"bookbag" poems
I glance out of my driver’s side window
and see a boy
trudging miserably down the sidewalk
his essence radiating awkwardness
this long haired kid, maybe twelve years old
or just turned thirteen
wore hand me down boots that are too big for his feet,
ripped jeans, and a bookbag slung across his shoulder
in the dying days of July
whispering under his breath
maybe reciting poetry
or telling himself a story
And I honestly think
if time is fluid, like the oceans
like the monks say
then maybe I’m glancing over as a wave breaks
and I’m looking at myself
I couldn’t tell you how many times
I made that journey on foot
my heels throbbing, my legs begging to be broken
my hitchhiker’s thumb, had given up all hope at that point
I think about giving myself a ride
to wherever I may be going
but then I remember all the lessons I’ve learned
from time-travel movies
the one universal rule being not to meddle with the past
something about a butterfly’s wings flapping in Beijing
and a tsunami in New Orleans
or whatever
so, instead I honk my horn
and the traffic light turns green
I watch the boy, who might have been a younger me
in some distant past,
look on with curious anger as the cars pass
for a moment
then return to the story already in progress
he grows tinier and tinier
in my rear view mirror
until he is yesterday again
Jun 13, 2010
Jun 13, 2010 at 8:50 AM UTC
Darkness has pressed up against our lattice windows. Classes start again in the morning. I’m being reabsorbed by college life. I’m a planner. I’ve been going over my syllabuses, repacking my bookbag, charging my power banks, checking and rechecking the assignments due tomorrow. After watching me prep for hours, Peter said, “You’re not going to the MOON.”
Peter asked me last Friday, “Are you excited for Monday? (I’ll find out if I get my fellowship.)
“I’m more excited about tonight,” I said, “I like going out on the town.”
“Wow,” he said, “you’re so different - not like the other girls at all.”
“No!” I said, laughing, “We’re stuck in a rut, we only go to one or two places, ever - if we go out at all. When people come to New Haven, I need places to take them - places besides pizza. At home, in Athens (Ga), I know twenty places - this is RESEARCH.” I assured him.
Peter settled back into his doctorate-fraternity-house yesterday. Tonight (Sunday), there’s music in the suite, the crazy noises of people and the comfort of returned friends. All the roommates are back, greeted with hugs and kisses, as they dragged in their luggage.
Lisa arrived with dinner, for 10, from Dominick's, in Manhattan. Spaghetti, salads, rolls, extra sauce - in six, small, suitcase-sized insulated bags. It was a logistical marvel. It’s only 90 minutes from Manhattan to the residence - we didn’t need to rewarm anything. “I KNOW we could have just eaten in the dining hall,” she said, shrugging, “call it zany - one last hurrah.”
Everyone seemed happy to be back. There were travel stories, questions, and laughter. Oh, and Zeppole, little powdered sugar custard desserts that seemed the worst for travel. Everyone seemed to have an eye on the clock though. By 11pm the suite was quiet. Très unusual.
Mar 27, 2023
Mar 27, 2023 at 1:42 AM UTC
The bookbag leans
on the aluminum column.
The column is blurry,
someone cleans it
only when their are inspections.
The bookbag has been sitting
collecting the sounds
that leave the Staten Island Ferry
by foot,
for God knows how long.
When you get off,
everyone looks ahead,
but out of the corners
an entire black sea of iris'
rotates to the aluminum column.
It might be a bomb.
The girl behind the Ms. Anne's counter
is skinny almost,
but her *** is too big,
almost.
Munching on the semi-soft pretzel,
you think about empty calories
and the corners of your mouth get sticky.
The Ferry won't be back,
for another thirty or so
minutes.
Somebody takes out a guitar,
and starts playing
a little Dylan. People
form a circle around him.
This is the American Pow-wow.
You reach in your breastpocket
for the Marlboros,
but you can't smoke here,
and an official looking person
squints at you,
just to drive the point home.
******* smoking laws,
some places just feel good.
This place with all it's ringy sounds,
like the guitar,
and phones beeping with texts
and babies,
deep fathers,
and high mothers.
Just to puff and puff
and push that sugar down
with nicotine would really
up this feeling of comradery.
A guy with a gold-plated shield
on his breastpocket and a blue-button down.
Walks over to the bag.
The iris' move,
people keep talking but
they're just saying words
to make it look like they're talking.
By the time the ferry
rings in baritone,
the bag is gone;
the column is still blurry;
the man is still playing his guitar,
but there's an emptiness.
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 8:58 PM UTC
Woodcrest Way is a boxing match
On this side of the road we have
The sunny clean sidewalk
The forty-something and mutt
white coat white boots white dog
And in this corner
The shady cracked sidewalk
The teen and bookbag
black jacket black jeans muddy black converse
The stare down
The size up
And we have a winner
Ms. Forty-Something shies away
From the deadly glint
In her opponent's eyes
Jan 15, 2011
Jan 15, 2011 at 9:44 AM UTC
i apologized
with old pencils i found in the bottom of my bookbag
with the erasers missing
so i couldn't take it back
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 11:25 PM UTC
Please Pogo music, wake me up. The night, now reduced to warm laptop light, is inching toward dawn. I pray to the patron saints of writers - is it Neri or Ávila? Whichever is on call I suppose.
“I’ve indulged in reprobation,” I confess, openly to the fuzzy, waxing, crescent moon. “I need that alchemy that turns coffee and a rough outline into an actual paper.”
I yank off my hoodie, fling my window open wide and hang myself out like wet laundry. Have you ever tasted ***** Vile stuff really.
The forty degree breeze feels like heaven and my eyes begin to focus. I peel off my leggings to let my entire skin tingle with cold.
My Keurig beeps confidently. I found a couple of peanut energy bars in my bookbag and rip them open like a ****** who’s discovered a forgotten stash. I devour them so quickly it’s like a magic trick - then I brush my teeth.
I take several slow deep breaths. I can DO this, I assure myself, but my outline looks adequate at best. I need this done so I can relax with a super bowl party pizza Sunday.
The song “Data & Picard,” sets me to dancing, “It’s better to have loved and lost..” Patrick Stewart as Jean-Luc Picard pronounces, perfectly auto-tuned to the music.
I love this song. I love the night. I love the challenge.
I set myself to the task and finish, three hours later, as the sun breaks into morning.
Feb 12, 2022
Feb 12, 2022 at 7:28 AM UTC
Found, one bookbag filled with broken hearts,
additionals may have been added.
If you happen to be searching for these items
than I am sorry, a broken heart is nothing
to long for. The bag is fitting, no matter
what I do this is all I ever seem to end up
with, a bunch of broken hearts.
Lost, one remarkable love
I think it just walked off one day,
haven't seen it since. Its sudden
absence from my life has aided me
in filling my bookbag.
Any information on this missing item
will be greatly rewarded, with as many
hearts as you can fit inside your bookbag.
They may not be in the best of shape, but
they are yours for the taking. All I ask
is that you allow me to search through them
for the fragments on my own heart, I think
I can piece it back together, and that you
bring your own bookbag. I've grown fond
of this one, the zipper, is fantastic.
Sep 9, 2010
Sep 9, 2010 at 1:30 PM UTC
Armpits, legs, arms
pits of arms.
Instrumental music--dancing.
Hopping, shaking your hips, moving your feet.
Stretching, drinking coffee, going to the bathroom.
Taking a walk, taking a drive.
Deodorant!
Bookbag, handbag, no bag.
Watering flowers, looking at flowers, getting naked.
Looking at your nakedness.
Dressing, re-dressing, ********** dressing.
Salad dressing, soup, eggs over easy, black beans.
Singing in the dead of night.
Blues, pastoral folk fleeting, flowing,
meeting again.
Traveling, boating, tripping and falling.
Bird-watching, laughing, joking,
(Midwestern jokes)
Leaving, grieving, waking up.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 12:09 PM UTC
when i was young, i loved being alone.
i loved it so much, i used to lie to keep the girls and ghosts
out of my mother's head, like i could erase the
scribble marks on the piece of paper because i never thought
they could be permanent like the bloodline in our
family and the tattoos on your wallpaper skin.
i guess you could say my torso is a furnace, kicking on and off
when the time is right,
like the light of the strongest star circling the earth -
i always wanted to see the shadow against my feet,
we were connected by the needle but the heat just wasn't
enough to keep you occupied by the
lengths my arms could make.
you told me once that i had the body of the circus,
there was always something dangerous but sweet and you
couldn't stand to see one overpower another like
the smell that held onto your teeth
and how my temper could never flare when we were in trouble.
when i was young, i loved being alone
with the dirt underneath my toes as if i could walk cross country,
but really it was just my backyard, i just liked to pretend
that i had somewhere to go with a bookbag filled
with some gummies and my mother's favorite necklace.
i will never forget the quiz my mom had for me once i
got to phoenix and back before the sun hid behind the house:
did you see the alleys filled with bottles of cheap beer and
trash, could you see all the colors of the wind?
well, yeah of course.
even now, i love being alone
since the pollutions can sometimes get to be
too heavy, leaving me with little direction and a
map that read to follow the roles that have long been engraved
in the stones that my garden held so loosely,
so i won't accept an apology when you never meant for it to be
this way, i want you to read to me
how sorry you could be if you would have known
the acceptance of being alone.
Mar 9, 2011
Mar 9, 2011 at 7:07 AM UTC
From every docile rose petal
to the sturdy bark of the tree
From every rolling green meadow
to the wondrous and restless sea
I am the world
and the world is me
From every barren forest
to the city blanketed by smog
From every oil-tainted ocean
to every abandoned industrial cog
I am the earth
and the earth is me
From every blood stained uniform
to the bullet-ridden bookbag
From every obliterated home
to every desiccated flag
I am the world
and the world is me
From every line of B’reshit
to every Ramadan Feast
From the hymns in the West
to mediation in the East
I am the earth
and the earth is me
From every stolen breath
to every broken heart
From every sharp word spoken
to all of our falling apart
From the joyful triumph
To the shamming defeat
I am the earth
and the earth is We.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 2:07 AM UTC
Someone sent me a candy gram the other day.
I marveled at the anonymous note
And cherished it for the rest of the day.
I put it in my bookbag,
Getting ready to bring it home
Just to cherish it even more.
When I got home,
I found it broken and at the bottom of my bag
The way whoever sent this to me will probably do to me...
I tasted a tiny peice, spat it out.
It was too sweet,
The way your love might be
After you broke me.
You'd try to put me back together,
The way I am trying to put this candy gram together,
But it wont ever work.
Whats been broken is broken,
And cant be fixed.
Its just a matter of accepting the brokeness and living with it.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 3:59 PM UTC
I caught myself staring
at your braid today, sneaking
glances at you whenever
I had the chance.
I noticed things about you,
things I've grown to love,
like your gauges (you
alternate colors each day,
green or orange),
your lip piercing, your
tomboyish walk, bright
green bookbag.
The way you moved,
the way your lips fell into
a smile, the way your arms
and legs and body moved --
it was all so wonderful.
Almost like magic.
I don't know what it is
about you, but something
intrigues me, makes me
want to know you.
And I won't stop
until that is what
I have achieved.
(a.l.m.)
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 12:50 PM UTC
twenty years have gone by & I'm not living yet
not comfortable in the climate of my home
I always seem to be pulling on sweaters
turning up heaters piling on blankets
when everyone else seems fine.
thirteen years have gone by & I'm just starting
to remember
just starting to sit down shut up listen
to the things, people happening in, around me
really hear; really appreciate,
let myself be moved honestly
when everyone else seems hurried, unaffected.
seven years have gone by since I
stopped being like other kids my age
started walking with bricks in my bookbag
scars on my thigh & the constant threat of pins-&-needles headaches
endless lists & workweeks
never getting everything done
everyone else seems lighter, walking in other gravity realms.
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 2:44 PM UTC
The house is quiet, except for the hum of the clothes dryer, which I started to make sure the tennis shoe my son soaked trying to remove the dog poo, was dry before school starts.
I can choose to spend these lonesome hours before all the others start to wake in any way I desire. And I choose to sit here at this computer and try to write a way into others' hearts.
The sun isn't quite up yet, but as soon as I start to see light break through my dining room window, I will be moving to the back deck, where I always, get to see a perfect sunrise.
And I can move back and forth, sometimes side to side, and if I feel like exerting the energy, almost even in a circle (almost), on my wooden swing, with daybreak in my eyes.
It won't be much longer before the rest of the house wakes up, and I begin all the daily tasks, like pouring cereal, putting the dogs outside, and trying to get the kids to do just what I say.
It's usually a panicked rush to find a missing shoe or bookbag, and changing shirts a couple times. This morning I did a few preliminary tasks to prepare. Glad I got up early today.
Jun 8, 2010
Jun 8, 2010 at 1:05 AM UTC
I miss believing
It was forever,
You and me.
I wish I could say 'no, I'm Mykayla's.'
All I have left
Are these notes
And these pictures
And all these ******* promises
Of forever in every *******
Corner of my room
And bookbag
And heart.
I miss your laugh
And holding you when ÿöü sleep
And I love how your body twitches
When you dance it's adorable
I still have everything
I miss our forever
You were my safe haven
And right now
I need you
And I'm so sorry
Sorry sorry sorry
Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry
Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry
Sorry sorry sorry sorry
Sorry sorry sorry
Sorry sorry
Sorry.
For all I've done.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 12:54 AM UTC
Before the days I learned how to
appreciate the word nerd, how it
rolled inside my tongue in cool
crisp diction, I was the young boy
who walked down the crowded
hallways decked in casual collar
shirts and denim blue jeans with
a bookbag behind my back,
my hands holding a stack
of schoolbooks close to my chest,
the silent air surrounding me a
squared wave dragging in suspended
shadows. I could hear the echoing
consonants sifting in broken space
towards uncharted worlds, murmuring
and dissolving in distant lakes, wide
and insane escapes dazed, scarlet
scraped, shifting behind vile and
vanishing outlines. I was falling.
I could feel the snatching and
cracking inside my veins, the
looming liquid rises confining
in chamber circles, handcuffed,
shackled, crackled, half an inner
reality poisoned and pounding
in a thin wall of clogged chains.
I was drifting. I couldn’t begin
to disentangle the words, how
its loud ringing beginning had
no ending, how its rhythm
in slow motion muted
my existence, the name
I was called on various occasions,
wondering if it would
ever end. Now
as the days fade into each
other, the constant walks
across the cityscape that seeps
into late night gazes at the moon,
I have come to appreciate the sweet
blossoming beauty that defines
my captivating canvas.
Oct 24, 2018
Oct 24, 2018 at 1:35 PM UTC
Truedom
This is a word that you never heard,
But its all good cuz its my word.
Truedom-to release yourself from your own emotional, mental and spiritual prison,
To break out of your pain,
To really live life, you escaped, you did it!
Truedom-to soul search and find your inner most peace,m
To find yourself, to find your release.
Smile..you found you, be real about it and express your escape,
Have a welcome home party and celebrate your release.
Truedom- your free...free to live!
A new journey to start with your past and your pain carried over ypur shoulder in your bookbag,
Only looking forward and never looking back,
But your pain, your loss, your past is all a part of you, its what made you YOU, its yours,
But the new you, the true you...
Every heart break, mistake, a friend that was fake, you know the one who turned snake?
Every love lost, every found lust, broken trust, pain and anguish, its all apart of us.
It made you into the most educated, most dedicated, most perceptive woman that you are today,
So carry that bookbag of burdens proudly,
Cuz without it youd be an empty mind...probably!
Youve been born again into a world full of a bunch of ********
But now your smarter and more on point wit it, so now you see it,
So you reverse the ******** back to the world and release it!
Let it go.. Carry it with you but only in your mind as lifes lessons,
But take this journey, on a new path, and live and recieve all lifes blessings.
They may have always been there but you were blinded by hurts, betrayel,depression, aggression, death and deception,
That maybe you didnt catch the blessings.
Truedom-the truest form of freedom a person can feel or relate to,
The new you,youve always been you, but uou found you, the new found you, the proud you!
So smile, take off the emotional, spiritual and mental handcuffs keeping you from freedom,
Let your mind run free and find your truedom! Truedom!
Jun 12, 2017
Jun 12, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC
I guess I don't know why coming here brings me peace. The obvious answer would be, it's the beach, what isn't peaceful about that? But it isn't the calming slosh of the shoreline or the gentle breeze through my hair or the warm sand between my toes. It isn't even my new tan I'm sporting from coming here for hours upon hours nearly every day.
It's the thought. The possibility. I look out over the waves onto the horizon of the endless sea of blue. And I think of you. Part of me finds it unbelievably frustrating that I have absolutely no idea where you are in this world, but when I'm here, I am free to imagine that you're here, too, just outside of my reach.
And it's okay to be lonely here. There are plenty of people here by themselves. Reading a book, taking a nap, or simply doing nothing. That's the thing; no one looks at you strangely when you show up to the beach in a military town toting your bookbag and your flip flops in hand. Everyone is missing someone here.
And it was here that I decided I wanted a sailboat. Someday. With you. Someday when we would be able to use it. Both of us. Whenever we wanted. No sea schedule or training or deployment stopping us from waking up one morning and deciding that today, we're sailing away from here for a little while.
But that day is many, many days away, and today, I'm simply sitting at the beach, alone.
Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 2:53 PM UTC
Snow crystals fall on
And grace her thick
Deep-Brown 4b curls,
On her long eyelashes,
Melt on her brown cheeks
And her bitable lush lips,
Thicker and heavier they fall
On her puffy jacket
On her cold hand in my hand
On her boots and small bookbag.
They adorn her like
Tiny stars in the night.
And I photograph the moment
In this poem
To last til the end of time.
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 6:46 PM UTC
Time, Sun, quadrants of ;
Consist me, skin; Memory,
Rhythm on worn soles, the
Unfed bone machinery
The planets do not care
Their accidents pleasurability
Freshman, wisteria; slipping bookbag
College in degrees
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 10:53 AM UTC
When I was younger,
Fridays meant putting my bag in our downstairs closet where I wouldn't see it again til Monday morning.
Now that I'm older,
Fridays mean keeping my bag right beside my bed so I will never forget my overwhelming tasks.
"Did you just work very hard for five days? Well of course you did."
"But please, do us a favor...and work some more."
Dec 9, 2020
Dec 9, 2020 at 1:20 PM UTC