Best Folded Up Poems
In my day, the mail carrier was called the Mailman.
However, I don't recall any women choosing the profession.
He came to our house twice a day.
Once in the morning,
And once in the afternoon.
Time went slower then
and he had time.
He could deliver the mail
and talk to us kids a while too.
Once when he came by
we were playing mumbly-peg.
He asked what we were doing
and we showed him.
He got out his own knife
Balanced it on his finger
and ka chunk, it stuck expertly the first time.
His blade stuck in the ground every time.
Mine came a little too close to my toes
but stuck. He complimented the risky landing
then folded up his knife and put it back
in the mail bag draped over his shoulder.
The leather, old and very worn
gave way on the edge where he reached in
for the letter that needed to be delivered next door.
Leaning into the weight of the bag,
he was on his way.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T-KFwPNkS6U
Eddie was a braggart,
At least we thought as much.
His lower lip was loaded,
A three finger dip of snuff…
My mind said, “I think not.”
And he claimed to be a rider,
Bragging of his chaps.
Black leather with blue fringes,
Sportin’ bunnies on the sides.
Said he’d show us all someday…
My mind said, “I think not.”
He was bow-legged as he stood,
Like he’d been upon a bronc.
But when the braggart claimed
He could chug a quart o’ beer…
My mind said, “I think not.”
The day came that we saw his prize,
The heralded leather chaps.
He treated them like china
In that tissue paper wrap.
Did that mean he could ride?
My mind said, “I think not.”
Eddie had no money,
So we anteed up his mount.
And when they called his number,
He strapped on spurs and chaps.
Then, loaded up another
Three finger dip of snuff.
Is this how cowboys do it?
My mind said, “I think not.”
He climbed the fence and lowered himself
Aboard a mad black mare,
Screwed his left hand in the riggin’
Threw his right hand in the air,
And said but one word softly,
“Outside!"
I’m glad that I was there.
That mare pitched to and fro.
He spurred her when she grounded,
Then with all four in the air.
And when the buzzer sounded,
He threw his right boot over
Landing both boots on the ground.
Is this how cowboys do it?
The other boys had not!
He folded up his chaps
Before he took a step,
And walking to the announcer’s stand
“Where’s my cash?” He quipped.
That night in celebration,
Eddie chugged a quart o’ beer
With three finger dip in place!
I'm proud that I was there.
If that’s how cowboys do it,
Then I’ve met one,
Face to face!
So, this is where butterflies go to die.
Atop this burning ochre beach.
Amidst the palomino stones, party streamers, and chinook bones.
They folded up their powdery dreams.
Awaiting the pallbearer's tide.
Toting emerald caskets, silver-lined.
So, this is where butterflies go to die.
Sad, sad little paper bag
No one brought you to school
Nobody listened to the crinkle
Of a sandwich being lifted out of you
Folded up and left in the junk drawer
All hope was lost, deflated and defeated
Until, one day, some little hands
Drew your eyes with black marker
On your bottom, and made you anew
Little green scales, some red and yellow
Hooray, the day has come! All hail!
The dragon that guards the tea party!
Umbrella
When, picking up from where it left off last,
the gales begin to blast the good rudders,
anchors or anything that underpins
a muslin day or when, ineluctably
caught up in the searing frenzy of
earthly pangs shaking up the innards of
another silken day or again, when
the carefully manufactured myth of
social ceremony needs to be propped
up with the vigorous mien of a noble
bearing, one seeks out the folded up,
dormant vitality from some corner
of one’s psyche, dusts it, opens it up
and finds under it relief, rest or class.
By S.Jagathsimhan Nair
Form: Sonnet
27-3-14
For Kelly Deschler's contest
I'm an orange monkey
in China I was made,
stitched with much affection
and garlanded with braid.
Purchased then on eBay
and wrapped to make a gift,
I was posted to a friend
who felt a little miffed.
I felt I wasn't wanted
when stuffed into a drawer,
would I be forgotten,
and nameless evermore?
From that home some months on
I was taken out with care,
taken on a journey,
though how could I know where?
It was in the Village Hall
as part of a display;
in company with others
we made a fine array.
People drank their coffee
accompanied by cake.
No one offered me a slice.
Oh how my tummy ached!
They paid for orange tickets
each with a lucky number;
and orange gave me hope
waiting there in wonder.
Standing close beside me
the caller said, "Be still."
The tickets duly stirred,
I felt an inner thrill.
He drew one folded tight
revealed as seventy-nine.
Forward came a woman
and chose a vintage wine.
Another one was drawn.
I was filled again with hope.
But the winner from the back
picked out a box of soap.
Ticket after ticket drawn
one by one the prizes went,
and I was left alone
all sad and discontent.
It was at the very end
that I was claimed at last.
Trailed behind by my left arm,
I felt all hope was past.
In a nearby village
I was offered up once more.
The prize that no one claimed,
squashed in another drawer.
I languished there with socks
all folded up and clean.
For such a sleepy friendship
I wasn't really keen.
On yet another venture,
out shopping I was taken
and left at AgeUK –
unless I am mistaken,
– displayed upon a shelf.
There customers looked round,
a few were glancing up
to see my sorry frown.
Then one day a child came in,
held close by his left arm.
Looking up he caught my eye.
Like me, had he suffered harm?
“That's my favourite colour,”
he called aloud and pointed.
“Please, oh please! give me! give me!"
At last his Mum relented.
There he held me oh so close,
now at last feeling safe
and wanted as a friend.
It was a long embrace.
And now I have a name
which makes me feel right special.
I thought I was a boy,
but no, he calls me Cheryl.
If you seek a moral
in this happy ending:
Do not bin unwanted gifts,
persist with fresh befriending.
My mah jongg buddies came today
(We’re 5 if all are able)
And thus it was my turn, as host,
To prep the folding table.
It mostly lives behind my bed,
Its metal legs tucked in,
Where it just sits and gathers dust
Until the games begin.
We play but once a month and then
We rotate where we meet
And when the table’s center stage,
The set-up is complete.
The game is over, friends have gone;
The table’s bedroom-bound,
All folded up and tucked away
Until the next go-round.
Amour,
A little letter for you,
And a few words to state the sweet obvious.
Keep the love I write of folded up in paper,
Our origami correspondence, if you will.
Swallows, ravens, cranes and swans,
Enough for an aviary of everything you ever need to know.
Un-caged, un-clipped, unending,
Free to the parchment blue.
Mon amant comme un oiseau,
My lover like the sky.
I remain yours.
Roll Call
______________________
I heard the final roll call,
saw a 21 gun salute,
as Soldiers stood in unison
for something absolute.
They came to say goodbye,
with honor and such pride
as they stood there in uniform
in each other to confide.
Another good one is gone,
a soul laid to peaceful rest
thanks and praise and metals
bestowed upon their chest.
The trumpets softly playing,
as the tears are being shed
the voices of friends and loved ones
the final words being said.
The Stars and Stripes of old glory,
being folded up with care
and gently given with respect
to the loved one waiting there.
For with such admiration,
they are buried with this honor
to always be remembered
Brother, Sister, Mother, and Father.
6/23/14
To jab or not to jab, why is it even a question?
Get the shot or don’t, it shouldn’t be a global inquisition.
This site is for poetry, not sharing your views on a blog.
Post it as a poem, then you won’t agitate the dog.
The only genes being changed are folded up in a drawer.
Come up with new material, this is really a bore.
I’ve had family die because they thought like you.
They listened to the same lies that you now spew.
Keep your opinions to your bloody self.
I think your facts are checked by an elf on a shelf.
If you don’t want the vaccine that is entirely up to you.
Do you see any blogs by those of us who do?
Go get a pill that can help with your mental type.
The government is not trying to kill us, that’s just hype.
Use your words as a poet if you have such wit.
I read your crazy blog your words are just spit.
bye bye lucid wristbone you have
shaken me awake to many times now.
rattling my head, rattling
back to that old house.
back when it rained a lot against
the kitchen window.
all my dreams were kept folded up in
a brown and red quilt from my grandmother..
cross-stiched knees and ankles warmly
wrapped for the night..
in the morning there would be cereal bowl
milk rings on the kitchen table.
maybe even a little gravel in my skin.
but dont look now cause the backyard
swing is made of rust.
all my memories of wood and cloth.
see where I was sown together so long ago.
so get out the wrench and untighten the bolts,
my chest to open, my head to close.
I
am a
little Xmas tree.
I am made of plastic.
You would not know to look at me.
Because I look so realistic when decorated.
I
have been
with the same
family for many years.
Watching the little ones grow
from toddlers to grown adults now.
I
still see
the excitment in
their eyes on Xmas morning.
The rush to open the presents beneath me.
The joy of giving and sharing gifts among themselves.
I
am a
little Xmas tree.
I twinkle and shine
merrily through Xmas windows.
Until the season ends on January sixth.
When I am folded up and put in storage again.
II
II
II
II
II
II
24/12/2016
Cold nights and tree lights taught him to forget home.
He’s mellow tonight though, no telling what goes unknown.
He packs light and steps heavy and taps his fading flashlight and I bet he’s a lefty.
Duracell down spiral connects with flesh on even time, a metronome of alkaline.
Ill forever remember this snowless December and he’ll certainly forget me.
Still I sway with the music still he keeps it rock steady.
As he rolls down my street and through the night (like I roll through my week)
All that exists is the moon, that man… and me.
Ain’t it somethin’, what life brings when you start listenin’ to the quiet things?
Plastic sacks like gift-wrap, thrice reused, revalued glass
Rides passenger beside wrinkled paper grocery bags
Holding sugar coated soda cans,
Hanging from the rubber handle and his hands were full of gravel.
They grow more fragile as he travels.
And this overanalyzed poet’s delight
Does just that just as the moon tells of midnight.
The crude acoustic music moved right through the tulips, ricocheted off red bricks, treble clefs start riots.
It jukes a tune, almost a salute, not unlike the Lousiana blues, up your spine it always winds up finding the light that burns inside, even from somewhere deep in the bayou at suppertime.
A profound lyric, when you hear it slides the skin from your bones and you fall to the dirt, like ivory stones.
He's hard to get a good look at, and feared like a black alley cat;
his con-man disappearing act is long like the years you cant get back.
The words that i don’t hear his lips say are shouted aloud by his ribcage.
The nickels he bent over backwarrds fo never got easy to take.
This slow going rolling stone grew old with his folded up road map
the only thing that he had when the rain was too bad.
This landed him on a fortunate sweet spot,
an unfound tin can jackpot in the same spot you hadnt yet thought,
the start of the last stop of the things we bought and dinners we got.
His belly goes empty when everything rots.
I have this recurring fantasy. I travel to northern Ontario and hire a bush pilot who flies me to the Great Slave Lake. It is a one way trip.
I carry my trusty Ronco Survival Knife that I bought for $19.95 in a weak moment a few years ago after watching one of those late night infomercials. The top of the large serrated hunting knife is a compass, which screws off to reveal fish hooks, a bit of line, some matches, a folded up saw.
I take one eighth of my ancestors with me, the Cherokee relations. I will survive the bitter cold and the bears and wolves. I will fish, find wild berries and rob honey trees.
Lichen broths are supposed to be nutritious, even tasty, I understand.
filling the feeders
I watch for
the Northern Flicker
(Published Simply Haiku - Spring 2009)
“In my empty heart – only memories” by poet
Today our mother had his bed removed
and took posters down – even things he’d drawn
depicting stuff of which she’d disapproved.
Those posters that revealed his heart – all gone!
She took his dresser out, and all his clothes
she folded up to donate to Good Will.
His nice suits in the closet – even those -
as well as knick-knacks on the window sill!
I understand the pain she’s going through.
What good is there in taking all away?
The rest of our family's grieving too.
I press to my face a saved shirt of grey.
It was his favorite. In his empty room,
my tears release. I’m standing in a tomb.