"strongbox" poems
I have a pack of letters,
I have a pack of memories.
I could cut out the eyes of both.
I could wear them like a patchwork apron.
I could stick them in the washer, the drier,
and maybe some of the pain would float off like dirt?
Perhaps down the disposal I could grind up the loss.
Besides -- what a bargain -- no expensive phone calls.
No lengthy trips on planes in the fog.
No manicky laughter or blessing from an odd-lot priest.
That priest is probably still floating on a fog pillow.
Blessing us. Blessing us.
Am I to bless the lost you,
sitting here with my clumsy soul?
Propaganda time is over.
I sit here on the spike of truth.
No one to hate except the slim fish of memory
that slides in and out of my brain.
No one to hate except the acute feel of my nightgown
brushing my body like a light that has gone out.
It recalls the kiss we invented, tongues like poems,
meeting, returning, inviting, causing a fever of need.
Laughter, maps, cassettes, touch singing its path -
all to be broken and laid away in a tight strongbox.
The monotonous dead clog me up and there is only
black done in black that oozes from the strongbox.
I must disembowel it and then set the heart, the legs,
of two who were one upon a large woodpile
and ignite, as I was once ignited, and let it whirl
into flame, reaching the sky
making it dangerous with its red.
2.3k
Dear dearly departed,
Dissolve unto darkness the swift thoughts of love you felt, my dear,
For I assure you they were misjudged and misled.
When you think of a face or voice such as mine,
Think of an empty abyss and mold such ideas no further.
I am grave to say this heart offers you no further jubilee.
Let not your life-stream be trapped in a strongbox,
Or forever descending on the never-ending downward elevator.
I apologize that what was once an equal melancholy,
Or perhaps even a twin prosperous endurance of suffering,
Is now a crippled husk of what once was.
I lament for my loss,
But for yours more.
I await your letter at once.
Sincerely,
William L. Levesque
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 10:46 AM UTC
As time passed, the story grew-
each year, a bit more grand-
That Nelson took that strongbox-
And hid it elsewhere on his land
Greed is one of the “seven sins”-
Everybody loses, and nobody wins-
But the “want” for gold is a mighty strong thirst-
So his kin set out for a “family search.”
At morning’s dawn, the kinfolk came-
To search for gold, fortune, and fame-
They came with shovels, spades, and hoes-
And some “TNT”, so the story goes.
With disregard for propriety,
they descended upon the property-
Without a map, without a plan-
They spread out to search his land.
Now, the rabbits and the coyotes,
and the gophers(one or two)-
Gathered on a little knoll,
To get a better view.
They knew what was bound to happen-
It was just a matter of time-
When the dew had disappeared,
And the morning sun had reached it’s prime.
To Be Continued
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 4:40 AM UTC
#i.
your prose ache for company, a set of romantic ideals long bound in a strongbox labeled socially discouraged. you dont understand why they want you to treat her like some flower when she is one of those old-growth firs who has a soul older than you have ever lived and who will still be standing long after you are gone. you do not see the sense in treating her like glass when she is a steel-forged blade.
ii.
even still, you suppose you are a hopeless romantic, only you wish the roles could be reversed. you are weaker than her by far, and the both of you know it, so why must the prince save the princess from the dragon? (my thoughts are dragons, you write in black, erasable ink. dragons and fire.) you think that if you were to face down a dragon, whether or not there is a princess to save, it would swallow you whole.
iii.
flowers and chocolate and love poems are all part of the stereotypical romantic cliche, but youve never received any yourself. you wonder if you even deserve any
iv.
but listen, listen, little whiteboard poet. she may be strong and she may be sharp and she may have depths you could never hope to search, but just like you trace temporary words when no one is around, ive seen the way she looks at you when you arent paying attention. worry not, scholarly prince, your warrior princess is coming.
h.f.m.
Jun 13, 2019
Jun 13, 2019 at 7:09 PM UTC
They dug a hole here, and dug over there-
The morning sun was getting hot-
and everywhere they looked –
Was for naught.
Now, it isn't very clear
as who said what, to who-
But it must have been insult'n-
to start that ballyhoo.
There was push'n and shove'n
and calling names galore!
Yell'n and cuss'n
using words you ain't heard before!
And that was just the men-folk-
the women got in it too-
screaming heard, from north to south-
Those words should never come from a ladies mouth.
Fists being swung, shovels slung!
dust was kicked up in a ball-
nothing could be more entertaining-
than watching a family free-for-all!
Then suddenly, it came to a stop !
as quick as it began-
They gathered up all their gear-
and departed Nelson's land.
This is where the story ends-
all I know is what I'm told,
From my daddy, for he'd been sitting,
atop that little knoll.
Epilogue
(This is how I would like to have it end)
Somewhere in the "high above"-
at a table, two people sat-
One, wearing suit and tie-
and Nelson, with his beard and hat.
"Nelson, a lot of folks have you to thank,
for bringing that strongbox to the bank-
you saved a lot of folks their homes and farms."
Nelson, from his chair, arose-
standing ***** and proud-
Stroked his beard, then tweaked his nose,
smiled, and faded into the clouds.
(thanks folks for your patience)
Copyright September 16-2013 Richard Riddle
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 7:13 AM UTC
In late 1888, a Wells Fargo stage
Was relieved of its freight-
A strongbox, taken from its hold,
held thousands of dollars in coins of gold.
The brigands had a master plan,
To bury that box,
sit, and wait-
Then dig it up at a later date.
They found a spot on rock-hard ground-
Where it would lie, safe and sound,
So they sank it in a three foot hole-
And hid that box with coins of gold.
But what they didn’t realize,
that in the distance, sat a pair of eyes-
That had watched the whole event unfold-
and watched, as they buried that chest of gold.
Late that night, under pale, lantern, light-
a shovel's blade split those rocks-
and the hole was relieved-
of that strongbox.
William Nelson Riddle, owned that property-
And he lived with a basic philosophy-
“Since it was found, on my ground-
I guess it belongs to me.”
“Nelson” died in ’28, at age of 85-
He never said what he did
With, or where, that chest was hid-
And the legend of Riddle’s gold came alive.
TO BE CONTINUED
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 4:25 AM UTC
Eyes: Stars. I can’t help but wish on them, holding my breath, standing on tiptoe, hoping. They promise so much.
Arms: Branches and vines. Reaching, wrapping, holding. You break what you let go of; you choke what you keep.
Legs: Thunder thighs and tree trunk calves. You frown like it’s a bad thing, but you’re strong; you’re steady, sure, solid. You are a forest and a storm.
Laugh: A flash of lightning. An instant of blinding, dazzling music in the midst of my storm.
Shoulderblades: Bookshelves. My head is a journal, thoughts spilling over. You are strong enough to bear even the heaviest of my words.
Tongue: A forest fire. I still have a second-degree burn from the first time you told me you loved me.
Hips: Hills. You are mountains and valleys, and I want to take a walk and get lost in you.
Feet: Anchors. They team up with gravity to keep you here. And so you stay.
Chest: A strongbox overflowing with treasure. Your heartbeat is the song your whole body sings, kept in time to your pulse, flowing through your veins.
Ribs: Boards on a ship. Weatherproof, waterproof. This means my tears (saltwater, too) will not ruin you when they fall onto you.
Hands: Morning glories with green-veined leaves. Opening, closing; beautiful every time.
Mind: A maze. You’re a puzzle I can’t solve and a line I cannot rhyme. You are never going to make sense, and I love that.
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 9:11 AM UTC
*** soaked letters go here and there
cooking curious conspiracies
Your charcoal lips command me
to get aboard the time machine
I close my eyes and comply
And instantly - Your arms are around me
Your heels help your lips up to my ears
Whispering things that sound heavenly
Then I pull you towards me
In dangerous territory
Maybe it was the whiskey
Could've been the psychedelic music
And the curtains drop
Over dark circles and cold sweats
As memories try to escape the strongbox
That we had swore to protect
I put the lid on the box of secrets;
Dawn arrives, as if to say that chapter's over
But your words still ring my ears
Would you've said them if you were sober?
Dec 30, 2019
Dec 30, 2019 at 4:19 PM UTC