"scurvy" poems
Serendipitous
Sirens
******
Seasick
Sailors to
Satiate
Sickly
Sensual
Seconds
Stalked full of
Sexually
Stimulating
Sentences
Second only to
*** itself;
Sad for
Seasick
Scurvy
Sailors
Syphilis will
Soon
Succeed
Sanity.
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 10:14 PM UTC
Don't **** the Genie
Peg-leg Pete, the pirate, in the good old days of old;
found a sealed amphora, whilst searching for some gold.
The label bore a warning & a faded, scary skull
but Peg-leg Pete was curious & gave the **** a pull.
The bottle appeared empty, so he gave it quite a shake.
A rumbling, grumbling let him know – a genie was awake!
“You didn't ought to do that, you one-legged, one-eyed beast;
to someone who's been fast asleep, a hundred years, at least!”
The genie was so angry, like a bear, with a sore head.
“You'll only get one wish for that, so make it count.” he said.
“Only one!” poor Pete complained. “but I've just set you free.
I've got the very task though, that you can do for me.”
“Me owd peg-leg has woodworm & me glass-eye's on the blink;
me 'ooks gone rusty & me trusty ship's about to sink.
If you can make me whole again, one wish will be enough.
So, come on grumpy genie, shake a leg & do your stuff!”
“Make sure you word your wish exact, for there's no going back.”
The genie smirked, then got to work & everything went black.
When Pete came round, he quickly found his hook & peg-leg there
& underneath it's tatty patch, his glass-eye's icy stare.
“What trick is this, you scurvy dog, you've gone back on your word?”
“I think not Pete, just look around & see what has occurred.
Your ship is now a merchant & that warehouse on the dock.
It's yours, for import/export work – for honest trade old ****
Pete
“I don't get this, I'm still stood here,
like Ahab, off the whaler.”
Genie, smirking
“You asked me, quite specifically
to make you a whole-saler!”
Briz 5/11/13
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 3:35 AM UTC
You and I are going to settle this score
Now that you've abandoned your special snowflake campaign
And overcome your Stockholm Syndrome
A dynasty has been created
The snowball's chance begins to take effect
The short order cook has taken a tall order
A citrus feast for a ship of marauders
To prevent scurvy
The maitre d' disarmed them at the door
And allowed them to infiltrate the dining hall
The captain sat and twiddled his thumbs while his crew cut loose
The first mate drank fire water and shot it out of his nose
The quarter master ordered some fiddlesticks served on door glass
The boatswain ordered the insemination of a cow so he could eat the cow and all of its offspring
It was his first day eating meat again
He remembered his vegan salad days
The carpenter and ****** constructed a shrine of after dinner mints
And conducted a seance to talk to their old crew mate, Black eyed Ollie
He squandered his life searching the sea for a doctor to restore his sight
They planned to revive him and allow his spirit to possess one of them
And sure enough Black eyed Ollie entered the seaman's body and they took turns controlling the fleshy vessel
Black eyed Ollie got every day of the week that ended in "Y" and the seaman got the rest
The filching crew of blighters finished their meal and went on their way
They left quite a tip
"Actions speak louder than words and money talks too
Yet talk is cheap
But time is money
So every burning second counts
Then let's freeze time
Take action and buy all the talk at whole sale price
And sell it at retail price"
So pay up man, I told you working here would be interesting
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 4:56 PM UTC
the limelight is bitter like scurvy's cure
and yet I still reach for the plastic crown
the camera flash burns purple circles behind my eyelids
my finger twitches under the weight of the promises told with
crossed fingers in everyone's eyes
fishhooks tear my face and force the smile
skin taut and reaching for their arms
a touch an embrace
anything
why are computer screens so cold
the light bouncing off my crown
and into my eyes
so hungry
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 6:47 PM UTC
Worry is a scurvy rat
It is a man's main bane
It chews on your self esteem
It nibbles at your brain
It will take your precious time
Your energies will claim
It will hobble your very life
It will make you lame
You may try to capture it
But that is all in vain
Doubt is like a cancer
It eats at your bones
It takes breath from your very lungs
It turns your mind to stone
It makes you feel incomplete
It makes you weep and moan
Under it's all-nagging pain
You will retch and groan
It is resistant to all cures
And you cannot atone
Fear is like a little death
It turns the heart to straw
It strikes like a rattlesnake
With poison in its maw
It's like a fascist dictator
Who makes the harshest laws
It can take your greatest strength
Make it pernicious flaw
Like a sadistic doctor
With a large chainsaw!
How can a person battle
Worry, Doubt and Fear?
How can our lives get better?
How can we have cheer?
Jack Daniels has no answer
It's not Budweiser beer...
It may be elusive
At first just like a wraith
But once you have a hold on it
*The answer is our FAITH.*
SoulSurvivor
(C) 5/27/2016
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 4:42 PM UTC
Is this true
darling
what I hear
that the cult you submitted o
won’t let you see mum and dad?
And little Tom you left behind?
That the leader takes you nights
to tell you
God wants him to
explore your body and give Him an account?
Is this true
darling
what I hear?
that the cult you submitted to
has convinced you
Last Days are here
and in the fear of it all
you **** in your pants?
O lucky you
you’re the chosen one
you make holy water
so call in your cult
and let them drink it
or let them all lick it off your legs
tell them
darling
*‘Here drink of this
the holy water
or lick it off
salt and urea
produced with faith and fear’*
Give it back to the cult
tell them it is benediction
of Last Days
and they who drink it
will be amongst the elect
and those who lick it off
will sit on the right hand side of God;
and darling
produce prodigious amounts
as in the time of the Great Flood
tell them to queue and not squabble
there’s plenty for everyone of you
and if they say
they’re hungry
if you could
bring in holy food
tell them
a visit to the Scurvy Dogs Pound
can easily be arranged
O is this true
darling
what I hear?
that the intelligence
and mind
nature took so long to make in you
you blew it
on charlatans and nincompoops
and yourself became one?
Oct 15, 2010
Oct 15, 2010 at 11:39 PM UTC
I'd rather
chill in some place
and burn an L
with you,
than let my tongue
get live
in any other
larynx
that never knew your name,
I'd rather
read a bad book
in your name
than a good book
in someone else's,
I know
that I was looking
at a landform
and not a landmass,
a being
more
than a thing,
what I want to know,
is why we leave each other alone
when no one
is an island
and there are no boatless
harbors?
I'd rather capture
your laughs
as I cup my ears,
and your tears
in the stern
of my fears.
I'd rather be
a relic
and possibly
a fuel
rather than
a nautilus
with nothing in its shell
to give.
I've taken the boat out
and the oars
trip up on grass
as I paddle through the bay of the asylum
across lime oceans
contracting scurvy
from too much fertilizer
and not enough fruit.
Feb 13, 2012
Feb 13, 2012 at 8:20 PM UTC
Is this true
darling
what I hear
that the cult you submitted o
won’t let you see mum and dad?
And little Tom you left behind?
That the leader takes you nights
to tell you
God wants him to
explore your body and give Him an account?
Is this true
darling
what I hear?
that the cult you submitted to
has convinced you
Last Days are here
and in the fear of it all
you **** in your pants?
O lucky you
you’re the chosen one
you make holy water
so call in your cult
and let them drink it
or let them all lick it off your legs
tell them,
darling:
‘Here drink of this
the holy water
or lick it off
salt and urea
produced with faith and fear’
Give it back to the cult
tell them it is benediction
of Last Days
and they who drink it
will be amongst the elect
and those who lick it off
will sit on the right hand side of God;
and darling
produce prodigious amounts
as in the time of the Great Flood
tell them to queue and not squabble
there’s plenty for everyone of you
and if they say
they’re hungry
if you could
bring in holy food
tell them
a visit to the Scurvy Dogs Pound
can easily be arranged
O is this true
darling
what I hear?
that the intelligence
and mind
nature took so long to make in you
you blew it
on charlatans and nincompoops
and yourself became one?
Oct 28, 2010
Oct 28, 2010 at 2:44 AM UTC
Lone whales, clinging to the edge of the ocean
As they fall, their tears become pearls,
feeding the clams and making the oysters jealous.
The winds become waves of apathy
agonizing and obscure as life itself.
Resentment drives sailors to scurvy,
they are plundering their own souls!
And as the tides rise with the moon,
time turns back on itself, and we are free.
Potent with ideas of how to exist,
but to whom do we belong?
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 12:06 AM UTC
Ayr ye scurvy turnpike,
turn yer eyes from me!
The beauty of yer blizzard blue
tears me flannel heart.
Ye bake me mind into applesauce
that hotly drools on down,
me stomache is dissolvin-
all me courage ye have drowned.
Ayre ye wretched rogue of lies,
no one could be so fair.
Must be an imagination demon
with soft an tender hair.
When yer tongue tangs sharply on me lips
me life is drained and dying.
shut that song of love ye sing
that sets me soul a flyin.
Ayre ye **** banshee
Don't never let me go,
Grip me with yer slender claws
so closely we can gro.
This world can't stop yer fire
were gonna burn it down,
with nights of satin passion
were gonna paint the town.
Ayre me ***** of wonders,
ye know I keep ye dear.
I thank ye for yer nightmares
that ye give me every year.
Feb 5, 2010
Feb 5, 2010 at 10:56 PM UTC
The Banshee screamed
a song of sirens, chasing us down
the scenic route, out of a state
filled with grape vines laden
with last year’s shriveled raisins,
and lake shores made of unrefined gravel
and severed beaver’s feet.
Her shriek descended
on the windshield, a shower
of arrows off of a warring
edifice and the wind whipped
them in torrents, sewing a shredded dress
for her raging and thunderstruck body.
We were sun-burnt
and laughing, at two ponies
jumping 4ft fences and the twenty
turkey vultures circling
a mating ground made of a tree carcass
filled with nests and courting rituals.
The tolls to cross
the border were left way past
the back seat. So we soon forgot
about rain-washed vineyards
and houses filled to the brim
with empty birdcages
and broken porcelain dolls.
And as she drove,
my friend said that one
of our tires was grinding
and that we were 300 miles past
an oil change. But the Banshee
soon lost to the lake
and drown with the rest
of her drunken, scurvy sailors.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 7:51 PM UTC
Theres never the right words to describe feeling like I feel, even if the right words existed they would fail to properly define how scared I am for myself and my actions and the results that these poor ******** who love me will have to go through. The very awareness of my intelligence and my unbelievable fortune are for some reason both my only blessing and ultimate demise because the luckiest man in the world is never content. Im sick inside, im sure im dying. Why cant I just start over, I know id do it the same, only maybe id see it earlier, maybe I could spare her the pain she doesn’t yet know is coming.
Apr 6, 2010
Apr 6, 2010 at 7:22 PM UTC
stop acting like emotions exist singularly in the one moment.
if they did; we’d be expressing that emotion for the first time each time we smiled or cried or felt hurt. we’d have no triggers; no memories of previous emotions.
emotions are like mercury in the body. they build up. the presence of them already within the body shapes the way the new emotions are felt and expressed.
betrayal after betrayal is like scurvy.
your body doesn’t really heal in the sense we think of; it covers up the scars with collagen. when you have scurvy, you don’t have enough vitamin a, and body stops making collagen.
and all the old wounds open up again, amongst your new ones
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 7:12 AM UTC
Chapter Two -poem-Neva Flores
Sometimes I get tired of having so little time
and plainly seeing my surroundings
crying out before the scent of dawn
has bloomed.
Can a single cloud breathe in
all of the warm air
that hails my universe,
removing all reason to wake up,
live life and resume?
I look at fleeing ships
whose sails are full of thunder
and I hear a song
dissolving the wildest parts of me.
Each note dances in the breeze
dropping its own melody
inside my heart
until it becomes the only thing
I hear inside my soul
and I struggle to even
breathe.
I was a cabin boy on a tallmasted ship.In the Straits of Gibraltor.Yes they did not know I was female but that was my well kept secret.one does have to survive in this world and by hook or crook I planned on doing just that.my name is Samuel.well really Samantha..been called Sam a while so the transition /switch to samuel was fairly easy.I figure Im close to 8yrs, maybe 9 and I'm scrawny and quick.Business was done in cramped quarters so no-one was the wiser.My best friend was Joque, he kinda wanted a son I reckon, he was partial to Me and gave Me the easy work and fed Me all the time..you know the fresh stuff so I wasn't inclined to scurvy..apples whens theys were here...oranges and salt in rations he kinda shared with me.Odd how I was found at sea and in the middle of nowheres they say..just like I was plunked down in the ocean like a drowning rat , lucky it was in front of the HMS Frigate Triumph..not much to see but it was dryer than I had seen in a while...anyways Joque fished me out and dryed Me up ..said he'd never seen a boy with that much hair.so a hair cut was in order...threw me some dry clothes that dinna smell like stinky fish and here I were.
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© 2011 Eclipsing Moon-blood red
Oct 2, 2011
Oct 2, 2011 at 10:24 AM UTC
i drink a lot of orange juice.
and i mean a lot.
enough to make people think i have scurvy.
and i cook in crop tops and
paint stained sweatpants.
i recite "scars" by rudy francisco in my shower
and i cry to "if you ever did believe"
by stevie nicks often enough.
what i'm trying to say is that i am
moulding a world where you don't
physically inhabit any part of it.
"there is nothing new except what has been forgotten"
november.25.2014 8:44 p.m.
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 11:43 PM UTC
angel hair knotted
in this sailor-apostle's fist
seafoam scurvy in turbid
oceans of a mouth
that smokes cannabis-infused
bible pages and exhales
exhumed passages
unearthed eons ago
i'm an embarassment,
i swear i wasn't gay
but i awoke at mid-afternoon
with no clothes on
and next to you
and your unbridled skin
molesting me with cancer sins
and chirruping horoscopes
i'm bird-brained to tell that
my knuckle bruises
and my spine's claw marks
were from last night
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 11:42 AM UTC
I was sat in a Tavern in Pompey Town,
Sipping a tipple of ***
When I watched a Jack make an axe attack,
Chop off his finger and thumb!
I couldn’t believe the blood that flowed
From the cut of that rusty blade,
But the barmaid Flo, said ‘You’ve done it, Joe,
Now look at the mess you’ve made!’
She cleaned it up with a swill of ale,
Walked off with the finger and thumb,
‘I’ll nail these up on the balustrade
With the rest that have been as dumb.’
But Joe sang out when he’d had a drink
‘It’s better than being a tar!
I spent three years, under the lash
On His Majesty’s Man o’ War.’
‘They ‘pressed me when I was still a kid
And treated me like a dog,
I suffered scurvy and couldn’t work,
The answer to that, was flog.’
‘They flogged me around the Southern Cape,
They flogged me a-ship and ashore,
Whenever I thought that I might escape
They dragged me onboard for more.’
‘And Cap’n Foggett’s abroad tonight
With his cut-throat parcel of rogues,
Impressing the able-bodied men,
They’re lining them up in droves.’
‘For Nelson’s lying abaft the lee
With barely a half a crew,
He needs more men for the ‘Victory’,
And that means me and you!’
‘In every tavern they’re moving in,
In every alley and quay,
At first they offer the King’s shilling,
To war with the enemy.’
‘But the Frenchies rake with the carronade
That will rip the flesh from your bones,
And the decks run red from the men who bled
Impressed from their wives and homes.’
‘They say he sails on the tide tonight
So they’re doing a quick Hot Press,
Even a gen’lman walking late
Won’t meet with their gentleness.’
‘A cudgel whack on a squire’s head
Then dragged to the bilges, free,
They’ll never know ‘til they all wake up
That they’re headed on out to sea.’
‘That Nelson’s got but a single arm,
He’s got but a single eye,
If that’s not enough to be alarmed
By God, then I wonder why!’
The Press Gang came to the Tavern door
But couldn’t come on inside,
They tried to sell me a Man o’ War
But Joe had made me decide.
I took a gulp of Jamaica ***
And I steeled myself to the task,
‘The Press are waiting outside,’ I cried,
‘Just hand me that rusty axe!’
David Lewis Paget
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
Keep your foot on the gas
Your heart on the brake.
return your map
to it's original destination...
the mad rhino
of your naivete, churning -
heresies
that remove
the mundane
carols
in the vault of
all choirs;
tongue kissing the Pegasus
of polyamorous
glints from god's
monocle
flanking the herd
of Gnostic Ferraris,
chewing the soft shoots of bonsai prairie
roaming the banquet
of aimless,
refreshing the lady's goblet
of godsmack
as naturally a termite
loathes a Queen that can't remember
your name
because she hates
your father...
miles and miles of
pink
accumulate the misfits of your jigsaw.
gaining on the horizon
of your blindspot
feels like an Ecstasy of Selfishness
baptized in chrysanthemums
of compassion.
whose pollen makes a black honey
that fills the gap
between the smell of a baseball glove
and third degree burns
from your heart's
desire.
you are pilgrim charmed, out in the open heart of serene surgery, on an errand, poppies fed to destiny
on pillows of rice and grey Callings...
you are tapping the apocalypse of previous Edens
witness to the birth of a vague distinction
between your honest mistakes and god's love in the 23rd row, catching the school play
you wrote in the margins of your error.
a fruit bat with scurvy on picture day... fanning a Polaroid of Duration
in kabuki.
your car, a Chinese beetle hugging the asphalt Rhine of a Blue Melon
tilting on the axis
of an early spring...
your windshield, yielding
with honor
to savage blows
from sunsets
that milk
nightfall.
mecca, entangled in your dead sea sonnets
is the hole in your shoe
where moons clog
and first steps shave
their heads, smooth
hiking on four wheels , approaching the true form of an open question
head out the window across from mirage with spin in it's teeth.
facing the jasmine of bittersweet typhoons
inking henna tattoos
on both arms
of stopped clocks...
like kudzu, in a difference engine, coiled around a spark
like a widow 'round a foggy recollection of her true love
39 pixels
of a better half
that made you
whole.
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 3:33 AM UTC
Though barely clad,
He was fully attired
With chocolates of mud,
Which even pasted
A leg-burrow
Of a small
Walking scarecrow,
What a sorrow!
A sore -eyed
And malnourished child
That developed
A leg bandy
'cause buckling from
A pot-belly
Subject to ailments every
Prominently Kwashiorkor
And scurvy
By twist of fate
Pushed out
To the street
To sleep he used
By every bus-stand,
An orphan boy, poor
Showered with
A heavy downpour!
A biting cold untold
With a face
Smile wrinkled
He weathered,
Despite an urge
For a morsel of bread.
A dog rabid, moreover
He was chased
From every nook and corner!
Mixed with boys of his kind
From the street
For freedom with a bent,
One night
To the bone chilled
By a cold wind
On the morrow dead
He was found!
The sought for warmth
He acquired in his death!
Yet fellow citizens
Are busy to take note
To hundreds of his sort!
It is surprising indeed
No one gives a heed
To the challenge of God
"Have you visited
Your brother in need?"
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 10:18 AM UTC
Mothlet-like owl midges fizzling in and out of the waves
that shuffle the moon's shed reflection,
hovering and imitating like a wettened rorschach--
with disembodied tiny teeth for feet
suckling from the scurvyed gums
where shadows are allowed to be kings.
Kings that observe a godess body that spans the whole sky with ******* made of crinkled ash dripping latex that falls
then cuts into the grass to
spread life--perfection spares no time for the impatient.
Glistening stream,mucky dewlap of the mountain carving a caricature of someone praying for rain and dreaming of a metamorphoses into ice.
With the night comes tide. Comes time. Comes death. Comes life.
If you were to sit down in one spot
anywhere in the world and not move
for another second of your life
from there on in--
you would see so much beauty and pain
You'd wonder what you ever did to be
as lucky as you had been.
Oct 17, 2020
Oct 17, 2020 at 2:17 PM UTC
Shredded wheat; Cheerios
Minute rice; Frozen meals
Hot dogs; hot dogs;
Snappy, kosher, ball-franks;
Spaghetti night with warm bread
toast; butter, sugar and cinnamon
soda, pop, energy drinks-
gum disease
Scurvy in America
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC
The tilted pet noise
haunts us as we roll down the narrow hall
its diseased bark echoes oddly in this cold hollow place
my legs ache
with the portent of coming snow
i must reach the exit
i must not be a victim of chance
the scurvy beast falls behind
its bark giving way to a note
of sorrow
he will have no-one to trumpet down the hall
when we have fled
he will be ;left alone with his dark doggy thoughts
homeward bound
homeward bound
just down that hall
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 7:26 PM UTC
Don't you go running
with the scurvy dog fools
Or you will become
A scurvy dog too
Don't go running
with the beasts
of the fields
Or there will be
a bigger beast
waiting for you
The big bad wolf
He's been knocking
on your door
Looking for
another fool
that He may
soon devour
You thought
you could escape
the evil clutches
that now ensnare
But the devil done
got another **** fool
Laughing and unaware
For your eyes
now in death
have a cold
and glassy stare.
-R.
8.29.17
-LA
Aug 29, 2017
Aug 29, 2017 at 1:59 PM UTC
(20 minute poetry)
I navigate, I
swear I do.
This crew will not believe me.
I have charted far and wide across the seas,
but now I hide down in the doldrums.
'twas foolish of me,
this motley crew would like to do me in,
hush
was that a pin that dropped?
the silence stops my breath.
Nearer to and to thee I ask
to let me curl up one more cask
before this day is through,
before this scurvy crew discover me.
'Land ho', I hear,
a cheer topside,
I hide no more and am
instead
feted by this crew and
led to be
yet once again.
the Master of
the sea.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 9:05 PM UTC
I wish there was a word for my
mixed-up,
leftover insides.
I am my own Temple of Doom.
I will or I won't
Bring you to swoon.
Get me the spoon.
I am Captain: Ben and Jerry's
Vessel be my scurvy.
Mastering epitome, feeling marscapone:
I am the color of your liver.
If I put on a hoodie, I feel more "me", but where was I left?
Where am I grazing?
Surely it's on greener pastures?
Am I dead?
Who are you?
Is this what we're all searching for?
Separation?
I ran the decathalon; choke down my python.
There's a fire in your mouth.
Let me put it out.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 12:35 AM UTC