"satchel" poems
Rare,
a precious stone that I kept in my satchel.
It shed spectrum of colors once you hold it.
It's refined edges makes it strong and fierce.
My precious gem,
hears my silence and feels my heartaches.
We shared happiness and pain,
in the world no one can define.
Emerald Green, I handle you with care cause your the precious gift I received.
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 1:59 AM UTC
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@ @
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@ @ @ @ @ @
america, americultus, americate, dubiously **********
::: our gold-flecked bodies.
blackbirdian danceparty, i'll go.
washed-up beach bottles and all our feet amongst them curling time.
teens dream in orchid; they wait for stars and dark and los hombres of good dust.
they wait on eyes, and on embers, on belly belly.
jellyfish flashlight shrine.
we eat acid and strawberries and butter in the cemetery,
and feed foxes lizards face first :::
us lost ghouls on school-nights.
flash tag jazz, and yellow bicycles.
::: that hot eternal light.
that candy colored smoke don't smoke; go south on her body.
then thoughts form thoughts form action, form twangs all tuned to air.
& we, as notes, we notes harp like light
to dust.
our glistering hormonal thrusts beneath sheath of liquid love. her eyes,
with those multi-speckled strands
infinitesimally drunk :::
seed from my ****
pearled halo: smoke above my head.
::: waves and machines and weekends. filtered by the long ****
of existence.
boys wait in rooms of hotels for more drugs, and the girls bringing them.
like caterpillars on silky thin treadways,
with nothing but the flavor of our passions to ignite the way. we
exacerbate the boundaries of our intentions. we
curl under sheets, bending sheets of light and sound. we
flakey emaciated flakes. [sequence suffered time in motion] we
dirt. it’s what we are; dirt.
we are druggernauts, tasting ourselves along the iridescent brim.
::: we crawl up cross-glowing hillsides toward portals and faraway
bleep-blorps of hot god-head calibration.
we sticky-crackle go burn. [nature puzzles]
the brain shifts back; twenty-one grams they say the soul weighs.
they say things.
cherry blossom tree tips in the dark.
tele-portal surfing with an intergalactic pizza priest, and his satchel of secret sauce.
he heaves in the corner; rebirth :::
tendrils pulled tight, everybody **** chung…
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 3:44 PM UTC
Isabel met an enormous bear,
Isabel, Isabel, didn't care;
The bear was hungry, the bear was ravenous,
The bear's big mouth was cruel and cavernous.
The bear said, Isabel, glad to meet you,
How do, Isabel, now I'll eat you!
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry.
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She washed her hands and she straightened her hair up,
Then Isabel quietly ate the bear up.
Once in a night as black as pitch
Isabel met a wicked old witch.
the witch's face was cross and wrinkled,
The witch's gums with teeth were sprinkled.
** ** Isabel! the old witch crowed,
I'll turn you into an ugly toad!
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,
Isabel didn't scream or scurry,
She showed no rage and she showed no rancor,
But she turned the witch into milk and drank her.
Isabel met a hideous giant,
Isabel continued self reliant.
The giant was hairy, the giant was horrid,
He had one eye in the middle of his forhead.
Good morning, Isabel, the giant said,
I'll grind your bones to make my bread.
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She nibled the zwieback that she always fed off,
And when it was gone, she cut the giant's head off.
Isabel met a troublesome doctor,
He punched and he poked till he really shocked her.
The doctor's talk was of coughs and chills
And the doctor's satchel bulged with pills.
The doctor said unto Isabel,
Swallow this, it will make you well.
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She took those pills from the pill concocter,
And Isabel calmly cured the doctor.
6.6k
There was a girl and she tried and tried
She would try to fix your broken bones with the bandages in her satchel.
But you looked away and never paid attention.
She’d come to your rescue before you need her too, but you turned her away and sent her home.
She gained a voice in the back of her head, that told her all the lies she felt.
The lies felt like truth, so she listened to them.
She became abused and neglected, so she faded into the background.
She sharpened her knives and took havoc.
But she didn’t hurt you, no, instead she hurt herself because she loved to deeply and hurt so much.
She began to fade away, the scene became quieter and quieter.
You realized something was missing, when you were down and no one was around.
You didn’t know where she was, you didn’t know she was alone in her room, dark shadows around, feeling numb to the feeling while sadness overwhelmed her.
You needed her then and you need her now, but you pushed her away, and now she’s gone.
So you paid her a visit, hoping for a few sweet words and the sympathy stringing, but when you came inside you found her body beaten and bruised.
Because you weren’t there when she wanted you, you didn’t want her when you needed her, so she faded away permanently. Because the person she loved didn’t want or need her so she believed that was her fate.
Now she’s gone and there’s no coming back from this. You should’ve been there for her when she was alive and happy.
There was a girl and she tried and tried
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 5:25 PM UTC
Christina was standing
by the school gym
her satchel over
her shoulder
her hand gripping
the strap
her hair windswept
when she saw you coming
she smiled nervously
and said
I wondered
if you’d come this way
why?
you asked
she took your arm
and pulled you
into the gym
and let the door
close behind you
the gym was empty
there were voices
and the sound
of people passing
along the passageway
need to see you
she whispered
why?
you asked
I don’t see you
unless I stop you
in the school somewhere
or on the playing field
if the weather’s nice
you gazed
around the gym
at the apparatus
the ropes
the mats
she continued talking
her voice whispering
you looked at her
her eyes dark
and staring
why here?
you asked
we can be alone
for a while
she said
she took hold
of one of your hands
and looked at it
and rubbed her thumb
over the skin
you’re only 13
you said
you’re only 14
she replied
she placed your hand
to her cheek
we’re going to be late
for our next lessons
you said
so?
she replied
you sensed her lips
on your hand
her body moving
closer to you
then she kissed your cheek
then stood there
her mouth slightly open
thank you
you whispered
she smiled
and went out
the gym door
and along
the passageway
you stood gaping
at the ropes
and mats
and the high windows
and a blue sky
and heard voices
calling from the playground
from kids at play
just another moment
you mused
just another day.
Dec 12, 2012
Dec 12, 2012 at 3:41 AM UTC
No drips can sustain
An aching wake, unbearable pain
Under, above and inside
This won't stop, I can't hide
Human nature is never ******* natural
So I grab what I can fit in to my satchel
Run
Run from what I thought was new
An idea in the end misconstrewed
But what becomes of this so called revolution
Just another fascist
With the same solution
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 3:57 PM UTC
Oh cute little thing
I like your contour
you look pretty funny when you're cold
you get these lovely wrinkles
especially in the middle region
nearly dendritic
more like the cracks in the earth
and your satchel breathes on its own
like a brain if it had lungs for itself
but more like an amoebic celestial body squirming around in some primordial goop
I think that's pretty cool
you're a pink and brown mushroom emerging from a forest of black wiry moss
concentrated around you and
all growing in your direction
almost lifting you up and out
and then further away fading
the way the water gets clearer
above a sand bar
and then a great convergence
a crashing of two great waves
against each other
forming a wall of spindly tendrils
before the whirlpool
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 8:39 PM UTC
Who's that I hear?—It's me—Who?—Your heart
Hanging on by the thinnest thread
I lose all my strength, substance, and fluid
When I see you withdrawn this way all alone
Like a whipped cur sulking in the corner
Is it due to your mad hedonism?—
What's it to you?—I have to suffer for it—
Leave me alone—Why?—I'll think about it—
When will you do that?—When I've grown up—
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it—
What's your idea?—To be a good man—
You're thirty, for a mule that's a lifetime
You call that childhood?—No—Madness
Must have hold of you—By what, the halter?—
You don't know a thing—Yes I do—What?—Flies in milk
One's white, one's black, they're opposites—
That's all?—How can I say it better?
If that doesn't suit you I'll start over—
You're lost—Well I'll go down fighting—
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it—
I get the heartache, you the injury and pain
If you were just some poor crazy idiot
I'd be able to make excuses for you
You don't even care, all's one to you, foul or fair
Either your head's harder than a rock
Or you actually prefer misery to honor
Now what do you say to that?—
Once I'm dead I'll rise above it—
God, what comfort—What wise eloquence—
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it—
Why are you miserable?—Because of my miseries
When Saturn packed my satchel I think
He put in these troubles—That's mad
You're his lord and you talk like his slave
Look what Solomon wrote in his book
"A wise man" he says "has authority
Over the planets and their influence"—
I don't believe it, as they made me I'll be—
What are you saying?—Yes that's what I think—
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it—
Want to live?—God give me the strength—
It's necessary...—What is?—To feel remorse
Lots of reading—What kind?—Read for knowledge
Leave fools alone—I'll take your advice—
Or will you forget?—I've got it fixed in mind—
Now act before things go from bad to worse
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it.
3k
well then shepherd in the mess why does that sharpened cowl of wheat surround those sweet yams in the satchel, some scene of loosening transgressions, no pear ripening itself one dull, and one unfulfilling afternoon, rolls down over its branch of sister and brother father and mother Bartletts from the stem, only to make its way into the bottom of that stretched out tawny hide. Where by the wayside every other nobody can see straight inside when a hand moves in, sweeps its fist and then goes deeply down into that can of rotten novelties we all hate, but you feel keeps us in suspense. I wonder will it ever end? Bells busting from the insides of their guts, another candy shock, up and bounces, popcorn kernels, roasted almond slivers, and some preceding green vegetable posted on the 8th St. Diner marquee display on 9th, another advertisement fighting at the sore, devoured hunger for that silhouette following closely behind the moistened wells where my brush dabs lightly into the cup before the gouache and paint mixture begin to dry, that is where I wait and wonder why? Why? Pained with hunger but besmirched with fright, skin sweaty, knotted like muslin yards growing weak against the coil. So humbling were the groans that nearly a decade crossed swiftly across his face, only five or ten minutes had passed before another twenty years flowed into the vast matrix of the rivers of blue sweat marked by estuaries, creeks, and streams across the brow, down the cheeks, and ultimately across the neck, lazing down into the chest, before settling its heavy panic soaking in the guts. Where a heavy glass brick has been vitrifying in the sun, never have two people seen the steamy and piping-hot quarry go from its conviviality and festivity of life, into this shriveled up tree having found its way into the prairie where giant winds bend its branches and enormous thunderstorms nearly strangle it with its own roots. Frisked by sin and pangs of nostalgia in which a thousand thoughts intersplice the whorls imprinted upon our brains.
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 6:57 PM UTC
they packed a patchy satchel
with enough snacks
to feed a child army
of two,
trekked though
green-blue forest
spackled with firefly flecks
and second hand moss.
came to a resting spot
on the shores of Mirror Lake
the one place
picnic tables were not
and they ate
in the jagged reflection
of solemn pine trees
he mumbled 12 years of secrets
through a confession booth
of nougat
spat out the seeds
winced at black jelly beans
and she
rested on his knobby knees
sighing with the breeze
face upturned to catch
downward droplets of moonbeam
he was a half-formed pinecone
dangling in the quiet dark
she was some kind of meadow lark
whistling the dawn
no one forgot love after that
no one could remember
what lonely tasted like
anymore.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 4:39 PM UTC
The crisp blue moon sparkles your shimmering scales
As you laminate your woes
You carry the satchel of poingnant dreams around your waist
The Moon's light casts the dark shadow you sit in
Immediatley
You plop in the deep bubbly blue
Diving to unkown, unforeseen depths
Sensations of motions
Roll into the thickening emotions
The haze you drown into
Shines your mind
Leaks your spirit
Onto canvas, pens, and strings
Singing with the spirits
Humming to your sirens cue
Intuitively listening - ascending to your higher plane
While descending to heal inner suffering and release unspoken pain
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 10:50 PM UTC
I stepped out,
finally, a terrestrial in Istanbul.
My leveled shoulders carried
an empty satchel of undone buckles
To let every fresh sip of raw experience
tumble inside,
my adventures impatiently plucked
from the closest branch
of a banyan tree bearing
a crisscross of endless tales.
I rescued my lungs with air,
thick with resentment while
swallowing astringent flavored symphonies
and ballads of orchestrated ruckus as
women deflated their lungs
blowing out antipathy, through high pitched whistles -
A forgotten kettle blowing off steam.
Adorned in scorn, sardonic welcoming mats lined the airport.
Women pushed at their car horns as if the dragging sound,
like a severing saw can cut through
the tenacity of the ones with innate ear plugs.
They have become obsolete traffic signals -
First, their green light diminishes - like their wages
Then, their red light is dimmed -
it stops too many people in their footsteps.
And thus the world just races past them,
And they are left only with yellow -
Telling them to slow down.
They said it was an act of love.
That their plumped crimson lips,
Glossily complimented with nails
that matched the tails,
of the so-called mile high club
was just too much to handle.
Priming for work meant neglecting their love
for the perfect shade of watermelon lipstick,
No more sweet ketchup fingertips
Showing you the emergency exits. No more,
lipstick stained glasses
of a self made woman.
These cumulating lip kissed glasses
stack up like trophies,
that sway in the heavy panting
of the ones who can’t keep up with this generation.
So the women gracefully conducted the orchestra
and through lipstick stained whistles,
They tried to drown out the dogmatic policies
And with unrelenting strife,
they passed on some advide
stop shattering our liberties
And underminining our abilities for
Endless possibilities.
Because we are the ones
Who fly high and soar
And we will always
look fabulous
while doing it.
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 7:45 AM UTC
Wild geraniums collected
in pocket, red painted petal stains
my feet squish, squash in this forest
the earthy mud a mossy sponge
with fern and lichen the trees are hung
upon the ground greening with maidenhair fern
my satchel filled with dainty floral sprigs
in spring the sparrows gathering vine and twig
June's an efflorescent carpeting, soft with lady slippers
in summer the wildflowers and grasses wed
when celebrates all the flying things
wooded bees and butterflies in the sun
sparkling with faceted, glistening wings.
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 12:51 PM UTC
With satchel in his hand, he strode down the road,
The sun glinting against his eyes as it does with glass.
Up he crept to the cave of the monster, its rank abode,
And pulled the elixir from his satchel fast.
Trembling, his hands uncorked the bottle,
And released the liquid a'splashin onto the ground below;
The potion served to mottle,
The rock soon to blow.
He leapt from the cave entrance, down toward the road,
Away from the monster's ghastly abode,
And managed to escape sudden death,
As an explosion blasted from the cave's mouth like fiery breath.
The monster wailed loud as death strangled it,
A strange, bone-chilling, awful fit.
But like the cave, the monster was now dead,
And he could head back to his cabin to sleep in his bed.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 10:55 AM UTC
_As his feet moved even faster, and he twirled and whirled and cantered across the stage, it was as if he existed in an indeterminate space - blinded by the footlights, deafened by the orchestra, absorbed in his own rumbustious choreography. Beyond the pit, in the anonymous darkness, the audience rippled and flared appreciatively in response. So he danced on until, with a final rapturous gesture of his outstretched arms, he plunged to earth as dizzy as a snowflake. And waited.
The silence shifted. The soft rumble of engine noise played softly in the background, while the chain-link fence rattled in the squall which blew fresh off the harbour. He opened his eyes and watched the cars crawling across the overbridge above him; the empty basketball court littered with yesterday’s snack papers lay in shadow. In the middle distance, a familiar figure walked briskly towards him.
‘Matthew! Matthew! You come here this secon’ or I’ll whip your **** right off, already.’
‘Yes, Auntie.’
‘What you doin’ tryna waste good time?’
‘Nothin’, Auntie.’
‘Ain’t that the truth, boy.’
As he stooped to gather up his satchel, Matthew saw out of the corner of his eye the concertmaster lower his instrument, incline his head, and begin to tap his music stand with his bow. From the balconies the first of a thousand rose petals began to fall with the evening rain, the applause thundered while the lightning clapped, and there in the gods stood his mother waving and blowing kisses at him, as he followed his aunt down East Street towards home._
Sep 4, 2019
Sep 4, 2019 at 10:29 PM UTC
Embody the world!
Dream into creation!
Your touch will comfort like carpeted grass.
Your voice like the wind and streams of peace.
Your breathe like lemon grass herb, warm and sweet.
Your mind like the mountains and clouds of the wanderer.
This man walks with poncho, satchel and cane.
He claims no wisdom and wars over no land.
He saddles the wind and chants to the Gods of ever-last.
Trailing only is a smokey film produced by his pipe of eternal life.
Modest is the heart of a good man;
Keen are the eyes and consciousness.
A natural fortitude are the roots of a clean soul;
Spread are the arms of success upon a mountain.
Survey the landscapes of history,
The beautiful transforming of this world,
Divine in its nature!
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 9:00 PM UTC
Flipped in the oven sun, arched like a bow
They jumped one by one
As they found their own way through the thick foam
Of the falls of Shinn
Where the rushed and glided
Flying through the air
Like dolphins in the cool
Seas of Firth Of Forth;
Trying to find home
As the ice broke free.
Sitting on the cold rock
I feel the slime,
I feel my face burn with stinging
Coldness from the water spray
As I watch them leap
Into freedom.
I also escape...
Drinking my souvenir whiskies
From my 1970's
Led Zeppelin satchel.
Above me people snap shots with their flash
Cameras
As they rise like the sun.
Children laughing and feeling happy
Except one who wants to go home;
My brother who wants to watch TV!
Right next to him was the most beautifulest girl
I've ever seen.
Rainbows were in her auburn hair
Burning with autumn sun,
Blossoming with winter snow drops.
Her hair was like the river itself.
Her eyes were as green as the four leaf
Clover I held in my hand.
Maybe I was lucky to be in love.
Her eyes for that very second floated into mine
As she smiled
And I smiled back.
God how much I wanted to kiss her.
She was utterly beautiful.
But in that very instant she was gone
And I was never to see her again....
In the autumn light
Showering shadows
Were starting to collect crystals
In the melted waters below
And the gold is beginning to spread
Upon the leaping salmon.
©Jack Aylward
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 5:24 AM UTC
Can't sleep again.
Guilt in my head,
spinning, leaping,
autumn leaves,
bullfrogs and song lyrics.
Dice or bingo *****
which one comes up first?
Again, again,
remember to slow down,
and Olivar favorite parts.
When they were ours,
when we belonged.
log, sixty-six percent,
percentage of original,
original sin, seven sins, se7en,
Sin of Cortez,
tea, teaz me,
Olivar favorite parts.
Can't sleep again.
The Ones Who Walked Away From Omelas.
Salem, O.
Greyhound, stick-on roses,
cigarette smoke,
choke in my lungs,
stink on my clothes,
desperation in skinny jeans
and step-dads tranquilizers,
the open window beckons,
sleeping beauty, Rapunzel.
Tangled web,
Charlotte with 8 legs,
and a Durok below,
hounds howl, bellow, yodel
at the moon above,
desperate for a life long gone,
adventures never known.
Indiana Jones, satchel and lasso.
Or was it a whip?
Apr 15, 2012
Apr 15, 2012 at 3:14 AM UTC
Worn leaves in the shade of orange, yellow and red
Swaying in the warm autumn breeze
Dancing
Living
Laughing
At their misery.
The season was about to end,
and so were their rich colors.
The light streamed through the lush canopies,
painting an eerie scene
As the golden streaks
Of lovely bright lights
Were cast upon the hulking dark shadows
That held countless memories lost.
The shadows stood gloomy and calm
Not saying a single word
Yet holding a thousand words of another.
They let birds rest on them
Leaves blow past them
And the wind caress them.
They stood unloving
Solemn and dull.
A small innocent shadow
wearing a red candy coat
skipped to the edge
Of the large wrought-iron gate
and drew it open with a creak that echoed through the courtyard
As she took a small step forward
and hurried towards a stone.
Out of her leather satchel
she drew
Roses.
Of the purest color
A fair shade
That had a single drop of red
Cracking the beautiful glass
that was the clear smooth white
Her pale slender hands
Gave the fair flowers
To the stone
As if to say
*'I am wistful.
I am filled with innocent pain.
I shouldn't be here now
At this minute and at this hour,
So let's keep this a secret.'*
She stood and ran away
With a single cross
Watching her leave through the gate.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 3:25 AM UTC
On a busy day,
A floor unkept.
“What’s this woman doing?”
Said Mr. Baker Brett.
With no delay came she,
Hair running below her knees,
Cleant the place
And served him his morning tea.
The innocent kid
Stood in the aisle
With a face devoid of smiles
And fiery eyes.
The struggles of this woman,
He dare not say!
He made a fist.
When the clock struck eight,
He picked up his satchel
And looked at his sister play.
She received no formal education
And was to stay that way.
The struggles that she may face,
He dare not say!
He held his anger in,
And walked away.
Time will pass and
His beard will go grey.
To his curious daughter,
What will he say?
That she ought not
To get educated?
To be slave to an unknown man?
He contemplated.
Wild wild, rage. He must
Burst out today.
He shook off the bad dream
And so will they.
Apr 25, 2023
Apr 25, 2023 at 11:15 AM UTC
my father carries his grandmother's wisdom with him
like a satchel upon his back,
like a palm print;
his own father’s teachings tug like strings
and read like a map worn but never wrong —
one that transcends.
my father knows how to live for himself
for the sake of others.
a hidden art form —
secretive to his son
who only knows how to live for others
for the sake of himself.
i could ask him how he does it,
but he tells me first that i will live and learn and hurt and grow,
and so i know, instead, that i will come to know.
my father carries me in his arms as though i am still one day old,
as though i am still taking my first few tiny gasps of air from this great big world
(the world he built for me),
as though my eyes have not yet become accustomed to the light.
my father’s arms never tire and i know why.
they are satchel and palm print,
strings and map.
i am one day old and sure that my father has lived a thousand lifetimes.
he speaks in bloodlines, holds heritage in his hands and then brings it to his head when it whispers.
like a child holding a shell to his ear, listening to the ocean.
my father knows where to find right answers.
i could ask him how he does it,
but he is already answering.
he has always been answering.
(a.m.)
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 10:21 AM UTC
Uncle Sam sat down across from me and placed his satchel on the floor.
It was time to pay the piper; that is God’s immutable law.
I tapped my bony finger, impatient to begin.
“That will be fifty eight thousand, Sam, starting with Tonkin.”
From his satchel, that seemed bottomless, Sam produced the cash.
“Start counting!” I demanded, as I drooled over his stash.
He started pilling Franklins up on the table there between us.
Each “C” note meant one hundred dead Due to McNamara’s genius.
Fathers and sons had fallen; young men by the score.
Just think of the girls they never kissed; the children they never saw.
Uncle Sam doled out the bills until his thumbs were sore
When he finished I took out my Scythe and swept them on the floor.
I saw Sam’s look of horror at my eyeless, nose less face.
He had counted out a treasure that he knew he can't replace.
“It was a Pleasure doing business.” Oh, how I despised that man!
Still I was certain that we’d meet often,even after Vietnam.
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 8:02 AM UTC
'Hands off,' says the bag of cash to the robber.
Or, wishes it could have said,
Because it was an inanimate object,
While the robber was not.
The bag of cash was just a cotton satchel
While the robber was all flesh and blood.
'Where are you taking me?' the bag of cash silently wails.
It doesn't see the light of day
When the robber stuffs it into the trunk of his car.
Alone, the bag of cash occasionally jumps up in the darkness
As the robber's sidekick -- his car
Rushes him to an alien place.
'I have been forsaken,' the bag of cash mopes.
Once the robber takes it out,
The bag of cash will have to die.
It cannot imagine the horrifying thought
Of the robber slitting him open.
Its organs -- the wads of cash -- will all spill out in a puddle.
What did the bag of cash deserve
To meet with such terrible fate?
But the bag of cash hears a gunshot
Once, twice, and thrice.
And a flicker of hope lights up within it.
It sees the light of day again as the trunk opens
And, to its delight, sees the robber
Cuffed by the wrist and wearing a scowl.
'I can go home now,' thinks the bag of cash,
As the police officer takes it into his arms.
And once it's home, back in the vault
It can relay the frightening experience
To other bags of cash, bursting with paper bills and eagerness.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 6:48 PM UTC