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Best Poems Written by Meghan Marshall

Below are the all-time best Meghan Marshall poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Meghan Marshall Poem

Gum In a N.Y Subway

Retired sweetness paints
a tiled mosaic of
unpredictable patterns.

Black, brown shapes
spatter the 
grey concrete of 
an underground kingdom.

The fresh ones burn
pink and seafoam 
green against
this steely blue 
and yellow lined world.

The stickiness clings
onto shining 
out of spectrum, 
before becoming
another dot
in dark masses.

Details | Meghan Marshall Poem

Visiting Hours

You didn't shake
as much in
the psych ward, 
possibly because
of the medication.
A cocktail of 
paxil, seroquel,
lithium and sedatives.
The white walls
dimmed your 
pale complexion.
The pink rosed
paintings on the
wall reflected
the first bit
of color returning
to your peaked
gaunt cheeks, and
big sad eyes.
You'd get so angry,
trying to hold back
cries...stressed
from all the secrets
of your condition that
the uniforms and 
clipboards kept 
from you.
We'd walk the 
circular hallway.
My black work loafers
and your socks 
circumfrencing the
middle ground of 
sanity.
We'd hold eachother
in the corner, under
the light wood
safety rail.
You, propped up
against the wall.
Me..pressed againt
your chest.
You'd envelope 
me with your
long arms and 
whisper in my ear
between your tears
that this...
couldn't last forever.

Details | Meghan Marshall Poem

Jump Rope

Shannon,
I knew her in 
middle school
friends caught 
somewhere between
being children, pre-teen
adults.

We jumped with
a wooden handled rope 
across the stage
in Tom Sawyer.

1890's leather
and petticoats
galloping and swishing
against exposed 
pale thin knobbed
ankles.

Crossed stage right
to stage left,
cued when Tom and 
Becky kissed.
 
Growing shannon
learned to kiss dangerous
exciting men.

Coccaine and Vodka
replaced petticoats
and plays. I heard  
years later of the haunted
whispers of such a childs
fate.

Death stole her at the 
age of twenty after 
nightly slaps - screams
from one of her
immoral un-ingenues.

Shannon Stopped.
Stopped skipping, 
laughing, playing,
acting.

She hung herself from a 
rusty fire escape in a
little city alley with the 
same wooden handled 
jump rope at midnight
in march's icy rain.

Details | Meghan Marshall Poem

Thanksgiving

The year that
I turned twenty - one,
We watched the 
Macy's Day parade,
while snow blanketed
Kalamazoo.
Cold cans of Miller 
High Life toasted with
garlic butter green
beans.
We baked bazil
roasted turkey breast, 
and laughed like
children at the 
very idea of the two 
of us cooking. 
Digging through
the dishes that 
other Civic Theatre
employees had left
 behind, we 
listened to Sweet Charity,
and the sound of tap 
shoes beating against
a green star.
We were wating for Santa
in a little city almost 
a thousand miles from 
home.
We ended the day as we
started, in puffy sweat 
pants, hair a mess.
No pomp and circumstance.
Just the two of us
listening to the heavy 
flakes fall.

Details | Meghan Marshall Poem

Rambling Man

I rocked along
a rolling countryside
smirking and winking
into the eyes of a
simple rambling 
man.

Simplicity...
the mommentary 
answer to cure 
the raccous chaos
that mingles from
the complicated 
clutter of 
memmories mass.

Soft eyes with out
a clumsy tangle 
of past's nets.

Simple, small
town, nation
travelin niave,
simply innocent
and sweet,

Sweet as the summer 
corn that rides
the illuminated
illinois horizon.

The stalks
reaching cobs 
into the sunset
straining and
growing roots
into damp earth.

Details | Meghan Marshall Poem

The Happy Valley

I stayed above the 
Shandygaff, 
a sports bar 
down an alley
off College Avenue,
State College, PA
Penn State. 
The happy valley street's 
were a nightly 
swarm of milling
students.
Masses inebriated
Heels clicking
between Cafe 210,
Zeno's and us.
Downstairs served
one dollar drafts.
Fifty cents on fridays.
I used to go early 
before the students,
to sit down by myself
and watch the old
eighties television 
set with the bouncers
and early bird stragglers.
"Two please"
I'd order eyeing the
vinyl peeling off 
of the worn lite wood
grained bar.
Leaving my red faux
leather cracked silver
stool.
I'd wander away when the
crowds came.
Walk down the alleyway
and disappear into the multitude.

Details | Meghan Marshall Poem

Mid Afternoon Meals

Whiskers sweep around her 
sweet little wrinkled lips
weathered by age.
His hair cascading 
silver grey curls around
his ripped flannel shirt
and balding top.
Everyday he orders
the same.
Country ham steak,
eggs sunny, with a side
salad. Ranch dressing. 
The consistency captivates
attention, and while
he sits back and settles on
the regular. 
Her plump little
breakfast sausage fingers
scan the menu for 
something new.
Sometimes she writes
in Gaelic translating
fagoli  and ravioli 
into historic tongues.
The laugh with me about
the theatre, symphonies
and art. 
In her faded tie dye she
jots down my schedule
because they won't sit 
with anyone else.
We spend these
mid afternoon meal moments.
Sitting in a familiar booth
watching the sun slide
into the building tops.

Details | Meghan Marshall Poem

Georgia's Laugh Inn

At Georgia's Laugh Inn
there's no liquor,
no credit cards,
just cash.
There aint no
whiskey between
ol' bar stools
ragged beards
and confederate caps. 
At Georgia's you can gamble,
there's poker, cards 
and dice. 
The airs a sea of smoky Marbolo
The perfumes sea salt with bud light. 
At Georgia's you can step down,
to the coast of the old south.
Get a laugh in at her Laugh Inn,
before wandering 
someplace else.

Details | Meghan Marshall Poem

College Job

Five dollars on average pays
for a McDonnalds value meal.
Costs little in comparison to
other fast food chains.

I think about this as the 
drawer - clunks
open - close and
blue painted chipped 
polished nails scrape
against the plastic. 
Giving a nickel a penny.

Even my mind is 
corporatized here. 
Commercialized brain waves, 
I'm trained.

I smile that cute big smile, 
waitress and bartenders
have it. 
I don't know why without
the chance of tips
I even bother with it, 

You're meal ( if large sized)
pays more than my hour.
Tell this to the people in their 
new SUV's, Isuzus, 
suburban sedans.
Twingy eyed from waiting
during dinner.

Tight lips, pursed prisses, 
mini vans with screaming hoards
A multitude of lined
and organized confusion.

The beeping and ringing go
off again, damn
the collaborated, machinated,
soda.... Ok, I mean Pop 
machine is sticking, cranking,
turning---
EEEEHHH ,EEHHHH , EEHHH

Minimun wage, 
It resonants repeatedly
boiling in grease inside
and out.

Beeping and burns
Smiles and Thank yous.
False family financing, 
no better than Disney, 
damn maybe they are 
already Disney.

Details | Meghan Marshall Poem

Walnutport

I'm living in a wayward town
spawned from the the
Lehigh's past days of
exporting and trading.

A past where railways and
waterways soppourted
a nation.

Now ,a somewhat shallow
river winding past
unused old grey, 
weathered, steady canals.

The boats stopped here in 
decades gone, to
recieve rest and repairs.

There's not a single
boat shop in this little 
town anymore.

The first settlers were a stock 
of stat Germans, Swiss , Irish
and Scottish.

Their houses, once
home are now subdivided 
apartments.

Soppourting the welfare familes, 
the young, the starving artists, 
the poor.

Once a walk of carriages, 
cottages, hotels, markets
of early American  granduer.

Now, a winding ghost town, 
a village, 
with cracked sidewalks.