Scraped Poems

Mother Dear

It never was the Meissen that she threw
but dinner plates, of which we had so few
our dad would have a scar upon his head
and breakfast plate was just a slice of bread

The kitchen knife was brandished now and then
to emphasize who was the Mother Hen;
and we? We justly cowered in our beds;
threw our meagre covers ‘oer our heads.

She wore a mini skirt and beehive hair
when she was sure my father was not there
then took us visiting our “uncle Stan”
When asked, we had just visited our gran.

A Babycham and brandy was her thing
that was, without, or with, her wedding ring
and all the men in all the bars, they knew,
and told, they simply had to form a queue.

And yet, when knees were scraped and hugs required
it was from mother they were most desired
The distance that our father held from her
meant any love for him, was just a blur.

The man who chose us

Before you came, the nights were long,
The house was cold, the world felt wrong.
Three boys too young to understand,
Why life was harder than we planned.

Our trust was gone, our hope was thin,
But still you came, and still walked in.
No blood to bind, no name to share,
Yet somehow we found safety there.

You fixed what life had torn apart,
Not just our home, but in our hearts.
Through scraped-up knees and sleepless nights,
You stayed to teach us wrong from right.

You mended more than broken toys,
You healed a mother, saved her boys.
Turned shouting walls to quiet halls,
Gave us a home where laughter calls.

The word “dad” felt strange to say,
But you earned it, day by day.
You gave us more than we ever had —
Not just a stepdad — you’re simply Dad.

A distant childhood

I think of muddy shoes and grass,
Of running fast, too scared to ask.
Scraped-up knees and summer rain,
Hiding tears I can’t explain.

The laughter’s faint, a distant sound,
A ghost of life I never found.
Old photos show a stranger’s face —
I barely know that time, that place.

Behind those walls, the cracks ran deep,
Secrets I was forced to keep.
A childhood stolen, out of sight —
And I still wake from it at night.

The worst of it all — it was meant to be safe.

ADAM LEGACY 4

ADAM LEGACY 4

A planet that was full of bountiful resources
Destroyed by the ones chosen to care for it
A darkness decended upon it named greed
Man didn't realise that he hunger for poison 

Layer by layer, he scraped by what was healthy
Even the food  that was found very unhealthy
Gold and all kinds of precious weren't edible
After this hunger for wealth became mans
Consuming passions forgetting his legacy
Yet do we have the hunger to undo the greed

SCRAPBOOK

Tokens
of long ago
scraped from pages
of present, future tense
where life's journal erases
scabs from wounds

Visions From A Vignette 2
Sponsored by nette onclaud
6/22/2025

THAT BOY

He sits by the junction
scraped knuckles, half a smile
a boy with more scars than years
each one a story no one asks to hear.

I saw the truth in his trembling vow
heard the break in his voice
when he said he’d left Kush behind
but all they saw was yesterday's face.

He carried hope in both hands
knocked on doors he once knew
but locks remember what hearts won't
and no one answered.

Now he sits in the same spot
half in prayer, half in pain
asking time for mercy
when people won’t even say his name.

Abandoned

Abandoned on the promenade,
A big-wheeled trike did sit,
Forlornly waiting for the tyke
Who should be riding it.

I passed it on my morning walk,
When few are up and out
And seeing it, I wondered 
What its story was about.

For why was it forgotten?
Did the mom leave in a rush?
Or the dad or sitter tending to
A child’s scraped knee a’gush?

Or perhaps they came across some friends
And headed to the swings
With the tricycle remaining there,
Ignored for better things.

I hope someone remembers it
And comes to take it home,
Where it belongs much more
Than as a subject for a poem.

The beak has broken, and I settle on the shore of painful thoughts

The beak has broken, and I settle on the shore of painful thoughts,
while the sea sews salt around a shell of feathers—
a cradle carved from a time long vanished, a vapor dream of the past.
I touch it gently—the wings contract like secrets hidden in evening shadows—
fragile bruises, a poem of memories passed through rains of forgetting,
hidden beneath an old echo of lullabies that the wind whispers voicelessly.
But still, the shell splits and leaves behind only silence that drips into the depths,
beautiful things, shattering harder and harder now,
its beak caught in the shell's emptiness, wide and unmoved, a scream transformed into sculpture of silence.
And I—I remain stuck, dreaming with open eyes at skies of memories,
dragging myself through the sand of time, with knees scraped by edges of dreams,
still trying to fit into a space where I was never meant to be.
And the only question left—how many times can you bury a falling star,
that never asked to be held in the palm of an unknown desire?

For my son on his wedding day

To My Son, On Your Wedding Day


From the moment I first held you tight,
I knew you’d fill the world with light;
Through scraped-up knees and growing years,
We’ve shared laughter, defied fears.

Now here you stand, both proud and tall,
With love beside you, you’ve found it all;
A partner true, with heart so kind,
A bond so very deep, your souls aligned.

I’ve watched you grow, I’ve watched you strive,
And now you start a brand new life;
Though time has flown, one truth will stay,
My love for you, will never fade away.

Build your days on trust and grace,
Fill your home with warm embrace;
May laughter echo through your walls,
And joy be yours when evening falls.

So go, my son, walk hand in hand,
Together, strong, as love has planned;
And know, through every joy and test,
You’ve made your parents’ heart feel blessed.


Written May 12, 2025

Old Paint in Old Tin Can

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.

Dark Male High School Secrets

They came in packs, 
shoulders knotted with gym weight,
smelling of Axe and iron,
boys who scraped knuckles on lockers
just to feel something slice.

At lunch, they stalked the quad like wolves—
every joke a blade,
every girl a mirror they wanted to crack
or crown. 
One leaned too long
on the freshman in geometry,
his eyes doing the talking his mouth
was too full of teeth.

They had trophy girls,
not lovers—prizes they unwrapped
with grins in the backseat,
then showed off to each other
like kills in the forest.

Behind it: the need.
To be taught something gentle—
to understand fractions, how to read a face
without splitting it.

One, behind the field house, cried
when I read his paper aloud.
He said don’t tell,
and I haven’t.
Until now.

Zoetrope

I see you      an      inch      at      a      time,
Filling the spaces left in the fence.
Glints of gaudy, plastic play-jewels,
A shimmer of hair trailing past as you run,
The bright, berry-red of a newly-scraped knee.

I’ve not seen your face,

But I see it in sounds coming over the fence,
Humming while filling your teapot with dirt,
Calling to friends that you know you don’t have,
Or chirping “I’m six!” when a bird asks your age.

Sometimes I “see” your house filling with shouts,
And little you crying in never-cut grass,
“I think he’s asleep” whispered under your breath,
And since you’d like someone to say it to you, 

“There, there.”

I’ve not see your face,

Yet I see you completely
In the wisps and the calls given off by a life
And what my heart already knows of

Loneliness.

Scratched and scarring

Life's loveless hand scraped me
              Blood poured on dry cement
The sun heated it up
              Boiling on the ground
But a stain remains there
              And a scar on my skin
A reminder of then
              A warning for later

To My Little Girl, Always

I held her first before the world,
A tiny hand, a dream unfurled.
So small she lay upon my chest,
My loudest heart, my quiet rest.


She looked at me with eyes so wide,
As if I’d hung the stars with pride.
And in that gaze, I clearly knew,
My life had found a purpose true.


I taught her how to tie her shoe,
To chase the sky, to love what's true.
But truth be told, with every year,
She taught me more than I did her.


She danced through days with scraped-up knees,
With wild hair and endless "please."
And I, the man who feared no height,
Would pray for her each stormy night.


She grew so fast—I blinked, she flew.
From bedtime tales to curfews too.
And every stage, each laugh and tear,
Etched memories I still hold dear.


She may not know the silent fears,
I hid behind encouraging cheers.
But every win she made her own
Was rooted deep in seeds I’d sown.


And now she walks with grace and fire,
A woman built of bold desire.
But still, no matter what she sees,
She’ll always be a part of me.


Not just my daughter—more than that—
The best of me, where love is at.
And though the world may call her grown,
She'll always be my little one.

A Prince Forever

To the world, he may just be a man,
Chasing dreams, with calloused hands.
But to her, he's the little boy still,
With scraped knees and a stubborn will.

She watched him stumble, watched him grow,
Held his fears she'd never show.
In her arms, he found his start—
A throne carved gently in her heart.

His crown? Not gold, but strands of hair
She kissed each night with whispered prayer.
His kingdom? Just her open arms,
Shielding him from life’s alarms.

Through stormy days and silent cries,
She saw the world within his eyes.
When the world was cold and far too wide,
He found warmth where her love would reside.

Now he's grown, with battles to fight,
But in her dreams, he sleeps each night.
Still the prince in every rhyme,
Unaged by wounds, untouched by time.

So call him strong, call him wise,
But she still sees him through mother’s eyes—
A boy with laughter on his face,
Who gave her heart its softest place.

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