Boxes
On our first date he told me of
the box,
‘Pandora's Box',
would I have him open it or not?
Would I let him go that far?
Should we wait a while?
Would I let him lift the lid?
This kind of made me smile.
Boxes were his weapons
for such a life he'd led,
and to frighten little souls like mine
he'd wrapped a box to send.
What would I find within it,
what would its inners be?
Would I find some demons
or would I find a key?
So I thought on this a moment
and then I answered thus,
'If I asked you that question
would you hesitate or trust? '
With this he shrugged his shoulders,
he grinned and winked his eye.
'I'm not frightened of mere boxes
I dare you, do or die! '
So I told him 'Open it,
let its dust spill out.
for whatever lay beneath its lid
would edify, no doubt."
So he spilled out all its secrets
of pranks and devilry,
of worldliness and foolishness
like an artist's gallery.
I listened with wide eyes
to this colourful display
until the torrent ceased
and he put the box away.
Most people have their boxes
some large some very small
but the saddest people in the world
don't have a box at all.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Related quotes
I like your books
In the betting line the other
day
man behind me asked,
"are you Henry
Chinaski?"
"uh huh," I answered.
"I like your books," he went
on.
"thanks," I answered.
"who do you like in this
race?" he asked.
"uh uh," I answered.
"I like the 4 horse," he
told me.
I made my bet and went back
to my seat....
the next race I am standing in
line and here is this same man
standing behind me
again.
there are at least 50 lines at
the windows but
he has to find mine
again.
"I think this race favors the
closers," he said to the back of
my neck. "the track looks
heavy."
"listen," I said, not looking
around, "it's the kiss of death to
talk about horses at the
track..."
"what kind of rule is that?"
he asked. "God doesn't make
rules..."
I turned around and looked at him:
"maybe not, but I
do."
after the next race
I got in line, glanced behind
me:
he was not there:
lost another reader.
I lose 2 or 3 each
week.
fine.
let 'em go back to
Kafka.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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Diamonds In The Mine
The woman in blue, shes asking for revenge,
Man in white -- thats you -- says he has no friends.
The river is swollen up with rusty cans
And the trees are burning in your promised land.
And there are no letters in the mailbox,
And there are no grapes upon the vine,
And there are no chocolates in the boxes anymore,
And there are no diamonds in the mine.
Well, you tell me that your lover has a broken limb,
You say youre kind of restless now and its on account of him.
Well, I saw the man in question, it was just the other night,
He was eating up a lady where the lions and christians fight.
And there are no letters in the mailbox
And there are no grapes upon the vine,
And there are no chocolates in the boxes anymore,
And there are no diamonds in the mine.
(you tell them now)
Ah, there is no comfort in the covens of the witch,
Some very clever doctor went and sterilized the bitch,
And the only man of energy, yes the revolutions pride,
He trained a hundred women just to kill an unborn child.
And there are no letters in the mailbox,
Oh no, there are no, no grapes upon your vine,
And there are, there are no chocolates in your boxes anymore,
And there are no diamonds in your mine,
And there are no letters in the mailbox,
And there are no grapes upon the vine,
And there are no chocolates in your boxes anymore,
And there are no diamonds in your mine.
song performed by by Leonard Cohen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Only Within Their Reach
Many living inside their boxes,
Peek.
Not realizing dust collects,
Under their feet.
Or there is fresh air outside,
To breathe.
Although they believe,
The sky above them...
Is only within their reach.
And they from within their boxes...
Have the right to dictate,
How high others should fly...
At what height and pace.
And which dreams those they choose,
Are approved to seek.
As well as the ones they can also deny.
Although they secretly wish,
Their insecurities would free them...
To experience such ambitions.
But fearing many living inside their boxes,
Peek.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Life is like a box of crayons. Most people are the 8-color boxes, but what you're really looking for are the 64-color boxes with the sharpeners on the back. I fancy myself to be a 64-color box, though I've got a few missing.
quote by John Mayer
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Anything Good On The Telly?
I was happier with one channel
A long, long time ago...
To watch, record and plan all
The programmes it would show...
Along came 2 and 3 and 4
And then came number 5...
And after that, Sky brought us more,
For me and for the wife...
We then got Virgin Media,
With TV, Broadband, phone...
And then my wife got greedier,
So we took out a loan...
I got a brand new aerial
And climbed up on the roof...
I fell off and the wounds won't heal,
I also broke a tooth...
At last we're getting Freeview
And so we cancelled Sky...
We dropped Virgin Media, too...
And one whole month passed by...
September's retune wasn't good
For neighbours in our street...
Now no-one in the neighbourhood
Gets Freeview, once so sweet.
We've all been told we must upgrade
From boxes that went wrong...
And throw away the ones they made
That didn't work for long...
So off I went to try again
For bargains I could find...
Some boxes were beyond my ken
And put me in a bind...
December's retune's on its way...
God knows what happens next!
I think I'll wait till Christmas Day,
So I won't get perplexed!
I might return to Sky, who knows?
I'll have to wait and see...
I could get lucky, I suppose...
And win the lottery!
poem by Denis Martindale
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People have to talk about something just to keep their voice boxes in working order so they'll have good voice boxes in case there's ever anything really meaningful to say.
quote by Kurt Vonnegut
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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From the Diary of a Mimes
At my grandmothers house, you will see a hundred years of family portraits. We are a family of mimes. The portraits are of mimes.
You may ask why would someone wish to be a mime? For it is a limited existence beings that a mime s a simile of a single frame photograph. Look at the pictures at grandmothers house, do you feel the pain? This is my pain.
Becoming a mime.
I was six or seven years old. Grandmother and I were sitting in her living room, I had slept over at her house for a weekend while mom, dad and little brother tend to other things. Grandmother was in an odd mood today. She looked at her pictures and smiled some. And cried a little." I think its time you wore your mime face." She said. Today you will learn how to become a mime." So I said" Yes madman she proceeded to make up my face.
As she put on my makeup she started to cry. She cried for a long time. I was a little girl I started crying as well. I could not watch my grandmother cry without shedding tears of my own. So we sat and cried.
'Why are we crying' I asked? 'Well dear, sometimes life deals you a hard enough blow that even a mime will cry." I said 'Ok.'I was soon to find out what she meant. This is the day I learned a safe place for a heart to be. I learned that a person could freeze emotions and save them for future use. Yes place them in a jar, to be opened at an appropriate time. For that is what I do. You see I write a sad story, open a jar of tears and cry for a minute.
So after a good cry, grandmother took my hand and led me to the foyer wondered why I had to wear my mime face. Well grandmother had hers on, so I thought it must be a family thing, and I did not question. We sat under the foyer, was hot.New Orleans is a hot place at certain times of the year. There was no breeze, was still as could be. Nothing moved, except perhaps the webs a few lucky spiders, the ones who had prey to close in on.
'God bless mother nature, child. Its infinite wisdom, allows all creatures sustenance 'Uhh grandmother, that is a spider. Kill it, mom does.''No." She says, this is his house. If he were in mine, then I would kill him, but he lives here and kills insects.'
'You say he" I asked." How do you know it is a male spider? " She sighs." I do not know.' So I ask." Then why do you say it is a male? " It is taken for granted that any unknown sex is referred to as he. God is male." I answer" God could be a woman. I do not think anyone knows Gods sex grandmother. The world would be better if God was a female.''Perhaps so child." She answers, " Perhaps so.'
'Your father used to say that when he was your age. Always a philosophy with him." And her eye tiered up again. But I saw her turn to ice of a sudden. The tears dried. Then a long white car pulled up in the driveway, grandmother took my hand and we walked to the car. A man in a grey uniform opened the door and we sat inside. 'I will remember every detail of this day. For this is where my life changed.'
The car drove us to a big fancy building, it was full of mimes dressed in black. Even as a child I realized that something was wrong, so many mimes, all crying and made up in misery faces. I wondered why. They all parted as grandmother and I entered the building.
It was an odd place. Sad sounding music reminded me of harmonies of sorrow, organs and moans and tears. There were 3 pretty boxes in the center of the room. People were all around, most of them mimes, most were crying. 'Grand mother, what is in the boxes? 'I asked." Why do all the mimes look into them and cry? ''Never mind my child. Just be a mime.'
'Well if my daddy was here he would pick me up and I could see what was in the boxes." My grandmother looked down at me and started to cry, and the tears flowed." Brace yourself girl." She said. Then she picked me up. Eagerly I looked over the side of the box. In it was the reason I became a mime. I saw my fathers body made up to be a mime laying with his hands together as if he were praying. My brother and mother the same in other boxes. I knew they had passed away.
It was hard on a little girl, to have it etched into her mind.I kicked and screamed till grandmother set me on my feet. I ran out of the room and never spoke another word until this day.
I do not like this one much.
My Friend, The Parking Lot Attendant
—he's a dandy
—small moustache
—usually sucking on a cigar
he tends to lean into cars as he
transacts business
first time I met him, he said,
"hey! ya gonna make a
killin'?"
"maybe," I answered.
next meeting it was:
"hey, Ramrod! what's
happening?"
"very little," I told
him.
next time I had my girlfriend with me
and he just
grinned.
next time I was
alone.
"hey," he asked, "where's the young
chick?"
"I left her at home...."
"Bullshit! I'll bet she dumped
you!"
and the next time
he really leaned into the car:
"what's a guy like you doing driving a
BMW! I'll bet you inherited your
money, you didn't get this car with your
brains!"
"how'd you guess?" I
answered.
that was some weeks ago.
I haven't seen him lately.
feIlow like that, chances are he just moved on
to better
things.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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The Balance
After he had journeyed,
And his feet were sore,
And he was tired,
He came upon an orange grove
And he rested
And he lay in the cool,
And while he rested, he took to himself an orange and tasted it,
And it was good.
And he felt the earth to his spine,
And he asked, and he saw the tree above him, and the stars,
And the veins in the leaf,
And the light, and the balance.
And he saw magnificent perfection,
Whereon he thought of himself in balance,
And he knew he was.
Just open your eyes,
And realize, the way its always been.
Just open your mind
And you will find
The way its always been.
Just open your heart
And thats a start.
And he thought of those he angered,
For he was not a violent man,
And he thought of those he hurt
For he was not a cruel man
And he thought of those he frightened
For he was not an evil man,
And he understood.
He understood himself.
Upon this he saw that when he was of anger or knew hurt or felt fear,
It was because he was not understanding,
And he learned, compassion.
And with his eye of compassion.
He saw his enemies like unto himself,
And he learned love.
Then, he was answered.
Just open your eyes,
And realize, the way its always been.
Just open your mind
And you will find
The way its always been.
Just open your heart
And thats a start.
song performed by by Moody Blues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Moving
There’s confusion to find things,
to prepare the kitchen, the rooms
when the hallway and lounge,
the garage is standing full of boxes
and we are like nomads,
as if every thing is ready
for the next removal
while we find small treasures,
precisely plan how to arrange our house,
our new life.
poem by Gert Strydom
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A.d.d
She told me that she had A.D.D
I asked her what was one plus two, she said: "three"
I was so impressed that I asked her again
What was seven plus three, and she said: "ten"
I asked her more additions and she got them all correct
She was very intelligent by what I could detect
Then as I tried to talk to her more, but she got distracted
I then tried to get her attention then she overreacted
She then told me something that threw me for a shock
Her having A.D.D, wasn't what I had thought
She could add quickly and correctly which was true
But paying attention to others she could not do
She was easily distracted from the projects she was on
And also forgetful from the tasks she's undergone
She said she is sometimes forgetful from day to day
Then she looked at me and asked; "what did I say? "
I asked her some more questions and she never listened
So I spoke directly to her, and her eyes they glistened
She spoke to me, then she called me someone else's name
"And I don't like to follow instructions! " to me she did exclaim
"I won't finish my work or duties or chores and I never will"
"Only thing that helps me, if and when I take a small pill"
"I will avoid the things that will take a lot of mental strain"
"As this is who I am, and my thoughts and my brain"
Then I asked her what was one plus one and she said: "two"
She then looked at me and walked away, and said: "adieu."
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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Deploying Troops Of Truth
No matter what is said to them,
People will believe what they choose to believe.
And those creative with gossip skills,
Have networked their own reality system...
Into a comfortable safety zone!
There are generations of people,
Who have accepted their lives based on what they've heard.
Can you imagine not asking questions about your existence?
The moment I was told to be 'quiet' about something I had asked...
That was a signal to me!
Find out on my own.
To say I was a nosey little boy is an understatement.
I 'had' to satisfy my curiosity.
And If that curiosity of mine was not satisfied...
Somebody's nerves were guaranteed to be plucked.
There are generations of people,
Who have accepted their lives based on what they've heard.
Can you imagine not asking questions about your existence?
The moment I was told to be 'quiet' about something I had asked...
That was a signal to me!
Find out on my own.
And many people don't do that.
So many are programmed to believe what they are told.
And it is very easy to deceive someone like that.
It's a control factor that is enjoyed.
And that control factor has made attempts,
Deploying troops of truth into minds!
A success of this...
Does not appear to be victorious!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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[motor Of Thought Resident Boxes]
motor of thought resident boxes
think outside and collapse
highest concrete dust teeth
ridiculous hepatitis
ducting vitamin like
blue and black birds
hemopheliac twigged pole.
I count nineteen of them.
You count seventeen.
with the world's weight combined
to travel
to our nearest star.
it would still take millions of years.
And all the years
killing and counting,
addicting and loving our friends,
and following collapsed boxes.
poem by Aaron Eliad
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The Strangest Thing '97
Take my life
Time has been twisting the knife
I don't recognize people I care for
Take my dreams
Chldish and weak at the seams
Please don't analyse, please just be there for me
The things that I know nobody told me
The seeds that are sown they still control me
Chorus:
There's a liar in my head
There's a thief upon my bed
And the strangest thing is I cannot get my eyes open
Take my hand
Lead me to some peaceful land
That I cannot find inside my head
Wake me with your love
It's all I need
But in all this time still no one said
If I had not asked would you have told me?
If you call this love why don't you hold me?
(Repeat chorus)
Give me something I can hold
Give me something to believe in
I am frightened for my soul, please, please
Make love to me, send love through me, heal me with your crime
The only one who ever new me, we've waisted so much time
So much time
song performed by by George Michael
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Be yourself? Or act? Hide?
People are people,
Trees are trees,
Chairs are chairs,
Leaves are leaves,
Boxes are boxes,
Glasses are glasses,
Shops are shops,
Passers by are just passers,
People are the people they were born to be,
Whether that makes them “normal” or not,
Some people are totally care free,
Some people care an awful lot,
If someone is gay,
Then they are themselves,
If someone is lesbian,
Then they are themselves,
If someone is fat,
They are themselves,
If someone is thin,
They are themselves,
Some people act,
They act as other people,
They don’t want to be themselves,
They mustn’t be happy,
If you are who you are,
And receive grief,
They are only jealous,
If you are not who you are,
People look at you in pity,
They aren’t so jealous,
You can never win,
Do you be yourself?
Do you act?
Either way people judge wrong,
Is it them covering?
Is it them acting?
Are they themselves?
Or are they also hiding?
poem by Jodie Louise Pollock
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Trust Without Doubt
Though in their views on life and on people not many do share
Those who trust without doubt have a gift that is rare
Doubting Thomases like me you will find everywhere
There are millions if not billions in the big World out there
To trust without Doubt is a wonderful thing
And the praises of those with such a gift I feel obliged to sing
Far too many cynical people like me
Who even doubt what their eyes tell them they do see
People who trust without doubt one does not meet every day
They are an endangered species as some like to say
The Human World is a beautiful World in their eyes
Though many do see them as gullible and unwise
Still their's is a great gift those who trust without doubt
Though one may say of them there's not many about.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Riot Act, April 29, 1992
I'm going out and get something.
I don't know what.
I don't care.
Whatever's out there, I'm going to get it.
Look in those shop windows at boxes
and boxes of Reeboks and Nikes
to make me fly through the air
like Michael Jordan
like Magic.
While I'm up there, I see Spike Lee.
Looks like he's flying too
straight through the glass
that separates me
from the virtual reality
I watch everyday on TV.
I know the difference between
what it is and what it isn't.
Just because I can't touch it
doesn't mean it isn't real.
All I have to do is smash the screen,
reach in and take what I want.
Break out of prison.
South Central homey's newly risen
from the night of living dead,
but this time he lives,
he gets to give the zombies
a taste of their own medicine.
Open wide and let me in,
or else I'll set your world on fire,
but you pretend that you don't hear.
You haven't heard the word is coming down
like the hammer of the gun
of this black son, locked out of this big house,
while massa looks out the window and sees only smoke.
Massa doesn't see anything else,
not because he can't,
but because he won't.
He'd rather hear me talking about mo' money,
mo' honeys and gold chains
and see me carrying my favorite things
from looted stores
than admit that underneath my Raider's cap,
the aftermath is staring back
unblinking through the camera's lens,
courtesy of CNN,
my arms loaded with boxes of shoes
that I will sell at the swap meet
to make a few cents on the declining dollar.
And if I destroy myself
and my neighborhood
"ain't nobody's business, if I do,"
but the police are knocking hard
at my door
and before I can open it,
they break it down
and drag me in the yard.
They take me in to be processed and charged,
to await trial,
while Americans forget
the day the wealth finally trickled down
to the rest of us.
Little Boxes
Every time we move,
we pack our little things in boxes,
and some inside our mind.
These are the special things;
we do no want to leave behind.
The special things we have,
that spell out love there.
The precious things we own,
that hold so many memories there,
whether they be large or small.
The little boxes we pack,
we make them all secure,
and mark them handle with care.
For nothing can replace,
the precious things we have there.
(20 June 2007)
poem by David Harris
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Elegy to Imagination
It seems it was just yesterday
When a tree
Was not a tree
Trees were in fact
Giants
Was it really that long ago
When my daddy
Was not only a daddy
But a superhero
A knight in shining armor
And a horse, all in one day
And boxes
Oh how wonderful they were
They were cars
And houses and trains
And beds and so much more
But now,
A tree is a tree
My dad is a dad
And a box
Sadly
Is a box
Where hath this imagination gone?
When did it disappear?
I'm not completely sure
Somewhere between childhood
And the present
But I have a passport
Back to the imagination
Of my childhood
When it gets dark
And the walls close in
At least my jacket
Is not a jacket
For a split second
It is a monster
But after a split second
I run out of time
And I am back
To the reality
That jackets are jackets
And boxes are boxes
Oh, how i miss
When boxes were train
poem by Mollie Myers
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Someone You Should Know
Who do you think you are?
You're talking so loud
You bury the sound
Of your heart that's singing out
And where do you want to be?
On top of the world
But you're just a girl
Who forgot what it's like to dream
Leave everything behind
But you're so tired
One day you might open up your eyes and find
[Chorus]
What you've got isn't what you wanted
What you need just happens to be
What you've got isn't what you wanted
What you need just happens to be
Someone you should know
You try to hide between the lines
Of a story never told
But I've seen you run away
You're afraid of the fall
The weight of it all is too much
But you might change your mind
If you'd stand up one day
You might open up your eyes and find
[Chorus]
La da da da... [x5]
How do you keep it up?
It's all just a front
A dangerous stunt
You're gonna come down soon enough
Open up your eyes
Don't be scared
You might find you had it all the time
What you've got is what you wanted
What you need just happens to be
What you tried so hard to hide
It was there between the lines
Of the story never told
Of someone you should know
What you've got is what you wanted
What you need just happens to be
Someone you should know
What you've got is what you wanted
What you need just happens to be
Someone you should know
[repeat till fade]
song performed by by Lisa Loeb from Cake & Pie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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