Best Locker Poems
They never saw me—not really.
Only the outline I traced in the halls,
A whisper of denim and shy glances,
A ghost who smiled too politely.
They passed notes like grenades,
Laughed too loudly
When the silence was breaking me.
I wore their words like a second skin—
Tight, blistering,
But invisible to them.
You asked if I was okay once—
But your eyes flicked away
Before the truth had a chance to crawl out.
Still,
That was kind,
Compared to the others
Who carved their stories into my name
Without ever asking for mine.
I screamed,
But only inside,
Where echoes get lost
In the ribcage's corners.
And when I disappeared,
They asked,
“Why didn’t she say something?”
As if silence isn’t something we’re taught
By the ones who pretend
They’re listening.
Beware young lad, tis the dawning of thy demise,
For the water witches screams, are carried on the
Winds breath, of the tidal waves hurricane.
Be-she, the banshie of the fathom’s abyss, treacherous
Mistress, beguiling temptress, enslavement's captive,
Whom belongs to the sailors devil himself,
Thus she announces her masters arrival,
Known is he, as Davy Jones.
Aquatic demon, the soul feast-er, appearing perched
Upon the four masted sailing vessel, a seething fiend,
With ivory white fangs, red piercing eyes flash against
The storms rage.
The predator to prey ratio, delights this beast, from hell's
Deepest pit, it's relishing laughter, does chill the mariner,
To their very bones within.
Atop his ghoulish head, arises bullish horns, to drive
The undead, beneath the seas watery realm.
Fly swiftly, all seafaring men aboard, for the dark wrack's
Shadow, mars thy voyage, for death's imitate sacrifice.
Crimson gloves, do hold a set of golden keys, to chains
Shackled locks, behold phantom wave stalkers.
Lost souls of the forgotten, servitude’s salves of the
Murky bottoms depths.
Treasures locker keeper, within the heart of the sea,
Does lie, a cold guardian stands watch, over it's
Precious contents, bound forever as persecution's
Divine punishment, from Poseidon, the great
Lord of the seven seas.
Answering their captain's hailing, the soulless crew,
Climbs aboard his ghostly craft, heading ever upwards,
To the unknown beyond.
Accursed windjammers, cutting against the rough surf,
Emerging as a seaweed covered derelict, it charges forth,
Riding upon the edge of the ultimate storm.
At fates spinning wheel, Davy Jones hands are set steadfast,
Awaiting the newly undead, to join his brackish crew.
The living pray for mercy grace, salvation's angels
Save us, pleading on knees bent low, Oh Lord Almighty,
Hear the sailors voices, crying out in sheer terror.
But the devil dues must be paid, for other
Mariner’s safe passage.
To night behold the tolls collection plate is passed,
And is served by evils blackest hand, nay it's filled
Not in gold, but instead ti's flesh to the living bone.
Served on a silver platter, to none other then
Davy Jones himself, listen to his echoing laughter,
Filling the chilled air's darkness,
Than plunging beneath the briny depth's below.
Nothing remains but a legend's myth or so
It is said.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Everybody has a locker
It's where we go, it's who we are
A number and a place
Our expertise awaits us there
And with it, our destiny
We find it or it finds us
Mohammed Ali had his eye on a locker with a championship belt inside
That was someone else's locker
And people said he didn't know his place
The critics were silenced when he wrapped his hands and put on gloves
Albert Einstein kept an odd locker
Haphazard notes. Ridiculous theories
The mathematical equivalent of a schizophrenic rant
Nobody knew this "lunatic" was rewriting science
He changed the world
There's an old locker in France that holds the sign of a warrior
Battered armor and a well used blade
It speaks of a hero
This locker held the allegiance of a nation and the respect of kings
It now holds the ashes of a fierce fighter who's footprint dented Europe forever
She was a teenage peasant named Joan of Arc
Everybody has a locker
We find it or it finds us
We can either hang our coats
Or walk on
By Kyle Ezra Kriticos
In psychology they say if you have a locker combination come the next year,
You don’t remember the combination,
Failure and success is it more mental then a exercises that proof facts,
When I was in high school not knowingly three ivy league schools,
Wrote me and later was accept to one but I had change of heart for education,
And in between high school I had two IQ test,
I was told even though I did not think I was smart people cold tell it by the way I,
Interact,
One day I got a unexpected call it was from the Navy,
And all I remember of the confession was “hope I get well soon”,
Well in school I prediction my ten year plan but I could not choice,
Marriage or serve my country still can’t figure it out at this point,
My mom and people in my community told me the third is rare this days,
Looking at statistics I define the odds,
But for some come from Index of 8 they expect more,
And going back to locker combination I never remember it,
But for some rare reason in middle school I wrote my name in the locker,
I guess for some I had a lot to prove,
To prove them wrong.
Immature boys
having a bully good time
Plenty wet towel fun ...
doing nude, verbal denigrating
It was just harmless locker room talk,
the unconcerned adults all said
Nothing to worry about,
the pampering voices cooed
Giving patronizing pats on the head
to those annoying,
ponytail ginger freckles in school
Insecure men
love having women
squirm under their thumbs,
office hours pinned
Mature females
moving nervously around
the water cooler
Hearing the misogynist sound
of gurgling testosterone
Bad boys engaging in locker room talk
on marble floors,
behind hallowed corporate doors
Simon Said boys,
taking their lemming lead
from male titans of industry
speaking lewdly —
About your mother, or my sister
Perhaps
our neighbor’s daughter,
undoubtedly
Locker room reprehensible speech
is carnal nasty linguistic imagery
Filthy locker room talk ...
lecherous verbal walk in the caveman dark
Misogynist tongues
gaslighting the feminine degradation spark
Broken circle of life,
bad boys learning how to abuse virgin girls
Abominable human sacrifice
being orally performed all around the world
Locker,
Filled with my books and papers and secrets
I can't remember my combination
47 right 27 left and then what?
Am I locked out or are you locked in?
You were gazing at me as I looked in your direction
You, caught in daydream's reflection
Both of us wondering if we've made a connection
As you stand with your friends by your locker
As both of us are caught up in this moment
Both wondering if the other one knows it
Both wondering if the other will show it
Having our love listed on the docket
You writing our names on your notebook
In a heart our names, in your mind nuptials took
Me stealing your heart like some kind of crook
As you lean back on your book nook
I saunter over, parting your friends
I fumble for words, my heart beats intense
I manage to muster these words in defense
"You've captivated my heart with just a look!"
roses are red,
violets are blue,
little green locker i hate you
I don't recall all that much talk in locker rooms.
These are typically quiet as reflective libraries
unless involved in team sports.
Then locker room talk may review a well played game,
but, again, those played less fortunately,
less familiarly,
not really too much to say,
sometimes thinking of other more nurture feeding things,
nature people,
organically connected places in time's perpetually receding memory
and hairlines.
Testosterone rooms for locking up over yanged secrets
are not known for quality of multiculturally affluent speech.
These are more about shaming actions
outside these locked down rooms,
reveling to reveal ourselves and others
an embarrassment of self-ridiculing riches.
But, I do recall
I thought I could hear which brand of sexual politics
a locker room voice would choose,
usually somewhere between
raping victims only good for bullying
and standing in solidarity with teams and leagues and games
where we learn more from losing together
than winning apart
in superhero myths and antics
of unfettered straight white self-supremacy,
hubris of engorged,
yet over-rated disengaged,
es with hands for grabbing
taking what can only be intimately given
as co-empathic gift.
In some ways
we are all locked rooms,
craving intimacy
that causes tremors
terrible trembling terror
and yet terror's opposite.
What names we have found for ecstasy
of unlocked talking and walking,
playing and working
and wondering how could peace sustain
through decades of morning and night time
dressing to undress routines
and all co-invested invitations
in between
well-groomed body pleasure's
mental wellness.
As The Note-Taking Girl scribbles
And absentmindedly quibbles
Her fingers are animated wriggles
Churning out eccentric squiggles:
Letters of Ever Clumsy Angles,
One like a creeper that tangles,
As many like threads in singles,
Wherefore her teacher openly wrangles
And after explosion stiffly dangles
Before her the option of A Street Hawker
Bearing a case with or without a locker
And around patrolling with jingles
Or she be whipped and a nearby ear tingles!
But that wasn’t The Rescue from a writing
That keeps a teacher’s eyes biting!
Odyssey of The Mind
A Mind is a Storage Locker
Written: by Tom Wright
3/6/2016
Staring from some nook in every mind,
Exists mental images and thoughts of grandness,
And others that probe for meaning,
That God has favored only you to see.
Some gather dust in contentedness,
While others hunger to be loosed;
Once common they exist as public domain,
And are not matters for retrieval.
Today,
Life is not as good as yesterday;
But far better than what it’s apt to be tomorrow.
Tom
I talked to my sister today.
It's been over eight years.
The first word that she wrote
began the flood of tears.
I said to her simply ''Hey''
she answered simply ''Hey''.
The saddest part through all of this
was we didn't know what to say.
I told her I was crying
and I just couldn't stop.
She said I shouldn't waste my tears...
they continued still to drop.
I saw my sister clearly
as she was when we were teens.
With only one year between us
she doesn't know what this means.
Nobody thought we were sisters.
They knew we were best friends.
We even shared a locker...
who'd know that's where it ends?
She fought to leave the horror
of what our lives became.
She thought she wanted freedom....
She never was the same.
Her life became so twisted
between foster homes and pain.
I wish I could've helped her
but, I was hurting just the same.
I told her I was crying
and I just couldn't stop.
She said I shouldn't waste my tears...
they continue still to drop.
how long
is a foot locker
and what
do they keep in it?
foot lockers
foot solders
foot long hotdogs
footballs
what is the obsession
are they politically correct
or are they just a foot fetishes
at the foot of my bed
My office is a meat locker.
We could hang a hog in here for a week.
It would not become rancid or even warm.
My office is a meat locker.
I am dressed in long underwear
And four sweaters in eighty-eight-degree weather
My office is a meat locker.
The custodian is my best friend now.
She comes in here to cool off.
Beneath the cool and seemingly serene Atlantic Ocean
Lay the remains of the Bermuda Triangle’s commotion
Ships and aircraft rest far beneath the perpetual sea waves
Mystery surrounds what led so many to watery graves
“It’s blue on blue,” the perplexed pilot of Flight 19 exclaimed
On this mirage deaths of all training crew members are blamed
The commander could not tell which way was up and which was down
Sea and sky blending as one produced an undersea ghost town
Where spirits of all those lost over many hundreds of years
Ponder fate in Davy Jones’ locker of all who disappear
*Entry for Francine’s contest: “Blue on Blue on Blue”
(Chose Blue Ocean)