Short Shoebox Poems
Short Shoebox Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Shoebox by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Shoebox by length and keyword.
Electronic keys and hacking tools
Gloves mask and absolutely no rules
Except of course to not get caught
To stay the course not get lost
Strip it and zip it or rip it off
Nine photos from forgotten shoebox
Eight photographs, corners mitered
Seven pressed blooms, scent long fled
Six shades of washi tape
Five faded tickets
Four Polaroids
Three smudged dates
Two hands
Snip
trinkets stored
remembered
when
the box opens
a swath of cloth
a button
the thread
tying memories
together
tying memories
the thread
a button
a swath of cloth
the box opens
when
remembered
trinkets stored
Commodities are less than what they were.
After two cuts, scissors unshackle.
Fresh threads fade or fray,
as if enchanted.
Barely worn kicks self-destruct
But she is the teacher.
In her cardboard shoebox,
keys of knowledge for learners.
bare foot in shoebox scraping thin dust of wood floors
limping and lurching crooked elbows under flat sheet
contorted countenance wailing through jagged eye-hole
the ghost of One-Legged Willy has returned
but six eyes fix on morning cartoons, unhindered
In the belly of my shoebox
The organ plays a sad song
Of scattered memories
Piped and full of wind
His last letter breaks my heart
There are his pictures side by side
And a voice that I still hear
Fifty years later, it still hurts
connie pachecho
5/12/26
This old house is a mystery,
it is filled with lots of history.
It needs to be cleaned out,
now what are we going to talk about?
Let's go to the big closet,
mom made this her big bank deposit.
Look a very old dusty shoebox,
wow!!! is it Ralph our pet blue fox?
Can you hear whispers and murmurs?
Puppet collection, those furry squirmers -
puppies yip and kitties purr,
asking for a puppet theater.
Now, it is your sacred duty
to satisfy each puppet cutie.
An old shoe box will hit the mark,
bring down the house, knock it out of the park.
nature photos cut from magazine
glued on sides mounting a childhood's dream
rocks and popsicle sticks-made bungalow
painted brightly around like rainbow
mom displayed it on the shelf
confidence and trust within myself
years of hard work and inspiration
artwork in shoebox is now my home
A dusty lid neatly tucked away,
beneath the bed where shadows play.
It holds a map and locks of hair;
folded hankies perfumed with care.
Each pressed edge and velvet bow,
recall a life from long ago.
The hinges beg to set them free;
my shoebox full of memories.
The shoebox lay in antic muddle,
gathered the dust of antiquity.
When time came to clear the clutter
I held awhile the frail cardboard carton,
found inside emptiness with memory specks,
heard the echo of faded footsteps,
felt the pulse of the distant life
I had since walked away from.
Victoria D
'What's With The Box'
05/04/2026
I open a cardboard of memories
dust breathes from sealed corners
each shoe a version of me
names I outgrew still whisper
time folded like worn paper
I am inventory of selves
the box remembers what I forgot
but it is empty when I look inside
A shabby shoebox on a shelf,
Lizards home have made for themselves
In the old box where sun motes dwell
And laid eggs inside gentle shells;
They waltz through scary shining days,
Hidden in a privileged haze,
Slight touch on the box and they`ve flown
To come back the next sizzling dawn.
I found a shoebox stored away
under my young son’s bed one day.
It hadn’t been there two evenings ago.
What could it be? I needed to know,
for in its lid - small holes he had made.
Its contents I felt prompted to invade.
At two lidless eyes I felt myself gape.
A tiny lizard scrambled to escape.
Oh, shoe box, what you hold makes happy feet,
though shoes are kept inside for just a while.
So, what happens then?
Are you thrown away?
Seems most times you are kept for further use,
being the right size, saving special things
to be found some day-
holding memories?
A box of memories deep,
a shoebox where the inside makes me weep.
Photos, and things of those above,
all of my family . . . . that I still love.
I trace images with my finger,
and my memories of them still linger.
Death cannot destroy our bond,
though, they are in another realm beyond.
A shoebox tucked beneath my bed.
For my eyes only, the things unsaid.
I keep them close, yet out of sight,
Too tender to be seen in board daylight.
What might have been lies folded within.
Pressed flat to fit the coffin they’re in.
Old hopes and regrets long since dead,
Lie whispering laments under the bed.
The box brings back memories,
Of a pleased mother,
The joy of a delighted mother,
She brought out the shine in her son,
There was an inscription in the box,
He did not see it,
Until she departed,
It reads, “A glowing son, a glad mother.”
May 7, 2026.
Nette Onclaud,
WHAT'S WITH THE BOX Poetry Contest.
The card hangs above my pillow.
Two dates; 18 years apart
Crinkled notes in my right hand drawer
Doodled hearts in colored pens
Thumb stained photos in a shoebox
Innocent smiles, nervous hands
Simple memories on paper
I keep those hidden and safe
But his card, it hangs above my pillow.
Two dates; only 18 years apart.
She kept her secrets of love tucked away
In a shoebox, a forbidden affair
Protected deep in her innermost heart.
Their warm, playful, and inmost affection
Had blossomed in their youth, under a full
Moon that hung large in a sky scattered with
Millions of radiant magical stars.
But she had been promised to another.
We buried the fat hamster by moonlight.
A shoebox lowered into a shallow trench.
"He won't be coming back
will he Dad?”
This said with eyes and fists tightly shut.
"One day, when you are an old man.
I'll bring him back in my coat pocket;
next time though
no more chocolate for stinky”
Long thoughtful pause:
Okay.
The old shoebox still lies under his bed.
It brings a volley of thoughts to his head.
Within it lie the shoes he wore that day,
When, lost his leg falling off a steep way.
A missing leg can never defeat him
He will rise again from a state grim
In the stygian sky of hopeless dark,
A streak of a light glows like an arc.
Rectangular in shape as a deep shoebox,
where leather boots lied on long shelves.
I fell in love with their tempting softness;
I am wearing them and friends love them,
ladies adore them and shamelessly wink!
I consider myself as lucky as a rich man;
my boots will wear out, nobody will smile:
when they'll see a sad, worthless beggar!
cardboard cathedral, fortress of dust~
you held a kingdom where spoons became swords.
you turned nothing into everything:
a dollhouse, a toy soldier’s battlefield.
beneath beds, you gathered ghosts and were
keeper of marbles that were small planets
and feathers with memories of wishes.
you were proof- childhood fits in a 13x8 shoebox.
A sturdy home for stories I keep,
Where quiet memories softly sleep.
Cardboard walls hold treasures untold,
A tiny chest of wonders to hold.
Scent of leather and faded glue,
It keeps my treasures safe and true.
Not just for shoes, this box of mine,
In simple shapes, a grand design.
Resting silent upon the floor,
A secret world within the door.