"shuffling" poems
1.He’d say anything to get me out of my shell.
2. His pupils are hard, black marbles and I want to flick him off of me.
3. He is always shuffling through women like they are a deck of cards.
4. It’s just how the dice rolls.
5. I was afraid of falling, of my arms snapping like wishbones.
6. He waits until I’m swaying like a door hinge.
7. My eyes are wide like 8 ***** and he hits me with that same click, roll, thunk of a pool ball table.
8. You are cursing me. When you yell, you are cursing me.
9. “Come out, come out, wherever you are…”
10. I hope the bruises on your legs turn into birds. I hope you get out of here.
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 9:31 PM UTC
Eyes of pale celadon
refulgent in the dusk
lips of skin so thin they grin
around the tips of tusk
Jagged saw-like teeth
beneath a sagging beastly jaw
the putrid reek of flesh and cheek
he's gobbled - nights before
His pointed nose will point his toes
when he snuffs you shuffling by
the fright enough will be so tough
your legs will lignify!
And once he's done he'll click his tongue
his mood enhanced by food
he'll walk home late and ululate
his deepest gratitude
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 11:05 AM UTC
Faking Bad
In anticipation of my
Evaluation to be declared
Non Compos Mentos
I slept under a bridge
For three days
"Getting into character,"
But on the morning of
My intake interview
My hair fell perfectly,
I mean I looked like
A ******* rock star.
College girls on the bus
Were giving me their
Numbers and my skin,
Which I'd purposely sunburnt
And caked in the finest filth,
Glowed like an Australian
Chippendale dancer named Weegie
And even the female Assisstant D.A.
Who had busted me for vagrancy
Waved her ******* from
The third story building
Of the Courthouse.
No matter how much I
Tried to speak gibberish
Poetry and philosophical
Tracts spewed from my mouth.
Shuffling past the park
I beat eight
Grand Masters
At chess on move 1
Inadvertently I solved
The Phi Epsilom Theorem
By kicking stones
Into an algorythym.
When I arrived they didn't
Make me wait at all.
My caseworker giggled like
A schoolgirl while I told her
Each day was like an endless shift
In a Chinese fish- gutting
Sweatshop and every one of my fellow
Employees was motivationalist
Richard Simmons.
She ungirdled her enormous
**** and as they spilled
Like fishguts onto the desk
She began to howl
**** me, **** me, oh ****
Me right here in
Front of the open window
On State Street as everyone
Watches me ******* the strongest,
Healthiest, smartest, most popular,
Well-adjusted man in the world.
The rest of the examination was
Also a success.
But as I left the Mental HealthCenter
feeling marvelous
I accidentally bumped
An old woman with the door:
"Watch out you manic-depressive
Schizoid with Socially Avoidant
Features klutz."
-Thomas L. Vaultonburg
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 5:05 PM UTC
he introduces himself
saying quiet, but slipping in, firm:
“something he knows for sure,
no is no”
I, (19, f)
replying, smiling
saying louder, firmer:
“something she knows for sure,
yes is yes”
and he says
“yes, ma’am,”
returning her smile, so shyly,
while blushing, so loudly,
thinking he said something dumb,
looking down at his shuffling feet,
covered in worn out cowboy boots
I like this guy
I like this man.
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 7:35 AM UTC
How comes it, Flora, that, whenever we
Play cards together, you invariably,
However the pack parts,
Still hold the Queen of Hearts?
I've scanned you with a scrutinizing gaze,
Resolved to fathom these your secret ways:
But, sift them as I will,
Your ways are secret still.
I cut and shuffle; shuffle, cut, again;
But all my cutting, shuffling, proves in vain:
Vain hope, vain forethought, too;
That Queen still falls to you.
I dropped her once, prepense; but, ere the deal
Was dealt, your instinct seemed her loss to feel:
"There should be one card more,"
You said, and searched the floor.
I cheated once: I made a private notch
In Heart-Queen's back, and kept a lynx-eyed watch;
Yet such another back
Deceived me in the pack:
The Queen of Clubs assumed by arts unknown
An imitative dint that seemed my own;
This notch, not of my doing,
Misled me to my ruin.
It baffles me to puzzle out the clew,
Which must be skill, or craft, or luck in you:
Unless, indeed, it be
Natural affinity.
10.8k
They have watered the street,
It shines in the glare of lamps,
Cold, white lamps,
And lies
Like a slow-moving river,
Barred with silver and black.
Cabs go down it,
One,
And then another,
Between them I hear the shuffling of feet.
Tramps doze on the window-ledges,
Night-walkers pass along the sidewalks.
The city is squalid and sinister,
With the silver-barred street in the midst,
Slow-moving,
A river leading nowhere.
Opposite my window,
The moon cuts,
Clear and round,
Through the plum-coloured night.
She cannot light the city:
It is too bright.
It has white lamps,
And glitters coldly.
I stand in the window and watch the
moon.
She is thin and lustreless,
But I love her.
I know the moon,
And this is an alien city.
9.9k
Perhaps the zombie,
in all his uncanniness,
is truly the definition
of asymmetrical anthropomorphism.
Perhaps the zombie,
with his slow shuffling gait,
is really the word
when it comes to unbridled determination.
And perhaps the zombie,
his hunger bottomless,
is indeed the very picture
of a man who can have it all.
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 5:59 PM UTC
With eager eyes and tempting smile, I beckoned 'cross the wharf
And they returned, a sad reply, stating he must morph
into a man -in pieces then- who puts things back together
Whilst I sit here, and wait and wait, and keep on till forever.
Kingdom comes, piggies fly, time churns soft and slow
Every hour, like the other, shuffling to and fro
Mind is racing, heart is beating, must be with him soon...
He is the sun, he is the stars, he is the solstice moon.
But he is full of hatred, and angry, scary things
That I cannot behold because my covered ears will ring.
I will not hear the wretchedness that billows from his mouth
I will not be the victim of intentions headed south.
Now he’s an angel, under God, and all the better creatures
that prize the gentlest, passionate, souls who mirror all their features. They never asked, only assumed, that I would be alright
But Oh! the torture over one who turned away from light.
So here I wait, on endless shores, until they come for me
Or maybe not, really, who knows, what lies beyond the sea
The water holds the untold words of thousands who've passed on
And here I am, scribbling the script, of stories before dawn.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 2:51 AM UTC
"lie still and let it wash over you, the was and is and soon to be.
How frightening yet effervescent the next 24 hours. The lust, and musts of future days revert to the ancient past..."
patty m.
><
the irony!
when I am stilled,
the effervescence of me
unbounded, unleashed, and the torrential rain
of words fulfilling and departing from my interior
I am
a Grand Central Station
of trains labelled
"the was and is and soon to be''
all moving in an unscheduled mayhem,
but never crashing. never accidenting,
only accenting my racing against time,
my oldest and fiercest Super Villian,
and one just knows, never can you beat time,
time, that old rascally up his sleeve card magician,
who when shuffling the deck,
he knows
what was,
what is,
and here his red eyes gleam with satisfaction,
soon to be...
He and I,
old familiar adversaries
addicted to living.
never leave the table,
never leave a *** or
a poem on the felt,
and having always felt,
firm believed,
there will always be one more,
one more gamble, another day,
to write another poem
and turning my cards over
to reveal, to revel,
in my Royal Flush of creativity,
when time, smiling face,
with his
wild card,
**** time,
who trumps me for
it,
in possess of a Five-of-a-Kind(1)
~'
and the new players,
the young poets,
slap me on the back,
saying I had a great run,
but they don't know 'bout my
secret stash,
preprogrammed to appear,
long after these fingers
cease their tangled tango of tap dancing,
my dust,
my lusts and musts
will unstilled yet be
blowing, floating in the
soon to be
so ha!
nml
6:30am
Wed Sep 10
Twenty Twenty Five
Sep 10, 2025
Sep 10, 2025 at 8:42 AM UTC
I swear I'm leaving right now
Yet I'm still running around in a rush
&& STILL no pants on
They lie somewhere on my floor
If I don't leave now I'm going be late for sure...hmm got everything.. OH WAIT!!!
SERIOUSLY...again..WOOOOW
FUUUUCK quit messing with your hair & put down your BRUSH!!
**** 15 minutes later **** & I'm still NOT gone
Almost out the door...
SON OF A BITCH...WHERE THE **** ARE MY KEYS..GREAT!!
Now speeding like a police chase
Weaving in & out of traffic lane by lane
Trying to beat the clock & it's tick tocks
A sound I SERIOUSLY ******* HATE
I'm barely on time, a few minutes to spare
It is a WAAAY too familiar race
It's an endless ******* trend, driving me insane
It's like a whole day of me wearing matching socks
SOOOOO, SO WHAT if I'm occasionally always LATE
At least I'm always never not eventually there but still at least there
&& DOESN'T MATTER where it is I'm going
If there is a specific time of arrival expected
Don't tell me that correct time
UNLESS..... In all actuality the arrival time is actually irrelevant
Since I know you have a "PARTY ALL THE TIME" way to celebrate
Then please keep on shuffling when my face is showing
Lateness is something I've so EPICALLY PERFECTED
If I had a nickel for every time I was early, I'd have a MOTHER ******* DIME!!!
Being on time & I have just always been so distant
That's why punctuality & I will never relate!!!
A WHITE RABBIT
GO, GO, GO
NOW IT'S MY ******* HABIT
WOULDN'T YA KNOW
ALWAYS IN A HURRY
YELLING "IM LATE! IM LATE!"
BUT I UNDERSTAND THAT FEELING OF WORRY
TRAGICALLY IT'S NOT THAT EASY TO ABOLISH OR ANNIHILATE
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 3:27 PM UTC
A night sometime in mid-July
and darkness hums between the trees.
My eyes look across sodden grass
for another life to waddle past.
A creature,
a ball of bristles
appears from the bushes,
listen out for a snuffle, a mumble.
There, by the fence,
a wooden coat speckled with milk.
Its movement lazy like a man
on a summer Sunday walk home.
Does it come often? I wonder
as a breeze races over my lawn.
A sniff of a fallen branch
before shuffling along.
The evening crawls on,
a caterpillar over a leaf.
I decide to wait a while,
watch my guest awake, alive.
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 12:39 PM UTC
Morning sunlight lighting the dark hardwood floors
Pages being turned and voices no louder than a whisper
People shuffling in and out the doors
The rain coming in at last
Shifting the clouds
Now to overcast
Watching silently just barely a glance
Observing life as it is
Hoping for the chance
To feel something more
Become something better
Moods always changing
According to the weather
I sip the burn of this morning roast
Nibble my eggs
Crunch on my toast
People in the park sway on the swings
Probably thinking
Of such trivial things
Man on the corner of the street
Checking the time
He's got somewhere to be
Getting back to the daily grind
A tearful woman sitting on the bench
Crying her heart out
From the guy who called her a *****
Life appears all around us
We choose what to ignore
The sick, the healthy
The rich, the poor.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 2:33 PM UTC
Favorite word: “nymphet”, but no!
Halcyon, a kind of drug, you know.
Searching through the pages’ mist
And imagined deeds
Of poets’ needs…
I found my favourite word,
As asked,
Neither sacred nor profane
That describes the Venetian rain
In my beloved’s eyes
And the Florentine sun upon her hair:
“Auburn, russet, mythopoeic”.
Oh, it is not fair,
To liken an object
Of my lust and love
To anything as mortal as autumn air!
Nor “October’s orchard Haze”;
She had her own
Inscrutable, premeditated ways!
Rather let me say that she was perfect,
Though her eyes, pale and myopic,
Her shuffling gait and
Graceless limbs, to them Grace lends
Fey charm, the power to mend
My suffering and
Delusions of a poet’s end
As anything but pathetic,
(Her mother’s fondness for vague emetics)
And I left softly hanging,
On a girl’s new taste,
A tang of russet apples on her face,
But no, not that, the sum
Of my love, My Lo!
Then her bleak demise, partly by my hand
That none of you brutes could understand;
The pure love,
So sadly consummated,
Between a lover
And the one she hated
Yet loved once with inexplicable delight,
On one stolen, frightened night…
In which the two of us agreed
To satisfy a simple, yet maniacal need,
And then depart…
But I could not,
You see;
She was my life,
My love, my heart.
Humbert Humbert 1950
Sharon Talbot ca. 2005
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 11:11 AM UTC
Necklace of rope around your neck,
Cold sparkled your tears,
Mingling in our kisses,
Drawing out fears.
Blood crows' broken beak,
Moonlight mourning the free.
Your glimm'ring eyes,
'Ere eve of death,
Last thing mine heart aches to see.
Strange things happen here,
Under the Hanging Tree.
*"String me up!
Lest apartheid influence separation,
String me up love!
Sing me songs of silence, kiss away segregation!"*
My voice unwavered,
Decaying church bell tolling twelve,
Cold, cracked fingers fumbling rope.
Moon lighting the way,
The wind whispering,"hopeless,"
Frigid lies hope.
Shuffling of feet in the woods,
Edge of moonlight creatures stood,
Watching the Hanging tree,
Where the dead told his love to flee.
-Firefly
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 8:29 PM UTC
There’s an assembly in the making
and the suits are all shuffling in for the big event
making way to their front row seats
****** in nose
hanky in hand
and all colorfully draped
in those cuffed pin stripes
and Jerry Garcia ties
*now what would the Grateful Dead
or any of their fine entourage
have to say about this foul routine?*
Apropos of that
they’re talking in the 3rd person
with tight syllables
and wavy hands
and all taking a run
at the state of the union
there’s Valentino
and Freddie
and good old Sal
"look....their fiddling with their nuts!"
cries a layman from the balcony seats
the Yin and the Yang
have got even the most liberal minded
scratching their heads
as questions fly in from the field:
*don’t you know the way it used to be?
have you no morals?
which way to the exit!?*
These front row fanatics
have surely been scrimmaging
in the corn fields
all down in that classic 3 point
watching their weight
with sample selections from the
Spicy House and Yaas Bazaar
as members of the congregation look on with envy
*pass the aperitif...the big ***** lady is on deck!*
Union heads are running rogue
loading up on grievances
and lines
passing files at a make shift pew
jumping the bunkers
and stepping on clams
while the orderlies move in
for governance
It’s a bewildered state
and only for the mind of the rigorous
Jimmy D would say:
“it’s nothing you pussy...to the victor goes the spoils!
everyone has a bit of good you know...
you just have to find it!"
Unrest is growing in the ranks
and the masses are unstable
Time to hammer down
with a formidable brace
and two tick play
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 8:05 PM UTC
My eyes can’t keep from gazing at her
She steps into the room…dripping wet
Knowing I’m here, her parents would most likely be upset
As she would be also, if she found me here
Crouched in the dark…
Between her window and backyard
Her fingers play with her **** vanilla-coated skin
My fingers pretend to follow, not knowing where to begin
The pleasure erupts as soon her moans escape…
The contents of her inner thighs invade my mind…
(pant, pant)
The manner she caressed her body in a way no man could
The exotic thoughts of me fondling her no man should
(pant, pant, pant)
The shuffling of the branches I hid in started to make noise
Hopefully not loud enough to disturb the show, though
(pant, pant, pant, pant)
My eyes closed, envisioning me on her insides
My heart rate jumped sky high…
And at the sudden opening of my eyes…
She spotted me.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
shuffling feet & carry-on suitcases
walking through countries
temporarily nameless, faceless, homeless
in the middle of nowhere
cut off from society
people who, for the time being,
don’t really belong anywhere
a mixture of nationalities & cultures
thousands of different languages,
different races,
different colors
just passing through the terminal
one country to another
some with a final destination in mind
others finding meaning in the journey itself
a lack of permanency
a lack of belonging
i must admit
there’s just something about airports
which makes me feel very much at home
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 8:12 AM UTC
Her mind was in Hawaii,
Dancing under waterfalls,
Wandering through rainforests,
Picking tropical flowers and
Braiding them into her hair,
Simmering on sandy beaches,
And gazing at the stars.
Her heart was in Normandy,
Eating crepes and sipping lattes,
Strolling through spring green fields
And along lazy river banks,
Kissing the walls of castles,
And scooping up scallop shells,
Soaking up French syllables.
Her hands were in her pockets,
High-fiving friends and
Running through her lover's hair,
Sewing, cooking, washing,
Punching, tearing, scratching,
Caressing and confessing,
Catching the very first drops of rain.
Her feet were on the streets of Seattle,
Tapping to the rhythm of the bass,
Shuffling in and out of the rain,
Dodging puddles and strangers,
Observing art and sculptures,
Chasing down a taxi or her dog,
and embracing the crisp autumn air.
Her lips were on the edge of a soda can,
Singing along to her favorite songs,
Whispering sweet nothings into the air,
Empowering the impoverished
And scorning the injustice,
Kissing a forehead, lips, and hads,
And stonecold silent as her mind does the work.
Her eyes were fighting back frosty tears,
Swallowing scarlet sunsets,
Painted in yesterday's make up,
Tracing your stoic silhouette,
Rolling like thunder before the storm,
Lapping up dizzying moonlight,
And buried in words, and words, and words.
Her body was in Los Angeles,
But, she was on a metanoia,
Breaking free of past and future
To find herself a presence
That would always be worth fighting for,
To reach sophrosyne, namaste,
And to put her frantic body to peace.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 2:53 AM UTC
"Ma'm,
can you remember the name of that tree?
the one with the big leaves?"
He asks me, raising a withered hand
towards the young magnolia,
not yet blooming.
"Magnolia, I believe."
A light comes into his clouded eyes.
"Ah! Magnolia! Thank you."
he says, before shuffling away.
I pause for a moment.
Staring at the sapling.
Something stirs in memory.
Something deep, or shallow,
I cannot tell.
Memory, none the less.
I feel as though I should remember
a meaning behind the white flowers,
and broad leaves,
but I draw a blank.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 10:31 PM UTC
I have faith in medical science
But little in practice.
Straight spined doctors
Racing stopwatches against
Their appointment books.
Extolling the virtues of thousands of years of medical research
But unable to consider anyone's opinion other than their own.
Kindly, soft-voiced nurses shuffling from
Room to room
Doling out condolences and reassurances
Paired with regimens
Of drugs and IVs.
While Old Time in the ticking clock
Slows
To a dead crawl.
And the noise of heartbeats on machines
And discussions out in the hall
And loved ones distracting and pacifying patients in beds
Layer on top of one another to form a firm blanket of
Crushing. Boredom.
And the antiseptic smell does nothing to ease
The passing of time spent waiting
While the medical machine spins its wheels
To the chime of slot machines.
And the bustling rush outside a curtain
On hard white floors,
Does less than lend a sense a peace
But more of frantic urgency.
Minute long - task oriented visits
Where they know names, numbers, and insurance coverage
And they know how many steps it takes for them
To lend more of their valuable time
In that modern balance of cost and care.
Leaving me wondering,
Where did the connection go?
I wonder where peoples' trust went
And when it was replaced with,
"How much will this cost me?"
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 8:06 PM UTC
On winter nights beside the nursery fire
We read the fairy tale, while glowing coals
Builded its pictures. There before our eyes
We saw the vaulted hall of traceried stone
Uprear itself, the distant ceiling hung
With pendent stalactites like frozen vines;
And all along the walls at intervals,
Curled upwards into pillars, roses climbed,
And ramped and were confined, and clustered leaves
Divided where there peered a laughing face.
The foliage seemed to rustle in the wind,
A silent murmur, carved in still, gray stone.
High pointed windows pierced the southern wall
Whence proud escutcheons flung prismatic fires
To stain the tessellated marble floor
With pools of red, and quivering green, and blue;
And in the shade beyond the further door,
Its sober squares of black and white were hid
Beneath a restless, shuffling, wide-eyed mob
Of lackeys and retainers come to view
The Christening.
A sudden blare of trumpets, and the throng
About the entrance parted as the guests
Filed singly in with rare and precious gifts.
Our eager fancies noted all they brought,
The glorious, unattainable delights!
But always there was one unbidden guest
Who cursed the child and left it bitterness.
The fire falls asunder, all is changed,
I am no more a child, and what I see
Is not a fairy tale, but life, my life.
The gifts are there, the many pleasant things:
Health, wealth, long-settled friendships, with a name
Which honors all who bear it, and the power
Of making words obedient. This is much;
But overshadowing all is still the curse,
That never shall I be fulfilled by love!
Along the parching highroad of the world
No other soul shall bear mine company.
Always shall I be teased with semblances,
With cruel impostures, which I trust awhile
Then dash to pieces, as a careless boy
Flings a kaleidoscope, which shattering
Strews all the ground about with coloured shards.
So I behold my visions on the ground
No longer radiant, an ignoble heap
Of broken, dusty glass. And so, unlit,
Even by hope or faith, my dragging steps
Force me forever through the passing days.
3.8k
City lamps in clusters of concrete
On 18th and Sherman street
The cars pass by scanning me
Each unsound engine roaring
Darting pupils
I feel it on my externals
On my lips and phalanges
Intruding glances cascading over
my silhouette
Deja-vu-like resemblances,
strange
Sunken cheeks look bizarre
and blotchy as the socket drains
something toxic to the veins
that's permeated the future in an instant, like a comet,
encandescent and shimmering like a scale, the awareness fades
Like some dreary mirage
I remember those little band aids
Vintage carnival tickets
discarded on the scratchy ground..
Blue-violet bruises
The paradox of pleasure
A vague creature in
it's discomfort
sitting in defiance and
quivering my sentences
It reminded me of those
incandescent bugs that
smush into Chryslers
With a curled lip, bulging eyes
and ******* up tongue...
Antennaes intertwined like
Twizzlers
Making peace with all
that's stung as the
windshield wipers turn on
Some black tar-smack-oil-
******
My generation consists of
inheriting environmental
destruction and mal-parenting
Global warming. Animal extinction.
Polluting the oceans. Deforestation.
Biting shards off night-time to
suffice for the daily pangs
Shuffling the dregs of karma
to grow roots and vines all about the room
It's not Winter yet
Under this morning dew
I envision it in my mind
A crystal ball vision
contorting into smoke
I caught it in my breath
Catatonically hanging
A turtle with it's legs bending toward the sky
Searching for my tribe and a pulse
on this Earth in sentient souls
Aug 12, 2017
Aug 12, 2017 at 8:18 PM UTC
We shift
Shuffling deadbeats
Wind south
Wind north
Biting to be
Filter the lungs
Breathe in the smoke
Fill in the guts
Consume me, consume me
Gnaw, gnaw, gnaw
Salivate static
Want, want, want
It’s no wonder we’ve grown endless teeth
Beneath our loveless grins
Can we even
Part the crowd
Anymore?
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 8:20 PM UTC
rescinding messages of longing and lust
cast off to the wind like a broken record
skittering, twisting down the street in early morn'
your laying to rest your tired conscience on me
like one of those lovers in a movie theater
brushed off like salt on a shoulder
twirled like a young girls hair mid flirtation giggle
i think we're dancing in the streets now
scuffing shoes against concrete
mind-melding as we soft shoe across the yellow lines
i'm kicking you to the curb
like a rock into a gutter
your blowing through me like a chilled breeze
shuffling past me hurriedly to another time
like a scarf mid swing o're a cold shoulder
i turn 'round swiftly to meet you
dizzily.
Oct 20, 2010
Oct 20, 2010 at 6:09 PM UTC