Best Compartment Poems
Today I thought I lost my keys
And knowing what’s at stake,
I searched like crazy, but my husband
Took them by mistake.
An hour later, for a class
Of quilting, I was stopped
When my ruler disappeared
Until I noticed it had dropped.
The class complete, I headed
For a shady bench outside
To write my poem, but where’s
My favorite pencil gone to hide?
It isn’t in my bag
And always has a sharpened point.
I looked in each compartment;
Now I’m really out of joint.
A day like this with many things
I cannot seem to find
Makes me hope it’s not a warning
I’m about to lose my mind.
THE JOURNEY
What a joy it could be to sit
in a far going train with you,
- to look into the window
for some time keeping silent
and in the glass darkling
- to discern your soul passing
among the moving crowds
and fields and hills and clouds,
not part of the firmament -
just seeming, since the true
you sits facing me too
in this small compartment,
- to hear your silent voice
hearing my own heart’s joys.
It is the journey endless,
the pilgrimage which binds us,
for there is no last hour.
The train far going is our
unspoken commitment bound
to a future not yet found.
I think it’s time I write
Write you OUT
Of the coming pages of my life
Oh…you linger
On every page
that's ever been
Keeping the plot a disguise
Unexpected events
My heart's demise
Slowly but surely
being written
By your unseen hand
I reread chapters
You were in my yesterday
You haunt my today
I don’t want you in my tomorrow
Not when you only bring me pain
No
I’m going to write you out
Cause I couldn’t write off
The debt of pain
I STILL OWE
To your oh so exacting heart...
I can't write it off
and so...
I’ll do the next best thing
I'll write you OUT
Out of the next scintillating sizzling sexy sentence
Out of the next dreamy dreamscape
Out of the next contentment compartment
Out of the next feminine fruition fantasy
For you've written only fragments
Sentence fragments of the greater picture me
Oh my!
Oh me!
I’m going to write you OUT
Of MY book
Of rememberance
The book of ME
Oh, it could have been
The best seller of your LIFE
But now you'll never know
Cause the coming pages are clean
for some beautiful soul
Some expert author
With the plot of pleasure
Bursting from his heart
Onto me
I'll LET HIM
Scribble his lines
Those glorious curves and dots
all over my body and mind
all over me...
Yes....spill his passion inked words
ALL....OVER....ME!!
And him..
HIM
I'm going to write IN
Oh...so deep and gloriously...IN
The book of ME
Eileen Manassian
There's a Train
Going to Peace Station.
Christians, Buddhists,
Hindus, Atheists,
Each occupied a Compartment,
But never Bothered one another,
Just like the Two Rails of the Track
That Travel Together but Never Meet.
Everyone's Ticket is to Peace,
They traveled in Communities and
Their Compartment Number
Never really mattered.
Then came budding Islam,
Who wanted their own Engine, Though
They are Destined to the Same Station.
They made an Exact Replica of the Train,
Their 'Fight' for Peace overshadowed
Their Destination and they Launched
Their Train on the Same Tracks,
But in the Opposite Direction.
Compartments filled with Innocent Followers,
but Engines Piloted by Terrorists
And Religious Leaders.
They only Focused on Increasing
The Number of Compartments
To gain Strength and Accelerated
As Fast as they Can.
But One Thing They Failed to Realize is,
No matter how Long the Train is,
On Collision, Whole Train Derails,
Killing Innocent Passengers, on Both Trains.
A female tongue pushes me down from the swing of sleep.
Rain kids rouse the stink of railway track in the dawn.
A long chain of complaints tinkles on her lips.
Worries about her female children at home
rise up like the black smoke from the train.
His liquor reddened half opened eyes gaze
at the life-like-fan – its rotation makes him dizzy.
His sweet brown lady drags him into his duties.
She arranges attractively jasmine garlands
in her basket on the floor of the compartment.
Basket never enjoys the fragrance, but only carries.
First printed in my book, Kanoli Kaleidoscope, by Punkswritepoemspress, US.
Andrea,
a woman considerate and kind, mellow, down to earth, and fun-loving,
she loves to use her mind.
Thefore, scrubbing on her knees, this gal you’ll never find!
Sisters she has four of, but there are many others.
Gal pals she has, who are her sisters from other mothers.
One husband all her life - at times he drives her insane.
Old boyfriends sometimes are subjects of her poems.
They reside in the treasure chest compartment of her brain.
Mother to two is she– one girl and one boy.
Grandma to four – two of whom don’t always bring their parents such great joy!
She loves to eat, so it follows that she loved to learn to cook.
She makes things up and has no need of recipes coming from a book.
She loves to hunt for bargains and save her honey money.
She loves all kinds of movies, both dramatic ones or funny.
She feels great passion for the things she believes are true
and feels she’s learned a lot in life from all that she’s gone through.
Her fears are rather silly. She avoids driving in a strange big city.
It brings her stress, which she detests. She might freak out, which is not pretty.
Changing weird attachments on a vacuum cleaner would
be a thing to stress her out. At puzzles she’s no good.
New technology keeps coming at her job. This also makes her stressed,
but she can sure accessorize. She’s great at getting dressed!
Her greatest fear – seriously – is facing suffering,
so fear of pain and torture (more than fear of death) is her scariest thing.
She saw a lot of Europe when she studied in Madrid.
She got to take one nice cruise, and other things she did
were seeing more than half the states and going to Brazil.
Her husband hates to travel, so it’s good when she was young she got her fill.
She only really wants to see her lovely family.
Because she lives so far away, with them she’d love to be.
And when she dies, her brother Dale she hopes she will see first.
Young he died, and finally . . . with thankfulness for poetry
and for all her other passions she feels her heart might burst!
Dietrich
(edited now with my name showing since announcement of winners!!)
Aug. 1, 2021
For the "This Is Who I Am" Poetry Contest
Sponsor: L. Milton Hankins
Dismal tale of men and women in the dirty rail compartment
No conception of the charm being knitted by the movement
Of the necklace of gentle light in the pants shirts and blouses
All is too occupied in their struggle to notice the kind crescent
As they are returning home from their respective workplaces
Piteous story of apathy and woe all of them are absorbed in
An old lady chewing parched rice taking it from a rusted tin
In a dark corner is seated a youth with shirt all bloodstained
Suffering from tuberculosis and looking very fragile and thin
A worthless life of empty existence still wretchedly retained
Though no threshold he will come across leading him to a
Plate of rice and curry as at least one square meal a day
A hawker of playthings approaches them in a smiling face
A second vendor selling some human figures made of clay
A gloomy motion picture of life running in an unfair race
10/07/2017
Rhyme Time with 5 Poetry Contest sponsored by Laura Loo
Using the five words viz Piteous Bloodstained Threshold
Conception and Dismal
My heart is shaped like a love heart
With different compartments inside
The largest compartment being LOVE
Centre stage and always my guide
KINDNESS is another compartment
For of acts of kindness bestowed
Valued and forever remembered
Accrued along my life’s road
HUMOUR has a compartment
I consider it my hearts fuel
Laughter, fun and good times
For entry is the golden rule
MEMORIES sweet and precious
Has a compartment of its own
Abundant with optimal happiness
Mine and mine alone
SADNESS unfortunately is a compartment
Containing disappointment, loss and bereft
Yet in there is also appreciation
For having had the gift of the ones who have left
Down the bottom of my love shaped heart
Is MINDFUL the smallest compartment in there
Containing hurt and wrong doings
An ongoing reminder to be aware
There are rumours of a land,
A land more beautiful than anything else.
There is sunshine out there…
And trees. And grass, animals, bushes, flowers, vines, laughter, love, smiles, hugs.
It’s beautiful there.
Though… I wouldn’t really know.
Cause you see, I am housed in a different compartment.
I live in a room with one window.
It’s not a bad room,
It has a big bed, nice cupboards, a dining table… And a window.
I can’t reach the window though,
It’s on the ceiling and the walls are too high.
I try to climb but I keep on falling down.
And the window is very dirty,
You can’t see much out of it.
I don’t know what lies outside my compartment.
But there are rumours of a land,
A land more beautiful than anything else.
Sometimes I feel the gentle brush of wind on my skin
when the window cracks a little bit,
But it always seals itself back together.
I’ve started to think the land outside does not exist.
After all, I’ve never seen it.
All that I see is a room with one window.
a doG meditation...
this is about what we call "pets"
about ownership..objectivity..
an anachronism now..?
the inner model of
consciousness-only
may provide a hint:
only consciousness Knows
not plants..not animals..not us..
that is a radical reversal
of our heretofore belief
that consciousness springs separately
from each compartment of life..
considering again:
only consciousness Knows
is aware..and is expressed in
every-thing..every-where..
this equality of Knowing
filters through our finiteness
our body and mind
and through our "pet" dog
and through the turtle at sea..
So.. we pause:
consciousness only..Knows
I could write a poem of all the headlines,
most influential people, and important events of the decade,
but instead, I’ll share with you some of my memories…
my first memories (when the decade ended, I was seven).
I remember our mustard yellow and avocado green furniture,
watching Kroft Puppets, The Muppets, Captain Kangaroo,
Land of the Lost and Little House on the Prairie;
I remember music, lots of music – Dad playing drums
and taking me to concerts, Mom dancing (she loved the Rolling Stones).
Much of my favorite music is from the seventies…
Andy Gibb was my favorite singer and Telephone Line was my favorite song;
which reminds me…I remember our telephone cord being so long,
we could walk from the kitchen to the living room while talking on it.
I remember the vacuum cleaner was HUGE. I thought it would eat me alive.
I could play 10 songs on the jukebox at Pizza Hut for a dollar, and
the compartment stereo in my house was bigger than a jukebox.
It seems everything was bigger in the seventies.
My mom’s Monte Carlo was huge….
I remember coloring a lot and playing board games.
A handheld pinball machine was the closest thing we had to a video game.
I loved tether ball, roller skating, riding my bike (no helmet),
playing outside (without the fear of being abducted), paper dolls,
my easy bake oven, monogrammed shirts (I thought I was Laverne),
clogs, patent leather sandals, ruffled socks, my Holly Hobby doll,
my troll dolls, my plastic record player, MY RECORDS;
I remember disco dancing with my older cousins –
doing the Bump, the Hustle, the Funky Chicken…
Many great memories, but not all...
I remember people smoking everywhere even on airplanes,
some in my own family; I remember the Miami race riots
that started in 1979, seeing the smoke and not understanding;
I remember waiting in long gas lines, when Elvis was found dead,
Three Mile Island, my dad talking about friends who died in Vietnam,
tying yellow ribbons around our trees, and trying to understand
concepts like divorce, hatred and death.
I hold onto the good memories much tighter.
oh hello-
my name is frigidair and I am
a (retro) refrigerator
for food
I have been in this apartment
since 1950
a nice kitchen but I cannot move
so not sure about
the rest
I am tall as a person
and a bit fat
a lovely creamy white
with drawers
(and an egg compartment)
and of course a freezer
I am restored a restoration
not quit an antique yet
but feeling my age
my father was general electric
and mother was pink
my sister was turquoise
free standing happily I hum
all day
and all night and sometimes I
clunk
I look crooked but that's the floor
I seem to be going
downhill
inside me are good things
like meat and poultry ice cream
milk eggs vegetables juice
fruit
please be careful with my door
oh some of my shelves are lopsided
(well that's old age)
and lets not talk about the cracks
but I still work
and some say I am quite appealing
I've aged well in this heritage building
or at least that is what
I heard (and the word vintage)
did I tell you they restored me
to be frost free
(they put me to sleep for that)
the girl likes that about me
I like it when she caresses me
with a wet damp clothe
she is quite proud
of me
and I like this room big and roomy
and the window
looks out on a lovely garden
that's so nice
and the little things the girl has
on counters so pretty (she is)
she always puts some flowers
by the sink for me oh how sweet
its really a good life for a refrigerator
although not sure how much time
I have left
(no regrets) and to all refrigerators
let me say keep cool and plugged in
__________________________
September 10, 2015
Free Verse Personification
For the contest, A Tribute To Major Appliances
Honorable Mention
The last train to my destination
Sparsely crowded, seats unoccupied here and there
Its weariness is palpable, even the lights are blinking
A group of commuters remain huddled together
After the day’s hard work they prefer nodding upon each others’ shoulder
The train runs sleepily, now and again lights from outside
Flash upon the saint-like faces of the people inside
The train gradually slows down, presently it’s a stop
The platform receives some home bound bodies, someone
Jumps into the compartment carrying a group of young girls
They are perhaps returning from their school fest
They have revelled much, played and sang and danced
So rightfully they are tired, momentary rings on their mobiles
Are responded to, and then silence again
One of them suddenly opens up her eyes
The obscene nudge in her breast can not be mistaken
Can she protest? Would she…
Her meek eyes show helplessness
The lustful hand strikes again… she sobs…
All of a sudden a slap on the face of the rascal
Reverberates through the compartment, a woman in tattered clothes
Raises her finger to him, she’s one of them who go to the town
To earn their daily bread
Next halt, the girls get down
The blinking back light of the train disappears, leaving a trail of dust
So, you want to know what is in my chest.
Well there is no silver,
there is no gold,
There is no hope,
there is no love,
there is no girlfriend;
there is no food,
there is no charm,
there is no honesty,
there is nothing in my chest.
It is empty,
filled with cobwebs and dust,
with a couple spiders hanging around
looking for something to eat.
I am like the spiders
looking for something to eat,
ingest hope, love, charm and honesty.
No pirates will come and take my treasure chest away.
There is nothing for them to take,
but they don't know of the secret compartment,
filled with poetry,
filled with art,
filled with culture,
filled with my own love
that I am willing to share.
Everyone always looks in the chest,
but never finds that secret compartment!
What a shame, for if they found that secret,
they would see life for what it really was.
My treasure chest is a mystery too most people.
I hope you all know,
next time you look in someone's chest
look for the hidden door,
because that place holds the most beautiful of things.
-9/20/13-
For the conest: What is in your Treasure Chest
Written by: Christopher Boskovski
Warmly dedicated to SMJ
Three Sonnets Inspired by my
Reigning Ex
Part 0
Sitting at the edge of the universe
like a man atop a modern skyscraper
who might look down to see the manic street
full of yellow taxis and distant peers,
the first thing I notice on a backwards
glance is my snake-skin mortality
shed and skipping across the flattened ether,
a luminous orb on a linear course
like a puddle-hopping pebble, eager
to sink a lily-pad a child targets
for the hell of it. I realize then - either
I’m dead as a god should be, or just a pet
project of a German ghost, his meager
objective merely my way to forget.
Part I
Before you bed me, I assume the herpes
risk you ignored so many turn-style clicks
so many thick-like quick-strike Rolodex entries
not so long ago made that cavalry slicks
and right-swept Tinder mounts dutifully
saddled have begun their bountiful itch.
A testament, truly, of how beautifully
done was every each one, each surgical stitch
precisely sewn to salvage squeeze-box juice
of battle-field strewn, the red zest of life
a dead soldier blew, is once more, for you,
stalling to flow; knowing your rusty knife
has yet to slice temptation sterilized;
knowing your scalpel’s cut keeps cancer canonized.
Part II
All around you, this kelp-wall compartment
appears an ocean bloomed with room enough
for early light to shuffle halfway bent,
like time’s unpolished hedge, across the rough
field where too young have men gone to die.
Someone is responsible for all of it:
The ghostlike fish who grimly swim upstream;
the crunchy autumn leaves all creased and clustered;
and this, the box you loathe in sleepless dream
of birthday cakes and candles your grandfather
fed the wish-away lawn using mustered
strength from tears his daughter leaked, sprung to lie,
who now only cries at her daughter’s grave,
complaining of stubble when Pawpaw shaves.