the little painted
Houses left clear for them,
In awkward circles they romp
Their peculiar dramas
With ****** wings.
Do they even witness
The skies revolving canvas,
New masterpieces each day,
How the light shimmers
In the sparkle rays of sun,
How the golden fields,
Of vales in sighted sweep
And dance, airy etudes,
By the windfall gusts
So suddenly arising?
These visions are marks
For but few, who hear time
As it plays in stepped quartets
Of the spiraling seasons song,
For the lone mercies, gifts,
To ones most gentle, merest,
Spirited eyes who gaze deftly,
Deep in sacred days,
From a window.
.
Dec 22, 2018
Dec 22, 2018 at 7:36 PM UTC
Those who maliciously destroy
Reputations. They slime their way
Over the Internet. Completely
Lacking in courage, they go behind backs,
Lashing out at their victims with
Scurrilous versions of "the truth".
SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 5:55 PM UTC
they do not speak
mouths sutured shut
their words, thoughts, appear on their skin
like some curious cuneiform, deciphered not
by those who wield the scurrilous scalpels
that maimed them
they do not speak
though their screams appear
as a rapacious rash of cocky consonants,
their whispers as smooth vowels
on their exposed hides
they do not speak
but hear the flapping of butterflies’ wings
the blinking of a dead dogs’ eyes
and the sound stars made
upon colossal collapse
they do not speak
but emit eerie odors in fecund olfactory code
“lesser beasts” read with feral snouts
and see on the breached breaths
the silenced try
to conceal
they do not speak
though they see the mocking mouths of their captors
and their words that fly through the air
slicing through these mutes, as if
they were never there
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 11:17 PM UTC
The Cat and the Hobo went off on a jaunt,
At midnight for a spot of small mirth
Both as dead as the above, of ribcage most gaunt
The Hobo wishing hard for more girth.
"So say, Mr. Pussycat", said the Hobo unyielding
"How bout a small race, for naught but a prize
Which I should haste to add is of insignificant size
All just for fun, old kitty unfailing."
The Cat's sharp ears pricked. A darkening rampage
Would thanks to his ears be of humongous advantage
To the felinous fellow of movements most scurrilous
For the Hobo, he thought, t'would be ruinous.
He came closer to shake
His hand on the deal
But no sooner was his paw benevolently outstretched
That the hobo had him in his arms most wretched
"Oh you Cat, for once in my life my lack is too real
Of you a stew my old friend I shall make."
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 12:12 PM UTC
The afternoon sky with its wine dark clouds
red blushed and blue, moments before the rain drenching greys
the scurrilous skies, the black winged silhouettes that fly
amid the cactus trees, thick with chaparral
a total reconstruction of sunny soft memories
this cold tumbling storm that moves overhead
to form, this desert raining lake.
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 8:27 PM UTC
“Words fall short ever in my heart,
Lines from my lips really fails to start,
When I try to pen you with, lexicon’s art.
Rhymes are scattered all in the sky,
Like a fleet of scurrilous beautiful butterflies,
To comprehend you but, I do not qualify.
Hours now my canvas is unspoken,
Scribbled your name just as a token,
Only to realize then, your name in itself, is a poem.”
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 2:18 PM UTC
.
Scurrilous birds fly by,
To nest in the little painted
Houses left clear for them,
In awkward circles they romp
Their peculiar dramas
With ****** wings.
Do they even witness
The skies revolving canvas,
New masterpieces each day,
How the light shimmers
In the sparkle rays of sun,
How the golden fields,
Of vales in sighted sweep
And dance, airy etudes,
By the windfall gusts
So suddenly arising?
These visions are marks
For but few, who hear time
As it plays in stepped quartets
Of the spiraling seasons song,
For the lone mercies, gifts,
To ones most gentle, merest,
Spirited eyes who gaze deftly,
Deep in sacred days,
From a window.
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 2:31 PM UTC
You are like a rain,
Sometimes pleasant, gentle soft.
Sometimes unseasonably heavy.
You are like a night,
Sometimes moonlit, misty.
Sometimes extremely dark and cold.
You are like dream,
Sometimes blissful and romantic.
Sometimes bizarre, incomprehensible.
You are like a talk,
Sometimes heart-to-heart.
Sometimes ribald, scurrilous.
You are like a wind,
Sometimes gentle.
Sometimes strong gusty.
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 12:10 AM UTC
"Slowly, silently, now the moon..."--Walter de la Mare
If only the days slipped soft
Eider down from quiet skies
“Slowly, silently now the moon”
Crests and ebbs in the star swept horizon
Mercury moments I consider the sinister things
The rush of blood banging at the back of my throat
The cadence of daybreak
And heart break and darkness hearkens
Scurrilous thoughts scatter faster
Roaches at the flip of a switch
Writhe in the light
Seek solace in shadows
Rats scrabble for higher ground in the downpour
Drown me now but I’ll never be clean
I carry the disease of this civilized beast
Scorpions under my tongue
And splinters in my skin
The higher rungs are toxic
And the air thick with afterburn
The antiphon of the apathetic
Chirrs me from daydream to entropy
Peace is hospice for poets and fools
Grit under my nails
And ***** in my mouth
Forever falling forward
The warp and weft stretched
Taut expectation
Of the cut that never comes
Just let me fall
Feather light and quiet
Let the gravity relentless
Have her way
TLBoehm
040113
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC
Flickering like a tentative alpenglow corraded from profaned time
A whisper jostles through a crowded rumpus prescient of teleology and design
Jolting with pangs of panic a screech emanates from the brontides of tomorrow
A chagrin outpaces the gingerly apprehension of a peevish sorrow
Among the ruffled plumes quaffed from pedigree and put to disuse
A banausic electricity galvanizes the ****** of the amalgamated acuity pinched from the sordid, the obtuse
Refracted like off a darkened moon that clenches the darkness in an abstruse tomb
Combs through sentience of Saturn presiding over ineluctable doom
A silence louder than a plangent ****** of phantasmagoria debased
A looming victor erodes with the putrefaction of sworn and utter distaste
How to obtrude on the evening with triaged fulmination
Is an affront to the rudders of a piecemeal civilization in tatters with exacting doddering calculation
Graveyards bustle with the eidolons of scurrilous spite
Congregating around a blackened epitaph on an alabaster palace gilded in the swanky pinnacle of light
Scuttling the outmoded flanks of an abortive war
Against a henchman of state too ostentatious to hardly ever ignore
We clamber with insistence hoping on fortuitous deliverance
Yet we are deranged of the clasped distance between the crevasse of the clerisy and the satisdiction of futures passed with meticulous diligence
Absconding with furtive furrows on a wizened guild an entrusted world we helped build
We witness the silence creep over us like a trepidation contained as lethal killers of the cartel willed
That which frightens a self-fulfillment is a fatalism gone awry
Someday soon omens excavated from immolated tombs will beseech a more universal backlash, an alienated sorrow that will one day cry
But until that fetched disaster occurs
Let us meditate only on the process of emanation among wayward words
That dance with a destiny that the hegemony of momentary circumstance much prefers
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 2:19 AM UTC
Scurrilous birds fly by,
To nest in the little painted
Houses left clear for them,
In awkward circles they romp
Their peculiar dramas
With ****** wings.
Do they even witness
The skies revolving canvas,
New masterpieces each day,
How the light shimmers
In the sparkle rays of sun,
How the golden fields,
Of vales in sighted sweep
And dance, airy etudes,
By the windfall gusts
So suddenly arising?
These visions are marks
For but few, who hear time
As it plays in stepped quartets
Of the spiraling seasons song,
For the lone mercies, gifts,
To ones most gentle, merest,
Spirited eyes who gaze deftly,
Deep in sacred days,
From a window.
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 7:49 PM UTC
Today, I was scolded
Was told that I was a boor;
That I had, inadvertently
Rendered some holy cattle
Of theirs a death rattle
A battle I won, without knowing
I had even fought, thought
I was just being amusing,
Somehow confusing my path
Down through the tulips
As a meander down the apse
Of some secret church.
Unfair! I was unaware.
And even now, I fear I care
Far less than they do
About their holy cows.
I didn’t then, I don’t now.
But, I have accepted, long ago
That, with social networking
I simply has to be so
That people will be offended;
Starting open-ended rancor,
Scoring slash after ****** slash
Across my Mr. Perfection sash
Granted me by nobody but me,
And that they will put a smudge
By bearing a grudge
About what I see
As a trifling inconsequentiality.
But is their cathedral,
Their Mecca to bow to
And thus I will be the target
Of slings and arrows.
Shall I be sure to only speak
If I speak plenty of inanities
Muttering banalities about love
And the weather and books
Shall I fear the looks, the scorn
Born of misunderstandings
Taken as mishandling
The hearts of the tender
And render myself informationless,
Opinion free, without personality
Speaking when spoken to eternally
So I don’t trip over hidden wires,
Don’t **** on burning fires
Of pet peeves, rip off the sleeves
Of hair shirts, do idols dirt?
Is that the way it should go?
I don’t think so.
But, what do I know?
I am the scurrilous, stumbling fool
Who ****** in someone’s pool
And told them it was raining.
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 1:04 AM UTC
On days like this
cool, with little winds
desert birds forage for sticks
they build nests perched in cactus
some build green in palo verde trees
always I think of baby birds in spring
hatchlings, the fledglings that fly
I travel far beyond the noise of towns
watch the movement of cooling clouds
the roundness of rain upon the ground
the grey banked scurrilous skies
of hurried birds, their silhouettes before a storm
daisies that close, cold amid the stones
beneath where snakes and lizards go
slither and crawl in this landscape of saguaros
and I, ever tethered can only dream to fly.
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 10:33 AM UTC
Why are folks malicious
When they could be kind?
Scurrilous and vicious
Pigheaded and blind.
They would rather spill the milk
Than watch for the cup.
They'd rather tear down others
Rather than build up.
Why do people war?
I'm not talking nations,
I'm talking of each of us
We have our own hate relations
Why?
Why?
Why?
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 9:42 PM UTC
Day to day
Lips of values; simpler eyes
Wishes so profound, asking if intellect may?
Deciding upon sharing, a whetted appetite for why...
Is a humanity seen, the better voice to lead?
Quiet bother, the serious
If not the scurrilous; a wish so alive in said...
Solace and virtue, a place for each seldom of hope, curious...
Wet eyes, with a moment to tell?
Why the tear of valor, to make a realm in each, a patience?
Having come and went to wisdom for a word, with hell...
Which has become a raging stir, of what was a heart of vanity, with terror for ages?
Your strength, if not the storm of perseverance
I've seen to be; a dance in the sunlight...
Where a sigh of requite, is no requiem, of vehement chance
A voice of change, that has become only better in insight's mind
An obvious example, comes to mine...
If the twain is to be a champion, of what we know for truth
Isn't a wish the future, as if a premonition was forever kind...
Every spirit of determination, asking what is a light to risen youth?
Jul 1, 2024
Jul 1, 2024 at 1:32 PM UTC
Scurrilous birds fly by,
To nest in the little painted
Houses left clear for them,
In awkward circles they romp
Their peculiar dramas
With ****** wings.
Do they even witness
The skies revolving canvas,
New masterpieces each day,
How the light shimmers
In the sparkle rays of sun,
How the golden fields,
Of vales in sighted sweep
And dance, airy etudes,
By the windfall gusts
So suddenly arising?
These visions are marks
For but few, who hear time
As it plays in stepped quartets
Of the spiraling seasons song,
For the lone mercies, gifts,
To ones most gentle, merest,
Spirited eyes who gaze deftly,
Deep in sacred days,
From a window.
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 7:20 PM UTC
Burn brighter than the fire around you
Take what is yours with fire and blood
Answer injustice with justice
You said he's a scurrilous?
Tell him, "The next time you raise a hand to me will be the last time you have hands."
Scream " Dracarys" and succumb the world of sinisters with your fire.
You're Daenerys Stormborn, the unburnt, the refuser of Patriarchy.
So ask the world to bend their knee.
One who touches your loved one
Destroy him for the sake of your wine.
Get as bad as you can if it's about people who are your life
This world is no more of sword or blood, it's of strategies and vengeance.
Know that everyone who isn't you, is an enemy.
Tell them you're Cersei Lannister, the epitome of strength and power.
And in this "game of respect" you win or you die. There's no middle ground.
Learn to fight alone.
Be as swift as a deer and quiet as a shadow.
Quick as a snake and clam as still water.
Be confident of your skills.
Mark every man's name who once even thought of hurting you.
Recite them every night.
You're Arya Stark and you're a savage.
Ask them to **** every Arya from this world if they want to **** because
"Leave one wolf alive and the sheep are never safe."
You've a long way to go
Today isn't the day you lose.
You shouldn't have teased this lil' princess
You made my skin turn to porcelain, to ivory, to steel
No one could have ever loved you the way I did.
I can even love and die for a monster.
But do not mistake my innocence as my weakness.
I am Sansa Stark and I am one the wolves and I can survive the coldest night better than you. You taught me how to.
I am a slow learner but I do learn.
Oh! I forgot to give the disclaimer.
Game of thrones fan would understand it better.
And if you're not a fan, that's not a matter.
It's all about throne, women and their power.
And this world is all about evils, women and their power.
Apr 23, 2019
Apr 23, 2019 at 5:47 AM UTC
Cool, calm and comforting
arising darkly from the hill
cool, calm, comforting
it flows there still.
By the aspen
by the shrunken sedge
by the aspen
by the bracken on the window ledge,
Bird and scurrilous badger
over muddy field
bird and badger
where foxgloves yield
scents like rashes
into the sun filled air
scents like rashes
where the twitchy rabbits stare
the sky yawns towards sunset
the lounging clouds fill
the sky yawns towards sunset
where the arched light will-
chaffinch peeks above
elm branch and bough
chaffinch peeks above
in solitude now.
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 7:02 PM UTC