"rucksack" poems
I don't know you anymore,
ever since that staycation
with your Beloved.
You were the only one who held
my heart and brain
in your pearly, white palm.
Now it's stained brown
from the endless supply of caffeine
and mugs.
What about
the scars on my back
(from my travels to many places)
that you and only you saw?
I can't help but wonder over the picture you have
of me
if they now rest in a new rucksack.
My soul,
is now in your little backpack
where everyone else lie in.
Tell me,
where did you travel to and what happened?
Did the airlines lose your culture
and replace it with a complimentary
substitute?
You've lost the identity for which
I came to know you of.
May this just be a
stopover.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 2:24 AM UTC
.
He liked to gather up the silence in the springtime
Pack it up and carry it in an old timeworn leather rucksack
From a distance it looked like he was a senseless fool
Picking up handfuls of nothing; then putting it in an empty jar
No mind is paid to the fleeting glance in the corner of a stranger's eyes
They were out of reach from the box he was living in
He kept gathering up the endless silence like missing pieces of a lost soul
It seemed to be everywhere ― and in it heard, the only voice he knew
Supposing all his thoughts pondered come forth of silence
Often resting sheltered beneath branches where it grew on the trees ―
It wasn't just the songbird that broke the stillness in dappled sunlight
It was the dearth of love that rivers through a strong heartbeat’s
silenced words ...
Jesse Stillwater
04 May 2018
May 4, 2018
May 4, 2018 at 10:58 AM UTC
Who are you
to tell me
to wear a Salwar kameez or a turtle neck
Who are you
to say that my body lacks flesh
Who are you
to make my body a symbol of *** appeal
Wait!!
you are no one
But someone who
Doesn't embrace one's body
Because
For me
My body is not a piece of meat
My body is not up for a bid
Moreover
You are no one
To tell me
To veil my ***** with blotter
And my hips with a rucksack
You better
Keep your ravenous eyes away
That try to strip me with its gaze
But say whatever you want to say
Because now i don't bother about your ******* comments anyway.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 12:52 PM UTC
I've been thinking it's time I retired,
acquired a rucksack to strap on my back
and returned to the slow track.
Hitting the road and taking the load off my mind,
with many needles to thread and a hay stack for my bed
I'd be content with it all,
to drift into the colour of fall and ever so slowly disappear,
never here for long,never there or anywhere but everywhere
I would be,
free from the trap laid by polite society.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 6:20 AM UTC
For instance, recall daisies,
or if you have not seen one, so much the better.
Paint me a crass picture and sleep
on the shallow crevasse. Stilt through
the orchard and search there: nothing still.
Even the nothingness is form-fitting, and thus,
your vestigial image of daisies. Mold something
out of the vacuity, and there a retrograde sculpture
will wind back to clay. Cornerstones have your name,
and your name even so, has taciturnly placed stones.
Stones. These tiny bodies that lay, undemanding,
scourged by the rapid passage of a carriage.
I wait there, with them, still thinking of daisies.
I know of a child, cylindrically obtuse, in front of the mirror.
Have you seen yourself in the hazy windows
of the Metro? What do you see? I still see daisies.
Or people with heads of daisies. But remember your
forethought of daisies? They are nothing. I am a beheaded daisy
in the lackadaisical wind of Summer. There is nothing to gain
here but the sadness of cold passing. And the child that I am speaking
of, his name, Magno. Sturdy like the rucksack he’s carrying,
lovelessly trundling altogether with the pipes and the
handrails, almost signaling the alarm without warning.
This uncared-for sultry evening decides to splinter
itself against the masses. Again, the daisies appear to me,
this time, in heady form rogue with peripatetic fragrance.
Magno used to unearth daisies and give them to her
mother when he was stiflingly young – he hustled through
the carefully placed furniture. Whatever happened to him,
I know not. And just like the daisies we have come to know now,
trains that do not belong to anyone, and the daisies too, that go
unheard of and unknown to the behest of the city,
have gone into the subtle beginning of everything
that once started in itself, the form of splendor. Nothing.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 3:27 AM UTC
I wheel it out, my green and black bicycle
The roads shiny and quiet, the grey skies overcast
I start slow, breathing in the clean morning air
The fragrance of wet leaves and mulch, moss and old trees
I hear the morning song of the birds
And see the blossoms heralding spring
I nod to the old woman walking her spaniel
And notice the beating of my own heart
The rucksack a comforting weight
My breath even and warm in the wintry air
My derriere sore from yesterday’s excesses
The road, glorious, wide, welcoming and endless
Crossing the road, I am struck by the symmetry
Of a lone tree, leafless, bare, proud, naked
And the beauty of an old, stone church
And the wheels of the cycle keep spinning
The roar of traffic on the motorway always a shock
As I adjust, I breathe in the manure
From green fields so vast, flanked by white
And pause to see the muddy, turbulent stream
As I rack up the miles
My heartbeat is a sledgehammer
My legs are on fire
And I feel alive
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 3:38 AM UTC
mook was a strange old fella
could blown him over with a breeze
thin as a train track rail and just as rusted
he drank hard but his heart was soft
never had nothing but a kind word
always gave a helping hand
mook was down by the old platte river
fishing with an old line
lazing in the hot summer sun
when lucy happened upon him
now lucy was a fast talking girl
loose with her wares and cared not for a single soul
good lord never carved something as cold
as that woman's heart
mook wasn't no rich fella mind ya
but he always managed to keep his pocket full
and lucy laid into that poorboy with a vengeance
laid him low from behind
never saw it comin
lament the poorboy gone to rest
gathered like spoilt wheat before his time
can almost see him with his old
rucksack and a bottle of wine
laughin like the sun
dancing on summer lake
dancing like you was truly free
his was a time of life to see
always put a feast to the table
even if it was pork-n-beans an sour dough
never let a man go hungry at his table
lament the poor boy now he's gone
fool lucy went into town to the ***** house
laid about with cursing and braggarting her dark deed
she laid him down low with her cold hand
shes laid up in the old jail now
theres nothing to be learnt from this sad affair
nothing good ever comes from dark deeds
but at least 'ole son is resting easy now
walking up the river road with his rucksack and bottle of wine
smiling like the sun
and holding love in his heart for everyone
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 5:25 AM UTC
One for the man bunkered down in the trenches
sent in by his country as a henchman.
He's laying in the mud, praying for safety,
losing less blood than what's shed daily.
In this hazy hell, a drug buzz is needed.
Morphine seeps in, easing the beaten.
And in no man's land, a man cries for mercy
but his cries are cut off by the hands of Murphy.
Early in the morning, he packs his bags.
Rucksack on his back, heading back to base camp.
There's a damper in the room, sunken like the marsh.
Friends have fallen, it's clearly marked.
And his heart aches but they can't be dead.
Nah, he sees them every time he lays down his head.
From time to time, he jolts up out of breath,
but he never felt more alive, when he was close to death.
It's not a sob story, no it's just old glory
Two for the man bunkered down by the park bench,
clutching a cup, praying for penance.
He's laying on cement, waiting for change,
and trying to stay dry from the ******* rain.
In this day and age, a drug buzz is needed.
Morphine tabs, tap in the defeated.
Lungs splitting, teeth gritting, he's wishing for mercy.
Two times the dose, he curses out Murphy.
Early in the morning he packs his bags.
Rucksack on his back, he heads back to PADs.
He grabs a tray, sits alone, and says grace
because there's no space open for the "nutcase".
Arm's race to golden gates, he dragged a debt.
He carried his country as heavy as regret.
He carries his friends, they dangle from his neck.
But the thing about memories is that you can't forget.
It's not a sob story, it's just old glory
© Matthew Harlovic
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 12:25 PM UTC
He had a bag.
The books he packed in the sack on his back
Gave substantial sustenance to open his eyes to the sequins
To him this was indispensible.
More and more he stuffed into the sack on his back
Wiser was he but heavier his baggage became.
The clothes he packed in the sack on his back
Kept him secure and safe, like superman under his cape.
The more he brought the better he felt
The more he had the better he felt
Comfortable was he but heavier his baggage became.
The liquor he packed in the sack on his back
Helped with the pain of perseverance
And the acknowledgement of self-alteration
As slowly as he was transformed by the rucksack on his back
Began a man now a creature, a lost cause with no features.
Sorrow hidden and demons remained as heavier his baggage became.
But as he strained to stay standing with the bag on his back
His view of the stunning sequins distorted,
Disappearing in the storm was the beauty of it all
The struggle with the unnecessary weight was the squall
That ultimately ruined whatever beauty he believed in.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 8:24 PM UTC
assign me a piece of your mind and
to the bottom of my rucksack it’ll go and
its whispering will shake all the change and
bad and same i keep stuffed in there too and
send shrapnel singing straight at my heart but
don’t worry baby, it’s as tough as
brand new pleather and don’t fret sweetie as
though i don’t really have the funds as
long as what seeps ‘tween front teeth as
whispered ammunition is still friendly fire as
i hold your pan, i’m your darling refugee but
don’t feel bad about it honey 'cos
if you smile just right, then we’re a rainbow 'cos
i’m the sun and you’re just rain 'cos
hell is hot and raindrops have halos ( i said that cos
you can’t trust people not to get mixed up) but
please,
please,
don’t be offended
you aren’t the first person to be so dependant
please,
please,
cut the drugs that you’re taking
and send some to someone whose fingers aren’t quaking
please,
please,
pass me the ***
consult a dentist re: bleeding gums,
please,
please,
just let me cry,
**** your equations,
don’t be so polite,
please,
please,
please go away,
don't pretend not to hate me
and promise to say
nothing at all
but what is true
“that ***** only gave me
standard super glue”
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 9:56 PM UTC
All the world's a *********
And all the lads and ladettes mere defecators,
Gratifying oozing exits and entrances;
And one man perforce enacts too many roles,
His acts being seven deaths. D'abord, the baby,
******** and ******* on his mummy's frock.
Then, the errant truant with his rucksack
And pock-marked wanker's face, creeping like death
Foul-trouser'dly to school. Next a teenager,
Panting like mad dog, with an oozing pustule
Dripping oe'r his girlfriend's pubics. Then a hoodie,
Full of strange oaths, and dressed up like a freak,
Lacking in honour, decency, and up for aggro,
Seeking the respect of loathsome peers
Even on the street corner. And then the adult
With bulging beer belly, and ample burgers stuff'd,
With eyes dulled by unfulfilled promises,
Mortgaged to the hilt, and indebted to Visa,
And so he wastes his life. The sixth age dawns
Before he knows it, bald futility,
With ****** in pocket, five quid a pill,
His youthful hopes well fuck'd, the world too much
For his ignorance, and his vain butch rantings
Reverting soon to teenage curses, coughs
And tobacco'd wheezings. Last we see him,
Ending a pointless and useless existence,
Clutching to his piss-stained Zimmer frame,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans pension fund.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 4:54 PM UTC
She gives the gift of gab!
When her love snapped onto my back, like a rucksack to be worn
The old me died, a rambling man was born.
My words are playing a twisted game of Temple Run
The monkeys are her eyebrows, cocked like pistols, and we're playing Russian Roulette.
My words are emptiness and hot air and imagined shapes, yet not nearly as two-dimensional as constellations.
She's a phrase I just learned, and will incorrectly overuse.
She's a worm in my ear, impossible to lose.
She feels like two cups of tea at three in the morning.
She feels like assembling an RC car without reading the instruction manual.
And by God, those eyebrows.
I need her like rocks need water and snow needs the sun.
I want her like turtles want to fly and eagles want to run.
She's that feeling when rain comes down on an empty highway.
She's half a bottle of Elmer's glue I just dribbled onto my hands.
I miss her like broken bowls miss Cheerios and holey socks miss feet.
I miss her like diarrhea misses constipation.
I miss her like NBC misses viewers who have turned to online news sources.
I miss her like journalists miss exposés.
I miss her like polar bears miss ice caps.
I miss her like avalanches miss snowy peaks.
I miss her like Hiroshima survivors miss World War One.
I miss her like cities miss silence.
Mostly, I just miss the silence.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 5:34 AM UTC
bernie the cheese
collapsed at the side
of the road
his measured response depleted
he watches as she folds up
her neat and meticulously spelled words
plied on silver tongue into her rucksack
and through such ******* ********** of kings english
she entices him ever onward where
faint lines can be sought
and yet to be found
that echo the face of true madness
its laughing sweating continence
painted with watercolours and
can only be seen in the reflection of
a mirror reflecting another mirrors image
her face slowly releases its dire grip
and her eye looses it screaming aspect
as she finds herself alone on the ***** alleys cobblestones
the battered dumpsters spilling treasures for the divers to find
she begins to hum a beatles tune from '63
and fingers the lace shawl hiding her deformed mind
trying once more to capture that vast lost feeling from
girlhood that dances a
dubious little jig on her headstone of the heart
singing 'lookie here....look at whats buried here'
she remembers his face but not his name
he drove a silver buick with a skull painted on the hood
his blond features engraved in the notions
his words mixed with foul smelling chicken soup
he was a soup of the day in her salad years
bernie the cheese
chews on the charbroiled taste of his
blowup doll lover's lips and tries to say
the three magic words
'made in china'??
his own words spent he casts about
in terror for a phrase or two to quote from
the masters of deception
who gather round in long grey coats
sinister eyes on the fruits of his labour
their wooden faces warped by rain
their mouths only a dim perceived line of
mumbles written in childlike scrawl
on the backs of closet doors
we hide here because we cannot see
therefore we cannot be seen
you cant touch me because i cannot feel
they gift him at price unnamed some loose parable
naught more that glib reprise of his own perilous straights
his is the beast that labours in their stead
he is their human face
she is but the road they walk today
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 7:36 AM UTC
Your belongings (be)long to/for the materialist of Earth.
Your memories belong in the cradle of the hands of time.
Your talents belong in the rucksack of circumstance.
Your friends and family are shadows on the pavement
of the path you travelled.
Your lover belongs in the warmth of your heart.
Your bones belong with the typhoon of dust.
Your soul belongs in God's horcrux.
Your moments.
That's all that's ever yours.
Moments.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 12:05 AM UTC
Tuesday lasses
we all have classes
get up and go
there’s no time to waste
join the flow
there’s no reason to wait
everyone’s hustling
coffee guzzling
bus shuttling
paper shuffling
syllabus assessing
apple-watch checking
there’s a fall-like feeling
making things more appealing
file off of the bus
and join the crush
trudging up science hill
thru the doors up the stairs
climbing in pairs,
in class, at last,
setup and relax.
I open my binder
and hand in the assignment
the guy beside me can’t find it.
and the TA moves on
the guy’s upset and I get it
he’s frantic and grim
I pretend I’m not watching him
as he ransacks his rucksack
too late, they’re taking roll
carelessness takes its toll
Sep 19, 2023
Sep 19, 2023 at 12:23 PM UTC
Hold my hand dear Benjamin
don't let Professor Edwards
catch me in a dreamscape
challenging me off guard
as we sit in math class
hands clasped together
for when you knowingly
squeeze my hand tighter
scribbling with your right hand
the answer which is required
to be erased so as not caught out
but today as I look out
onto drifting clouded skies
I see the changes and I lose
myself in shapes and smoke
forging out homes, characters
stories into my past, present
and what could be in the future
nothing is taken from me, distracted
in an instant I'm Vivian Ward
racing around Hollywood
with my best friend Kit De Luca
who eats cold pizza for breakfast
and crawls the streets with me
hop scotching across the
Hollywood Walk of Fame,
five star terrazzo and brass stars, names of Hollywood greats
blonde, brunette elegance
Manolo's, mink coats,
jewelled necklines of emerald stones
we'd both dreamt as kids
Los Angeles; the City of Angels
we are the winged, we are the free
inhabiting the land of opportunity
the ladies of the night, grappling onto souls of kids, shared flat
with bunk beds and a closet filled
with 80's short tight spandex
leg warmers, faux gold earrings
bright coloured lingerie, leather bomber jackets, tutus...
oh and those perms and scrunchies
fake eye lashes, an 80's kid high as hell
being courted by an older wealthier man
living fast, dying young, a fugitive
of the land
broken
The silence I succumbed to
bruised by a cacophony of bells ringing
"never change Lou lou!"
he winked and smiled
packing his rucksack
leaving for the day.
© Sia Jane
“She was the amoureuse of all the novels, the heroine of all the plays, the vague “she” of all the poetry books.”
Gustave Flaubert, “Madame Bovary”
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 12:00 PM UTC
Don't let my absence take you by surprise
I promised I'd wait for you
When you wake up and open your eyes,
And turn to your side
But I'm gone.
Never to return again.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 2:59 PM UTC
Mind if I play pretend?
What if it was you and me
on a breezy hill
overlooking nothing but grass
grass
grass waving to the wind
like waves that never crash
would you sit beside me
and stare at it
be silent
comfortable enough
in each others' thoughts?
I would watch you
from the corner of my eye
and you would be
smiling
(I always have you smiling in my mind)
your perfect bangs ruined
tousled
yet beautiful.
I'd watch your magic eyes
flashing
shining
bright.
boy with the old poet's soul.
looking at the same field
yet you'd see it better
than I
you will capture the parts that contain the unexplainable
and hold it
in your heavenly rucksack
while all I have are
eyes bending the light,
making sense of the colors.
your mouth will not open
you do not tell me what you see
but you free what you've trapped
in your poetry
and there do you give
you to me.
Nov 7, 2011
Nov 7, 2011 at 4:36 AM UTC
Podium
That’s me on the totem pole,
with the face paints and cigarettes.
The smoke burns your eyes.
That’s me on the pedestal,
ears to ground and eyes in the clouds.
The rain soaked your skin.
That’s me on the platform,
with the rucksack and treasured artefacts,
The timetables melted your mind.
That’s me on the podium,
soaked in sweat, medal around my neck.
The track broke your heart.
That’s me at the finish line baby,
maybe,
we could go back to the start.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 12:45 PM UTC
Security was not tight staff numbers very low
nobody saw them go in.
An unlocked gate that was not secure
a camera not checked.
The suspects just walked in unobserved
nothing was seen or heard!
Upon their backs suspicious brown rucksack's
no soul around to challenge.
This action would bring so much regret
as several hours later.
In the railway carriage their bombs discharged
they would never be charged!
No discrimination for any of those injured or killed
from different backgrounds.
Hopelessness added to the chemicals in the air
silence followed the bang!
The innocence of the victims and their kin
the aftermath would now begin!
The Foureyed Poet.
Jul 21, 2012
Jul 21, 2012 at 6:19 PM UTC
I leave this place.
The clouds of humiliation hang heavy,
drenching my naked skin.
The air damp with shame.
Looking back at the town
called worry and torment.
My naked form ridiculed and put in stocks
as the towns folk aimed their best.
My time was served
for no crime that I committed.
And I am now leaving.
To wander the hills and woodland once again.
To find my peace.
My rucksack now packed with my hopes,
like Lambas bread.
A small cake of it
would feed a grown man for a day,
even with a hard march ahead.
I know there are many in my bag.
Enough to last a lifetime.
My water skin filled with laughter,
drinking deeply to quench my thirst.
I know the clear springs I find
will fill my bottle to the brim.
My dreams are worn about me,
as the finest cloth,
To give me warmth at night
and to hide me from my foe.
Their colour indiscernible,
neither grey nor green.
The soft Hithlain hangs about my shoulders
clasped with a broach of comfort.
I wear my friendships under my garments,
keeping them close to my heart.
As strong as Mithril.
And just as beautiful.
My map shows the way to happiness,
just over the horizon.
Away from this town.
The sun shines through the trees,
showing me the way.
The only thing I can trust is that it will rise in the east
and will set in the west.
Everything else will be met with caution.
A lesson well learned.
My heart is light,
my mind clear,
I know the way ahead will be led
only by my own footsteps.
Walking barefoot to the new lands that await me.
Running,
happy,
waving my map...
I'M GOING ON AN ADVENTURE!!!!
:O)
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 5:35 AM UTC
Rucksack – Duffle bag – Backpack
Packed
Note books – Journal books – Poetry books
Book books
Tin cans – Pots and pans
First aid – Survival kit
Complete with fishhooks, fishing line,
Lighter, matches
of the waterproof kind
Even a sewing kit
Equipped
With extra sewing needles,
black thread, safety pins,
Buttons,
Band-aids, gauze,
antiseptics,
Burn cream
Just in case
it's ever needed
Bucket hat Stuffed
down somewhere deep
A handkerchief –
bandana too
Flannels and sweater
For cool weather
Tennis shoes
For when hiking boots
Get too hot
A few days worth of food
Vegetarian – salmon jerky – chocolate protein bars
Sleeping bag rolled tightly
All slung heavily over my shoulder
“One fast move or I’m gone”
Kerouac once said
As he tried to run away from
Crashing waves of stardom
I just want to get away
From crashing city noise
And live life like a
Dharma ***
Nov 1, 2011
Nov 1, 2011 at 7:10 PM UTC
Panting again I rest
Only now I think of the day
Innocent gossip in D Block
Adventures of zip-up jackets
Covering a costume gold pendant
Looking at friends through my hair
A fringe that dominates and annoys
Stray eyebrows that linger between deep eyes
Mermaid kicks spray me
Keeping me company when I think
If I could go back I would
Somewhere away from damp air
Like Switzerland or Dalmatian Coasts
Away from denim dungarees on muddy hills
No more ground sheets in his rucksack
Just friends, my cold hands and uneven locks
Closed roads trap me, Typical council
Often fond of stationary cups and dusty hoovers
Just run, be proud to be there up and on
Along D.S Alley throwing my trainers into the boots bay
Avoiding the tainted Dene and his bravado remarks
Those too familiar faces you adapt to loathe
Not listening to banter just a shower and my herbal tea
Off to do revision is my excuse to wonder why I
Accept it and go on tomorrow's dawn is bright
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 2:35 AM UTC
the war they say is many centuries away,
different continental breakfast, different time warp zone
there is an ocean and a sea between...well, understanding and action
then they don't understand war,
they don't know what it is to fight a cause, except for personal gain
they hired people to do just that, the fighting part
as a matter of fact,
they cut them lose
with out a thought
that when the soldier came back, they brought
more back
with them than they could handle,
faces of strangers, places of danger, all you are glad is you day is done and a rucksack under your head, lives of friends and pieces left behind,
then why does it take a battle while some one on some Hill
rattles
a sabre, cutting what is approriate care for someone whose
mind is still there, war changes you, if it doesn't and you don't
adapt to fight a war...YOU DIE.
sadly though no one has learned
that it is burned, into your brain,
into the heart that earned
respect of peers and villagers,
well diggers, and such,
cattle drovers, but no one,
but no one knows, how to reset, refresh, return to the naive
state of mind where the past is blinded to your present life,
where the army sees you as broken out of policy, how words
on paper know people right to their guts, beats the crap out of me.
It is more than hugs and teddy bears
they need to know you sent them there
and you were not over on sandy ridges,
or I E D bridges, and culverts, patrolling
but hang onto them
to show you care, and will always be there when
they argue with a loved one, startle when others
make a loud noise, cry when every one else is laughing,
or just need a moment to collect their scattered thoughts.
I have never served, in a war zone,
I left the army many, many years ago,
I know now, I would have been changed, if it me returning as damaged goods
some may have thought my actions deranged
but all I would be trying to do is get the fresh air in to my lungs
and stop the tears as they stung my eyes, but there is no one to hold my hand.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 2:12 AM UTC