"scavenges" poems
An outcast,
A creature we despise,
It looks so small and tiny,
And has gimlet eyes,
It stalks the drains and kitchens,
And scavenges in the night,
And climbs upon our plates of food,
Such an unwelcome sight.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 5:55 AM UTC
But what does that mean?
I am the raccoon
Oblivious I’ve been
I once was a monkey
To make laugh was to live
I still am a monkey
much joy I still give
The monkey inside me
Might act as a cloak
Was the monkey inside me
Joker or Joke
The monkey, the mask
I thought it not me
The monkey, the mask
I did not yet see
That the monkey, the mask
Is a part of me
I am the raccoon
In case someone asks
I am the raccoon
Master of masks
A fox I once felt me
and foxy I was
A hunter I felt me
slick tongue and sharp jaws
The fox he was smart
And good at love’s game
But the fox he knew
Quick love ain’t the same
The fox, the mask
Charming and sly
The fox, the mask
Was wondering why
Why the fox, the mask
So hard he did try
I am the raccoon
Though cute my appeal
I am the raccoon
Your heart I will steal
The lion I’ve played
When time came to lead
The lion I’ve played
By word and by deed
When I was the lion
The orders I gave
When I was the lion
Like a king I’d behave
The lion, the mask
With a queen by my side
The lion, the mask
At the head of the pride
Felt the lion, the mask
Was not my true hide
I am the raccoon
I finally see
I am the raccoon
The masks they are me
Yet behind all these masks
Hides my curious mind
A little raccoon
Caring and kind
When he scavenges life
Happiness he does find
He shares it with all
And leaves no-one behind
🦝🐵🦊🦁🐘🐅🦓
Dec 13, 2020
Dec 13, 2020 at 7:05 AM UTC
you don't see life as a game of skill
playing hopscotch on the
white and black checkers
reaching out to infinity with their
comforting symmetry
and severe geometry
you say you're unobservant
but how can you look down
at your calloused mud-caked feet
and not see the
chessboard that is pressing
just as stiffly against your feet
as you reach down
and root yourself into it
burying your head in
the world of fantasy games
without winner or loser
i envy your blissful ignorance
your hope
however misplaced
do you simply refuse to see
how every pensive move
rook to E7
knight to C5
seems to me not an attack
on the mockingly vulnerable king
but an action of
vicious hostility towards
the most powerful piece on the board
so the queen enacts
her equal and opposite
reaction
to slash the entire cosmos to ribbons
an infinite fury of blind terror
that seeks blood
and scavenges the last flesh
clinging to bone.
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 10:58 PM UTC
Experience is as satisfying as a double whiskey sour
as a tired director tours middle america on foot:
a drifter doused in the aroma of greasy roadside diners,
sullying his brown suede boots in gritty mud and mica.
He thinks he is real american- as he scavenges
inspiration from a photo of a lone tree,
an overweight waitress,
a broken down motorcycle...
A small depression in the ***** pavement
is the most famous footprint most towns have seen;
they come and go as quickly as passing cars;
as quickly as fame and infamy.
He thumbs his way from
state to state, picked up in nowhere Ohio by
a passing Van filled with a burgeoning indie band.
They discuss irony, old films and a mutual
dislike of disco as the van storms past town after town.
The band tours the country looking for fame
as he tears from town to town attempting to forget it.
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 10:50 AM UTC
Vulture fingers,
Scour the flesh.
Picking out flaws,
Not seeing the best.
Picking at the surface,
Finds everything wrong.
Won't look deeper,
Doesn't want to stay that long.
Scavenges through the skin,
Making blood gush out.
Tears in his eyes,
Mind full of doubt.
Who can love roadkill,
Picked to the bone?
Flies in his insides,
Making their new home.
Maggots in the eyelids,
Rotting to the brain.
Picked himself to pieces,
"We knew he was insane."
Vulture fingers devour,
Every single flaw.
Leaving a mutilated and infested corpse,
"Perfection" is what it's called.
Mar 18, 2012
Mar 18, 2012 at 9:21 PM UTC
A degree of murderous intent.
Unearthed emotions long since felt.
Reached the stars.
Love went underground.
In a spot of fossil hunting.
Took a chance at novelty.
Dug up the bones.
The bones of a pinned down pain.
Pain charred the heartbreak.
Love left again.
When it once walked it had vicious teeth.
A hunter in suburbia.
Nocturnal beast.
Once hunted prey.
Now all it does is pray.
Strong power filled.
Aggressive once.
Now just scavenges.
The ruins of ancient civilizations.
Praying for tomorrow not to come.
To scavenge no more.
All in a nightmare.
(c) Livvi x
[email protected]
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 1:53 AM UTC
A woman is full of sensitivity, ingenuity,passion, smiles, momentous special memories.
A nest builder as a sparrow is.
A warbler in the shower.
An irritating pigeon.
She's a vulture full of culture
When she scavenges the sales.
A mother clucker she she can be...sorting out her offspring's tea.
She fights many battles single handed.
Level headed sometimes.
Today the eagle landed.
Been here and there and everywhere,
Fell from grace a million times.
As a woman tumbled from the nests of childhood brood.
A phoenix revitalized spreads her wings.
She's on the way.
(c)Livvi
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 7:20 PM UTC
Chapter I
He can't laugh. The lid is on too tight.
He attempted to cry but it took too much honesty.
Chapter II
He scavenges the floor, only finding memories and tears.
Chapter III
He holds his leash a little too close, afraid of what freedom would run towards.
He sneaks peeks through the curtain at what the others are doing; smiling, pining, loving, falling.
The pretty, silly creatures sway and mix on stage for all to see.
He just found the backstage exit.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 4:19 AM UTC
If I had any courage, I'd read the masters
The translations of the masters by the foregone masters' handlers
Or so I thought
My dyslexic mind
Scavenges for words recorded
For me to hear
Free form poetry is sad, but allows a sense of wonder, or,
jealous appreciation of great accomplishment
I doubt my skill
And wish I knew Rumi's Persian style
So that I could read in silence
Without grasping for some faulty foothold in my own
And falling
Asleep, with his unread anthology on my chest
Jan 30, 2020
Jan 30, 2020 at 12:38 PM UTC