Best Boxes Poems
Discarded in yesterdays trash
Cardboard boxes never last
New things arrive in them
Old things stored in them
Rotting boxes on a voyage
Leftovers to those with out any coinage
Tom O’Seary had come down on his luck
Just couldn’t seem to make a buck
An elder at church who snuck a shot in a lurch
Now he sleeps in the rain
Cardboard box umbrellas
His home and his pain
One cold winter day
Poor old tom was dead where he lay
Inside his cardboard box
Was his last writings and will and the lot
I, Tom O’Seary of no determined address
I write these words, for they are my last will I confess
I regret all the pompous ways I was an ass
I missed the meaning of the messages, thus I was crass
Now you will lay me below the green grass
I thought I’d be looking down from heavens gates of glass
I was wrong about that too, so wrong
I am just rotting here in the green green grass
My purpose in life may not have been clear
The irony of death is now I know what’s so dear
Live this life with kindness and love
Or else on your grave will be the droppings of white doves
Mary spent her final days
Inside a nursing home
Tended to by well trained staff
But still so all alone
They gave her everything of need
Bathed and fed and groomed
Exercise and social time
A clean and friendly room
But everybody knew that she
Was lacking something more
A special friend or family face
To show up at the door
Mary never cried a tear
A smile graced her face
Those that worked around her knew
This shouldn't be her place
She should have someone at home
To give that special care
To hold her when the pain of age
Became too much to bear
They loved her and they cared for her
As much as strangers can
Doing everything they could
To lend a helping hand
But Mary soon began to fall
Her life was in decline
Her smile slowly faded
And her eyes refused to shine
She passed away one evening
In the comfort of her bed
As nurses stood around her
And they stroked her silver head
They went to call the family
But no number could they find
No-one there to take the call
For someone left behind
Sadness fell about the place
A CNA was called
To go in and remove the things
Around her bed and walls
But there was nothing there to find
Among her issued things
Just two little boxes
Tied with ribbons and some strings
She brought them out and set them down
And all had gathered round
Should they look inside to see
What memories would be found
The charge nurse said, "There's no response
To any call we've made.
No-one cares if she is gone
Or where her body's laid."
Silence gripped the staff on hand
They tried to hide their tears
They looked upon her sum of life
Two tiny boxes here
Someone said, "Let's look inside
To see what she's amassed
We should know what she has had
If anybody asks."
They looked around in silent nod
Agreement had been made
They chose the smallest of the two
And contents were displayed
continued ( Sorry. Not enough characters to finish )
I have felt the rain
I have bared witness to such horrendous pain
I have died a few times over
I have hidden inside a smile
The fresh scent of morning dew
A sea faring fog, coming for a landing
As I travel back to childhood days
Where meadows and the sea were paradise
Now in the dark of night
In the dank basement of my life
I have become the carpenter
With hammer and saw, I build a crate
Then I craft a box of lead to lay inside
Then still, I mold a box of silver
To lay inside the lead box
Upon which I make one more box still
Crafted of pure gold
Artfully engraving my life on the sides
I have toiled for years
Creating these fine boxes and wooden crate
Now comes the most difficult task of all
Scalpel in hand, I cut out my beating heart
I lay it softly in the golden box
I seal each box one inside the other, until I seal the wooden crate
The box of my heart has turned crimson red
My blood the final artwork on my finely crafted piece
With my last breath I fall upon the crate, quite fully dead
My heart now protected, from all of romances arrows
Poison arrows fall and black roses cry
Each box holds its secret.
Old memories, dreams that died.
The sum of every promise-
the dividends and sighs.
Paper, cloth, and pottery-
a postscript of our prime.
Wrapped in yellow newsprint-
the passing of our time.
Clutter from our passions
lay there dead in place.
While ties among the living
die somewhere else in space.
Written Aug 13, 2018
inaction speaks louder than words ~ in fact it shouts to heaven above
i don’t seek indoctrination ~ this dude knows what it’s like to feel love
stay in your own comments box ~ i have no agenda nor need a shove
when putting digits inside someone else’s bubble ~ wear a latex glove
So confined to the boxes is she who
Tries to free herself from them
Breaking down barriers of all political and cultural design
Constructing opportunities and
Imagining their trite and expected
Downfalls
She, who reigns supreme in the art
Of lability
The morning being the promise
The afternoon, the despair
The night, a restless dance to
Hopeful unknowing
So that it may all begin anew
And she may float with ambition,
Flirt with lofty goals
(Which are so very tangible once realized to a more substantial degree)
All through which comes the
Bitter devastation
The cerebral revelation
For her mind and the World work in harmoniously demonizing tandem to erase the sketches of a life
Of her own craft
What colors would my life shine
if we had not moved all the time?
In every home, I felt quite sure
my bedroom walls felt me there;
as eyelids sighting proof I had lived,
they'd hold my poetry in their care.
Then would come the cardboard boxes
that unlike walls, did hold my life's causes.
Past walls of white, yellow, blue and pink
all smeared into my poem’s blood-dried ink.
If one paint coats those who belong,
whose presence is community strong,
whose roots hold, growing ever long,
then such paint has never brushed my song.
I’m a chameleon, reborn with each move,
showing colors only the lonely may choose.
I am one all may lovingly embrace
until I move and they forget my face.
My hometown is painted ‘no place.’
My paint presence does not a reunion rate,
none of my three high schools sent me dates.
I know not the paint of a lifelong friend’s face.
My paint is cardboard box true brown ..
my family moved it from town to town.
I grew up long ago, an adult raised invisible,
shaded with poetry, lifelong indispensable.
One can move paint, even revise it,
but unlike me, not all can improvise it.
A wedding ring and locket
Were the only things inside
Two pictures in the locket
Of a husband and his bride
Trembling hands replaced the gold
And re-tied all the strings
Everyone felt guilty
As they viewed these precious things
The second box held letters
Written by a soldiers hand
Post-marked 1995
From a distant desert land
Also there, another note
From U.S. government
Expressing deepest sorrow
And concern for her lament
Everyone now understood
How Marys life was frayed
Her only son was lost to war
And husband passed away
Two tiny little boxes
Were her only claim to life
The consumate devotion
Of a mother and a wife
When there was nothing left to have
That's when she came to stay
Enjoying every hour there
Until she passed away
So pray for Mary in your thoughts
And know she's not alone
She's bathed in precious glory
As she's finally made it home
Rockman
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
Jehovah gave me two boxes to keep
One box was black the other was gold
In the black box, put the tears that you weep
Put your sorrows inside for it to hold.
The gold box is for all the joys you reap
My joys increased, blessings were manifold
The little black box felt as light as air.
Surprise, surprise, my sorrows were not there.
Jehovah, where did all my sadness go?
My dearest child, they are all here with me
Storehouses will open blessings will flow
Always trust in me, was his fervent plea.
I’ll carry your burdens, give me your woes.
My care will never fail; it is the key.
The meaning of the boxes is sublime.
Jehovah’s wisdom and justice are prime.
We have an excellent helper and friend.
We have nothing to fear, he’s always near
Our heavenly Father will help us mend
If we listen, then do our best to hear
Hearing means doing what he recommends.
He guides our steps. Makes the road smooth and clear
Because of him, our lives are desirable.
These truths I sang complete this parable.
new pages
old pages
pages of my poetry
pages and pages down under
under my desk dwelling
under in boxes
boxes dwelling and mingling
boxes dwelling down under my desk
desk of this writer
desk where I write sad
sad poems that drip
sad poems I touch
touch the words dwelling under
touch and love the pages of sorrow
sorrow under my desk
sorrow of my writing
writing of my life
writing my mournfullness
mournfullness has been my muse
mournfullness has made me a poet
poet who seeks words to linger down there
poet soul entwined in the pages
pages down under existing
pages that wait
wait and exist for dusty years
wait existing in boxes
boxes of flowing words
boxes of rhymes and verses
verses of bliss and love
verses resting down under
under is love that came from my pen
under is love forever in painted poems
poems penned from my soul
poems that dwells on paper below
below my soul lives between the lines
below my soul lives on the pages
pages tattered and new
pages I write
write and place down under
write poems in the night
night is when muse is alive
night is time for verses and stories
stories written in solitude
stories beautiful in boxes
boxes of solitude I have put away
boxes and boxes and boxes
boxes of poems weeping
weeping words
words . . .
weeping . . .
_______________________________
August 5, 2015
Poetry/Blitz/pages in boxes
For the contest, Down Under
sponsor, Debbie Guzzi
Honorable Mention
BOXES
darling clementines
are little oranges in a box
or one woman
who left me twice
boxed in my little room
my little room
is where i try to forget
that face i loved
no doors no windows
totally boxed in
times are tough
it’s not just the money
i’m in a box
no doors no windows
trying to forget your sweet face
lying abed
dream dream dreaming
in my cozy box
looking up at a ceiling
painted with moon and stars
Dave Austin
It happens every year, our church
asks us to fill a box
with small things for a needy child,
a toy, a ball, some socks.
We don't know where it's going.
it could be anywhere.
We hope we're bringing lots of joy
to excited child somewhere.
I shopped for small gifts carefully
to fill the boxes spaces,
picturing as I placed things there
smiles on the children's faces.
In one box went a little doll,
clothes for her and a hat,
for I knew the little girls I had
always liked nice things like that.
In the corners I put candy
and another pretty toy,
crayons and books, a jump rope,
may each one bring her joy.
The other box was meant to go
to a young boy who would be glad
to receive a well filled box
and for everything I had
selected for his Christmas fun.
I couldn't get in another gift
so I knew I must be done.
As I sealed up both the boxes
I prayed that he and she
would get as much joy from opening
as the packing had brought me.
11/30/14
little boxes ticked
delete button selected
memories erased
the good and the bad
no longer retrievable
new memories made
forgive and forget
no words left to remind me
will my heart forget?
Eileen Manassian
If I could get back the dollars I've spent
I'd be an extremely rich man
Buying stuff just because it's on sale
Then storing it is not a good plan
Got eighty-three of cans of vegetable soup
Forty-three boxes of Captain Crunch
Even if I lived to a hundred and twenty
We'll still have breakfast and lunch
Some people have a rainy day mentality
You never know what's just ahead
But more than six hundred boxes of KD
Could keep a damn army fed
Now I'm all for spending money wisely
But this concept blows my mind
Can't eat all the food that we've got stored
But the mice think I'm very kind
© Jack Ellison 2013