Mothballs Poems | Examples

Poem By My Son Trystan

No more

Mothballs and cedar assault my nose

The dust mites and stale air dry my throat

A wardrobe that is just that

 

The lion roars no more

Neutered and robbed of his fire

The last time the words were read

 

In the darkness of this cell I fear the witch no more

Drunk at her cauldron

Slurred words conjure no magic

 

Snow driven mountains of pure white

Have dissolved into a gray haze

Footprints like bread crumbs dissolved

 

My desperate escape blocked

Solid wood between me and salvation

My world made infinitely smaller

-          When the gateway to Narnia can no longer be imagined, the magic dies 


(Trystan Colin Behm- April, 2024)

Sweet Memories

In every nook and drawer,
 further than mothballs,
 your smells...our past. !

George Washington Frog

Powdered wig was musty
Curls petrified and crusty
Mothballs smell much better
Especially in August weather.

George put it on his head anyway
Not wanting to disappoint his mother today
Rode on the float and waved to the crowd
Showing out with a hoppy dance, proudly and loud

That’s George Washington! His parents yelled.
Knowing full well that he always excelled.
Helicopter Mom and Motorcycle dad.
Still they raised a truly wonderful lad.

Oh, Mothballs

Oh, meaty mothballs!
    as opposed to mothy meatballs
  Alternatively - slobbering sloth-balls!
    instead of sloppy moth-calls

  Stupid refrigerator!
    as opposed to dumb incinerator
  Alternatively - dirty toenail taster!
    instead of wanton whiskey-waster

  It's the start of a brand-new year
    Let's raise glasses and expectations
  And while we're at it
    ~ improve imprecations!

Mom

Mesh
Of my window screen
In spring
Licked from the inside by our inherited old lady

She is made of bird bones
White whiskers
Wearing her oversized fur coat in the new heat
Pulled from mothballs

Tongue of sandpaper
Scratches and tastes
I don’t know what

Bitter pollen?
Invisible scents of fellow felines
Hunting shrews from under the garden?
Or lion mares of dandelions?

Perhaps
She is merely savoring herself
In the intricate weave of parallel atoms

Who wants a mirror at this age?

Without ears or eyes in her private world
She finds an in between
Alive
On the inside
And from the outside

My ancient mom hisses
None of your business.

Leave My Freaking Station Alone

I barely know how you bear it, I said to the grapefruit
Of course, true to form, she tried to smooth everything out.
I was irked because no words arrived to sooth me.
Which made her easier to eat, actually – more palpable.

Masticating my cereal is never easy these days, 
especially when the news is on, so I shut that puppy down.
If it is not good news, I do not need it, especially in the morning.
There was a wreck at 17th and Lamar, as usual.

I see one there almost every morning, 
Yet I continue driving this same exact route.
And me, the woman who loathes routine,
Actually living one now. Is it my age, do you suppose?

The car radio is on some 1970’s music but not folk music.
The one channel I had on before my husband drove
And ruined things by changing my channel.
He is going to be eating mothballs for supper tonight. 

My girlfriend calls to yack about her dead husband again.
I wish he was still alive so I could beat his ass, she says.
I have heard it about sixty-nine times, still it never gets old
Especially this morning as listen to the wrong freaking station.

Old People

Old people look like raisins with hair
Perfumed in mothballs and vaporub
Ready for the prom which waits for them
The mirror tells the elderly they are teens
Sometimes the mirror lies
I was once old but now I am not
I threw the mirror to see time fly 
But it always comes back more cracked
Certainly a reflection on things to come
The elderly walk in an angular momentum
Guided by a cane which swings at children
Children should apologize to the cane
They should know better than to offend
Crossing lines turn into wrinkles over time
Each night old people pitch their tents closer to the end
If they pitch them too close they will fall over 
At this rate they will reach the sun by morning

A Memory of Useful Things Now Hidden Away In My Closet-

What's in the closet
Betty Davis old wired hanger
in the upper left hand corner spiders web
on the floor by the baseboard a mouse hole
and on the closet shelf an folded up patch quilt blanket
Grams old fur rabbit coat
nestled tween the raincoat and dad's work shirts
ragged old hoody
Mothballs scented smell entire closet a memory of useful things now hidden away

7/9/19

written by James Edward Lee Sr.

Haibun

New Zealand's favourite bird is the Tui, also called parson bird for its ruffled white cravat - it is famously noted for various lyrical songs - consisting of
soul tuning notes -  intricate melodies or single beats when bereaved of its mate for life,      cheeky flaunting flights near heads in joyful play, even the wingbeats are spirit music -  
now when gardening i'm subjected to    screeches of rubbish trucks - ' eat your silverbeet ' song and this seasons main choice - the electronic car door opener
    i mourn the sounds that used to clear my heart - all gardening day long




                                    electronic beeps

                              bright tui song in mothballs

                                    natures pure revenge



Written 20 June 2018
nb tui = 2 syllables

Crazy Cat Lady

crazy cat lady
chasing mothballs
thinking maybe
scented
are her
calls
keeps
her thoughts
locked in an closet
emotionally she applauds it
crazy cat lady got lost
in
an
mothballs flame
branded were her paws
as she clawed at my name
?


...
..
.


conest write propmpted by: "crazy cat lady" ... words ...

The Black Sheep

It's a cold dark objective fear. 

His face loose folds of jowls,
a sagging half squinted eyelid
and a lopsided woeful expression,
that hides cunning manipulation and brutality.
It's a rancid stench of flies
and faecal matter and musty mothballs,
that clings to the throat and nasal passage.

Entering the box white cottage, 
one up one down, dark steps into 
an eternity of mundane atrocities
and mass genocide of blue bottles.
A frozen winter, but not bone cold,
the neighbours say he starved and froze,
ate soil with his hands, 
stripped wood panels from the wall.

His bulky frame denied starvation, 
insanity maybe, greed undoubtedly,
as his hands grasped screw driver, plant pot
and bread knife rapidly stabbing, 
bludgeoning, punching with frenzied violence
the face of an old woman.
Force and trauma and a wad of cash.
Now three square meals a day, 
a warm room and cigarettes.

His lopsided blood hound face stares blankly
from BBC news.
I think of him at night, 
walking across the lawn from his house to mine.
I think of him in the barn, 
dank, dirty, a lonely space in time.
The darkness of man gapes,
and sits comfortably outside the window.

Up In the Attic

Up and wide awake at three AM
  some creature in the attic once again.
Running, tapping, chewing on the wood
  that can't be good.
I jumped from bed to listen
  mad as he-double hockey sticks arisen.
Tapped the ceiling, knocked loud on the walls
 the momentary silence was merely stall.
My dog growled and ran along
 to question the intruders attempt to belong.
We listened and we waited
 sent mothballs thru the crawlspace fated.
The chase was on up in the attic
 and the show itself quite dramatic.
Thru the overhang he quick escaped
 that spot now securely sealed with wire and duct tape.

Quadro-Widow's Loneliness Breeds Sadness

Quadro-Widow's loneliness breeds sadness



between those four walls
breeds sadness as the widow cries
her fallen husband
staring out to lonely mothballs


connie pachecho

1/12/17

Windows So Slow

Linux Ubuntu
If ya ever tire of Winders,
 with its million upgrades,
Virus making Hackers, 
fixing yer hard drives, yes in spades,
Can yer expand yer mind a little,
shift the mothballs, yes in waves,
learn a Linux of language,
where the Hackers do not prey,
cos they don't crap in their own nest,
cos pollution aint ok,
and the variations differ,
ole Linux here to stay,
Dual booting Ubuntu and Windows,
and its never really slow,
been a using Linux  4 years,
just thought you'd like to know.
Don Johnson
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bXvsvi8gIfE

Its just like windows without the virus, 
but you have helpfiles if you get stuck, online...

The Stormy Night

The wind blows through the trees,
Casting shadows on the house,
The only sound to be heard,
Is the scratching of a mouse,
A ghostly moan comes from the walls,
The cool air smells of mothballs,

A scream erupts from a child's chest,
Her mother walks in and presses her head to breast,
Hush now my child she says as she strokes her hair,
Then the thunder roars like a bear,

The little girl falls fast asleep,
Her mother lays her down there is not a peep,
Her mother leaves and closes the door,
And the little girl dreams once more.

• Short Mothballs Poems
• Famous Mothballs Poems
• Best Mothballs Poems
• Read Mothballs Poems
• Long Mothballs Poems
• Mothballs Quotes