Best Scraped Poems
Metallic city howls like a wounded animal
scraped by nocturnal vigils
of grandchildren and elders
emaciated like tuberculosis lungs
gasping from chug-chugs of tobacco soot...
and the face of a night is hammered by
ripped moans like plucked strings in motel rooms;
pagan women opening limbs for a meal in silent fury.
This is the other side of town, so real...
beggars peddling hope; factory shoulders
ranting over shuffled cards and fired gin
as wives’ blistered fingers
clean rented pots, gibbering same monotone of hymn,
“give us daily bread, daily bread”.
Outside, the pier coughs off
the commercial honks of weighed cargo
reeked with labor’s perspiration,
where pawnshops buzz with greed's snicker...
the evening owl attempts winks
under the grime of bloodied moon…
it spits the larynx of tenants’ raged hoots
wishing morsels of fresh sunset
would pour some grace of life’s salve. I weep
before the shrill of red sets in... again.
------------
Truth Contest sponsored by Anthony Slausin
Re-post 5/28/2019
When midnight flames flicker aesthetic reveries,
releasing ashes of rainbow petals,
upon the canvas of undressed seasons,
I delve into blue blurs of butterflies,
framed in floating colors of nostalgia,
aching for dried dyes to home this scraped heart~
hanging loose, within smoky imagery,
as if every pigment will sprout from lilies of longing.
But can memories thaw frozen zeal,
illustrating steamy sunsets with liquefied rubies,
to unveil a timeless era, retouched and restored,
from the dust of dusks composed in surrealism?
And I, the splattering of an ink-blot,
persist as a dramatized kiss of tongue-stroked silence,
like a portrait, isolated in artistic utopia,
as love is more than a metaphor that speaks to the moon;
a pastel palette textured with melted roses~
saturated stars can interpret…
I take my hat off for the flag
I stand up straight; let others sag
I get all weepy for Old Glory
thinking of my family's story
They came from Russia with naught but hope
with just their wits to help them cope
No language skills or education either
Money or living quarters, they had neither
But they scraped and scrimped, and just kept going
Gramps peddled junk, grams did the sewing
And with the help of God, it all worked out
Hard work and faith -- their kids did sprout
My father an attorney, my uncle a physician
All due to gram and gramps' prescient intuition
To emigrate alone, part of no community
to an unknown land of opportunity
A diesel generator
drowns out the rusted Marshall stack
Six years we owned
the Billboard charts;
the DJ who crowned us
every summer
for five straight years—
this week, a county fair;
tonight, the Music Pier.
The drummer tapes two split fingers
closes his hand once
hard—
then rests the sticks
by Mick’s ashes
in a Folgers Black Silk can behind the kit
Tommy’s gold sequins
snag on his dialysis catheter
as he sits
Johnnie the P-bassist drags a stool onstage
to ease his neuropathy
We are crushed elderberries
hawking CDs from a card table,
bleeding a dark, tart stain
onto ninety aluminum chairs
No teenagers weep;
a man wipes funnel-cake grease
from his chin
As I tune the cherry-red '57 Stratocaster
down a minor third,
hoarse from pushing air
through a throat scraped thick
with scar tissue
We were a dense, golden field
beneath the studio lights
on Midnight Special
Now plucked dandelion crowns
scatter over Ferris wheel blacktop,
leaving white ghost-tufts
snagged in the Music Pier’s
boardwalk planks
Where just three bald stems
plug into the seaside damp—
and the seeds drift past the shoreline,
washed up,
vanishing into the deep
we used to call home
(Verse 1)
Rust on the spokes but the memory shines,
Dust on the frame like a map of old times,
Handlebars crooked from corners we’d take,
Chasing the sunset down every mistake.
Scraped knees and laughter stitched into the air,
Freedom was something we didn’t know we’d wear.
(Pre-Chorus)
No keys, no clocks, no place we had to be,
Just spinning wheels and a wild, wide “we.”
(Chorus)
Oh those old favorite bicycles, rolling through our days,
Chain-singing summers in a hundred golden ways,
Pedals pushing promises down every street we knew,
With the wind as our witness and the sky as our view.
We were kings of the cul-de-sac, queens of the lane,
Riding forever, never feeling the chain.
(Verse 2)
Bell that would ring like a bright little boast,
Racing our shadows we loved the most,
Trading our stories at the corner store,
Counting loose change for a dream and more.
Tires would whisper on warm, worn roads,
Carrying secrets only childhood knows.
(Pre-Chorus)
We thought the world was a circle we’d trace,
Round and around in that reckless grace.
(Chorus)
Oh those old favorite bicycles, rolling through our days,
Chain-singing summers in a hundred golden ways,
Pedals pushing promises down every street we knew,
With the wind as our witness and the sky as our view.
We were kings of the cul-de-sac, queens of the lane,
Riding forever, never feeling the chain.
(Bridge)
Now they’re leaning in garages, quiet and still,
But I swear I can hear them beyond the hill—
Calling my name in a soft, spinning rhyme,
Turning the wheels of a simpler time.
(Final Chorus)
Oh those old favorite bicycles, echo in my mind,
Rolling through the roads we can’t rewind,
But somewhere in the distance, in the dust and blue,
That child is still riding, still breaking through.
With the wind as a whisper and the past in flame,
I ride them again every time I remember their name.
Write words
that will be scraped
into a stone
by a rebellious kid
who refused
to be owned
Write words
that will make
a hopeless sinner
never feel alone
Write words
that will move
a homeless man
from a shelter seat
to a throne
Write words
that will tattoo
the answers
to your soul
about the questions
of the future
that is unknown
I walked with ease
a comfortable moment after sunset,
I wore clean, comfortable skin
and comfortable, casual attire.
Past glowing shopfronts
on clean, wide pavements,
warm evening slowly darkened,
a good time would be had by all.
I don't care much for the parties,
but good company is good,
just as good as a good time,
a good time would be had by all.
Until the unexpected ambush.
Glowing shopfronts vanished.
Clean, wide pavements grew dark and dirty.
I was ambushed by a gang of forgotten abuses.
I was helpless against the mad mob,
they beat me to the ground,
stomped on the back of my head,
printed my face on the concrete curb.
Broke my nose and some ribs,
bust my skin wide open,
tore my favourite, crisp black shirt,
took my wallet and my watch.
After a few bleak moments, humiliated and alone,
I scraped my sorry ****
from the sneering ground
and continued on my way.
A good time remained to be had by all,
a less good time for me,
but good company would be almost as good
as the good time had by all.
20th October 2018.
The Faded Garden Swing
If the flaked paint on the old swing
could speak, it would tell stories of
days long ago,
Of children's laughter and their bare,
muddy feet,
Of fireflies caught and imprisoned in
empty jam jars,
Like the fireflies, my memory flickers,
trying to recall who lived across the
street.
The faded swing’s rusty chains creaked
loudly under my weight, an old familiar
song,
And the scent in the air from the aged
honeysuckle, still going strong,
An old familiar perfume of yesteryear,
At this moment, suspended between
the then and now, time stands still.
Once the echoes of children’s giggles,
now a silent yard,
Images of scraped knees, loud cries
and a lemonade stall,
In the distance, the sound of an old
church bell rings,
Here, on this faded garden swing,
I sit in the past with the weight of
what was and of what can never be
again.
Now, shadows linger in silence,
Where children once soared with
dreams,
Oh, faded swing, a keeper of stories
of joy and pain,
You hold the essence where memories
remain,
At last, I am home, in the place where
time stands still.
Written: November 17, 2025
*************
The orchard of my childhood
bears no fruit now—
Only the crisp quiet
of ochre leaves
gathered in the elbows
from neglected roads.
Once green with gambol, the grass
has lost to ash-threaded silver.
arthritis of its roots,
Its boughs bowed.
akin to an older man in prayer.
A wind—
Knowing—not cruel—but
filters the quiet,
rising laughter
that once clung to the bark
similar to dew.
It takes away
the etched reflections
of scraped knees,
Of sky foam dreams
into the evening twilight
location of memory
turns into mulch.
Still,
under the mulch,
Something moves.
A root
or a whisper.
`
Those who lash out when the heart speaks
avoid the many mirrors reflecting themselves
For in this rippled dream,
where perfect does exist
and mistakes are long gone like a Milli Vanilli song,
they fail to see that we are all human…
errors come with the package (batteries not included)
Sidewalk footprints, back and forth
pacing past the entrance to that world
where words have no meaning,
regardless of how they are spoken (or written)
Self-absorbed deeply in the waves
of an ocean tide of fantasy
crashing in white foam feelings, disappearing by sunset
What is it that makes us who we are…
our smile, our fingers, our brand of cigarettes
shipped in plain brown envelopes,
our thoughts, our dreams, the poetry we write
when we need to get it out…good or bad
When lack of judgment drips from the skylight,
illuminating courage to do what we shouldn’t (even in darkness)
Wrong, I was wrong…regret, more than I could have known
I have looked in this mirror, then I looked away quickly,
Ashamed of that face, fell three stories below my heart,
slipped on the disgust splattered at my feet (by me)
Sunk up to my knees…bent, folding, scraped and bruised
but I require no sympathy, for I am not that devil Jagger sings of…
at least I hope not…please allow me to introduce myself…I am…me
Written for the Premiere I - Open Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Rob Carmack
Entered in the: NA the day away Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Lu loo
https://s-media-cache- ak0.pinimg.com/236x/72/97/79/7297796a1920d9e3fb4a59ff6da498ab.jpg
Pin 4198: Disney Gallery - Alice in Wonderland Series (Baby Oyster)
Variations on The Walrus and the Carpenter" a narrative poem by Lewis Carroll that appeared in his book Through the Looking-Glass, published in December 1871.
OYSTERS
The tide was low the sun was high
The beach was long and very dry
The moon had argued it wanted to stay
But try as it might, could not get its way
The beach was dry and very long
Two figures came walking along
They wept as they went and quietly spoke
Of cockle shell boats rowed by gentle folk
With the sun high and tide so low
They could see where the oysters grow
The Walrus exclaimed I have a strong hunch
That we have found a delicacy for lunch
The beach was long and very dry
Dining under the open sky
The carpenter scraped butter on his bread
While saying those oysters looked over fed
The tide was low the sun was high
Hear me oysters he did descry
Come and join our party under the Sun
Where you will have lots of wonderful fun
The beach was dry and very long
The oysters came singing a song
La da dee we are happy as can be
We will party then go back to the sea
With the sun high and the tide so low
One oyster cried please do not go
But the other oysters were more sanguine
For the carpenter offered them some wine
The beach was long and very dry
There seemed to be nothing awry
The oysters sat and listened to tall tales
Of dragons and knights and ships in full sail
The tide was low the sun was high
Alas the oysters end was nigh
The Walrus said oysters do not decline
The carpenter and I shall start to dine
The beach was dry and very long
No more was sung the happy song
The walrus looked at the gentle sea swell
The carpenter held the last empty shell
Dedicated to my friends Mikki & The Queen of Ghali
Makers of the most wonderful magic
~Completed 22/04/2015~
To the tune of.. “These are a Few of my Favorite Things“.
Bass boomers spreading their mis’ry in traffic
Craving attention and driving me spastic,
Not caring an oodle for anyone else,
This **** will drive one to poor mental health!
Cops who ignore them and keep right on driving,
Passing we drivers who are suff’ring and sighing,
Speeding, ignoring all laws of the road ,
Why do they think they’re exempt from the code?!
That lady texting who’s climbing your bumper,
Foll’wing for miles, you’d sure like to dump her,
Getting so peeved I just ran a red light!…
But she’s hanging in there with all of her might!
Here comes a pick up and he’s really flying,
can’t push me over but he’s really trying,
sans blinkers he cut me in one single swoop,
You scraped my bumper you dang nincompoop!
Sweating and trying, for my place I’m vying,
Choking on gas fumes, ‘n some kid is crying
That lady just stopped for a friggin green light,
I screeched on my brakes and near died of fright!
That bass nut’s still booming, my blood pressure’s zooming,
That green light stopper’s picked this time for grooming
That texter’s horn behind me is starting to blow,
The light turned red and she thinks I should go!
These are a few of my least favorite things,
That I could avoid if I only had wings…
I commute 3 hours a day and this is just
a sample. : )
,
She plunks down a plate of egg rolls
Man, oh man, do these greasy pieces of heaven take tolls
On my heart, dear Mama
Shows me love with food piled on tables that never end
Iced tea, Pho, spaghetti, rice and pork chops
Sternly setting bowls down in front of you and encouragin’
To take pieces of buttery garlic bread and mop it up
Love, bestowed upon us in showers of peppered chicken
Spending hours in the kitchen
To prove some affection
In saucers of soy sauce and dumplings that went on for miles
She’d put adoration in soup, spicy reflections
Of passionate motherly love
Mama, she never smiled
Unless someone complimented her style, the swagger
Of her intimate cooking skills, the way she swung her dagger
Of specialties, killing hunger, cravings
All her meals ending with ravings
Of the best kind
Scraped knees and broken hearts are cured with warm chocolate cake, suede
Smooth, mending them better then when they were made
Mama shows fondness through ice cream and steak
Warm dinner plates
Her “I Love You” was a big portion of lasagna
Nobody says “I Love You” better then my Mama
Bold, bright...unmistakable
she dresses in vivid pinks or purples
sometimes splashes of oranges or golds.
Her lavish flashes of flowers shine
and yet...
…brilliant bougainvillea has
her dark secrets.
Devoid of fragrance
this fanfare, flowery mistress
hides her hidden thorns...
…to touch her is
to become entangled
cut to the quick
scraped and bloodied
without warning
though careful one may be.
Beauty prevails over pain
as paper petals flirt and entice
all dressed up in pageantry
a multitude of sins are covered.
Bougainvillea lights up
the heated climate
flinging caution to the wind.
Written on 4/10/2019
Apart from our nice 3 piece suite the cat has clawed and shredded
it's knocked over a figurine that lies there prone, beheaded.
I'm quite adept and nimble fingered-
Have I got the knack
to use a tube of superglue and stick her noggin back?
The bottled glue is near opaque, unseen and so I doubt
if any glue is left inside, then all of it squirts out.
I'll grab the phone, dial 101 and get help if I'm able
to prise my thumb and forefinger from off the kitchen table.
Should I get free then this might be the chance to commit crime
since two of my poor fingerprints won't grow back for some time.
I've scraped and polished tirelessly but the table's still got glue on.
Should one more figurine get smashed-
I'll just go buy a new one.