"sandbag" poems
there was a sparkle in her eyes
I saw it
I saw it
no one else paid her any attention
and only I noticed the apple cores of her hands
unfulfilled
starving
hysterical
barren
barred
so she resorted to magic
the crazy stuff of existence
like the wheat she stashed in her sandbag heart
and when it found her not
despair shook the earth
around her sorrowful body
permeating disillusion
confusion
immersion in nothingness nothingness nothing
lonely lonely
and bottle caps launched from her fingernails
from the spiraling stems of madness that rampaged through her bulging pulse
with piercing shards of nothingness nothingness nothing
splitting her glowing veins
and sweetening her ever-kind
clueless
knowledgeable
brain brain brain
and where was the world?
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 8:26 PM UTC
There are days of restless worrying,
And sleepless nights of fear.
Then are days of numb oblivion
With nights of terror-filled dreams.
Like relentless waves pounding
The weakened beachhead of the shore.
Like bloodied knuckles punching
The shredded remnants of a sandbag.
This, my cycle of the
Inevitable,
Unavoidable,
Inescapable,
Unpreventable
Stirring up of the
Indescribable,
Indefinable,
Inexpressible
Anger that resides deep within
My broken soul.
Yet no one knows.
I am a calm, placid lake.
A deep and dark lake
Sitting in the mouth of an active volcano.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC
The smell of oolong still speaks your name. In the tea and spice shop I drift among leaves and peppercorns, petals and sugar, I want to fade into the muted tones of flavorful hulls, curl into the scent of cinnamon and cardamom. Pulling down the iron goddess of mercy, I realize the veneer of curled baroque leaves rest on a sandbag. Shadowed abundance, a pretty lie, hollow, futile. Too much like us. The Cheshire glimmers of what we could have been. What I always wanted you to be, and what you sometimes were. A small edge, tiny supply to fill my cup, flavor fading too quickly. Replacing the jar, I realize there must have been a last day I named you mine. The last time I called you boyfriend, partner—by our last talk, it was already finished, the last note in a fading song, off tune. I cannot recall the shape of my lips, the weight of your name, the tenor of my voice, the bend of my tongue, much less the listener. I still hear you, through the broken measures of a desperate song. You say you still love me, but perhaps I never told you, dear, I prefer coffee to tea.
Sep 1, 2021
Sep 1, 2021 at 9:58 AM UTC
Naked, flaccid, wasted...
watching the Sunset
swallowed by a landfill
The machinery has since
fallen asleep
the insects have now
taken back the silence
My mind is bankrupt
I owe
more than I own
The hourglass is a sandbag
with a bayonet tear
leaking grains
My poems are parrots
on the shoulders
of greater influence
This poem is about drinking in a trailer by a landfill.
Dec 16, 2011
Dec 16, 2011 at 3:31 PM UTC
Here is what I am:
a survivor whose sun-soaked back tans
darker than her porcelain face;
trauma traps like wet concrete ‘round ankles,
dried shackles facing only shadows.
And a jackhammer would break the mold,
but not before shaking me up hard--
all crises stirred together, and my ribs
shrinking beneath sandbag weight,
breath heavy as blood’s penny-coin
odor; and I am suspended, head back
to face the rising light burning slurred
memories, blackened silhouettes, gone--
my face washed warm and
golden in the inevitable morning.
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 10:05 PM UTC
1. Every month when I have ***
It's like a hurricane ripped through my sanity
Tearing the curtains
Shattering the glass so I can barely see out the window
My perception of myself is distorted
I feel like a sandbag being carried through Arizona
Useless, purposeless
I lie in my bed staring up at the ceiling
My hormones are writhing, mixing, I lose my balance and teeter off the edge
Into the gulley below.
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 6:15 PM UTC
I am a turtle
And I don't much mind the darts of the adversary
I collect them after they bounce off this shell
Make Lincoln log homes out of them
And pretend that I live somewhere else and can come and go as I please
I'm not a 30 year old boy who sits in his mother's basement playing video games
But I don't feel that I've quite grown up yet
Don't feel that I've quite moved out yet
Why is that
Why is this sandbag heart sitting alone in a warehouse with nothing to safeguard, nothing to protect
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 3:08 PM UTC
at 11:47 your breathing
dropped slow
a sandbag underwater
drifting
I could hear the seaweed beneath your chest
my ear against the thin layer of skin
a raft protecting me from those
dark depths full of mystery
and angel fish
I couldn't imagine
diving
then we had that talk
the air was making my fingers stiff
I paced the sidewalk
and you were 20,000 leagues
under the sea
But I know there is a treasure chest
full of books
all hand written
by you
all that emotion, all those thoughts
they have to go somewhere
12:53
When you move to your side
I slide back to
land
my eyes filled with salt
from keeping them open
at your side
that's fine
I like blue
at night --I'm just the buoy
dipping and bobbing
in your arms
dreaming about the day
we can swim to shore and
ring out our shirts
and let the sun
brown our dried out skin
Feb 15, 2012
Feb 15, 2012 at 10:48 PM UTC
it was dark
the closet
small, too
i put the sandbag down
he did too
i tried to leave
when he grabbed me
wrapped his arms around me hard
pinning my arms to my sides
and i was frozen
all i could say was
“Boy, what are you doing”
(stupid, i know
but thoughts were frozen in my head)
and he
kept squeezing
like we were old friends
when i considered him a stranger
i was frozen
petrified
a thousand other synonyms all applied
_is he going to hurt me?_
he lifted me up slightly
and i said again
“what are you doing?”
that’s when
he slapped his hand on my mouth
said “you’re under arrest”
but then someone came in the room
and he let go of me and left
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 4:48 PM UTC
I once read a story about an ant
who set his mind to move a mountain.
An insect, a millimeter from jaw to legtip,
laboring against a mass of stone and
soil quadrillions of times his size.
But he worked
and worked
and worked
moving the bedrock one dram at a time,
year after year, season after season,
each trip melding into the next in an
endless march of mindless labor, until
where the mountain once stood,
a peaceful valley sank down. All because
of the labor of one very determined insect.
At the end of the fable, the writer tells us
never to give up, for what we choose
to work and persevere towards
will surely happen if we truly try.
As I read the story, I knew he was right.
Never give up.
Even if it takes a quadrillion trips,
1,000,000,000,000,000 trials,
before the mountain bows to you.
Even if your small, insectoid mind
cracks like a candy-cane under a sandbag,
even if you collapse and die after 6 decades
of exhaustion, millions more left to go.
Never give up.
Even if your task is impossible, and it
destroys your life, everything you love,
everything that makes your little ant-soul tick.
Never give up.
Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 1:12 PM UTC
Nineteen forty four: A broad shoulder silhouette in the milkwhite skyscape.
Winged coy mortality whispers lovewords to his temple
touches fire to his inner thigh and he
pushes her aside and says Maybe tomorrow,
I'm working late tonight.
And he is cold and american but he tells himself
He is Cold! and American! And even in the
sandbag eyelid opal gray morning when his skylegs shake
he is cold and American and his copper girl's
thrilling reproach cannot warm him red
until he unzips his vest and invites her in.
but in forty nine he is twenty seven and American. in forty nine, to be American is to have no skylegs.
but baby death writes him letters while jean marie in her cap-sleeves looks pretty at his side.
and he likes jean marie, he tells himself he likes her better. she is pretty and she is sturdy.
she can make love without leaving burn marks.
but he wears slippers and housecoats and he has no skylegs.
and jean's cap-sleeves show no skin. fire hurt to touch but at least she let him.
and so twenty seven and scared, he reads baby death's neat tiny scrawl
and feels her breath on his earlobe
and winged
coy
he falls to forty four
and flying
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 7:01 PM UTC
A CORPORAL'S DEFINITION OF POETRY
The perfect summer's day.
The sky a postcard blue.
Hate distorted voices...faces
chanting: "STICK IT IN HIS GUTS!"
A lark ascending
throws itself against the vault of Heaven.
Only to be
rejected.
"...MAKE IT HURT...TWIST IT ABOUT
**** THE FUC**ING *******
God has a sick sense
of humour to have
bayonet practice
on such a perfect day.
The world whirlpools
down the plug hole
of Corporal 'Orrible's
almighty mouth.
He hates me because I
(Pt. Dempsey D. No. 835572)
am not showing enough
hate to **** a sandbag.
Sweat trickles down my spine
vertebra by vertebra.
The sandbag ***** the blade in
and won't give it back again.
I pull it out and fall
upon my derrière.
The sandbag bleeds sand.
Mocks my efforts
which displaces the book
I have about my person.
"What's this...what's this!"
Corporal 'Orrible hisses.
"A book, Corporal!"
"I can ****** well see it's a book!"
"A poetry book, Corporal!
IN PARENTHESIS by David Jones."
"In...in...wotsis do you think I'm
thick or wot!"
"Wot, Corporal?"
"Don't you wot me sunny Jim!"
His spit
peppers my face.
"There isn't enough white space
around the words for it to be a poem!"
"That's not an accurate definition
of a poem, Corporal!"
He froths at the mouth
tears it in half...throws it over his shoulder.
"Why you impudent little pup!
*** that rifle up...up....up!"
He runs me around the training ground
three times and then three times.
Later I go back and find
only half of it.
The half I have already read.
A sheep is nibbling it.
But like the Corporal it isn't
to his taste.
Over 40 years go by and
here I am an ex-army man.
Finishing the second half of
Jones' IN PARENTHESIS.
Remembering all too well the hell of
running 'round the training ground
three times and then three times
with my rifle up above my head.
Oh the agony of bearing arms.
Remembering too never to argue
with a corporal's definition of
poetry during bayonet practice.
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 4:41 PM UTC
I'll take a rain check on saving for a rainy day
Spend all I got on getting wrecked and watch my vision sway
Problems for health it does outweigh
When I'm out I look like a ******** on display
On the bus I'll spew in ya handbag
With one hand down my trousers the other holding a glad rag
Spit some abuse at some mouthy dumb ****
When I'm drunk I'm harder to move than a wet sandbag
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 12:04 PM UTC
One half of a crying moon sat in the June sky
An uncertain state of silence that I hate
A swarm of red lights from some farm device
Blink fiercely with a hive like intensity
Miles of metal fences leaning lazily
Held together by sandbag security
Could have been knocked over by a summer breeze
Unplanted fields yearning to be tilled and seeded
Punctuated by bare bones buildings and
Stark steel structures pulsing with electricity
Armies of insect swarm the tall lamp lights
Highways become rocky roads
Rocky roads ride out into dirt paths
Then circle back to the gravel covered tracks
Becoming the grey running highways
Nature and industry the strongest cycle
The strangest and straightest signifiers
Of nature’s outliers we call humanity
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 3:05 PM UTC
I am uncertain about my distress
Why do I feel that way today ?
I wonder is it the desperation of missing you
causing my heart to feel like a weighty sandbag
or is it things to come underneath arising to the surface.
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
I'm happy with what you have to give me
Except on these days where the hormones in my head
Riot like they forgot about tomorrow
Then my organs sink
And not only my brain can think of you
My skin spells your name in goosebumps
And the curls in my head signify the S that starts your name
The word that's always on my tongue
That made up word
That made up name
That belongs to you and will always mean
This love that devastates me always
This fever that makes me sweat out all the questions
When my immune system can't [/catch up and make up/]give the answers
as fast as it all unravels and so a lie for comfort may slip out
From between my lips
from my wallowing throat
from my nauseous stomach
where the Crohn's says I have cancer
When the dehydration strangles me,
I will be less human than you ever were
Each grain, a connection, the sand leaves me an emptier sandbag
Just one in the wall of flood prevention
Protecting a city of quivering seamonkeys
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 2:34 PM UTC
Life is a lot like flying a hot air balloon
Fiery passion brings you high
but knowing when to throw out the sandbag
is probably a skill worth learning on its own.
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 12:43 AM UTC
in my dream i was loved by a stranger.
i woke up to a face blurred like a rare thick fog
but warm hands--their visceral rapture--
stayed heavy in my sandbag morning.
every word, every song, i felt the stranger.
indulging again in the evanescent memory:
supple nothings traced from lips.
their gentle parting in the name of desire.
i was loved.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC
Rain clouds hover in the night
veiling the crystal moon -
spraying steady showers
on the hills and plains below.
The Missouri stirs from slumber
spreading claws of water up its banks
as rain sheets, lashed to horizontal
saturate the fields and valleys.
Illumined by the misted moon
The river’s shoreline grows
by inches through the night -
stealing into ever higher ground.
Daybreak finds new ponds conjoined
and spilled across low lying roads
and TV teasers sound their alarms.
'Stay tuned, tape at 10: 00.'
Downpours to the west and north
saturate Mississippi valleys and
Saint Louis flood gates rumble closed.
Farmers abandon all hope for harvest.
Our screens chant nightmare litanies
of sandbag crews and second floor rescues,
crumbling levies and sunken vehicles -
a twisting farmhouse claimed for driftwood.
The clouds’ reservoirs at last are spent,
the inland sea recedes to lakes
and our weary cousins stumble home
as the Mississippi quietly relearns it banks.
March, 2008
This poem is a recollection of the great flood of 1993 but as it was written the rivers around St. Louis passed over flood stage and the city flood gates were closed. While protecting the city, the gates and levees ship the problem downstream where it intensifies the plight of small towns that are now under water. Continued rain in the Missouri and Mississippi watersheds could cause the current flood to rival that of 1993.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 12:44 AM UTC
They said these moments were fleeting.
The nights that seemed endless are already in the rear view. Heavy lids and sandbag limbs we made it through the days on fumes of caffeine and never ending love for you.
Lately, the middle of the night wake up calls have grown less frequent and I don’t mind them as much anymore, even in the haze of my exhaustion, candle burning at all ends, I relish the moments your tiny hands search my face for comfort, tugging at my hair like your favorite blanket as you slip back into the deepest sleep.
Mumbling incoherently until your sweet voice becomes steady breathing and you snuggle into me.
I know that someday I won’t be able to hold you like this anymore, I hope that you’ll still need me, but the reasons won’t be as simple, and my exhaustion will come from worry about a million other things you need and won’t voice.
That is the future, and I will handle it when it comes, but for now, I will absorb every second of this vulnerable nighttime ritual and try not to get frustrated by my lack of sleep and ever changing routine that is on your schedule.
I will capture every second I can on photo and video so that every so often, when I am ready to break, I can go back and reflect on how quickly this sand is passing through the glass, breathe deep and just enjoy this time with you.
Jul 9, 2023
Jul 9, 2023 at 8:01 AM UTC
Someone should drop a rock on me like a paperweight
At the bottom of a well
So I can decide if these words are worth keeping
What
Don't you feel like you might be blown off the desk sometimes, too
There are a lot of settings for the ceiling fans and even if they whistle some of them might not be as avid for your autograph as you'd think
Sometimes there isn't a difference between fan mail and hate mail
It's just people who are too tired to empty their souls into a pitcher and the paper makes a wall around their drooping sandbag hearts
And I forgive them
Because the well was dry long before anybody could refill it
I could very well end up in a wastebasket for my trouble
But I want to be worth remembering by my deeds not my name
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 12:49 AM UTC
Ugly brute voices whistle into your dog ears
You hear multiple voices; they entice you
You got dead dogs tied to your sandbag post
Let yourself mull over the boredom, you monster
Find a finger in your food; another in your eye
She gave you the worst cry for help that one
A head watery with waste; full of watery Xanax
Trouble in the fermented paradise of bliss
You resort to the excitement; whatever that is
To cope with the vapidity of everyday life
Foamed cigarette electrical trial and error heir / air
Air roar sky dome sky-by transfers pixel crust
Render the saint-est way of transformation from dysphoria
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 5:46 PM UTC
The barge slid on through the rushes,
Where once was a major road,
And pushed its way through the bushes
Where the ocean had overflowed,
The draught of the barge was shallow,
We could navigate by the shore,
Or over the swampy marshland to
The remains of the Foodland Store.
‘The place is probably empty,’
Said Rob, who sat at the prow,
Hugging the **** of the .22
That we’d need for protection now,
‘We’ll wait till the stroke of midnight,’
Said Penny, who managed the food,
And nobody thought to argue,
Or put the girl in a mood.
But then, as we rounded the Plaza
Another barge came in view,
‘That beast is called ‘The Marauder’,
Said Rob, who claimed that he knew.
Then lead slammed into our wooden prow
Their method for warning us off,
So Rob fired back with our .22
To show that we weren’t so soft.
But that was the end of the stand-off,
They’d loaded their barge and were gone,
Slipping away before ten o’clock
With the tide rising over the lawn.
‘We’d better get moving,’ our Penny said,
And headed off into the store,
There wasn’t much left on the shelves in there,
Some tins, but there wasn’t much more.
‘I never believed Global Warming,’
Said Rob, as he checked through his list,
‘Who would believe that the seas would rise
Or the end of the world be like this?’
‘It came on us suddenly,’ I replied,
‘Too sudden to sandbag the shore,
And everyone fled, unless they were dead,
Up into each mountain and tor.’
‘The cities are all under water,
The water is flooding the plain,
We’re lucky that Rob found this drifting barge,
It’s ***** but keeping us sane.’
‘We’re not going to last on the food we have,’
Said Penny, ‘we have to find more,’
‘We’ll chase that ‘Marauder’, it may come to ******
But they’d do the same, that’s for sure!’
It took us a week to catch their old barge,
They’d run out of fuel, were adrift,
And Rob shot the wretch who’d slept on his watch,
Their barge was half jammed in a ditch.
We transhipped the food while the tide was out,
And left with provisions to spare,
‘It’s a harsh, cruel world,’ we said to their girl,
As we sank their ‘Marauder’ right there.
Our lives will be fraught as we pass back and forth
On the waters that cover the towns,
We’ll have to go diving in Supermarts
For treasures of food that have drowned.
But other survivors are living afloat
Who will try to take over our barge,
The world of the future, a perilous sea,
While there are still others at large.
David Lewis Paget
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 12:44 AM UTC
In the flood canoe rescue,
Great Britain take the lead,
In the pilfering of houses,
We get gold for the greed,
In the skeleton were top,
As the food runs out to quick,
For children and the aged,
The poor and the sick,
Sandbag filling quickness,
We have that one to,
The army lads champion that,
The royals helped with a few,
Evacuation sprint,
Won by counties, five,
Death toll medal to follow,
When we see who's left alive,
Loss of homes and business,
Unmentionable amount,
Mental scars and sadness,
Impossible to count,
Top gold medal for Cameron,
For deserting the British clan,
And top gold for foreign aid,
Given by this man,
No takers for foreign help gold,
But the world can see our plight,
And yet we are the first to aid,
When other countries are in the *****
So well done rich safe government,
Your truly an all gold winner,
For the country that was fought for,
You watch as your land becomes thinner.
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 7:04 AM UTC