Hoarded Poems | Examples

Phases and Faces

The table’s set, the cards are stacked,
Coffee is ready, out come the snacks.
Allana grins, that knowing look—
She’s got Phase 1 like it’s a book.

We start out slow, just laying sets,
But soon the room is full of bets:
“Will she skip me?” “Who's on Phase 3?”
The drama builds deliciously.

A run of four, a colour sweep,
Wild cards hoarded, secrets deep.
“Who shuffled this?” we all accuse,
As Allana drops—Phase 5, no shoes.

She plays with style, she plays with sass,
She’ll drop a Skip and raise her glass.
A card shark No. She’s something more:
The kind of friend worth playing for.

Phase 7 brings some minor feud—
“Reverse again? You’re kinda rude!”
But laughter trumps each petty slight,
And every hand makes hearts feel light.

By Phase 10, the end is near,
Unless she's stuck—then we all cheer.
But win or lose, it’s understood:
With Allana there, it’s always good.

So here’s to nights we won’t forget,
With rules, revenge, and no regret.
Through every deal, you make it fun—
Phase 10’s best with you, Allana.

Scott W.

The Last Slice

A velvet-heavy, honey-spiced cake
sat on a table spread vast.
soft enough for fingers to disappear into,
dense enough to still
even the most restless tongues.
Its candles flickered like stars.

No one asked who baked it.
No one wondered how long the oven stayed warm.
They just took— with knives that glinted like treaties,
with fingers that didn’t wait for plates.

Frosting smeared like territory lines,
plums dug out and hoarded,
their hands sticky with inheritance.

Someone wanted the cherry—
another, the coast of caramel.

Of course, they sang Happy Humanity to us,
clinking forks like medals,
smiling with mouths still full,
declaring the feast a triumph
without once glancing at the crumbs beneath the table.

The table itself is now a battlefield
of crusts and claims.
And the last slice sits on the chipped porcelain.

Vanished

The roof has borne its share
Of winter's chill, summer's heat,
Of storms and rains,
The wood consumed by termites,
Spiders weaving webs throughout the home.
Ants have claimed the very foundation,
Young rats, in ruinous floods.

The people, they were scorched
By literal fires, or by a hidden agony
Hoarded deep within their hearts.
They became exiles,
Driven by a neighbor's torment,
Or by utter destitution,
Or by the callous neglect of their own kin.

The Curious Crow

A clever young crow from Belize
Collected old buttons with ease.
It hoarded its stash
In a bucket of trash,
And sold them for shiny gold cheese.

If I Have Squandered Your Gifts, O Dear Lord

If I have squandered your gifts, O Dear Lord,
     and glorified myself with hoarded wealth;
if I have crucified the Lamb and Word, 
     and planned against my righteous neighbor's health,

then a rebellious son swift to repent
     will not corrupt truth, nor forever break
the law or second-highest commandment;
     instead, your talents now will all awake

in him and in these written lines of rhyme:
     what I am endowed with, I will employ
and with love make the most of my short time,
     and on earth spread and multiply Christ's joy.

For whilst some lust for power or live for blood,
I was formed to see my songs lift Death's hood!

Greed’s Reflection

It never taught you greed—
you were fluent long before that.
It simply shone,
like sunlight revealing dust
in an empty room.

The hands that took it,
clutched it,
hoarded it,
already understood the language of desire.
And in its brief hold,
you confused its shine
for your own.

When it departed,
what was left
wasn’t broken—
just bare,
just you.

the naughty c-word

Engels and his comrade Karl Marx
Cite the fight with rich greedy sharks
Tight with hoarded dough!
Their manifesto
Notes the bloat that floats oligarchs

Broadway's shut down

Cannot sense the time
There's no need to report
And nothing's left to find
For the days are now too short
No one did remain
To see the final act
The author went insane
When his Face book page was hacked

Curtains have come down
No encore has been called
No refunds will be found
Since the ticket sales had stalled
Actresses have cried
They're quickly unemployed
No sympathies supplied
For the careers destroyed

Doors have been boarded
The streets are empty now
Old flyers are hoarded
Though not worth much anymore
History will fade
From this old part of the town
Mem'ries been waylaid
Since Broadway had been shut down

Cunning Little Guy

Don’t be deceived by
The snake for your sake only
It’s cunning and sly

I don’t want to pry 
Into your business, but girl —
Deception is why

I don’t want you to 
Trust the one you lust much like
My sister said, true

I have been so blue
With rue in my mindset like
I have hoarded through

Can't Leave My Damn Home

This was written back when Covid-19 at it's height. As sung to the tune "Can't Find My Way Home," by Steve Winwood/Blind Faith.

"Can't Leave My Damn Home"

-------------
I've binged Game of Thrones,
and learned the xylophone. 
This  has to change. 

Please don't touch your face
And keep six feet away
wear a mask, wash your hands.

I got loads of time
and I just now hoarded wine.
So I'm wasted, 
but I can't leave my damn home.

We're in quarantine
'Cause there ain't no vaccine
Chloroquine's no cure.

Trump is the reason 
We're waiting so damn long.
'Cause he screwed the CDC

And I can't leave my damn home.
No, I can't leave my damn home.
No, I can't leave my damn home.
No, I can't leave my damn home.
Still I can't leave my damn home,
And I ain't killed my kids yet.
But I can't leave my damn home.

The Royal Treatment

The cruel Prince Basil sat in his castle

Weaving a wonderful web of lies

Making offers to share his coffers

Taking everyone there by surprise

Hopeful gals and guys with stars in their eyes

Were expecting to be well rewarded

Now they would know he would never let go

Of all the gold and jewels that he hoarded

When refusing to pay day after day

Soon his subjects no longer believed him

With tempers lathered the masses gathered

And of his lying head they relieved him

Christmas Flowering

An old kitchen dresser
stood against a wall
in the shed. Its drawers were full
of things that kept a small boy
occupied for hours. 
Retired kitchen gadgets,
tools, balls of string
and a treasure trove 
of discarded odds and ends 
hoarded just in case 
something there might
“come in handy one day”.

There was a drawer off limits 
for little hands,
my grandmother's place for keeping
dahlia tubers safe and dry
for their winter sleep. 
Brown paper bags held
the sacred cache.
Come spring they were taken
from their dark, musty crypt
for their yearly rebirth.

Planted in a square of garden
overlooked by the dining room
window, the tubers would
begin to stir in the warming sun.
By Christmas day, the first bright
blooms would blaze 
extravagant color that could
be seen from the table
as we tucked into lunch
crowned in our paper hats.
To a child, it seemed like magic,
just pure magic.




Note.
Christmas in Australia 
is, of course, in summer.

Light Rises On Her Passage

free verse

Sheltered in safety's shadows.

Knowing God cares for her chief concern
Soon the golden sunshine will flourish.

She watches tiny minnows, skittering they scurry;
and notes the hawthorn berry’s smell, sweet yet faint.
She hears music from the brook; recalls a tune.
Whisp’ring rest, grace notes echo from limb to limb.

Twixt hearth and home, her heart cannot grasp
Trusting God, what lesson might she learn?

Sheltered in safety's shadows.


Light rises on her passage.

Swiftly, she embarks on journey’s end
fearing not the danger she might face.

Horse and maiden head t'wards town with hoarded stash
filled high with reddish berries and heartfelt thought.
Sweet mother’s heart is hushed, likely by disease.
Will nature ordain what wise daughter has found

Death as yet she cannot comprehend
asking God's guidance for the trip.

Light rises on her passage.

Waning

Amid the worldly chaos
And earthly blues
Wanes my beloved muse

Like the shattered clouds
My thoughts dissolve
But deep inside they echo

To narrate the fables piled-up 
which have been swirling for a while, 
The suffocated words strive

Awaiting the nimbus clouds
to cascade down...

For when the nimbus clouds gather
The fierce thunder will boom
And the words will drum aloud 

When the rain falls,
hoarded thoughts will cascade
and the arid land will be loaded

But will the nimbus clouds gather?
Will it flow further?

Will the thunder drums play?
Will it rouse my dormant muse?

Will the lightning strikes spark?
Will waning muse step into a waxing phase?

"It will for sure..."
People say, I hear... 
But when?
No one can answer...

Until then,
Waning me awaits...
dreaming of the waxing phase,
and relishing the chaotic state...

28-Aug -2023

Trump Is Falling

He's our savior
a man of utmost principals

He stands up against the deep state
and speaks his mind concisely

But he has faltered
and hoarded sensitive information

Now silver bars may bind his home
for several years to come

What can we do to help
how can we save the man we love

There may be no protection against his crimes
he tallied them up so much

All we can do is watch
Watch as a giant falls

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