Unpacked Poems

Come On Darlin

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."

her buying obsession

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

The Kingdom of Forgotten Things

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.

The Manual Clunk

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.

Dream Rider

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.

Home

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

- Spring Sonata -

                                      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

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

Keeping a Promise

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-SURFACES

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

Campfire Cologne

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.

Rise and Fall

Criminal
waste,
critical mass
materialized warfare
city dumps pile-up and fall
burnt offerings amid
clumps of Caesar salad.
Roman Empires of crud
that roam no more.

Walmart still spills over,
parachutes hung from pot-belly roofs;
air-drops from a plastic heaven.
A few old men
are found asleep at the wheel
of long buried cars.

Homeless are the pigeons
that carry a crusty canker
from pit to heap,
pitiful the pawing fingers
that pounce now upon
the once new branded,
yet more paltry
the poached mounds
of porch-pirates,
their petty ill-gottens
all unpacked alike as empty nests.

When the sooty dark
fumes and blankets,
then rust will clang
in the yawping mouths
of tin-cans,
aluminum bells that clatter.
Then the rodents,
the red-eyed night-shifters
will comb through the tangled beards
of threadbare dreams.

Then withal,
just as the ditched dross have fallen,
dregs shall rise again.

Net Quickies

.....................GOOGLE
                     quick look
                     fact book
TWITTER                         WIKI
quick thoughts                 free facts
once short                       unpacked


NOTE:Each of the  above is a  FOOTLE ,a two line lines,2 syllable verse with an integral title-Light Poetic verse form,witty,pertinent,topical etc (technically a trochaic monometer and not necessarily in rhyme).

Footles on the otherhand(with an 's' )  is a 'hybrid' innovative sequenced variation that has developed over the years (since 2009)alongside the original definition.

Making Do

The holiday cabin smelled of wet pigeons
but it was lakeside and cheap.

The lake was not popular,
too deep and weedy for swimming,
too shallow for docking boats,
yet it suited our make-do mindsets.

Of course,
we were romantically attached at the hips,
feet glided upon air
as we wandered upon the pebbly beach
fingers entwined in a dank mist.

Graham crackers and marshmallows
were unpacked
alas the firepit was soaked
with too much leafy fog.

A desultory fire was sparked
in a damp bed beneath a mildewed roof.

We had only tomato soup, tough bagels
and a pack of Marlborough.
We had not planned for chills and hunger.

Inevitably the vacation
grew lukewarm.
Runny noses and sneezes,
the cheesy smell of wet footwear
all seeped deeply into our gestalt,

philosophically
we bailed on the quickly drenched dream,
and each other.

Eye In the Clouds

In the quiet and comfort of my yard outback

                    My thoughts lifting up, and my burdens unpacked

                       To the King of the Heavens, King of my heart

                     "My sorrows You bore, and no patience You lack

                   You knit hearts together though once ripped apart"

                      And so as I prayed Holy Spirit came near

                 "I know Lord, someday You'll dry each sorrowed tear"

                      Pondering deeply, then glanced up at the sky

                          And lo, in the heavens imagined His eye

                          Was this just shear images of my mind?

                          No, it was a gift from my Father so kind.

                     My prayers were uplifted, not spoken out loud

                   A glance toward the heaven, an eye in the cloud.

                        Reminding His presence is near us indeed

                      Father watches over us, hears unspoken pleas

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