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I S A A C Oct 2021
I found me in the nuance
lost me in the extreme
reduced me to a shoebox
so you could be the star of the scene
breaking at the seams, seen this exact sequence in my dreams
angels always warning me of the person attempting to scorn me
trf Mar 2020
sewing time together,
we scribe our narrative,
your lace stitches leather,
like a seamstress.

failures don't forget me,
i'm their stone to engrave,
designed imperfections
and a chiseled face.

close enough to notice,
constellations are yarn,
unthreading in the distance,
these days seam apart.
Logan Robertson Nov 2018
In a shoe box he sits
Quietly watching the darkness
Sitting forlorned
He's a sneaker
A loafer
Tied in laces
And hidden in shine
As his eyelets sag
With hopes the light peeks in
An envelope
Finding his leather
If only he could feel a touch
A foot
A women's toes that wiggle
On those cold and lonely nights
Where inhabitation brings comfort
If only
His shoes
It could be fitted and fulfilled
Tailored and shined
And not be a beaten path
With wishful thinking
Of a women's toes that wiggle
For now though
A shoe horn would be the panacea
His hope
From being shelved
In a shoebox he sits
Looking at the darkness
At the four walls corrugated
In lost time
Of walking

Logan Robertson

For some, life isn't roses. Red blossoms on sunny days. And others, him, sit watching the barren trees of the fall. In their obscurity they are torn.
This is my Shoebox of Poems.
You know, the poems you didn’t wanna write.
The poems that you wish you never thought of but, if you didn’t put them down on paper they would end up staying in your head all night, they would end up keeping you from sleeping at night.
The poems that revel your scars that you didn’t even know you had.
The poems that remind you its okay that you’ve been hurt.
The poems that if your house was burning down you would go back in for.
The poems that belong in the shoebox in the back of the closet behind every other box.
This is my Shoebox of Poems.
Emily Miller Jun 2018
Hat pulled low over my face, I pull the lever of the pump,
getting back in my car,
hands placed on the steering wheel as if I'm going to drive away while the gas is going,
I just sit.
Trying to clear my mind before the day.
That's when I see them.
A pixie-like little girl in denim and cotton,
tennis shoes untied and scuffed,
long hair trailing unkempt,
summer hair,
barely brushed,
she skips beside a man who is undoubtedly her father,
a serious-looking man dressed for a day of adventure,
the same nose as the sprite hopping along beside him.
At once,
I spiral into an invisible shoe box of photos...
then it's me with my hair down and my shoes untied and a big smile on my face as I accompany my father in the most mundane tasks.
Everything is an adventure with daddy,
everything is a game,
a brand-new experience ******* in shiny ribbons,
even if it's just going to the gas station.
They reappear from the store,
and the little girl excitedly pulls a bottle of chocolate milk from the plastic bag.
The colorful snacks look silly in the father's large, rough hands,
but he opens each package carefully,
handing her napkins,
and in her unrelenting grin,
anyone can see that she owns him heart and soul.
I shift uncomfortably in my mental shoe box,
and I see myself again,
overalls and a small bag of donuts,
licking the glaze from my fingers,
my father reaching over with a towel to wipe my face clean of chocolate glaze.
He chastises me, but he's smiling,
and he pops a donut into his mouth, too,
two best friends on a summer adventure,
nothing can stop our fun.
The father starts their rickety old suburban, and the little girl bounces excitedly in her seat, eager for their next stop. The mode of transportation could be a rusted row boat in the middle of a swamp,
but to her,
it's all a part of a beautiful memory that she'll never let go of.
And one day,
when her daddy is gone,
she'll drive up to the gas station in her own car
and sit in the driver's seat to take a breath,
and she'll see herself, fifteen years younger, prancing happily along her father's steady gait,
and she'll fall backwards into an unexpected
Richard Grahn Apr 2017
A writer writes…
so that’s what I do.

Not that I must
But it’s the right thing to do.

It’s not always easy
to lay down a line
on a small scrap of paper
that’s so hard to find.

Expressive nouns and passionate verbs
they assault my brain and
take me away.

There’s no way to dictate them
out on a page.
So I write them all down
any place that I can.

While at the bar,
a napkin will do.
Or in my car,
a matchbook or two.
A Post-It will get me by
in a pinch.
Or any other paper
I’m happy to find.

And into my shoebox
I tucked them away.

I laid them right there
for another day.

Occasionally I’d come back
to see what they say.
Reading them over
again and again.

Into my brain,
that's where they have gone.
Stuck in my mind
for a decade or more.

The shoebox is gone now
from so long ago…but
the memories still linger
inside my brain and
out to my fingers
they continue to flow.

I write them all down
and expand on those thoughts.
Remembering the memories
I once thought were lost.

An explosion of words
pouring out on the page.
These many little thoughts they
now have a stage.

The lasting memories
are now down in print.
The shoebox is gone
but the words are in ink.
Ariana Robinson Jan 2016
Scribbled words written on notes
A red ribbon with a lock of hair dangling
Photos of familiar faces with worn edges
A piece of fabric that was torn from the wearer of the cloth
A golden brush with strands of hair left from the owner
This old shoe box carries fond memories
Each item has a story
I spotted the box
out of the corner of my eye
There in the closet
stuffed into a corner
covered in cloth

At first it mattered not
I had other priorities
I had to meet

But then a memory
knocked upon the wall
of my curosity

So I took the box out
and sat upon the bed
And I started to take
the photographs out

So many faces , so many places
lost in time's goodbye
So much found
and so much lost
so , so very much

After all the you and me's
After all the summers
and winters too
Life has boiled down
to a box of photographs
made for a shoe
Sha Aug 2015
I hid the photographs
under my bed
so I have token to look at
when I want to hear your laughter
TSK Mar 2015
They sit it a box
Under the bed,
Waiting to be opened,
Waiting to be fed.
And to their dismay,
Well, I hope they understand
I can never see them
Or hold them in my hand.
Oh, I left them there on purpose
With a hope but to disguise
The real pull within me
The truth to realize.
I wish I could explain
Just tell them oh but once
I shoved them there in earnest
And it must stay as such.
They cannot hope to comprehend,
Those broken memories,
That everything they now hold
Was once you and me.
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