I am a purple crayon in a box of pink
or so I think.
I steal the words of my brothers
only to claim them as mine to others.
Do I contain anything that is unique?
I am very quick to critique
someone else's words
when I am the one most absurd.
It is easy to live in this dream
when my ego is this extreme.
Is it obvious to all around
that I am not a king with a crown?
I am a phony for sure
not one with a heart that is pure.
Secrets in a box
I have a box on the shelf in the spare bedroom
The box has blue and white stripes, I think
It was a shoebox, perhaps bought for a child that
I was not born; my youth is in that box
Sometimes, when alone, I open the box, and it has
many photos of life lived in the seventies
Many friends are smiling for the camera
My ex-wife, too. What they have in common is
that they are all dead
I received a delayed letter from Alex, a friend
By then, I knew he had died, the letter in the box
unopened
I look at the photos like a visitor from a past life
I do not feel sorrow or guilt. I was a difficult
person to live with, even though I had friends
that loved me
I put the lid back on the box. The visit is over
I must go on living in the now.
DUSTY OLD BOX OF MEMORIES
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The attic is a time capsule when time stops and nostalgia lives. Inside, the very air hangs heavy, thick with a musty scent and the weight of upspoken stories. Amongst the jumbled collection of forgotten treasures, a dusty old box of memories remains untouched, draped in a shroud of white dust like winter’s first snowfall. Although reluctant to open the attic door and venture forth, I wonder if perhaps the box holds more value than I’m willing to admit.
memories like wisps of gray smoke
dance upon the wind's breath
fleeting moments caught
frozen frames of love and pain
moments lived, now lost in time
untold stories sleep
yet their essence remains
haunting whispers in my mind
a bittersweet refrain
pristine sharp cornered brown box garnishes excitement
we rip him open with anticipation
new merchandise has been delivered!
this box is repurposed for sorting, carrying, hauling, storing
left out in the rain, the box looks sad and sorrowful
we could fold him flat and put him into our dumpster
Or we could burn him up
He has lost his usefulness
difficult to remember now what he brought in the first place
Pushing the envelope outside the box
if only here to accentuate
the many ways in which
emu may emulate
by delivering nutrients' benefits
and what's more
help repair with anti-aging hydrate
yet won't clog your pores
they herd the birds in a mob
not a troublesome job or task
with ladle fire pit pot and hob
'How is it collected?' I hear you ask
as allegedly good for the skin
anti-inflammatory emu oil
is scooped off the bubbling surface
when they're brought to the boil
Catch them when they're young
and shape their tiny minds
by telling them to colour
inside the lines
kids are our precious resource
nurture their dreams for the future
break them on the wheel of control
and kill the spirit destroy the soul
conditioned at an early age
they'll be at a loss
when they're told to think
outside the box
complicit in your conspiracy
avoiding confrontation
it's not a guiding hand
it's manipulation
you can't squeeze a square
peg into a round hole
they are who they
are it is what it is
can't pound a square peg
into a round pigeon hole
let them be and mind your own biz
old tv box
emerging from snow
with its rustic culture
I recall clearly, my mom took me to peek
at the calico box crab roadside circus freak.
Some kids have a tooth fairy, my reward, more oblique.
I stood, mouth agape, quite unable to speak.
I had a strange childhood, you might call it unique,
before reaching adulthood, employment to seek.
We found the calico box crab man
with leathery skin and a deep, dark tan.
He gave us soup that was filled with nails,
squirrel bones and catfish entrails.
As he told his tale and we heard him speak,
the sky would cry, and the ceiling, leak.
I heard the calico box crab theme
as I nestled warmly by a trout-filled stream.
I saw the hare and tortoise dance,
and wondered if it was romance,
or just an addled dream.
I was only eight
when I caught the calico box crab freight.
Just a small-town crab-boy in tattered britches,
I found my way to fame and riches,
loaded in a crate.
Once, an aged fisherman was heard to speak
from a boat on the shore of Chesapeake Bay.
His voice, like every bone and plank that did creak,
(as the ocean waves came in to splash and spray)
about a creature, singular and unique,
"'twas eighty-seven years ago to the day.
When I was just up to a grasshopper's knee
I saw the calico box crab by the sea.
As I stood near the sand on a slick sea slab,
in an earthly appearance of God's good grace,
it was then that I saw it - I saw the crab,
sporting a spotted, colorful carapace,
a crustacean, that never was dull nor drab.
I would always remember the special place
where I first found the joy I couldn't foresee,
meeting the calico box crab by the sea.
I tried gently to touch her, with my right hand,
but I scared the calico box crab away,
as she disappeared swiftly in the soft sand.
I come back to this place each year on this day,
but I won't come again. My time is at hand,
and I'm going to Heaven, but I can say,
'I never touched her, but I once got to see
the pretty calico box crab by the sea.'"
Baby blue balloon,
looks like a globe,
topped
with a girly, pink bow.
It’s floating up
with pop music;
with key tines,
our hearts dropped.
The dulcet drum spins;
the lyrics heat up.
Sneaking through the graveyard
in the dead of night
to a hidden garden
in full moonlight
you want to be careful better beware
the fiery eyes
of the scarecrow's stare
if the spell is broken
you open Pandora's Box
and it's lights out
for the jack-o-lanterns
they're in for a nasty shock
you have to be careful better beware
the Halloween screams
of your worst nightmare
'cause something's jumping in the pumpkin patch
it's goblins going trick or treat
they're a-getting hungry
for something good to eat
That year the earth acted peculiar and parched
the hatchlings screeched in the pulse of darkness
mother bird had nothing much to offer
not one insect, hopper nor crawler.
Mother bird plotted then hatched a wicked plan
to snatch a bag of worms from the tackle box man
Mother stuffed plastic worms into featherless heads
by the next day every last hatchling lay dead.
mother blue bird never sang a lullaby again....
Forever blaming the tacklebox man.
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