"duffel" poems
I
Stacked green crates by the futon,
records sealed as buried letters,
each sleeve longing
to be drawn out into daylight
by her small, thoughtful hands.
I just want to play that Nick Cave again
teenager’s resolve in her voice,
she drops the needle on "Tupelo",
traces Peter Murphy with her thumb,
holds Kate Bush to the light
like stained glass.
She laughs
at the ****** box on the speaker.
I tell her it’s never going to happen.
She grins, unbothered,
says she only came for the vinyl.
I watch her tilt each sleeve,
never touching the grooves,
brush the dust,
lay the needle like a secret,
slide the disc back without a wrinkle.
Each time I’m surprised
by her precision.
It’s the third time
she’s dropped by.
She makes mixtapes.
Pressing pause,
pressing record,
stitching songs
into a spine of hiss.
Once, to me, or to herself,
she said her father wanted a tape.
She’d mail it when
he had somewhere to send it.
She follows me across the bridge,
talking about her brother,
an ex-best friend,
mimicking her professor,
how he wags his tongue
when he writes on the chalkboard.
I haul a duffel:
apron, uniform, boots heavy with grease.
She skips in the rain,
strumming cables, humming
the last song played, still in the air.
II
I unlock the door,
steeped in garlic and kitchen sweat,
boots leaving grime on the boards.
She isn’t there-
only the crates, stacked neater,
jackets squared, spines aligned,
as if her care was meant for me.
The room settles with her absence,
yet holds me upright
in its small, thoughtful hands.
Sep 17, 2025
Sep 17, 2025 at 8:11 PM UTC
You wait on the smooth and shiny floor
of the arrival area with mixed feelings,
you're a groom expecting his bride
to be led to him slowly and unscathed
on the sliding plastic pieces of carousel.
You think about how relieved you are
for making it out of the plane,
how you managed to mumble
an indistinct farewell to
the pretty flight attendants
that filled your in-flight fantasies.
Then you also think about
the last time you came through this airport
and your luggage did not arrive;
how the uncountable footsteps
and phone calls yielded nothing.
That's when little beads of sweat
begin to flock on your brow.
The first few luggage are discharged
through the small opening in the wall,
arriving with subdued fanfare on the carousel.
An all black Samsonite cruises by,
followed closely by a blue Nike sports bag
that puffs out its chest as if in a military parade.
Then a green and white plaid bag drifts by
and you wonder if the owner is from Ghana
or perhaps a proud Nigerian.
The plastic draped Travelpro catches your eye,
half torn to shreds - a good reminder
of the hazards of cargo handling.
Four minutes go by
and you've become a detective
swiftly and skilfully scanning the bags
as they drive by in their solemn procession.
Then you spot that red and black duffel bag
wearing your Mum's purple ribbon
and your eyes instantly light up.
Your cheeks push up in delight
and your lips become glued
in a perpetual clown smile.
As it moves close and you pick it up,
you notice the early rays of light
that have begun to filter in
through the concrete slits in the wall.
Suddenly you realize:
what a great day it is!
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 8:11 AM UTC
. *i was ************ when the earthquake hit.*
*i’d say it was the best ****** i ever had.*
an animal!
a multicellular eukaryotic organism of the kingdom ingesting other organisms to progress!
a well-organized kid of chaos strutting his stuff and puffing his puff.
rifle, duffel, falafel, phil.
fully blessed and stressed to strum forward for the sun, or fun
and fandango.
we are the people,
and the people are merely material,
and the material breathed and breached the darkness, for more.
we are man and woman and dog,
beasts screeching in a field over nothing, over everything, over ant-mounds and the sounds
of seasons meeting.
we think.
eat, drink, wine, woman, song.
he thinks
of nothing but her.
and so in the name of her, he acts, he reacts, he attacks the momentum of weekends into weekends into rhythm. he rolls
out and the words roll off and the days roll by, but this is the unfolding of life,
right?
strife upon strife upon struggle to eat,
and repeat,
and eat her *****
he was a well-spoken yet savage young buck,
evolving to confide and subside with these friends or enemies and imbibe the night away.
repeat/
he was a rise and shine early type with a mug of hot brew.
or the dream and shine late type with a bottle of cold cider.
repeat/
his blind date is a troll woman digging through the dumpster across the street.
he is a goblin boy gritting his fangs toward a girl, on a dancefloor, in a club, and bubble go the texts.
his texts are long and resolute.
she doesn’t respond.
she does respond.
she is seeing someone else. others
from a tall tree or lineage of men with strength and material.
a tall line of men and misters and teachers and tongues, all men obsessed with death &/or glory.
and by rite i obsess with death &/or glory.
and the dog, i want the dog there with me.
and the girl.
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 7:07 AM UTC
For many years he'd traveled far,
a merchantman by trade.
His Mom passed on while he was gone-
she sleeps there in the glade.
Now he is home with tales to tell
of his trek on the Ocean Blue
but the one face he longed most to see
is not there to tell them to.
So he sat down on his duffel bag
beside her well tended grave,
and spoke his stories of the sea
when others might have prayed.
He left a white carnation there
upon her bed of clay.
It was well watered by the tears
he shed for her that day.
He said his last good byes to us
and turned back for the sea and the shore;
He'd search for peace on Neptune's deep
for Home wasn't home anymore.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 12:02 PM UTC
The day was black
Her heart blacker
She hesitated
Her hands poised over the drawer
She knew what it held
She knew it would hurt
But she opened it
Pulling out the contents
She dropped them in the bag.
Moving on she packed her duffel
Opening her phone she dialed his number
“I’m ready, be down in five.”
Dragging the bags to the window
She dropped them out
Tumbling after them.
And running down the lane
She jumped in the back seat
Knuckle touch for her man
Tire’s screamin away they ran
Now she’s gone, she’s long gone
She’s a runaway, a ***** lil runaway
She’s a runaway, a ***** lil runaway
And she ain’t neva comin’ back.
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 10:56 PM UTC
It was my cousin's wedding reception,
And I wore some creamy lacey dress
That had to be approved of by my mother
Before I shoved it in a bulging duffel bag to endure the
Six hours of Dunkin Donuts bathroom stops
And that weird stop-and-go traffic that makes me
Feel like the color green.
As I stood at the brim of the dance floor,
Trying to ignore the half-drunk staggering relatives of mine,
I thought about whether it's
Polite to pry your eight inch
Torture-o-thon heels
From your swollen toes
Before anyone else bothers.
There was a boy on the other end of the disco lights,
A silhouette that I knew to be slightly more muscular than the last time I'd seen it.
Just about my age, or maybe eight months older if you had to ask him,
Which I had about thirteen years earlier
With some sand in the crotch of
My Gymboree bathing suit.
I tried my best not to look over.
The lights mostly blinded me,
But I still wished to glance at him to see how straight his teeth were and how his acne had cleared up
Because of
Neutrogena SkinID Plus
Or something.
I could tell that he was looking at me,
At the too short lacey dress
And my straight teeth
And my peachy skin
And I wanted so badly to peek over.
I wanted him to ask me to dance,
Please oh God ask me to dance.
(Of course he didn't.)
He was a shy kid, even at seventeen.
He didn't say a word to me all night,
Even though we'd gone to the beach together
Since I was in Huggies.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 10:16 PM UTC
I won't beg or borrow, but I'll barter
I'm the child of a deadbeat father
Made my early years hard and that hot seat hotter
Everything between just built my strength and
Made me smarter
All I need is these words to fall into the right hands, then ill be a made man
Cause when I push, I push harder than the pressure of water,
against a **** dam
When I fall I get back up and stand without the help of a helping hand
I won't wear their brand or be governed so **** uncle Sam
These lames wanna try and put the blame on my name and make me feel the shame for the blood stains,
On the mattress that lie between their bed frame
So I pack another duffel bag, hit the road and I'm rollin' stag
til' I build up the strength to take another stab and take back what I once had
The voice in my head has a voice of it's own and makes choices on it's own
I try to reach it, but It wont pick up the **** phone
This world can be a lonely home
I found my clone, he's stuck in another time zone
maybe I'll write him, when I write another poem
-J.A.M
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 2:38 AM UTC
What if sound was robbed,
Held at gunpoint
And smuggled away
From me
Into a duffel of contraband.
What if songs became nothing?
What would I
Do? As the bus
Bounces up and down,
When the sun hasn't
Yet stolen it's kiss.
The window yields
Bland scene
And I would recognize
The silence
In the detestful
Way I do
When I forget the wires.
What if his voice
Was gone?
Could I remember it?
Could I fill in sound as his
Lips moved,
God
All I'd ever see
Would be lips.
And I don't like mouths as it is.
But maybe
They'd be my new wires
And my eyes would follow
Their parted
Movements, enamored.
What if instructions were silenced
And I was left to guess at
What to do?
Emergency situation
Stealing my life away
Because I couldn't hear
Anything about
The oxygen supply
Above my head.
I'd perish in silence.
Would I speak?
Or only write?
Would I feel heard
If I could barely fathom listening?
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 10:43 AM UTC
For every single time I stumbled on loose sidewalk brickwork
I have allowed a so what? smile to cross my face
this is no roadmap
flat as the earth was all those years ago
this path is uneven
and littered with fragments of the lives of others
others who at one point may have walked down this same sidewalk
only to stumble on loose brickwork
so what?
and each parked car
that I may have kissed while backing up
has its own life
maybe the owner spends hours in discussion
*how the hell did I get that scratch?
well you are welcome -
so what?*
and just maybe
if you call that number
stenciled and fading in the weathered concrete beneath the bridge
you will have a good time
so what?
the homeless man I saw one morning
taking the cans out of my recycling bin
and putting them in a duffel bag
was once a ten year old boy
who did things that every ten year old boy does
so what?
and maybe every single dumb poem I pen
makes its way into the heart
of just one person
and maybe they just fly upwards
into the atmosphere
where they dissolve into wind
so what?
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 2:10 PM UTC
He was my sun, my one and only son,
attired as a cowboy for the day.
And so I handed him a little gun
of fastened random sticks, for him to shoot and play.
Attired as a cowboy for the day
he searched for foes (with bows and arrows made
of fastened random sticks for them) to shoot, and play
the part of ‘Injuns’ in a mock charade.
He searched for foes (with bows and arrows made)
well written in his story books before he left for school.
The parts of ‘Injuns’ in a mock charade
were tainted with a crimson war paint, oh so cruel.
Well writ in history books before he left from school,
the tales (retold of victories that we’d won)
were tainted with a crimson war paint, oh so cruel.
The flow of paint was not to staunch when once begun.
From tales retold of victories that we’d won,
he learned to fight for God and country glory, though
the flow of pain, ’twas not to staunch when once begun
and bane to both sides (as he’d later come to know).
He learned to fight for God and country glory, though
the wounds of war were kept unseen (while nigh)
and bane to both sides (as we’d later come to know);
but still he stuffed a duffel bag with several things of youth, then said goodbye.
The wounds of war were kept unseen. While nigh,
the hours boomed, the clock struck 12 at last, his time to leave.
But, still, he stuffed a duffel bag with several things of youth, then said goodbye
to those who’d stay and even those who wouldn’t grieve.
The hours boomed, the clock struck 12 - alas, his time to leave.
They sent back body bags they’d stuffed with severed things of those who’d died
to those who’d stayed. And even those who wouldn’t grieve
with tears were stiff and masked like wooden boxes meant to hide.
They sent back body bags they’d stuffed with severed things of those who’d died;
his boots hung loose, one camouflaged in mud.
With tears, the stiff were masked in wooden boxes meant to hide
our children from the spilling of their blood.
His boots hung loose, one camouflaged in mud;
they said they’d needed him to help defend
our children from the spilling of their blood.
But can they ever see or really comprehend?
They said they’d needed him to help defend,
and so they handed him a little gun.
But can they ever see or really comprehend?
He was my sun, my one and only son.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 2:36 PM UTC
Yellow city lights,
Streaks of red,
Huffing and puffing
Trucks and buses,
Dripping roof,
Cold sidewalk,
Wearing my happy red shoes.
I’d like to take up the earth
In my hands,
And fold it over like fabric.
Then stitch through the grassy weave
And bring your home
Closer to me.
But though I cannot make that happen
You are only a time travel
Of two hours away.
You can measure it in
Minutes,
Songs,
Miles,
Hot beverages
And scenery,
I’ve even measured it in rain,
The space between
You and me.
Here I am,
In my small town version of a city,
Sitting on my duffel bag,
Because I’d rather shiver in the outdoors,
And you’re only a matter
Of Beatles albums away.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 7:40 PM UTC
The unscrupulous cavalry shuffled aboard narrow lanes,
Cutting in line towards Jager Bomb's tether,
Cluttered duffel bags concealing cheap champagnes,
Passing cruise ship commuter's ruffled feathers.
With their fake, "excuse me's" en route to the bar,
Coercing the conductor who's been under the weather
With smug smiles and counterfeit Cuban cigars.
Leaving the harbor three sheets to the wind
The cowards commandeered Grandparents pool chairs,
A little past midnight with no foresight of end,
An abrupt brawl broke out, fists flying through air.
A sightseeing whale trip turned into a ship from hell,
The assailants now held in a South of Wales cell.
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 12:07 AM UTC
your Colorado village was freezing,
even the eve of May
the bus dropped me there
you weren't waiting
I toted my duffel bag, now turned sixty,
to your place
you didn't answer for an hour; when you did,
it was not sleep in your eyes
we didn't fight--it was too cold in your apartment
for heated arguments
you didn't bother to say you were busy, or forgot
your father's only son had agreed to this visit
you had only stale bread, stingy swirls of peanut butter
in a cold jar
you left with a promise to get food,
and my last seven dollars
I waited for you until dusk, then dragged my bag
to a locked church
I put an extra ancient sweater under my coat, leaned
against the chapel's small west wall
I watched the sky turn from mauve to black,
until I fell asleep
and dreamed of a time I carried you on my shoulders,
under a warm sun
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 4:41 PM UTC
to grow beyond swagger
to sort pain from wager
to explore canyons that mislead you
to collect a duffel of dots
and permit them
to connect to...?
Feb 18, 2011
Feb 18, 2011 at 7:40 PM UTC
You're peering out for Sunshine
a cascade like yellow Dust falls.
The cavities will fill in time, enough for a Stadium.
The Pro-biotic yoghurt in your Duffel bag
is no longer ship shape,
a green mould from somewhere else is seeping.
I swear something has to give.
Your only defence a Swiss Army knife,
somehow speckless from your childhood draw.
Later the Night sky begins to crackle
like you knew before.
Your only thought Mary
the local dental hygienist you fell in love for.
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 12:19 PM UTC
You’ve got the lighter bags
Satchels of shame you slung over your shoulder
Then walked on
Well I’m far behind with weights of a different kind
And a suitcase of sorrow
And a duffel of doubt
And I’ve lost the words I long to shout
My mouth moves slow and mad
I’ve lost the legs that ache for adventure
And the skip inside that I once had
So I slip myself into one long lag
One sad song, one harsh drag
A caterpillar cocoon’s bundle of doom
Wrapped in a heart soon to break BOOM
Then I’ll be fine cause I’ll be gone
And you’ll wipe your head with your sighing palm
But thank the constellations
For the biting revelation
We’re just one eroding equation
Of empty elation and pretty persuasion
And my bags of demons shall remain
Under my eyes in a dark blue stain
And your bags of troubles will still remain light
Tossed over your shoulder in the cool of the night
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 10:54 AM UTC
I built a fire and burned the baggage you left behind
I packed it up in a warm smoldering smokey haze
Divorce records with the ex wife
Joint taxes, private school bills
Mortgages, foreclosure credit debt
Child support and EDD claims
Photos of happier times placed neatly on the shelf in my closet
Air Force jacket and duffel bag tucked in corner safe
Waiting for their owner to pick them up
I would send them but I have no idea where you are
I should burn it all, but it hurts to think that way
All those years of love notes
Buried in a plethora
Of blue stripes white and yellow
College ruled and blank notebooks
Randomly ambushing memories
When very least expecting.
The only way around these things is through them
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 4:31 PM UTC
A graveyard makes a small nest
in the stairwell. Three mannequins
dressed in gore, laying side by side.
The science lab’s window is now
embellished with a miniature marker board
that reads “1 bleeding to death”
Library: war zone. Bodies scrunched
like fists under desks,
wearing book bags like bullet-proof vests.
In the lunch room
are men in black trench coats, plucking
machinery from duffel bags and flattening the
pulse rate of innocent souls.
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 2:29 AM UTC
Driving through Kentucky.
Fields fragrant with summer flowers,
spring fast approaching.
En-route to meet the boys of previous
summers lounging in London streets, fields, and serpentine parks,
And, stairs leading down to unwelcoming basements; as is the British way.
Malls of America now act as labyrinths.
Where the hell can I park my car?
Again, I ask, where the **** can I park my car?
I don’t care.
I just won’t park my ******* car,
in this god-forsaken middle of the western U.S.
Louisville, better yet, Hicksville.
I pop another Vicodin to get rid of this ill,
Surviving bit by bit but drained incessantly until,
I am no longer near fill, in spirit or in gasoline, tangible but also metaphysical.
Someone plunge into my depressed psyche and drill, drill,
DRILL!
Hey waitress of my mind, may I please request the bill?
With a pocket full of Xanax and a duffel bag of boomers,
my pockets jingle, (click-clack) as the pills bounce around with
every step, treating addiction with more drugs appears
to be the current stance of the know nothing doctors across this greatest nation on God’s green earth.
Hey babe, “want to walk with me to the methadone clinic,”
It’s rainy out, cold rain, can you carry my umbrella?
I can’t miss my dose or I’ll get sick.
So again I ask
Babe?
Walk with me to the methadone clinic?
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 6:13 PM UTC
Impulsive drones, these machos you have flimflammed,
Wolfing your proportionality like a **** brewed nectar of grapes,
When flimsy limb frills no more interweave, expertise reprogrammed,
Are you the lone from infinite frames murmuring, “once more, he escapes”?
Indignation ******* broadcasted, ferocity wrought into the fiber,
Prior, where narcissistic pathway architecture once lodged aloft,
Calloused acknowledgement of her duffel, abrupt pang, necessity for a prescriber,
My mettle is feeble of the soap opera, hanging one’s topper in my breath, I coughed,
The cauldron perpetually gurgling with spume, mingling itself,
Gyrating with giddiness as if my noggin was a top trinket,
No dust crumbs in any bustle ever jubilated atop my pit-a-patting instrument’s
Masses are anticipating for my enveloping blanket,
I perhaps beam till the cattle wham the timepiece, though seldom do I chuckle,
Shall journey with the ensuing waft, no comma for a buckle.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 6:06 PM UTC
you were tig
I was tag
bright pink wellies
a duffel bag
the snowball
that I threw
I wonder if
you ever knew
It
was always
you
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 7:53 PM UTC
The first night
you and your brother
slept in this room
you were entering
Kindergarten.
In sickness and in
health this room
restored you,
sheltered you
and kept you safe.
It was a special place,
where you found refuge
and the space you needed
to mature and grow.
For thousands of nights,
you safely slumbered here;
experiencing fantastic dreams
of danger and heroic adventure
that fill the night reveries
of all sleeping boys.
For thousands of days,
this room filled
with daydreams
and the happy clatter
of play time
as you wondered
and prepared
to become the man
you were meant to be.
I witnessed and
experienced
much of your journey
through many
of those days.
I was anointed by this
gracious blessing
to see you,
your brother
and sister
grow strong,
independent,
and united in
close bonds
of love, respect
and trust
for one another.
My life
has brought me
no greater satisfaction
then being able
to provide you
with the safety
of a loving
sanctuary
where all this
could be so.
The day I watched you,
as your brother did before
stand in this room
packing a duffel bag
to leave for the service;
I silently
prayed
that
someday
you would
return to
the safety
of this room.
I watched as
you carefully
reviewed
all the items
you had neatly
laid out on your bed;
boots, socks
and uniforms;
the necessities
of a military life
now replacing
the orphaned
play things
filling the room.
I knew as I watched you pack
that I stood witness to a man
putting away the childish things
of youth; inconsequential artifacts
for you that now held deeper
meaning for me.
The soldier was ready
to leave his boyhood home
to learn, train and prepare
to lead other men
in the serious business
of war.
The spring day sunshine
that flowed into the room
that afternoon framed
you in a new
magnificent light.
I no longer saw the boy
who had occupied
this room for a
few thousand days. I
now looked upon
a young man,
resolute in purpose,
of firm caliber
and upright character
standing before me.
The former boy who
grew up in this room
had become
a man dedicated
to the serious pursuit
of matters that
engage men
in a life of
service and
honor.
It was a blessed experience
to see you in this light,
and come to the realization
that this room would no longer
be a safe sanctuary for you
and I could no longer shield you
from the dangers of the world.
You are off to pitch
vulnerable bivouacs
and sleep in muddy foxholes;
willingly placing yourself
and the men you will
command into harm’s way.
It is said
“The child is father to the man”
and now it is left to you to assure
the freedom and safety of a father
who keeps your room ready
with the expectant hope
and fervent prayer
of your safe
return home.
I love you.
Dedicated with
love and respect for
GWM and PJM
Paul Robeson:
Little Man You Had Busy Day
jbm
11/14/11
Oakland
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 1:03 PM UTC
I feel it sometimes
driving through the backwoods
of Georgia
along narrow winding roads
patrolled by tall solemn trees,
and no lights for miles...
praying my tires hold up,
that the thermostat stays cool...
this is no place for a *****
to get lost,
or stuck,
and this *****
doesn't need a history
lesson to know
what I feel
in my shango bones...
and yesterday I saw it
screaming in black
from an off-white wall
at a pit stop in Macon:
*" I hate n#&&@rs
let's killem all..."*
and I started packing mentally,
stacking the frost bite,
hustle and rat race
that chased me down
south
in the first place
back into my duffel bag...
I had a train to catch
~ P (Pablo)
(7/27/2013)
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 6:30 PM UTC
We were in two separate rooms,
two separate beds,
two separate worlds
just begging
to be together,
but neither one of us wanted to take the chance
to be with one another
when we know
one of us would eventually get hurt
in the end.
And we're so tired of hurting each other.
So we just pretended,
we decided we'd dream up an instance
where our brilliance wasn't severed
with evaded truth that burned likes acid
sticking to our skin
We put together our separate's
and made one same
one identical dream
where we put the beer in the back
of your jeep, climbed into the front
with a duffel full of clothes and some water for the road,
along with a CD packed with the latest country.
When we reached the beach it was raining,
it was hot, humid, and beautiful.
The sun had already set, and no one was around
so we took of our shoes and danced in the sand
even though you didn't want to,
you did it for me.
I laughed because,
well it was funny
to have you hold me awkwardly
and move against the beat
of the song I was humming,
but it was fine
jut to have your arms around me.
We were soaked,
so we took off our shirts
and played tag your it
like we were a bunch of kids.
The rain never settled, and soon enough
I got cold
so you told me we could lay down the seats
wrap up in blankets
and go to sleep,
but of course we didn't.
We stayed up all night trying to get warm
talking about the stars and the little things
most people miss when they're just passing through.
I kissed you accidentally.
I'm sorry,
I just couldn't help myself
you looked so perfect in the moonlight.
You kissed me back,
like you weren't sorry
and we just couldn't help ourselves
from entangling together like two half molds
who just found each other.
The love we made was sweet and sticky,
kind of gentle yet kind of rough
like a honeysuckle leaking it's syrup
all over our pale-touched skin.
The love we made was warm and comfortable
kind of stupid yet kind of perfect
with the way we fit together.
We lost each other, in a sort of frenzy
then we had to be pulled back to reality
and reality is this
that I want to be together,
but you don't want to fit.
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 8:43 PM UTC