Long Scritch Poems
Long Scritch Poems. Below are the most popular long Scritch by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Scritch poems by poem length and keyword.
Tear by tear, year to year
Day by day
Memories they all fade away
Tear by tear
Voices in my ears
Words may lay
Promises are all there’s left to say
I may wade through volcanic vaults
My peers never picture me painted at a hault
Jaded memories are tainted, lost and caught
A chance given to blow it
A new set of balls, just living to grow it
I’ll never faulter or kneel down to cry at the alter
Through adversity
It seems my surroundings curse at me
And even if I feel an emotional down
I couldn’t bare it in front of you
So much commotion
Just to share something as blunt as the truth
The withered bed our readers have made for us
Through every line, Scritch, scratch, or mixed up batch
They forever adore us
As if their thank you letters or
“Congratulations you put together a good poem,”
Could bore us
What’s worse than being beaten by tabloids?
Extension cords
Checks with giant letters that say “VOID”
Of course baring the voice of being a lord
For never having more than we could afford
Beef and battles
Is better than fagots on relief and saddles
The ocean is open and blue
But nature won’t let you paddle
And perhaps, we’ll die
And for us our peers will forget to say goodbye
Never to be remembered
When we reach those golden gates
Just pray that we are a member
The Fruit of Disappointment
In my garden there is a tree that I planted when it was new,
It was just a tiny sapling then and grew and grew and grew.
But on this tree, although very high, of fruit there were far too few
'Till an ancient gardener spoke to me and told me what to do.
He said, “Find a nest of the Scritch Scratch bird and take a twig or two
And make a posset of Dwindle Weed and a pot of Norridge stew.”
I found Dwindle Weed and a Norridge Plant for the recipe he knew
And with the gathered twigs around the tree a circle I then drew.
Into the circle, as the old man told, the mixture I then threw.
“Now,” he said, “You must wait a year and there'll be fruit for you.”
“Fifty pounds is all I need, then I'll return when the fruit is due.”
No fruit set upon that tree and for many years was overdue.
The ancient gardener did not return and so I thought, “I'll sue.”
But the gardener was never found, or the fifty pounds I blew.
Barry Stebbings
29/10/16
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
One Christmas Eve, when all the reindeer wheezed,
Santa sighed, staring at his grounded fleet.
Then—scritch-scratch—a small, clawed architect appeared,
tail a-quiver, eyes bright with stolen seeds.
I’ll do it, chittered the squirrel, puff-chested,
as if sleighs were just oversized acorns.
Santa shrugged. Desperation breeds odd pilots.
The squirrel’s tiny paws gripped the reins~
no reins, really, just shoelaces knotted tight.
The sleigh lurched forward, more wobble than glide,
gifts rattling like a junk drawer in turbulence.
Over rooftops they went, the squirrel’s tail steering
like a frantic rudder. Cats paused mid-yawn.
Children glimpsed the blur—Was that... a squirrel?
—then dismissed it as eggnog hallucinations.
Presents were dropped (some were flung, frankly),
landing in chimneys, bushes, one in a birdbath.
The squirrel, high on adrenaline and stolen frosting,
declared this the Greatest Nut Run Ever.
Dawn approached. Santa, exhausted, offered payment~
the squirrel demanded a lifetime supply of cashews.
And that’s why, even now, if you listen closely,
you’ll hear tiny claws on your roof...
delivering invoices.
My best friend was on the phone,
laughing like a great aunt who had lost her mind
“Joe thought it was dead, but then he saw it making reservations with the dog,” I informed her. “We have a bunch of mice here, many pregnant.
Joe is sleeping outside in the car.
Yes....
My husband of forty-eight years is a bit prissy about small black rodents
full of diseases that run over his foot.
I was in the attic now, a dreary place where I barely dared to put down my lemonade for fear bats would be dive bombing into it or disemboweled entities would be spooking the dog who was crying at the bottom of the steps she cannot climb.
Scritch. Scratch. Scritch. Scratch. Scritch.
I could not tell which pile or garbage bag was making this curious sound.
Raccoons in the attic? Large insane squirrels? A homeless person living with us for the last sixteen years?
“I have to go,” I told my friend. “Family emergency.” I clicked her off.
My friends are okay with my rude ways, choosing to love me anyway.
The noise kept coming.
My attention was suddenly in a corner of a large wiggling garbage bag.
A mouse popped out of the top of it and ran toward me.
Then sixty-two more, a fountain of mice,
running in all directions.
I went downstairs and told my husband there was a black bag I could not lift.
I wandered to the kitchen to fix myself a light lunch, my favorite, a peanut butter, Miracle Whip, lettuce sandwich. I had to scoot two mice off the top
of the peanut butter lid.
But I said "excuse me" of course.
I nearly dropped a gallon of milk when I heard his scream.
I imagine he scared every last rodent out of the house.
Joe is my go-to-man.
FLOODED CLOSET
flooded closet,
got your attention?
washer; and dryer
sent to the dungeon, well
the garage. not our fault.
phone call received in ninety-three,
wouldn’t insure us —
the flood, you know…
have you guessed?
previous occupants.
of course a bit of common sense
supported us.
closet contains lots of shelves,
you can climb
to reach
the attic space,
but a few years back
we built a stairway to the stars.
closets filled with candles —
gifts that give and give
and give off light
used once or twice,
and flashlights,
big and small
and an incense burner
from my son —
he’s an odd gift giver.
a few family games for occasions
requiring members who love to play games —
I do! I do!
but most don’t feel the same.
that old floors cluttered,
not with clothes (how
nice that would have been —
oh the convenience!)
but with a vacuum, stoneware,
cleaning supplies.
I wanted to unclutter,
but is it only a reshuffle?
At least the floor —
I might score a clean in that department,
still i must dust, dust
dust, “achooooo…”
i must wash hands many
many many times
through the process
(one time I encountered dust
and broke out in a rash —
scritch, scratch, scratch)
I just might
get this job
done -
stay tuned.
i expect your yawn
and your finger violin,
“my heart bleeds for you.”
it must get done
then i will move on
to my wardrobe...ahem,
won’t go into that.
11/24/2020
There’s a faded blue tarp
On an old pile of wood
For a fireplace no longer used.
Though my hearing’s not sharp,
I thought maybe I could
Hear a strange sound that got me confused.
So I opened the door,
Seeing if I could find
If a creature was making that scritch
And before I looked more,
There to pay me no mind,
Was a squirrel, his jaws all a’twitch.
He was ripping at holes
In the tarp that he’d made
And from out of his mouth dangled blue.
Seemed that one of his goals,
If attention was paid,
Was a nest of that very same hue.
Now I’m searching the trees,
Gazing up through the leaves,
Trying hard to discover that nest.
So if anyone sees
Something that he perceives
As bizarre, he can let his mind rest.
Knock, knock, scritch, scratch
Who’re banging at the old door?
The other whispers hushly
Give in to the turning knob
The good one is no help
Nameless twins barge in
An angel and demon greet
One my bruised conscience
The other a swelling desire
Give their titles respect
Names take their power
Don’t I know their labels?
One demands a stiff drink
The other shyly sipping tea
Tell them to sit or rollover
With names undiscovered
A carrot stick does not tempt
A devils’ eclair batons will bash
They battle for my will
I’m to blame for them
No naming, one overtakes
The elusive one holy as mist
The other solid as dopamine
What are they doing here?
Call out their names to leave
Last call to Beelzebub
Ask Gabriel to stay
But, they are bound to me
Shove one out the door
Conscience will leave
To be free of my Desire
Then Gabriel wants company
Naming them, won’t be enough
Wish I had no four names
At the last table like Christ
When our time is up like Him
When my house and door falls
He’ll call us Judas sweetly
Gabriel, Beelzebub, and I
Chasing 30 silvers, be back
We exit the door to betray
Dragging Gabriel to the bar
Lead to a strange fruit hanging
Desire clutching our reward
Our war'll be over in slumber
The lily pad wanted to see some snow
She needed to travel, but where to go?
The mouth of the river had things to say
Beyond the green bridge, that is the way….
She was open to suggestions, of course.
A daughter of Zeus, niece of Thor, king of Norse
Pink sponge floated by and sprinkled on her ash
She jumped a bit, when a canoe gave a crash.
Scratch and scritch a path through the rubble
It is March, so you will not want any trouble
Or you will kill any outside chance
To cross the gully to play and dance
The lily pad listened to the frog named Paint
His eyes could pierce her soul, he liked her quaint
I want to see snow, she confided to this green man.
I am sure you can, he lied. I am sure you can.