Long Scratch Poems
Long Scratch Poems. Below are the most popular long Scratch by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Scratch poems by poem length and keyword.
Cats are containers of
colorful personality.
A blue cat sits alone
looking at the floor before him.
His mind blank as,
a new sketchbook;
waiting for the artist within to,
paint him into a clown.
Red cats rage against life’s storms
and invaders in their yard.
Birds, squirrels and mice fear
the wrath of a red cat;
sharp teeth and claws are swift when,
propelled by a red paw.
Yellow cats have a tendency
to leave surprise gastric gifts
on your carpet, as much as possible;
always apologizing with their pale,
jaundiced eyes.
The green cat personality is rare.
You’ll find them holding it all in
until they get to that litter box.
Green behavior warrants a private box,
along with a nice treat.
Green cats, can’t stand a stench
and will scratch litter for hours
to slay a screaming smell.
The purple cats
see every opportunity for affection
and milk it.
Love emanates from their bones
and cuddling is what they do best.
When purple cats offer a hug,
you cannot resist.
Beware the polka-dotted cat!
A love bite will quickly become
piercing claws;
shredding an arm in seconds.
Pink cats are Coveted cats.
Children love pink cats
and carry them everywhere.
Their serene and constant purring
sings you to sleep, ever so gently.
A pink cats love is never-ending.
The rainbow personality,
is the comedian of all cats.
Light to dark and red to yellow;
the court jester of the species.
these side-splitting, laugh factories,
will never allow you to be bored.
Keep a camera handy;
rainbow cats are usually,
fabulous video celebrities
In the verdant valley of claw-some tales
lived a lady in a cottage of tails.
Every morning, her cat Grey loves to sit,
sip chamomile tea until paws permit,
a scratch here and there to wake her spirit,
so the sneaky rodents nearby fear it.
But the cat knew not the language of hate;
she was a queen dreaming of love and fate.
To unleash the mice that hide and scurry
through the countryside without a worry.
The rising sun too knows how stars despise
grumpy kittens purring through greedy eyes.
And Miss Grey did nothing but deeply muse,
while vested in checkered silvery hues,
she crafted a plan to spread stellar light
amidst the chaos that dwells at midnight,
hopes for peace within the community,
gives all the lives an opportunity~
to shine and flaunt their soft furry wishes,
wave sorrows goodbye with purrfect kisses.
brittle stained jagged fingernails
scratch against the splint hairs
of a cold weathered wooden elbow
an impatient clock had sapped
a once supple leather coat
now requiring constant mending
as homeless unraveling posed an inevitable ending
torn pockets spilled over
with a plethora of dead letters
hope had long ago delivered
its final walking papers
without care of return receipt
handmade trees with news of unease
spun unmercifully
into the arms of a brisk fall breeze
birds began their escape
into the mouth of another sun
a slow rise from a patinaed throne
on a benched park seat
a myopic vision of how cracks
are formed on overused and forgotten streets
she walks alone
to nowhere
a decayed ballerina
the place she is seen as most complete
There are gaps in the particleboard;
quince wads fill the breaches.
Nicotine newspapers underlay the linoleum.
It's a rented place, he tiptoes
around its yellow layers.
He has a friend he visits on Sunday afternoons.
The walls of her bedsit are paper thin.
She thinks her neighbors scratch on them,
thinks they are writing to her.
She will stand in front of him naked,
eyes closed while she masturbates.
She wants him to watch her.
She's deathly frightened people will overhear.
Afterward, they sit side by side
on the small bed reading the tabloids.
Then they walk to a local pub,
sit quietly in a corner, not talking
holding hands until closing time.
One day her bedsit is empty,
she has gone, leaving no note.
On the other side of the city
he lands a job with a room in a hotel.
His new room is narrow, clean and white.
It's nature's way that in the spring
Emotions make a lamb's soul sing
And so it was my young heart found
That love is not by species bound
Well cruelly spent, did cupid's dart
Pierce deep my foolish woolly heart
A wiser sheep would fain desert
Such love unwise and bound to hurt.
Nor was it then that common sense
Came forth to give me sound defence
No matter how well meant and groomed
My ardent love was clearly doomed.
For fate is fickle, fate unkind
Fate unhinged my young sheep's mind
Though strong inside my true love burns
It never wins my love's returns
So ardent burn my ovine fires
Kindling noble deep desires
But I know what e'er I do
That four legs never yet won two
She lives a life I cannot know
And goes to places sheep don't go
I patient wait and hope she'll pass
But know she'll never share my grass.
I know it's doomed, I know I've lost
My passion most unkindly crossed
For even if she knew my heart
I know our lives must stay apart.
But maybe she might scratch my nose
My love troth's a half-eaten rose
With that held in her lovely hand,
To think on, she might understand.
I had put our meeting off so many times for fear that it would fail, and be a waste of time. I prepared a lovely salad. Thought I'd make some mayonnaise. The kind I thought you liked, with a yolk of free-range eggs, gluten-free and ovovegetarian. Low-carb to be on the safe side as well. Not the bottled commercial stuff full of preservatives and chemicals, but hand-made fresh from scratch au naturel, sweet, tasty, tangy and lovely.
I gently beat the egg yolk and slowly drizzled the vegetable oil into it a few drops at a time, while whisking, relatively not too briskly. I thought all was going ever so well. But the mixture became clumpy and lumpy as the emulsion broke, fell apart, and separated. I started again, mixing ever so slowly this time to bring the immiscible oil and yolk slowly together to meld and combine. But I failed again and again and again.
Out of eggs, with no time to get more, I made a vinaigrette instead! Oil and vinegar, smooth and rough, sweet and sour. They meld so well, despite their relative quirks and differences. No yolk this time. Touche.
If I were a serial killer
I would not use a knife;
because I have always been afraid of them
And you would have to get your face
and your hands too close to their face
and chest.
If I were a serial killer
I would not use a gun;
because I do not like them.
They make terrible holes,
and lots of noise.
Also, some of them kick back
and hurt your shoulder.
If I were a serial killer
I could not strangle anyone
because I am an asthmatic
and it seems incredibly cruel.
If I were a serial killer
I could not hang anyone
because I do not want to
have to get up there and put the rope up.
If I were a serial killer
I would have to run over people with my
car. Wait! Then it might get blood and flesh on it.
Scratch that!
If I were a serial killer,
I would give people an overdose of sleeping pills.
So many that they would fall into a deep sleep
and not even realize they were dead for
a long time.
If I were a serial killer.
He is still a puppy but weighs eighty pounds
and when he walks he shakes the ground
His bark is constant and very loud yet high
Cosmo warnings are not to be denied
Another dog or stray cat or two he spied
a fat little squirrel or folks walking by
Grasshopper at the end of his nose
Sassy ignoring him again I suppose
He eats good and drinks up a lake
he'll eat baloney but eyes your steak
Cosmo always sleeps in the doorway
tell him to move he never obeys
On his back and his paws motion
to scratch his chest if you got the notion
His double white coat he loves to share
for his silky white hair is everywhere
He is more gentle and watches everyone
likes to give sloppy kisses with his big tongue
He sleeps a lot but is up all night
he watches till satisfy his world is right
If he lies next to you his big paws he will use
to push you away to give him more room to snooze
If you play with the mighty boy dog
he chews your hands and arms like a log
His face is sweet and he loves his treats
Cosmo my giant makes my home complete.
I am a blizzard; you are a flurry:
you are the tea leaves, I am the teapot.
A Lancelot and Guinevere combo:
you're the key; I'm the lock to Camelot.
I am a fantasy; you are a dream:
you're a blazing sun; I am a lit match.
I am a firefly; you're a twinkling star:
you're an itch; I'm a satisfying scratch.
I'm the universe; you are the Big Bang:
you're a shooting star; I'm a starry night.
I'm Quasimodo, you are Notre Dame:
you are the main course; I'm the appetite.
I'm a violin, you're an orchestra:
you are my melody, and I'm your song.
I am a tango, you are a ballet:
not quite the same; that's why we get along.
Where moonlight fears fall
a whisper of graveyard rust
in breeze’s thin cold as rain.
A pearl of frozen light
still pond beyond the edge
shadows in the night bleed dark light
Raven's pluck razor wire.
Quills scratch glass, cracks
a story of months
a tarnishing of years
silk, waves in cold winds
lost, souls hollow of angels' eyes.
The willow's long branches
stagnant mire, sighs, & funeral pyre
the rose drift, stains of twilight.
Teeth cut flesh
pale, blue, the orbit of sky
hourglass, shattering
echoes of mortal man.
The clockwork turns
gears grind & burn
a secret slumber dark seep
twisted trees, eyes watch.
Portals to the finite horizons
steeple’s haunt distant sands
skeletons dance in the moonlight.
Raven's pluck razor wire.
quills scratch glass, crack
teeth, cut flesh.
Where moonlight falls
of graveyard dust
cold as winter’s rain.