Best Scrounging Poems
Born Of Ash, Under Fires That Fed False Olympic Gods
Born of ash, under fires that fed false Olympic gods
First, scrounging this earth, as dark-clad beasts
Blinded, heaven gazing, begging to be lightning rods
Creating hallow golden halls, to throw huge orgy feasts.
And Fate ordered, moaning echoes to fly in darkened winds
Against its great rival Time and how foolishly it spends.
Was her salty kiss, waves of honey sent from cavernous pits
Her promises, sad curses hidden in golden warped lies
She blinded by wanton pleasures and her deep venomous spits
Oaths sworn under hellish whispers and blackest of skies.
And Fate ordered, moaning echoes to fly in darkened winds
Against its great rival Time and how foolishly it spends.
Born of ash, under fires that fed false Olympic gods
First, scrounging this earth, as dark-clad beasts
Blinded, heaven gazing, begging to be lightning rods
Creating hallow golden halls, to throw huge orgy feasts.
R.J. Lindley
May 9th, 1973
Rhyme , (When Truth Was Asked)
Note- Deleted....
Such a loud silence
Occasion anxious tapping
Of a pencil or less often a foot
Shifting uncomfortably while squeaking in their desks,
in that too small of a space
barely able to contain your racing, rowdy reflection
Mere avoidance of the task at hand
A hem of the heater, adding to the white noise
A focus, to keep me from myself,
from the melting clock
praying that this point could pause
the sounds never enough
the din being either deathly and deafening
or so subtle my skull is scrounging for sound
Time feels rapid, every second
becoming a minute
My sweaty palms can not keep up with the equations
slowing down to scrawls before supposition
Heavy breathing, quick short breaths,
calmness not nearing even with all of
my efforts, faltering I become more riled
I can't relax which makes it harder to relax ugh-
a never ending cycle approaching frustrated tears
Even, when I wrap up and turn in my efforts
the anxiety will still burden me.
-Left wondering if the negatives
will balance out my GPA-
A sensation I've come to see almost
soothing in seemingly exponential time
Allowing me to believe that even with this
feeling of insanity
I am still an integer
a single in a statistic of a surplus
A whole number,though, seemingly always there
(hey this is really not what I expected from my draft but oh well)
You look askance because I'm drunk
your nose a-twitch; I stink like skunk
for days I've liquid-dined
no solids only wine
happily gorged on grog and gunk
Once scrounging on the streets, homeless
I now live life in blissful bliss
of bondage I am free
on one big drinking spree
which in itself spells happiness
With jeans and watch by Armani
you, perfumed doll, though sober be
to survival shackled
securely manacled
but guess who won the lottery?
To you, Free. Sadly, our world is a judgemental one.
The Shoshone bargain their horses like apathetic bankers,
what we all have in common is constant starvation
and near death stumbles, several times this month our pack animals
have slipped and fallen on this treacherous route,
in the Bitterroot Passes there is virtually no game for food
and everyone is broken in some private way,
September snowfall is beginning to seize this rocky world
now the trail's knobs, broken timbers and deadfalls are even more sabotaging,
all we have are weapons, tradegoods and clothing, and a whole lotta wet cold,
we're outta food provisions, and the whiskey has been gone since Fort Mandan,
sometimes the men catch small fish in the creeks and grab hold of grouse,
Sacagawea sulks no more than any of us when frustration and pain bite
she's real tough, and sexy in strain
she has been scrounging edible roots for us,
thank goodness she wanted to come with us to the edge of the world,
begrudgingly we kill and cook a colt, the meat is good and vital
but in so doing costs us so much,
11 days since the Bitterroot risk, marching 160 miles through this mountain crucible,
and finally an open, low flat pasture where game and efficiency can be gained,
we are not going to die in this stone necropolis,
I feel a kinship to the Carthaginian General Hannibal
who succeeded 2, 000 years ago leading an army through the Roman Alps,
although we have no elephants, but we do have a young Republic on our backs,
J.A.B.
A crippled mass of beggars
Each at the corner of every street
Deformed by cruel and greedy hands
They perform their daily feat
Of scrounging from the passers by
The people in their cars
Their pathetic, doleful entreaties
Oh, how my heart it scars
Yet who is the beneficiary
In this profit-full career?
I'm sure it's not these limbless souls
Whose lives are not there nor here.......
Whose plight we don’t wish to hear
I think about my life and what I've become.
Why don't I have a wife and why I'm still on the run.
I think if I'd done better, things would be easy for me.
Life just can't be this hard. Why are my goals so hard to see?
How do I become a movie star? How do I live in fame?
Maybe if I was famous, my life wouldn't seem lame.
Scrounging up some change for some milk at the store.
Lawn furniture in the living room, my room's bare without a door.
Christmas time is coming, I can't afford to buy gifts.
Blankets all around me as the cold weather shifts.
No ride to the store, just my own two feet.
I hear laughing all around me with every person I meet.
The only way to survive or to get things for me,
is to take without permission or hope for your sympathy...
This isn't my life,but I know this to be true.
We need to be kinder to those around, a lot less fortunate then you.
Jesus says, as much as you've done to one of these, you've done unto me.
Remember that, when others need your help, and you pretend not to see.
Christmas is coming, but you need to think of it this way.
It's not just a day of candy and gifts, it's Jesus' birthday.
Remember what all he did for us, and how he payed the ultimate price.
Maybe the next time you come across these people, you'll remember to be nice.
Jesus Christ, for you, I'll try harder each day.
It's the way I can give you a present on your wonderful birthday!!!
In alleys devoid of light;
the beggars sleep on the street.
And fear arrives late at night;
to feed upon their defeat.
Delusions exchanged for lies,
they panhandle in the park.
And tears trickle from sad eyes;
watching hunger carve its mark.
Drugs ease their physical pain,
but their sanity's in doubt.
For their monsters can't be slain;
on the fringes of burnout.
Scrounging in torn dungarees,
they confront brutality.
And fragmented memories,
are lost to reality.
As hypocrisy walks by,
the beggars barely survive.
And if broken wings can't fly,
can they ever feel alive?
Mangled and muddy
a limp could be seen
spat on and bullied
when others were mean
Head hangs to the ground
scrounging a meal
cast out of her comfort
from a love thought as real
Tiptoeing the banks
of a slow moving stream
basking in sunshine
seen in yesterday's dream
Spied a reflection
for who is this cat
one who is ugly
mangy and fat
Eyes that are lost
no purpose nor soul
sadly surrendered
hardened he strolls
Purrs echo the night as
empty meadows he roams
searching for daisies
and a place to call home
the following quite quirky epistle may not exhibit the ordinary characteristics of poetry, but i decided to share this self made challenge (where every word begins with the letter "S" - no explanation can be offered why such self cerebral torture imposed, nor what motivated me to focus on the nineteenth letter of the english alphabet at the exclusion of other noble vowels and consonants.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Sunday September seventh started seemingly same since...silver screen show secured seventy seven SeventhSeals.
Soupy Sales supreme salient strengths (starring smart pet sidekick Springer Spaniel Socrates) salvaged sagging sporting sorties. Slap stick stereotypical swashbuckling shticks supplied shipshape shenanigans.
Spartan stage set spurred spontaneous simply stupefying solution. Suede shod schlemiel. Sartre seasoned scenes. Sharp sticks supported sphere. Seats situated semicircular semblance.
SPCA, Siemens, Sears sponsored soiree. Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious shouted satirically 'specially Saturdays seemingly sellout. Spontaneous spritely Shogun Samurai sangroid stance satiated slipups stripping stellar seasoned Skidamarinks substitutes sacredly, seminally, silently, slipstreaming soulfully saving saga.
Sometimes silly spouse studiously sought spurious strategy stringing superlatives showcasing senseless sophomoric soporific skills specifically spelling storybook sassy sharpshooters supposedly sleuthing shapeless seated sideways (sic seasonal slate smug spotified snapchatting skippers selfishly scooped sloop-ful seasonal six-packs) sinister Swiss scalpers sat sometimes squatted.
Seriously thinking of calling it quits
I'm rapidly running out of gas
Dragging up stuff from the bottom of the barrel
Scrounging around looking for inspiration
Can't seem to find any anymore
Think to myself it'll pass
Not quite so sure this time around
Maybe just the mood I've been in lately
Lost my fun loving approach to things
Perhaps my age is finally having an impact
And I'm finally growing up
Well whatever the reason
It's not exciting and new anymore
Everything has a beginning and an end
I am not resigning from the site
I am just backing off a bit
I have too many friends here that I would miss
I hope you will all understand
You guys are and have always been
© Jack Ellison 2014
I was on my way to school when it happened.
You see, I never miss school and for me,
playing hooky has an entirely different meaning!
Well,
I was scrounging up some lunch along the way.
By the by, the Mississippi river is a great place to eat!
and I came upon what I thought was a great big
Seaweed salad.
Opening wide for my first taste, snagged!
my left whisker caught in a net.
Yes, I know what you’re probably thinking,
he’s still in school and he has whiskers?
I was really scared.
I for one, do not intend to end up
covered in corn meal, sizzling in a frying pan.
You know, I have aspirations. But, my mom says
stay in school so I have something to fall back on.
I can sing!
Sure, some may call it noise but hey,
there was Hootie and the Blowfish, why not
Codie and the Catfish?
It brews
With the first arc of the sunlight
That lifts the sweltering night
It brews
Without a single cloud to offer comfort
The thick still air
Only grows heavier
A weight you can see on the leaves of the trees
As they fold to the oppression
Hot like a wet tea bag
A solid mass you can feel on your skin
Pressing on lungs scrounging for oxygen
It brews
Quietly
Patiently
Come afternoon
The mercury peaks
Clouds out of nowhere
Swiftly boil over
Liquid silver turns to slate
As a wall of wind slams into the city
With rain pounding in waves
Hailstones thrashing
And lightening bolts flashing
The trees are left praying on their knees
A moment of relief
And then it is gone
The clouds clearing out like a shift change
Sun back on duty
In a matter of minutes the streets are dry
And the air is again steeped
It is as if nothing happened
Save a few fallen trees
Composed for Brenda Chiri's
Describe a thunderstorm without the sense of sound.
wide eyed kids sprint home
parents scrounging for some change…
ice cream truck music
-24 Jun 2014-
“A Positive Poem Contest”
the three legged dog scrounging trash cans for a meal in Allentown,
befriends the blind girl with her ragged doll, on her face a permanent frown.
the mother in need of dangerous drugs, to make it through another day,
sells her wasting body to those who seek, these desperate souls who’ve lost their way.
soup kitchens filled with greasy men, who walk the unforgiving streets,
their dreams lay shattered, their clothes all tattered, at night roll up in dirty sheets.
the rich man rolls down the darkened window, of his long black limousine,
and tosses quarters on the ground, and laughs at such a frantic scene,
of children scrambling, fighting, biting, to get their measly share,
to buy some candy at the grocery store, as puzzled people look and stare.
as nightfall comes, the trucks roll in to wash the city streets,
but cannot wash away the sadness here, that every day repeats.
the organ grinder with his monkey spots the blind girl in the park,
and puts a dollar in her hand, as the oriole whistles in the dark.
the mother following close behind, extends her hand, asking for more,
he hands another five, she thanks him, walks away and looks to score,
another bag of crack cocaine, as the little girl starts to cry,
“where is my little dog she asks”, the mother asks her why,
“I want my doggie, it’s my friend, and it loves me the best”,
her mother falls upon her knees, and holds her closely to her chest.
“no darling, it’s me that loves you, loves you so much more”,
together they run hand in hand, as the rain begins to pour.
now in rehab she proudly claims “three years today and I’m still clean”,
happy together now at home, mother, daughter, and the dog they named Aileen’
Ego Veni Vidi Vici.
On the Citadel of Learning
Where intellectual intrepidity thrives
WE CAME as the gullible scrounging for knowledge.
On the Ivory tower of scholarly display
Where philosophies and ideologies are born
WE SAW invaluable imprints and imparts of Saintly Scholars.
Our polemic justice to the Professor's poetry
Certified us for the coveted convocation
WE CONQUERED the courses excellently through God.
(Ego Veni Vidi Vici--- We Came, We Saw, We Conquered)