Let me try to fill you all in on the scoop
There are some poets that write like they poop
Though most are out there
You must be aware
There are some poopers that stink up the soup
To all the poopers that stink up the soup
I'll say this to keep you into the loop
You too... be aware
There are poets- here
That will try to poop you out of our group
And if you do get pooped out of our group
Go somewhere else to spread out your goop
So, you and your sack
Must never come back...
to write your poopy in PoetrySoup
Digging mind, started an excavation.
Continued scooping to find sublime soul.
Deep thought roaming in my introspection.
How soul is functioning? Does it control?
Digging mind started an excavation
Mind yearns for, brain to
How soul operates, I cannot surmise.
Sinking deep in mind on contemplation.
Digging mind started an excavation.
I need solid proof not an assumption.
What’s the status of soul? Does it
to know: After demise does soul escape?
Digging mind started an excavation.
Whether soul exhibits identity?
Getting no solution, but confusion.
No concrete answer for its entity.
Digging mind started an excavation.
Where can I flee ! Emptiness embowered.
Last phase enjoying prolonged vacation.
Nothing left : Despondence overpowered.
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.
Stepping inside its home..
A reason to shine,
surrounded by HOPE
a chance to serve HIM.
Scooping joy into a funnel
Out comes manna from God
Smiles all around me, my chance to giveth to HIM..to HIS kids ..
Time has but stopped for us as a community all working together for one common goal, to feed HIS children, food for their soul.
But now the time has come to an end
As we clean up our area, it’s out of our hands, onto a pallet destined for GODS children, as we circle around our hands of Service, laying upon this pallet, my heart is full, God is HERE with us, we bless the food in which we scooped..
We gather in the room in which we came, gather once more for a moment to capture our mission.
It’s time to go,
90 minutes of serving HIM is done,
Why is my tears ready to burst?
My one time to serve HIM
so short
where will I go,
do for HIM from here?
Jesus My Savior please continue to ENLIGHTEN me..
For my heart with HOPE is still in that room,
I left it there for the next group of disciples…
to do with as they please..
There’s something called repetitive behavior.
There’s something called listening to a song at night.
Again, and it feels like scooping ice cream so easily.
When I don’t have the strength in real life.
And freezer burn usually hits at the worst time.
When I listen to the same song 20 times…
It becomes a gemstone that is smoothed out.
And it feels like- I’m on stilts and not fumbling this time.
It’s like taking back a speck of “trying to get them to understand.”
No grimacing.
Instead, I place a scented eye mask over my eyes.
It’s more than “Again.”
It’s me moving up in line a little bit more and cheering.
That eye mask is lavender and the song is boldly reminiscent.
There’s something called repetitive behavior.
Lives with me in the folds of my mind.
It’s more than “Again.”
It never felt like “Again.”
Just me standing on higher stilts.
Just for fun this time.
I remember in days long gone
our neighborhood boys
scooping large fallen branches
from the backwoods’ trees
and fitting them together with rope,
finishing off their crudely constructed creations
with old used blankets atop
and anchored down with rocks.
Leaves and pine cones were decorations
for these tiny fortresses
behind which they hid with toy guns
to play out their cowboy fantasies.
Little girls preferred the cute private chambers
of their best friends,
where they chatted and sipped tea
from tiny tea cups
while munching on mom’s cookies.
There they could imagine the day
when little boys gave up forts
to make them queens of castles.
Depression is just a head of lettuce.
Crinkled and ruffled.
I have empty space.
And a cross armed feeling.
But my toes aren’t right.
There’s layers.
Scooping out goop.
Depression is just a head of lettuce.
All green and good on a sandwich.
Also not good at all.
Crickled and ruffled.
Washed in the kitchen sink.
With that weird washed feeling.
And a laugh track like ants sprinkled throughout.
Depression is just a head of lettuce.
Can’t hurt me.
Spoils too quickly though.
I shouldn’t have waited.
water!
I threw myself down
scooping gritty sand into my dry mouth
Oh Dear Alien, I hear you've been,
buzzing me in recent days.
With flying saucers and drones,
scooping down here in droves.
Well I for one would love
you to come, and land for me,
To swoop me off my feet,
up into your cool dude craft.
Oh Dear Alien,
far away out there.
I sent you a message
to show that I care.
You gotta get me outta here.
I don't care what you look like,
green of skin, or pop-eyed as well.
I've seen you in the movies
and E.T. looks just swell.
So common Mr Alien or anyone!
I'm looking to hitch a ride.
To somewhere else, anywhere else?
Out of this, my stale ale abide.
Oh Dear Alien,
far away out there.
I sent you a message
to show that I care.
You gotta get me outta here.
I pried with a screw-driver driven into a lid
sealed with age, and rust, to crack open a
callous retribution, set aside, tombed over.
I was curious to learn how much remained
and in what condition. Up came the lid with
a gurgle, fizz, hiss, expelled with age smell.
The paint on top, had dried, to a skin, a curd,
a viscous scum of strange foreign color that
did not auger well for its pending redemption.
I poked through the thin skin, scooping it out,
to reveal the paint separated into its primary
colors. Once, thrice stirred, it slowly rejigged
into its original color and form, ready to adorn
marks on the wall, scraped and sanded ready
for a fix, now all's done dusted, and forgiven.
"Fear of something is at the root of hate for others, and hate within will eventually destroy the hater." -George Washington Carver
"Men often hate each other because they fear each other; they fear each other because they don't know each other; they don't know each other because they can not communicate; they can not communicate because they are separated." -Martin Luther King Jr.
hatred is fear we let ourselves enjoy
scooping it on like ice cream in a cone
not thinking that this hatred will destroy
the only happiness we've ever known
welcome to my hard heart, please won't you stay?
hatred is fear we let ourselves enjoy
It's a sad seed growing in winter gray
bitterness steals the very heart of joy
spirit of fear will play us like a toy
the unknown chasing goosebumps up spines
hatred is fear we let ourselves enjoy
in weakness I give up what once was mine
a peace that only true love can employ
I thought a little hate would be just fine
I now know relief, Forgiveness deploy
hatred is fear we let ourselves enjoy
This blessing goes out to all the writers out there…
who don’t know where to start.
Who have words that want to be released floating in your heart.
Who feel like you’re on a beach…
and as you look out from where you stand
so many of your words spread out in front of you
like tiny grains of sand.
May you be blessed to start scooping your words into a pail
use a shovel…use your hands…
and don’t stop shoveling until you have enough words
to write what you want to write…
to build your castle in the sand.
Rats probably live in Joe’s man cave
I never clean it; I am not a slave
I bet they have parties after midnight
Scooping up all his debris, which is out of sight.
Under his recliners are crackers and cheese.
Peanut butter, potato chips, and dust that would make me sneeze.
I imagine the rodents love being down there all cozy and tight.
Luckily, his mancave is super dark when we turn off the light.
If I could I would fetch you the moon on a spoon
As easy as scooping an ice cream into your cone
Everything I’ll do for you is as light as any balloon
For I’m deeply in love with you
You’re my strength, my world, my greatest inspiration.
If I could I would fetch you the moon on a spoon
With the planets making layered ice cream scoops in your cone
I'll also pick all the stars while singing you my love song
And make them precious garlands, just all for you,
They’re diamonds from my heart where yours belong.
Three corn husk dolls
in a silvered cove—
the tide takes two,
barnacled eyes vacant.
Our remaining doll frowns,
drawn by a shrill song
savage as a sea hiss—
til a gasp ends the siren wail,
a small hand scooping her from the sand.
The doll is carried safely
to the cliff’s solitary house.
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