I remember my Jack-in-the Box
though it's dusty and dented now.
My one time true companion,
brings a magic to my brow.
As I recall yesterday,
with tears, and laughter, scare.
The warmth and wonder of my friend,
that now lies fallen there,
Brings forth the hours of times gone by
when we were once alone,
And I would crank the little box,
and he upon his throne,
Would suddenly appear to me,
as the music whirled about.
He'd rather unexpectedly,
from somewhere just pop out.
And no matter how I waited,
and knew he'd surely come,
Whenever he came before me,
I was startled toe to thumb,
Delighted yet, to see him,
my friend at last was here,
But always somewhat shaken,
by the way he did appear.
He both surprised and frightened me,
gave me joy and scare.
And for that very reason,
now, lies fallen there.

Surprise and fright most oft'
can't live together, not for long.
They put a strain upon the heart
and cease to bring a song.
For in a while they come to be
uncoupled and unkind.
They wear away at pleasures once,
that now disturb the mind.
For, fright's a thing that makes us weak
that makes us tremble, quake.
It has to be faced and reckoned with,
then forgotten, a mistake.

And little Jack was but of these,
for reasons I can't tell -
He, designed for childhood growth,
lay forsaken where he fell.
For he was youth and fantasy,
childhood dreams, a boy,
Little Jack was boxed in by,
the dimensions of a toy!

And so, as I grew older,
and left my toys behind,
I had to leave him sitting there,
in his box, closed, dented, blind.
Indeed, he was too much a youthful thing,
to grow, to come with me,
Left to be some treasured thought,
lost in my memory.

For the years they grow too many,
and age takes us away,
Further, further from those days,
when we were once to play.
And I could not stay with him,
for he would steal my soul.
He'd seal me in completely,
in a box, my life he stole.
For stagnancy cannot be,
nor can life be kept,
It has to be spent and turning,
like a willow has to've wept.

Yet, I know for certain,
as I know of dusk and dark;
that though the days have passed us o'er,
my Jackie's left his mark.
Although he sits there silent, now,
closed, alone, and still,
He, to this day, still frightens me,
I guess he always will.

October 19, 1970
By Linda A. Copp ©