Scrapbooks Poems | Examples

Scrapbooks

In all these scrapbooks:

Flowers I have liked.
Flowers I have seen.
Flowers I desired.
Flowers that itched.
Flowers that burnt.

I wonder what was mine?

Black and White

Black and White – 3-18-24
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Black and White

Black and white come in focus -
Absent of prime –
A slice of life exposed through the lens,
A flash-dance of story, a masquerade ball.

No sunrise of sepia - clouds absent of platinum,
Lavender drained from lilacs, sky robbed of blue,
Red-orange stolen from sunsets.

Spindrift frozen like frost,
Candlelight shines undimmed and eternal,
Stark either or – life or not -
In shadows, snow or mountaintops,
Ghosts on boughs of ebony wear gossamer.

Wrinkles and lines banished from smiles of youth
While the lens loves some visages
As eyes without color look back from albums.
Positive to negative.  Negative to positive.
Photoplay in wedding smiles or tears of a clown

Moments of the soul held in tenderness
Protected in scrapbooks of black and white.

The Dancer

Like an old cat stretching her limbs in the sunlight
Warmth seeping through knots in her gnarled hands and sShe sits on a paisley chair in front of the East window
welling in her stiff knees

Pressed roses tumble out of scrapbooks and fall around her feet
Those supple feet with the developed arches and pointed toes
Who quiver when Chopin plays on classical radio

Chopin…all those days in the studio with the accompanying pianist playing Chopin
At the barre…on the floor… before the long mirrors that reflected every nuance
She sees herself now in the mind’s Polaroid 

The backdrop of a room stuffed with ballet programs, photographs of performances, newspaper reviews, pointe shoes, and Romantic  tutus…Memorabilia of another life…lost in the brume of aging…alone…without applause

Sitting by the East window until the sun moves westward
When she struggles to take a bow
And the curtains close against the dark

Childhood Memories

adventurous days
running through wildflower fields
carefree memories
of playing with my siblings
birthday parties and skating

first day of grade school
a bit shy to make new friends
riding a school bus
Sesame Street with Big Bird
snacking on cookies and milk

waiting for Santa
holidays and Christmas trees
loving family
lots of giggles and laughter
old photographs in scrapbooks


August 13, 2022
Childhood Nostalgia Contest
Sponsored by JCB Brul

The Last Full Moon of the Season

The Last Full Moon of the Season
David J Walker

	Day of past days
Once in the way of 
	This today

Hours of past hours
	Cataloged and
Overlapped with
Horrors of mirrors
	And old age
In ivory towers

A presence within a
Long lost past 
Preserved 
presented
In scrapbooks framed
In ash

A silvery silk web 
stretched tight 
Across the Savoy night 

I await you  
On a moonlit flight

Home lies within
The hidden meaning 

And the rising 
Of the last full moon of the season

Likenesses

This body that I am now forced to own
once was a glove for desiring hands, and
a hand for the warm fitting-rooms of strangers.

I am an owner of derelict houses.
their roofs and walls unrecognizable
In the harsh light of a dawn mirror.

Parts of this ‘me’ still are affixed
to the pages of put-away scrapbooks
albums of disinherited images

Once upon-a-time forms
now lay buried in fallow fields
memorial plots,
visited by ailing angels
that keep alive transient likenesses
in shoeboxes of heavenly haunts.

Looking at this that I have become
I wonder what part I played
In the ruination of my castle keep,
what parts the attrition of decades
have reduced a temple
into a place where seagulls
fight for scapes in a perishing landscape?

Let grace be my life-raft,
let the young be my saviors,
but of course any rescue now
must be only a weakening gesture,
a fist shaken at the unchanging stars.

With Fond Memories

"How sweet to the heart are the scenes of my childhood"
                        Samuel Woodworth, 1785-1842



With fond memories my heart embraces
childhood days of innocent impressions
and plush playmates with adoring faces

Dolls and tea sets were my prized possessions
Forming angels with friends in Winter's snow
and making silly facial expressions

I gathered wild flowers in the meadow
and plaited wreaths to wear in my long hair
Selling lemonade with my best friend, Jo.

In my younger days I didn't have a care
In make-up, pearls, and high heels, I was dressed
Ignoring Mom when she'd say, "Don't you dare!"

Affectionately, my fingers caressed
photos in scrapbooks of my early days
Years of my life when I was richly blessed

My vision is blurred by a teary haze
Recalling those years, today and always



        
November 25, 2020 ~ Terza Rima  Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France

Rhyming verified on RhymeZone
Syllables verified on HowManySyllables
Grammar and Spelling verified on PS Grammar Checker

Building a Fire

Had a smirk of sorrowful clarity 
Someone dancing on my grave.
And a artist 
The night was gathering materials.
 Knowing  ambition for pleasure
Would never fill the pit.
The night called for a burn
All the grasped boxes of blankets
Nostalgic wood, Rhapsodies of a ratt-packen
Journals, binders, scraps of thoughts
Nick-knack volumes of prophets
Overdosing on written salvation
Hoping for a instance coffee relief
A always, never the fallow-through
More is pilled, the mix of kindling
Dirty-bits, and old yearnings 
A stone from a beach, of first love
Scrapbooks of holding mortality
**** mags, and bed follies pics
A secrete place a catholic boy goes
My heap inter-mixed with nature
All of it dead, until  the match
Erupts a fire enjoying feeding
Impermanence is really scarred 
So is observing the flame
Hypnotic destruction is fire at night 
Eyes dance to flares refection
Chaotic colors of visible heat
A calm abiding trance
Warm glowed my garments
In ambers consuming to ash

Tracker

Though the trail has grown cold,
this never deters
Clues are always left behind ...
connections of a most human kind
Desperate souls feel a compulsive need
to leave cyber cadaver traces of a living memory
Holographic scrapbooks hidden in encrypted firewalls
Another person will have it stored
somewhere in an undetectable virtual vault
Clues inevitably left behind ...
encoded software of a fingerprint scent design
Whether here or there, it doesn’t matter where — 
Tracker will find it
Nothing can remain unseen 
from Tracker’s deep-space grade fiber optics 
Many have used elaborate neural dampening shields
to cover their beta-wave tracks
And plenty use med-ob configuration distortion nodes
to mask their most unique cranial activity signature
But Tracker knows ... 
she always find corporate government illegal those
With bloodhound genes lab womb grown 
into her super-sensitive cloned nose,
Tracker will find you ...
it’s just a matter of countdown digital

You-Crumbs

Fragments of a buried life, microscopic pieces,
gathering and breeding, in all the little creases.
Snapshots, stills and scrapbooks, documented angst,
diaries of disasters,of when I craved another chance.
Handled like a teeny fragile delicate new-born,
hands grasped too hard now it lies broken and torn.
It's always this way, destroy all that I touch,
so I keep you in jars, the temptation too much.
I seal up my thoughts and I write them all down,
untouched so I stand back to see how they've grown.
Some fragments have splintered some hairy from dust,
for those I wept tears on have crumbled from rust.
But those I hold precious, the last you-crumbs I've got,
I've locked up, protected, concealed from the rot.

I Wasn'T Born Yesterday

I Wasn't Born Yesterday

   I'm 96 years old. I can't remember at what point
   my life became an endurance event. My scrapbooks
   are full of ghosts. My lovers were buried long ago.
   My family thinks I'm from another world. Maybe I am.

Juvenilia - My First Limerick

Some children sat down on the floor.
They sat till their bottoms were sore.
“We could each take a chair,”
said one boy sitting there.
“So then what are we waiting for?”


For the Juvenilia Contest of Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer

Note: Around age 10 or 11, I had a teacher who taught us about limericks. 
I really loved it and had never written anything creative to my knowledge before that day. I have been searching my house to see if I kept my very first poem in any of my scrapbooks, but I must not have. I have had this little poem in my memory ever since that time, but am not exactly sure how I did my line 2, so I've created a new line two, though I don't think I was talking about "bottoms" in the fifth grade yet!

Safe Driving Demo - Let's Hear It

Safe Driving Demo
 

Quick reaction time

driving in front of the school

fastest stop won prize

beat the top three high school boys

girls have the best reflexes


Sandra M. Haight

~1st Place~
Contest: Let's Hear It
Sponsor: Judy Konos
Judged: 02/10/2016

Theme: Get your scrapbooks out! Bring your memories back! 
Something from our high school or college days.

You-Crumbs

Fragments of a buried life, microscopic pieces,
gathering and breeding, in all the little creases.
Snapshots, stills and scrapbooks, documented angst,
diaries of disasters,of when I craved another chance.
Handled like a teeny fragile delicate new-born,
hands grasped too hard now it lies broken and torn.
It's always this way, destroy all that I touch,
so I keep you in jars, the temptation too much.
I seal up my thoughts and I write them all down,
untouched so I stand back to see how they've grown.
Some fragments have splintered some hairy from dust,
for those I wept tears on have crumbled from rust.
But those I hold precious, the last you-crumbs I've got,
I've locked up, protected, concealed from the rot.

20th June 2011

Building a Fire

Building a fire 

Had a smirk of sorrowful clarity 
Someone dancing on my grave.
And a artist 
The night was gathering materials.
 Knowing  ambition for pleasure
Would never fill the pit.
The night called for a burn
All the grasped boxes of blankets
Nostalgic wood, Rhapsodies of a ratt-packen
Journals, binders, scraps of thoughts
Nick-knack volumes of prophets
Overdosing on written salvation
Hoping for a instance coffee relief
A always, never the fallow-through
More is pilled, the mix of kindling
Dirty-bits, and old yearnings 
A stone from a beach, of first love
Scrapbooks of holding mortality
**** mags, and bed follies pics
A secrete place a catholic boy goes
My heap inter-mixed with nature
All of it dead, until  the match
Erupts a fire enjoying feeding
Impermanence is really scarred 
So is observing the flame
Hypnotic destruction is fire at night 
Eyes dance to flares refection
Chaotic colors of visible heat
A calm abiding trance
Warm glowed my garments
In ambers consuming to ash

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