Best Duffle Poems
I couldn’t understand the language she spoke,
at least not all of it,
but the emotion pouring past her lips,
the tears in her eyes, her clenched and shaking fists
enunciated more clearly,
than any piece of English Poetry I had ever read,
and grabbed me, held me still.
…In that moment, her soul was in my arms.
In that finite, tender breath of our lives,
she was my mother, my best friend…
but I could not console her.
I didn’t have the words;
and my heart sank into the
concrete between us,
wet with the pain of God’s rain
and her tears.
…Were my tears
So, I simply opened my palms
toward her crouched form and
spoke the only words I could
fathom, that would be accepted
by a stranger on a dangerous street.
"I am sorry, It will be okay. God will bless you."
I knew she did not understand…
"Lo siento"
“que va a estar bien”
“Dios te bendecira’ “
the words were as messy as the overturned
duffle bag at her feet…and fumbled, slowly
from my lips, as my knees hit the street.
Two strangers, cried in the rain,
knowing nothing of each other’s suffering,
and yet we shared the weight,
together, for those few moments;
the barrier of language was broken.
Love spoke for us.
-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.
…Love transcends any language
I was five years old when the war was over
August, 1945, and my daddy sent word
He was on his way home from Guadalcanal.
Grandma was already preparing a feast
For the family to celebrate his homecoming.
Momma took her last ration token from the box
She kept high on the kitchen counter cabinet
And filled up the old, worn-down Chevy with gas
So she could pick up my daddy at the bus stop.
Everyone was super excited except for me.
You see, I could not remember this man.
I didn’t know this person coming into my life--
Why was everyone so excited?
He had been gone to war since I was a baby.
The only man in my life was my grandpa.
One uncle was fighting with Patton in Italy;
Another was somewhere in Japan, we thought.
I tried to ignore the party goings-on,
And I reckoned I would make the best of it.
I was climbing the sour cherry tree next to the porch
When this man I did not know came up the hill.
He had a duffle bag thrown over his shoulder;
He wore a white uniform with a strange hat--
“A navy man,” he later told me, and he said, “I
Will make a navy man out of you!”
Later I heard Momma saying she’d taken
The last token to buy gas she hadn’t needed to.
FIRST PLACE WINNER
Written 3/22/2021
for the "Last Token" contest
sponsored by Mystic Rose Rose
She is the eclectic cat lady
Pretty in pink wearing a daisy
You be the judge I think she's crazy
Bobby sock chic her scarf's paisley
One big duffle with many cats inside
she will show them off with the utmost pride
In the bag you can hear them collide
Still they never stray far from her side
When the bag opens it's quite a scene
To my great surprise she has thirteen
Her favorite one his name is Dean
the smallest cat she calls Jelly Bean
As for me I am more of a dog guy
If you smelled her cats you would know why
When the cats see my dogs they sure jump high
Boy oh boy does the fur ever fly
I am the friendly dog loving fellow
My dogs love the sound of my Cello
They sing along while dressed in Yellow
Cat lady smiles while feeding us jello.
For Line Gauthier's "Crazy Cat Lady" Contest. January 2, 2018.
My first poem of the new year.
Each is a piece, a small part
of a composite that has come
together in a morning,
the frayed strands of dreams
knitted into a waking timed now
to a slow tread on a familiar street.
Then suddenly, careering through
the center of my thoughts a train
comes with bells at a crossing
clanging loudly and wheels grinding
on rails heading off towards
a distant point in the past. I stop
and see myself, late teens,
leaving home, riding the interstate
with dreams spilling out
of a duffle bag, head in a cloud
of hope. I was Rimbaud on rails,
high on poetry that I took straight.
Six months in a one room flat
I ran out of money and a literary career,
hitchhiked back home to sink
into a wintery despair.
A lifetime has passed
and I have left a poem tied
to the end of each year as if
marking my way. The words
of most have now weathered away
to a silence. I write as a form
of prayer to that greater silence
and on still mornings, hear
the sound of a train in the far
distance growing quieter.
I lost a friend; Jason really loved his gin.
One night while he was on a binge.
He walked off into the deep end,
now no one has ever seen Jason again.
I lost a friend; his life was his duffle sack.
One day he headed to Iraq.
I didn’t know him when he came back,
well I guess Billy’s mind slipped right off its track.
I lost a friend; his name was old Stan the Man.
Spent two tours in Afghanistan.
Survived bullets and scorching heat,
just to come home and get shot down in the street.
I lost a friend; lived in a house on the hill.
Had two kids and a bag of pills.
One day they found her on the floor,
she’s not going to need those pills anymore.
I lost some friends; I only think about them.
Oh, once in a while, now and then.
Don’t want to seem harsh or unkind,
but as they say, they’re out of sight, out of mind.
You know that life is a very fickle thing.
Make the best of what it might bring.
We’re just a bright flash ‘cross the screen,
before we can blink… we’re just a memory.
I was one of the cool set,
navy blue duffle coat, scarf around
my neck, seated at a table
in Pepe's Coffee Lounge
discussing Baudelaire
and T.S. Eliot and the demise
of the political elites.
The conscription ballot hung
over our heads helmeted
in a flowering of uncombed hair
in the winter of 1966.
We thought the world was about
to tip, that the old regime
was coughing its last
on Craven A and Camel cigarettes.
Booze was cheap and jobs
chased us down the street.
In a hundred buried silos,
annihilation was just a push
of a button away.
We partied hard beneath
the threat of that mushroom cloud.
We're old now, sit under the cloud
of our own thoughts, replaying
scratchy, worn out tracks
retrieved from the sleeves
of our neural LP's.
What we tore down back then
has been replaced with more
sinister demons that eat away
at the collective soul.
In the end, everything
is just reabsorbed.
Some of us still frequent
coffee shops and discuss
Baudelaire and T.S. Eliot,
still write poetry,
shed a tear
at the melancholic beauty
of a setting sun.
New sheets
Light a candle with that familiar smell
Who can tell?
I have come this far
Setting up barriers to box myself
To stop picking up the traces of when you left
Emptied your cabinet, filled your duffle bag
Pick it up when you’re ready
I’m moving on to something empty
Now I’m making new history.
Let this room be a start of my new memory
Pain is more when there is no more “if”
I’m glad you left me hanging on a cliff
No water to drown me
Only a kaleidoscope sky to pull me up.
Turn off the lights, let’s end this love
I’ll sleep alone or with a stranger
Even if that’s the way, still its better
You always give me pieces I can’t build
Now I’ll give you a space you can’t bridge
Coz when I fall I fly.
When you left, I didn’t die.
I am a free soul you can’t defy.
20 Line Haiku Hijack
I stole a haiku from Japan
Stuffed it in a duffle bag, added 20 lines
Fed it chocolate day and night before the flight
Then placed it on the market when I landed
Shrimp and whale tails make sound haiku
Deliciously simple like sushi. Japan hated mine.
Called it distasteful, too heavy and rude
Complaining it suffered from too many lines
I sold the stolen poem to a toothless man next
An Afghanistan Taliban in need of a wife
He realized the mistake and returned it at once
Calling it bland, loveless and torturously trite
I injected a diaphragm on the haiku 2nd line
To prevent undo pregnancies
When left alone to expand, haiku will multiply on command
It grew from 3 to 20 lines in what Japan calls a crime
Hijacking haiku and adding more lines is wrong
It changes the meaning and makes it too long
Haiku will never be the same again
In the end I put it on a train to India…a quatrain to be exact.
The bike was loaded and packed
The duffle bag strapped to the rack
The air was crisp when we started out at dawn
In the early morning hours we were gone
Down the road with the wind on our faces
Off to visit some far off places
Headed south down the Mother Road
The bike trailer behind us we towed
We past the St Louis Arch gateway to the west
What a magnificent site I can atest
Stopped to see the Meramec Caverns
The Wine Table formation would look great in an old tavern
Through Cuba Missouri we rode the bike at a crawl
Taking pictures of the murals on the building walls
We rode through Kansas the shortest part of Route 66
On the Rainbow Curve Bridge we took more pics
We traveled on to see the Big Blue Whale in Catoosa OK
In Tulsa we camped out at the KOA
Took a break from the open road freedom
The next day in Clinton we visited the Route 66 Museum
On to Texas we then rode
Checking out the sites it had to behold
South of Amarillo saw the Cadillac Ranch
Got off the bike to walk off a cramp
In Adrian ate at the Midpoint Cafe
We had rode Old Route 66 halfway
On America's Highway we motored through New Mexico
In the distance we eyed Mount Tucumcari's plateau
Visited Petroglyph National Monument outside of Albuquerque
The sun setting on the petroglyphs looked spectacularly
Then we drove past the Continental Divide
Observed red rock mountains along side
In Arizona we finally arrived
By the scenery we were hypnotized
In Winslow stood on the corner like the Eagles song
The memory of that will be lifelong
Visited the Petrified Forest and Painted Desert
By this time we were sunburned and weathered
In Flagstaff we stopped to camp and rest
We spied an eagle tending it's nest
To Sedona rode the Oak Creek Scenic Drive
The views and landscape made me feel alive
Alas our trip was over we had to go home
But on this trip there were so many memories sown
Yiu can walk a mile in a mirror stance and
never feelyour own re reflection. Your glaze gaze
bends on invisibility--a certain humor
crosseyed cleverly cleared like the rooms in the
Winchester House or a traffic jamitis through
the Mac maze at sundown. Feel ferr to co caress
your tired instep and take a loud load off
hope for that new impact that will tell
the torrid tale page by page compact dutiful
but united in a duffle bag born of poise
pronounced zipper closed but not finger
forgotten-A minor standing at the Bebop
wishing well cool crammed
with apast B&W luxuries like a passed used
kleenix round for loose nose hits--picture
frame elements often snotconceived, but
always matted for ignoi insignificance. Like
clean tree pages waiting to be messed by
someone's illict penmanship, dry but butt bold,
promising but hiding those grammar grabber
glib gratuaties in hopes of a chance for a fat
freeload advance and a creamy handshake which will
sale set the ass o nine critics on their
Keep pseudo salient the echo encrusted
think thoughts you columinize- like a pants
pair without the cute cuffs--hope your midsection
is in tune with the public bulge extroadinarre.
Simple times, simple terme, simple thoughts
simple solutions knowtellseefree for all course
bookings on a thorny stitch stage- pious prowess
butt ugly unique paychecks pay roll a sham stabbing
sliky slander most of the toime home prompt
legal-though low-some in in intent and
dubious dime parlor dance demeanor. Customize, cannonize that cowper's
culprit calamatious catastrophic claim. WTF?
No winter postcards of deep snow and bliss
No winter postcards of mistletoe kiss
Winter was cold, winter was tough
Winter was long and we all had it rough
No Father Christmas, no Saint Nicholas
No bright blue, glass baubles, no presents for us
Fantasy Christmas, fantasy tree
We had to live, through the reality
Dad was long gone, the man did his best
When chronic bronchitis, seeped into his chest
The place where he toiled, was all he had known
But it's dust and it's damp had now left mam alone
What would befall us, what would we be
Who would care for us, if we did not have, she
Mam did her best for her nine hungry brood
But I will never forget, there was so little food
Mam had her pride but the children came top
She burnt all the cupboards to keep the rooms hot
Furniture smashed for the fire was the norm
Furniture burned just to keep the kids warm
The hard times as a child sit deep in my mind
The emotions and memories, I remember, unkind
The hunger, the cold, the panger remain
So little food, again and again
The times were of hardship, poverty, pain
Coats on the bed was the name of the game
No warm fancy blankets in my childhood
Just old duffle coats and we fought for the hood
All of the cooking, from one frying pan
Hunched round a fire, nine kids and their mam
All I remember is fried porridge oats
Dark dankie bedrooms and old duffle coats
Snotty nosed kids crying hungry and cold
What bread there might be would be covered in mould
All of the clothing was hand me down stuff
Nine children to dress, there was never enough
One stocking each and sometimes one shoe
In all of my memory I can't recall two
Now most of the children, have just what they need
Warm clothing and food and laptop PC.s
Ipods and kindles with mince pies for tea
Have they ever heard of the word, poverty
I am not angry, I am not sad
One learns to accept, what one had as a lad
Would you swap that Hulme time, to be young in this day
With modern technology and regular pay
Would you sell your soul to escape poverty
Then sell it elsewhere, your not swapping with me
His duffle bag is by the door
I ask him what they're fighting for.
He tapes the dog tags to his chest
gives the 38 one last test.
The baby's sleeping in the other room
he slowly puts his combat boots on.
He's got the shades, he's got the hat,
he packed the tent, he's got the mat,
a picture of us on a sunny day.
Was it in April or was it in May?
He hands me his last will
and reminds me to pay the car payment bill.
He already seems so far gone
and I don't know what to tell his son:
Daddy's fighting for freedom and for peace,
Daddy's sending you a kiss?
No, I don't know when he'll be back,
Daddy sends you a hug-around-your-neck.
Remember the games daddy used to play?
Remember what daddy used to say:
the moon shines for everyone,
I'm your Daddy, you're my son.
He puts his camouflage jacket on
and stands in the kitchen a little forlorn;
a soldier in desert uniform,
a soldier on his way to Desert Storm.
I don't want to think that he could die
and surely enough I begin to cry.
He looks at me but doesn't say a word
it's that silence that really hurts.
He left us a long time ago
when he first learned that he'd have to go.
He wants to be a fighter and a father, too,
he whispers you know that I love you.
He walks to the door and grabs his gear,
with his back to me I can't see his tears.
I wanna scream, I wanna shout:
Why did you stay in? I begged you to get out.
I'll be waiting here for you,
baby, you know I love you, too.
If you're ever in trouble think about me.
I'll give you strength, just wait and see.
If you ever feel weak just call my name,
my love will be your guiding flame.
When you're hurting and hungry and feeling blue
remember that we are missing you, too.
And when you return things will be alright,
I'll hold you in my arms all night.
He doesn't turn and then he is gone,
all I have left is a soldier's son.
To all the folk still wearing
That choke-chain gambler's collar
Who try to play within their limits
But bet their bottom dollar
To the disappointed hopeful
With his head held in his hands
You heard jackpot sounds that shook the ground
Yeah you were lied to man
To the woman and her duffle bag
With plans to beat the house
They are going to hypnotize you
Its a trap sweetheart, get out!
To fortunes few who make the news
With a big old giant cheque
Don't let them take your picture
You are bait to catch the rest
They don't show that man who lost his home
Free falling to his death
They don't tell you how that woman
Fit a rope around her neck
And they say they want the players
That will bet within their limit
But the house was built up brick by brick
By all the ones who didn't
He’s sitting on the edge of his bed.
Still dreaming.
Tossing love letters she never wrote into a fireplace that isn’t there.
He’s screaming at his closet for keeping
secrets that he found inside a duffle bag
she forgot to take when she decided
it was time to peel back the veneer
and build a trebuchet out of the remnants.
He can still feel the eruptions inside his chest.
Again, and again.
Scattering embers of still volatile sorrow, lament, and melancholy.
By morning he will be sewn into the floor.
Too exasperated to move. Too disheveled to rise up,
and attempt any sort of remedy.
He won't take his pills.
He won’t greet the Sun.
He won’t eat or leave his room.
He’ll just stare into the closet, on the floor.
Wishing he had never dug up the bones stuck in his throat.
Wishing he could sleep without going to war.
-James Kelley 2018
23 Line Haiku Hijack
I stole a haiku from the Japanese
Stuffed it in a duffle bag, added 23 lines to make it fat
Fed it chocolate day and night before we started
Threw the 5-7-5 lines overboard in flight
Then placed the new one on the market when I landed
Shrimp and whale tails make for sound haiku
Deliciously raw like sushi
Japan hates my poetry and me. They call it criminal
Call it distasteful, crude and rude and even disrespectful
Complaining it suffered from too many lines and rhymes
I sold the stolen poem to a toothless Afghan man
A Taliban by trade, in need of a wife
He realized the mistake we made
Haiku is not an overweight woman, so he returned it
Calling it bland, loveless and torturously trite
I injected a diaphragm on the haiku 2nd line
To prevent undo pregnancies
When left alone to expand, haiku will multiply on command
It grew from 3 to 23 lines in what Japanese call, disgraceful
Hijacking haiku and adding more lines is wrong
It changes the meaning and is far too long
Haiku will never be the same again
I sent it off to India on a train…a quatrain to be exact.
I have no shame, and that's a fact