the sky darkened with nary a warning
as if a slate of black had been cast down from the sky
in the distance thunder gave us a nod
I saw a flash of lightning near the ocean
what was that on the pier?
I peered out my window
the magician was back!
His gambling cards were flying out of his duffle as he walked.
An owl screeched down toward him, giving him the business
I knew someone was slated to die
this always happens when I see the magician
Maybe it is my turn, I thought
“What is it?” asked my husband.
He is sicklier than I am.
“Nothing,” I replied.
Glad his eyesight was not that great.
All I needed was his heart rate to go jumping up into overdrive.
Each is a piece, a small part
of a composite that has come
together in a morning,
the frayed strands of dreams
knitted into a waking timed now
to a slow tread on a familiar street.
Then suddenly, careering through
the center of my thoughts a train
comes with bells at a crossing
clanging loudly and wheels grinding
on rails heading off towards
a distant point in the past. I stop
and see myself, late teens,
leaving home, riding the interstate
with dreams spilling out
of a duffle bag, head in a cloud
of hope. I was Rimbaud on rails,
high on poetry that I took straight.
Six months in a one room flat
I ran out of money and a literary career,
hitchhiked back home to sink
into a wintery despair.
A lifetime has passed
and I have left a poem tied
to the end of each year as if
marking my way. The words
of most have now weathered away
to a silence. I write as a form
of prayer to that greater silence
and on still mornings, hear
the sound of a train in the far
distance growing quieter.
I was one of the cool set,
navy blue duffle coat, scarf around
my neck, seated at a table
in Pepe's Coffee Lounge
discussing Baudelaire
and T.S. Eliot and the demise
of the political elites.
The conscription ballot hung
over our heads helmeted
in a flowering of uncombed hair
in the winter of 1966.
We thought the world was about
to tip, that the old regime
was coughing its last
on Craven A and Camel cigarettes.
Booze was cheap and jobs
chased us down the street.
In a hundred buried silos,
annihilation was just a push
of a button away.
We partied hard beneath
the threat of that mushroom cloud.
We're old now, sit under the cloud
of our own thoughts, replaying
scratchy, worn out tracks
retrieved from the sleeves
of our neural LP's.
What we tore down back then
has been replaced with more
sinister demons that eat away
at the collective soul.
In the end, everything
is just reabsorbed.
Some of us still frequent
coffee shops and discuss
Baudelaire and T.S. Eliot,
still write poetry,
shed a tear
at the melancholic beauty
of a setting sun.
The humidity was doing a good job of keeping pace with the temperature. Until around 10 AM when the thermometer pushed its way past 100. That’s when 176 frightened kids and a few old hippies staggered out of the crowded cattle trucks. “Alright you maggots, RUN,” voices screamed from beneath wide brimmed Smokey Bear hats. So, we ran…and ran, duffle bags slung over our shoulders. Hours passed before we finally came to attention under the blistering Missouri sun. All the while, the bears circled. Sniffing the air and grunting. “Don’t show them any fear,” one of the old hippies whispered, “they pray on the weak.”
Like nature intends
Survival of the fittest
Do not show weakness
I lost a friend; Jason really loved his gin.
One night while he was on a binge.
He walked off into the deep end,
now no one has ever seen Jason again.
I lost a friend; his life was his duffle sack.
One day he headed to Iraq.
I didn’t know him when he came back,
well I guess Billy’s mind slipped right off its track.
I lost a friend; his name was old Stan the Man.
Spent two tours in Afghanistan.
Survived bullets and scorching heat,
just to come home and get shot down in the street.
I lost a friend; lived in a house on the hill.
Had two kids and a bag of pills.
One day they found her on the floor,
she’s not going to need those pills anymore.
I lost some friends; I only think about them.
Oh, once in a while, now and then.
Don’t want to seem harsh or unkind,
but as they say, they’re out of sight, out of mind.
You know that life is a very fickle thing.
Make the best of what it might bring.
We’re just a bright flash ‘cross the screen,
before we can blink… we’re just a memory.
"Travel light" Santa said to me as I grappled for all my most
treasured belongings. I stuffed them all in a duffle bag, then with the silliest
of grin on my face I said, " Ready"
The ride up was exhilarating to say the least, and the landing well
lets just say I don't recall getting there...
It felt like I was placed in a big glass bauble filled with tinsel,
joyful elves and little miniscule hourglasses containing reflective
light particles that flew out into the atmosphere through
smokescreen windows, tinted with pink magic glass.
I was tired from the trip so Santa led me to this little room made of logwood,
then he handing me a peppermint hot chocolate and said, " good good dreams, my girl "
What did I dream you ask ? Well, its much too long to retell today,
you will just have to wait until tomorrow, when its Christmas day !
The Wardrobe of a Temporary Condition
David J Walker
I had to admit
It might have been an illusion
The first morning home
Without a plausible conclusion to
Calendars past and
No witnesses left to
Attest to the
Long intrusion into
My young life
Nothing in the room
Was mine
Anymore
The clothes now three years old
Left hanging in the closet
Where I left them
The duffle bag of OD Green rags that
Might never be opened again
Thank God I was young
When nakedness was not
So much a sin
As it was
The wardrobe of
a temporary condition
Kicking the leaves as they go back to school,
The nights getting darker each day,
The temperature lowering as autumn falls,
And the summer is swept on its way.
Duffle coats fastened protection from cold,
New kids in the class teachers’ taught em,
That this is the loveliest season of all,
So they ought to celebrate the Autumn.
September, October until clocks go back,
When the winter then comes to us all,
But kicking those leaves and a new class at school,
Make the best season always the fall.
20 August 2020
Serenity Awakened Contest
Regina McIntosh
Bygone days
Climbing trees
Paper boats
Scabby knees
Duffle coats
Pick n mix
Runny nose
Thrupenny bits
Scruffy clothes
Flying kites
Desperate Dan
Conquer fights
Tins of spam
Spots n pimples
Teachers cane
Hunting thimbles
Bronco lane
Skimming stones
Hopscotch
Nit combs
Chicken pox
Kicking cans
Running wild
Building dams
Fifties child
Your skin glows like the Pommegranite, blossoms Hot as the Daffodil in the purest hope of spring.
My yearning heart rises to your Lyre voice and leaps like a LLama at the whisper of your name, Horatio.
The evening ascends in on a great Vulture wing.
I am calmed by your String vest that I carry into the twilight of Sunbeams and hold next to my Big Toe.
I am filled with hope that I may dry your tears of Parrafin.
As my Fingernail falls from my Duffle coat, it reminds me of your Chair.
In the hushed, I listen for the last Whistle of the spring.
My heated Thumb leaps to my Bobble hat. I wait in the crystal moonlight for your secret Wardrobe so that we may Walk as one, Thumb to Thumb, in search of the glorious Crimson and spiritual Xylophone of love.
Poetrysoup love poem creator 2018
He’s sitting on the edge of his bed.
Still dreaming.
Tossing love letters she never wrote into a fireplace that isn’t there.
He’s screaming at his closet for keeping
secrets that he found inside a duffle bag
she forgot to take when she decided
it was time to peel back the veneer
and build a trebuchet out of the remnants.
He can still feel the eruptions inside his chest.
Again, and again.
Scattering embers of still volatile sorrow, lament, and melancholy.
By morning he will be sewn into the floor.
Too exasperated to move. Too disheveled to rise up,
and attempt any sort of remedy.
He won't take his pills.
He won’t greet the Sun.
He won’t eat or leave his room.
He’ll just stare into the closet, on the floor.
Wishing he had never dug up the bones stuck in his throat.
Wishing he could sleep without going to war.
-James Kelley 2018
Comey and Martha Stuart Sentence
Comey had created Martha Stuart sentence;
She would need to serve for her repentance;
Mentioned flowers,
Better than ours;
Harshly affected her supporters and tenants.
Jim Horn
Missing Other Poets
So where have you been?
Write more poems again,
Be enjoyed;
Never annoyed;
Will read while in my den.
Jim Horn
Trump to be President he was claiming;
Do whatever he wants has been aiming;
Allegiance oath;
Love me both;
Those around him hopes to be taming.
Jim Horn
Trump is like a true trumpeter swan;
Big mouth to dusk beginning at dawn;
Floundering fuddy duddy,
And body really crudy;
We will be glad when he is finally gone.
Jim Horn
None of Your Bees Wax
Wrote poem for Andrea and it am devoting;
With her brain writes poems while boating;
As her titles increase,
Wax none of your bees;
Duffle bag full of poems was seen totting.
Jim Horn
This is for my 5,555th poem I will be writing
for her. Have less than 50 to go.
Dont cry mother
Mother please don’t cry, I had to volunteer.
I have to go away so wipe away your tears.
It really wont be too long I’ll sent you money.
Picking up his duffle bag he said goodby.
His mother stood by the open door and
Her heart felt a pain she never felt before.
The young man was sent to a dessart place
Where he would feel displaced
It wasn’t long before his mother was informed,
By a young soldier in a uniform letter in hand.
Sitting on a chair, a folded flag upon her knee.
Burning tears soaked the flag as she whispered,
Why my son?
She is the eclectic cat lady
Pretty in pink wearing a daisy
You be the judge I think she's crazy
Bobby sock chic her scarf's paisley
One big duffle with many cats inside
she will show them off with the utmost pride
In the bag you can hear them collide
Still they never stray far from her side
When the bag opens it's quite a scene
To my great surprise she has thirteen
Her favorite one his name is Dean
the smallest cat she calls Jelly Bean
As for me I am more of a dog guy
If you smelled her cats you would know why
When the cats see my dogs they sure jump high
Boy oh boy does the fur ever fly
I am the friendly dog loving fellow
My dogs love the sound of my Cello
They sing along while dressed in Yellow
Cat lady smiles while feeding us jello.
For Line Gauthier's "Crazy Cat Lady" Contest. January 2, 2018.
My first poem of the new year.
A beautiful and sweet girdle
Collecting it is quite doddle
Counting is like a hot fettle
Touching it is a bit brittle.
Let be the Geeta or the Bible,
Let be grapes or pineapple,
Importance of money able
Is not be explainable.
Money can make a castle
Or buy handful cattle
Or can earn a good title
Or can bound to peddle.
All is easily possible
By the mint boodle.
Carry them in a duffle
Or in a golden vessel,
It is going to be a rouble.
So friends value a boodle
And crave for it to chuckle
The taunts of world little.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.