If you’re very lucky, you may find
The type of handyman
Who can take care of the problems
That you now no longer can.
Climb a ladder to the roof? No prob -
It’s what he likes to do
And while up there, he will clean
The cloudy skylights, just for you.
Clogged up gutters? With some gloves
He’ll scoop out leaves and dirt and gunk,
Staying cheerful through it all.
(I know that I’d be in a funk.)
When he’s finished, he will lowball
What he thinks that you should pay.
Do you know of anybody else
Who’d act in that same way?
Handy Randy is this person
Who is capable and fair
And reliable and really nice,
These attributes so rare.
Re-organizing my life feels like re-organizing a pile of putty
Like draining the swamp but you can’t throw it all out
There is no tool to drain the swamp better than your fingers
Over and over again I scoop out gunk looking at past trails
Goop pour from the sides of my hands as I curl back the scoops
Every third scoop I thrust back creates another extra scoop
I begin to laugh at the insanity of this scooping paradigm
Am I really changing the swamp or just shuffling it?
Faith beams into my peripheral and clarity sets
This dance of muck is going exactly according to God plan.
Dragonfruit
One year I got dragonfruit
For my birthday
It was so pretty and pink
When Daddy opened it up
It was empty
Translucent membrane
Full of hard black seeds
When I took a bite
It was tasteless in the middle
With black seeds of hate
Daddy loved me like dragonfruit
Flashy and vibrant on the outside
Tasteless in the middle
With black seeds of hate
And pain
But every once in a while
If you cut the fruit in half
And look it in the eyes
Scoop out the very center
It is faintly sweet
Tracks which could be nothing.
Or werewolves who,
Just ate all the fallen leaves.
Vegetarian and a little crunchy too.
Halloween is scrumptious.
Hopeful like the crunching underfoot.
Then just-
Disappearing,
Dispersing.
Halloween is quick.
With the fluttering of vampire wings.
Surfacing from the sewer.
Then collapsing with a song.
Halloween is a desperate feeling.
We don’t have much except their footprints.
In October.
Halloween opens up our skulls delightfully.
It’s fast.
As they scoop out piles of,
Leaves from the gutter and run.
It’s fast.
The candy pours out all over the porch steps.
Then disappearing.
Just like me.
I am renting my dog out as an excavator
He can dig a trench next to that elevator
He will scoop out the clay faster than fast
This will be his sixth job, none of them last
He stood, ripped open his shirt
offered her a spoon;
“Take it, scoop out my heart,
try not to be disappointed, dear
when you find nothing;
you devoured it years ago!”
When I was a child, outside of Christmas,
Halloween was my favorite time of year.
I loved crafting homemade costumes from old rags:
to wear trick-or-treating in the neighborhood.
And yet, I got the most fun from carving
the scariest pumpkin my mind could conceive.
It was the only time I was allowed to wield a knife,
and I reveled in it: to me, carving pumpkins was an art.
Dad would drive me to a pumpkin patch,
where I'd pick out the perfect pumpkin:
worthy of my artistic talents.
And when I brought it home,
I'd start by slicing the top off my pumpkin
to gain access to its skull.
And with my hands, I'd scoop out its brains,
which felt mushy, gooey, slimy, and gross,
as I removed them: to sculpt my Jack-o'-lantern.
Then, with an eye for the hideous, I'd prepare to carve.
Creating grotesque features: I'd start by gouging out its eyes,
a deformed nose, and a toothy, grimacing smile.
When finished, I'd proudly present my monstrosity to Mom;
who'd light a candle and place it inside my gargoyle
then set it out on our stoop;
to guard against any evil demons
that may be skulking about: on this All Hallows' Eve.
Home from a chemo session, uncle lights up
a cigarette and collapses
to the slick plastic that covers your chaise
lounge, auntie. He thumps the upholstery
with his legs and elbows for blood
to circulate again. A flake
drifts. Dehydrated lips, uncle
inadvertently kisses ash. Cushions
puff up, deflate. Uncle floats
smoke rings to prove he still has breath.
Your bulbous urn ruptures his rings
on contact where curvature
casts uncle’s warped reflection, all mouth and smoke,
as he would rise to reach your urn on the mantle.
Uncle slouches back, watches his sports channel.
I head out with his hamper
and forget to check pockets before washing clothes,
his soggy receipts - - once grocery lists? - -
and tissues, torn apart, clumped up, fake snow
I have to scoop out of washing machines.
Absent-minded tasks at the laundromat, auntie,
where you’d bend in pain. Lint trays reinstall
fluff. I snap
and snap airborne dryer-flakes off towels.
Up in the sky a great big spoon
Took a scoop out of the moon
It took one more and pretty soon
The moon went pop like a balloon
The spoon reached down close to the ground
And started stirring round and round
It sounded like tornadoes sound
And stirred up everything around
Sheep and cows and cars and trucks
Dogs and cats and pigs and ducks
Span around and got mixed up
And how they changed is how they stuck
The pig went moo
And the cow went quack
And the sheepdog clapped his flippers
And the sheep went oink
And the hen went woof
And fetched the farmer’s slippers
And the duck went baaah
And the mouse went neigh
And the barn owl stole the tractor
But what went eek
He took a peek
A mad velociraptor
The farmer didn‘t have a clue
He did not know quite what to do
He asked his wife in case she knew
And the farmer’s wife said
MOOOOOOOOOOO!
Written 17 April 2021 (in anticipation of Nursery Rhyme 5)
Contest: Nursery Rhyme 5
Sponsor: Eve Roper
Across the brook, the bridge lay broken
stops the traveler’s momentum
he can't wade into the water
and wet his clothes and shoes
he had to find the stones
to step on and go across
they were mossy he saw
he can slip and fall
a twig can do the trick
scoop out the moss
he opened and held his shoes
and placed a foot on the stone
the slippery stones of life lay ahead
to reach a goal
The asylum doesn't
seem to work
for him. They
have tried all they could,
but have come up with nothing.
"He is possessed," he heard
one of the men in white
say. "We can't get
them out of him!"
He spent most of his time
scribbling theorems
and equations
on a wall,
and sometimes on a ceiling
if his inspiration
made him feel high.
The stuffs in his head
made him feel
like peeling his head
like an onion,
and scoop out the
knowledge that was
suffocating his thoughts....
Over the chain bridge
shadow overlays the light
Danube is lazing underneath
silence is drifting in fright
You are standing on your tiring feet
An eerie feeling hovers over your skin
pathos pales the face
pain mists the eyes
The eyes, watery deep and swollen
are roaming over the night sky,
You are longing for your loved one
suddenly to stop by
Forced smiles sadden the moist air
no joy, no happiness
a cheerless affair
I wish I could comfort you
kiss your nifty lips,
play with your silken hair,
and breaking the surface of sufferings
scoop out your agony and its tears.
Pumpkin Pulp a hunger real.
Toothless meal a vomit fill.
Rumpy flesh to hold the meal.
Tasty strands of flavour seal.
Pits of seeds for spitting out.
White tidbits all hard and stout.
Strands of web to reach the heart.
Spirits strong where pressures part.
Fetch the scoop to scoop out goop.
Scrape the wall and cause it droop.
Oust the pulp on old newpapers.
Save the seeds to fry in vapours.
Pumpkins lit and glowing lanterns.
Angled eyes shine light in patterns.
Flickered smiles from waxy wicks.
Labotomys, the night of tricks.
When picking a pumpkin, I want one that’s round,
The fattest, most corpulent one to be found.
It needn’t be heavy or massive in size,
But shape is a place where I won’t compromise.
The color, of course, is important, as well.
It has to be orange - no washed-out pastel.
I’m sorry for specimens speckled with green;
They just do not make the cut for Halloween.
And lastly, before I discover my gem,
I search ‘til I find one with strong, curvy stem.
I’ll never select one that’s missing its handle –
(It comes in quite handy when planting the candle).
When I’ve found the one that fulfills all my needs,
I’ll scoop out the insides and toast up the seeds.
My husband will carve out a devilish grin
And our Jack ‘O will welcome the holiday in.
They scoop out my eyes
They sealed my ears
They chained my legs and hands
They freeze my heart
They drank my marrow and blood
They swallowed my brain
Now I am searching who I am
But they cannot extinguish
The fire in my mind
Oh hypocrite world
One day I will break my chain
One day I will break my chain
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.