Pure femininity glitters in a display
at the antique shop, faux and filigreed,
yet I’m entranced by each piece
of vintage confectionary, whimsical
crystal and lucite creations. Brooches
pin me down, shamelessly, with their
gilded swirls of former attachments.
A peacock preens one imperial feather,
bluish green, observed by a silver turtle
who winks its onyx eye. When the cameo
makes an appearance, somewhat shyly,
it seems to startle an out-leagued poodle
which still bark-les ever so becomingly.
Two butterflies compete for my appraisal,
shimmering in the low showcase, beside
a porcelain rose that clings to yellowed
lace. Under glass, the fanciful speak of
mad money, slipper chairs, suffragettes.
One unruffled owl refuses to tell who-who
wore the wreath of faded forget-me-nots or
the enamel heart a new beau once bought.
I look closer, almost count the tears, the
fine patina of women’s riddled years and
the remnants of love held by adornments.
Oh, I wish I could unclasp each sentiment,
free breastplate ornaments, now forlorn,
for all badges of honor should be worn.
Dedicated to Francine Roberts,
whose whimsical contest inspired this poem,
and who is, in every way, a true gem.
For those who are affectionados of vintage brooches (I would love to collect these. I'm totally smitten!) then you may enjoy this. Warning, this is a girlie thing in every way. :) It IS a guilty pleasure. Poke fun, if you must. LOL. Truth is I make fun of MYSELF for this obsession.