Best Scooping Poems
Let me try to fill you all in on the scoop
There are some poets that write like they poop
Though most are out there
You must be aware
There are some poopers that stink up the soup
To all the poopers that stink up the soup
I'll say this to keep you into the loop
You too... be aware
There are poets- here
That will try to poop you out of our group
And if you do get pooped out of our group
Go somewhere else to spread out your goop
So, you and your sack
Must never come back...
to write your poopy in PoetrySoup
The Garden of Eden
Some people believe that the Garden of Eden
Was in Africa, Asia, Australia...not Sweden.
The presumed site of its location
Is assumed from the interpretation
Of which Good Book's being read…and who's doin' the readin'.
Noah
Noah's ark, neither yacht nor a sloop,
Was constructed to be one big animal coop.
On his crew It must have been a strain
That during forty days and nights of rain
To keep forking in fodder and scooping out poop.
It Ain't Necessarily So
Pious people are prone to become agitated
When agnostics assess their belief's overrated,
And the words that they're liable
To find in the Bible
By mere men were created, not divinely dictated.
The endgame
And the cemetery was
nowhere to be found
yet was so present
in the shallow depth
the graveyard of the mind
No tombstone unturned
fragmented torn and twisted
sorrow flowing down
encrypted alleyways
and Thanatos’ call
Searching to imprint
coffin’s nails on seams
of muddy icy prison
hammered chiselled avenues
creeping through and in
Dead alive and collocated
hell firing place and time
scorching cementing
looming crossing overs
to where and when to how
No monument just
monumental nothing
void oppression
endless loop’s demise
thoughts emotions dragging
Torrential thunders
roping in electrocuted lightning
nooses from the tree of
living emptied darkness
flowing rapids standing still
The cemetery awaiting
ashes urns and vultures
presiding over Ganges Styx
Caron caring like a
lifeless Buddha saddened
Giving taking suffering
unthreading tapestry graffiti
splashing on the canvass
sombre art in progress
oscillating back and forth
The reaper harvests harshly
the mindless soul and body
crumbling bones infested
carbons desiccation apathy
hedonistic pleasures dull extinct
Gravitation nudges wild
and gently roaring
culling sculls foreclosing scooping
offerings burthens memories
premature un-furbished epitaphs
Silent roaring rampant syncopal
admonished synergetic resolution
teasing fool and morbid jester
luring loosening resolve
apprehending lithographic scribes
And the cemetery blinding
obvious and for the taking
present not yet for embrace
remains a silhouette on the horizon
and life for now is stronger
May 18th 2016
Contest entered:
And the cemetery was... Broken Wings
I made a Jack-o’-lantern
With eerie looking eyes
The scooping was not wasted
For mama made two pies
We ate them in the evening
And then I went outside
I took my glowing lantern
And showed it off with pride.
[Dedicated to Abby Nance.]
Black birds gather....early in the morning....scooping up sunshine and singing to announce a new day....
Wings flapping in rapid succession....like waves of splendor....enthusiasm galore!
Black birds gather...my heart flutters a new beat...a tempo like none other...like the shininess of soft piano keys...your passion to sing enlightens me
Oh how I wish I could sing at the first shards of sunlight....how I wish I could fly around from tree top to tree top ushering in the new opportunity
I will do my best to do the same thing right down here with my mug of hot coffee!
How I love the NEW DAY!
g.rix
1-8-15
I listen on the beach to the waves cascading,
Slapping, tossing the sand pebbles,
Creating swishing, swashing sounds,
I hear hissing, rustling sounds of the wind.
I see some gliding fishing boats there,
The seagulls soaring, gliding in the air here,
On the horizon floating ships still further,
Surfers trying to get rides on the waves here.
I watch people running strolling and sunning,
The sun is about to set on the horizon,
With a promise to rise anew tomorrow morning,
Like the human ambitions and desires unknown.
I notice the crabs scurry somewhere hiding,
The scooping pelicans with mouthful of fish,
Leaving the smooth bed of sand, water receding,
All sounds now receding to its minimum hiss.
Come, Grace, getting away from the turmoil,
It is the time for us to be in tranquility to coil?
Like any family, mine’s the same, they leave Mama with the dirty Chores.
You’d think with Trolls, and Dragons, and such… There’d be magic galore!
But I concede defeat at Pooper Scooping Time, my sons taught everyone well.
You’d think just once, they wouldn’t run away, with such a humongous bombshell.
The Witch next door is out of town; she usually uses it to fertilize her yard.
Her magic does it in a minute flat, but she’s not here, as my yard becomes marred.
She flew on vacation with the first snowfall; in spring she’ll help my backyard.
In the meantime it’s just little old me… It’s like cleaning out a yucky stockyard.
So I gave a shovel to a grouchy old Dragon, since he’s so big and does so much.
But I came back fricasseed and charbroiled, my shovel totally melted, as such.
I put on my fire retardant suit, and I gave him a special spot where he can unload.
Apparently he didn’t like that either, as I dug out from under a humongous load.
Finally, raking it all up, I ask the dragon, to make cinders of the yucky stuff.
Instead he laughed as he huffed and puffed, blowing smoke at me, in a huff.
I smelled kinda bad as I went to the house, getting a cart to fill to the brim.
I’ll admit, getting mad at a dragon was never a good idea, to originally begin.
But I was pissed, as it looked like rain, and my mind was beginning to spin.
I filled the cart to overflowing, then tied it to the sleeping dragon’s… butt end.
When he woke up, he flew half way up to the moon, spreading it on the wind.
Unfortunately it was me, my yard, and my house, that finally got it again.
Who knows where that darned old cart now lies, as he came flying back alone.
I had learned my lesson that it would never be wise to lose my temper again.
So as the rain began to wash my folly away, I looked up and kissed the rain.
Sometimes it’s prudent, to just relax, and get in touch with the elements again.
I dreamt that you were there,
In a haze, I could see your familiar face
The sun providing a spotlight for our awe-drenched moment
As I drew near,
Your features became more and more clear
You were smiling from ear to ear,
Like an angel fragrant and bright,
My soul beamed like an on-switched light
And we were so close to bonding edges
So close to each other’s face
I was captive in your touch
And yet I felt fully free
I saw your alighted lips
Curved, smooth and pining
As if they had waited for the moment I would find them
And how they trembled with joy and longing
As they took their inevitable, suspenseful plunge
Two lips leaped and landed like panthers on the prowl,
Magnetic, crazed and ruthless
Made for this moment
I cannot fathom the strength I received,
Kissing those celestial lips…
He was drinking in all of my sorrows
In the sacred force of our impact
I felt his struggles he bore,
Ball and chain-
Though I did not feel burden or pain
I felt his purpose in his moist embrace
The cuddle of dew and rosebud,
The glow of this thumping heart
I felt him release the reigns of life’s blisters
For the conjoining of our truth
In the kiss of wholesome bliss,
He wrapped his arms around me,
Tremulous and tight
Caressing and knowing every spot needing light
Eternal moments passing in our sweet blend,
Tenderly, his voice,
With comfort and assurance,
Knighted by cream-lit clouds
His voice, a deep bell scooping water from a wishing well
Pertinently held my ear in trance:
“This is the part where we never let go…”
. . .
When I woke from the dream,
I realized we were embracing always,
Since the day of our union
My eyes became wise,
And I knew that I never let go of him
Not once, not ever...
An unusual pair, yes,
Like vines to a gargoyle
Though eternal too
For the gargoyle’s eyes never blink
For fear of missing the most
Her cold-stoned exterior senses the vine’s bold hold
Feeling and bearing his thorns forever…
Clad in the ornaments of each other
Warmed and invigorated by the sun
Chapters,
Dogeared and tired
put down for another day
another time when chapters spin
and life begins to unwind
what leads the pages to unfold
before these very eyes
where have they been before
the creases are my Braille
as I never fail to see
my way
out
or is it in
I follow the trails
the breadcrumbs you have left
scooping them up
caressing each and every morsel
of your meal
lain down preciously and precisely
no want nor need
to go back
to another beginning
for I read to no end
the red circles joining
journeying across the tempest of trust
in Olympic fashion
immersed in the dreams of only today
scribed in blue and green
I succumb
to write by the fires
that dare do flame
The bards met there on winter nights
to write about the sounds and sights,
of all the places they had been,
since they met last with all their friends.
Quills and ink wells,parchment too,
shared or squandered,
words come true,
thoughts and feelings
fill the air,
visions falling everywhere.
Scooping up bright inspirations,
from another's celebration,
of the wonders they have known,
and finding out,
you're not alone.
For only a few summer months out of the year,
I can always find a pretty girl working here.
She is the type of gal most guys see in a dream.
I see her every summer day scooping ice cream.
Sundaes, cones, sodas, there is nothing she can’t serve.
I want to speak to her, but I can’t get the nerve.
Vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, or peach,
many other flavors are within her reach.
A sundae or cone she can serve me any day.
If I could get her attention, is there a way?
I always look forward to the summer season.
Susie at the ice cream parlor is the reason.
i.
Evil sleeps in an orchard
not far from here.
The apples sweat him out.
Dressed as god, the Sun
watches and nods.
He bleeds for them
out of his own mouth.
A god's mask
means protection.
But in time,
he will suck them dry.
And autumn will fall.
Postures will fall.
Pulses will fall,
like pills,
like poison.
ii.
A cloud forest
signals the first
of the shadows.
Summer is nocturnal.
A buttery Moon
leaves the world
warm and breathing.
The trees stir,
the stars hiccup,
and Nighttime climbs onto the birdbath
where it tells you all its tricks.
iii.
Evil blinks from a tree
where the apple skulls
intrude.
The garden combs you
through its arteries,
scooping
your midsummer grave.
A beautiful accident
closes in on itself.
And then a light like milk.
And then the whistling.
iv.
Summer whistles in the dark:
The sound of Evil kneeling
to the imagination
undoing him.
A deadly glow
becoming
a romance
on the white fences.
Nighttime draws dust
away from your shoulders,
translates Summer sound
and says,
You are your own harvest.
Your madness is only there
when you want it to be.
Poetry often starts outside
of one's self – on a distant hill or near
greenhouse shelf; our-cultivations
as the consideration of a grafted rose
goes; the meandering, dripping of a stream
or nose; submerging of our toes in
chilling clarity – we see to the bottom,
sometimes fooled by depth –
or that of a winged flight, wingtips tossing
sparks of light, dipping and scooping
winged ladles of air, unseen but yet
we see them there, pouring out there,
back into our fanciful sky, our fanciful
eye -- in a heart's invested sigh -- up
high in the atmosphere, sighted unseen
spirit -- looking and listening for the echo
of angels -- turning us more inward, where
deeper observation and motion begins,
the pen is lifted, and the paper stained
finally, fondly into lyrical submission –
Ubar, you are elusive and evasive.
Pushing the sands of time toward other places
Hiding in the bowels of your comfortable spot
Deep within the stomach of the southern Arabian sands
Wabar, you are secretive and secluded
Choosing to linger below the surface,
Almost impossible to discover,
Gloating in your ethereal resting place.
Iram, you are intriguing and enticing
Keeping yourself alive in legends and myths
Enticing my imagination as I imagine scooping you out
And discovering frankincense deep below the Arabian Desert.
Half a mile from the shore
boats turn into diving fish,
the sky roars by
derailed by the horizon.
The Lake Erie ferry
skims the crashing crests
rises as a seagull,
scooping up the flying spray.
We passengers go below
abandoning the deck
to the scouring winds.
Children are gathered up
into protective huddles.
I catch my reflection,
my grin is fixed and stiff.
The skipper calls out:
this is normal for the time of year!
The tense mood of the cabin calms.
My jaw aches
for the rest of the day.