Best Piles Poems
I am a semi-hoarder; not quite there yet, but on my way
because I love having things sit around in piles.
Piles are a comfort to me.
If you put my clothing into drawers I may not find them again.
Thus, I have a chair pile, a clothes tree pile and a bathroom pile.
Not to mention the guest room bed pile of clothing.
These are my favorite things to wear.
I am able to get them when I want them.
They are easy to find; because I can readily see them.
Someday I may have developed into a true hoarder.
I will have muskrats living in the living room
and a family of raccoons diving under the beds.
I may or not see them or the beavers in the bathroom
based on how high and deep my piles have become
Today I grab up my favorite orange sweatshirt
and celebrate my piles.
Closets and cupboard drawers are not for everyone.
Certainly not for me; I have lost more in there
than I have ever found.
Piles
Piles of things I need to do...
Piles of things I need to sort through,
Piles of things I'm collecting for his girls when they are older,
Piles of memories some that make me smile and some that make me cry,
Piles for his babies when they are old enough to understand them,
Memories all carefully placed in piles.
Piles of things to toss out of here sooner than never!
Piles containing the importance to his lost life,
Surrounded by my piles that mean so much yet not enough.
These piles mean your life was important!
You did exist but it's now reduced to piles!
Piles I wish you could crawl out of so I could hold you,
Piles I wish you could come out of and surprise your babies,
Piles which can give no explanation to these questions,
Questions never answered as I rearrange and move these piles
Piles of what you were and what you could have been...
Piles of things I need to do...
brown garden
mulching leaves replenish
child laughs and jumps
the left hand can see
five possible futures
three of them don't include you
they go streaming out
in front of my sight
and I can see multiple mes
and multiple yous
running in circles
racing the other rats
wasting talents
in cubicles and
water cooler conversations
and it makes my eyes water
Genteel Ladies are careful not to toot
While itty bitty babies laugh when they poop
Big strong men, with hand's on their hips
Lift one leg, and they just let it Rip
My house is perpetually full of stuff I do not need.
Diapers? No.
Hair bands? No.
Pens that do not work. No.
Patterns? Who sews these days?
Material? No.
Stuff I have dragged in myself after dragging other stuff out.
Like stuff.
Stuff so similar, it was silly to exchange it.
I am looking at an Easter banner that I took down and put on
The TV set last April or March.
I did not even see it again until
This second, and it is November.
My piles of stuff is staring at me.
Glaring at me.
Laughing at me.
If I had to identify what was in the pile in the corner
Right now or a guerrilla would machine-gun me, I would be murdered.
I would be luck to guess two things in that pile.
Death might be preferable to
Cleaning out this stuff.
I’m no one anymore
Just a spirit around
My body has left this earth
My voice is no where to be found
You are looking at my coffin
At this funeral you’re at
A tear falls down,
And you start getting sad
The first shovel of dirt
Is thrown on top of it
All of the sudden, a memory hit,
You remember the day we first met,
Our eyes were connecting, as we danced and sweat,
Another pile of dirt cover me through,
Memories of us, start rolling to you,
It was the day which you probably miss,
You spent time with me, and our first kiss,
Third pile of dirt makes a thump sound,
Two more tears start rolling down,
Our sour break-up, controls your mind,
When you left me for a girl who was a waste of your time,
Your heart hurts more as
the fourth pile comes down
Don’t call me no more were your
Orders to me and I was no where to be found,
The fifth one comes down
as a really loud bomb,
The day that you came back to me,
yes we were not done,
The sixth one stabs you
Down to your feet
The day comes where you
decided to cheat,
The seventh one covers the corner of the hole,
You scream and kneel down, you can’t take it no more,
The tears that I shed, for you my King,
And the ignorance that you repetitively gave me,
The eighth one is the finishing touch at this time,
As you remember when you were mines,
The kisses, the hugs, the I love you’s
The sacrifices, the battles that I fought for you!
You throw me a Rose and say this out loud,
“A Girl Like You, I’ll Never Find Around!!!”
White horses on a range of blue
the sky is grey and I'm telling you
stones in the yard will bare the names
piles of silver hide the blames
when names are numbers in a row
waves are high and the winds will blow
as fast as they can out of breath
some go headlong onto death
while more numbers will mount the steeds
to ride the range of dangerous deeds
stones in the yards will bare more names
piles of silver hide more blames
Did you ever wonder why?
Will we ever understand?
Can a man judge a man,
who sends another man to die?
not for country
not for love
but for money
just for money
It is not a good time in the bay
when common sense has gone away
To be brutally honest, I am not inclined to be impressed
With the prehistoric pile of stones on Salisbury Plain, Wilshire
During four trips to England, I did not go to see the rocks.
I have driven through Georgia many times, let me explain,
But I have never been through Elbert County where I am told
Eight modern monoliths have been erected with ten “guidelines.”
I suspect they were constructed to attract tourists near and far
When it comes to visiting these places, I have better things to do.
I’ve no time to ruminate on the what’s and why's of these rocks…
Old or new…they present, for me, nothing remarkable I’m afraid
Although for some folks I can see why they are points of interest,
I hear that both sites are now suffering from benign neglect.
NINTH PLACE WINNER
written September 30, 2021
especially for "Georghenge Stone Cold Mind" poetry contest
sponsored by Joe Maverick
The mail piles up when you’re away;
The plants may droop or wither,
But all else stays exactly so
If you go yon and hither.
The jacket you forgot to hang,
The food that’s going rotten
Were left in limbo with some other
Things perhaps forgotten.
The order you forgot to send,
The room in need of dusting
Wait patiently ‘til you return,
Like little children, trusting.
Then you get home and do those chores
You somehow left unfinished
Or add them to a growing list
That slowly gets diminished.
Rapt, in wreaths of wool
stand before October wind,
wait for vermillion
leaves to fall once again as
we jump in with joyful glee!
We the Peeps are masked and fattened
lady liberty is splayed wide for business
for those who want an easy piece
and for those who want to diss her.
The economy is all but trashed
there's a zombie in the white house
stomping the heart of the working man..
and you thought Mister Orange was rad.
I laughed aloud when a friend said
that Jesus would've been a democrat..
I don't think my friend knows a thing
about constitution or the 10 commandments.
I think jesus would've been an independent
and rubbed the noses of jackasses and elephants
into a pile of their own excrement...
I have seen hoarders. I need a refresher though.
Today.
Right now.
As I decide to give up because this
bedroom is too much for me.
There has been a possible raccoon
den in the corner for six or eight years.
Today was the day I decided to tackle it,
hoping not to find a beaver dam or a
tiger den.
One tiny corner that turned into a mammoth mountain
of stuff that I have spent years throwing into a taller pile.
There are bags, boxes, purses, backpacks, and some hidden
plastic containers in there somewhere. Last week I threw
about one eight of it on the bed, so I would be forced
to take action, to get started.
I did not though because the bed pile overwhelmed me,
took all my energy. Depleted me so hard and fast, I promptly got
physically sick. Maybe as an excuse to not do it? This morning
it was grinning at me wickedly from the bed. Sapping my energy,
and my strength.
It is weird that when I lug this stuff home I have high aspirations for it.
But just dragging it in usurps all my energy. It has sat here glaring at
me for years. I start going through it rapidly the first few hours.
Then I decide to try to nap, but I cannot rest. The only solution is to
take it all back to the resale store and give it back. A pattern I know well.
I should be thinking about snow, it’s December.
But leaves, like glue, stick to windshield and doors,
and saturated piles of brown shaped November
flood my yard, its uphill and down. In need of oars,
or hands and rakes, bags that shack the waste.
Pretty when it was early fall, cool and ornamental.
But now, the drill is to sweep the sogginess in haste.
Shovel out the debris - I’m over being sentimental.
I should be thinking about snow before that gets old
too…newfallen, fresh, powdery or compacted, gold.
12/7/2022
Never hold an angry grudge
It turns your soul to a dark sludge
Leaving you angry and bitter
Filling you with lots of litter
That gets higher every day
With piles that wont go away
You will never be set free
It is really hard to see
A way out -- you stumble and trip
Losing your balance and grip
Laying in a hatred heap
That is wide and really deep
Before you are trapped forever
Dig a tunnel that will sever
All this darkness into light
Get out now and make things right
Leaving all your wrongful trash
Where it belongs-- in the past