Best Bags Poems
Poor summer sunshine
Greenhouse a wealth of flowers
I fill many bags
17.07.2015 A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
When I was born
I came equipped
With two million seeds
Not warm enough
Nor moist enough
Or too many weeds
The sun not out
The soil not rich
Or nothing that one needs
I base my stance
On abortion rights
On the reality of seeds
Six Unfinished Lunch Bags
(A collaborative confessional-witness lyric by Anne Winter and Daniel Henry Rodgers)
The memories of my childhood linger long,
With imaginary friends, my strong bond.
Echoes of loud and clear domestic violence,
Grief, tears, sorrow and unbearable silence.
Six years old—
six wax bags lined across the black-and-white table,
Sweet Lebanon bologna sandwiches
spread with Kraft mayonnaise.
My hands stayed pinned behind me—habit—
he reeked of beer; the metal post blessed my skull —
everything went dark.
When I woke, the basement joists
hung over me, unchanged.
Cold concrete floor.
The scar on my knee —
first thing I saw.
I cried, then finished the lunches
chips wrapped into waxed paper.
I should have died—
Why not.
No closet, no corner—only the table and all six bags.
Tomorrow, I journey into the lost woods—
blue-black comics tucked under my arm,
the only safe place my hands didn’t shake.
Flashbacks of alienation in some crowd,
Achievements accolade-worthy, no one to be proud.
Razed rage, lurking loneliness seeping stress,
Here I confess, my childhood one chaotic mess.
Adolescent to adulthood soaked in existential crises and
Decades spent begging for love and screaming with my favorite band.
O life, O dear life, what do you have for me?
If you don't care then please set me free.
Help me escape back to the lost wood.
Six unfinished lunch bags.
Frayed border prints paste illusion,
worn-out inks swirling bleeds,
The hauls, stareways, persuasion,
privileged balconies.
Antiquities of read reviews,
claims of a rustic quill,
to scribbled marks a light verse muse,
and forever bestill.
I hear the silence of the slams,
satirical critics,
synthetic irony exams,
stardoms paralytics.
It dominates its point to rise,
where life did emanate,
afeared facade recital trice,
timeless collaborate.
A reenactment of Bo Peep,
tough be a ruminant.
My first part, blossom -- was a sheep,
I was magnificent.
By Poet "Great memories are the best kind to have but some memories bring a waterfall of tears."
all little girls like to play dress up
mom had great hats, bags and pearls
her pretty white pearl necklace was long
around my neck
hitting my knees
her floppy hats were very colorful
the big red one almost covered my face
bringing out my pink rose blush tiny cheeks
I loved her big colorful bags
some with straps some with metal chains
playing for hours made me all grown up
at the time I did not know value
of this costume pretty white pearl necklace
a few dollars when new
years later I found them
new she only paid a few dollars
now all these years later I found them
where she left them sitting in an old box
the precious jewels I played with for hours
now with meaning more than if they were real pearls
throwing around
all of wisdom's
words about
stones
sticks and stones
glass houses
and who was
the first to
cast one
all these
so wise
to live by
but one absurd
exception not
by meaning
but suggestion
for why
would
i ever
want
to
kill
two
birds
It’s night time I hear white windy breeze
Making a song with pines blowing trees
Likewise I hear a siren far away
First responders on the move to save
Life of someone in critical need
Listen to there cries and heart beat
Or maybe a baby is being birthed
Good and bad days for them at work
Strange enough the cicadas are quiet
I guess it’s too cold even crickets are silent
Not hearing music or many cars at all
My muse is fast asleep as soon I shall fall
Carry my bags sandman if you can
From under brown eyes in tan hands
Fighting the urge to write until five
When morning birds will sing of light
I live alone; I pick pecans.
When leaves are dry
or wet upon the ground,
I thrash the trees.
I break from branches
undropped, green-husked nuts
and pull the fleshy hulls
from harder shells.
I put them in my musty burlap bag.
My bent back aches.
I pick the nuts that fall to earth --
blown by wind, wrenched
from over-weighted twigs.
I store this trove with acrid smells
in burlap bags.
The nut man calls but twice a year.
He brings the news; we drink a beer.
He pays me well,
refreshes my supply
of dusty burlap hell.
Pack your bags
It’s time to go
Worn out welcome
As if you didn’t know
Pack your bags
It’s time to flee
Away from this chaos
Far from me
Pack your bags
It’s time to depart
Find another pawn
Build a fresh new start
Pack your bags
It’s time to leave
Don’t forget anything
It’s time for me to believe
© Stacy Lynn Stiles
Magic Beans come in all sorts of colours and favors,
Some are sour,
some are sweet,
some are the ones you do not eat,
In my bag of magic beans,
Drip your hand in,
see what color you discover,
The colour red,
Will embed thoughts like thread to a sewing machine,
And sometimes instead bring back memories of the dead.
Then green this bean can make you envy appear obscene,
unclean.
This blue bean will help you find your field of view,
which would make you tried and true,
Here if your lucky to get a yellow,
You will appear in fields of blooming daisys of yellow,
where you will meet and say hello to a old fellow,
to bellow in the mellows of yellow,
If your hand drips in deep,
you might just get pink,
Pink will have a affect that will make your lips - sync with another will help you discover your missing other,
Black is a darkness bean,
it can bring on flash backs of your pass,
can make you have an anxiety attack,
will make you wanna fight back all because this bean is black,
This bean is brown,
some might say this bean has the power to break you down,
make you frown,
You be very pleased with the bean of white,
This bean will make you polite,
bring to you, you're guiding light,
even give you second sight,
in its sweetness light,
The transparent bean,
Can make you feel absent like your soul is souring in the sky,
Last we have purple,
This bean can be found to be hurtful,
For it very verbal, for it can affect your internal surface purpose,
for you stand in this universe.
For the magic bean contest held by Linda
written by Davina Browne
25 / 01 / 15
dried tea bags --
her smile warm and
inviting
SHOES, BAGS AND TAGS
I’ve got a thing for handbags, all shapes and sizes
It’s a bother changing, but the occasion always arises
Whether pink, black, white, or brown,
Alongside others, I never wear a frown,
Bags for every season, which allows me different disguises!
Then of course there’s shoes, but here look at the sizes,
And at the heel, not cool to tumble, there’d be reprises,
Bags and shoes must now be matching,
Message sent, prefer to be quite fetching,
My choice is dice dependant, and how everyone surmises!
When I was born
I came equipped
With two million seeds
Not warm enough
Nor moist enough
Or too many weeds
The sun not out
The soil not rich
Or nothing that one needs
I base my stance
On abortion rights
On the reality of seeds
***
her legs unending
she was wearing a mini
her crimson red lips
his heart pounding rapidly
her eye bags slowed his heart rate
*Missy Nikko's "weird"
body part of choice eye bags,
combined with Carolyn's body
part of choice the heart :) *
20/04/2011
Music leaps from open windows,
gliding down steamy summer rays.
The notes have loud mouths, shouting
out bold, rude barbs of reality.
Hip-hop, rap, heavy metal, all crash...
clanging onto the pavement below, then
flip-flop like a wounded bird.
Dancers trip the light fantastic,
cyclonic feet never stumbling,
shuffling along chalk-marred sidewalks.
Words jumbled in banging heads-
buds in scathed ears, burning hissed tunes
bouncing off graffiti bombed walls.
Pungent fog from strange smoke
crawls out of long black cars with
rears jacked up, rolling down scarred streets,
bouncing up and down with a bad rhythm
from a sad. raucous concert, jerking like
a drunk chicken strutting and kissing the ground.
Pig-tailed girls jump rope, chanting the
"lady with the alligator purse," paying no
attention to strangers staggering by with
lecherous eyes and brown bags holding secrets.
Young boys play stick hockey on cracked walks,
teething on puberty and swearing like crude sailors.
The old woman watches from a top step,
hoping someday the broken bottles will cut
through the chains and lead to a better life.