Best Matchbook Poems
I keep a box of memories
it’s safely tucked away
but now and then and then again
I bring it out to play
a marble here a matchbook there
and pictures one or two
of things I’ve done and wars I’ve won
and yes there's one of you
my father’s broken pocket watch
my mother’s broken dreams
my sons first tooth, a letter home
and empty space it seems
oh yes sweetheart I see them now
the feathers gold and blue
I marked them with the day and date
of nineteen ninety two
and here's the twigs I kept for you
from your father's nest
and tufts of down to comfort you
from your mother's breast
and yes sweetheart I understand
I dearly love you too
and if I could I’d spread my wings
and fly away with you
Categories:
matchbook, pets
Form:
Rhyme
My grandfather on my father’s side, was a pecker-toothed sidle who raped his
daughter when she was just ten. He threw down vodka from an eternal well and took my father out to buy prostitutes when he was just fifteen... It was here that my father first learned the true value of a woman. Mercifully, a permanent steel brace got loose at the Pennsylvania steel mill where he worked and crushed Grandfather into a pool of blood and urine.
My father was a dried seed rattling in an empty gourd… he had grown up
hardened with leather-stiff roots exposed too long in the sun. My mother knew
that he wanted to rape me, so I kept guard with knives and ran away whenever I could. I went to bed fantasizing how to sneak into his bedroom and kill him with
the kitchen carving knife.
My older brother hadn’t adjusted well to the chaos either, so he put all his expectations and dreams into a matchbook and burned down three houses in the neighborhood. He secretly, robbed his friends of their valuable coin collections. He grew weary and confessed and was taken to a local Mental Hospital for evaluation. At fourteen, I needed a good stiff drink! I was transferred to two different foster care homes and grew up like a weed.
My mother Dolly was an auburn haired porcelain bisque, matt finished doll from a
discriminating collections of dolls... her father's dolls. She was not a witty woman
but silent, afraid and alone. She gave birth to three children who grew up like
wild dogs while Dolly made Betty Crocker weekends and otherwise TV dinners
until she grew tired... very tired.
One day the brothers were playing with Dolly tossing her back and forth…
like a ball, one to another... until we dropped her. Fragile, she shattered into pieces
on the gray cement patio. My father came out determined to put the pieces back
together but clumsily, he repeatedly stepped on Dolly crushing the refined
fragments into powdered dust.
Categories:
matchbook, childhoodfather, father, grandfather, mother,
Form:
Narrative
Moonshine, diesel fumes, and chicken wire.
Laundry hangin’ on the line.
Bible open to the Book of Job.
Backyard thick with prickly pine.
Jacket pocket full of Red Man dip.
Work boots laced with leather thongs.
Wedding portrait on the mantel piece.
Shotgun right where it belongs.
Kettle simmers on a cast iron stove.
Faucet’s drippin’ in the sink.
Matchbook underneath the table leg,
Teacup teeters on the brink.
Cobwebs draped across a window screen.
Horseshoe nailed above a door.
Things calmed down some since the weather broke.
Same sad silence as before.
Ma’s been servin’ up the buttermilk,
Boiled potatoes in a bowl.
Pa starts eatin’ while she’s sayin’ grace.
Lets her worry ‘bout his soul.
Man might say he be a slave to love.
Women make the same complaint.
Neither really know the meaning of
What it is and what it ain’t.
Categories:
matchbook, allegory, marriage,
Form:
Lyric
I am a master of the Arts University of Only One.
If you having problems my words can solve them.
My voice can direct others, better yet they call me a prima donna.
My words turn into a masterpiece, watch my ability as my words flow out of me.
As my ink in my pen turns into a instrument,
Switching my pen into a matchstick.
I have a substance inside of me,
A massacre of rivalry.
As my words hit my notebook, they appear to catch fire like a folded matchbook.
Leaving my page in a blaze, words flickering like a flame.
Chain reactions resulting in the following process.
Giving birth to a new verse,
My words multiply as my voice amplified.
Thinking like a matinee lyricist morning and afternoon performances.
Expressing with great enthusiasm with divided emotions,
Something like a church service.
My words preach mathematical matrimony.
As my words appear on paper like an unsolved fraction,
The lines divide my emotions at times.
Instead of numbers and symbols I use punctuation as a division.
Equals my equations a difference of an opinion,
Diversity of my personality.
Math is what these words are to me.
Words that can add value to your life,
Or you can subtract my advice.
Either way it goes I am going to leave a decimal at the end of this poem.
My words speak volumes
Artistic and creative
Talented in writing
Historical harmony writing a masterpiece.
Categories:
matchbook, emotions, identity, wisdom,
Form:
Light Verse
Pretty double dipping fingers,
smooth peanut butter skin quality
Jelly coated lies that lip lingers ...
has a heart so sticky and slippery
Welcoming the curious to come take a bite of guise,
lust smeared desire tasted between white sheet lies
Messy outcome from a daily luncheon illicit affair,
mislaid ring pocketed in an escort purse somewhere
PJ got you jam squeezed in a sandwich vice,
being a novice getting pimped for top price
PJ has an appetite to make you pay for play;
licking her fingers, another green creamy day
PJ is the lipstick initials on the inside matchbook cover,
offering office hours triple R afternoon delight
Raunchy rest and relaxation is the secret day order lover,
leaving low energy for your lonely wife at night
PJ got you jam squeezed in a sandwich vice,
being naughty and getting spanked not nice
PJ has an appetite to make you pay for play;
licking her fingers, another green banana day
Shapely home-wrecking sandwich legs,
smooth peanut butter skin tone quality
Jelly coated lies that will make you beg,
body extortion slippery and legal sticky
PJ got you jam squeezed in a sandwich vice,
two splices of film got you shelling out twice
PJ has such an insatiable appetite,
sex-hungry fools always take a bite
PJ is two marble slices of buxom irresistible,
she will always make you pay hard for easy play
PJ loves licking her sticky fingers so sensual,
then dipping them into your honey jar rainy day
Categories:
matchbook, allusion, betrayal, metaphor, word
Form:
Quatrain
They say Im a lover but I know I can also be a fighter/
Im living in darkness today knowing tomorrow ain't going to get any brighter/
Im so heavy in the pain I don't know when *****in life is going to get any lighter/
My *****in life is all crooked and loose I don't think it's going to get any straighter or tighter/
I just need to be useful and not happy is what I lost sight of/
Im a matchbook making matches light up because without me there ain't no striker/
Im just a lost poet trying to find deep within this hard head as a true Writer.....
Categories:
matchbook, on writing and words,
Form:
Alliteration
I can't handle pretenders.
Something someone is not.
No 'spect for a paper gangster.
Living a fake life until caught.
A lawyer watching Son's of Anarchy.
Blue jeans with vest, will be looking phat.
Uber delivers him to a Harley shop,
wearing golf pants and Fedora hat.
He plops down the gold card,
for the latest Heritage classic.
Then next door for "biker" duds,
leather chaps and leather jacket.
The look, not yet complete.
Fake tail and studded earrings.
Must have a wallet on a chain,
tall black boots, stylin', and profiling.
He thinks he is now a biker.
No one will ever know.
The look is now complete.
Time to hop on that bad bike and blow.
He admires himself in the mirror.
His real look put on the shelf.
Needs some place to ride,
to show off his new big bad self.
A chick magnet and envy of men.
The first stop, Buster & Dave's.
Once a windscreen is added,
to shield the wind a real biker craves.
He's never ridden a bike,
on a winding highway at night.
Never felt rain hitting your face,
like small bullets blocking your sight.
Never set points with a matchbook.
Never kickstarted, or jockey shifted.
He thinks you just press and go,
A fake hombre who thinks he's gifted.
He is the King of the Road.
A big bad biker dude.
All his courtroom adversaries,
know they're over and screwed.
Bad biker barely misses the bumper.
After the car in front stops hard.
Breaks into a sweat gets the shakes,
Has a small mishap, now forever scarred.
He pushed the bike to a Stop and Go.
Never known such anguish and fear.
Already done with the biker life,
never even got out of third gear.
Can't handle the pretenders.
Something someone is not.
No 'spect for a paper gangster.
Get back in your Range Rover, big shot.
R. S. Morris
Categories:
matchbook, image, poetry,
Form:
Rhyme
'He fills his glass up to the brim'
She knows what happens when he drinks
He's in an ocean and cant swim
The more he drinks the more he sinks
She watches sadly as once more
He fills his glass up to the brim
She's heard it many times before
These "matchbook songs and gypsy hymns"
His sad "eyes, where the moonlight swims"
Never saw she had left that morn
He fills his glass up to the brim
All that he had left is now gone
He stumbles outside, a sad sight
His "silhouette when sunlight dims"
Cast sad shadows in dying light
He fills his glass, up to the brim
1-9-2024
1. He fills his glass up to the brim' - House of the Rising Sun- Bob Dylan
2. "Matchbook songs and gypsy hymns" - Sad eyed Lady from the Lowlands -
Bob Dylan
3. "Eyes, where the moonlight swims" - Sad eyed Lady from the Lowlands-
Bob Dylan
4. "Silhouette when the sunlight dims"- Sad eyed Lady from the Lowlands
Bob Dylan
Categories:
matchbook, lost, sad,
Form:
Quatern
I laughed with balls yesterday
I’m not sure why, or what it
was
That was, to cause convulsive
chuckles, I think my eyes
tear-ed
was *****, about toe nails I’m
Sure, but she said something
sharp
from dark she throws, the subtle
wit, moves swift from forest for
kill
I will, write it down next time
on a matchbook, or dial it in
Text
on insect's back, or my hand
It’s prime material, rivals
TV
But see, she has no control
when her jest will spring on
jest
I’ll test her memory tomorrow
See if she knows, this mystery
slam
I am - sure it was a pointy tongue
she’s at her best turning point to
pointer
wanting her, to do it again, from
scripted jousting with cuts and
rubs
in of, it’s self, her bearish fun
would not exists, not alone, she
depends
again, on pointers point, aimed
at her, she has a motive, stealing
your inertia
Cinderella’s shoes fit nice, her feet
when she’s pointing the point;
jokes on me
Categories:
matchbook, funny, love,
Form:
Flushed and frothing in the late July heat
of a slow motion Texas afternoon,
I ventured a call home
and found you
there.
Still of the same soul
and still the same
half of my whole.
It took almost an hour
to remind you how much we breathed
when rust was new on the dog
and kisses hung from trees
like diamond tears.
Remembering December in July,
a pleasant diversion from this blistering heat.
3am Delaney Street
and you
with those matchbook blues.
Every box you opened up
was like a gift,
and suddenly it was Christmas.
I drank a toast to you and me
and me and you
and thought of Dutch and Parson Brown,
dancing in our socks,
a lamp shade and a windowpane,
yet nothing left for posterity
but this memory in July.
And me
wishing skies were not so high
and cement didn't dry
and that we could carve our initials
in an evergreen Christmas tree.
Categories:
matchbook, brother, family, friendship, life,
Form:
Free verse
Hurricane
You crash ashore like a savage one-eyed lion attacking its prey. Hunger gnaws at your belly, the trip from Africa has been long. Wind like claws slashing and ripping, roofs torn from their moorings and flung aside like paper. Concrete and steel buildings assaulted and torn apart like Lincoln logs. Your voice roaring, torrents of rain fall like spittle from your massive jaws. Storm surges form from your massive size are kicked inland by your mighty paws. Your clear calm single eye gazes down in triumph.
you pause suddenly
it is only a short rest
more rage yet to come
With a frenzy you resume the attack. Broken gas mains shoot jets of flame. Partial buildings with broken windows like toothless old hags. Vehicles tossed about like matchbook toys after a child’s tantrum. Boats found far inland high and dry. Your appetite sated for the moment you move on in search of other prey.
after the raging storm
destruction is everywhere
we will rebuild
Categories:
matchbook, storm,
Form:
Haibun
It’s hot and it’s fiery, it’s better shared by two
The Matchbook Mambo is the dance step for you
You ignite with your footsteps, so wild and free
And burn up the dance floor, that’s what you do
Put your hand on her backside and pull her so tight
Don’t be afraid, it’s a dance, so dare to ignite
Let your feet then move to the music and the beat
It’s a dance made of passion that’s sure to delight
So, everyone reading, get out on the floor
Grab your partner, dance away, like never before
Turn up the music, of your heart, set to beat
You’ll never dance another dance, of this I am sure
Categories:
matchbook, passion, peopledance, dance,
Form:
Rhyme
My bus finally pulled in late
you were there as promised
although I tried not to notice
the blonde bimbo adjusting
her skirt a cross between
pat benatar and Melanie griffith
puffing on a stale Marlboro
cigarette while painting lipstick
on her collagen strickened pink
lips just like you to be charmed
to give her a light lucky strip
matchbook it didn't bother me
surprisingly enough I had no
reaction I must admit Reno Nevada
conditioned me to a soft spoken kind
of acceptance to your philandering
anticipated antics gambling again
on goods of service however
I was quite flattered you still
tried to conceal infidelity funny
it was rather attractive why you
absolutely appeared boyishly shy
caught in the cookie jar again
fishing for snacks besides our
relationships had already exceeded
the life span of any failed marriage
why we continued charades was even
more morbidly interesting to say
the least after all we were both
married to other people an yet
faithful to our personal ongoing
trisks enterages rondevues
at anyrate the stars were very
bright tonight 3:40 am the tides
were unseemingly calm wouldn't
you say what's the room number
did you lose the key again dam
I've broken another heel
just put the bags here dear
Categories:
matchbook, allah, sea,
Form:
Roundel
=================== Matchbook what is a
Write down your number
small talk of big dreams fan flames
cold daylight awaits
GINSU-KNIFE EASTPORT , MAINE USA
Remember when a phone number on a matchbook
held the promise of ... who knew what?
You might carry it around in your wallet for a while.
Songs have been written about it.
And now my haiku about the match book.
Categories:
matchbook, adventure, allegory, america, analogy,
Form:
Haiku
I had no lighter
So I lit my cig with a match
Held that book in my hands
Finally decided I'm tired of pain
I'm gonna burn your love away
So I lit it and threw it on the ground
Now I've lost what I thought I found
Watched that matchbook burn
Now it's your turn
That matchbook burned
You deserve what you've earned
Categories:
matchbook, love, people, teen,
Form:
Rhyme