"scavenge" poems
As technology advances
What are our chances
To live in an apocalyptic place made out of waste
We will scavenge and hunt for our bread and butter
Most of us will try find shelter, whilst others in the gutter
Does it have to be like this?
Tell me if you had one wish
What will you choose when mother nature needs us
As she is the one who's ever going to feed us
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 9:40 PM UTC
Let me be your Isis
I'll scavenge the land for the pieces of you they've stolen
and fit each and every piece back together with delicate fingers
Your kintsugi astounds me, each and every break so beautiful
It is not my reflection I admire as my eyes dwell along and ride
the golden rivers you try and keep from me
Let me be your Isis
let me see the melancholy spill from your eyes
the snap of your spirit when my words are like sin
I am not perfect, and I will drown in my folly like gin
down my father's throat
my father does not know how to swim.
But your pain is like a gasp of breath sometimes
when it reminds me that you are of the firmest birch tree
your bark does not bend to just any wind
and the symphony of susurrus that accompanies the midnight
breeze, escaping the ivory lamina of your leaves, each note
leaping off of every blade like a dancer,
are NOT composed by just any sultry sylph
Let me be your Isis
Be my Osiris, a masterpiece
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 9:50 AM UTC
With every dawn that rises
I find myself
suspended in normality,
scrambling to scavenge some sort
of beauty in the bleakness.
My own past, passes me by.
those who were once called lovers
all love another,
(someone who had always been
desperate to reach the foreground)
So many times have I wished
that I could split myself-
send each piece sailing into the sky
and see which road leads me to destiny.
But- I am whole.
with this, I must decide upon a single path-
accept normalitys cold, clammy palms
gripping my thighs, holding my waist.
The only reason we feel
a way towards something
is because we've been trained to.
it is valid for flowers to be putrid,
and hell to be heavenly,
if we so wish it to be.
the most twisted of things in your mind,
lie in my own morning routine.
You've never met a wanderer like me.
Countless pathways and I remain
barefoot and bleeding along the same trail,
knowing **** well it will **** me;
glass hidden between pebbles,
ghosts kissing my heels,
my own self, blind to the foreground.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 9:59 AM UTC
The forest of legs swayed in the moving shadows beneath the chatter over head, each threatening to block our path and crush our attempt to get to the first fallen crisps of the party season, which as yet laid undisturbed.
We weaved and advanced as fast as their legs allowed, eager to scavenge the waiting bounty before they were trampled underfoot by the oblivious adults who were intent on a seasonal ritual of their own that went on high over our heads.
We emerged unscathed at the edge of the forest and raced across the open parquet to the cover of the drapped, white topped trestle tables catching our breaths and crunching our snatched crisps planning our next move toward the plateau above.
Our scout had reported rich pickings, but when we looked around, seeking signs of our brave advance party, we could find no trace beyond a half eaten volovant and what might have been regurgitated mushroom. We shook our heads in despair at their folly. Every kid knows to stick to crisps and to processed meats, avoiding anything that might contain vegetables. We saw an open French window just beyond the trestles and heard plaintive heaves that had a distinct 6 year old strain.
We checked each other's resolve and saw on each other's faces that we believed our mission was more important than any one stomach. With a maturity that would have surprised our parents, we pushed the plight of our friend to the back of our minds and focused on the task at hand.
We each reached up with practiced stealth, taking only a second to check the food on offer and with a speed bred into us by the curse of older siblings, we each grabbed our prize.
Acknowledging the hazards of the return journey we devoured the meat at hand and with hyena grins savoured our just rewards. While our fallen friend heaved once more, we saluted one another: the season had started better than any of us could have hoped.
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 5:25 PM UTC
Sometimes I hear a whisper,
The slightest hum of her voice,
Eyes scavenge the plains before me,
For a glimmer of her,
For a glimmer of hope,
Alas! There is none,
Nothing but the thoughts of a melancholic mind.
Sometimes the wind carries a fragrance,
Redolence of our past embrace,
Lips spread to call out her name,
For a sight of her,
For a sight of love,
Alas! There is none,
Nothing but the thoughts of a melancholic mind.
Sep 6, 2022
Sep 6, 2022 at 9:41 AM UTC
We’ve been herded by hook and crook,
To obey convention, and read textbook.
The uniformity is maddening,
And the subjects are baffling.
The whole wide world is grand and open;
Why cordon the mind off in a tiny token?
Rules were meant to be broken,
To usher change and issue motion.
Creativity, art, they build up cultures,
Not to be picked at by robotic vultures.
They always nitpick and they scavenge,
Intent on making things a challenge.
Passion is the cornerstone of all,
It survives when things are squall.
It’s the sun that rises within you,
Makes you things you never knew.
Question everything, for your good;
You’ll find more than you ever could.
Explore everything, be curious;
For the world out there is glorious.
Challenge everything, be skeptical;
Your brain is knowledge’s receptacle.
Think outside, and break the rules;
Don’t blindly follow, like the fools.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 3:24 PM UTC
What the Fisherman said:
"It seemed like a good idea."
What he did:
Went fishing in a rowboat
Out on the Sound
About a mile out
And seagulls all around.
What happened:
Seagulls came about
To see
If scavenge work
Was to be done.
Dipping in and out
And just above,
One had some fun.
Fisherman annoyed...
One plucky bird
Came close above his head
And closer,
'Til finally the fisher said,
"I think I could just
Reach right up
And grab his legs!"
And so he did....
Seagull's Reply:
Seagulls, shocked,
Regurgitate,
Explode,
Expectorate
Whatever they've been
Carrying inside.
Instead of Fight or Flight,
Seagulls puke;
They have no pride.
At least this one did
Not.
Fisherman's Response:
He didn't even know
When he let go...
First the gull,
And then his lunch.
The man and the bird shared
Something in common
Out on the Sound:
They met for lunch
And went away hungry.
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 10:46 AM UTC
Expand your mind frame
Enhance your paradigm
Let thoughts flow through
Like a coursing stream
New aspects and ideas
Pouring over you every second
Washing you in innovation
Occasionally pebbles get smoothed over in your mind
And become coherent
Round, unmoving thoughts
Ideas that have been polished,
Perfected,
Until they are nothing, if not monumental
Don't ever, ever let these ideas go
Away from your body, your body of water
No matter how hard the wind blows them
Keep those close.
Because one day, they'll be flawless
Stones, completely and utterly
Breathtaking,
Something that children marvel at
And adults search for
Adults that ignored their own gems,
The diamonds in the rough that their mind created
So they scavenge,
They sift through the lost rubble and soul of others like them
Hoping to one day find
Something that ignites that spark again
That sets ablaze that fire,
Blows that wind,
Wets that river,
The one they neglected and let dry up
So all those priceless stones they created
Were left to bake in the sun
To become warped
By the same horizons they ignored expanding
The sunsets leaving those gems for the moon to watch over
With wind moving then farther,
And farther,
Until they're completely disappeared
Out of sight
And out of mind
Tossed aside for another lonely,
Stagnant settler to come across
While trying to regain
The paradise they took for granted,
The utopia they threw away,
And the diamonds they tossed aside
They'd give anything to be where you are
To have the opportunities you have
Don't let yourself go,
Never ignore your own soul and being
And tend to that river, let it keep going
So that your mind isn't afflicted with a permanent drought
And you're stuck,
Wading through filth that's not even your own
Just to find the beauty you already have inside
Just let those thoughts rain down on you
And I can guarantee
You'll create something worth looking at
Just you wade and sea
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 1:48 AM UTC
Don't be
A mole.
I hate moles.
They burrow
And
Scavenge
And
Live in the
Dark.
Thats just
What you did
To my heart.
You burrowed
Deep,
Down to the center.
You set up camp.
And I didn't know
You were a mole.
I thought maybe you were
A
Straw,
To ****
Bad things
Out.
So I kept you warm
And waited calmly for the
Bad stuff to
Dissapear.
But I realized
That
You were a
Magnifying glass,
To emphasise
My flaws
And you were
A
Seam-ripper
To
Pull the patches
From where
I had already healed,
To make the scabs
Bleed
Again.
And I thought you were
A
Jigsaw
And you were broken
So I could fix you
And put you
Together.
Like a
Vase,
Easily
B
r
o
k
e
n.
And
Then
You left me.
Like a
Tooth
Full of
Cav it ies.
That
Space
Next
To
My heart
No longer full.
And you
Didn't depend on me,
No longer a tapeworm.
I miss you.
Like
You
Were
Mine.
But you were
Never
Mine.
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 9:06 PM UTC
Pine treed mountains
mid winters grip
Frigid blast
blankets all
Victuals scarcity,
wildlife hungers
Wolves scavenge
aimlessly
Eerie silence settles,
storm passed
Quiescent solitude
seemingly abandoned
Vicious temps split
frozen tree bark
Sounds, sudden
percussion
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 11:37 AM UTC
For we vile and unquenchable creatures
scavenge the twisted fate of imagination;
take pleasure not only in the creation
but in the movement, harmony,
and persuasion a verse evokes.
Enthralled and misted by
Ambiguity,
Intangibility,
and a verdict -
a sole desire to reach
what the mind wails,
a conclusion.
Beware,
for elegantly,
a writer scribes
or utters nonsense
for a mere, distant
consultation
yielded by the
faithful art.
Ordinarily,
we create while
lacking meaning,
gratuitous spirits,
echoing
a whimpering quail,
yet, we are bewildered
by profound imagery
and indescribable joy.
Doubt arises
in regards of
each word's validity,
bringing upon
interrogation,
scouting the way
for infinitive
journeys
yet to be written.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 12:27 AM UTC
when you see me, a girl with tan skin but her parents are black and white, what do you think?
do you instantly assume that my dad wasn't there? if you do, you'd be correct. do you think about whether or not i've witnessed violence? in and outside of the home? if you do, you'd be correct. do you think that i had to help with the bills because my single mother couldn't scavenge enough money to pay them by herself and no one would help her? if you do, you'd be correct.
truth is, i've never even considered being the definition of a stereotype. ever. people have always called me a "half-breed", a ******* and infamously a ****** even though the hard r wasn't always pronounced. i've never been offended by their words though, my mom has taught me to have tougher skin than that.
i've always been a stereotype, though. i guess in some people's eyes that's all i am. a young girl living up to her background.
but the thing is, i know that i'm worth more than their insults, assumptions, thoughts, and doubts. i'm going to be more than a stereotype one day. mark my words.
Apr 16, 2019
Apr 16, 2019 at 5:02 PM UTC
and i trek'd through the pre-dawn cold
skating along the rail tracks,
to boulder jumping a ravine
(where were Japhy's ducks to guide?)
and into a deaden'd grass field.
tapping tip of foot to avoid watery pitfalls
while flanked by rusted railyard
and meth-addled recreational plot;
cat piss'd chemical smell wafts from as
December's north wind fights a toothless perverting force.
the macadame is barren as rainfell desert
and the animals propel by combustion
in effort to scavenge Capitalism's ****
predawn
'fore the burliest awaken with hunger.
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 3:23 PM UTC
When pins and pressure plates crawl into my spent shoulders
I clutch madly to crush the offending sinews.
When I’ve grazed the side of my tongue with an accidental death-threat
I revisit the spot and repeatedly incise, until I’m ******* crimson and tears.
When the she-squito shoots me up via serrated needle turning me feastlike
My fingernails compulsively scavenge out the adenosine deaminase.
I sniff the arid bottles of perfumes I love that are no longer manufactured.
I re-trace my lost friendships through the riverside paths we made.
I chop onions and slurp hot sauce until I’m dry.
Maybe that’s why I’m stuck on you.
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 3:00 AM UTC
Learn to write again
learn to type right
first time in 3 decades of life
I want to write closer to when I think
speed time, to slow it
make it feel like I do more
like I was in my teens or early twenties
**** these days 3 go by and it feels like one
I count my blessings to build confidence
Life grows more cruel but
I might win if I act like already won
Chaos magick, nay we do not speak of it
You forgot to pretend
to suspend quests for rationality
No longer moved by a book or film
We conditioned to be unconditioned
only to realize we ought to been wistfully in the herd
the whole time
We're the Bodhisattvas forestalling enlightenment
to get drunk with the butchers
after decades of sober high ground
We're the over-analyzers
lamenting our anachronisms in self-assuring
new philosophies
Either fully embrace one or drop out of being smart at all
the only tolerable choice to start to enjoy life again
No, no it's a false dichotomy
I want to be the eternal well-wisher
no matter the decadent displays
The shared dream of a soon to be future
We scavenge and defend
through pockmarked streets
make shelters amid crumbling concrete
We forgot how to imagine a secure society
Measured expectations and social safety nets
they took it all away along with our balanced serotonin
I used to get all jazzed up over a library book
but now the images promise us much more bliss
right around the corner
But it never soothes
never comes close
We cannot buy the contentment you claimed to offer
so we'll get it in collapse
We'll be sniped, starved, and deranged
but the thought of that life
makes us whisper excitedly to ourselves
"finally something has happened to me."
I, the eternal well-wisher
will wag no more fingers at preachers of death
Neither will I become them nor pity them
Nov 1, 2021
Nov 1, 2021 at 10:01 PM UTC
The desperate are animals under the moon
howling infrequently, incest-breeders. I, a part of
the thousand fragrances they simmer upon –
my mouth around a tree trunk that rots
in summer, boiling like eggs or water for tea.
God loves me, he loves me not.
I know I have broken my promises to Heaven –
disappointment lavishes me in aches so velvet
I swear I could make a coat from them.
We scream for womanly voices and pictures on a
wall of mothers kissing or showing a breast,
the ****** is pink. I melt inside my head.
Every morning we scavenge for the same sun –
bright under the glass, soon no one is loved.
Not even my brother hands me his tongue –
when he does, it parishes to black soil
and I pretend it is my child. She has hair just like
us, when she is happy, when she is well.
I rock her until the wolf-hollers halt,
my skin is her mansion. Her sprinkles on me are
as thick as grime doused the door for company
welcome here, she is warm as she is alive
though she didn’t come from inside me, my eggs.
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 11:34 PM UTC
suppose you aren't assured of the next meal
upon your head rules the sky
maggots are feeding on your free will
better seems the option to die.
suppose you've none to give company
not a soul to call your own
days seem to crawl with no hurry
nights only make you more alone.
suppose open road is where you stay
sometimes a tree to beat the sun
people are bent on moving away
you've no home for day-end run.
suppose you've nothing called privacy
can't afford the luxury of shame
you relieve yourself for all to see
don't recall if you ever had a name.
suppose you've to scavenge from dustbin
your dignity is trampled like road's dirt
could they all make you feel a poem within
write a line crystalline in your heart?
Aug 23, 2015
Aug 23, 2015 at 11:38 AM UTC
We all thought the same
She cut the rope we were balancing on
But you wanna keep your slate clean
So she was just a bad dream to be forgotten
You lie to yourself to be loved
Threw us under the bus and took your crown
Created a false article that told a biased story
Then published it...
We’re the blood thirsty reptilians now!
The drama seeking horror queens
The tables have turned
The fable turned to be true
A lesson is to be learnt.
Don’t trust the mouth of an unmasked joker
It doesn’t matter how much they shed their unequivocal truths
There are still darker hidden layers of secrets...
Secrets locked in an overloading box ready to busticate
Stay away...
You’re the poison that can’t be reckoned with.
Just remember!
While the vultures scavenge for fictious answers
The eagles laugh and over rule moronic actions.
- Madeleine.Barnham
Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 7:28 PM UTC
Sometimes I find myself searching
and searching
for pieces of myself that
I've never really wanted in the first place.
And I'll keep that pamphlet,
and I'll cherish that trinket,
and I'll store that bus ticket
just for safe keeping.
And I'll sleep for hours
to see if I can find
what I've lost
in my subconscious
but over
and over again
I find things I never wanted
in the first place
and I'll throw them into the sea
only to swim back to shore,
too late and too far gone
to realize I'm going to have to jump back in.
And maybe I'm talking in circles
and maybe I never really belonged
anywhere
other than where I sleep for the night
Or wherever I decided to
set foot to scavenge
for any remains of myself
that I took for granted.
Maybe a nomad
only finds peace
at the edge of losing everything.
Or maybe they never find peace at all.
gd
Sep 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016 at 12:53 AM UTC
There was a long road
from the church to the farm house
and ten acres of land was never enough to disappear
but we tried our very best
the fields spanned out in wooden fence borders
until they met with dirt side roads
sheep, cows, and horses
and mud tracked jeans
we built dens in the woods
out of whatever we could scavenge
with wheat hanging limp from lips
we graduated to the days of the pretender
and started memorizing names like
RJ Reynolds and Phillip Morris
our fingers grew as yellow as our teeth
Tobacco Road Hobos
sticking up a thumb
with a Kamel Red pinched between index and middle
that's the gun metal blue smoke screen
rattling lungs in the morning
scorched throats at night
and a pair of mud tracked jeans
Kings of Tobacco Road
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 10:54 AM UTC
Overpowering urges self destruction
numbness c ra cks and reseals
deep
trenches
cut out
in the shape of your name
The feeling's queasy
somersault through my
twisted veins
blind rage encapsulated by a sad
blackened
frame
Bruises and scars fade
but the coursing
pain will
forever remain
a dark
heavy trotting
reign
Horse hooves crater my heart
collision beat
of a marching bands feet
my heart
my heart
is screaming in the dark
the shadow slightly falls
my heart
my heart
Inject your unknowing poison
I feel the sting
as it rips fire to my insides
your hands leave chemical burns
as you squeeze my lungs
I fall to my knees
weakness writhes in numb defeat
pull the tide
hold it in my hands
sending it crashing
to wash over you again
That's when I first tasted the burn of this world
the bitter taster of disappointment
the stabbing of my heart
the waterfalls of sorrow
My eyes have died
their light no longer lives
I shrivel and crumble
with a slow
dull
ache
I do not scream out
destroy my sand castles
burn my bridges
knock my buildings down
dynamite love
dynamite love
I wander with a brain blown to bits
I scavenge every
scrap
of m u t ilated so-called-love
I am dynamite
you are matches
all that stood between us
was a wick of string
and time.
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 1:05 AM UTC
You never told me your wish
so I do wonder
if I am making it come true
scavenge for your sweet hands
pin them, bite the freckles
off
I do not just want you
inside of me
I want to digest you and
be
what you want.
The blonde rain
little daisies from angels say
you love me, love me not
you love me like a stone
we did not skip
but sheltered in a wooden box
with
plastic holes as skylights.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 6:03 PM UTC
Monochrome buildings pave the way,
It's another monotonous day at the office.
And so starts my favourite routine
The required daily dose of caffeine
Sickly sweet sugar supplements
Occasional visits to the gents
Where in the tranquility
I can ponder what I'd like to be...
...Living so high the clouds are the sea,
No responsibilities!
I don't have to dress,
The butler can take care of the mess.
Jacuzzis, cruises, friends who I choose,
Admiring reflections in gold plated loos',
But perhaps I digress...
...Back to reality I guess.
If time flies when you're having fun,
Then pressing keyboards all day long
Makes every second crawl a marathon!
But I can multitask a bit.
I can breath and walk and talk and sit
While simultaneously pressing a button
And at the same time doing next to nothing!
But even then I can scavenge my mind,
And if I'm lucky I will find
That little paradise of mine...
...And faster than the eye can see,
I am covered in girls in bikinis
Whilst crashing Lamborghinis
Into modern art reflections,
Of my many types of perfection.
And I'll roll out, unharmed and afar
There's a feast for my eyes like caviar...
And if you find that hard to believe,
My imagination comes for free!
So I understand your private confession
That I must have the perfect profession.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 6:19 AM UTC
I lie with my arms folded on
A white sheet spread over an iron bed.
My bulging eyes sit over my reddened face,
I am ruined; I am dead.
*Then I see them, they’ve come for me!
Clothed in crystal, flowing white.
They look down at me, coldly,
And I look back at their unblinking eyes.*
I’d waited for it; I’d fought for it-
And now that time has arrived,
Of my freedom, abandonment,
My true birth, after this fickle life.
But then I see more men around me,
Invisible behind their aprons and masks.
They remove the killer rope from my neck,
And a finger traces along its mark.
And so, I lie on the iron bed,
Lifeless, but not soul-less,
Surrounded by Angels and humans,
Both of whom had arrived on the occasion of my death.
*Take me home! I lift my translucent arms
And plead to the Messengers of Heaven.
I don’t want to stay and see my body being
Split into halves, divided into fragments.*
*“But how can we, so easily,
Rid you from your life?
You made the mistake of doing that,
Of which no man has been given the right!”*
As the Angels speak, the scalpel starts
To burrow into my skin.
Deftly my flesh is peeled away,
Revealing my organs of vitality within.
My heart no longer beats.
My blood no longer flows.
My lungs no longer fill with air.
My anxiety to leave suddenly grows.
*O Angels from the bountiful Heavens,
You do not know how exhausting life can be!
I’d got tired of breathing and gave up,
Because God too had given up on me.*
*So, liberate me now and take me
From where I came and to where I belong,
Where questions are asked and justice is done,
Where the rights are weighed against the wrongs.*
A hand enters my open chest,
And forcibly pulls out my heart.
And just then, the Angels too relent,
And wrench my soul and body apart.
Angels and humans scavenge over me,
On my spirit and flesh they together feed.
But I’m happy, because morsel by morsel,
From the shackles of life, I’m being freed.
*I’m finally out, I look back slowly,
They’re stripping my face off my skull.
I look ahead, and float away in thin air,
No sign of my existence remaining on the Earth.*
May 10, 2012
May 10, 2012 at 6:14 AM UTC
I'm not all that different
From doctors and surgeons
I search for sharp eggshells
In brownie batter
It's a grueling task
Yet, one I can't miss
Without my extraction
My dessert is displeasing
My grandfather's surgeons
Are similar to me
They search for the blockage -
A distasteful one at that
Hands search
And scavenge
They use medical instruments
I have utensils of my own
Both certain that sharp eggshells
Harm the entirety
There are times I
Come up short
The pesky shards
Are difficult to find
And I am afraid
Of the doctor's similarity to me
I pray they find the eggshells
Inside my grandfather's arteries
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 11:04 PM UTC