On a cool, crisp mid-October morning,
the sweetness of apples flavors the air.
And a chevron of geese honk their warning
that Winter is coming; stay if you dare.
I loved picking apples, but I was small
and only picked those I could reach by hand.
I didn't like using ladders; after all,
the orchard was my childhood wonderland.
Dad had a burlap bag rigged to my back
that allowed both of my hands to be free.
I'd put as many apples in my sack
as possible, wobbling from tree to tree.
I was told that apples were nutritious,
and yet, they're oh-so-sweet and delicious.
Categories:
burlap bag, age, autumn, boy, cute,
Form: Sonnet
It was only a Guinea pig, people eat them.
Peruvian mountain folk do not have to starve,
there’s no dearth.
Many are bred for their special coats of course:
the Slinky, the Peruvian, the Abyssinian,
the American; the American
is good with other guinea pigs -
good to know.
Our one must have been a mutt,
we called it Elvis,
it looked like Elvis in his fat period.
It died quietly in the night.
When my son got back from school
I helped him bury it in the garden.
I had a little burlap bag to put him in,
it used to hold peanuts
Elvis would have liked that.
Categories:
burlap bag, poetry,
Form: Free verse
Insomnia- the madman napping in the attic.
Alarm clock set for a second past the ogre's hour...
His greasy head resting on a burlap bag.
Filling with ferrets and rats-firecrackers for teeth.
The alarm goes off-he opens the bag.
Laughing while injecting with red bull and meth..
He lives to plant a sluice box into your mind.
Washing the last nugget from your tired life.
Categories:
burlap bag, pets,
Form: Free verse
A pair of new shoes in the thrift store,
the old shoes would shuffle away
from them if they could.
A ragged man struggles
carrying a large plasma screen
in outstretched arms.
He is walking it home
but he has no home
still, he is walking it.
There is little light to be had,
no one goes to the park
not even to stare at the sky,
not even to walk a dog,
not even to smoke a cigarette
huddled behind
a damp tree trunk.
A muffled clomp of boots,
a drizzle of slow traffic,
sludge iced over with iron
all this keeps away
unnecessary movement.
A bad day for minstrels,
knights and stray unicorns.
No one is curious
about the thinning daylight,
how it falls listless
upon new shoes.
An old woman,
hands wrapped in fingerless wool,
takes the new shoes home.
She walks them home
in a burlap bag
recycled by blind beetles.
Many humped mounds of shoes,
now rest in an unlit solitude.
An oversized plasma screen
struggles with a ragged man
as they walk past her dark window.
The new shoes do not fit well
with the old heaps -
not yet.
There is no more walking
or loose ends
to fray
by the end of the day.
Categories:
burlap bag, poetry,
Form: Free verse
It’s only a Guinea pig, people eat them,
the cattle don’t complain.
Peruvian mountain folk do not have to starve,
there’s no dearth.
Many are bred for their special coats of course:
the Slinky, the Peruvian, the Abyssinian,
the American; the American
is good with other guinea pigs -
good to know.
This one must be a mutt,
it always reminded me of Elvis in his fat period,
and now it has inoperable guinea pig cancer.
When my son gets back from school
I will help him bury it in the garden
next to the cat and hamster plot.
I have a little burlap bag to put him in,
it used to hold peanuts
I think Elvis would like that.
Categories:
burlap bag, poetry,
Form: Free verse
Needle by needle
The tunes for the fiddle
Press by press
The pink caress
The up and down
The silky gown
Sideways too
The silky hue
The muslin sheen
The fluid violin
The orange sun
With love spun
The slippery satin
The tender teens
The roof grows crack
The burlap sack
Coarse daytime
The internal rhyme
The needles of strife
The burlap life
The people ragtag
The burlap bag
The filigree of labour
The burlap savour
The blue attachment
For the natural scent
The crafting and decor
Burlap we look for
The hugs and kisses
The blue berry bushes
The burlap screen
No harsh wind
The happy times
For the shrubs and the vines
Though poles apart
Both close to our hearts
Burlap and satin
The brown and the green
From the knife and the blade
Towards the burlap shed
From the market din
Towards the songs of satin
Burlap and satin
The stories umpteen
________________________________
March 26, 2018
Burlap and Satin - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by : Anthony Slausen
Categories:
burlap bag, allusion, image,
Form: Rhyme
There she was back at her after-school job
Stashing away all she could for college
Always in her scruffy jeans and soiled blouse
Peeling potatoes from a burlap bag
Every weekend missing out on outings
Her friends often came to the restaurant
From the back she heard them carrying on
She peeled potatoes from a burlap bag
Asked to the prom by a handsome senior
Decked in high heels and a dress of satin
Looking fab with her future bright ahead
Accrued day dreams of future and college
Forgotten, t’was furthest thing from her mind
Not one thought to potatoes from burlap
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on March 10, 2018 for contest BURLAP AND SATIN sponsored by ANTHONY SLAUSEN
Categories:
burlap bag, character, dedication, future, high
Form: Verse
Once upon a time.
She came with a dirty drill and bore a hole in my skull.
I was aware but didn't feel a thing.
She must have slipped a clove of ill intent.
Into my green tea dream.
What she took was placed in a tiny burlap bag.
What I'd lost was taken to a land called:
"Hey those are my gems, please give them back."
She never did, she just laughed.
Never bothering to back fill the hole in my head.
She disappeared into the night.
Into the owl's cold black eye.
Categories:
burlap bag, adventure,
Form: Rhyme
-Bunny Hole- by:SKAT
hidden muddy home
dirty paws, good boy' good boy!
yummy with carrots :)
----------------------------
-Unwanted Fluffiness- by:PD
Big Brown Burlap Bag
drop Bunnies down By the Bay
Better off -Blue grave
~SKAT & PD~
Categories:
burlap bag, abuse, animal, bullying, death,
Form: Haiku
synthetic textile ghost, or maybe a
brown burlap bag
hanging over a shovel in the garden.
along its side reads burmese long grain rice.
it is raining heavely and the water has begun
to create tiny puddles in the dirt..
i can hear the wind blowing sheats
of rain across the grass.
i imagine green rice fields and wooden
ox carts mixing in the monsoon clay ethic.
burmese burlap hanging in the wind,
from what fields have you come?
who painted those markings on you?
was your birthplace holy?
the pool of bethseda is at your feet.
Categories:
burlap bag, allegory,
Form: Ballad
The heat is like a burlap bag
That’s fastened ‘round your head.
In several minutes, you’ll succumb
And feel like you are dead.
The subway, though, is cold as vodka
When it’s nicely chilled.
Although there’s not a seat, the coolness
Makes you rather thrilled.
The train is plowing on its path
When suddenly, it stops.
The lights grow dim, the A/C dies
And man, your heart just drops.
The panic starts to pulse and pound
As sweat pops from your pores.
Attempts to think of pleasant things
Your racing brain ignores.
You keep your eyes fixed on the page,
But nothing’s making sense.
You wonder if the others trapped
Are feeling quite as tense.
Then suddenly the lights go bright;
The train begins to move.
The air kicks in, your heart slows down;
Imaginings improve.
It doesn’t take too much to go
From calm to full-blown panic.
Just fathom how I would have fared
On board the doomed Titanic!
Categories:
burlap bag, urban, heart, heart,
Form: Rhyme
I live alone; I pick pecans.
When leaves are dry
or wet upon the ground,
I thrash the trees.
I break from branches
undropped, green-husked nuts
and pull the fleshy hulls
from harder shells.
I put them in my musty burlap bag.
My bent back aches.
I pick the nuts that fall to earth --
blown by wind, wrenched
from over-weighted twigs.
I store this trove with acrid smells
in burlap bags.
The nut man calls but twice a year.
He brings the news; we drink a beer.
He pays me well,
refreshes my supply
of dusty burlap hell.
Categories:
burlap bag, angst, depression, introspection, nature,
Form: Free verse
The moon is devouring my brothers/uncles/cousins/father/husband/sons
Last night my youngest son disappeared
We searched for him in the moonlight
(But I do not trust the moon)
She is a thief, fickle, many-faced liar
She deceives, manipulates
She is a crazy woman beckoning, then galloping away
Call her names
Better yet murder her
Gather her like cotton and push her
Down into a burlap bag
Grab her and shake her
Maybe the lost boys and men
Will pop out of her like
marbles set free from a pouch
My son ran across her incandescent heart
Sweating, foaming at the mouth
I could not run fast enough after him
He was gone so fast
She is an enticer and a thief
A hard hearted moon who cares about no one
but herself
Blow the moon down
Then my men would return
Categories:
burlap bag, loss, parody, passion, visionary,
Form: Narrative