"unpack" poems
Your body is a vacation, the perfect
spot to getaway.
Over the mound of your thigh the sun is
high & the fun has yet to begin.
I love how your skin feels between my hands.
How small you make everything around feel.
I apologize for putting you off for so long.
A year or two from now, I won't regret
how fast I packed my bag & left to
come visit.
A year or two from now, I'll tell everyone my favorite place to vacate.
How easy the language was to learn,
To bathe in the sun of your smile &
splash in the ocean of your body.
The weather is always perfect,
The adventures that await beneath your dress.
I apologize for putting you off for so
long.
A year or two from now, I'll still remember the smell of fresh peaches,
Served in thick nectar.
Compliments of being the perfect guest, the first to check in &
the last to leave.
Still viewing the sights, things that'll
last twenty years from now, without
hesitation or worry.
The only thing left to unpack is you
& Memories of you
Jul 3, 2021
Jul 3, 2021 at 12:02 AM UTC
On the Packing of Intersectionality: A Cross-Cultural Study
By M. Poncy Hector-Tworbst, B.A., M.Ed., Ph.D. Candidate
Unpack that intersectionality
And privilege transphile autonomy
Unite the paradigm’s hegemony
In the diaspora of agency
Cross-gender all peripherality
In post-colonial diversity
Dialogue augmented reality
And deconstruct avatar identity
All for the cause of authenticity
(But mostly I’m all about me, me, me)
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 3:39 PM UTC
Little smile
Written on a sheet of notebook paper
Guitar strings
Plucked by a boy who's midnight hair masks his true personality
Shy kid of 17
No visible emotions just strings
Guitar strings
You look at him with broken promises from past lovers tattooed to your pupils
While the only thing made permanent in his are music notes
And though those are there for you too
The cons outweigh the pros
An open mic night
Who could've guessed that what I was planning on as
"just another open mic"
might have turned into this
But things don't always go as planned
For me they almost never do
And while I usually try to view the glass as as full
More times than not things turn out the opposite way
Leaving me...
Half empty
So think of this poem as your warning
I know more than anyone that sometimes it may seem like my baggage is deemed too heavy to carry
And if it appears to be too much for you
Just do me a favor and let me know before I unpack into your space
Guitar strings caught my attention
Loose threads on the sweater of my unraveling attention span
Take a chance
Take the plunge
Let yourself fall into a new romance
Don't think
Just.. Do.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 1:52 PM UTC
I was having a nice Dream
when you shook me Awake.
The sky was bruised with no hint of Light.
You held one thin finger to your smiling lips-
Vacation was the only word whispered.
A day full of flying & driving we finally arrived
Grandma's and Grandpa's; Everyone was outside.
Met with pity-filled smiles
and red-rimmed eyes
steel-gripped hugs about crushed my spine.
Aunties, Uncles & Strangers were there.
You told me to go unpack my things.
*Mom, why did you pack me so many socks?
Vacation only lasts a handful of days.*
Realizations pulsed inside like a serpent had punctured my skin
Then filled me with disgusting truth.
Within a few moments
I'd been stripped & thrown
into a hole full of my most secret fears.
My hideous screams still ring in my ears.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 10:42 PM UTC
This Love Song seemed like a safe place to unpack my ****
But a safe place is where Lyrics go to die.
And this is Not a Song.
and it starts like this. all the time.
II
i fella sleep in a widdle boat and told a seagull that i was having a dream
about talking to seagulls and he was astonished to have the pleasure of meeting a boat
that had the good sense to plug the hole with a poet…. because they never wake up
and they do so with extreme prejudice. that simply screams Resident.
In Fact!
He’d never even seen a boat. So there’s THAT. I offered Seagull “ The Cool -Side of The Pillow. “
So I could sit upright for a moment and jot this down. He was like “ What’s a pillow? “
And I had no idea what it was that brushed against my legs
but It was There. then It was Gone. when i stopped using the metaphor.
I was treading a fathom
of pixie dust and transgender proto-gods, all cuddling in a huddle of metaphysics
as adorable as a radioactive abrupt
stop.
III
Ah yes… someone was cooking bacon… and bacon is sleep’s kryptonite. so the dream was a wrap.
and i had a bird’s nest woven from the silk of my discarded cocoon. codename: Chrysalis.
and my mouth was dry. a stubborn dry that follows a deluge of phantasmagoria
on a Futon that is a God to cat hair. My Futon is Oblique and Omnipotent.
Apparently.
Uber Mecca for Cat Hair. I fell asleep on that.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 7:59 PM UTC
she rides her mountain bike
in the sun
dreadlocks fluttering behind like streamers
shes all smiles
as we come to our spot by the river
this beautiful place called fiveashes
and unpack the picnic basket
the world itself is beautiful when i'm with her
time itself loves her essence
even the graffiti looks like love letters the world
has written for her alone
theres something darkly romantic
about the nights down by fiveashes
something about thouse long miles
flying by on nightbreeze
with her hand in mine
with her lips on mine
its like a valley safe from the worlds seein
a place where naked and free we can be just we
down by fiveashes
the backseat of our buick is on fire
with her passions
and the lust in my soul
and theres something darkly romantic
about the humid warm air and how her shirt clings to her **** skin
about the songbirds opening up the mysterious day
like a gift for the dreadlock girls that shine
she lay with me tangled in her afterwards
as we watch the stars and catch our breath
i taste her on my lips
i can taste her on my soul
like shes a sunrise
rapidly banishing my life's shadows
and breathing life itself into my heart
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
Early morning comes too soon.
Fish are biting by the moon.
Father and son make their way
Out of the house to meet the day.
The men of the house are outward bound
Seeking their fortune on the water sound.
Fishing poles and tackle boxes in hand
Off they go, to the dock to be manned.
Eyes gleaming bright, with the wind in his hair,
My son grins wide, and says, "Dad, Look There!"
Sure enough my son sees, fish to be caught,
Their trip is promising, will not be for naught.
His father smiles at the look from his son,
Saying, "Yes, son, you've found them, quite well done."
Bringing their boat to a stop they let glide,
Unpack their equiment, and come along side.
Taking their time and setting their hooks,
Plenty of fish here, judging by the looks.
There's sunfish and carp, some salmon and trout,
Walleye and crappie, and catfish so stout.
As the sun rises higher, they reel those fish in.
There's plenty of fish, with tail and fin.
The father and son are laughing together.
Can't believe their luck, or such perfect weather.
Returning home from a long day of fun,
They unload their catch and in they run.
Fish stories abound, They can't say enough,
The fish they missed, get bigger and rough.
I watch my two men, with quiet delight.
Enjoying the warmth, they create in my sight
Fishing is fun, fishing is great,
My men bonding, makes my heart elate.
Aug 28, 2010
Aug 28, 2010 at 11:30 AM UTC
My momma always said
"it's not how big the suitcase is, it's how much you're willing to carry",
and I carried your bag, with its patches
knowing inside was your ***** laundry, that you slowly aired over time.
Even your broken bits, and holed jeans became sacred to me-
the smell of you left after on my skin,
but, you never let me unpack the whole bag,
always kept a side compartment up your sleeve.
And my arm slowly became numb,
when I realized that I still held mine,
even though the clasp was broken-
bits of me strewn about, laid bare for you to see
Though you did help fold nicely,
you handed my pieces promptly back to me-
I wonder if some fibers stuck, some little bits of me,
like your neighbors dog's hair on your shirt
does my smell come back to you in a rush,
the feeling of our fingers brushing as I handed back your bag?
We are parting at the fork, both taking our separate things,
but are you giving up, or is this a temporary farewell,
before you fly through my door,
throw off your shoes,
set down your things,
and proclaim "sweetheart, have my bag, I'm here to stay!"
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC
learn your questions.
discern the myriad as One, and console your misery with service.
pour your fumes into the heart of mars; press pause when your gods
make you nervous. and when they don't exist, you whistle while you hurt...
as if
the Master Plan
had jokes.
but know this.
your cathedrals have killed people, and your faith was crushed -
whenever sincere. so i
bid you peace. a peace with
tranquil thoughts and night lemmings;
squealing
right over the Cliffnotes to Oblivion, in vapid terror and happy herds.
their little parachutes; cumbersome, with snapped threads to a forum, that unpack, once filled
with air and
parents .
you inherit
the edge of your vague notions.... that expand
upon dissent .
heretic tick
BOOM !
then make love, all day Wednesday
learn your questions. gain the gist
of your out-risible ignorance and invent the humor of "precise submission"
as humility will boast , enthroned above the kingdom of desire
aching hermetic in a mob. but knobs -
that turn, despite severed hands
turn Truth's *****
learn your throat.
hold only the notes to your music
to a golden standard !
Brandish your exile, like a rogue -
from it's sheath of Turin
[ and flash! ] it's blade of grasp
in Walt Whitman's
Verile Phase...
face your loved ones, but only
with the face
that got away.
return...
return unbridled and
unkempt. more windswept
than lost and found
haunted...
and remember
eat whatever
you **** well please
because
" **** Dr. Phil, Really ? "
Have you ever seen an anorexic
Buddha ?
and bought that one ?
if you have...
you might be
ascetic.
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 12:57 PM UTC
So many years ago, I packed away my childhood, each year was placed neatly in a box, labeled and sealed shut with packing tape. And I took those boxes full of memories; memories full of pain, fear, sadness, abuse…and I placed them in the far back corner of the attic of my mind. I made the boxes diminutive and negligible, they were nothing special and I tried to forget they were there. I did this so I could get through each day without the painful reminder of who I used to be, what I used to be, what he did to me. I did this so I could live.
I knew the boxes were there, and I would go into the attic and check on the boxes…just to make sure the packing tape that held all the contents, all the filth and the same, was still secure, that nothing I was unable to face could escape. At times the tape would peal back, allowing the contents of the boxes to peak through the cracks, and I could see things so horrible I would be physically sick. The contents in the boxes would taunt me, beg me to look inside, to admit that they existed, and I would have to hurry and close the door to resist them. I resisted the temptation so I could live. So I could protect myself, and those I loved, from who I used to be, what I used to be, what he did to me.
I knew that eventually I would have to unpack those boxes, and put them away, where they belonged. And at times I tried to do it – but the contents were so rotten, so ***** and shameful, I couldn’t put them out for anyone to see. And I denied that they belonged to me. I denied them so I could live. So I could protect myself, and those I loved, from who I used to be, what I used to be, what he did to me.
Panic grew inside of me as the pain leaked out of the aged boxes, pain that was always there, but like the sound of my own heart beating, I no longer noticed it. It just was. And then the pain became overwhelming, loud and intrusive, I could hear screaming and crying, and noises that did not sound human , an animal in pain, I thought. I closed my eyes and put my hands over my ears but the screaming didn’t stop. It would not stop. I could no longer deny them. I could no longer protect myself. I could no longer deny who I used to be, what I used to be, what he did to me.
Now, today, all these years later…these boxes that represent ME. And as I look around me, at the pain, and the shame, and the sadness, I not only see what these boxes held, I feel it…I hear it…I taste it…I breathe it. My vision is blurred from my tears…spilling over, some streaming down cheeks; others poised on the edges of my eyelashes, awaiting their turn to fall...right into the content of those boxes filled with my pain. Her pain. The pain of a little girl, abused and broken, unloved and unheard…
I can hear her screaming and crying. I can feel her pain…it is real. And I can feel it, and I can hear it, and I can taste it…I breathe it.
And I can no longer deny who I used to be, what I used to be, what he did to me.
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 10:57 PM UTC
I've got this bag on my back
and no where to unpack
Homeless
I've got this bag filled with problems webbed by my confusion of emotions
Homeless
begging on the streets for a notice
There's so many people walkin'
they help out often
But they never gave me a home to unpack
cause I got a troubling track
On my back
in my bag
No where to unpack
these emotions
cause I'm living homeless
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 6:35 PM UTC
i washed and folded my dreams
my threadbare memories
everything i had and i
carried them with me
it was all so much
lighter than i remember
there was so much more
i was
wearing nothing
but my name
i never needed anything else
it
used to keep me
so much warmer
than it does
now
i never knew how cold
we are
i remember
looking down at my concave palms
the ones i knew were mine and
they opened so deep i could gaze
into the blazing eyes of galaxies
–my galaxies–
every star charted and named
nurtured and
loved
so loved
now i
im not even sure my hands are mine
i know my eyes arent
i know they
cannot be so hollow
they cannot be so hollow
when i went to unpack
every color drained into the ground
and
everything was
ashes
i
touched
my cheekbones and under
the faint shadows of my paper fingertips
my body crumbled
to
d
u
s
t
Oct 3, 2019
Oct 3, 2019 at 1:59 PM UTC
Your body jerks as you heave yourself out of bed.
The clock reads 5am.
Your phone vibrates,
It’s here.
The countdown is over.
A few long hours,
And caffeinated up,
You arrive,
The sun dances on your skin.
Unpack, freshen up,
Then hit the streets.
You wander aimlessly,
And endlessly.
Eating, sleeping, drinking and waking,
Whenever your body clock requires.
The schedule has been stripped,
Your busy days gone.
You set the rules,
You make the decisions.
Want to people watch with a glass of wine,
Why not?
Want to wander and look at the buildings,
Why not?
Want to sleep in,
Why not?
It’s your trip,
Your story,
Your travels.
The only person you have to depend on is you.
Feb 15, 2021
Feb 15, 2021 at 4:26 PM UTC
He shakes the box she
gifts him, like a child,
or a fortune-teller, thinking
a divination will fall
out, to reveal the
insides, without opening.
But he is a child. He
gets tired of guessing and
moves on to the sofa,
to another toy. He treats
her like a gift – excitement,
disillusionment, the discovery
of things new. She packs and
leaves. The box unopened.
Wrapped in too many
layers for him to unwrap,
unpack. He didn’t think the
gift was the unpacking,
not the gift.
Aug 9, 2012
Aug 9, 2012 at 11:41 AM UTC
The train comes by every morning bout 5
I wish that train could find a cliff and collide
Before the demons with it arrive
Always, some poison they unpack
Wherever it came from, I wish it’d go back
That whistle blower must be the most vile of all
He probably blew whistles during the disaster in Bhopal
Sounding off as thousands of people died
Now I hear melodies of their killer pesticides
Echoing deep thru the hills, into the chemical valley
Here it continues adding death to it's tally
So rich men can be richer, they threaten a poor mans fate
Acting like life is worth less than methyl isocyanate
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 11:40 AM UTC
On Friday mornings
You can find me
At my local coffee shop
Reading, writing, understanding
Myself.
It is how I unpack
All the baggage from
This week's long journey
Along the Camino of life.
It is the dusty old bunk bed
I rest my body upon.
It is where I am free
To dream and dream again.
Here I understand my limits
And regain my strength.
Although I love the scenic overlooks
And the one I travel with,
I need this time.
I don't quite understand why,
But without this
Momentary solitude,
Everything I've ever wanted
Does not feel
Quite like
Everything I've ever wanted.
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 11:44 AM UTC
Hauling Jack I am called
My truck rely gets stalled
I drive a powerful 18 wheeler and being a sturdy trucker
I travel from coast to coast
My story is not much to boost
I drive for “GOT YOUR STACK TRUCKING COMPANY”
I am on my CB radio talking to Trucker Flipping Sal
We actually grew up together and he is my pal
I am cruising at 75
But when I am living, it is about staying alive
I got my eyes for highway Smoky
At times he will give me a wave
Then there’s other times I get a warning in behave
My job is pretty cut and dry
Driving helps pass the time away
I have seen a lot while driving these highways
I have seen Greyhound buses signal on by
There were steep hills my truck had to try
Then there were trucks with blown out tires and sometimes their brakes could fail
Being a trucker has no fancy tail
This trucker only wants to share the trail
It’s just a job and how a trucker prevails
Hauling Jack is a man who hauls a pack
Once to the final destination, it’s a matter to unpack then reload
Hauling Jack in highway knows, and it was illustrated in being the show.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 1:46 PM UTC
We unpack our hearts' words, unfolding our souls
We know what we are but not what we may be
We are the falling leaf in autumnal wind
'Tis season's shift that mists a souls' content
We are a glass full, brimming to be poured out,
Fear drives the self toward the drought of selfishness
We are song in crescendo, and silence in farewell
Yet courage oft' comes like a surprise snowfall
We are a wave rising up, only to descend upon the rocks
Bringing bitter remembrances of faded pasts
We exist in a paradox, whose key rests in the palm of Time
We know what we are, but not what we may be
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 1:23 AM UTC
Nothing
looks familiar
anymore and
I want to go home
but nowhere
feels like
it anymore.
When bluffs
get boring
I trade them
for fields.
When two
lakes aren’t enough
I leave for
a forest of them.
Maybe it’s true
that home isn’t
a place but
a feeling.
Maybe
home
is me.
But
what if
home isn’t
a feeling,
but a person.
Maybe
home
is You.
For now
I’ll have to
carry all that
makes a home
in my bones
until I find
someone I can
unpack into
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 12:38 AM UTC
We have a single nightstand
It is a good, solid nightstand
It has a lamp that gives just enough light
And the surface holds just enough things
We talk about having another nightstand
You know, so maybe we can expand
He agrees that, yes, maybe it'd be good to have another nightstand
We part thinking having a second nightstand is the plan
It'd be brighter
And there would be space to unpack more things
A single nightstand is good
But not enough for two people, it is unequal in the service it brings
I wait to hear his thoughts for the second nightstand
And I keep waiting, starting to question his intent;
But no, he knows. And besides, he said he wanted the second nightstand
And there was no reason to lie about how he felt
I think of reminding him about the second nightstand
You know, the one that would give us just enough room to expand
But turns out that wasn't actually his plan
And all he wanted was the one night stand.
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 12:03 PM UTC
when the world within me is loud -
constant cacophony, clanging, clashing -
I hastily throw pieces of my soul
into large, nondescript bags,
and I take a trip outside of myself
as my heart races and my legs shake.
but when the world is soft -
silent, somnolent, soothing -
I arrive home from the trip
and slowly unpack my bags.
I take deep, cleansing breaths
as I put my soul back together.
Dec 27, 2021
Dec 27, 2021 at 12:57 PM UTC
When you pack and unpack
And move into your dorm
What will you do
With the memories I tucked into your hand
With the hand I gave you to trust
With the smile that you always summon from me
With the words I made sure you heard
With the heart I've given you
Will you bring them with you
Or leave them for your brothers to pick through
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 10:03 PM UTC
walking on shards of glass whenever we interact
i am unnatural, nervous
usually feel so authentic and perfect
you mix my energy like a bartender
misrepresent my ability like my father
leading me to walk on shards of glass
sweeting the darker moments in the past
it is easier like that
it is easier to unpack
Jun 9, 2023
Jun 9, 2023 at 8:47 AM UTC
He is a man in fact , a factual man in fact
But in fact more than man, and more natural
He is a predator, sometimes ****** endeavourer
Jumping as a feather stead upon my weathered bed
Lead at the head but it's heavier
A best of a beast, in his chest at least
A lion's heart beats, and with mine at his feet
He is deadlier
Mane across his back, mainly manly, manly knack
And a pride to admire any crazy track
Mired by those paws or clawed back
Lion's share of the hair and a siren's glare
Its enough to ensnare any to come back
To lie in the den and unpack
A purr that can stir dwelling spell in gazelles
A roar that could ensure his reign is obtained on every plain
If called for
His face is made heeding, and bleeding the sun
His legs win a race never needed to be run
Already won
Prowl and it's done
If he who rides the tiger finds it difficult to dismount
Than he who rides the lion will feel him sure surmount
No doubt, for nobility is paramount
Alpha is better beyond count, couched in whim
And he reigns as King of the jungle I grew for him
King of all that's funnelled through to him
King of all that humbles me and truly sings
And so
Clearly success best rests in
Being a lioness, not left guessing lionless
A carnivorous, blitherous, tyrant's guest
In fact I am a woman, a natural woman in fact
And factually I am a woman intact
Yet in fact a woman distracted on a lion obsessed tract
Where a leonine mess is lacked
And a lion-like chests interact
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 2:43 PM UTC
i'm back at home
and you welcome me with open arms
"welcome home, we missed you!"
a warm embrace leads to a tender kiss
a night in bed, very well missed
a one day stay, leads to a week long stay
eventually, i pack my things, it's time to go
you stand in the doorway, holding the **** firmly
"you're not going anywhere, you BELONG here."
you're right, i do belong here.
i can't argue that.
i unpack my things, get cozy in bed.
you lay next to me, place your arm on my chest
everything wells up, the feelings set in
the familiar settings, the normal mindset.
darkness welcomes it's self around me
it's my second home, i can't argue.
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 5:27 PM UTC