Best Scrapbooks Poems
Some children sat down on the floor.
They sat till their bottoms were sore.
“We could each take a chair,”
said one boy sitting there.
“So then what are we waiting for?”
For the Juvenilia Contest of Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer
Note: Around age 10 or 11, I had a teacher who taught us about limericks.
I really loved it and had never written anything creative to my knowledge before that day. I have been searching my house to see if I kept my very first poem in any of my scrapbooks, but I must not have. I have had this little poem in my memory ever since that time, but am not exactly sure how I did my line 2, so I've created a new line two, though I don't think I was talking about "bottoms" in the fifth grade yet!
Categories:
scrapbooks, children, poetry,
Form:
Limerick
Black and White – 3-18-24
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Black and White
Black and white come in focus -
Absent of prime –
A slice of life exposed through the lens,
A flash-dance of story, a masquerade ball.
No sunrise of sepia - clouds absent of platinum,
Lavender drained from lilacs, sky robbed of blue,
Red-orange stolen from sunsets.
Spindrift frozen like frost,
Candlelight shines undimmed and eternal,
Stark either or – life or not -
In shadows, snow or mountaintops,
Ghosts on boughs of ebony wear gossamer.
Wrinkles and lines banished from smiles of youth
While the lens loves some visages
As eyes without color look back from albums.
Positive to negative. Negative to positive.
Photoplay in wedding smiles or tears of a clown
Moments of the soul held in tenderness
Protected in scrapbooks of black and white.
Categories:
scrapbooks, color, dark, life, light,
Form:
Free verse
adventurous days
running through wildflower fields
carefree memories
of playing with my siblings
birthday parties and skating
first day of grade school
a bit shy to make new friends
riding a school bus
Sesame Street with Big Bird
snacking on cookies and milk
waiting for Santa
holidays and Christmas trees
loving family
lots of giggles and laughter
old photographs in scrapbooks
August 13, 2022
Childhood Nostalgia Contest
Sponsored by JCB Brul
Categories:
scrapbooks, childhood, memory,
Form:
Tanka
Safe Driving Demo
Quick reaction time
driving in front of the school
fastest stop won prize
beat the top three high school boys
girls have the best reflexes
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: Let's Hear It
Sponsor: Judy Konos
Judged: 02/10/2016
Theme: Get your scrapbooks out! Bring your memories back!
Something from our high school or college days.
Categories:
scrapbooks, car, high school,
Form:
Tanka
Building a fire
Had a smirk of sorrowful clarity
Someone dancing on my grave.
And a artist
The night was gathering materials.
Knowing ambition for pleasure
Would never fill the pit.
The night called for a burn
All the grasped boxes of blankets
Nostalgic wood, Rhapsodies of a ratt-packen
Journals, binders, scraps of thoughts
Nick-knack volumes of prophets
Overdosing on written salvation
Hoping for a instance coffee relief
A always, never the fallow-through
More is pilled, the mix of kindling
Dirty-bits, and old yearnings
A stone from a beach, of first love
Scrapbooks of holding mortality
**** mags, and bed follies pics
A secrete place a catholic boy goes
My heap inter-mixed with nature
All of it dead, until the match
Erupts a fire enjoying feeding
Impermanence is really scarred
So is observing the flame
Hypnotic destruction is fire at night
Eyes dance to flares refection
Chaotic colors of visible heat
A calm abiding trance
Warm glowed my garments
In ambers consuming to ash
Categories:
scrapbooks, introspectionnight, fire, fire, night,
Form:
Free verse
I sat and watched as you stood and cried,
you laid and pondered on why she lied.
For too long we noticed her health decline,
oh please God, why couldn’t it be benign?
For all the moments as we started to look back,
I recall forgetfulness, though it’s hard to keep track.
A mother so strong, how can she have a tumor?
Causing dementia; her memories were fewer.
I show her scrapbooks with pictures of yore,
but I see she doesn’t recognize us like before.
Only sixty-five years old, too young to die,
surgery isn’t an option there’s no reason to try.
Contemplating a home with proper treatment,
but our family keeps discussing in disagreement.
My wish is to keep her here with family around,
but it may be too scary for her to be confound.
We watched her trip and fall and lose her balance,
reaching for help and grabbing onto the valance.
Loss of intellect and personality integration,
so sad to see her struggle with severe frustration.
Slowly she deteriorated and dwindled in weight,
it was only a matter of time, we had to sit and wait.
Delirium and delusions were her greatest symptoms,
all the medical bills added up with loss of income.
She was terminal with irrevocable brain damage,
the mood swings and anger fits were too hard to manage.
It was a cool sunny day when she closed her weary eyes,
I sat and watched all her innocent grandchildren cry.
A beautiful relief was her last breath to be seen,
finally healthy and happy, peaceful and serene.
Date Written: June 2, 2016
Categories:
scrapbooks, death, mother,
Form:
Couplet
"How sweet to the heart are the scenes of my childhood"
Samuel Woodworth, 1785-1842
With fond memories my heart embraces
childhood days of innocent impressions
and plush playmates with adoring faces
Dolls and tea sets were my prized possessions
Forming angels with friends in Winter's snow
and making silly facial expressions
I gathered wild flowers in the meadow
and plaited wreaths to wear in my long hair
Selling lemonade with my best friend, Jo.
In my younger days I didn't have a care
In make-up, pearls, and high heels, I was dressed
Ignoring Mom when she'd say, "Don't you dare!"
Affectionately, my fingers caressed
photos in scrapbooks of my early days
Years of my life when I was richly blessed
My vision is blurred by a teary haze
Recalling those years, today and always
November 25, 2020 ~ Terza Rima Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Rhyming verified on RhymeZone
Syllables verified on HowManySyllables
Grammar and Spelling verified on PS Grammar Checker
Categories:
scrapbooks, childhood,
Form:
Terza Rima
I viewed the dawn through mist of fading dreams,
Aware of silver feet upon the roof.
Eaves shivered wet, while raindrops welcomed spring
With murmured sounds, and giving me excuse
To burrow down and doze, with warming trace
Of childhood mornings, which have blown away.
I stretch my arms and rise with no regrets,
And see a rainbow’s face
That arches over hills so far away,
From crayons of time, that I will not forget
I love the rain that falls upon the grass
And look beyond the margins framed inside.
I sense renewal come with mute caress,
Will find new places where my soul resides.
The child in me will dance among the dew,
In soggy dress and mud between my toes,
Not to be dampened by a state of care…
Although the day is blue…
My inner child ignores the dark and low,
And thinks of rain the gift of something new.
Contentment comes from little things I do
Old storybooks will dazzle wishes, fed…
to make believe that wishes could come true
I drink some tea, with snack of jam and bread,
And once again, with growing up to do
Old scrapbooks found, to leap right through my age
Just one more moment as the child relents
My childhood bids adeiu
Recalling now, how fondness comes with sage
But knowing now, how well those days were spent~
.........................................................................................
In Honor of Cyndi's Contest: Comforts of a Rainy Afternoon
Categories:
scrapbooks, happiness, child, rain, childhood,
Form:
Ode
There's this strange fascination,
I carry without contemplation-
it lingers on with infatuation,
as I'm stuck on this fixation.
My mother never taught me this,
I learned this all on my own-
Picture Frames and scrapbooks,
full of the pets in my home.
I always craved more love,
than people could ever give me-
That's why I treat my pets,
as if they were family.
I'm hung up on dressing up,
crazed about homemade treats-
Two dogs sleeping in bed with me,
at the bottom of my feet.
I never let my daughter scream,
for it's never been allowed-
But my dogs can bark as they wish,
too freely and way too loud.
Am I delusional?
To have this addiction to adulation?
For there will never be anything,
as special as their creation.
They have their own house,
in the backward when it's cold-
And God forbid they lay on the couch,
without me to tenderly hold.
I bake some chicken and sirloin,
cuz' famished they'll never be-
Knit warm blankets out of yarn,
while watching TV next to me.
The couch is theirs to rest on,
on their own cushions they lay,
bathed with special doggie bubbles,
every other Tuesday.
I have this crazy captivation,
and hold extreme dedication-
My obsession is I hold veneration,
for my pets with adoration.
July 23, 2017
Categories:
scrapbooks, dog, love,
Form:
Rhyme
There was a horrible fire in my
house not too long ago-
Everything burned to ashes and
in the garbage I had to throw
many valuable things that
meant the world to me,
but there was one thing that
could be replaced in reality.
I’ve made scrapbooks for over
twenty years or more,
pictures and embellishments
of my family I adore.
Letters and post cards from
vacations I have taken,
and when I saw the rubble a
whole new outlook had awakened.
I used to think these things
could never be replaced,
but the more I pondered,
I came to a conclusion with grace.
See what has been burned
can be mine no more,
but it allowed me to start fresh
gathering more pictures than before.
A camera can be replaced as well
as a book of fond memories,
and when I look into the future
that is not all that I see.
A person who dies cannot be
replaced with someone else,
but I could always create new
scrapbooks to place upon my shelf.
Memories are not only on
photo paper, but in your heart,
and with my brand new camera
and printer is where I did start.
I took a new perspective on my
life and what I had in store,
freed myself from the loss of pictures
and replaced my mantel with more.
I never thought I could live without
twenty years of scrapbooks,
but in the end it was a way to
start over so this new road I took.
Replacing my life could never happen
but one lesson I have learned,
that letting-go and moving on is
something that is earned.
Agree with me or not but
I know this to be true...
The photos of my life can
be reprinted...
...with beautiful
scrapbooks of new.
Someone, or Something, Replaceable - Poetry Contest
March 26, 2017
Categories:
scrapbooks, fire, memory, perspective,
Form:
Rhyme
I've contemplated your desires as you walk into an occupied room.
You stood there laughing, bringing sweet conversations to everyone
around you. I saw the way you catch their attention for such strikingly
words that sweep out of your mouth.
They think they know you...
They don't know you at all...
I'm the only one...
Only I can recognize how exceptionally deep you really are. If only I had found you earlier my life would have been more precious. Is there a way we can rewind the tape? I had searched for you as if my contentment wasn't good enough to live with. Beyond my fire you found such generosity with my unconditional promises. Promises of a life of sincere pleasure and satisfaction. Everyone looks at you with wonder, and if they only knew how beautiful I declare you are.
They think they know you...
They don't know you at all...
I'm the only one...
Considering your soft tender heart, I could never feel more blessed. For you are my light and you make my soul shine brighter than the constellations soaring around the universe. You are my universe. I am your world and we are bound to be together on earth. Our earth will tell sweet stories through the generations of descendants from our children..our children's children...and...our grandchildren's children. Our successors will learn all about you through all the scrapbooks I have made for us and the stories passed down...
They think they will know you...
They will know you...
They will love who you are...
Written By: Laura Loo
Date Written: February 17, 2016
Categories:
scrapbooks, blessing, destiny, husband, love,
Form:
Free verse
Fragments of a buried life, microscopic pieces,
gathering and breeding, in all the little creases.
Snapshots, stills and scrapbooks, documented angst,
diaries of disasters,of when I craved another chance.
Handled like a teeny fragile delicate new-born,
hands grasped too hard now it lies broken and torn.
It's always this way, destroy all that I touch,
so I keep you in jars, the temptation too much.
I seal up my thoughts and I write them all down,
untouched so I stand back to see how they've grown.
Some fragments have splintered some hairy from dust,
for those I wept tears on have crumbled from rust.
But those I hold precious, the last you-crumbs I've got,
I've locked up, protected, concealed from the rot.
20th June 2011
Categories:
scrapbooks, angst
Form:
Rhyme
My mum and I made many scrapbooks over the years.
To find inspiring and interesting pictures was not hard
And most magazines got past my mothers sense of decorum
And her duty to protect me from scantily clad ladies in my formative years.
My mother continued scrap booking for many years, as did I.
With fond memories to last a lifetime for me and my own children.
But alas scrap booking as Mother and I knew it is almost no more.
The end came slowly unobtrusively, one unsuitable magazine at a time.
First it was the Truck and Car magazines with more than just pictures of
Cars and trucks to cut out.
Until one day it came to pass that even the pictures of cute little animals
Could no longer be found in many a women's magazine.
Which is strange indeed to me as one would have thought that a magazine
Owned by a woman, edited by women and employing lots of women and being sold to women would be
The last place to find only pictures that my Mum would not want in her scrapbook.
I find this phenomenon doubley strange given that playboy is giving up it's centrefold.
Maybe someone else can get their head around this cause I sure can't.
Not when these once child friendly magazines that gave me such pleasure on Many A rainy day are now just another something for preschoolers to giggle at
And form unhealthy opinions of life in general.
Thank goodness for people like my Mother who still have some examples of Child friendly magazines and books hidden away in cupboards which if you ever Pay a visit will be trotted out and you can see pictures of cute little animals While there is still time to save them and the scrapbooks.
Categories:
scrapbooks, age, anger, appreciation, betrayal,
Form:
Imagism
Though the trail has grown cold,
this never deters
Clues are always left behind ...
connections of a most human kind
Desperate souls feel a compulsive need
to leave cyber cadaver traces of a living memory
Holographic scrapbooks hidden in encrypted firewalls
Another person will have it stored
somewhere in an undetectable virtual vault
Clues inevitably left behind ...
encoded software of a fingerprint scent design
Whether here or there, it doesn’t matter where —
Tracker will find it
Nothing can remain unseen
from Tracker’s deep-space grade fiber optics
Many have used elaborate neural dampening shields
to cover their beta-wave tracks
And plenty use med-ob configuration distortion nodes
to mask their most unique cranial activity signature
But Tracker knows ...
she always find corporate government illegal those
With bloodhound genes lab womb grown
into her super-sensitive cloned nose,
Tracker will find you ...
it’s just a matter of countdown digital
Categories:
scrapbooks, dark, future, science fiction,
Form:
Free verse
fear seems to be the cause du jour
fear if it all just ended
shapes us like quivering jello molds
fear of the landline
tapping into our heads
fear of the landmine
careless gifts from the feds
electric shivers
primal and oozing
forgetting ripe young days
played out in faded kodachrome
ripp'd into summer's apple
flushed future shiny bright
dimmed by memory's bitter yen
the terrible beauty of what could be
now just sloshes out like regrets and bad wine
make like the sparrow that hides in the bower
for who is the shadow on the doorstep at noon?
make for the mage in the tumbledown tower
bring him warm bloodwine, he'll grant you a boon
grasp for the jib line
gasp for the moon 'cause
all the fair haired heroes have jaundice
leatherskinned and alone above corner liquor stores
old capes used as blankets, stained with nostalgia
huddled around scrapbooks filled with clippings
when a world made some sense
bubbling under a mantle of order
of when the world wanted cops 'n robbers
drunk indians lassoed and penitent
mysterious strangers with masks and grooming
problem solved
freedom used to be free
(but not for a gov'ment career)
move along, nothing to see
question nothing you've ever heard here
but do any words now
whether spoken or ink
have some monitored text?
will the next bard or wry wordsmith
have to sneak stealthily in
through the trapdoor of the poet house
or perHaps clevErLy sPin US!!!
through coded thought crime?
is the opposite of fear
really love?
(or is it even worse)
are we damned in quiet whispers
if the opposite of love
is apathy
meh.
Categories:
scrapbooks, angst,
Form:
Prose