The grandkids are heading to sleepaway camp,
Their clothing all labeled and packed,
Plus all of the extras they may or not need -
Way too much, as a matter of fact.
They bring pillows and blankets and flashlights and fans
And shin guards and sandals and cleats
And towels and bug spray and sunscreen and stamps
And shampoo, toothbrush, toothpaste and sheets.
They need rain gear and sleeping bags, books and canteens,
A laundry bag, backpack and socks,
Plus sweatshirts and jackets and underwear (lots!)
And their sneakers and rain boots and Crocs.
Of course there are bathing suits, t-shirts and shorts
And sweatpants and PJ’s and fleece,
But there are no iPads or Switches or phones
So some wonders, I guess, never cease.
The days spent at camp will fly quickly until
All that stuff gets repacked to go home,
With some missing or ruined or filthy, but that
Is a topic for some future poem.
What scene would I want to find comfort in
more than this one,
an ordinary morning in the farmhouse kitchen,
blue checked curtains swaying,
wooden shelves with plates and jars,
the radio softly playing,
a paring knife in my hand?
It gives me time to think
about all that is waking outside--
birds calling from the trees,
dew glistening on the garden's leaves,
while beyond the fields the world rolls on,
vivid, bustling, dawn breaking with the day.
But beyond this kitchen
there is nothing that I need,
not even a ticket to some grand event,
or a sleek, silver-trimmed coffee maker
that sits in shiny kitchens downtown.
No, it's all here,
the orange slices in their clear plastic bags,
the loaf of bread on the cutting board,
a jar of blackberry jam,
not to mention the child's painting
held to the fridge by a magnet,
and the way these three lunch bags--
each a different color--
wait in quiet stillness.
So forgive me
if I pause now and listen
to the hum of the refrigerator as it purrs
while my mind
wanders a bit across the acres,
where the sunlight
gently warms the wheat
and my thoughts rest in a farmhouse
surrounded by rolling hills
he is packing food for winter
each kernel might make the difference
between surviving the Iowa winter and not
some say owls are wise
they have nothing on squirrels
he begins his climb to his nest
where he deposits his corn
wishing it was sweet corn
instead of field corn
To pack for a weekend
With children requires
Much more than a tankful
Of gas and good tires.
You have to remember
Their PJ’s and clothes,
Their brushes for teeth
And for hair, I suppose.
Shampoo, soap and toothpaste
And lotion for itches,
The books they are reading,
The iPads and Switches.
Perhaps a stuffed creature
Or doll that’s a fave
And surely some snacks
Of the type they would crave.
When all is assembled
(And yes, it’s a lot!),
You climb in the car, wond’ring
What you forgot.
At this second of clarity. I am doing some serious concentrated repacking.
Earth humans are only allowed two chests on the outer space rocket ship.
I have said good-bye to my three favorite pets. They will stay here.
Several friends and neighbors have professed to love them.
I hope they are not fooling. I adore my cobra, tarantula and muskrat.
I left video good-byes for relatives to feet kick over after I have gone.
I have studied the six prevalent languages spoken on Planet X-73Z4.
Tapes of their customs, niceties and hair styles are already packed.
My green chest has a coffee maker and many non-nutritious snacks.
Snickers bars, potato chips, and syrups for my snow cone machine.
Thought you were leaving
But you’re hanging around
I just want you to go
Don’t want you to know
All the things that I found
Thought you weren’t happy
And you want to be free
And now I’ve outgrown
All your jealousy
Stop hanging around
I don’t want you near me
Cos now I’m happy alone
So gather your bags
And all your rag tags
And leave my home
Your friends must be happy
That they let you stay
Now my life is so cool
Got rid of that fool
Stopped hanging around
David Cox 02/01/2023
I feel you there,
Your gaze sends heat through my skin
Do you know what I've done?
My hairs stand on end,
Slowly, I watch you
Packing your bag in the night
Slowly you leave
Spreading this terrible blight
I feel like I'm burning
An ant beneath your scope
Do you know what I've done?
Your eyes meet mine,
Raging blue fire,
Your bag on your shoulder,
So, you know now
What it is I've done.
First he gets three shoes; none of them mates.
And my yesterday's steak on a blue dinner plate.
I will throw in a wet towel to make sure his clothes mold.
Am I being diabolical? No. Just a tiny bit cold.
He is going on vacation to sit in the sun.
I want to make sure to spoil most of his fun.
Why he cannot pack himself one way or another
I truly blame on his overbearing indulgent sweet mother.
In goes an onion, to play havoc with his underwear.
I have dyed them pink too, to show that I care.,
In goes a tiny mouse I found, and a cracker so pure.
I know he'll have a great time now, oh yes, for sure!
The trading this year has been slack
There's hardly a present to pack.
The elves have been fired
Old Rudolph's retired
And Santa's been given the sack!!
28.11.20
syllable count by ear: 88558
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In Argentina, Mara
Lived a sad and lonely life,
Crowded with unfriendly roommates,
Twenty years of constant strife.
She’s an elephant from Asia
Who was stuck inside a zoo
But the powers-that-be decided
There was something they could do.
So they took her on a road trip,
Days and many miles away,
To a sanctuary in Brazil
Where she could safely stay.
Now she’s found a friend in Rana
And they’ve formed a touching bond.
It’s a tale like Cinderella,
Altered by a magic wand.
In the midst of a pandemic
It’s uplifting just to hear
Of the type of happy ending
That I feared would disappear.
Moving out feels much sadder
than moving in, more gladder--
which is poor grammar
for severance of love's embodied glamour.
Packing up
feels more like packing in
and down,
cutting ties with my own stage,
this playful working space,
for everyday self
and other witnessing life
love
hate
joy
anger
courage
fear
healing
suffering
Not a fabulously grand stage
but my intimate memories
triggered by damp basement
through dusty attic,
inside resonant
and outside growing resilient,
front yard exhibitions
and back yard more inhibited glimmers
and shivers,
dimmers
and emotive rivers
Moving out
without regard for loss
feels too surgical,
masochistic,
violent dross,
silent shriek of bad faith,
cross,
divestment from personal
political
economic
cultural placement
more sacredly cherished
than secularly calculated
in clock time to move on.
My best therapeutic intent
to know I leave this tiny spot of Earth
at least as healthy
and beautiful
as I have found her
while unpacking
in her abandoned
neglected
bramble thorned sadness
inviting my hope-filled gladness
too few years ago.
I am leaving
I am leaving it all behind
so many regrets,my injured heart heaving
decades wasted,the hand of time I can't unwind
My bags are packed
My bags and shattered soul flee from reality
courage to face my fears,I lacked
cowardly running away,striped off all
dignity
I am picking up pace
I am picking up pace and distance from the past
Harsh reprimanding wind flog my face
In the real world how long will I last?
I am finding a new beginning
I and finding a new beginning and making root
Am going home,the highway my awakening
nowhere to hide from bad decision,face it and be resolute.
In the year of 1967 I was a freshman
In high school in a small Midwest Iowa town.
Before teachers cared about bullying
and goofy stuff like kids’ feelings
We were not allowed to have them anyway back then
The gym teacher was snippy and mean.
Pinched nose, hair teased and sprayed
With enough hairspray to choke us all to death
She had beady eyes. I do not recall the color.
Never happy, snippy usually.
Cindy and Susie were always the basketball captains.
They were the giraffes of our class.
They chose us one at a time from a line.
My twin and I and our friend Debbie were always the last to be picked.
When they got to us, they always had a huge argument about who had to take us.
“You can have them!”
“No, you take them.”
If we had gone home
whining about it, our
parents would have laughed.
These days, if a child accuses another child of looking at her wrong,
Mommy, Daddy and Grandma come up, packing loaded pistols.
Packing My Case.
Dragging my case from off the top of the wardrobe, I disturb the spiders, the case lands at my feet with a mighty thud ! its, my time too fly away to warmer places, to visit loved ones and familiar faces.
The case is all dusty and needs a scrub, but it's seen some journeys over the years, and I know it will get my belongings safely to their destination. The case is green, plain green, with a black piped edging, solid, an well made. It has some scuff marks on it, and some scratches but in all, it has served me well.
You can get very attached to some belongings, and my green case is a familiar
piece of kit that I have owned for over twenty five years. It reminds me of lots of trips I have taken, places I have visited, and it has helped me move house several times.
This time I am going on a very special trip to see my first born get married on a beach to the love of his life, where does the time go ? it hardly seems five minutes since he arrived as new baby, know he's getting a wife.
Green case and I shall travel and see it all, and watch and wonder and smile, and gather some precious memories to bring home, to relive in the quite small hours.
The Mid-terms are over and done
The NRA says it was fun
By Twenty-twenty
Shooters are plenty
Your mother will need her own gun
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