There was a time, not very long ago, that I would always ask the same question. “How could I make this sound more poetic?” Then I would work on making that line or stanza, much more poetic. I was all about dressing a poem up to the point of over dressing beyond that which it would have said. When all it would have needed was a simple straight up statement.
Now I dont quiet remember when I last asked myself that question. Instead I ask myself: “What does this say to me” or “If I looked through a camera, what would I see?” Often a poem only needs a raw, down to earth, straight up comment or line”, rather than a polish up, overdessed stanza. This is where I was at when I began to consider cardboard boxes and Items, most would mark as useless and dump to trash. This is where today’s poem was born, from a thought and a few simple questions.
Poet’s Note:
Not everything we keep has an obvious purpose. Some things remain because they may be useful someday; others because they carry a memory, an idea, or a possibility not yet realised. Drawing on images of riverbanks, seedpods, boxes, jars, and everyday objects, this poem reflects on the quiet value of things that are not fully lost.
Glossary
Rudaí úsáideacha: (Roo-dee Oo – saw – dyah) ; Useful things, kept for their hidden or future value.
Ceangal (Kang – ul): Bond, thread, connection that links seperate pieces into a whole.
Nothing Fully Lost
Cardboard corners, crisp creases,
boxes stacked where shadows settle soft—
not clutter, but quiet promises:
space for what comes, what may be.
The Lee leaves driftwood along its banks,
holds hulls and husks in hidden nooks;
nothing lost, nothing fully left behind—
each piece waits for its own good use.
Wrappers folded, jars lined neat,
string coiled loose where I can reach—
what looks like mess to other eyes
is order shaped by what I foresee.
A button saved from some old shirt,
a scrap of wood, a length of wire—
small things that linger by the hand,
not for what they are,
but for what they may inspire.
Some pieces wait for years untouched,
their purpose quiet, undefined;
then one day fit the space exactly,
as though they knew it all the time.
Gorse holds its seed through wind and rain,
resting in place till meaning grows;
organised disorder, safe and sound—
a home for what the future may propose.
Rudaí úsáideacha—all have their place,
tied by ceangal, held in gentle trust;
the river does not rush to empty out—
it keeps, it carries, and makes meaning as it goes.
Copyright © 2026 Pat Fitzgerald
All Rights Reserved
This Poem in many ways grew from noticing how little separates “keeping things” from “making sense of things”. It draws on the landscape around Cork City – The Lee, gorse on the hills – and on what feels like “organized disorder, holding onto boxes, scraps or half-formed thoughts, “Just in case”. It also reflects how a mind that works in jumps, that fears closing doors too soon, or waits for meaning to appear, does not waste anything, it simply stores possibility. Nothing is truly Lost; it is only waiting for its right moment.
Thank you for joining me on this journey of writing and discovery. Poetry, for me, is a continuous learning process. A way of finding my own voice and writing style and exploring the beauty of words.
I also write from the heart and never with the intention to cause offence. However, if anything I write ever causes discomfort, please know it is never my purpose. I am only human and occasionally typos or small errors may slip through; I do my best to correct them as soon as they are found.
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Pat Fitzgerald
patman4u.com 