"unpacking" poems
Ive always wanted to move on, and get going with my life...but it can be hard when, your packing your bags frantically, and someone is always right beside you, unpacking every little nick-kack. But, thats how it is when your addicted to living how I do. Drugs to cover the tears, ***** to show I have some sense of self worth, and friends who cant stay clean for too long, if at all. But what keeps me trying to pack my bags, is I know I can be more than just high on the sofa every afternoon watching adventure time. And instead get out there and have my own adventures.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 8:20 PM UTC
Darling,
Can you hold me?
When the night is cold
And nearby I hear a dog snarling
The streets dark and not letting my anxiety be
Can you hold me?
When the fire's burning bright
And the lighting is just right
Will you hold me close and tight?
When the room is full of boxes
And we're sly as foxes
Unpacking our lives together
Similar, like birds of a feather
Can you hold me?
When the day is long
And I sing you that love song
Can you hold me in your arms?
My safe place
Is seeing your face
Falling for all of your wonderful charms
While being in your arms.
- Jay M
January 15th, 2020
Jan 15, 2020
Jan 15, 2020 at 11:21 PM UTC
what makes you feel granted
manhandling my memories
stirring up my experience
diagnosing with no credentials
gaslighting feelings of fear
forcing to question what happened
mind entering a storm
chaos now runs free roam
flashbacks and dreams
dialogue and overwhelming voices
speaking over another
talking me into a box
leaving me there alone
he pulls the chain around it
and imprisons me with a lock
my teeth chatter when I’m anxious
body starts to shake
hands begin to clench
skin feels wave of heat
and I start to feel faint
stomach tells me I’m in danger
heart throbbing in concert with a clock
my face emotionless and stale
as I try to mask what puts me in more danger
of not feeling collected and vulnerable
trusted if I break a sweat they’ll see
make a sudden movement and touch
touch my soft skin marked with scars
I question which body part is next
as I sit in a freezing shock
that limits my movement
ability to think
and speak
as hands go and *****
I scream so loud
but nobody hears me
I am silent
lips unmoved
internal thoughts crying
there is so much to say
but I can’t get myself to speak
and I want those ***** hands off
but I can’t seem to move
body paralyzed
I start unpacking this to the darkness
never to be opened for my safety
throwing away the feelings
destroying what it felt like
is better than keeping it alive
so please
don’t touch me like that
Aug 2, 2020
Aug 2, 2020 at 3:35 AM 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
It was half past noon as Professor Lynch came barreling into the drive way in his hunt for the unknown. His actions so urgent he forgets to even close his car door. He sprints up his steps and swings the door open to his house and there it was.
Why was he is such a hurry? Well this goes back a little over a week prior when he had some guests over for the first time since he bought his new home. It was the day after he had finally unpacked the last box. This was a gathering to celebrate his new job as a History Professor at the University of California and his beautiful new home. The gathering was going as planned till he heard a strange noise coming from the basement.
The guests didn't hear this noise and continued having a great time as Lynch went downstairs to check it out. As he opened the back door he heard some things fall over as if an animal had skirmished to the noise of the door. As he continued down the stairs after this so called animal his heart about hit his stomach. He has a small door in his basement he figured was used for child’s play made by the family before him. So in his unpacking process he had left it alone. Well he could of sworn he seen the door **** to it turn. Too afraid to check it out on his own he ran upstairs. Trying not to embarrass himself he quickly ran up the stairs into the main room and continued the gathering as if nothing had happened.
Once the guests left he found himself sitting in his living room saying to himself “it was nothing, you’re just seeing things.” He talked himself into believing this because he hadn't slept much in a few days with all the unpacking trying to get ready for the new week. So he finally decided to go to bed and get some rest. It wasn't for another week till he had started to notice some strange occurrences. He came home from work that day and noticed his refrigerator was left open. Lynch however was uncertain on if it was him who left it open so he shrugged it off.
Another day had passed and again he came home from work and his refrigerator was open again. This now struck an uneasy feeling; he had made sure he closed it before work today. As he continued through his house with caution he had seen nothing unusual nor seen anything more out of place until he walked by the basement. He once again heard this skirmishing sound of what seemed like an animal trying to escape the basement. As he entered the basement the sound stopped. He was frightened but hadn't been threatened in any way, so he continued throughout his day although not in ease. He was uneasy about this happening a second time so he decided to come home early from work and see if he could catch whatever it was in action.
So at work the next day as he planned he left work early, about half past noon. “Professor Lynch came barreling into the drive way in his hunt for the unknown. His actions so urgent he forgets to even close his car door. He sprints up his steps and swings the door open to his house and there it was.” This was unlike anything he had ever seen before. Something so frightening, so terrifying his jaw hit the floor. Before Lynch could speak a word, he was snatched and drug into the basement through the little door he thought was used for “child’s play.”
-Joseph B Schneider
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 8:20 PM UTC
Darkness
as black as your eyelid,
poketricks of stars,
the yellow mouth,
the smell of a stranger,
dawn coming up,
dark blue,
no stars,
the smell of a love,
warmer now
as authenic as soap,
wave after wave
of lightness
and the birds in their chains
going mad with throat noises,
the birds in their tracks
yelling into their cheeks like clowns,
lighter, lighter,
the stars gone,
the trees appearing in their green hoods,
the house appearing across the way,
the road and its sad macadam,
the rock walls losing their cotton,
lighter, lighter,
letting the dog out and seeing
fog lift by her legs,
a gauze dance,
lighter, lighter,
yellow, blue at the tops of trees,
more God, more God everywhere,
lighter, lighter,
more world everywhere,
sheets bent back for people,
the strange heads of love
and breakfast,
that sacrament,
lighter, yellower,
like the yolk of eggs,
the flies gathering at the windowpane,
the dog inside whining for good
and the day commencing,
not to die, not to die,
as in the last day breaking,
a final day digesting itself,
lighter, lighter,
the endless colors,
the same old trees stepping toward me,
the rock unpacking its crevices,
breakfast like a dream
and the whole day to live through,
steadfast, deep, interior.
After the death,
after the black of black,
the lightness,-
not to die, not to die-
that God begot.
2.3k
Went for a cruise on the maiden ship Titanic,
A wonderful ship everyone said would be epic
I was not scared because it was unsinkable
To be in fear would for me be unthinkable
Wanted to sail far away to another land
Where my life, I think could be quite grand
Unpacking my suitcase in a luxurious liner
This is the one yacht that could not be finer.
Passengers enjoyed dinner, dancing, and other entertainments.
All the days of the trip they would enjoy the embellishments
I heard that people like Astor, Guggenheim Straus, Thayer and Gordon
Would be on this ship including Stead, Fulrelle, Gibson and Morgan
On April 14, 1912 I was that evening returning to my room
Walking down the corridor I heard a deafening boom
Went to find an RMS crew member
When I was told on deck to assemble
He handed me a life jacket just in case
And to get in the lifeboat because there was space
Passengers were lowered down by the crew
The first little boat had just a few
A man started quickly paddling our tiny boat
Once far away he stopped and we would just float
Everyone watched as we heard screaming, crying and yelling
Amongst the chaos we heard music and saw the flares flying
In the early hours of April 15, the ship’s lights flickered out and then went straight up vertical
We all heard the moans of the iron and watched it break in half and it sank uncontrollable
From quite a distance I saw an ocean of people
Out in the middle of the sea, no one felt hopeful
Soon there was no sound
As we all looked around
Shivering crying and wondering
If we are going to live or die pondering
published in the Crawfordsville, Indiana newspaper
Copyright 2013
All Rights Reserved
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 3:55 PM UTC
Arriving in a lonely dark room
In which my misery loom
Unpacking a suitcase of doubt
No windows nor any way out
I take off the coat that protects me
It was made of your laughter and glee
Now I settle atop of this bed
Supported by things that I dread
I took the path that lead me here
For love and joy was all that I fear
I will forever live in a room full of sad
When I ran away from the good that I had
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 12:39 PM UTC
Unpacking an old box I scrounged and found
a card for Mother's Day from my ex-wife,
professing love for mom that will abound
through time and space until the end of life.
Four years have passed--since first she filed divorce--
no card or letter, nor a seldom call.
A once abundant love could not be forced
to crease a smile, for it would now appall.
Why do I flinch once more and wonder how,
the love departs, which oaths swore never would?
Why they all say, "but things are different now,"
though hearts were sold as things that never could?
Amazing, how such endless loves quick end,
as flimsy tattered fabrics quickly rend.
(C)2014, Christos Rigakos
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC
Packing and unpacking
Everything you own and know,
Just to survive juggling three households in a week.
You come home to your own room,
Fall asleep on your own bed
Then wake up feeling like a stranger in a motel.
Wake up to get up to pack some more,
For another trip to who knows where.
All you know is that it's a balancing act;
This yoyo motion keeps you running somehow,
This is your life now.
What a struggle it is to keep sanity intact,
You bend over backwards to keep it all together.
As you look at your luggage
With ******* on a twist
And a pounding headache,
You think to yourself...what a glorious mess!
Where's permanence when you need it ******
Dec 19, 2011
Dec 19, 2011 at 11:46 AM UTC
Static of definite extinction, to whom are We allied?
If it is to Your noise, Your scatter and clean-up-later attitude,
then We are separatists.
If to Whatever, We are assuredly conspiring cohorts.
Do You claim to provide what We've needed all along,
but have simply been too short-sighted to know We've needed?
Or do You delineate? Do You define Us by unpacking Us,
thereby reconstructing Us into sections of a whole untarnished tool?
Machinery, if you will?
Take, for instance, television.
Do We need, or even want to watch?
Needlessly We need it. We want it for lack of choice,
or so We think. It is, simply, there.
Easily - and how easily We may never know - one may turn
to the body's offerings, or the plummets and peaks of the mind.
Sport, science, language, art, human, essential, vivid, now -
they are nearer than no one knows; practically graspable.
But Static, You move Us to wish.
You **** Us to think we must consummate Ourselves.
As We said, We are separatists.
Declare some vapid civil war.
Who, then, will provide your nothings?
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 8:58 PM UTC
every time I wake up without you
is another tiny heartbreak
but how many tiny heartbreaks
does it take to add up to one more
noticeable? how many lonely mornings can I...
unpacking my stuff/moving in
I'm leaving 3 drawers and part of the closet empty
so you have room for your stuff and I wonder
if I'll fill them after you leave
or if the space between my clothes
will be a reminder of your ghost
being busy is good. being busy
means less time to think about ...
I'm going to learn how to ride a bike.
I'm going to learn how to ride a bike.
I'm going to learn how to ride a bike.
I really like the way you look sitting in this bed
with the sunlight creeping through the window shades
and giving you tiger stripes
but you like couches better
"I can't wait-"
but you will.
You don't have a choice.
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 1:56 PM UTC
Gentle silence
has soaked
into the
thick walls
around me.
And
there is
blessedness
amongst
the boxes.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 9:34 PM UTC
“The sound that pours from the fingertips awakens clouds of cells far inside the body”
Robert Bly 1926-
You could say that the sound that tips deep cells are waking
heralds with bugles divine revolution
You could say that the sound that echoes from spirals
gossamers emeralds’ scintillant light
You could say that the sound that squishes from mangoes
is luscious and opulent tripping with pearls
You could say that the sound that slumbers in harp strings
howls round the polar bear’s tumaceous couch
You could say that the sound that tremors from tadpoles
triggers eruptions of undersea mountains
You could say that the sound that sits on the windowsill
on Arcturus flickers as icicle fire
You could say that the sound that bounces off drumskins
loosens the shackles of acuate cacti
You could say that the sound that shivers off rainbows
silkens red poppies at sunstrike unpacking
You could say that the sound that rumbles round moonrocks
passes on purple to stillness of shadows
You could say that the sound that echoes cicadas
crackles through canyons of memory rising
You could say that the sound that gallops through nightmares
shrinks in the face of the falcons glissade
You could say that the sound that is diatomaceous
tangles up synapses sparking at random
You could say that the sound of deep cells awakening
&n
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 4:57 AM UTC
It’s not about fitting it all into the car;
it’s about fitting the pieces together
against the agrestic trunk space.
It’s the way we hungrily wait
to spit up our influence It’s
the patient extraction of
a cat cornered conver
sation that is easier
to shove under
the innate rug
that is this
chaotic
l i f e
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 9:59 PM UTC
I spent my childhood in
Club Quarters hotels and 747s.
We were members of every hotel chain in existence.
I know my way around cities you've never seen before.
Cities you've never heard of before.
The Dallas/Fort Worth airport was my second home.
but I can
give you directions to anywhere in
New York City,
Redlands, California.
Marshall, Texas.
London, UK.
Yangon, Burma.
I am perpetually packing and
unpacking my trusty
suitcase.
I should have given it a name by now.
It's unsettling, spending weekends in the same place
that I spent my week.
Never running errands,
never rushing through airports,
never finding books to read on car rides.
never moving, never home
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
My English teacher always said let's unpack the meaning,
sometimes I really wanted to tell her **** off- maybe the person who wrote it wanted it to stay packaged nicely in it's box.
We write because we feel
or because we don't.
If the brook is running into the ocean, and the water is flowing fast
why does it need to be symbolic for the tears that flow through the current of our lives and empty us,
let it be a **** brook.
We write because we feel
or because we don't.
If the wallpaper is yellow, it's fading, it's flowers now appear to be dripping off the walls,
why does it need to be a metaphor for the rejection of a lover and the deterioration of a soul,
let it be a **** old house.
We write because we feel
or because we don't.
My English teacher always said let's unpack the meaning,
sometimes I really wanted to tell her **** off- because when I wrote my last piece
I let the pieces of me burst because I didn't want the world to see how I was feeling.
We write because we feel
until we don't.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 4:47 AM UTC
At 10:20pm on a Tuesday night
The number 14 bus is full
Bright, glistening, and fevered
These tired commuters expend vast energies
on wishing they lived here—so they’d be home by now.
Transients—the unhoused—talk in believable lies
About Portland’s oldest bridges
And salmon runs in the Willamette
And every time the bell signals a stop requested
Those of us remaining heave another sigh of delay.
At SE Cesar Chavez, which was 39th when I was growing up,
More people get off than on—
A man in a brutal cavity t-shirt,
A 30-something in a grey hoodie –
Both transferring, probably, to the line 75.
I get off around 47th,
Pass the long-closed and over-priced vintage furniture shop,
Cross the street at the fading crosswalk,
Pass a bar, a home cooking joint with and early bird special of $2.95,
Another bar, and a lonely busker playing guitar and singing Weezer.
In my building, on my floor, the hallway always smells like chicken
I’ve yet to cook, to even finish unpacking
But all of this already feels familiar
My first night’s commute home
And I am as practiced and nonchalant as a New Yorker in the City…
At least as much as a Portlander can be in Portland.
I’ll have wine, or tea,
Put on my lounging clothes
And settle into an evening alone
As if I’ve been doing this forever
As if we never were.
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 2:42 PM UTC
My little ghost baby Collin and I moved the other day.
We were in the car for about five hours.
Unfortunately he did not sleep.
He was going through boxes and singing loud songs.
He was excited though.
I had been sick,
I still am.
Collin had a stuffy nose last night.
I made him stay in bed all day,
And eat some ghost soup.
I did not start unpacking one thing until today.
All the basics are put away.
We don't have much.
We have a lot of spoons though.
Collin is making me read him this right now.
He wants me to tell you all that he likes spoons.
Silly silly baby.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 1:27 AM UTC
The crystal structures that shape
tears of Joy are not the same
as tears of Sorrow;
Peace glides gently through
veins of an uplifted Spirit, a corrected
perception! Virtuous
steps of shedding and unpacking,
ascending on ladders built from
everlasting arithmetics.
Driven consciously by the heart,
as the mind smiles and takes
a break from its usual dance.
No need for measure,
simply present within the
strands of silk,
strengthened by the agreement
to let it be.
Jul 21, 2016
Jul 21, 2016 at 8:50 AM UTC
Music pulls me into its arms,
made a bed for me in this sea of white noise
and for some reason,
it makes sense to sing about crying too
loud or unpacking suitcases or
open windows or
a spider’s web when you are as sad as I am.
It comes and it goes
as saltine waves or a heartbeat or drumming.
I wait for the day when I will become
a mermaid, able to breathe
underwater everything I have ever felt.
Tonight my body does not want to sleep, but
drown in a song of existence.
She floods my ears
through removing lesser known parts of me.
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 1:32 PM UTC
scarf hysteria friday,
thirteenth, even the spectators
joined in. unpacking the delivery.
polyester kept quiet with electrical
revery, silk excited us in with gentility.
it was the deepset , pleated, spotty,
adjective filled woollen slightly
felted, even reversable at such
a reasonable price, that sent us
over the edge. all was lost after that.
there are two ll s in woollen.
sbm.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 1:47 AM UTC
┈┏━╮╭━┈╭━-━-━--━╮
┈┃┏┗┛┓┃╭ⓞⓘⓝⓚ┃
┈╰┓▋▋┏╯╯╰━-━--━━╯
╭━┻╮╲┗━━━━╮╭╮┈
Fata Morgana !
Crunch the numbers and look at the data. I’m like:
Measurable outcomes for pleasurable incomes—
incorporate outsourced inhuman resources in-house. I’m like:
indicators for vindicators.
It’s all about the data, mama—
so man up, sit down, and move forward
like hard apps on software, like ram on a gigabyte. I’m all:
sit up, move down, man forward;
benchmarks as milestones, stone benches as mile-markers
measuring the change-talk: obstetric metrics
played out for pregnant pauses.
It’s about throwing out the carry-on
It’s about unpacking the lost luggage
It’s about documenting best practices of undressed actresses
until the data-driver fails the breathalyzer.
The data tells a story: memes of mastery cast in plastery.
DUCK the FATA (morgana) !
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 12:26 PM UTC
✿⊰✲⊱✿
A plain white sash across his chest;
with black trousers and matching boots.
"They look so happy together," Sarita
leans over to my ear, a smile in her
voice as everyone cheers.
"They really do." I say back. "Long
may they reign."
Hand in hand, Donna and Dean
descend down the steps as Paul
emerges from the crowds, the cheers
dying down.
✿⊰✲⊱✿
"Donna, Dean!" He embraces Dean like
a brother, and kisses Donna's hands.
He has a playful grin. "Welcome to
Luciuscemi!"
"Thank you for having us," Donna replies
as she looks around. "Oh my, you weren't
kidding when you said everyone was coming."
"We all have love for you. And we are all
thrilled about your marriage."
Donna turns to face everyone. "Thank you
all ever so for all your presents. Even now,
my men are still unpacking. To everyone
for wishing me and my family well, just know
I am greatly touched and humbled by all of
your support and kindness."
As she curtsies, we all cheer and return the
favour.
✿⊰✲⊱✿
I shyly approach her. "Queen Donna."
"Little Queen Lyn," she chuckles as we
embrace. "Ah! You look lovely!"
"Compared to you, I'm a plain Jane.
How long did it take to make a fine
dress?" I stroke my finger on the vibrant
embroidery on her skirts.
"Months. I'm just glad it was finished in
time for Paul's fine event. Same with
my love's jacket!"
I see Dean and Paul laughing together.
"By the way, thank you so much for the
rose-silks you sent me. And the crates of
wines and teas. You are quite the
connoisseur for your age. The book you
supplied me about each and every one
of those herbal teas is very impressive."
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 6:12 PM UTC
cover your walls with your poems in times new roman on printer paper and feel better about yourself, cause you can glance over and read that you are better than the lowest moments and the 12 donettes you just ate that you don't even like
and you can listen to really ******* sad country music and be okay with that because you are creating a ******* masterpiece of the words that made you feel worth something
you are the only one who can actually reassure you; you are the only one you can rely on, and you can't ever forget, you can't make homes out of people
because people don't come fully furnished and with a built-in security system, it takes a lot of work to finally fill every empty nook in another person, and sometimes your things are still in the boxes you packed them in months ago, but you always say you'll get around to unpacking it, you don't
you left those things in that cardboard because you ******* knew
you knew that you wouldn't get your security deposit back, you knew that it would be one less box you'd have to search for in a publix dumpster, but the worst part about that one less box is that it was a storage place for where you put yourself when you met her
and she left you in that corner, she didn't want you to fill her every nook and cranny, she didn't need your security system or your ******* poems on her walls, and she definitely didn't ******* need you, but you're better than the box she left you in, baby I am better than that ******* box you forever left me in
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 1:45 AM UTC