Best Box In Poems
How Poetry Began, such plots you tell!
A Tale Of Fire And Ice you wrote so well
Poor Peter Pumpkin bid a sad adieu
Pink Cherry Blossoms was your first haiku
You Echo, Silent Still - love's dream come true.
Bright Eyes plays violin with sweet refrain
It Matters Not, a lovely swap quatrain
Rock Turtles - monoku criteria
The Wintered Soul Among Wisteria
Hidden Beauty - bittersweet rondeau
Dear Juliet waits for her Romeo
And Then Are Times in 'Six Days of Sistine'
Yesterday's Joys, a quatern most pristine.
At Winter's End, a triolet of spring
Night, A Pantoum Lullaby to sing
Destiny, so dark; more painfully:
Reflecting on Police Brutality
Each Little Drop of Rain I See goes 'plink'
An Empty Tissue Box in tear-stained ink.
Dogs and Cats, of these you often write
In Strangler's Wood, those shadows quake at night
Eternal Breath, for one who died too soon
This Night you're floating under stars and moon
Revelation In the Rain, poor her!
I'm Huck - that's right, the novel character
Cinder Girl, burned badly by a boy
Happy birthday, Andrea - enjoy!
September 5th:
Happy birthday to a Soup superstar, prolific poetess, constant commenter, splendid sonneteer, marvelous mentor, word warrior, supportive sponsor, and fabulous friend!
Note: Capitalized words at the beginning of each line are titles of some of Andrea Dietrich's more popular poems from her nearly 11 years at Poetry Soup.
written 4 Sep 2020
Categories:
box in, birthday, poetess,
Form:
Acrostic
*GRANDMA WAITS IN THE GARDEN*
Hi grandpa, it's me again!
Your dentures sit in an open glass above the nightstand
Remember the tears grandma sang before she pass?
The way she looked into your eyes,
Moments before she said goodbye
Grandpa, I found a note from grandma,
She will always wait for you.
Hi grandpa, it’s me again!
The rocking chair is old and dusty
Remember the way grandma sat me on her lap?
Read many stories before I took a nap
How she enjoyed stroking my hair with her hands
I miss the way she rocked me to sleep every night
Hello, grandpa!
I stored your hearing aid away
Remember that special musical box in grandma's drawer?
I opened it last night, to watch the ballerina soar
I wish you could hear the tiny chimes grandma loved
I hope you don’t mind, I’m keeping grandma's favorite scarf
Hello, Grandpa!
I'm caressing grandma’s picture frame
Remember the way she looked in the yellow pretty sundress?
Grandpa, I miss the things grandmother did for you
Like the walking cane she handcrafted before she left
Hello, grandpa, it's me again!
My tears have soften now,
knowing you will soon see her again
Take your place with her in the sky
Please, say hi and give her a kiss
Tell her I miss her so much
I love you grandpa
~*~
Categories:
box in, beautiful, care, death, grandchild,
Form:
Free verse
She said, if I correctly recall,
That, for her, a sustaining love is an
Absolute prerequisite for what
Would be a total commitment of the
Coupling bodies...and all that
Constitutes the essential parts of the
Eternal Soul;
And I not so assuredly competent
In this - the practice of such a higher
Art!
Adding, some little time later, that
Being so chained, in what she described
As an unfortunate consequence of a
Most regrettable thrall,
To a domineering Harlequin who,
When mindlessly exercising the upper
Whip hand, had neither modest restraint
Or any amount of unimpassioned
Self-control,
Was, in fact, just a flagrant excuse
For a base lust;
Of course this was not to be confused
With the laudable and gallant actions
Conceived within the inner workings
Of a steadfast and more openly honest
Heart.
And was I convinced that I was indeed
Sincere in all my avowed pledges?
And did I truly understand that all her
Troubled life she had tirelessly
Searched for one such as I purported
To, somehow, seemingly be?
How I instantly can bring to mind
Those obscure and doubting mutterings...
Still carrying upon an ill wind I
Should not wonder;
I think of them like the songs of the
Naiads: what woefully remaining
Sounding endlessly above the glassy
Tinkling of a mystical lakeside's
Stiffened and shuffling Sedges;
You a modern-day Danae, infant Perseus
Clutched to your swollen breast, your
Little box, in all its abject
Loneliness, now set adrift upon some
Desolate and open sea.
What turned out, in the end, to be a
Pointless charade. Perhaps; but that
Which, despite shortening periods, whilst
Enduring felt almost timeless.
Then of course this shared guilt...
That will, shamefully I fear,
Forever bind us.
Categories:
box in, destiny, relationship,
Form:
Rhyme
I bought a box of truth from a peddler down the street,
even though he told me its veracity might sting.
I handed him a stack of bills and asked for a receipt.
The box was wrapped in violet silk and tied with silver string.
I gripped the lid with shaking hands and paused with bated breath,
even though he told me its veracity might sting.
The truth inside the box was even uglier than death.
It slapped me with repugnance and assaulted with its stench.
I gripped the lid with shaking hands and paused with bated breath.
I closed the box in panicked shock and struggled not to blench.
Receipt in hand, I hurried to return the wretched truth.
It slapped me with repugnance and assaulted with its stench.
I found that lousy peddler selling boxes from his booth.
He studied me with sympathy and eyed my violet crate.
Receipt in hand, I hurried to return the wretched truth.
With fingers clenched in fury and a heart awash with hate,
I bought a box of lies from that peddler down the street.
He studied me with sympathy and eyed my yellow crate.
I handed him a stack of bills and asked for no receipt.
Categories:
box in, allegory,
Form:
Terzanelle
Why drowning when there's
the ability to swim in me?
Why sleeping in the cold woods
with a match box in my Jacket
and an Axe below my head?
Why the self condemnation
when I'm a billion miles ahead of a billion?
What exactly do I see in my inner mirror?
Is Life embracing or pointing a finger at me?
I see a pretty one of huge significance
with effective duties like an Angel.
But also, I see the ugly one
dust to sand, stone to rock
that's just its living sequel.
I view a perspective
rough but sweet; challenging but interesting
which is exactly my gospel.
But then, I see them as temptations
and tests with no ability to repel.
I notice when walking through red coals
I never let my tears be my Life's panel
but the submission of my adaptation becomes so parallel.
I'm mind blowing and noticeable
like a newly-sewed apparel.
But day and night, I posses a tag with
just one label.
No matter the task to stay beautiful
nothing stops that quest to excel
but I see a limitation to
just a specific ordered function
like the ringing bell.
I'm staying elegant and attractive
making all long to be part of my counsel
but my usefulness, worth and confidence
no self awareness to propel.
Beginning as crude
coming out as a refined Jewel
but still, reality seems so cruel.
What exactly is my mirror saying?
Is my Life that of a Damsel or a Camel?
This, I just cannot tell!
Categories:
box in, adventure, life, success, symbolism,
Form:
Rhyme
i am dying aren't I
there is no box in time
where we can keep the truth
the knowing within
always betrays our deepest wishes
the dying needs a hand to hold
strokes across the forehead
the feeling they are not alone
with few words whispered
i am here my love
i am here my love
no deeper softness can life give
i am here my love
it was in a white room father passed
every nurse was dressed in white
we watched his last breaths
as that moment came to a conclusion
i pulled my sisters into an embrace
mother tugged his arm
a parting gesture calling his name
this was the finale of months
trips to the hospital
to share what in life we were doing
as leukemia swallowed his existence
our holidays together ended
on that Thanksgiving
years later God would call me
from the soup kitchens
and into the halls of the hospitals
where i would see this occasion
played out now and then
my scrubs were powder blue
with an angel above my heart
i matched the walls
nurses' scrubs were fields of flowers
or an aviary alive in jungles
sitting with them for lunch
i often thought my dad
would have loved the colors
but more so the ending of life
is not a sterile white room anymore
OKC 9/22
Categories:
box in, bereavement, death, family, memorial,
Form:
Free verse
The scent of crispy sizzling bacon filled my nose,
warm sweet pancakes being made in the kitchen.
I walked down the stairs,
my heart filled with joy as I saw the presents under the tree.
Big and small boxes,
all different sizes wrapped in colorful wrapping paper.
We spent all day long opening gifts,
but apart of me was upset I didn't get the one thing I asked for.
I laid down on the couch,
my dog sniffing away under the tree, yapping.
I went to see what he was looking at when I saw one last box.
A perfect little box in blue sparkly snowflake wrapping paper,
topped with a silver glistening bow.
I looked to see who it was for,
my eyes filled with tears when Santa saved the last gift for me.
Categories:
box in, me,
Form:
We are wanderers
who happened at the intersection of reality and dreams
seeking others to share comfort with
from life's drudgery of encampments and caves
Now everyone lives in a box with a door
surrounded by a box held by posts
contained by concrete pavement shaped like boxes
giving direction to destinations
where we arrive like ants given tasks to complete
receiving payment for so we may own a box in which to sleep
after staring into a lighted box that drains our souls
so we can be sold objects that come in boxes
as we huddle in our masses complaining
about what our desire and anger created
Rather dissolve away at the top of a mountain
scribbling my name on the wall of a cave
near my encampment under a round sky
then to be buried by society in a cemetery filled with boxes
4/17/17
Categories:
box in, irony,
Form:
Free verse
the makeup person
worthily deserves
the title of artist
knowing the coffin
would be an open
affair needing care
aware of capturing
the features of the
deceased to keep
for the eternal sleep
so saying amen to
the true nature of
the unforgettable
purple wig worn
with a glowing red
nose and the smile
painted permanently
happy even if sad and
lastly the polka-dotted
extra large spinning bow
tie recognized by every
child who laughed at him
when seen at the circus
never scared of a clown
so as the service ended
after the bearded lady
gave a proper eulogy
a tiny hearse drove in
and stopped under the
big top out hopped ten
midgets dressed
as cops arresting
laughter while
attempting to
put the box in
the trunk
Categories:
box in, muse,
Form:
Wondering if it’s an omen, finding the box in the attic today?
A treasure trove of memories into our lives
This piece of paper upon which I started to write a poem
I remember at the time I could write no more as I grieved
Missing you as each day goes by and wishing you were here
I know you are in the ever loving arms of our Lord
The Lord sent you down as an angel on loan to us
You were called home dear and we were not ready
I know we will one day be together again
Waiting for the day we will be called home also
Now the poem I started to write to you is finished
Our time together will come again my daughter and
never end
Written by: Carol Brown
For The "Treasure Trove" contest of Linda-Marie
1st Place Winner
Categories:
box in, daughter, death, family, loss,
Form:
Free verse
A beggar clump adorns a dump, his pencil box in hand -
With sightless eyes upon the skies he’s lying there unmanned.
He’s fallen down in Shantytown, his knees too weak to stand,
With no relief and bitter grief too dark to understand.
The Bowery blight is hid from sight, it’s covered up and bland,
And Robin Hood and Brother Hood lie buried in the sand.
Categories:
box in, life, social,
Form:
Rhyme
Pain is a constant
Like the ticks of a clock
Counting out the agony of my existence
Without pain, there is no life
Or is there?
Is there an old shoe box in my brain
Where lies the faded picture of a better time?
I am afraid.
If I knew that others surf the wave that bandies me about like a sock in a dryer,
Would I stop swimming?
When others build castles from the sand that swallows me whole,
Does the Lifeguard care?
Does He even notice?
My salvation is a dream,
So I escape into the gospel of Beautyrest,
Where I place all my hope.
I am a creature of the night,
Dreading the sunrise when my clock ticks again
Living for the quiet, dark night to erase my pain, my memory, my tomorrow.
Is heaven just a state where we finally sleep for all eternity?
That is my greatest hope.
Because my shoebox is way too small.
And these waves are way too big.
And the sunrise, it keeps coming, no matter how many Ambien I load in my clip.
Categories:
box in, angst, depression, pain, sick,
Form:
Free verse
I keep my dreams and aspirations,
stored away neatly in this box.
Tied off with a pretty pink ribbon,
secured tightly with key and lock.
And every time I feel like a failure,
I open it, so I can again feel alive.
Arms of dreams tightly surround me,
giving me strength I need to survive.
I’ve hidden this box in a secret place,
where I’m the only who can see.
A beautiful box of hopes and dreams,
finely sewn with love at the seams.
This box is opened quite frequently,
especially when we’re apart –
this rhetorical box of memories,
in perfect synch with each beat of my heart
Categories:
box in, daughter, dedication, faith, family,
Form:
Rhyme
Have you ever thought back and remembered a time,
when poor judgment nearly cost you… your prime.
There were fifty-22 cal bullets in the ammo box I found,
mishandling Remington’s bullets… could put you in the ground.
Putting the box in my pocket, thinking what should I do?
Squeeze off one in the barnyard vise… or maybe do two.
BANG! BANG! Loud reports and pungent gunpowder did abound.
How addictive that fragrance… 48 more lay waiting on the ground.
The next five/six bullets went into holes on the lip of the vise,
swinging that heavy sledgehammer… really felt nice.
Each bullet exploded leaving its’ brass case in the steel.
The heavy sledgehammer gave lead… no mortal body to feel.
BANG! BANG! BANG! The shells reported in rapid succession.
Used everyway possible firing all the bullets… in my possession.
50 times in a row I cheated death and great bodily harm.
God knows he was more than patient… that day on the farm.
* A true story. © 2010 John M. Trusty
Categories:
box in, childhood, introspection, life
Form:
Rhyme
A poem that simply does not rhyme:
In my opinion, has no chime.
The bells and whistles of a rhyming sequence,
Is the kind of music, my ears need frequent!
How I admire the writer, who rhymes a story,
with creative words and is explanatory.
I am completely raptured by the rhythm of a speaker,
as he unravels his epic, to the hungry seeker.
I love those moments of anticipation,
as words flow with perfect collaboration.
The tales may be true, fictitious, or blue:
about a horse, a dog or even a shrew.
A child, a man, a box in the attic,
pure love, or hate, and also pragmatic!
A saga, a myth, a cow jumping over the moon,
The spring, the winter, or a hot day in mid-June!
The element of immeasurable surprise,
may bring happiness, weariness, or crying eyes.
You can’t put a number on rhyming possibilities,
There may even be some that bring severe hostilities!
I know there are those that think I am just silly,
some may even call me a country hillbilly!
One can even assert, that I may be a bit slow,
since at age forty-nine, Dr. Seuss still sets me aglow.
For, when it comes to rhyming, I get frivolously delirious.
I suppose I could add that I am really not that serious!
Now, whatever your style of poem might be,
don’t for a moment, stop to think about me.
Just be creative with everything that you write,
and know our God in heaven wants you to take flight!
Rhyme, Battle
10-3-13
Categories:
box in, funny, how i feel,
Form:
Rhyme