Best Scrounge Poems
On the poor side of the city,
there’s an innocent child crying.
The rats and roaches are crawling,
on the bed where he lies dying.
There’s a family of seven,
just trying to scrounge a dollar.
So they can buy a Christmas feast,
made of bread and peanut butter.
Mother has given up all hope,
and her children have no wishes.
The only gift she’s got to share,
are some hugs and Christmas kisses.
But hugs don’t fill empty stomachs,
of the children on Christmas morn.
When the snow blows in through the cracks,
Christmas kisses won’t keep them warm.
The next time you spend a fortune,
on another unwanted toy.
Drop some coins into the kettle,
for those who have no hope or joy.
The blonde went down
with not must resistance
shunning off a stressful afternoon
the scene played of society, high
as I peered at all the pretense
and pretend of an I want to be
better than you and me
old men with young jewelry
cradling arms and new cufflinks
with crosses that will never be blessed
but undressed with tightly shut eyes
Cubans smoked, killing air
drifting from an aging beat
chords crafted with ease
toes tapped on the edge of my seat
the moon peeks and says goodnight
the chair nods off unaccompanied
the grifters scrounge for a dollar
I stand up, it's time to go eat
Brown hills speckled with sage
Between cities in the southwest
A pink sky
A purple mountain
A line down the highway
Turning me brown
I drive my Datsun
Toward nirvana
In the desert
That is where “IT” lives
I have feathers in my hand
And many stand beside me
A caravan of the Dead
Waiting for a concert
The LSD takes its time
We miss you Jerry
Tie died and cigarettes
A road stop
Full of scrounge redheads
Red Rocks.
The Summit
New Orleans-finally
I am gone
Finally I am gone
Color me gone
Color me in purple colors
Just realize that I disappeared
When you were dreaming
I didn’t want to be alone
I cut you a deal
You swore this was killer ****
And I would never have to come back
Stupid choices
Look at the light
I will save you from the confessions of a killer
Maybe you were foaming at the mouth
Brain dead from reading so many poems now
That one more poem, my poem, was just too much
For you, depleted of original thought, to touch
And so you succumbed to the Horror I see
The “Great Work!” comment you left for me
I can only hope that in your stupor
You didn’t realize your false sounding blooper
Because I would hate to think that your message was Fluff
To stroke my ego, or because you couldn’t scrounge up
Even one nice thing to say
About my writing today
The question remains, haunting my brain:
Did you honestly like it and just take the short cut,
Or did you pump me up with a load of fluff?
1/31/12
Received 1st place in Carol's "Fluff" contest
The birds of pray are on their way, in every beak the Word
(of ptomaine tomes by gnarly gnomes) whose meaning is obscured;
they roost aloof on every roof, obscene but always herd,
to tell the tale of Jonah’s whale and other rhymes absurd -
with shifty eyes, they’re giving whys for living life deferred.
While jackals lean, hyenas mean, and hungry crocodiles
feast in the lounge and never scrounge, lambs languish in the aisle.
The naive dare to say “Unfair, let’s try to reconcile.
We’ll all relax and weigh the facts, let justice spin the dial.”
With jaundiced monks and minds pre-shrunk, the jury is compiled.
The Rulers meet, First Ladies greet, the Kings appear in style.
Before the Court, their sins are short, they’re swept into a pile;
with diatribes and petty bribes, the jurors are beguiled.
The Herd entreats, the Shepherd bleats the verdict of the trial:
“You have no face. Stay in your place, stay in the Rank and File.
And wait instead, for when you’re dead, for riches afterwhile”;
Aristocrats add caveats while sailing down the Nile:
“If Minds are mugged or simply drugged with philtres in a vial,
then few indeed will fail to feed the Pharaoh’s Crocodile.”
The wordsmiths spin, the bankers grin and politicians smile,
the riff and raff, they never laugh, they mark a martyred mile.
The rituals are finished, all, here comes the Reverent Priest.
He leads the crowds beneath the clouds, and there the flock is fleeced
with crossing signs and bloody wines and consecrated yeast,
“The last are first, the rich are cursed.” (The leached remain the least.)
His step is gay without dismay before his evening feast;
he thanks the Lord for room and board and bows to Eden East;
he doesn’t sigh or wonder why the sins have not decreased.
The sinking sun is now undone, the sky is fading red.
A spider black hides in a crack and spins a silken thread
and babes will soon collapse and swoon, on curbs they call a bed;
with vacant eyes they'll fantasize and dream of gingerbread,
and so be freed, though still in need, from anguish of the dead.
Continued
Another trash bin filled with food
Reminding me of Society's strange paradox
Of how we gluttonously consume
And yet waste so much.
Ripping morcles from famished mouthes
Only to discover they are past sell-by date
And consign them to their grave.
Fruit that's misshapen, has a bruise or is oddly colored.
More food in the dumpster,
Than in over 900 million rumbling bellies.
How is it possible,
That we can be so round,
When others scrounge for crumbs?
Count your blessings
And give to those less fortunate.
One day my daughter brought home a scraggly looking young cat who had always
lived outside. In her first year, we learned she had given birth to two litters of kittens, most of which died. She’d always had to scrounge for food and had even escaped from the pound, only to find her way back to that place where she’d not been well-treated! When my daughter saw her, it was her kittens that were being given away. But my daughter saw a gentle quality in this mother cat that surpassed the sweetness of the kittens and asked to take the mother, who became known to our family as Callie (for Calico).
Callie grew plump and flourished in our home. She was no nuisance to anybody or anything. She became so pampered that she hated the outdoors and if a door were opened, she would approach the “outside” cautiously, only to come racing back inside the minute we returned from our porch. Callie loved to sit on laps and be petted. The older she got, the louder she even purred. If a visitor came to the house, she would climb to their laps. She was small and so likable that nobody wanted to shoo her away.
When our children left home, she became my one and only baby, curled up by my pillow each night and awakening me with a little pat to my face every morning for her breakfast. Callie lived a long life, nearly 18 years, but has since passed on. Dying of cancer, she clung to life until we saw fit to have her put to sleep. I have since adopted other cats, and my current cat is indeed charming, but I still believe there is not another cat in the world that can compare to our one and only Callie Cat!
The gifts are wrapped and ‘neath the tree
in brightly colored bags and bows.
I now sit back, my mind set free
to contemplate these thoughts I chose
and share this verse I now compose.
‘Tis quiet on this Christmas Eve;
a soothing peace now fills the air
with calming grace as I perceive
this moment meant for all to share
and bless it with a silent prayer.
And yet not all this time enjoy
for somewhere in the darkness roam
forgotten souls devoid of joy
who scrounge for food in constant moan
upon the street they call their home.
It’s right that we should show our love
and buy fine gifts for those held dear;
but don’t get lost in thoughts thereof
forgetting those who’re not so near
and close your ears their cries to hear.
December 24, 2023
Never let an elephant in your house
Get a rabbit or a lemur or a mouse
If you’re going to buy a pet
And you haven’t got one yet
Never, let an elephant in your house
Never let an Elephant in your lounge
He will beg and he will pester, he will scrounge
With his oversized proboscis
He's more trouble than rhinoceros
Never, let an Elephant in your lounge
Never let an elephant in your bed
Make him sleep out, maybe in the garden shed
If you let him in your pit
He will fidget, quite a bit
Never, let an Elephant in your bed
© John W Fenn 03-01-2009
Down in the white famed plains of Western Kentucky in the 19th century, Alpha Omega Latham was born. Days after his father was shot on the porch, was the beginning of being, and the pass of a torch. Now that his father was gone and bereaved, his ma took the duties, after pa’s life was thieved. A boy now in school confused of his route, the chants “go west young man” were dawning some doubt about the feudal trail that rendered much clout. Humble his beginnings, picking cotton for a living, snowball earned his name, being the only white kid in the game. Just 8 years old, a drive that once ran cold was burning from his hands that were yearning, he decided to up and hop west to Burley. Idaho he headed, decision imbedded, the lure of the west, assured a new life to invest. Alpha Omega began again, and ended a chapter, his life was in spin. Now was his chance, of success in the west, opportunities gleamed, held tight to his chest. A poker man, many cards he swapped, to scrounge and buy half of a sporting shop. With a mere chunk of change, a last ditch effort, his puzzle pieces to arrange. Snowballs sports shop, came to fruition in time, from the train ride alone, with barely a dime, now land and wealth, the ladder he climbed. Owned hotels and houses, made his mark on the land, now standing on top, he created a brand. A beautiful family, the American dream, he lived it and proved it, while swimming upstream. Make your own luck, the idea that he stressed, sink or swim, was life in the west. As the depression was sweeping the country abroad, Alpha had summoned the lightning rod; providing help to his kin in Burley, he helped the community, even when surly. Was known to help any poor old soul, altruism was his ultimate goal. From a bitter ending, blossomed a graceful beginning, just because he lost one fight, didn’t prevent his winning. Twas the life of Alpha Omega, his ending was much brighter, a hero in the eyes of many, a true american fighter. Beginning now is a different page, to snowball his vision in a different age, on west my friend; be brave, not afraid, flourish each and every stage. For one bad ending, cannot cage the transcending, of the flower contending to fend off the sour, bursting out in Spring.
(iambic pentameter, verse)
"I'll have a sip of beer my dear,"
The wife would always say.
I was not one for sharing see,
She knew that anyway.
The sharing wasn't my concern,
But would I have enough?
To see me through the whole weekend;
Her friends thought I was tough.
"Now if you want a beer," I'd say,
"Why don't you let me know;
I'll buy a little extra then,
Yes while I'm on the go."
No, she would wait 'til Sunday 'arve,
When I was on the lounge.
Then when the game had just begun,
She started on the scrounge.
"I'll have a sip of beer my dear,"
Which sent me off my head.
"You should have told me Friday 'arve,
So drink some tea instead."
"You're mean," she'd say, "and selfish too,
You never want to share,
I feel that you don't love me dear
Or even seem to care."
It was the same old story line
When ev'ry Sunday came.
She knew I would not share my beer,
Though asked me all the same. Then came a weekend I recall
That had been very hot.
Seems all the beer I'd brought on home
I'd drunk the flamin' lot.
The footy match was not much fun
No, not without a beer,
When from the kitchen came that voice,
"I'll have a sip my dear."
"You know I've got none left," I said,
Sarcasm in my tone.
"Then may I have this one?" she asked,
"Left sitting on its own."
She'd somehow found another beer,
I couldn't believe my eyes.
"You've Buckley's chance!" I yelled at her
And ran to claim the prize.
She pleaded, "May I have a sip?
I told you it was there."
"No way!" I cried and sculled it down,
She whinged it wasn't fair.
The awful taste it hit me then,
My face went rather white,
And laughing with a dev'lish grin
She thought it quite a sight.
She'd found an empty stubby there
And filled it to the brim,
With soap suds from the washing up,
My lot was rather grim.
My greed had been my downfall mate;
She'd fin'ly found a way
Of teaching me what sharing meant,
Revenge was hers that day.
As kids growing up in the hills of West Virginia,
We were poor, but no one was any better off.
Halloween was a time we looked forward to,
But there was no money for the store-bought stuff.
Costumes and treats were always homemade
And so, we would scrounge around for things
Old clothes, cardboard boxes, and burlap sacks
From which we became scarecrows and clowns.
Late October weather was generally miserably cold,
Likely a mixture of rain and sleet or snow.
We walked miles for apples, a piece of candy,
Sometimes, a piece of fudge, or a popcorn ball.
Then, we trudged home, often soaking wet,
Examining loot the religious older folks called
“ill-gotten gain,” sharing the evening adventures.
We did not have to worry about being kidnapped,
Or molested, or having a razor blade in our treats.
We knew our neighbors well; they knew us, too,
So, for good reason, we dared not play nasty tricks
Because the new party line would be a-buzzing,
There were never any secrets in the backcountry!
[Dressing Up for Halloween]
Written September 7, 2022
Submitted to "Fall Flavors" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Regina McIntosh
You'll create your wealth on your own terms
As you take off for Peru
You swear that's an easier way to learn
I guess if anyone knows, it's you
You keep me in awe of your anarchy
And your non-conformist ways
You say ya gotta get out for your sanity
You'll be showin' us all up some day
'Cause ya can't be schooled with a text book
Nah, ya gotta be out in the crowd
Livin' it, smokin' it, drinkin' it in
And I'm sure you're gonna make it somehow
I got every faith in ya, Danny
You don't have to go prove it to me
I'll get off your back - to make room for your pack
'Cause there's a whole lotta world to see
Hittin' the road with "Hippie”
Gonna hitchhike, no need for a car
And you'll scrounge your meals
And make some fast cash
By singin' and playin' guitar
I wish you the best in your travels
You can't wait to set off on your own
But if everything starts to unravel
You'll always have a place in my home
WOMAN
The cruelty of civilization has failed the society
That coyness and awe matter less to bear
Left in nowhere
Discarded by modern evolution
The carnage of life; by the life we live
Life was modest; living adore
Even after the chastised glory of the body
Which was later covered in wool from head to toe
And left nothing to be seduce of friend and foe
And here comes a ballistic civilization
That pockets’ modesty for arrogance
And changes human living to inanity
Nothing is as bravura as an African woman
Whose curvy nature left no doubt in mind
Created to crack mans’ incessant campaigns
Yet found in the midst of civilization
Where reticence was surrogated with arrogance
But do you know how meaningful is blatancy?
Hmm! to others is modesty
It is the absurdity in nudity
Even, the whites in their nakedness
Cannot be as seductive as a clothed Africa woman
Whose creation was done without blunder
In the perfection of natures’ order
Though evolution fought the pride in her
A force to make over even upon her dark pigment
And scrounge from the hairs of carcass
To look like an Indian mermaid
A lot was lost to lust
Beauty, respect and pride
Like the traditional African attire
To piece of rag from the western world
And as it still remains the myth of creation
The whites alter creation via engine
The noise, the breast and the buttocks
That which is found in every new born African woman
Erratic behavior is on the verge
There's going to be a dramatic surge
Morality is at an all-time low
In this crazy twisted show, don't ya know
The ups and the downs with the crazy clowns
Being Pinned down by a million pounds
Living like a scrounge in a crazy town
Always Bound by that evil sound
Yelling at the sky and asking why
Anger is an issue that we can't deny
The shady characters in the dark
Sneaking up on you like a shark
Human parts being picked apart
Taking a left instead of going straight
Going to fast need to hit the brakes
One bad mistake is all it takes
Darkness is coming at an alarming rate