Scraps Poems - Poems about Scraps

Dinner Scraps

Dinner scraps, primal deathtraps.
Life’s meal is the class struggle,
and some of us are left starving.
We are the movement of the masses,
a sleeping colossus running on
corporate time.

Dinner scraps, merciless steel traps.
We are measured only as commodities. 
We give our lives as wage chattel.
We make our homes or lose them
on the edges of a time clock.

Dinner scraps,

Patchwork Scraps

Here in my heart lies a patchwork of scraps 
alongside a love, once whole and beautiful 

Here in my soul pastiche melodies of songs  
that spoke of flower fields and loving you.

Scraps of my Life

Too many bits of paper
With random rhyming words
That flew out of my mind
Like frightened little birds

Not wanting to lose it
I grab what I can find
Rushing pen to paper
release it from my mind

Note books, scraps of paper
With my thoughts written strong
In every drawer and odd places
Every word my hearts song

So many thoughts and memories
So many days

Scraps; Volume 2

The Vote
The lights are out, the night is still,
The window’s ajar, there’s a sudden chill.
Goosepimples multiply all over my skin,
I know what I’ve done is a terrible sin.

The demons are singing deep inside my head,
I might not sleep when I do turn in for bed.
First, I’ll sit by the fire and put up my feet,
I

Scraps; Volume 1

Henry VIII
Henry VIII king of England, he had six wives,
Half of which had rather shorter lives.
Three died, two divorced and the last was glad by far,
For she outlived him, her name Catherine Parr.

Mash
I love mash,
I have a secret stash.
I use up all my cash,
To go and buy myself some mash.
I’m fonder of the baked bean,
Cos

Table Scraps

Chimes, misdemeanors
serenity finger tips
fickle graced etudes

Scraps of Paper

Scraps of paper mark his "paper-trail"
thoughts - quick scribbled as they passed
through the misty gate of ageing's veil
cling to a dream that couldn't last
sad ending to a lover's fading tale.

Notes that measure time and date and place
carried in the emptiness of now
moments that the present can't embrace
feelings that the past will not allow
scraps of love

Just Old Scraps

In my treasures like all of us hold,
I have a bedspread, a fad of old.
My mother cut millions of circles of scraps,
From our little outgrown dresses she’d hold.

She’d sew each circle into a little puff
And lay it out on a sheet of pale green,

Then make circles of that same pale green
To design squares of printed

Scraps

Within my bags of quilting stuff
Are lots of little scraps,
The remnants of some projects
Which I saved, thinking perhaps…

I would use them in the future
Like they once did long ago
When they gathered snips of fabric
And a patchwork quilt they’d sew.

It was done then from necessity
So nothing went to waste
And I’m sure that many beds
With scrap-made blankets

Scraps of Love

You feel you'll never find love;
no matter how hard you try.
And yet, you still cling to hope;
wiping a tear from your eye.

You have little left to give;
emptied of all but your soul.
And your social life's askew;
a square peg in a round hole.

You're led to believe you're loved;
only to be hurt again.
And yet, you crave love

Fighting For Scraps

Fighting for scraps

It’s so puzzling for the needy
To understand how we got so greedy

They had it all to share
No walls or borders back there

They didn’t appreciate, it’s so sad
That they allowed the lie to drive them mad

The more they wanted the less they had

No need for roads or maps
Mankind’s fighting over scraps

The more you crave

Scraps From the Feast

The wind that bends the sticks and stems
Sends a message that makes the lights grow dim
I don't know when, but I will transcend
This disaster and all its whims and trends
After fomenting rebellion I was soon rescued
And all I could think about was my niece and nephew
A modern Pygmalion sculpting flesh and sinew
waiting on life to

Scraps

Momma made Dorothy a dress from the scraps off the factory floor,
And a quit from worn out garments that were worn before.
And the old buttons that survived became the christmas sock dolls eyes. 
She raised a family just on scraps, that kept us warm and had our backs.

So please forgive me when I smile 
at

Scraps of Paper

Scraps of Paper

in my pocket with a word,
written
or a line,
about what I think about,
or what I want to think about.
usually,
just a word.

when a thought is complete-
i stop,
and think of you
the wonder and fascination
just a word.

when my life is over, I want to leave behind,
these scraps of paper

these words on a line,

everyday

amazement

love
 
you

Sochi Scraps

Sochi Scraps
            by Odin Roark

Among my pen’s rifling
Hunting its own needs
His imagined snout moves across the page
Seeking out beggary nourishment

A shantytown of doghouses
Provided by an animal-sensitive philanthropist
Fills rapidly with the rush to save
Before pest contractors execute the kill
Collecting their bounty hunter payouts

So goes the

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