"repack" poems
It's funny the things that catch our eye.
My boarding pass and passport are over checked
Student ID,
Admission letter four years old,
Father's death certificate,
My marriage certificate,
Endless documents,
To prove I'm not a threat.
He waltzes through without a blink.
No boarding pass checked,
No passport in hand,
No red flags raised.
I'm sure it's illegal,
But they don't ask
Or maybe they won't.
I'm the one they check,
The one they search.
3 hours.
Are these your suitcases?
Unpack the suitcase
who packed the suitcase?
Each item scanned
Where was the suitcase after it was packed?
swab,
wait,
second swab,
wait again.
third swab,
That had better be for good luck.
(more attention than the blarney stone)
Did anyone give you any gifts to bring?
Repack,
Rush through check-in.
Second security check,
Go to line 3.
Unpack hand luggage,
Laptop, tablet, phone, chargers, data cables
Scanned individually,
Take off shoes,
Walk through metal detector,
Three swabs more for good measure,
Repack,
Rush to gate
Already boarding
Finally in my seat.
He takes 15 minutes.
It's funny how his time 8-tuples,
When we travel together.
I may be his ben zug,
I may speak their language without the dreaded Mivtah*,
but I still don't belong.
It's funny the things that catch our eye.
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 11:38 AM UTC
In a world of chaos you were my only hope.
Your blank, pale expression stared at me,
with your faded blue lines running across your perfect emptiness.
Your untouched, untapped potential for relief and sanctuary begging me to splatter my ink, my blood across you.
It invited me to share my sorrows and woes, my happiness but most of all my lows.
So, paper, pen, poem-
I spill my guts to you.
I pour my soul out to you, knowing that you’re always there to listen.
But the truth is, this chaos cannot be contained in such a few lines, in such a few words.
The complexity of Life’s twists cannot be shortened or summed up here.
I could never think of a word to describe the…. empty?.... feeling I got when he returned home, only to repack his bags and leave again.
I could never think of a word to describe the….apathetic?.... feeling I got when they told us it was about change, but at the same time they told us what we could and couldn’t say.
I could never think of a word to describe the…despondent?... feeling I got when he said he was in love with me, but that we could never be together.
I could never think of a word to describe the…?... feeling I got as I hugged her and brushed her tears away, knowing that were caused by me,
I could never think of a word to describe the...?... feeling I got when I begged them to trust me, even though I couldn’t even trust myself.
There are no words or phrases that can capture the irony of day to day living,
of hating life but being afraid of death,
of wishing them to go away but praying they would stay,
of wanting to move a thousand miles away but being unable to take the first step.
I can not capture the way I feel on these days when Life smiles in my face as she holds a gun to my head,
When Life tells me she loves me and holds me close,
but watches as she fills my eyes with tears because she has loosened her grip and is letting me slip away.
So, paper, pen, poem-
I spill my guts to you.
And I beg you to listen, cause I can’t even hear myself.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 10:37 PM UTC
Sometimes I wish these tears,
Were held in my head
that they were packaged and labeled
Citing date, cause, and emotion.
I'd scribble box upon box with something like:
Date: December 25th 2005
Cause: First Christmas Without Dad
Emotion: Misty Eyed Sadness.
Or
Date: June 8 2002
Cause: Recognition. Of a Job well done.
Emotion: Humbled Elation
Sure the boxes would stack up.
Reaching heights unfathomable.
And so I'd sort.
Keeping each emotion in their own piles.
Neatly selecting which ones to put in the front stacks
And which ones to keep hidden from view,
So as not to accidentally expose my problems,
Or remind myself of things I wish to forget.
Instead I'd neatly stack them out of sight.
Perhaps the stacks will fall one day.
Cluttering my head.
It's possible
Some may even be forced open.
Forcing me to repack and
Restack.
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 5:43 PM UTC
Trees that are rising, with trunks fading to black,
Before you were woven from wood, now of the rocks that crack.
With you standing tall, and always the shade to rest my back.
From then til' today I could never repack,
All the sins, that you devour on track.
Since long I have not wronged by the stars of that song.
Maybe I should numb what was strong,
Because the silence of your breath becomes flat.
With leaves of wide shape and shining colour.
Reflecting the shadows and its silhouettes.
Home to different creature of its lore.
The furious, silent, and respectful.
Like the ever changing skins of your growing fruits.
From remedies, poisons, and delicacies just to fill.
Giving abundances of gifts but nonetheless it is you who takes it.
Time moves forward,
It is seen that yesterday is tomorrow,
The ebb and flow is very evident,
What was calm,
Turbulently testing today,
Gathering all its forces,
While throwing what is wasteful and foolish.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 5:23 AM UTC
I was standing there
In the heart of crossroads
Blindly staring at the unfamiliar road signs
Traffic lights must have misheard my wheeze
They shifted before I could breathe
Inexorable headlights race towards the freezing me
As if magnet and metal were meant to be
I am here, facing back
Tracing the road I wanted to wrack
With thought of facing the crack
Measuring the weight to repack
Memories of morning sun heating away the haze
Passion of youth in this town had become blase
Fleeting replays of ugly truths in these old days
So I stepped out the lies builded with ablaze
I will be moving, starting from here
By the side of crossroads
Slowly walking away from these rusty road signs
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 1:44 AM UTC
Years ago at a college
reunion
an old friend
said she didn't remember me
and to this day
I still unpack and
repack that memory
of she
who took
all those seconds minutes
hours days
years
and scrubbed them from
every shelf cubby alcove
and wiped them off
the front door
the counter
the cash register
the stairs
swept them from
the basement
and dusted them from the attic
I try not to take
it personally
but there is no
other computer out
there
on the market
that needs
these types of memories stored
in a mouse maze
of how to dance
and how to smile and how to love
and how to laugh
in order to function
and drive the
vessel it is
commanding
and as tempted as I have been
I have fought
the
pressures
internal external
to simplify and reorganze
the trivia facts
figures bar and parlor tricks
pool shots anachronistic cheese
***** humor
****** stories
that are crammed into shelves
and stacked floor to ceiling
there will be no hall of records
and when they come
which they will surely do
you have my word
I will not slip away quietly
into the night
Whit Howland © 2019
Jul 11, 2019
Jul 11, 2019 at 7:34 PM UTC
Grumpy traveller
We are eating breakfast at the hotel,
it has proper breakfast that is suitable for a diabetic person
then we will pack our bags; she will repack my bag
since I crease the clothes.
I will then watch TV and wait.
Then we will pay and take a taxi to the railway station
I tried to get the place in a first-class carriage, but they didn't
have any. I know the train will be packed by noisy,
Tourists who carry more luggage then they need.
The train has a dinner, but I can't drink any wine since
I will be driving home our car is parked at the station
In Faro; I'm not a glad traveller only do so when I must.
Near Faro ten minutes before arrival, I feel quite perky;
it is so good to be home after being away.
Jan 8, 2018
Jan 8, 2018 at 5:00 AM UTC