"A beach day is a magical day." - by poet
It’s a warm and beautiful day
Not a cloud in the sky or any grey
As my bare feet touch wet beach sand
My blanket’s now out where I want to lay
The waves are magnificent and grand
Crashing the shore loudly like a rock band
Seagulls soar and cry as they try to score
Agile as they scrounge the sea and land
Sounds like a trance as the sea starts to roar
Scents of roses waft along the beach shore
The sun casts rays upon the dark ocean
Suddenly dark clouds appear, rain may pour
Thunder cracks, gulls fly off in commotion
The ocean now dark swells in brisk motion
My peaceful beach day has come to an end
But it remains like a magic potion
It’s time to put forth some new information
to shatter the myth of small primate intimidation
I’m done scurrying from one alley to another
just to scrounge some rancid cheese for my brothers
So, from now on it’s full bore galore
Me and my friends are hittin’ up every dairy store
I distract ‘em in front with my Mighty Mouse routine
While my comrades sneak out the back with limburger unseen
And next month, we invade Madison Cheese Garden
(I’ll be the one with a butcher knife and hard-hat-on)
on crenshaw
carousing in cavernous cafes
slicing into earthen skin
the meat dancers bring it to a boil
they murder the rug
they scrounge for earth worms
the fish head girls bob like sea birds
telephoning purple mermaids for a date
they have no name tags and no flowers
they sing sad madrigals to the starfish
they know this is the last pavane
the final curtsy before night goes down
before morning arises under white sheets
loosening the brain screws
burning the instruction manuals
imbibing the nylon remonstrations
on crenshaw
a lonely woman croons
an oozing torch song to the dirt people
they sit erect in a dark morgue
chittering like insects
singing cool blues music to the meat dancers
they bring it to a boil
with burgers bullets and beef cake
genius guitar freak vivisects clawing time
he twangs his axe with a searing solo
he plays psychedelic lullabies to the dead
his music torturing the earth worms
shlep along or scrounge
sashay or percolate
warm a chair
no one's going anywhere fast
warm a chair
trifle, wither
goof off or hang out
warm a chair
no one's going anywhere alas
warm a chair
come along and chaperon
in shadows or under sun
warm a chair
no one is going anywhere passed
warm a chair
stroll or tarry
wait, why hurry?
warm a chair
no one's going anywhere undercast
warm a chair
stay and dawdle
lounge and loaf
warm a chair
no one's going anywhere an outcast
warm a chair
guide and follow
play along
warm a chair
no one's going anywhere at long last
warm a chair
Chef rabbit’s specialty was lovely, marvelous cabbage-carrot stew.
One year there was a drought, and he did not know what to do.
No cabbage anywhere around, okay, maybe he could scrounge up two.
He substituted lettuce, and it was tastier, on a scale, twenty-two.
Chef rabbit’s specialty was lovely, marvelous cabbage-carrot stew.
One year there was a drought, and he did not know what to do.
No cabbage anywhere around, okay, maybe he could scrounge up two.
He substituted lettuce, and it was tastier, on a scale, twenty-two.
The gifts are wrapped and ‘neath the tree
in brightly colored bags and bows.
I now sit back, my mind set free
to contemplate these thoughts I chose
and share this verse I now compose.
‘Tis quiet on this Christmas Eve;
a soothing peace now fills the air
with calming grace as I perceive
this moment meant for all to share
and bless it with a silent prayer.
And yet not all this time enjoy
for somewhere in the darkness roam
forgotten souls devoid of joy
who scrounge for food in constant moan
upon the street they call their home.
It’s right that we should show our love
and buy fine gifts for those held dear;
but don’t get lost in thoughts thereof
forgetting those who’re not so near
and close your ears their cries to hear.
December 24, 2023
Palomino pony was stopped by the storm
he laid down to rest, but did not make it
the fey took pity on him due to his beauty
they fashioned him into a gorgeous tree
he no longer has to scrounge for food
he sits on a hill overlooking other trees
showing his beauty to the world
as his tangerine and gold leaves fall onto snow
On the poor side of the city,
there’s an innocent child crying.
The rats and roaches are crawling,
on the bed where he lies dying.
There’s a family of seven,
just trying to scrounge a dollar.
So they can buy a Christmas feast,
made of bread and peanut butter.
Mother has given up all hope,
and her children have no wishes.
The only gift she’s got to share,
are some hugs and Christmas kisses.
But hugs don’t fill empty stomachs,
of the children on Christmas morn.
When the snow blows in through the cracks,
Christmas kisses won’t keep them warm.
The next time you spend a fortune,
on another unwanted toy.
Drop some coins into the kettle,
for those who have no hope or joy.
As kids growing up in the hills of West Virginia,
We were poor, but no one was any better off.
Halloween was a time we looked forward to,
But there was no money for the store-bought stuff.
Costumes and treats were always homemade
And so, we would scrounge around for things
Old clothes, cardboard boxes, and burlap sacks
From which we became scarecrows and clowns.
Late October weather was generally miserably cold,
Likely a mixture of rain and sleet or snow.
We walked miles for apples, a piece of candy,
Sometimes, a piece of fudge, or a popcorn ball.
Then, we trudged home, often soaking wet,
Examining loot the religious older folks called
“ill-gotten gain,” sharing the evening adventures.
We did not have to worry about being kidnapped,
Or molested, or having a razor blade in our treats.
We knew our neighbors well; they knew us, too,
So, for good reason, we dared not play nasty tricks
Because the new party line would be a-buzzing,
There were never any secrets in the backcountry!
[Dressing Up for Halloween]
Written September 7, 2022
Submitted to "Fall Flavors" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Regina McIntosh
Cloudy sky hovers with thick humidity
Finches and jays are seeking a haven
Against the summer weather’s perfidy
Seems the sun threatens ever fervidly
While the small critters scrounge avidly
Heat provoking them to be more craven
A cloudy sky hovers over thick humidity
Finches and jays are seeking a haven.
Written July 25, 2022
Waiting for trains used to be our great fun,
And added much joys for us cute children;
One hour, they announced, hours long continued,
With games after games, our wits got renewed...!
Hours prolonged; games, like us, got very tired,
We felt as though, by journey, we were hired;
No waiting rooms; no least village lounges;
We slept on platforms and did much scrounge...!
Whenever we could hear a long whistle,
Our hairs stood puzzled like hare hairs bristle;
No time to know time as sleep got brim-filled,
Travelling by dream-trains, we got well-thrilled...!
When 'Khaki-clad' woke us up frequently,
We kept squeezing our eyes not so gently;
We were like toys of china, they did feel,
Our life-trains, to them, we did not conceal...!
When, ultimately, the train did arrive,
Elders woke us; our spirits could not thrive;
Sleep, seemed our gloriously gifted gift,
Not to be lost for mere train benefit...!
We woke, in the morning; alas, did find,
For sleeping there long, we're heavily fined;
Our voyage, as started, seemed did not end,
Trains of travels, yet, in mind, did get blend...!
16 March 2022
Crunch
by Michael R. Burch
A cockroach could live nine months on the dried mucous you scrounge from your nose
then fling like seedplants to the slowly greening floor ...
You claim to be the advanced life form, but, mon frere,
sometimes as you snatch encrusted kinks of hair from your Leviathan ass
and muse softly on zits, icebergs snap off the Antarctic.
You’re an evolutionary quandary, in need of a sacral ganglion
to control your enlarged, contradictory hindquarters:
surely the brain should migrate closer to its primary source of information,
in order to ensure the survival of the species.
Cockroaches thrive on eyeboogers and feces;
their exoskeletons expand and gleam like burnished armor in the presence of uranium.
But your cranium
is not nearly so adaptable.
“Crunch” is a poem about evolution and survival of the fittest which questions where human beings really are the planet earth’s most advanced life forms. Keywords/Tags: evolution, global warming, climate change, pollution, insect, insects, cockroach, cockroaches, advance life form, survival of the fittest, adaptability, animal, animals, environment, world, America
It takes me away
felling sick of my own life, wondering if I should live or die
Swallowing pills down untill I'm done
Stand on this roof till the morning comes
I stand and simplify my hate, Suicide is my only fate
As I jump it takes me away, Flashbacks to the miserable days
then Darkness surrounds me like a lake, It was a dream now I awake
I scrounge for a new scenario to die, searching through my contagious mind
In my mind I must be dead, I cock the gun to my head
As I hesitate it takes me away, Flashbacks to the miserable days
then Darkness surrounds me like a lake, It was a dream now I awake
I pull the trigger on the gun, Blood bursts like a hot crimson sun
Now I can always say never, no more hurt or pain forever
As I lie here it takes me away, Flashbacks to the miserable days
then Darkness surrounds me like a lake, But this time I won't awake
As I drift it takes me away, Flashbacks to when I was awake
then Darkness surrounds me like a lake, It takes me away
It takes me away...
SITTING HERE ON WOODEN PIER
Sitting here on wooden pier,
Watching waves roll in
Sea-weed on the drift to shore,
The tide is on the turn,
A pelican floating by;
Searching,
Searching,
Forever searching,
Looking for another feed.
As Pandanus abound frequently,
Summer is nearly here;
The warmth from Sol above,
Is indictive suggestive feeling
Of long days around the corner.
As small crustacean abounds about
Leaving tracks and tell-tale signs;
Of whereabouts in sand.
Lonely sea-shell on tidal reach;
Existence of feeling
Of being all washed-up alone,
Far from depths, it came,
Maybe on another surge
Carried far back out to sea.
Faraway from home
And on the beach,
Corked in a bottle wrote;
Message from another place,
Message from another time.
As seagulls squawk and squawk;
Funny way they talk
To one another when on the scrounge
For any titbits found.
And sitting here on wooden pier;
I am in my element
Enjoying what is here,
Of sun, surf, and sand….
Francis Cooper – Mac © Feb 2019
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