Boxes For All Reasons

Archive for the ‘Poems about Boxes’ Category

This wonderful poem about the treasures in a sewing box was written by Linda Winchell.  Ms. Winchell lives on a farm in a small town in Michigan.  She loves writing poetry and children’s books.  To see more of her poems, go to http://www.poemhunter.com/linda-winchell/

‘Grandma’s Sewing Box’
by Linda Winchell

Spools of thread and needles
Slipper cushions filled with pins
Some tipped with colored beads.
Grandma’s sewing box was filled
with everything she seemed to need.

She would sit and darn Grandpa’s stockings
Or maybe sew a button on a shirt or two.
She always seemed to know what color of thread to use
She always knew just what to do.

She would place a thimble on her finger
And with needle strung of colored thread.
She would push the needle very carefully in
What ever had needed, Grandma’s special mend.

I would rummage through Grandma’s sewing box
It was like a treasure chest she saved for me.
She would let me play with all the colored buttons
And tried to show me how to needle point
A butterfly and bunny scene.

She would take my little fingers
And thread my needle with thin pastel yarn.
I will always remember my Grandma’s sewing box
And the times, I would visit her on the farm.

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Emily Dickinson numbered her poems rather than giving them titles.  This poem was written in 1860.  Ebon means Ebony.

169
Emily Dickinson

In Ebon Box, when years have flown
To reverently peer,
Wiping away the velvet dust
Summers have sprinkled there!

To hold a letter to the light—
Grown Tawny now, with time—
To con the faded syllables
That quickened us like Wine!

Perhaps a Flower’s shrivelled check
Among its stores to find—
Plucked far away, some morning—
By gallant—mouldering hand!

A curl, perhaps, from foreheads
Our Constancy forgot—
Perhaps, an Antique trinket—
In vanished fashions set!

And then to lay them quiet back—
And go about its care—
As if the little Ebon Box
Were none of our affair!


This poem was apparently written by Lascelles Abercrombie, an early 20th Century British poet to whom I was introduced today.  He apparently wrote it in 1910.  BUT, Kendrew Lascelles apparently wrote the poem in the early 1970s and he did read it as his own on the Smothers Brothers show.  John Denver asked if he could record it on his album “Poems, Prayers and Promises” and Kendrew Lascelles gave him permission.

The Box by either Lascelles Abercrombie or Kendrew Lascelles

Once upon a time, in the land of Hush-A-Bye,
Around about the wondrous days of yore,
They came across a kind of box
Bound up with chains and locked with locks
And labeled “Kindly do not touch; it’s war.”
A decree was issued round about, and all with a flourish and a shout
And a gaily colored mascot tripping lightly on before.
Don’t fiddle with this deadly box,Or break the chains, or pick the locks.
And please don’t ever play about with war.
The children understood. Children happen to be good
And they were just as good around the time of yore.
They didn’t try to pick the locksOr break into that deadly box.
They never tried to play about with war.
Mommies didn’t either; sisters, aunts, grannies neither
‘Cause they were quiet, and sweet, and pretty
In those wondrous days of yore.
Well, very much the same as now,
And not the ones to blame somehow
For opening up that deadly box of war.
But someone did. Someone battered in the lid
And spilled the insides out across the floor.
A kind of bouncy, bumpy ball made up of guns and flags
And all the tears, and horror, and death that comes with war.
It bounced right out and went bashing all about,
Bumping into everything in store.And what was sad and most unfair
Was that it didn’t really seem to care
Much who it bumped, or why, or what, or for.
It bumped the children mainly. And I’ll tell you this quite plainly,
It bumps them every day and more, and more,
And leaves them dead, and burned, and dying
Thousands of them sick and crying.
‘Cause when it bumps, it’s really very sore.
Now there’s a way to stop the ball. It isn’t difficult at all.
All it takes is wisdom, and I’m absolutely sure
That we can get it back into the box,And bind the chains, and lock the locks.
But no one seems to want to save the children anymore.
Well, that’s the way it all appears, ’cause it’s been bouncing round
for years and years
In spite of all the wisdom wizzed since those wondrous days of yore
And the time they came across the box,
Bound up with chains and locked with locks,
And labeled “Kindly do not touch; it’s war.”


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