Lunchbox Poems

BACK TO SCHOOL

BACK TO SCHOOL
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In August, young Sam felt quite cool,
with a backpack, he headed to school.
     He packed up some peanuts,
     and a few silly musical cuts,
in his lunchbox then thought, “Aren’t I a jewel?!”

His classmates all chuckled and cheered,
as he whispered, “I’m ready, don’t fear!”
     With a pencil in paw,
     he scribbled with awe,
“Math’s nuts! Let’s eat lunch, I declare!”

The teacher, the scholarly Miss Owl, hooted, 
“Pay attention, Sam, or to office you’ll be booted.”
     But he daydreamed of the oak trees,
     and the buzzing of sweet honeybees,
while plotting his next acorn loot.

Fugue

I’ve lived here my whole life. 
I work here. 
Wearing slippers to work. 
So fuzzy and nice. 
My manager is tearing through. 
Every word is nothing. 
Grappling at every pause. 
This room is dizzy. 
Computer keyboards. 
Pens and pencils. 
Typing for hours. 
And nothing goes my way. 
Printing out blank sheets of paper. 
Lunch. 
Open a lunchbox. 
I packed five slices of bread and a spoon. 
Tiredness. 
I think I left the lamp on at home. 
So I drove to some town in Ohio. 
A new life attached to me. 
Two hours ago, I lived in Michigan my whole life. 
And I was tired. 
Now I’m totally awake. 
My eyes are biting everything. 
Everything burns. 
Ohio is where you go. 
On a little lunch break. 
Everything is whimsical. 
When you think you’ve lived in Ohio. 
And no one believes you.

Baking Bread

I open the oven door
to a blast of heat 
and hot bread bulging
out of a high tin, brown, crusty
and ready to be taken out.
That smell wafts across 
seventy years to when I can
remember bread being delivered
in a horse and cart.

Carrying a big 
wicker basket full of hot bread, 
the baker would run
house to house whilst his horse
ambled along at a pace 
in perfect sync with the bakers
progress along the street.

Weekday mornings
I would wait out front 
and rush the hot bread 
inside for my mother to make me
sandwiches for lunch.
Mum always complained
that the bread was too hot 
for cutting. I had a steaming 
slice smothered in butter 
before I left for school.

Big, thick, uneven slices
of bread holding metwurst
or cheese or peanut butter
greeted me when I opened 
my lunchbox at school.
Bread was never better.
Nearing eighty, I keep
baking bread, writing poems,
as if trying to recapture 
those pleasures still steaming
in the past before they go.

Still Blinking

Cornfield aluminum recycled communion wafers.
We drank Gatorade wine from a stolen lunchbox,
sat Indian style in the irrigation ditch,
reciting Tool lyrics as scripture.

My IPhone had a cracked screen,
Her Android played only static and KORN.
We smoked straw wrappers,
wore hoodies like vestments.
God, in the form of a substitute teacher,
glassy eyed and smoked menthols.

She named a dead bird “Ezekiel.”
Buried it with her wedding ring
underneath the bleachers behind the gym
where someone graffitied “THIS IS NOT A revolution”

the snow didn’t remember our names.
Just a pager in her pocket,
still blinking after the apocalypse

my healthy snail snack

mom always put a snail snack into my lunchbox
made of apples, peanut butter, and celery.
The best parts were the eyes; they were chocolate chips.
She never put in more than two.
A snail only has two eyes, right?
I ate the antennas too; they were made of pretzels.
Always licked off the peanut butter,
Diligently threw away the apple and celery.

Peanut Butter Cups

She always had one
In her hand.

“Peanut butter cups,”
She’d say,
“They help me forget.”

She spent her saved change
On peanut butter cups
At the 7-11 down the road
Every day.

She would come to class
Holding a peanut butter cup
And would sit in the second row—
Second chair—
Eating it silently.

When she was done
She would fold the wrapper
Into a little heart
And slip it into her lunchbox.

I wondered
How many hearts she had made.

Depression

It feels like fighting nature.

Like- trying to force the seasons to change.

Knowing that I’ll have to do this forever.

Putting things away and away…

Shoving things in drawers, and closet spaces,

And luggage, and bags.

And even a lunchbox some days.

Like shoveling snow,

And it always snows again.

Then the snow gets harder and turns to ice…

It’s a jacket this time.

The jacket is crumpled and crumpling.

But it’s scary, like holding a snake.

I’m going to throw this on the floor,

Even though my mom will be angry again.

And yelling,

But the yelling feels further away and away.

But the yelling hurts less than…

The pain of putting things away.

The Strawberry Cake Lunchbox

With a backpack on her back she waves me goodbye 
as my heartstrings pull tight I smile, but I don't cry
My little girl is starting school day, with a gleam in her eye 
she says " momma I'm ready" is the bus here yet ?
The house sits empty and the only sound is the sound of my kettle. 
I try to recall a day without her but I can't,  
she's been glued to my soul, since the day she was born 
"Its only kindergarten" I say as a way to ease my mind  
but I know my heart feels like mush today, " I need to be kind" 
I go to her room and straighten out her bed 
and by the amount of crumbs on her bear, I know he's been fed  
"She'll be back soon enough" I say to myself, 
Its every mother's hope, that her daughter stays safe everyday 
I used to thank God each time the front door opened
and a little voice said, " Mommy, I'm home!" 

With a backpack on her back she waves me goodbye,  
and I know I'm going to miss her, I can't lie.

Music

When you say good morning, it's music
When you come and smile without a sound, it's music
When you turn around and wink wistfully, it's music
When you tiptoe to my room to cover me up, it's music
When you slide that lunchbox in my bag, it's music
O my mom, your every action, your care, your stare, it's music
I wonder if you know, I doubt if I can make you know
I know it might sound ridiculous, I might seem a fret
It's all the music in your movements, that lends a glow
To my shady day. You may speak or may not say
A word, I hear this music, it's notes are so soft and meticulous
O my mom, your every action, your care, your stare, it's music

School Things--Nursery Rhyme

I love my school things:

Crayons, ruler, and pad paper, 
Glue, sharpener, and eraser;
Pens and pencils in a tin box 
That need not close with any locks. 

Some pocket money makes me smile--
To buy a gum to share with Kyle.
Notebooks with pictures on the cover 
Of my idols--like Justin Bieber!

Oh, wait, there’s one thing I forgot--
The lunchbox which Mom newly bought.
And where to place all of this stuff?
In my school bag, there’s space enough!

March 26, 2023

Among 1st Place 
Children Sing to Rhyme Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Eve Roper

Hard All Over

“Heads will roll,” I heard the line boss say,
“Immigration agents checking papers today.”
Things are hard all over (hard all over).  
Things are hard all over (hard all over).  
Grab your lunchbox and scram. 
The office don’t give a damn. 
Things are hard all over.

Clear the bar and grip the bottle tight.
Some poor mother’s son won’t make it home tonight.
Things are hard all over (hard all over). 
Things are hard all over (hard all over).  
Got that saltwater thirst, 
My bladder’s fixin’ to burst. 
Things are hard all over.

Yankees running roughshod. 
Mets are running scared.
New York Times predicts 
There won’t be anybody spared. 
Things are hard all over.

Magdalene’s on the corner display,
Advertising booty. Got her own bills to pay.
Things are hard all over (hard all over).  
Things are hard all over (hard all over).  
The little girl needs a fix 
So she’s been turning some tricks. 
Yeah, things are hard all over.

Cola Up My Nose

I got out the root beer to have a drink.
I poured it in a glass over by the sink.

By accident I went too fast.
I poured way too much for the glass.

Really quick I took a sip,
Frothy foam tickled my lip.

Higher and higher the bubbles rose,
And then the soda went up my nose.

I started to cough, then I started to wheeze
Before I knew it I had to sneeze.

I sneezed so hard, I dropped the glass on the floor,
So I started all over and poured some more.



2005  For Worms in My Lunchbox Collection

Ferryboat Names

“Lunchbox” just went sailing by
With “Cyclone Shark” behind.
There’s also “Seas the Day” and more
With river puns in mind.

The ferryboats that pass each day
All proudly sport a name,
Some student contest winners,
Guaranteeing some acclaim.

Though most are not creative, 
Like “Connector,” I confess
I much prefer that to the flat-out lie – 
“Friendship Express.”

When the Wrong Train Becomes Right

Life is filled with many different journeys
trying to work out the one for you
whether that's a person or just a place
it's figuring out for you if it's true

THere's that station just off the main street
checking the timetable what will it mean?
your train has gone just a minute slow
on the platform you stand all be seen

Take the next train come along the line
where to? who cares you just gotta go
down the line it came right on time
was this supposed to be but you never know

There you take your seat first-class
looking out of the clear glass so very fast
along the way, one so stunning entered
sits directly across indeed my die is cast

Her beauty so breathtaking to intake
so thankful I missed that train so late
our eyes met instantly never want to leave
the wrong train was right showing life is great!

('Sometimes the wrong train will take you to the right station' - quote from the movie ' The Lunchbox' )

Daddy of Mine

When daddy comes home, a glow sets throughout our house.
He brightens our sad days, soon as he steps out.

The old Chevy truck, with coffee stained floors.
Dust has made its home, on his dashboard.

He picks up his cup, and his lunchbox.
Walks into the doorway, his boots then coming off. 

He's greeted by our faces, wearing the biggest smile.
As he too is just as happy.
He's home safe n sound.

Daddy sits in his worn out rocking chair.
I sit on the couch next to him, just to be near.

I look over at him, he's beginning to nod off, into a peaceful dreaming.
I pray then for happy thoughts.

I grab my blanket cover up my cold feet.
Thank God for such a good father.
He's very hardworking.
Every little girl deserves to have a daddy so kind.
I love you, you are my hero.
That daddy of mine.

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