Long Paper bag Poems
Long Paper bag Poems. Below are the most popular long Paper bag by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Paper bag poems by poem length and keyword.
I struggle to recall at a ragged bus stop
Writing memories down on a brown paper bag.
The discarded pen I picked off of the weed grass serves
As a key to my past, the paper bag the door.
My memories gush from the back of my mind,
Long lost in the torrents of tears
And the literal shattering of my heart
Between my breasts.
This was not planned,
This living on my own means,
Struggling to make ends begin.
I’ll worry about them meeting
When the time comes.
The memories I loot
From the locked treasure chest
At the bottom of the barren sea
Of my mind
Seem irregular and appear to belong
Elsewhere, to someone of fiction.
Emerging from somewhere,
I sense a longing.
For what, I wouldn’t say.
Saying what I could say would slow me down.
I’ve struggled to progress past the memories
And until now, the longing has been stifled.
But my memories have broken
Through the dam I built
And they charge like an army of Trojans,
Fighting to the surface of my mind.
It appears I’ll have to drown them...
Again.
It is said that after the first time of anything
That thing discussed becomes easier to do
Without fail.
Well, it’s not.
I examine the brown paper bag and the words
Scribbled on it, much like the rants of rudimentary children.
I take the pen and wind my hair around it,
Pinning it on top of my head, since all my hair bands
Were left behind, like my memories, my spirit,
My smile.
It’ll have to do for now.
I see two yellow eyes in the distance,
Eyes from another world,
That glow with radioactive promise;
It’s one of those grand busses of leisure
Where anyone could have a seizure
in peace,
Coming to me, to take me away.
"Come to me, metal extraterrestrial,
Take me to your leader.
Whisk me off to your world,
To your life, your memories.
Everything is better than this."
It slows to a stop in front of me,
And opens wide, it’s abnormal vertical teeth
Directly in front of me.
A familiar sound emotes from within:
“You coming or not?”
The brown paper bag slips from my hand
And falls to the dying grass.
It stays to pass with the grass,
Or to be found by the Nameless
Of my past.
I once carried my life in my arms,
But I’ve abandoned it
On the side of the black tar road.
“Well?”
It’s that sound again.
Well, here’s to my future.
Take me away, Mr. Alien;
New troubles await.
Written: April 14, 2025 for contest sponsored by Brian Strand
******************
The subject matter of this poem explores themes of transience, intersection of life and death, and the fragile coexistence of human and natural worlds.
a loaf of discounted bread
stale & crumbly
resides in a brown paper bag
teetering
on a park bench
a finger of cool breath
_____nudges
____________the
________________bag
___________________towards
ground
pile of used cigarettes
gathered by
a trash
can
&
an
array
of greasy
fast food, styrofoam cups
a souring banana milkshake
punctured through
---a rotting apple
core
&
an
assemblage
of stale and wizened
McDonald's medium fries
family of pigeons
peck at brown paper
bag--
it topples over &
spills its guts
across
grass
a swan watches from a pond
--eyes peer--
from its snowy face
water cushions every ounce
of its body
caresses every single
feather
sky is a petri-dish
c r a m m e d
with scarlet c l o u d s
a young girl falls
as her size four sneaker
is caught
on a hidden tree root
swan chuckles
to itself
a college student bites
into a decorated
hot dog
condiments slip
his button-down
shirt &
a swan extends its wings
a platform for sun
as droplets of
crystalline water
sparkle off surface
of each
feather
Dribbling
If someone continually gets knocked down
Eventually they will give up the ghost
If around every corner is more negativity
Which of us has lost the most?
Started to believe
More fool me
Be another page
In my sad history
Knock me back
I’m used to it
Should I care
Should I give a
If you had me and lost me
How much did you lose?
I never dreamt this for you
But then,
I never dreamt it for me,
Too
Never got beyond the opening gambits
The if's the that's
The why's and wherefore's
The dangled conversation
The fandangled expression
The ooh's the ah's
The more's the baa's
The ponderous the wonderful
The hip the snakey
The half asleep
The wide awakey
The shakers
The quakers
The jitterers
The poem makers
The right from wrongs
The singers the songs
The left from right
The right from not-so
You never understood
None of you
Never had a clue
Poem as
Cathartic expression
Class dismissed
End of lesson
I’ve told you a thousand times
Don’t exaggerate
And if you’re not early
Don’t be late
Mind your p’s and q’s
Your x y z’s and your w’s
Let it flow
Let it grow
Mind what’s going on
Down below
Every sperm is sacred
Monty Python taught us so
How long’s a rollercoaster
Compared to a sapling
If you think about
Why is money happening
Haven’t had this much fun
In years and years
Still wondering about sweetcorn
WTF? Ears, ears?
Just letting my mind
Cleanse itself
Nothing left
On the shelf
There’s an infinite number
Of poems to be written
If I call this one,
Will it be forgiven?
I’m here and now
Ducking and fighting
A paper bag
Doesn’t come when writing
There was an old poet called Neil
Who wrote something for the thrill
Everyone groaned
Some even moaned
At poor Neil Neil orange peel
Don’t worry
I’ll get me coat
Not wanted here
I won’t get the goat
There’s barely a day goes by
Without me trying to marry
Sigh with my
I wonder why
This butterfly
The poems cry
And if I’m high
Or do or die
I’ll fly
Aye
I’ll fly
Aye
For the end is nigh…
PS
There’s a reason for this coda
Nothing to do with odour
But I’m not going to tell you
Or give you a clue
The best poems are written
To make you think,
I think.
28.4.2022 9:06am
The land that lies
Happy dancer, singing songs,
Knowing that the end will come;
But which is the end and which new beginnings?
Waiting on the end of the beginning, is this the beginning?
This all started a long, long time ago,
When I thought I was winning, but now I know.
Remove the light from around her;
It has no use in being my magnet.
Turn the music off, for I am empty
And she could only ever be tragic.
Dancing alone at the end of the night,
Crying in the morning as I lie.
She is only looking lost,
Whilst I am truly falling.
She has never even seen me,
She has not heard me calling.
She has never truly been searched for,
For I have no power to remove my walls.
Sad boy blues with water eyes,
Stares at happy dancer with such despise.
His dead eyes reveal no fury;
The hate is hidden, His jealousy forbidden,
But never silent, truly.
Maiden calling, watches them both and laughs.
She lives in her bubble head as she lies her way to bed
And all that she knows could be contained in a small paper bag.
Her mind could be printed onto the tiniest part of a pinhead,
If only she could remember to not forget;
Maybe she could be more than the worthless words never said.
These are the people at the bottom of the barrel.
Three for the price of none.
Take them and all those singing without knowing of Axl.
Take this rose to free my hands for the gun.
All these people seen through drunken eyes,
Bloodshot eyes see fools in disguise.
All that is left in this pit at night,
Is calling cards and fake profiles,
Lists of idiots with studied lies.
Unknown numbers for adulterous wives
And I am so tired…
I am so very tired.
So tired of people with crocodile cries in the night,
Over people who do not even matter,
So why do I lie?
Suicide is not a surprise when the truth is seen at last.
I have lived in your land of lies
And still you wonder why there is no turning back?
Once choice is made, love is no longer your slave,
For the beast has been released and is free.
Free to leave you behind, free to fly,
Free to find a place to hide
And when I am found there is no more left to say.
What more needs to be said to someone who walked away?
(C)2018 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
[Absolutely not, by any stretch of the imagination,
based upon or influenced by or pertaining to any TV
or radio production known as, but not exclusively
limited to, “Sesame Street”… your honour!]
___________
FLUSH = Fearless League of Unlikely Super Heroes
___________
Good morning children, mums and dads
On Sessy Street today
We’ll teach you a new letter
And a new word if we may
So listen very carefully
To what we have to say
Because the word we have in mind
We’ll illustrate this way
*
Once there was a little boy
His name was Nobby Napper
He opened up a candy bar
And simply dropped the wrapper
*
The jingle of an ice cream van
Which, tyres screeching, stopped
Turbo Gran stepped out and said,
“Your wrapper you have dropped
“Would we have a tidy world
If each ice cream I sold
Lay thrown upon the sidewalk?
Pick it up and keep a hold.”
*
A flash and there was Souperman
He said, “Desist from sin,
Refrain from placing litter
But in yonder litter bin
“Be it in thy gift perchance
To stay thy wasteful way
Falter not, so man with spike
Has nought to clear away.”
*
And in his wake, the Freezer Mice
In tiny incarnation
In unison did each proclaim,
“Son, keep a tidy nation.”
Those freezer mice clicked fingers
And became as tall as men
Their leader told the errant child,
“Don’t drop litter again.”
*
And then the Unknown Hero
Paper bag upon her head
Decried his education
And said, “Have you been misled?
“It is never acceptable
To litter without heed
For this displays all humans
As a most untidy breed.”
*
The child was shaking fearfully,
His eyes were filled with dread
And he was last heard sobbing
Underneath his parents’ bed
*
So there we have it children, pay attention if you will
Today we’ve covered. “O” and found a word to fit the bill
Did you guess the word today, or are you guessing still
The “O” word that we’ve learned today, is this word…“Overkill”.
Fundamentalists
Evangelists
Jihadists
HolyWar and Final Judgment and RoughLove Advocates
against infidels and other, more domesticated, sinners:
Put down your Bibles and Korans,
written to grow love
and not weapons for bleary-eyed bullies.
You spend too much time reading and thinking
and arguing
to let your spiritual emotions swell and grow love.
Instead,
pick up a small recycled brown paper bag
of healthy
fertile
organic mustard seeds.
Learn faith with them,
that together you might grow
to know
this radiant reign of God's Eternal Light and NonDual Dark.
Plant them into Advent darkness,
care for them,
water them
and not the tarish tearing weeds
of envy and supremacy,
hypocrisy and punishing misjudgment,
superstition
and hope for antiEarth anti-logical magic,
nightmares and violence,
anger and fear-mongering,
Old Testament blood sacrifices
and enslavement to false fascist idols
as if these were large enough
to contain the wisdom of one regenerative mustard seed,
sprouting radiant love for God's sun
and MotherEarth's baptismal waters,
fueling our shared root restorative ecosystem.
Harvest these therapeutic cultures of health
and gratitude
and grace,
make spicy brown mustard with them.
Serve to and from your students
and children
and mentees
on homemade 7-Grain ReGenerate Manna.
Wait for Paradise
to flow through your mouths,
down your throats,
into your communion stomachs.
If your kids are faithful and loving goats,
watch them wag their tails,
wages of love and not sin,
in gratitude for Grace.
If human
help us listen to,
and speak,
and write better tales
for restorative healing of love,
omnipresent as a mustard seed's integrity
of each moment's sacred with secular potential.
And if you should learn faith as one of these kids,
your tail
and tales
will wag truer,
and far more grace-filling effective
and affective
and infective
and reflective
too.
Then you may be safe to return
to your holier-with-you gardening books
on how to grow histories of love
without sinning against faith
of a mustard seed.
“I let go. Lost in oblivion. Dark and silent and complete. I found freedom. Losing all hope was freedom.”
Chuck Palahniuk
Is there such a metaphor as an avalanche of time?
Each second can be cold, but never freezes,
but we all know a landslide once triggered,
can bury fragile foundations into oblivion.
Sometimes life is scripted into a pantomime of pretend.
Darkness crawls at dawn.
There's a sour stench in the air,
ascending from an aromatherapy of agony and ache.
She's crying again. Her demons smiling.
This is no melodrama,
as crimson discolours the whites of her eyes,
with dripping mascara staining sore dark circles -
as 3am fears are released through a flood of tears.
Her spirit is a malady of misery,
lusting for an end from this state of deadly delirium.
In each tear there is a sign,
an unveiled message lost in silent flows -
as anxiety's asphyxiation grows.
Time has become her nemesis.
Turning her intellect into foolish bitterness.
It's a dilemma creating false hopes,
resulting in broken dreams and forgotten promises.
Destiny keeps playing games with her spirit,
whilst fate falters like premature butterflies.
Only her heart knows the truth of her heart -
She hides behind a veil of personal poison.
In the molestation of her mind,
she kisses the silence in between each echo,
yet the sands of time bring her no respite.
People keep throwing stones,
bruising her every time,
she has no desire to live as a victim
of broken pieces from her past,
but wounds keep resurfacing.
Tired from drinking venomous embers of elixir,
which pierce like shards of sorrow,
penetrating an eternal hole in her soul,
she cries for healing and understanding.
But In a world full of dark skies and rain,
her sanity slowly fades,
like a paper bag of emotions,
floating in a muddy puddle within a concrete pot hole.
Intoxicated by kismet's chalice of impatience,
she has learned fate has no mercy,
it offers no remedy to soothe her sorrows,
nor heal her horrors.
her life is a metaphor known as an avalanche of time.
A Unique Wedding Ring
BRIDES have wedding rings so lovely:
in all colors, some with precious stones,
But you may not have mine, it's too
unique.
BRIDES really are their Husband's sunshine.
in dresses traditional or new.
But I was married wearing a raincoat,
Love makes the vows, not the dress.
Eloping is an adventure, I would happily repeat.
We drove over two thousand miles to wed.
And it wasn't in the heat.
It was a raging blizzard in Chicago
that January night.
I was leaving my dog behind, my friend
for many years,
He was jumping and yelping, and oh,
I could not hold back my tears.U
He watched us pull away, he seemed
to be in fear.
I can still see his brown eyes shining,
And it still brings back new tears.
The drive was long and treacherous,
The car broke down in the Great Divide.
I wondered if I had made the right decision.
But~ we were on an our unstoppable love mission!
We finally reached our sunny destination.
I loved the Cable Cars, what a sensation!
The weather, so very perfect, it was
time to buy the ring.
We were not holding tons of cash, but
love surpasses things so crass.
That ring with no stones or precious
metals, it really had no bling.
This BRIDE'S ring most unusual.
It cost a whole sixty seven cents,
and placed in a brown paper bag.
I could not wait to wear it!
But in City Hall,once married,
that glorious moment!
When my husband slipped that ring
on my finger. How awesome.
Decades have past, my husband has
with them.
I have lost and misplaced many things.
But that sixty-seven cent ring never
gets lost.
Stores like Woolworth's maybe gone
Replaced by big barn type stores and
chains.
But I'd rather have small ones back!!
Life has become far too impersonal
and strange.
And so~ I can put on my ring, close my
eyes,
And see my husband, no not on the
internet, but reading poetry to me!
Seems I have come full circle. now!
Decades after my marriage vow!
Thank you, beloved wedding ring,
and to the poetic husband I once had.
Panagiota Romios
4/21/2019
One step closer to finishing the project,
The deadline is fast approaching,
and it has to be perfect.
Working hours after hours not to fall behind,
The family is eating dinner—another night without Mom, no need to remind.
Keeping an eye on the clock, eight o’clock is approaching;
The boss demands a tête-à-tête.
The pounding in your head makes you fret,
Another migraine and the aura of a halo.
Punching out won’t be before 11 p.m.—you just know.
You pull up a chair and place the folders on the table,
Your stomach grumbles, and your mind is on the stale bagel
In the fridge, in a brown paper bag.
Working for the almighty dollar is the price tag,
Leaving the house, leaving your family behind,
Desperately trying to keep your nose to the grind.
Full speed ahead, feeling like a hamster on the spinning wheel;
You should be at home bathing your babies, but instead, you feel like a heel.
Running as fast as you can,
Leaving your world behind as you go over the plan.
The boss lady reminds you that many have fallen behind,
No job is secure—it can be transferred and assigned
To the younger crowd climbing the ladder,
Not trying to make you feel sadder.
The clock of time falls behind each year,
Just be happy if you make it another year.
Full speed ahead or fall behind—
Just those two options, no peace of mind.
The years sped by, and the seasons come and go,
The family is all grown now, and your gait is slow.
So many regrets swirl through your head;
The deadlines of yesterday were not here to stay.
If I could snap my fingers, my life would have been full of delays.
I would have fallen behind while bathing my babies,
I would have fallen behind enjoying the daisies,
I would have fallen behind when I had a full house.
Now, the days are long as you gaze at your spouse;
The irony of what we think is important
No longer matters as you spread Ben Gay—it’s the most absorbent.
The aches and pains are a constant reminder
As you make your way to your favourite recliner.
The quiet rain dispelled any thoughts of a rain out.
It was Fenway, it was Father's Day,
And within the sacred realm of wooden bats,
Unswung and dumbly waiting,
There is the halcyon hope of impact
This on our first day of summer
Like the first day with our father
When he slapped us on our day-old baby chests
To keep us alive, keep the beeps beeping,
Forcing life's tiny engine to re-fire,
Making love's literal labor rumble back into place
Like the slamming of the hood of the car or
The smacking of the hanging breaking ball or
The blowing up of balloons, in school, for winter's child
Who needs to see the swelling of life into vivid colors
So that he'll be tempted to speak through the tumors
And show me how even more not-so-small, slow miracles take form,
Like the oldest man on the team,
On the mound, leading the league in wins,
Like my father putting a lunch together,
A salad, asparagus, and sausage in three
Giant containers I could never fit in my work bag
So in a flash he grabs this nifty-sized paper bag out of nowhere,
(the nowhere where the cabinet and the refrigerator is),
That dark and unspeakable vertical slit
Where all things crawl to be forgotten
Except by my dad who hears nothing and attends to everything
Scrambling even now to get a lunch together for his
29-year-old son who slogs eye-blinkingly around the kitchen
As morning-dumb as the day of his arrival
With the first pitch, the first slap, the first symbol of love.
Father's guide us through the passing fog
Like a lighthouse with a hearing problem, on wheels,
Barreling into the future, keeping the ball moving,
Keeping the world working.
The father is our Sun, Summer's Eternal Boy,
Guiding truth (or his version of it) where it need go:
Another Red Sox win,
Another sandwich made,
Another reason to smoke a cigar.
Happy Father's Day, Dad.
As long as you promise to keep swinging
I'll promise to speak up. (And answer my phone.)