"scoops" poems
There were dividing lines
between Springfield
and Mariners Gate
soft, subtle lines
that spoke of origin
and code
and biting union
it was all
the reason
for being;
alive and living
dead or dying
deep in a pack
of pint size resistors
hell bent on the
marsh crow
and cannabis tower
jumping the rush
with *** shots
and anchors
and tribunals
camouflage creepers
and transient floaters
marked rebellion at the gates
(skullduggery and taunt
high on their favor list)
jack straws and flat paddles
for the evening charade
beakers and flailing hands
from the foot washing baptist
(the Pleasant Street conservatives with their
own something to say…“there’s gonna be hell to pay!”)
there's a
lingering effect
to this sentiment
(evident in the pump house stride)
the river winds
blow gently
into the night
as the huddling packers
and **** backs
chase the evening hours
it’s a bitter sweet
end of an era;
those traction bars
hood scoops
and nickel bags
will always
be the rage
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 11:13 PM UTC
I chose ice-cream
Over yogurt;
Strawberry, vanilla or chocolate.
Each equally without prejudice
Attracted.
The fifteen year old server
Was kinda short;
The vanilla tub had about three scoops
Remaining,
Stacked hidden like frozen snow-balls
As in war games.
His task would have been daunting
And embarassing,
And I, a humanitarian
From higher education,
An altruist from St. Joseph's,
Could not allow it.
The chocolate tub
Was yet covered,
And the sobbing child's cries
Were hardening in my ears
As Dad tried to allay
His chocolate tears,
Applying the five second rule.
I am an empath
By nature and poetry,
So, turning from chocolate,
Left me strawberrry.
Triple scoop too.
I believe
You thought through
Your choices
Like flavors of ice-cream.
Being imaginative,
I do.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 10:30 PM UTC
You are my dear, decadent desert,
My summer-thyme delight; Starlight.
Tonight’s your night, for you I write.
Radiant glow, fuzzed herbal hue.
My dear butterscotch icecream.
Sore arms churn thick, slick froth - Sauterne butter.
Gentle spread melts, dowsed in sweet, sugared innocence,
rich scents, then sits.
6 years pass quickly, youthhood gone;
My black swan, a third complete.
You, sauterne butter, mix with scotch -
Fermented, demented, invented to inebriate.
Golden brew dissociates reality -
Spinny, fuzzy, dizzy, funny… gone.
Go on again, dear fawn, 6 years pass,
Pant for the water, two-thirds complete.
12 years as toll to adolescence;
Icy, creamy, dreamy, element prepared.
Scoops of soft serve mix with years past - Angsty era.
Seductive spirits, beautiful brew.
At last, my summer-thyme delight dances with rhyme.
The lime-light shines; ten and eight.
Todays the date, stuff immaturity away.
Make room for the adulthoods’ good,
Scooped generously into a bowl
Shuttled and entrapped by me,
Melting, streaming, gleaming and freezing.
You awesome angel!
My pleasure supreme -
My dear butterscotch icecream.
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 6:43 PM UTC
‘Earth’
maybe a mole
in the mountain of space.
But the story is bigger
than any epic tale.
It's the one scoops
the bottom line
of the bottomless space!
Small simple finishing
tells the complete tale
'as above, so below'.
One that takes into
account all the matter
and the entire space.
The story goes on
The fine earth takes its place.
Now the mountain
sits on the mole space!
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 10:06 PM UTC
1.
Eyes, eager fish, in deep Himalayan blue, splash and swim
the ultramarine sky of the mind, gets color coordinated, in resonance
wind from across the ranges, incessantly chant guttural "Öm"
gently spreads waves, that on ears, vibrate as music,divine
our feet get liberated from mind's control, the trek becomes us.
2.
Eyes now, turn swifts, fly to the valley extending to horizon,
teeming with flowers of every hue, profusion of orchids,
rolling white clouds above,create *tantric patterns
of grace, swirls, swoops,scoops, somersaults,the trek goes on.
3.
Melting ice, fits well on the conical brown mountain tops,
a white bodice, perfect cover for her lovely peaks,
angular mounts gleam in the limitless avalanche
of light, an impulse for benediction is palpable.
4.
Simple folks of village, on the way side
in flowing colorful dresses ***** tall poles
festoons of bright colors, joyous prayer flags flutter in wind
proclaims festive spirit, they vigorously wave.
5.
Now heart overwhelms, sings the paeans of
a sky that changes it's face from blue to white
and sometimes, a hue so bleak, deep gloom,
on red brown earth, sun light prances around.
6.
The grass bed then transforms quick,
mind drinks the dense benediction peace brings
that coils inside the soft blue waves, beating within and out
7.
Himalayan blue has taken us in to it's embrace
bird songs ring along the path of ancient sages,
who went in to the forest abode to contemplate, never returned,
became one with the hum of cosmos, they walk within us.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 6:05 AM UTC
BOX cars run by a mile long.
And I wonder what they say to each other
When they stop a mile long on a sidetrack.
Maybe their chatter goes:
I came from Fargo with a load of wheat up to the danger line.
I came from Omaha with a load of shorthorns and they splintered my boards.
I came from Detroit heavy with a load of flivvers.
I carried apples from the Hood river last year and this year bunches of bananas from Florida; they look for me with watermelons from Mississippi next year.
Hammers and shovels of work gangs sleep in shop corners
when the dark stars come on the sky and the night watchmen walk and look.
Then the hammer heads talk to the handles,
then the scoops of the shovels talk,
how the day's work nicked and trimmed them,
how they swung and lifted all day,
how the hands of the work gangs smelled of hope.
In the night of the dark stars
when the curve of the sky is a work gang handle,
in the night on the mile long sidetracks,
in the night where the hammers and shovels sleep in corners,
the night watchmen stuff their pipes with dreams-
and sometimes they doze and don't care for nothin',
and sometimes they search their heads for meanings, stories, stars.
The stuff of it runs like this:
A long way we come; a long way to go; long rests and long deep sniffs for our lungs on the way.
Sleep is a belonging of all; even if all songs are old songs and the singing heart is snuffed out like a switchman's lantern with the oil gone, even if we forget our names and houses in the finish, the secret of sleep is left us, sleep belongs to all, sleep is the first and last and best of all.
People singing; people with song mouths connecting with song hearts; people who must sing or die; people whose song hearts break if there is no song mouth; these are my people.
3.6k
Her shell's not so gorgeous
But she is beautiful, that's obvious.
She's such smiler
Who revives the freshness to a miler
And her cyan attire ...
Oh ! that just takes the breath away !!
Let's see her life from his* view
He might be wrong as he is new
New in describing her in few
Few words won't be perfect as morning dew.
She was a girl like anyone of you
She too had a dream changing the world to anew
She could have done this forsaking a few
A few whom she called her Pearl and her dew
She had to be an ice for her dew
She had to shell and protect her pearl
She cares for the rest, who have done their part and made her a girl whom she knows as her.
But her start was such she had to move,
To be a dew and be a shell
To make **** sure that no-one fell,
Heart swollen, teary eyes she bid them all melancholous good-bye.
During her flight she might would've thought, if somehow this **** plane could've stopped
She'd hug her love so **** tight
Be pampered as kid who'd fight
Fight to see his care again.
Coz fight does show that you care like rain.
Three years since that flight, her love is gone.
She scoops out popcorn out of a cone
Besides probably a person with whom she seeks
That love, care and respect which she needs.
Now she knows when the sun sets in
And shows her path the reality lies within
That path is sure for all, it's hard
But she travels this path with a smiling facade.
Still lies inside her a childish girl
Who wants to play and rock the world
But this world is not an easy place
She knows it now to her every breath.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 3:46 AM UTC
.*i can think of one cool job... a nighttime DJ on a radio station... anything more cool than being a DJ between the hours 12am through to 5am? honestly... can't think of a cooler job... all the song requests are gone from the classical.fm show between 3pm and 5pm... now one is telling you what to do... **** me... as a kid... either a veterinarian, or an owner of a music shop... now? an insomniac DJ... they would never play Christopher Young's Something to Think About in the afternoon... sorry... i'm a Hellraiser cult-follower of the first two movies... and that song? why? i just can't be bothered with listening to that Braveheart over-scratched Song of / for a Princess... it's good... once in a while... but, come, on!*
just one of those nights...
having listened to the scoops
from the alternative...
worried your to hell
about not having *******
enough concerning
the previous day's load
which would make the pleasures
of **** *** look tame...
perched on a windowsill -
solving a sudoku -
and listening to
Frank Zappa's occam's razor...
and wishing:
making sure it was never
hot in the city
by Billy Idol,
or Kiss' crazy nights
to usher in the night,
and the watchman...
why?
it's not your standard
guitar solo...
it's a medley...
big difference...
guitar solos are bound to
a strict return to the rhythm
section...
they are caged beasts...
composed of a restricted
time constrain in a song...
but a guitar medley?
**** me...
it's what obliterates
a need for vocals...
the guitar medley is
the vocals substitute...
and that aspect of music?
mm... gummy bears...
jelly in the knees...
which is why i like
the fact that jazz is the antithesis
of classical music symphony...
sure... i get the Schubert / Schumann
piano duets...
nice...
but jazz?
the breakdown of the quintet?
**** let me count...
piano, drums...
bass... horn... sax...
yep, a quintet...
that moment in a jazz
song? where each instrument
player gets his solo?
genius!
the same with a guitar medley...
neither solo,
nor the rhythm section...
what a beautiful opening
to what i expect to be,
a beautiful night:
as the watchman once said.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 6:34 PM UTC
Sisterhood is not that fancy
There may be way
Each of your toes curl when you eat a good meal
How significantly brown your eyes are
Those long intricate conversations
How long and streaky the hairs on your head are
How you put your leg in front of the other impatiently
The way you hold each others hand when crossing the street
How many scoops you each like and the colour of your ice-cream cone
How you try to divide anything and everything
Or how you long for your sister when she is not there
But sisterhood is not that fancy
It's the inability to get your voice heard
The many tears
How less of your opinion counts
The silent whispered conversations when everyone thinks you are sleeping
How some mistakes are more permanent than others
Sisters by chance ,friends by choice
Dec 17, 2019
Dec 17, 2019 at 5:47 PM UTC
I personally
Love food comas;
And cookie periods,
And gumbo
Exclamation marks!
The're the best!
And semicolon pies,
Oh man...
And peach cobbler
Parenthesis,
They're perfect
With scoops
Of delicious vanilla
Question marks
With a drizzle
Of caramel
Quotation marks,
Oh no!
I'm going
Into an
Anaphylactic shock
From the forward slash
And back slash
Layered lasagna,
I'm going comatose!
Quick! make me some alphabet soup!
© okpoet
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 1:07 AM UTC
Nourish thy soul
with the rhythms in your mind
bounce back bounce front
thy rhythm of time
Nourish thy body
feeling the pulses yelling your name
they shout they ache they're calling your name
Nourish thy body
with the love that you know
Nourish thy body
make sure it stays warm
Nourish thy body
by feeding the soul
1 scoop 2 scoops its never too full
Nourish thy pain
the one that's eating you away
reminding it does not exist without calling your name
Oct 27, 2020
Oct 27, 2020 at 1:22 AM UTC
Long ago I was young and naive and hopeful and believed
My heart was a flame with the belief of love
Its plumage magnificent and terrifying
It lived in the belief that even if it were broken it would rise again
But this was not quite so long ago
The time of the heart is different than the time of the mind
When that great phoenix
In its youth
In its greatest power
Burns in its own fire, its fire that had been cared for and admired by hope
Cared for by blood and bone,
By faith and innocence,
The mind laments its loss and shares its pain
It lovingly scoops its ashes into the ornate urn the mind thought it always deserved
A sight to behold
The love that the mind bore for the heart, a love that could never protect it
And hides it within the folds of its grey domain
The phoenix does rise again,
Small and fragile,
Afraid at the loss of its power, of its grand wings, of its fire divine
The mind takes it and places it in a golden cage meant to mend and protect its flames
But a phoenix cannot grow in such a place
It cannot fly
It cannot sing its terrifying song of beauty and power,
Terrifying in resonance and in truth
But in the mind it feeds only on dry seed, not the sweet nectar that it is worthy of,
The mind knows that the heart needs this freedom,
But it also knows that this freedom will lead to another supernova in the intercostals,
It is out of love that the mind does this for the heart,
For the heart is not the only one to know pain and beauty and power
The mind suffers silently, with an unyielding patience as the pain reverberates through every capillary,
This interaction goes unnoticed,
It is assumed that the mind must be evil for denying the heart such wonders and freedoms,
But only the pain can be seen,
Never noticing the healing, not until its finished does it become evident.
I had not noticed this,
I had forgotten the value of my heart,
I had forgotten to give it the fire of hope and the winds of innocence and waters of faith
And the purity of trust.
But one of impulse came my way
So short and intense was this strange affair
His chance and command of chaos came to notify me of my folly
And then
After he came and went,
After he shocked me into consciousness
My heart awoke,
Because of him it awoke.
The pain of caring, the same thing that caged my phoenix, gave it power again.
Its fire ignited, its plumes aglow, its song again pure in tone, full and rich in sound
I had forgotten,
Forgotten the power and beauty and value of this gift
Forgotten that it is not a right, but a privilege to own a heart
Only those who care for it, who tremble in the phoenix’s presence, those who trust it,
Will know love,
Will see its beauty
Will be rewarded by it
It does not know ownership,
It is living,
It is alive and depends upon its carrier for nurturing
It does not need protection from pain.
But this man,
Who chaos and coincidence sent to me,
Does not even know that he saved my heart,
That he awoke not only my heart but also my mind
He woke me from a lie I had knit and had called my skin,
He reminded me that my heart was still within me,
He reminded me of where my heart belonged
He saved me from a life where I would not trust or nurture my heart,
Saved it from a life without trust or belief in love.
Thank you.
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 11:31 PM UTC
“No one is ever satisfied with the success, is ever satisfied with the success, is ever satisfied with the dream. It’s the hunger before a meal when you realize how good it is to be alive.”
With each passing day I feel youth slip from my bones like scoops
falling off a summer ice cream cone to blistering pavement.
All of my friend’s dogs are dying of old age just like mine.
Childhood trees we used to climb have either grown too tall to reach
or were struck by lightning. Decisions, no matter how trivial, become monumental
in the scope of time. There is no end in sight…only the faintest memory of humble beginnings, leading us
blindly into the vacuum of tomorrow, ******* the dreams from our head to feed the plague of survival.
That’s why you bruise with a breath. Your heart beats too hard for your house of card frame. Your body—desert willow—thrives on nothing, pumping cells full of carrots, vitamins and codeine.
Last night, While you were sleeping, I sank to the bottom of the ocean
with a seven mile chain attached to a thousand pound anchor and a Swiss army knife. Slipping
through seasons I fell colder and deeper and darker, waving and giggling as I sank
for miles, watching the surface light blur and fade completely until I was in night,
a gentle pulse of luminescence massaging me with it’s glow, the old-ironsides squid laughing,
the rave fish pulsing with dinner plate pupils, the leather armor jellyfish are calm as Sunday's first ****
and the flat rainbow fish spin their data and vanish into black.
All I think I know at 22:
Why they call this the information age;
What Buddy meant when he said, “There is a distance the size of bravery”;
This is the best part.
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 4:11 PM UTC
On a bed of wet sand and seaweed left behind
by the receding tide rests
a seashell,
A testament to survival of even the softest forms of life,
now fractured and empty but
still beautiful.
Press it to your ear and listen closely. Can you hear?
That distant roar like crashing waves?
The ocean? No, it's
A song sung in low, muffled moans, a lamentation for the
hollow space inside that was once called
a home.
Lamentation for an existence that once held purpose,
to protect and defend seekers of shelter as a
glistening shield, not
A shell too cracked for all but the most desperate of
hermit ***** to hide in for more than
a moment.
The seashell weeps, for it can do nothing but lie,
beautiful and useless and
broken,
Crying too softly to be heard
except by those who
stop
to
listen.
Until the day when a warm, gentle hand scoops it from its
lonely bed of sand into a bucket with
reverence and care
To take it to a place far from the ocean's teeming depths and
the beach's salty shore,
perhaps
To be ground to luminescence and serve as the star
of eye-catching jewelry that frames the face like
a work of art, or
To adorn the sand castles of children that will inevitably be
washed away, though never forgotten, like
childhood itself, or
To be a cherished memento of that day when you tossed your
fears into the sea and walked away with a sunburn and a
fit of infectious laughter.
The seashell weeps, cradled in its simple plastic bucket,
a ferry into the unknown where perhaps,
perhaps
That which is
hollow and
broken is
not
useless.
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 11:41 PM UTC
Let me tell you a phenomenon I realized. Whenever he opens his mouth to speak, I pause and lean in to listen. My body seem to come together in peace, listening intently. The breeze softens to the sound of his voice, flowing with a quiet coolness. The animals pause to hear his stories, like an eager crowd. Whatever tension building up on my shoulders and neck seem to pause and heal, disappearing quietly with each word he utters, or whatever sound he hums as he stop to ponder in between conversations. It's like the universe comes to a calming pause whenever he makes a sound.
And oh, don't get me started when he sings and fiddles with the guitar or piano. With elegant fingers poised on strings or keys. Creating magical notes with a fiery passion surging from his beautiful heart to the tips of his fingers. You may think I'm exaggerating but I am always in awe of his talents. It's like his soul scoops up the emotions and dumps them carefully in music chords and intricate words. How I could just close my eyes and let his voice breathe life into me. I thank God everyday for his existence; for he is made of all things soft and beautiful.
-m.b
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 5:54 AM UTC
I never want only two,
three scoops for me,
double cherries on top
of each one,
pistachio,
chocolate
& vanilla.
Spill some nuts,
crushed cashews
all over the place,
I'm going to dig my face
into this delicious dish.
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 7:09 AM UTC
freedom is a funny thing
what would dreams bring
but calamity (and loss
tears superfluous waste of water)
slow treading in treacle
hold absent flora to the wind face
cross eyed glory on a pale mask
no extending big hand
to the child who doles out water
to babes from ***** papercups
scratching scoops of brown mess
amid domesticated fauna
in the middle of nowhere land
feet rubbing for warmth
an ever going stipple wagon
a small blanket the only cover
one scooter holds too many
open beauty closing too soon
supply demand coercing blank stare
impasse holds the keeper hostage
some up - some down
no break from unbroken cycle
the dreamer lives forever on
inside the tightest cage
and knows there's little cure
yet within full ironic view
lies the priceless key to unlock
dark eyes implore me to take you
anything is possible
yes
anything
dreamer, dreamer
open dreamer
open your dream wings
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 11:38 AM UTC
Sunset whispers to itself
~No time outlives time~
The meltemi winds crackle the wild millet,
Graze-feed upon the stalks of Greek plains,
The pelican scoops up the honeyed Aegean,
Waves of sunlit anise and almond in refrain,
Vestigial as the sweet persimmon from Egypt,
The hammered warmth from the flat anvil of Africa,
Sunset whispers to itself
~No time outlives time~
Aug 27, 2020
Aug 27, 2020 at 7:43 PM UTC
He scoops sands in baskets
then balancing neatly on the shoulder
carries to where needed
through bone breaking hours.
Upon his footprints is there a name
or a home
where he goes back for the night
lands featherlight kiss on a woman
awakes her sleepy bones with her hands
forgetting his days sinking in the sands.
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 12:17 PM UTC
You hear their siren song in the air,
before you ever see the truck.
If it is “The Rolling Cones”,
Then my friend, you are in luck.
Where "Mister Softee" use to be
an old bald man down on his luck,
“The Rolling Cones” have sweet young things
Make **** sundaes in a cup.
These ice cream ladies sell the wares
while wearing frilly bustiers.
Men of a certain age all troupe
to wave their dollars for two scoops.
Curves and ice cream swirls can be
**** yes, but not obscene,
It’s a profitable duopoly.
They use hot babes to sell ice cream.
To differentiate their trucks
From the ******* coffee vendor “Cups”
They needed a name all their own
That’s why they’re called “The Rolling Cones”
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 6:21 PM UTC
Some kind of joy
I saw in that elevator girl
like no other creature before
she had an ice cream cone
rocky road
marshmallow chocolate nut
chunky toothy grin
she found her happy place
on an elevator
with an ice cream cup
from baskin robins
it was large
at least three scoops
she laughed
elevated
spirit and body rising up
the levels
forget the rocky road
she was going
up
up
up
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 8:42 PM UTC
My hands glide over her body
My body glides in tune with hers.
The urge,
The need, the incredible temptation.
The suddenly surreal sensation.
Hands instinctly find their slippery way down her braziere;
Touching her there
Touching her here.
Carefully caressing her
Beautiful
Flawless twin triple scoops of creamy delicious vanilla ice cream.
Eyes abeam.
I pinch my ******* hard, my teeth longing to wrap themselves around hers.
Insatiable, rationable; moment deferred.
I'd love to stay and devour her, but my way must be made.
Body contact and relations, hormones fail to fade.
Raging.
I make my way with the heat on high.
Blast on full.
Clothes flying against the car wall.
Driving with both hands down my pants
Underestimating chance.
Not even the night can cool me down.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 5:05 PM UTC
A spectre resides within me,
tormenting me relentlessly,
disrespecting me in my sleep,
does this haunting have no end!?
There's a ringing
in my ears, just before
the pain sets in.
A constant-thumping,
a sharp-stabbing
behind my eyes,
disrupting me
from a glorious
deep slumber.
Then the panic sets in &
I must soothe this beast,
before I am driven mad.
And O what decisions!
Two or three scoops
of Colombian,
Kenyan, perhaps
some Guatemalan!?
Black, cream or sugar!?
What will suffice
this evil tormenter,
this wraith of the night!?
And O Dear Lord,
I cannot think clearly,
how can anyone
so sleep-deprived,
so panicstricken,
make such choices
this late, so early
in the morning!?
Dear Lord, please
help me make it
through another day,
please make
it go away!
Just black......
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 5:08 AM UTC
I'm walking down the cafeteria hallway
holding a laptop that took twenty minutes to fix.
I spot her packing up her possessions from the table,
everything too spread out for her not to have eaten alone,
but she's smiling as usual
and it spreads to my lips.
I hear my name and I stop
not because someone was talking to me
but because they were talking about me
something that never happens
or never used to
until they started to see who I really was
and fall in love with that-
Clapping me on the shoulders,
sending me emails,
adding me on Facebook
congratulating me publicly
giving me hugs
stopping me in the hall
turning history into a discussion about me
being a superhero for those in need of help.
all because I have developed the guts to say something
or rather, write something
nobody else admits to being able to say.
My name comes from that table on the left
up against the lockers
first seat on the far end after the bar
my old seat, for two years.
It's those memories that have allowed me to say what I've said-
those memories of losing everything
of rebuilding, from scratch
of having my lips bleed because they are so unused they crack
of finding the darkest emotions
and recovering.
I walk five more feet and turn right.
She looks up as I approach.
I hand her her laptop and charger, smiling
as she is.
always is, always has been.
"It's done, it works"
I say, enthusiastically.
Her eyes widen in surprise
"really?"
I nod
"it only took a few minutes, it should be better"
she scoops up her stuff
and we walk away from that place together
as we always used to, freshman year
when our round table sat in that exact spot.
But three years have changed a lot:
she's smiling in my presence
and we split, heading opposite directions.
her to her locker
me to the library.
I hear the faint words
"merci beaucoup"
as I pass the 3rd post
And for a second, I want to turn back.
To walk with her like I used to her
but actually talk to her.
I continue walking.
"Four years change a person"
I think as I climb every stair
as I have, for four years.
I stop for a second,
three quarters of the way up
and watch the way the sunlight drifts in from the door window.
A beauty I never would have seen then.
I would have been too entranced in her
and now I walk alone.
I would have been far too depressed by my own problems
to say what I have.
I may be a stronger person
a better person
than sitting there at that round table
but I always someone then.
Now I stand in stairwells alone
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 4:16 AM UTC