Best Scoop Out Poems
Cutting stones for building blocks doesn't
bring the whole food at the table. Playing
betting games force them to sell their
clothes and shoes. Saving money becomes
harder than collecting drops of rain during
drought.
Their children toil in the farms and streets,
because they have no school fees;
their daughters end up as pleasure toys
for the rich, for they don't have enough money
to buy sanitary pads and maintaining beauty;
their sons become easy prey for politicians
who pay a few hundreds for causing chaos
to their opponents.....
Gods' eyes shy away from their blessings,
forcing them to turn from lawful men
to gang-bangs, hiding around streets
and lavish estates. Frustration sometimes
force them to press the trigger,
as they scoop out handbags, briefcases,
and pockets.
Their lives are sustained for a while in the midst
of inflation and higher house rents. Their children
go back to school, and food becomes more abundant
at the dining table. Debts are also paid.
Soon, the arms of the law stretch to their homesteads,
and put them in handcuffs. Their wives and children
watch in despair. The sole providers are sent in jail,
to serve decades or life sentences.
Hard life is all they know from outside or inside the prison bars.....
Armadilly Billy needed repair work on the home, as he wanted to move in.
Asking around Troll Lake Town, the answer was Leavit, again and again.
A bit confused, he needed repairs; he couldn’t leave it, like they said, therein.
So he picked up the Acme phone book, and understanding, then, did begin.
It said: Levit T. Beaver for the best woodwork, to be found, anywhere around.
The rumor was: he was once a movie star, before retiring to Troll Lake Town.
He had the scruffiest crew, Billy had ever seen, inept in absolutely, everything.
Called: The Muskrat Gang, they were tied up in chains, yes, the whole shebang.
Doing time for trying to blow up Leavit’s dam, yep, a real, live, chain gang, bound.
Tho, they were really chained up, to stop them, from aimlessly scurrying all, around.
He thought to give them purpose, before he was through, and a new profession, too.
After they tried to empty Troll Lake, to scoop out all the fish, on one crazy afternoon.
What they got was better, as Leavit tried to teach them work, with all kinds of wood.
He stopped them, and saved some mice, lost in a boat, on the lake, on that day, too.
Oddly, love blossomed between Leavit and one of the mice, her name was Mary Ann.
He was lucky in love, as the other mice decided, to rent rooms, to stay, on his island.
Though he had to admit that Gilligan, Skipper, and the other mice WERE a tad, strange.
And as for the Muskrat Gang, well, they seemed, to pretty much, stay unchanged.
After serving their time, Levit T. Beaver, offered to hire them, to help him clean up.
All their scurrying, was perfect for this, as he paid them in their most, beloved fish.
With the Chains gone, a job and home found, they discovered crime did not pay.
So my Moral, my friend, is that in the end… Crime is Never the Way!
Oh gosh, what memories pancakes brings back to me …
As a child I used to make them every week for my dad
He adored them but I never ate them! It’s been many years since I made them
Lets see if I can remember the recipe for the batter
Carefully weigh out 4 oz plain flour, add in ¼ teaspoon salt
Sieve this into a bowl. Make a well in the center
Then carefully add three medium sized eggs
Do make sure they are fresh and you scoop out any bits of shell
You don’t want to find anything crunchy in your pancakes!
Use a hand whisk or electric whisk to incorporate the eggs then
Gradually add ½ pint milk (or milk and water combined)
Whisk until you have a silky smooth batter with no lumpy bits
Now the important thing is to put the batter in the fridge
Leave it to rest as long as possible ideally at least ½ hour
Then you need a medium sized frying pan, drizzle in a little cooking oil
Heat the pan until it is fairly hot but not smoking
You don’t want to have clouds of acrid smoke and have to ring the fire brigade!
Pour in a little of the batter It will start to sizzle and splutter
Tip the pan to spread the batter and make a thin coating
Cook until the underside of the pancake is golden brown
And the top is covered with bubbles
Now comes the fun bit…
You can simply flip the pancake over to cook the other side
BUT if you are daring you can try tossing it in the air …
hoping it doesn’t stick on the ceiling!
Disaster can strike if the pancake misses the pan and ends up on the floor…
I was never brave and always flipped the pancake over
Once the pancake is golden brown on both sides slide it onto a warm plate
My dad always ate them sprinkled with sugar and zesty lemon juice
But you can use any topping you desire even savoury ones
Dad would roll his pancake and eat it in slices
Whilst he was eating the first pancake
I would continue cooking until the batter was used up
I’d make sure I added a little oil before cooking each one
You don’t want them to stick
If you are making a batch of pancakes you can cover them
Put them in a warm oven until you have finished making them all
Enjoy!
Contest:-Didactic Food
Sponsor: Tammy Reams
10~07~15
When I was a child, outside of Christmas,
Halloween was my favorite time of year.
I loved crafting homemade costumes from old rags:
to wear trick-or-treating in the neighborhood.
And yet, I got the most fun from carving
the scariest pumpkin my mind could conceive.
It was the only time I was allowed to wield a knife,
and I reveled in it: to me, carving pumpkins was an art.
Dad would drive me to a pumpkin patch,
where I'd pick out the perfect pumpkin:
worthy of my artistic talents.
And when I brought it home,
I'd start by slicing the top off my pumpkin
to gain access to its skull.
And with my hands, I'd scoop out its brains,
which felt mushy, gooey, slimy, and gross,
as I removed them: to sculpt my Jack-o'-lantern.
Then, with an eye for the hideous, I'd prepare to carve.
Creating grotesque features: I'd start by gouging out its eyes,
a deformed nose, and a toothy, grimacing smile.
When finished, I'd proudly present my monstrosity to Mom;
who'd light a candle and place it inside my gargoyle
then set it out on our stoop;
to guard against any evil demons
that may be skulking about: on this All Hallows' Eve.
Up in the sky a great big spoon
Took a scoop out of the moon
It took one more and pretty soon
The moon went pop like a balloon
The spoon reached down close to the ground
And started stirring round and round
It sounded like tornadoes sound
And stirred up everything around
Sheep and cows and cars and trucks
Dogs and cats and pigs and ducks
Span around and got mixed up
And how they changed is how they stuck
The pig went moo
And the cow went quack
And the sheepdog clapped his flippers
And the sheep went oink
And the hen went woof
And fetched the farmer’s slippers
And the duck went baaah
And the mouse went neigh
And the barn owl stole the tractor
But what went eek
He took a peek
A mad velociraptor
The farmer didn‘t have a clue
He did not know quite what to do
He asked his wife in case she knew
And the farmer’s wife said
MOOOOOOOOOOO!
Written 17 April 2021 (in anticipation of Nursery Rhyme 5)
Contest: Nursery Rhyme 5
Sponsor: Eve Roper
Over the chain bridge
shadow overlays the light
Danube is lazing underneath
silence is drifting in fright
You are standing on your tiring feet
An eerie feeling hovers over your skin
pathos pales the face
pain mists the eyes
The eyes, watery deep and swollen
are roaming over the night sky,
You are longing for your loved one
suddenly to stop by
Forced smiles sadden the moist air
no joy, no happiness
a cheerless affair
I wish I could comfort you
kiss your nifty lips,
play with your silken hair,
and breaking the surface of sufferings
scoop out your agony and its tears.
Pumpkin Pulp a hunger real.
Toothless meal a vomit fill.
Rumpy flesh to hold the meal.
Tasty strands of flavour seal.
Pits of seeds for spitting out.
White tidbits all hard and stout.
Strands of web to reach the heart.
Spirits strong where pressures part.
Fetch the scoop to scoop out goop.
Scrape the wall and cause it droop.
Oust the pulp on old newpapers.
Save the seeds to fry in vapours.
Pumpkins lit and glowing lanterns.
Angled eyes shine light in patterns.
Flickered smiles from waxy wicks.
Labotomys, the night of tricks.
ONE LAST TEAR---
Upon my arrival
here on this earth
out of my mother's womb
I was birth
Doctor spank me on my buttock
It hurt
Scoop out my mouth
I scream, I shout, I cried... in fear
One last tear
My dad was a short but proud, loud man
Stature of 5 foot 5, with a thunderous voice
Never in my life then have I ever seen him cry
Until the day of his mother's funeral, I spied
In my father's eye...
One last tear
As a teen father came into my room
Wasn't a very good talker
Alone he looked at me an said
“your mother ill has cancer she has 9 months to live”
One last tear
At the funeral of my mother
Once again in a church my father sat in the front pew
It was such an royal queenly pure white view
There she laid in a white satin knitted dress
She was, she looked at peace;
She was asleep....I looked to my left
And I spied again in my father's eye
One last tear
My father died
In 1985
In my face I shown, I fear
I then thought it was in my face
One last tear
Finally my wife died
In 2016 I blamed God
I was mean, thought it was all a dream
We're(I'm) young We were married for 40 years
God called her home, now I'm alone
She's gone, I'm here
(for her I shed)
One last tear
shallow am I, should a man dare to share...
show his fear alas is this my...
One last tear
2/3/19
For One Last Tear Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
Why does the Moon think she is obligated to hide her body from the Earth?
Does she not know her revolving mass entrances our eyeballs to her blueish, gray hue?
Doesn't she know that when she shows her entire body we all marvel at her simplistic natural beauty?
How can she expect us to continually pay attention to her when she purposely fools our light, feeble hearts?
She knows us,
She knows how to turn our emotions into her little play trinkets,
Constantly turning our minds into a pathetic mush forcing us to follow her graceful body around,
Does she think it is okay to show only a section of her texture while leaving the rest of her "confined side" in the bleak darkness?
It should not have to take a spotlight for us people too see what is behind the Moon's impenetrable black cloak,
What do you think we are going to do, exclude you from our existence?
Ignore you?
Did you ever think about how we are side by side with each other every night?
Do you think this is going to ruin our already convoluted broken-down relationship?
No matter who you are or who you portray yourself to be,
We are going to have to by you,
You have become such a big part of us that we could not even survive without your presence,
Are we nothing to you?
We realize, yes, you are all the way up there in the sky looking down at us as if you are on the top of this ghostly cast system, rotating around without stress, surrounded by immense amounts of beauty,
and us "below-class people" are down here in the ghettos of our planet mewling and battling each other in pointless wars,
But that does not means you can undermine us just because your feign personality believes she can,
We have to be able to know you,
How can you believe that this is fair?
You have been given the ability to climb the rocky walls of our true personalities and feeling,
But you have cowardly plugged up all your deep craters with ice and darkness,
We just want to see the other true half of your beauty,
We want to dive deep within those dark abuse marks of your's, scoop out the ice, light up a fire and slowly rebuild you into your original perfectly circular self,
Why can't you understand Moon,
We are trying to help you,
Please,
Reveal yourself to us,
Let us refill those beauty marks of your's,
And prove to us you are more than just a gigantic rock.
-Corey Gordon, 14
Where's Your Poetic Voice?
How to render it contemporary, unique, one in the whole wide world?
Be elusive, a multi-headed, myriad-brained grandchild of Loch Ness?
Or be happy? The flow of dreamy happiness
when painting a self-defined emperor magnum ice-cream.
Never mind few can decipher its contour.
Or be stark? Scoop out our brain cells,
toast, fry, torch and swallow them.
There is no response from the contented cherubim.
Or be sexy? Visualizing a masturbating Moore,
a naked Hilda Doolittle painted by her lover,
a sex-frolicking Lawrence.
Are we stepping into another shadow-snickering, ego-slithering,
orgasmic war zone via some politically banned websites,
this afternoon on this cosmos-wandering day?
Ouch... my belly, my belly button, my entrails, my guts.
Clogged like fat worms having unmitigated, obstructed diarrhea.
Those rigid, hard-round stones stuck at the extruding point.
Are they struggling to get unstuck?
Are we struggling, perhaps secretly,
to get unstuck from some life situation, a confusion,
an obsession, some haunting movie scenes?
Never mind now. Theories can't help now.
Doesn't seem to help if a Goddess is inside.
Please help. Please... wake me up.
I just want to return to His bubble of memory.
(Merton Lee, Singapore)
In the desert of my mind
Are nomadic dunes of ineptitude.
I traverse these dunes
Seeking words
Like a thirsting man after water.
My search is slow and ponderous
As my feet sink deeply
Into sands of frustration.
Drops of imagination
Fall from my brow
And are absorbed in the same sands.
Cresting a barrier of mediocrity
I see a puddle of liquid letters
Left by some recently passed storm.
I race to this source of inspiration
As quickly as my inability will allow.
Kneeling beside this tiny pool of possibilities
I cup my trembling hands
And scoop out the last swallow of satisfaction.
I bend my face low
To drink in the sweet elixir of purpose,
But, in so doing, I lose my balance.
I splay my hands to catch myself
And thus release the vagrant liquid,
Sending it back to the earth.
I watch disbelievingly
As tiny grains of discouragement
Darken under the stain
Of lost expectation.
“No!” I cry as I snatch up the sand
Now wet with the dew of my hope.
Would that I could
Suck the very moisture from each particle
That sticks to my hands in damp mockery.
The refreshing coolness of anticipation
Evaporates much too quickly.
In the stifling air of despondency
The grains dry and cascade form my hands
In a slow waterfall of contempt.
The realization of my fate
Comes to me in a wave of despair.
Anguish wells inside me
And pours forth in tears
Of hopelessness.
They stream down my cheeks
And breach the dam of futility.
They then pass with a salty sting
Over my immobile, cracked upper lip.
My tongue darts about
And absorbs the drops of destitution
Greedily.
So it is my thirst for words
Is momentarily,
Yet inadequately, appeased.
Let me jump into your river run rich as Euphrates.
Let me lay in your tall grass valleys nestled between two hard black mountain peaks,
where I
Can drink up the sunrays.
And Black up my Brown and Brown up my Light.
Somewhere between them rolling black hills is where your thick bush hides the cool
crystal
streams.
I sip your fruit plants sweet cocoa milk and look up into your skies sunrays.
It ricochets off the smooth chocolate black trees that support your voluptuous magnolia
bloom
The wind blows and your flower bounces and quakes, fanning its sweet aroma through the
Atmosphere,
Sweeping those soft fluffy pedals across my face.
I smile
And you Black up my Brown and Brown up my Light.
In the arms of the soft black cavern, under the river’s waterfall, I make my home.
It’s a heart of paradise embracing me.
Inviting me in.
I hear the water passing over, throbbing and pulsing in sync with mine.
I suck berries at the foot of the open fields.
That sweet oil black juice dances down my mouth.
Every fluid filled bite overflows in my lips and runs down the side to drip slowly from
my chin.
I look up into your skies and stars look down and speak my name.
The moon moans. The womb of man is this woman
She alone can Black up my Brown and Brown up my Light.
Then ever so gently the leaves pull back and open up her vast and succulent fields
I slowly crawl into her pastures then firmly and stiffly begin to dig up her soil.
Turning over her rich black earth.
Toiling day and night tilling her meadows,
Unearthing her treasures buried below.
The constant pounding and packing up a full load;
Breaking into new ground.
Cracking the topsoil and penetrating her nutritious moist and sticky fertile turf.
Never has the earth been split like this to uncover her deepest mysteries.
Next I unpack my deepest confidence and my strongest statues.
Then with my tool, through the moist and milky mass, I scoop out a deep warm hole to plant
My dreams.
Packing and pushing it deep in the soggy substance, time and time again until….
The thunder cracks this empress’ tempest
The earth contracts. Fear collapsed.
And here and only here,
I Black up my Brown and Brown up my Life!
They scoop out my eyes
They sealed my ears
They chained my legs and hands
They freeze my heart
They drank my marrow and blood
They swallowed my brain
Now I am searching who I am
But they cannot extinguish
The fire in my mind
Oh hypocrite world
One day I will break my chain
One day I will break my chain
Home from a chemo session, uncle lights up
a cigarette and collapses
to the slick plastic that covers your chaise
lounge, auntie. He thumps the upholstery
with his legs and elbows for blood
to circulate again. A flake
drifts. Dehydrated lips, uncle
inadvertently kisses ash. Cushions
puff up, deflate. Uncle floats
smoke rings to prove he still has breath.
Your bulbous urn ruptures his rings
on contact where curvature
casts uncle’s warped reflection, all mouth and smoke,
as he would rise to reach your urn on the mantle.
Uncle slouches back, watches his sports channel.
I head out with his hamper
and forget to check pockets before washing clothes,
his soggy receipts - - once grocery lists? - -
and tissues, torn apart, clumped up, fake snow
I have to scoop out of washing machines.
Absent-minded tasks at the laundromat, auntie,
where you’d bend in pain. Lint trays reinstall
fluff. I snap
and snap airborne dryer-flakes off towels.
When picking a pumpkin, I want one that’s round,
The fattest, most corpulent one to be found.
It needn’t be heavy or massive in size,
But shape is a place where I won’t compromise.
The color, of course, is important, as well.
It has to be orange - no washed-out pastel.
I’m sorry for specimens speckled with green;
They just do not make the cut for Halloween.
And lastly, before I discover my gem,
I search ‘til I find one with strong, curvy stem.
I’ll never select one that’s missing its handle –
(It comes in quite handy when planting the candle).
When I’ve found the one that fulfills all my needs,
I’ll scoop out the insides and toast up the seeds.
My husband will carve out a devilish grin
And our Jack ‘O will welcome the holiday in.