Best Crates Poems
God allowed him to see through their eyes,
feel their cries,
understand their plight,
with his body, but with their sight,
the alley way shimmered,
the night stars glimmered,
and the man found himself standing in a dark alley,
the stench of decaying rats,
discovered by hungry cats,
raw sewage, old smoke,
could lead anyone to choke,
as the less savory smells
hit him like a blow,
gagging, as he sensed hell,
displaying its best in show,
he steadied himself against a dirty red brick wall,
hearing the hungry call,
as he tried to keep himself from the fall,
his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness,
he glided up the alley as a shadow,
meaningless, but there,
ignored, but here,
if his shadow haven’t been silhouetted on the wall against the light,
he would have been another soul lost in the night.
People passed the alley without so much of a glance,
life gave him no chance,
as he was just another vague outline in society,
just like the abandoned crates and garbage bins all around,
he was just like garbage tossed on the ground,
his silhouette gave no clue on who he was,
just a flickering light,
from time to time just plain out of sight,
God’s strong hands seized his shoulders to steady him,
made him look at the people he once ignored,
made him understand,
that once in a while, people may need a loving hand.
One Toy Soldier
Little toy soldiers are all put away
Training is over for this time of day.
Where do these little boys go now to play?
Away from their home to die in the fray.
Little toy weapons are no longer there
But boxed in attics by mothers with care--
Where keepsakes still hold a lock of his hair--
While rockets and missles challenge his fare.
Little toy bad guys and little toy good
Haze in the distance when misunderstood.
Where fall the lilies on long crates of wood
And each gave their all--as good soldiers should...
Little toy soldiers are coming back home...
Mothers are weeping, laments all alone
Where flags lie folded--the gift of Shalom...
As the long box is lowered...'neath the loam
One little toy soldier is placed on the top
Remembering All--so that None be Forgot.
deborah burch©
4/14/2012
Fruits
come in
abundance,
All yellow fields
burst with golden grains,
Birds sing their songs of grace;
Sunshine shows God’s full embrace.
Our farmers dance with joy and cheer,
Crates are full, all hearts in gratefulness,
Hail bountiful harvest this month of year!
©2015Leonora Galinta
All Rights Reserved
Sept. 24, 2015 6.25 p.m.
-I'm also dedicating this poem to the birthday celebrants of the month especially to my loving poet sis-bff, PD, also to my dear friend, Debbie D and the rests. I'll also include mself. :)Best wishes with more prosperity and successess!
Eight Place
Contest: For Love of October
Judged: 10/1/2015
We are all gathered on the platform
Jumping up and down with glee
We can see the smoke of the puffing train
Coming nearer to take us to the sea
We are off on a Whitsun treat
Forty children or more
Many adults to look after us
Experience told them what was the score
They heaved on wicker baskets of goodies
And crates of lemonade
We were off to Barry Island for a Picnic
Just a half hours ride away
The seats were rather hard and had
mesh racks above to store luggage for folk
Opened up the windows with a leather strap
Stuck out heads to a face full of smuts and smoke
The choc choo sound was so exhilarating
Excitement grew with every mile
Wanted to be that train driver with his whistle
To pull that chain that made the sound, bringing smiles.
Had a wonderful time on the sands
Paddled our feet in the sea
Gathered around to eat our food
Washed down for the adults with gallons of tea
Forty tired and happy children
Clambered aboad that train for home
The clicketty clack of the wheels
the sway of the carriage, sending them to sleep and dream
We were soon at our home station
So sleepy yet didn't want the day to end
Tired and dirty, had a lovely day in the sun
Starting the day aboard a steam train that puffed around the bend.
Penned January 20 2015
~The Fruit of labour~
A frail body rests upon the bed; silver grey hair spread
on soft pillows; the fan turns lazily as her mind
travels slowly through memory’s winding paths.
Under the blue sky she toils in sundrenched fields,
bent and aching, brow dripping, eyes stinging.
She wipes her face, stopping to rest, then back to work.
Sitting on the porch watching the setting evening sun
and her young boys play, she runs her hand across the swell
of her belly, feeling the faint movements within,
anticipating the pain of an imminent deliverance.
Change of scene, and a relaxed smile strays on her face
as she recollects the abundance of harvest’s crops,
the laden crates of colourful, juicy, mellow fruit,
the threshing floor where golden straw and grain are strewn.
One last liberating push; as a cry fills the room
her husband’s anxious features soften with relief.
The pangs of childbirth now replaced with satisfaction,
she holds her little daughter in her hands, tenderly.
A smile still plays on her lips; her eyes flicker and close.
Her breath is soft as she slowly slips into peaceful sleep.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
18th June 2015
Contest: Sweats & Sweets
Sponsor: Olive Eloisa Guillermo
Placed 1st
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
AGE OF TEN
Way back then when I was ten
Things were so very different then
I wrote with ink in a fountain pen
Whenever we could we would build a den
And I loved to help my dad in the garden
Way back then when I was ten
I walked to school and was never late
Always ate everything on my dinner plate
Played hop scotch by the garden gate
And was not allowed to go to bed late
Way back then when I was ten
No television colours only black and white
Real Christmas trees and a glass fairy light
We all had a different size of trike
Then I got my first two wheeled bike
Way back then when I was ten
We had so much freedom to roam
But must be in for meals at home
Only a phone boxes with a dial phone
And no phone in many a home
Way back then when I was ten
Latest craze was roller skates
And hula hoop with your mates
Skipping ropes and Meccano gates
But lots of fun with wooden crates
Way back then when I was ten
Coins were in pounds shillings and pence
Mothers talked over the garden fence
Scooters that you could make go at such a pace
Noisy steam trains that always seem to race
Way back then when I was ten
With friends you played out doors
Toys for your imagination scatted on the floor
Skipping ropes, skates and many things more
Sledges of wood, a dolls house with opening doors
Way back then when I was ten
Fun was had with blackboard and chalk
Clay dolls that you could walk
And new plastic ones that wouldn’t talk
Then babies came by way of the Stork UNSUPPORTED CODE
Alone on a mountain top, she quietly sits.
Looking down below lies a dark pit.
On the other side runs a river next to a valley so green.
Pretty flowers everywhere, it’s the most beautiful scene
Overhead the birds are singing as they all fly by.
The setting of the sun adds a beautiful contrast to the colour of the sky.
Animals on the field playing around all so carefree.
This is the place she calls her own, a place to escape reality.
She closes her eyes for a minute, n the memories come flooding in.
Memories of her childhood days, life then was like a dream.
Climbing on the mango trees, making swings out of old tyres
Hide and seek in the garden and playing with toys made outta wires.
Sliding down the banks with old crates and cardboards.
Not missing an episode of star wars and playing with toy swords.
Running around bare feet n not worried about any cuts n bruises.
Having fun in all our games no matter who wins or loses.
Rushing home after school to catch her fav cartoons.
Sunday morning trips to the beach n been there till late in the afternoon.
Holidays and special occasions always celebrated with family and friends.
She opened her eyes n wished those days had never ended.
The sun had finally set, it was time for her to go.
But she will be back here soon, of that she sure knows.
For this is where she finds serenity, her place to be alone.
A place she feels free and far away from home.
She heads on back, an hour’s drive away.
She felt reluctant to leave, she wished she cud of stayed.
But she enjoys the long drive home as she passes a forest of trees
This is how she forgets about her pain by reliving the special memories. .
a well crafted necklace
surrounds your neck
(long
smooth
inviting)
delivers subtle accusations
of adultery…
…cannot be faithful,
only you alone must endure
these constant
passing’s by of tempting selections;
forced still
head down
layered
like a deck of cards hopes for a queen,
curses the joker.
slowly i pull back your fastened ribboning
the very fabric that hides
your forbidden fluid, ceremonial aroma
floats orchids across the breeze
plucked perfectly from your long stem
to pour all of you
fulfills
all of me...
selfish me!
scent trembles
excites my senses
eyes seduced to closure,
your taste never alien…
no longer forcing away your temptation
firmly grasping
caressing your thin waist
exiling premature hesitation
lifting,
tilting,
our mouths become one
pouring every ounce passionately
a want that cause angels to turn,
afflicting the harvest moon to blush.
swishing you around my tongue
leaving a masque of satisfaction
(clouds losing breathe)
exhaling slowly
looking into your eyes
pleasant is this longing
(smoke barrels, oak crates, blackberries)
passing one simple statement:
“I am thankful for bottles of Merlot”
Shrunken sweaters, dusty ball caps
Tarnished silver, and hedge clippers
Pointed hat pins, gaudy jewelry
Faded jeans and worn out slippers
Greasy fry pan, wobbly table
Crates of dog-eared musty books
Tattered doilies, ragged Barbies
One brown old crock pot that still cooks
Rusty shovel, dented buckets
Ma's old apron, broken dishes
Dated calendar, crooked lampshade
Chipped glass bowl for all your fishes
Ugly painting, candle holders
One old bike for exercising
Broken TV, toaster oven
Doesn't work....it's not surprising!
What's the point?" our husbands mutter
While we fill the garage with clutter
I explain to him..."She buys mine, and I buy hers"
"What's the point of shopping stores??!"
"Now...don't you know the grass is greener?"
"OH GOOD!" "She's bought my vacuum cleaner!"
Just then I point across the street!!
Another yard sale.....and we both shriek!!
He points at me and shakes his fist
But I'll just ignore and toss a kiss
And side by side I'm in a race...
Who gets there first will buy that vase!!
Whoopee!!! I spy a broken chair...well, I can glue it!
Just hope she doesn't beat me to it!
Another point about my purchase
Perhaps I can use it for another purpose
Oh No!!...he's found old tool collections!!
And points at them with great affection!!
The point I'm making is simply this
Another's person's trash or junk, may soon become your bliss!
Winds blow leaves rustle the branches strike the windows
the dogs are restless and move from the sofa to their crates
I watch the leaves and branches as they dance a war
dance the dance of ancient tribes twirling around rocks and winds
preparations begin as the evening darkness spins
a warning dance and a blacken night
clouds cover the sparkle of the stars the only light,
electricity flashes from the sky, electrical wires are shut down
man’s mechanical load, light bulbs go out candles flicker
and fine grained crystal satellites are fighting to remain
the universe stretches and sings to a sun
stronger than anything mankind has known,
each second a billion nuclear bombs explodes
with earth, and planets’ moons red, white and blue
abandoned now oxygen free, nitrogen night atmospheric
emptiness there are electrodes in the air
magnetic fields solar flares
We damage the earth and the universe prepares.
Tree Top Dancers
and Circus Clowns
The neighbors moved away.
They said nothing to anyone,
they just left.
New people took the home.
There was a big truck.
It was full of boxes,
and a TV.
It was jam-packed with animals...
and cages and crates,
and statutes of...
Greek women holding water vases,
Greek men with harps.
The truck itself was all blue.
Funny, even the tires.
Odd.
I watched as they unloaded other things;
a giant clock that rang...
from the time they took it from the vehicle,
until it went... inside... (hushed tones).
There was a deep freezer,
the size you could fit six grown men...in.
One on top of another...
a side; by side by side by side, by side, by side.
There was a trunk with a hunchback,
and then a hunchback with a trunk.
What can I say... they were a pair,
I had to stare.
Unfair, I looked away.
Then the mom, and the dad...
came rolling up the drive.
They were in a giant bread truck;
made of cowhide?
A dozen kids on the back,
and even a few on a rack?
A lively crew of gypsies.
Carnies, forced to retire;
from long days,
now gone.
The circus, the show,
the festival of colors;
no more...
Come to a new place,
to put on a new face,
to leave no trace,
of all that was left behind.
Yet how do you start a fresh life,
from a comfortable place you always lived,
upside down, right side up,
cheers all around,
and elephants that danced,
giraffes that sang,
and popcorn was the main course;
at dinner.
Now everyday life,
full of strife,
trying to make things right,
somewhere in the world.
The clowns still make some laugh,
at every funny gaff,
even if...
it is not in a big shoe,
or under a giant tent.
Be happy.
It is a choice.
WALKING THE AUTUMN PATH
Cracklings
under my feet
breathing fragrant leafage
of reds and golds, brown twigs of trees-
fallen.
Juicy
succulent pears,
big-bright orange pumpkins
fill crates in the grocery store-
displayed.
Fresh-baked
breads, apple pies
flirting sweet to my nose,
I hastily run: tasting all,
I burp!
Cool,crisp
air kissed our cheeks
as we sit close outside
steady gazing the evening sky:
moon, stars...
_______________________________________________________
CONTEST NAME: AUTUMN STROLL CINQUAIN FORM
Contest Sponsor: Eve Roper
~~2nd place~~
Olive Eloisa Guillermo
5:24 pm, October 22, 2015
They
sat on the
back porch, in
crates, destined for
market. Grandmother
carefully hand-washed &
dried each egg. When she
had tallied several dozen,
they were taken to the store
in town, which also passed
as gas station & post office.
For her, it was a bit more
than a trip to sell eggs;
it was a time to visit,
gossip & perhaps
choose a new
broom.
Basketball creator: James Naismith
Designed the game first used a round football
Late 1891 also used two peach crates
Teaching at the YMCA Training School in Springfield, Massachusetts
Kansas Jayhawks' athletic director and coach
Originator of America's beloved national pastime
Basketball creator: James Naismith
3/26/18
written by James Edward Lee Sr. ©