Scoop Up Poems | Examples

puddle

i will grip the last shards of you,
until the edges slice my palms.
through skin and tissue,
muscle and bone,
'till its through the other side.

when it lands on the pavement,
blood-soaked and broken,
i'll clasp my palms together,
stronger than we ever were,
and scoop up the shattered pieces.
i'll cradle them, 
with that gentleness you one day forgot,
and never shown me again.

as i step over the stains in the concrete,
my lacerated flesh,
held tight to my chest,
i know.

i know that,
i'll let your memory dissect me forever,
until all that remains—
is a puddle of all i hoped we could be.

Love Is

Some say that Love's 
imagination -- no medic
can plot and find; like 
science disproves a soul,

better ice cream in a solid bowl --   

some say love's a mere
occupation -- Bread and
Butter of the poet; the bard
and musician like snow-balls
scoop-up, compress and throw
it~

stick to the wall a vinyl or perhaps book;

my priest claims highest spiritual
veneration,  after earth relocation -- 
pass the plate, before it's too
late...cheaper now 
than after-hours' rate...

seems to preoccupy a world of real time 
and space...

that which man can only psychically 
place and trace --

Accidental Buffet

     The buffet was spread liberally,
     All across the floor,
     As usual my dogs only want more!

     Spoiled animals that they are,
     They are dearly loved,
     But not too far!

     Normally a feast would be,
     Turkey, Chicken, canned food,
     Or all three!

     But as luck would have it,
     The food did not end up in a bowl.
     But in a heap taller than a tree!

     Lift a bag of dog food,
     The bottom gave out,
     The pups have been cavorting about!

     While I with broom and dustpan,
     Scoop up the mess,
     Bring the buffet to an end!

Songs of The Spoon-billed Sandpiper No 15: ABBA

They'd wade at standards to be seen by most.
The Spoon-billed Sandpiper, who shares wading,
to dying, one hundred ten, and counting.
Stretched East Asia, Russia through China ... host.
They've spoon-shaped bills to help them scoop up moss,
insects, shrimp, and worms. They are renowned for
their calls, which males fly and sing a rapport,
sounds like 'preep' and 'wheer' can stretch it across.
Human encroachment on their feeding and
breeding wetlands threatens their survival.
Predators plague their nest a revival,
two decades, numbers dropped by two thousand.
The ascension for most and few still greens,
a descension of value bows night scenes.

King of Spades

You say I’m made to be a spade but that just curls my wings
I sit here ready to scoop up the widest range of things
Scooping apples off the ground and thrusting them all forward
To where the wheelbarrow awaits as I denude the orchard

They say to call a spade a spade is honesty at work
I do not know who said that but he was a total jerk
For spades can dig a tidy hole as that is what they’re for
But I can dig a hole and I can do a whole lot more

So if you call a spade a spade, it isn’t quite a sin
But please accept that if you do, you may invert my grin
For mixing sand and gravel in a mix of three in one
Is something for a specialist, and I, indeed, am one

So grab my handle, use your foot to push me in the ground
Make a hole that’s very square or even one that’s round
But when it comes to flinging all that soil to one side
Only I can do it best for I’m so very wide

Time was when a cellar-man would use me scooping coal
And industry employed me as its furnace feeding soul
I’ll always fight my corner and I’ll state my case real loud
For I am no mere spade; I am a shovel and I’m proud!

Torch Lake Invasion

If gold coins and silver dollars
Could turn hollow and float
On the quivering skin of Torch Lake

July backstroke of jingle
Belly rings nipple rings
This would be it

Drowning Japanese Beetles
Tossed by handfuls to the surface water
From jewelry boxes kept by robbers

What better way to give it back?
Bringing justice to generations
Of those who’ve always wondered

What exactly happened to my keepsakes?

Sky
Lake
I am cut in half at my cold waist

Like a poor boy on a rural road
Who’s come across a tipped over Brinks truck
Coughing in the hot dust
Of swimming nickels and pennies

I look around

Then wade through my newfound riches
My beggar’s palms
Scoop up the reflections

Collect to the dock bits and pieces
Of the struggling metallic creatures
And wisps of cloud sun and wind

A stirring gaudy pile
Grows of second chances
To be picked over by my kids

Who say “Eweee. Yuck. and Beautiful.
Daddy
You are a pirate. Captain Bly!”

Ey
I don’t know why I do these little things
Saving these treasures

As coin by coin takes wing
Flies away
To my kids’ great wonder.

Deep Sea of Tears

Do you remember the feeling of crying?
the tears slowly streaming down
it's like a warm presence
leaving your body 
I can't say I feel comfort in crying
because when I cry
there's no one to wipe the tears away
I take my hands out of my back pockets
holding onto what's left of my pants
and I scoop up my tears in hopes
of keeping my dignity
or maybe my sanity

Skiff In a Low Place

The hull lolls,
anchored to a fouling current.
Juggernauts of heat sleep under a leaden sky,
bugs lurch and slow skirt.
I nod over my spine, afloat on a humming haze.
An osprey jumps out of a high ambit,
swooping fast.
I imagine a wind in the wake of its wings.
The bird dives, cleaves the light, arrow bright
parting the weight of these doldrums.
The wallowing skiff seems to shrug off the heavy air
as talons scoop up a wriggling fish
together with my up-lifted mind.

Origins II

From afar, a green sea; 
up close, a twisted snarl of brittle waves. 

textured walls reach out and oppress 
mildew whips of flora flotsam fauna jetsam in my face

echoing shadows follow in waking eddies 
shrill light on a myriad of eyelids that flutter as I pass. 

MY BROTHERS.

blind fingertips of rain stream in my eyes, as cacophonous shadows lead me through improbable passages the naked eye cannot discern; 

bathed in clarion surges of gold, a seabed of mist reflected from the deep. 

This is the cauldron...
 
my arms reach out painfully to scoop up blind tears in the green sea, but a faceless monstrosity wails in solitude, denser and denser as I go, oppressed heartbeat of light through tall trees.

Breathless, bursting, cords of light fall from the heights, he then fell and his eyes filled with sand.

MY BROTHERS --- there cannot be one when there is one because without two, there are no numbers, and the one is no one and everyone --- fraternal eternal -- and rebirth billows through the mist in a distant voice, beckoning me on.
 
The Cauldron...

Glittering

All around me
I notice glittering lights that seem so bright
in a dark world.

At night
I look up at the sky
And see glittering and twinkling stars.
They seem so far away
But give me a sense of joy

At night in the sky
I also see the moon
Glittering happily
And keeping me safe

During the day
I see the sun
Glittering so brightly it burns my eyes to look at

I also see glitter in the eyes 
Of my fellow human beings that I pass by 
On a daily basis 

When my eyes glance at the ground 
I see litter glittering like gold. 
I want to scoop up all the litter that glitters 
And throw the glittering litter in the garbage 

As you can see glitter is all around me
Not just all around me 
All around you as well 
So lets all embrace glitter 
And live a joyful life full of glitter 
And not litter

Mars2020 Perseverance Rover

It’s a robot dog with wheels some weirdo said loudly next door.
I am the Mars 2020 Perseverance Rover, space explorer.
I collect rocks and soil, and monitor weather, dust, and the air.
But not on earth, on Mars. I say this with confidence, a robotic heir.

Future hopeful human explorers may be able to inhabit Mars.
Thanks to me, even if they have to remain in bubble safe cars.
I have landed on the planet safely already with my lovely TRN,
And my brand new spanking wheel design is the living end!

For the first time ever, I am equipped to the max. I carry a drill.
I will scoop up rocks and soil, looking for microbe life. What a thrill!
A robot dog on wheels indeed? This sounds like an unlearned man.
I bet he would have trouble learning about science. I am not his fan!

Did I mention that I have a helicopter tucked under my belly?
We need to know if we can ever live there, and run our telly.
I can also test the oxygen production. This will help us plan.
Have to go. I am tubing up Martian samples as fast as I can!

Hearts Carved On a Tree

The sun is out
  The sky is blue
Hearts carved on a tree
  Spell Me and You

We stroll by the water
  Forget our cares
Summer's here now
  To enjoy the fresh air

Smell the red peonies
  Gorgeous pods on a stem
Pick a few, don't deny
  The table its diadem

Scoop up some stones
  Choose one smooth and flat
Skip it across the lake
  and marvel at that...

As the sun works its way
  Into the last gentle wave
The day's etched in memories
  ~ For Eternity to save

A World Without You

The hands of June will soon scoop up this earth. 
Her palms will gently cup sunlight and rain.
The wind, her fertile breath, will warm the eves,     
yet here I’ll wake to feel her blush in vain.

Without my love, each star-filled night turns black.
At dawn, the sunlight breaks to blind my path.
My ashen heart will char as summer flames,
and flowing blood will parch in aftermath.          

I ‘ve often heard of death by broken heart.
It seems that winter’s chill could hasten this, 
but this oppressive heat has fueled my pain.
A frozen heart turned numb might feel like bliss. 

The summer sun has slouched, the moon has gone,
but somehow through my grief, I carry on.



Written 5/29/20 for JCB Burl’s 
A World Without You Contest

Monster Trees

Monster Trees 

Monster trees reaching down through insane skies like spiders,
They see something coming in the green benign stretches,
We are the onion ring bearers wearing dark-day secrets.
We know what happens when bearded eyes shut tight,
When the dead wave from hearses designed for blind drivers,
As the hatchet girls crawl into the blast barges of mindless ropery,
Monster trees with long tentacled arms scoop up the night cats.
They reach for berries made of balsa wood and Melba toast;
They reach down from far distances seizing innocent souls crawling,
These ghost trees, floating as life clouds, through memory and time;
Through deserted forgotten neighborhoods with skeleton trellises.
We are the lettuce turners, the meat shredders, with raised hopeful fists.
Wearing chiffon camisoles made with Melba toast and dark-day secrets, 
The hatchet girls raise lapping glasses of mad rum to the blast barges.

My Son Is Protecting Me

Standing on a cliff, overlooking the ocean
   Waves roll in, lapping up against the boardwalk
Toward the horizon gulls soar, occasionally 
   Swoop down to scoop up a small fish...

The rhythm of the ocean's pulse
   Beating, oblivious of me scanning
the far horizon, off in the distance
   Thousands of miles yet from land...

A farm where my son tills the fields
   Uzi across his shoulder, protecting me
here in America, providing me a last refuge --
   Israel, where Jews walk proud and free

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