Best Scraper Poems
Pull out the easel
set the canvas
positioned long and slender clean slate.
Sketch the figures huddled and dark-bound hostage
to charcoal-cooled coals
etching in shadow images;
Faceless entities
slipping in and out the background
earth-toned sojourners accepting, alone, quiet, dying;
Still the images in silence
hard and disfigured
grotesque horrors in place;
Somber soul-drained eyes
skeletal socket holes
buried in the heart and mind;
Let tears fall down their cheeks
in wonder, awe, and
fear of what happens next.
Acrylic primers dilute the wash in the storyline
flaking and cracking
tearing each soul and truth away;
Polyptych blended burnish bleeds
quiet, soft exuding
whimpered cries, asking why;
Chiaroscuro collages of death from life
fading to diluent breaths
the heartbeat of an unholy silence;
Graded gouache monochrome scraper boards
releasing sfumatos of singularities
communal lives sacrificed
Varnish the final rendition
camouflage the realities,
the actuality of what it represents,
Time immemorial in genocidal atrocities
of Native Americans, Cambodians, Hawaiians,
Jews, Rwandans, Bosnia, Darfur,.
When does it stop?
The never-ending list
life is more precious than this
until change comes
Paint the Picture Black and Gray
pray
then act.
Professor Hapgood’s studies on ancient maps were fixed
Einstein said his theories should be added to history’s mix
Perhaps it proved too big a leap for other minds to take
But his ancient culture findings, Hapgood would not forsake
6000 BC, before Egypt’s pyramids were built
Millennia before Pompeii’s lava had been spilled
Or small fishing boats hugged the Mediterranean Coast
And Columbus’s “daring” voyage was not even close
Ancient seafarers drew with astounding accuracy
Maps of the world they once knew, the fishermen’s legacy
Antarctica sans ice and closer to the equator
The Mid-Atlantic Ridge once an above-sea sky scraper
Siberia touching Alaska with no Bering Strait
(Palin could have seen Russia without snow from her back gate)
Cuba, England, Sweden, too, on these maps appear clearly
But Sweden’s fully glacial; England’s blanket an ice sheet
If we believe Hapgood, a civilization once thrived
Thousands of years before language; maps keep memories alive
Technology to chart the seas was lost in ancient times
With latitude and longitude measurements quite refined
Sea kings’ cities may have succumbed during the last Ice Age
Surviving nations lost their skill when history turned a page
Geography to be found again when the Earth had healed
“Discoverers” reinvented the forgotten ship’s wheel
Magellan, perhaps not the first to sail around the globe
Admiral Byrd not the first man to visit the South Pole
Spirits from a colony of seafarers can be found
From deep beneath Antarctic ice, they try to spread the word
But laugh they must as scientists forecast global warming
And man attempts to alter life and heed their dire warning
Shifting poles? Natural cycles! Men would be well advised
To study the maps Hapgood found and open their closed minds
To learn more about Professor Charles Hapgood’s map studies and the comments made by
Albert Einstein, you can visit http://www.crystalinks.com/crustal.html.
You filled my lungs,
When I needed oxygen,
You were my energy,
Boosted me up like Supligen,
You were my sky-scraper,
Not just a tent,
You were my mortgage,
Not just the rent,
You were my mountain,
And we stood tall,
We played lifes' music,
You kept me glad,
Now your flesh has fallen,
But you are next to God,
Right to the end,
You were my best friend,
In my heart, until we meet again....
(For Beloved Pets competition, submitted June 16th 2015)
Tell-tale marks from your last climb, those claw marks in the paper
removing the wall coverings better than a shop bought scraper
the light pull I have had to change, the curtain cords as well
shampooed the landing carpet three times now to clear the smell
each week another dead rodent and slugs, just one or two
you've turned the space behind the couch into your private zoo
The scratch posts I sent back (good job that I kept the receipts)
since for that job the table leg you find is hard to beat
sticky gunk on cushions, God knows where you'd picked that up
and leaping on the counter knocking off my favourite cup
getting me to climb, at my age, up into the tree
to rescue you but you climbed down and ran off, leaving me
the Fire department had a laugh, but no, you didn't care
but sashayed off, oblivious, long tail held in the air
piles of towels for drying you from days spent in the rain
on next door neighbour's garage roof, governing your domain
the Doctor says my blood pressure is just a little high
I felt I'd lose my dignity if I really told him why
since all it takes it just one look from two bright amber eyes
to soften up the heart of one long suffering old moaner
I love you my Celeste, my Cat, forever-
from your owner x
Suspect Dapper Draper,
half-scammed a bank caper.
With his brother Baker,
Whose a known safe breaker.
They rode on fly paper.
To escape down a scraper.
The plans were mere vapor.
They were caught in a chaser.
Serving ten at hard labor.
Guess it would've been plainer,
If they'd read the disclaimer.
Those crazy brothers Draper..
People like spokes of a wheel
Streaming in the church on a Sunday morning hill;
The preacher talks of the prodigal son,
While the gathering ends in a reverend song.
And Mama cooked a roast on Sunday.
The smell of the enticing pot
Of chuck and potatoes and onions, carrots,
Conjure memories of Sunday dinners,
Where a table was set for returning sinners.
And Mama cooked a roast on Sunday.
Filled and sleepy I had to wash dishes,
And left alone with my own wishes
That I, too, could nap while the folks read papers,
Instead of stuck with cloth and scraper.
While Mama left the roast on Sunday.
My mind would drift to people foreign thin, hungry and hot.
In other worlds across the seas,
And my young girl’s heart would dejectedly drop
Like my recent church bowed knees.
Where Mamas don’t cook roasts on Sunday
And now that I am old looking back on my life,
I hope my little coins helped feed a needy child,
Shooing away some flies from its mother’s eyes,
I pray that I’ll remember why,
Mama cooked a roast on Sunday.
Our dog is relaxing for the first time in almost eighteen hours.
The interloper is finally gone.
She is so relieved; I have never heard her sigh this deeply and we have had her for seven years.
Yes, I am referring to the bulldog-pit bull mix puppy that has held us hostage and consumed
Our every waking thought for almost two days.
A heartless person kicked this puppy out onto our road on Thursday.
On Friday animal control said they would come and get her; but they did not come.
This dog, through no fault of her own, was dumped in the evening on a dark, desolate country road.
My road.
Featured once in a Kansas City magazine with this caption:
Donohoo Road, the most desolate road in Kansas City.
Nice huh?
Our porch is a war zone. This poor puppy that we tried to bring inside, but
Could not due to its adverse behavior toward our dog, and our dog’s incessant barking
Had to be outside for two nights.
Last night it rained all night.
Luckily, this strange little puppy commandeered the outside cat’s cozy bed.
Shark, the displaced cat slept in the garage’s first bay on a hard concreted floor, and was mad all night.
Did I say the porch is a war zone? Everything we left out there is in shreds – snow scraper, shoe,
Boot, gardening glove. This puppy somehow managed to chew an entire tennis ball down to a little
Pink center.
We are all so relieved it is gone.
My husband took it to the Humane Shelter and gave them a large donation for keeping it as they
Originally said they did not have room. When he told them the amount of our donation, they made room.
He said a lady picked up the puppy, and the puppy snuggled into her neck, and she will be warm tonight.
I hate animal-dumpers.
The crystal blue fountain,
And the lush green field
The sky-scraper mountain
keep one's eye peeled
The beautiful flowers,
And all creatures big and small
Shows the magical power
Of the God, who made them all..!!!
i hate holidays
you see cousin Ralph comes over
and my days of fun
are over before they are even begun
his tousled hair,
his cutesy grin
eyes so fair
conceal a soul as dark as sin
he steals my toys
fights with the boys
spills the table with tea
and blames it all on me
He
climbs
up the
stairs
comes
sliding
down
the
bannister
b
re aks
the ja
mb
and the one who faces
the glares is me
he once locked me in the loo
with no toilet paper
no water no scraper
now how the heck do i do
how I hate him I do
one day he put glue
in my shoe
there were nights that i wept
when he captured my bed
and snoringly slept
while i lay where Fido was fed
i hate it when he's at our house
this hateful ungrateful king of chaos
~27 May 2016~
Fictional
A bald-headed man from Jamaica
Attempted to scale a sky-scraper
From his hospital bed
He was heard to have said
‘I was seeking a hair-raising caper!
Bite Size Poem No.42 Poetry Contest
Sponsor :Line Gautier
They looked forward to spend the weekend
in this haunted aged castle
Who believes in haunted stories?
It was evening when they arrived
the table was set for twelve guests
even if there were only four of them
The food was served in silence by the host
They just wanted to enjoy the meal and
jump to bed early
Suddenly the one empty chair moves
pushed half a meter backwards with one
scraper sound
The sound reaches right into the spinal cord
Everyone agreed it was scary
But who believes in haunted stories?
They understood that it was
several guests at the table than invited
Perhaps residents from earlier eras
After the meal they sat in silence and listened
Low muttering and the sound of knife against porcelain
and glasses that clinked
Where reality is no longer sufficient
and the imagination is given free rein
Neither the dog nor the guest found peace at night
whose slumbers their eyelids were wide open
The experience of what was real and true
that night no one can confirm
They tried to ignore it at first
but could feel someone breathing down their necks
Doors that were locked from the inside were opened
by invisible hands
The floor creaked and there was a cold grave breath in the room
The weekend was cut short after this one night
Hey, who believes in haunted stories?
Their memories are now tattooed and haunted
Incomprehensible to people who have never experienced this
26.02.2023
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
- H - Words - Poetry Contest -
Sponsored by: Constance La France
1st place in the contest
A woman gives birth to a new life.
She is not just a 'woman'
But also a mother, a companion, a spouse,
A sister and, a survivor to the end.
We never value her, respect her
Ask her concerns and care for her
We never wipe away her tears,
As they are imperceptible as air.
She works, cooks and cleans
She chuckles, helps comfort,
Yet, she never complains
And shrouds her agony.
At the point when you battle in your life
She helps to get you through
This is HER and what do we do?
Grumble and make a wreck
Give her pressure,
And leave her feeling discouraged.
We push her away
And overlook her exhortation
Reveal to her she isn't anything
Without a man
She was assaulted, tormented
And mishandled by the world
Told her she is nothing
And would be continuously utilized
Only for joy and pleasure
She bites the bullet, puts her sentiments aside
Does as you need altogether for you to be free
Overlooks your obliviousness
And endures your blemishes
You call her a scraper and vagrant
You call her with slang names
But she answers with satisfaction and pride
With a total loss of self
You call her nothing
But I call her solid, keen, erotic, mindful
Yet giving, enduring, lenient and amazing
And I call her WOMAN!
I have always enjoyed my solitude
I still do
But it is time to change my latitude and longitude
A place like Hawaii will do
Black sand beach
Shimmering waves
A place so far out of my reach
This is what my soul craves
I can no longer take this sky scraper haven
It is time to spread my wings
Fly away like a raven
I need to hear the song the Hawaiian breeze sings
To me this place could never get boring
The beauty of these islands is amazing
Snorkeling and exploring
Under tropical sky at night star gazing
For now this is just a dream but a dream that will be achieved
New York will be a memory and long forgotten
One day when I make it to my destination I know I got there because I believed
Goodbye to the big apple that was rotten
Those dark eyes on me
Like a candle-wax scraper
Cut me with your love
Then graze me with affection
Dip me in your world
Of damaged imperfection
Addicted to those dark eyes
Suspense of a frozen look
Soft feelings on my back
Before the thrust of a rusted hook
Ah but I like those dark eyes
And the uneasiness I feel
When I hold onto broken glass
You rest my head down on the steel
Addicted to the prick
Contamination that surrounds me
Rip my skin off piece by piece
At peace every time you drown me
Scabs feeling coarse
I like it like sand paper
Those dark eyes on me
Like a candle-wax scraper
Start the engine; hit defrost.
Find your scraper brush.
Swipe the windows first as you
Get rid of all the mush.
Clean the mirrors and the lights;
Don’t forget the roof.
You can get a ticket
With the snow up top as proof.
Get behind the steering wheel;
Hit the gas and move
Back and forth until you’ve made
A likely exit groove.
Shut the engine; lock the doors.
Some peace of mind you’ve bought
Until the snow plows block you in,
Your efforts all for naught.