Nothing arrives whole.
Everything comes folded~
creased at the edges,
tucked into itself
like a secret that forgot
how long it has been carried.
To be unpacked
is to let the day exhale,
to open the small, stubborn corners
where memory hides
like lint in a pocket.
I lift each moment
from its hiding place~
a peach warm in my palm,
a kitchen light trembling
on the rim of a glass,
a childhood street
still smelling faintly
of percolator coffee
and women laughing
in their housecoats.
Unpacked,
the world softens.
It stops pretending
to be tidy.
It spills~
slow, honest,
like a drawer finally opened
after years of silence.
And I stand there
my hands full of the past
realizing none of it
was ever lost.
It was only waiting
for me
to unfold it.
The boxes are unpacked, and I put
My graduation hat on my hair.
"You're an adult now," my toxic love still
Says, "stop acting like people care."
'Am I now the Pigeon, D? Do I
Refuse to stay?
Will I drive my dearest love apart
With who I am today?'
'You see, D, there are no feathers now
That flaunt and lend me wings.
That Child came too close and so
You're pecking at their things.'
"Yes you are an adult now," And the
Voice won't go away
So I scrub and clean and write in black
On paper, boxes, hardened clay.
When my boyfriend comes to bed tonight
He lays down and straight to sleep
But you, D, with your toxic love
--------
Thump
Thump
Thump
You are causing my heart rate, D.
You're inserting your red ink into me
Like an unrelenting pump.
Form, a balloon, its boundary our skin,
whilst at our core resides, a bomb of bliss
and when ignition therein does begin,
rapture spikes, felt as Divine Mother’s kiss,
sending us down a bottomless abyss.
Our attention is by bliss beats hijacked,
deluded beliefs held by us are hacked,
that as we transcend bondage of space-time,
wisdom of ages is in is unpacked,
imbibed within, ringing true as a rhyme.
An alligator's plans were laid.
He unpacked his bags in the Everglades.
He would give his life another shot,
but he found it was just too danged hot,
as a sunbeam then, a truth relayed,
"One hundred degrees in the shade".
For Aunt Carolyn, in memory of Uncle Dennis
They were just teens outside a gift shop door,
He said, "Come on, Darling, let’s go explore."
With a wink and a grin, and her hand in his,
They stepped into life, not knowing how rare love like this is.
From navy bases to state lines they flew,
Boxes unpacked and smiles that grew.
Never a house—always a home,
Because love made each place their own.
He’d kiss her forehead, she'd fix his tie,
Even their bickering made cupids sigh.
Like teenagers dancing in a kitchen floor war,
Even their "fights" left you loving them more.
They held hands through hospital halls,
Through birthday cake crumbs and late-night calls.
And even when life was painfully tough,
They reminded us all—true love is enough.
Now she stands where he once stood near,
A bit more quiet, but holding him dear.
Because the thing about love that’s truly true—
Is it doesn’t end. It just waits for you.
So Aunt Carolyn, brave heart, please know this is true:
He’s just ahead now, saving a seat for you.
Still saying with that boyish grin so clever:
"Come on, Darling... let’s do forever."
Buying was an obsessive hobby of hers
She was an avid collector of stuff
Her house was filled with unopened boxes
She stacked them to the ceiling and used paths
Most of her new things were never unpacked
Left for distant relatives to discard after her demise
In the bottom of a drawer,
where rusted nails and screws gather dust,
never used to mend the house
we swore we’d build together,
my dreams lie waiting.
In the back,
with the dried-up ketchup packets
we thought would stretch the hard days,
but never opened—
you’ll find remnants of hope
wrapped in crinkled edges.
Tossed in an overfilled closet,
crushed beneath the weight
of your unpacked clothes—
the pieces I kept
after you left—
they’re hidden there too.
And in the basement,
where clutter grows like ivy,
where portraits we barely recall
prop up the cobwebs—
those fragile threads of time—
don’t let them fall.
I think I left part of me
down there as well.
Scattered like puzzle pieces
from a hurried Christmas morning,
left unfinished as we rushed
to places we never wanted to go.
Or maybe they’re like the tire tracks
carved into the mud from journeys
that never mattered,
etched into the earth
and fading into memory.
This is the Kingdom of Forgotten Things.
My typewriter
was not a good typewriter,
its keys were weighty,
you had to use brain muscle to work it,
nobody wanted it.
My son unpacked a home computer.
I stood by and watched
as all the electronics were laid out on the floor
and surgically knitted together.
I knew then
that I would be consistently out of touch,
and possibly would remain
stuck in an obsolete year
trying to catch up
from the rear of the field.
I wrote my first poem
on that clickity-clack manual machine,
then a dozen more,
all of them were heavy handed,
yet that hefty labor
made me think
I was crafting something worthwhile.
Later, I was enslaved to a computer keyboard,
chained as I was to its subsonic urgings
I could tell
the world was speeding away
faster than I could write.
When my kind of poet dies,
he is immediately ed,
for all his contemporary poems
turn into digital wormholes
that suck him into an unknown grave.
The young look to dead poets for wisdom -
truth is,
that those ham-fisted plodders
have long ago
turned into chunky typewriters
that nobody wants.
I know you’re there, just out of sight,
There among the black far-reaches
Like a rider of dreams in the night
Searching for reason that impeaches.
You have left behind no traces
Of where you’ve gone or maybe sent.
Your journey seeks familiar faces
Yet posed in unfamiliar bent.
And reasons, they are vaguely veiled
While cognizance won’t clarify.
And rationale is un-detailed
While reaching does but rarify.
Oh, where does purpose hide its grail,
There in the crevice of a mind -
For wont of quests that do not fail
In hopes of dreams that are not blind?
I call you not, you’re back unpacked,
A door of no return passed through -
Rejoined with logic’s wakeful tact
And much to share betwixt the two.
an unpacked suitcase is sitting in my room
the quiet side street in front of the house broken
the sky outside my window a highway to the stars
Muted spring tunes, in blush
Glides softly on the strings
between the seasons
Nickel-plated steel springs become soft
A lush, colorful atmosphere
whirls around your head
Feminine details are being unpacked
channeling eternal muses
Freshly labels, touring relentlessly
With impressive powers,
snowdrops break through the snow
Spring is obviously ready and ambitious
Musics universe is infinite
the listener is free to interpret
Play orchestra, play
Ma’s Tree
Bulbs, lights and tinsel
Ring memories
Each bulb a treasure
That went on Ma’s Tree
Unpacked with kid gloves
Like newborn baby’s
Kids dared not touch
Such fragility’s
Ma left the fun part
For all of us kids
Like licking the spoon
Us kids dug right in
Handfuls of tinsel
Were flung on Ma’s tree
Topped with her angel
High up on it’s peak
Bill MacEachern December 17, 2023
Flew home from vacation
(Glad my flight was not delayed)
And started baking cookies
For a promise had been made.
Tomorrow night starts Chanukah;
Tradition thus decrees
That my grandma’s age-old recipe
Be trotted out to please.
I counted on those cookies
In my childhood every year,
So each December it was
Guaranteed they would appear.
My grandson asked about them
So before I went away,
I made the dough and froze it;
That’s the reason why today
I hastily unpacked and then
Began to prep and bake.
A promise to my grandson
Isn’t one that I would break.
SITUATIONS
abandoned
in
disquiet
intrusions
happening
awareness
paused
in
isolated
waves
of
polite
whispering
unpacked
displayed
released
&
streamed
the
hassle
interrupted
by
seasoned
calm
as rehearsed
SURFACES
idealised
simplified
uninterrupted
fold
inward
identically
shaped
with
desire
the
melancholy
lament
stimulates
the
irreverent
twisted
& curled
rippled
disconnected
yet
discovered
scattered
in
silent
embrace
of the
invisible
stillness
I am now "away from the noise,"
my fruit gum I am chewing.
Sitting here wondering what the boys,
could be doing.
Now all unpacked,
a book I will read.
Need to use bug spray before I am attacked,
Oh no I do not want to bleed.
All "satisfied and alone,"
I thought this trip would be more fun.
The rain has me chilled to the bone,
maybe I am done.
Campfire cologne will always stay,
since I used an orange can of bear spray.
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