Scavenge Poems

Our Lives Are To Short

The clock gnaws marrow from the bone,
Its hands are wolves in a quiet room.
I pace the halls of books like a penitent,
Collecting alphabets, equations, broken hymns—
Each one a splinter of fire to brand my palms.

Learning is a lantern, I tell myself,
But it burns both the pupil and the page.
Still, I drink the poison of knowledge,
Measure each drop with trembling fingers,
Because power without mercy is a blade in the dark.

Let the evil ones be caught in their own traps,
Sealed in jars, their whispers locked
Like moths in a museum drawer.
The good should hammer the lid shut—
And yet the shadows leak, they stain the air.

I scavenge disciplines the way crows hoard silver:
Philosophy, astronomy, anatomy,
A perpetual ladder built skyward, rung by rung.
The body sours, but the mind must not sleep,
Not while questions are hissing in the grass.

Don’t hate the players, hate the game—
But I see the board stained with red squares,
Pawns split open, queens reduced to ash.
Still, I move my piece forward.
Still, I mouth the rules until they cut my tongue.

Why are our lives so short?
Because the brain is a storm,
And storms cannot be persuaded to last.

Battlefield

The children came late, at the end
among the bodies, naked, stripped
the corpses starting to distend
with gaping wounds where swords had ripped
and hacked to recognitions fall.
Their foes had taken life and gold;
the wives to stricken poor to pall
these men whose lives were dearly sold.
The children came, as did the rats,
the cawing crows, the hungry dogs,
the ever-present feral cats,
and fat pink grunting, rutting hogs.
They came to scavenge what was left
upon this greenfield butcher's block
and what they took was not the theft
it is those who lead should be in dock.

How Has 'Big Blight ' -- Gone Bye?

The prancing Animal
Through the Woods it Went,
That house Full of Wool,
That was Truly — a Tent.

“Has the Hole been Dug?”
How had It Gone?
Hunting the animalistic Bug,
How saddening, Ron.

Antelope, insect,
Appealing or Not,
A many will not be too checked —
As they weren't Noticed -- Through the Knots.

Never, or Ever -- will The Big bug Bite,
Not again For the Bug of greatest Of Sizes.
“No, not bug, But some Blight” --
Ness, You will Not win those Prizes.

Guilt

Feelings were lost. i feel angry once more but not sad. Only guilt. I hate myself for it. 
My mental state of cause sent me to beings someone’s interest… when the tables turned
No interest was returned i had a sparse of ambition ready to scavenge a new life. 
The new life i thought i wanted is corrupted at this point right now.
WHAT AM I? A MIRAGE? or a pathetic tiny grain blowing in the dust. 
i shed tears of guilt and anger, none sad. what have i done to myself? why do i feel so torn? i’m tired of this cloak of happiness. 
my body and mind aches. 
what have i become?

To You Who Are Lost

Oh my dear where o where have you gone
Please not as far as where I won’t ever find you
I lost you before and now again like the dawn
But you have found yet again a place anew

In the shadows I’ll scavenge all day for your love
It’s a gamble though one that I’ll willingly take
If it means a sweet kiss descending from above
And until I finally find you my heart shall ache

I’ll fight to the end if it means having you back 
My heart forever yearns for your voice in my ear
You have the courage to speak which I often lack
You make my doubts vanish and fill me with cheer

So I beg you come back if I have just one plead
When your lost to me I’m lost without your lead

Sara Teasdale Died

The night swallowed her, quiet as the sea,
Where the waves carried whispers, heavy and deep—
Sara, a ripple lost in the currents of time,
A flicker gone dark beneath the moon's hollow eye.

Oceans curled their backs to kiss the blue sky,
Choked on salt and her long drawn out sighs, drowning what they knew—
Her words, her marrowed bones, her soft, dissolving light
Faded brown foam, softly entered the night .

What does the earth remember of her? 
The ground never speaks.
A wound wrapped in roots, bruised by forgotten feet,
While people, fleeting shadows, scavenge the shore
For echoes, shells, the small dust of her name.

Only the moon, that pale, silent judge,
Still sees the dance of waves, oceans, and sky—
A rhythm born of grief, endless as her loss,
Turning the world beneath a weeping star.

my woodland raccoons

he rummages through my trash at night
scurrying off in mist of daybreak
I rarely catch his masked face,
but sometimes glimpse his striped tail

he brings the family, they scavenge together
slapping each other when a cracker is larger than another
I watch them and laugh, they are entertaining
my woodland raccoons

Your Love

I loved you.
I really did.
My poetry is about you 
Your face so neatly carved into my brain I can draw you from memory.

You were the first to know how I felt 
How you tugged at my heartstrings in a way so excruciatingly painful 
I saw you through my rose coloured lenses and gulped down painkillers forgetting that you ever pained me.

You lead me on like one of your mindless pets
I would have died for you
If you told me you wanted them dead they'd be dead
If you told me you wanted me dead my last words would be yes sir. 

I want to break from your grasp 
Although the words you speak bring too much comfort
The way you look at me
The wonder in your eyes as if you never have seen my suffering or the way one could trip over themselves and sacrifice themselves as I for something like you

I scavenge for the love you once gave me
Trinkets that I keep in a box and at the bottom of my bag

Your love is a drug 
My stash low
I crave for every bit of love you give me

It's a bad influence 
My memory blurry
You make me sick.

Outlive It

Some get over a bad childhood,
they rise to the top of a hill
to set fire to the bloody rags of a choiceless youth.
The beacon flares, below a forest
of wide-eyed animals
watch as the sacrifice, now a smoldering fawn,
blunders among them, its throat cut and bleeding.

Others drag around a blind doll,
day by day the macabre manikin grows larger,
its face a picture of apathy,
for apathy is the ghostly dress of
all long dead ballerinas.
That hand-stitched doll
gets too heavy to bear, and so daily,
they must give it away to beggars and saints,
The doll is insane, its pain is a robber's key
that returns to unlock any cardboard castle,
or iron fortress.

When the wild dogs come
to scavenge among the bones of a childhood,
throw them something raw and still wriggling,
let them slaver and chew it over,
until they sicken,
then chop off their gray heads,
one by one.

Sitting by the River

Seagulls soar and pigeons fly,
Sharing one huge cloud-streaked sky.
While they swoop and scavenge, I
Sit watching them in flight.

Walkers with their dogs stroll by;
Joggers pass, their heads held high
And in repose, I wonder why
This brings me such delight.

With my pencil, I can try
To get on paper, thoughts that my
Perceptions let me amplify
When I sit down and write.

A Tag of Pain

Pain squizzes life out of my paralyzed mind and it feels like a grain of sugar under attack from ants.
Induring comes with an ocean of tears
Never ending and excruciating 
Sending my body into manifestational shivers

Needing an escape with immediate effect
Every nerve is hyperbolically numbing 
Enough to shut doors when the world outside peeps into my life
Darts of mental disorders are hurled at me , my mind is infested with anxious ants nibbling on my confidence 

Looking for rest I drown my fears and anxieties  in a slumber.
Echoes of numbing pain pin me down as I crawl to the exit door
Shaky knees won't hold me for long lest my life I lose without the anchors of heaven. 

So I pray and become the prey
Failing to comprehend my period of testing marathons from my predator
I fail to testify for the man at Calvary playing scavenge hunting for my sake
Not wanting to form scars to avenge
Every single day I seek him, he lifts my fallen face and reminds me of his might
And when my enemies attack he is my shield in this tag of war .
So I know when my iniquities hide his face I'll tag him to my place of refuge

Foxes of Britain

just like foxes they arise from dark places 
they come to fight and scavenge
As they start to climb they become stronger in a pack.
the power they have goes over their heads 
there's no way they'll turn back,
its a two way game
and there putting us through a test
as the rise of inflation gets higher, 
were left with nothing more or less
 They might be winning the race now
but they forgot
the story of the Hare and fox.
As cunning daredevils fight for greed
its The hare in the end that always succeeds.

A Day In the Life - Act 7

He sat on a bench in the Boston Common one day and watched children play, people drinking LATTE’S walk their dogs, the homeless scavenge, and the alkies and addicts beg for money.  A somewhat disheveled gentleman asked him for money to buy food.  He replied:  “Well you’re in luck I was just about to go to lunch would you like to come along?”  The gentleman hesitated and quietly asked: “Really?”  And they were off for burgers, fries, coffee and dessert.  It may not have been a happy meal but it brought a smile to both their faces.  

John G. Lawless
©5/1/2023

Christmas Fat Goose Coming Wishbone Me Myself and I

Christmas is coming

And I myself once upon a time

Much like the goose was getting fat

I am now sadly not

For I am currently now getting
thinner than

The leftover wishbone from this
year's thanksgiving's turkey

I managed to scavenge from my 
next door neighbors bins

After they we're obviously finished 
and done with so therefore eventually
threw the remaining scraps out

Who if they knew or I was willing
to admit the dire state of the situation
I find find myself mired in

Would surely then have offered to 
take me in and provide me with 
whatsoever help they could

But sadly my own self pride ego
and wanting to keep pace and up
with the Joneses

Will and has left me again sadly
with nothing more

Than hunger pains and grumbling
noise in the pit of my stomach

And a perfectly stripped chewed down
to  the bone , wishbone 

And hopefully 1 wish still remaining
in tow 

So here goes

How I wish it was only them suffering
this unholy indignation as apposed
to me 

Or I had taken just a single moment
of my precious time

To be a better neighbor give a damn
or care about anything or anyone

Other than me myself and only i

Late Fall Beckons

Trees hear the wild whisper of the winds
Whispering songs Mother nature sings
Hibernation songs are heard all around
Barren trees weep as leaves touch ground

A blue jay squawks perched upon the branch
Vibrant blue feathers loudly sing and dance
Calling his mate to join him in their nest
As frigid winds murmur their need to rest

The ground is sleepy as slumber has begun
Frosty leaves blanket and shelter the sun
Chipmunks now burrowed deep below
With their winter stash, safe from snow

Deer run through the woods leaving tracks
Searching for food displaying new racks
Berries are scarce and grasses are gone
Frantically searching all night until dawn

Winds howl and scream for all to take notice
Hibernation is key as nature’s survival focus
Bears actively scavenge for food for their fall rest
Preparing to survive the long winter warmly dressed

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