Scooby Doo Lunch Box
My father was a steamer trunk,
my mother a valise;
and I was born a duffel bag
my mother back-packed about,
fed me fat on shoestrings
and white wine with soles.
My grandfather a garment bag,
Granny a bargello
carpet bag from the Civil War;
They were at rest beneath
a Pullman suitcase stone
with their names inscribed.
I met a cosmetic case,
so hard, so fast, so zip!
shiny as unbroken mirrors;
she had a silver lining
and a special treatment
to make her spill resistant!
I played loose and free
with a black portfolio
whose locking envelope flap
she'd open only for my curiosity;
and then she'd say do not
write that check you cannot cash!
I wanted to be a club bag,
so louche, so beat, so hip;
I sang McCarthy's Mare and bade
McCue to stop the wilfull horse -
my heart was spinning like a top-
and the devil in wheels behind!
I ended up an appartchik
briefcase full of pulp
and papers better left unread.
I'm folded in half and fastened, then
unfastened - ouch! my velcro eyes!
velcro lusts! and all my velcro members!
My God is a matreyushka doll
layered inside itself;
an enigma wrapped like mystic teas
in tins from Cathay's labyrinths;
a puzzle carried in a humble hod
all the way from old county Kerry.
Quickly, quickly, Oh! to be
a faience colored thimble
upon the prick of noon! Not too late,
not too early...it's time for lunch,
and peanut butter and J. on bread
from my lunchbox with pix of Scooby-Doo!
notes:
I woke up this way. So I wrote it all down.
Maybe it related to the tea parties of the clamorous hordes.
Maybe not.
7 comments:
ohhh.
This is so packed. All the container language is satisfying, overflowingly.
I just posted this morning about my mother's sewing box. Must be containers in the atmosphere.
Last two stanzas: mmmmmmm.
This is a treasure. That first line is a marvelous first line. I almost want it to stand without the title - or be the title. Then "my mother a valise" the first line. The poem doesn't deserve this title. Or how about just "this end up"?
I meant the poem is too good for the title. :)
Back to say this is really brilliant. Won't you please submit it, maybe to The Sun?
You're quite right about the title: it is atrocious. I don't know what I was thinking of.
Thank you for your support.
I think I shall submit these now. I always start out the week thinking I have nothing to write about, then bingo.
They're all a little rough - one a week means you push them through, ready or not - but with a little work, they'll be ready.
Thanks for the link.
I'm also getting some short stories ready for submittal. I feel good about them.
I like the sound of it: I feel good about them. It's great to feel good about things.
Hear, Hear!
Ah, so glad you'll submit. We need your work in print.
And good for you writing short stories. So much harder than poems in some ways. I started one and got part way, then daunted by the task.
I would love to read them if you ever want to share.
As for starting out thinking there's nothing, then wham. I guess it's the finding of it inside that is the important thing. Then it can be damn hard to get it down. But when the images and language are this rich, it's like you can't lose.
Oh, and I love love the cosmetic case stanza too.
Yes, the cosmetic case and the portfolio were funny and erotic in a sense, and they sort of jumpoed up and wrote themselves - so to speak.
It's like: once we started down that road, all kinds of things popped up and said "Me, too!"
I do have a short story, The Lady From Tunisia, on this blog. I put it on so that my dentist - old Doc Hickerson - could easily read it.
I placed it right at the very beginning, so it would not be visible unless someone knew where it was. You'd have to scroll down to the very first posting.
There are some things I still don't like about it, but it's ok. I could not write for the longest time until I just let my writing self be myself.
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