Long Duffel bag Poems
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He was my sun, my one and only son,
attired as a cowboy for the day.
And so I handed him a little gun
of fastened random sticks, for him to shoot and play.
Attired as a cowboy for the day
he searched for foes (with bows and arrows made
of fastened random sticks for them) to shoot, and play
the part of ‘Injuns’ in a mock charade.
He searched for foes (with bows and arrows made)
well written in his story books before he left for school.
The parts of ‘Injuns’ in a mock charade
were tainted with a crimson war paint, oh so cruel.
Well writ in history books before he left from school,
the tales (retold of victories that we’d won)
were tainted with a crimson war paint, oh so cruel.
The flow of paint was not to staunch when once begun.
From tales retold of victories that we’d won,
he learned to fight for God and country glory, though
the flow of pain, ’twas not to staunch when once begun
and bane to both sides (as he’d later come to know).
He learned to fight for God and country glory, though
the wounds of war were kept unseen (while nigh)
and bane to both sides (as we’d later come to know);
but still he stuffed a duffel bag with several things of youth, then said goodbye.
The wounds of war were kept unseen. While nigh,
the hours boomed, the clock struck 12 at last, his time to leave.
But, still, he stuffed a duffel bag with several things of youth, then said goodbye
to those who’d stay and even those who wouldn’t grieve.
The hours boomed, the clock struck 12 - alas, his time to leave.
They sent back body bags they’d stuffed with severed things of those who’d died
to those who’d stayed. And even those who wouldn’t grieve
with tears were stiff and masked like wooden boxes meant to hide.
They sent back body bags they’d stuffed with severed things of those who’d died;
his boots hung loose, one camouflaged in mud.
With tears, the stiff were masked in wooden boxes meant to hide
our children from the spilling of their blood.
His boots hung loose, one camouflaged in mud;
they said they’d needed him to help defend
our children from the spilling of their blood.
But can they ever see or really comprehend?
They said they’d needed him to help defend,
and so they handed him a little gun.
But can they ever see or really comprehend?
He was my sun, my one and only son.
**A Travel East**
We pass the Grand Mesa cruising like lightening at 95mph,
I feel like a passenger on a toy train.
A mountain 11,000 feet above the ground,
auburn colored, rock faced cliffs, complimented
by a spectacular baby blue sky.
Clouds scatter, trying unsuccessfully to cover
the rapid sunrise.
Blue,
Indian orange,
and red mix together well
with the beauty of the cliff face.
Along the base,
the Colorado river
races.
Not quite a rapid,
yet swift enough to scare rafters,
and small animals.
Miniature icebergs travel through a small channel
created in the ice of the once wide river.
A family of coyotes gather on a patch of solid ice.
The young playfully roam,
while the adults relax, lick themselves and watch.
Deer prance across the terrain,
chasing the train.
Detained,
inside a fence,
cattle graze in a group of one hundred or so.
A cottage rests along the perimeter
where children play.
Bundled from head to toe,
Snow,
thick and heavy.
Frosty is created!!
Homeward bound!!
The ride semi-pleasant,
better than the first.
The lavatory still with that distinctive
musky urine scent.
The passenger car seems bigger this time,
more spacious.
Room for my long legs,
and wide enough to accommodate my beer gut.
I hear the rantings of an old married couple
as they bicker about what time dinner should be reserved for.
Beside me,
laying awkwardly,
an old man snores.
Shallow breaths in between,
I can hear his heartbeat.
Pounding like
a heavy percussion solo,
his feet propped on his duffel bag below.
The lobby car when first entered
looked barren.
A few passengers sit with books and laptops,
others watch as the fast moving terrain passes
through the tinted double glass.
My cell phone lost battery life and I
needed the accommodation of electricity.
Occupied,
I wait for my turn.
From my peripheral I saw her,
I could sense her aura.
Smell her aroma of Vanilla Musk.
Dirty blond hair with red highlights,
short but not to short,
with a friendly disposition.
So,
I sparked a conversation,
that helped better this expedition.
Jared Pickett
3/7/08
Asavvy1
The colors of our flag
Do not stand for freedom
Anymore.
Red shall not be to honor the blood spilled by our troops
But rather the blood
Spilled by those who wake up every day in fear
Of half the country
And the man propped up by millions of hateful minds
It shall be the color of that phantom blood that gushes from
The piercing pain of the what ifs?
Red shall not be the courage of our country
But rather the color of destruction soon to come
Red skies
Blazing fire
Pre-apocalyptic dust settles over
Us.
White shall not be the color of the absence of evil
But rather,
It's new hue.
And the elephants can stampede us to the ground,
Remind us,
As they kick mud around our bodies,
That our first black president
Is handing over the White House to a man
Endorsed by the KKK
The resurgence of white supremacy
Brings us back to World War II
Yet no one heeds the warning.
Blue shall not be the color of patriotism and loyalty
But rather the tears shed
By many in some lands,
By few in others.
Tears that fall on
The rainbow flag,
The hijab,
The ragged piece of paper with #blacklivesmatter scrawled on it in ink
The dusty duffel bag packed
In order to cross the border
Packed by those we dub “aliens”
Though inside their organs are identical to ours
Red,
White,
And blue.
A divided country that is
Dividing each and every one of us
In half.
It was now September there was a smell of autumn in the air autumn fires burned,
On a bleak night lying on a cold wet floor the night chilled all that were out,
The naked earth was cold hard, in the distance leaves went brown and fell down,
As autumn steals upon us and steals the warm dry days the winter waits to pounce.
Sitting on a park bench drinking sherry from a bottle a lonely man feels blighted,
He has a stained duffel bag by his side full of pickings from a good days begging,
Five bottles of sherry lay in his bag it made him feel good it made him feel safe,
Each time he took a swig the sweet thick sickly liquid made him feel warm inside.
Sitting like a king on a throne with his bag of goodies he had it all a happy man,
With one hand on his duffel bag he could feel hard rounded bottles heavy and full,
At this moment he would not change life with anyone having all he needed and more,
He did not even fear the wretched hangover in the morning he could drink it away.
Finishing one bottle he felt good he gave a happy sigh and threw it across the park,
Flushed with complete happiness he pulled out another bottle and gave it a huge kiss,
He twisted the top off and put it to one side and chugged great big draughts of joy,
He sat with legs out straight getting comfortable this was a night away from sadness.
The full moon glistens on the fallen snow;
He still has a couple of miles left to go,
As he walks on home from the bus depot;
Of his visit there nobody yet knows.
His deployment in Iraq has come to an end;
The Purple Heart hangs on his chest;
Of his shortened tour he told no family or friends;
His left sleeve is pinned to his vest.
The Greyhound bus that dropped him off,
Passes him rolling down the road;
The shrapnel he carries in a chewing tobacco tin,
As he marches along in the dark and the cold.
The long driveway to the house he grew up in,
Has not been shoveled of the snow;
The lights are still on, as everyone within,
Prepares for a midnight mass to go.
They are startled by noises out on the porch,
And wonder at the knock on the door;
They all rush in to see who it is,
As he drops his duffel bag upon the floor.
A one-armed hug isn’t so bad,
On the Eve before a Christmas Day;
When received by a hero son
Who’s been missed ever since he went away.
They all went to church with tears in their eyes;
One family of thousands of more;
Overjoyed by a wonderful Christmas surprise -
A soldier coming home from the war.
keep the music sorrowfully low,
so big daddy doesn’t hear.
the shadowy figures, surrender
and whisper in your ear.
the psychedelic colors flow
like the sea foam beat.
Angie, your chromatic hair
smells incandescently sweet.
locked and loaded, alone
with your beastie dreams.
your pillow’s soft and it leans -
your coming apart “at the seams”
one boy plays peek-a-boo, sniffing
your honeysuckles suspended.
tickled by your goldilock curls,
not realizing all it portended.
like walking into the deep dark wood,
he creeps hand and foot, eyes first
like a prowling tiger, tail wagging,
with a rattling tongue a-thirst.
Angie, swooshes her fingers
through his hair, hushes him.
...he stares at the ceiling stars
...loud music descends on his limbs.
Angie digs her embryonic duffel bag,
smiles and adds his decomposing bones
to the ashes of her huge imagination
and recalls that in this world, she’s all alone.
5/8/2019
Musical Inspiration Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May
Song choice: Angie, Baby by Helen Reddy
An amulet of peace hung ‘round my neck,
An AR16 rifle in my hands….
Seemed like such a paradox,
In the paddies and jungles of Vietnam.
An amulet of peace hung ‘round my neck,
A man’s life was in my hands….
That life was not only mine,
While trying to survive in Vietnam.
An amulet of peace hung ‘round my neck,
Hoping for guidance by God’s hand….
Ignore our sin, keep us alive and safe,
While fighting in Vietnam.
An amulet of peace hung ‘round my neck,
My duffel bag in my hand….
After 13 months, I was going home,
No more to fight in Vietnam.
An amulet of peace hung ‘round my neck,
An Honorable Discharge in my hand….
Only to be spat upon, called ‘baby killer’,
By ‘peaceniks’ against the war in Vietnam.
An amulet of peace no longer hung ‘round my neck,
The challenge of a new life was at hand….
Found love, happiness and some success,
And tried not to think of Vietnam.
Again, that same amulet of peace hangs ‘round my neck;
And I hope my friends all understand….
I want our courageous young men and women
Out of Iraq and Afghanistan.
On youth's restless green puff
I rode a greyhound bus southbound.
Everything I owned stuffed into one duffel bag.
Forty eight hours on highway x.
It was getting dark so I settled for the first dive I could find.
One room with peeling pink walls
a large painting of a red heart against black
somebody pretending to be Peter Max.
The next night-I popped into "Geno's bar", to watch a football game.
There was a handful of locals-nobody spoke.
I could see cock roaches racing over the hotdogs.
I was young and beyond hungry but settled for the vending machine.
As Geno would reach for a hotdog, the roaches would scurry off.
By the time the dogs reached the counter they were hot, glistening
and roach free.
Old Geno just smiled as he handed them their roach dogs.
Then quickly took their money.
It was our dirty little secret, after all I was the new guy and didn't want to cause a stir and bug bomb his patrons.
Geno handed me a free beer just before halftime,
I guzzled it down and left him to his roaches soon after.
A man of unquestioned probity in his community, stumbles upon
A hidden duffel bag in the woods while camping with his family
He pulls it out of the dirt and zips it open. The duffel bag
Is stuffed with $100 bills. He turns in the money, in full
To the authorities the next day. His honest deed earns him
Considerable, much-deserved kudos in the press. Unfortunately
He also gets the attention of an unscrupulous stranger, anonymously
Demanding "every last penny of my money back, or I'll...
Continue to make life a living hell for you and your family..."
A ruthless demand
Stranger wants his pound of flesh
Tough predicament
Date written and posted: 04/18/2019
Each day, she wallows in unspeakable despair
Her hunger is unslakable
There's misery in her downcast eyes
Poor woman, a have-not in the world of haves
She's a beggar and dumpster diver
Her appearance weather-beaten and unkempt
Her hand-held sign speaks more than she does
All that she has is stuffed into
her medium duffel bag
"Where will she sleep tonight?," I wonder. Where?
I sure hope and pray it's under a roof
Dear God, please keep her safe and sound!
CONTEST 555,ANY FORM OR NONE,ANY THEME,UP TO A MAX OF 20 LINES
Sponsored by Brian Strand (Winner: 1st Place)
Date written and posted: 02/06/2019