The moon’s peaking tonight.
It’s June with her strawberry cheeks.
Not time for fright or flight.
Childlike brilliance of us antiques.
We look upon the past,
Shimmering diamonds in rough.
How long will our lives last?
So much blither-blather seems fluff.
(Hyperbolically, seen it all.)
Still, the strawberry moon excites.
(T.V. shows in the Fall.)
Life is full; so’s the moon, it’s light.
4 July 2024 8:24 AM
Visiting folks with well lived lives
It helps them remember and to thrive
They speak of events long time past
Of family and friends and history gone to fast
They point to pictures and old worn antiques
To them common place but to the younger unique
We look and listen as their stories unfold
We wonder and compare as our own hearts grow old
This was my dads and was used to sow seeds in his huge garden
Now gardens are small and just a hobby to keep our hearts strong and not hardened
This is my son we are so proud of him he comes to see us every now and then
With a far away stare they go on with there story of way back when
If you are so fortunate to visit such folks
Listen and learn and enjoy their jokes
When you are an antique put away and gathering dust
Maybe someone will come by and admire your life and lossen the rust
See dazzling bowls and vessels, pots of brass
Old copper kettles, cups of gold, and chiming clock
Porcelain statuettes, fake Tiffanies, stained glass
Oak storage towers, ivories of High Baroque
Stroll down the antiques on Sunday noon
I’m fascinated by the scarab sooty bronze
I lost my face inside the silver spoon
In tapestries of life, with nymphs and fauns
We’ve changed, in this abundance of disclosure
Now I’m a voluntary slave on remnant sale
That figurine of steadfast tin soldier
Ready to burn for nothing in your tale.
These are antiques the old lady said.
All of them?
She nodded.
Even these?
I held up a Fisher Price toy barn.
Especially that! She said.
I left feeling bewildered.
I had just held up my children’s favorite childhood toy.
Are my children also antiques?
And if they are antiques,
Where do I stand? What does this make me?
I got into my covered wagon and put a comforter over my head.
I dreamed I was hanging out with Darroll near the train station. We entered a prison cafeteria and ate lunch. Then we looked in a junk store and I found two really cool vintage iron tools which I gave Darroll for his rusty iron tool collection (which, in my dream, he had). At some point a big book shelf fell over. We did some other stuff and then it was time for him to go so he revved up his shoes, leaned forward, and sped away to the sound of a pair of tiny lawnmowers.
In the antique store
an old physician’s desk,
walnut and marble-topped,
holding the remnants of a life
of service;
stories etched in
wood, metal and stone.
Next to part of an old syringe,
a can of ether, half full;
it’s lid rusted shut
and a stethoscope
sporting the cracked rubber
tubing, of a bygone era.
A clock that once worked,
a necessity for any physician
or scientist;
it died at lunchtime.
A gilt-framed memoir
of time served abroad.
Life stories abound in old
antique shops;
shh...you can almost hear them
whispered tales,
ethereal remnants,
for the purchase.
2-12-2020
Enter the 'STRAND SELECT M,any form ,any theme' Poetry Contest
Brian Strand
Within halls that all but speak,
Sit elegant objects, very antique;
Treasured and valued bits of past,
Which care and devotion made last.
A museum crowded with sweet memory,
Like of dead, red robin's late beauty!
The glossy mirror gracing the wall,
At ruddy sunset, reflects them all.
A china doll; a royal wedding gown,
The king's rubied coronation crown.
The past is revived in so many ways,
And lingers through the golden days!
The austere portrait upon the wall,
Is frozen in eternity as time crawls,
As when someone seems lost in a dream,
When the night is awash in moonbeams!
There's Louis XIV and some Chippendale,
Period furnishings of beauteous detail.
The colorful past was created to last-
To make with pop culture, plum contrast!
I’m fascinated by antiques, things of yesterday.
I search in shops of every kind, near and far away.
I gaze into the windows at the priceless treasures there,
a china doll, a wagon, a cuddly teddy bear,
gently worn old toys that some child loved and kept
beside them in the dark of night to comfort as they slept.
There’s a trunk from someone’s attic,
where family heirlooms lay,
awaiting someone special to find them there someday.
There’s a hat box and a pair of gloves, a satin wedding gown,
high button shoes, a cameo, a quilt that’s filled with down,
an album filled with photographs, history in black and white,
a bible with it’s pages worn from reading every night.
There’s a china plate and tea cup that must have held a brew
flavored with some secrets from at least a friend or two.
There’s an old oak kitchen cupboard filled with granite ware,
and salt and pepper shakers, at least a dozen pair.
There’s an old wooden rocker where someone use to dream,
or piece a quilt together and sew each perfect seam.
I love to window shop and stop to take a peek
of treasures, old and rare, of anything antique!
In a store that sells antiques,
The past is much alive,
Including parts that we’d prefer
Did somehow not survive.
Some creepy dolls and ugly clothes
And jewelry I’d not wear
Forlornly grace the shelves without
Their one-time savoir faire.
But other items bring a smile
Or memory to bear –
A Popeye pin, some Beatles cards
And much Fiestaware.
Three typewriters with all their keys
Sit Royally encased
And lots of kitchen tools I wish
I never had replaced.
I troll the aisles quite aimlessly
For if you want the truth,
The only things I hope to find
Are traces of my youth.
collectible things
tweaks our brains
and pleasure it brings
its odd but still
the antiquing bug
got me to a thrill
Antiques Road Rage
A country joy ride changed in a moment
An ancient old car, (older than me), takes me on
A simple mission
To work on my English
The words didn’t come to address my anger
So I lifted my fossil like finger….at a gingerly pace….
Out the car window of my turtle-mobile
To communicate my feelings to a fool in the rear
Cutting me off, breaking the rules as he raced
And no signal!..... (What a disgrace!)
So I gave him mine
My middle finger…. (A friendly surprise)
He ranted and raged with colorful words
My car and I are obsolete antiques
No need to curse
We have our ways and know our worth
My parents would be horrified if I described them antique
With their laughter lines and wrinkles they really are unique
They are getting old now but are invaluable and precious to me
I dread to think when the day arrives - my parents I will never see
I watch the Antiques Roadshow and they give out a valuation
How can you put a value on parents – they are my one salvation
I am so lucky to still have them, they have had many years on this earth
Without the two of them there would never have been my birth
So cherish what is precious to you, it may not be worth a lot
But look after aged parents they are the only ones you’ve got
21st April 2014
Submitted to Black Eyed Susan’s
Antiques Free Poetry Contest
Romans and Greeks
Sound synonymous to antiques,
Symbols of Renaissance
Old yet fashionable,
Not bygone are the most valuable,
Classical stamps of the aeon,
Singing chronicles of yesteryears,
Resurging and Reawakening past,
Are the antiques!
Precious history coming alive,
Culture visible a priceless scribe,
Massive learning for the present,
Since what are known present today,
Will be memorable antiques of tomorrow !!
Written on 18/4/14
she used to have skills
at a telephone switchboard
today she is scared
of cell phones and computers
my mom is one sweet antique
writing poems by hand
and reading hard cover books
I know little of
the functions of a smart phone
I’m becoming my mother
The House is full of stuff my husband saves;
A pair of bentwood rockers, goose-neck armed.
His grandparents sat in these, discordant creaks
Punctuating arguments. No one sits there now.
There where they are we do not need the chairs
Nor the table with the wobbly center post.
The sewing machine, treddle run, would work
But belts and bobbins no longer can be found.
The old piano, a gift from grandma for a child
Who thought he’d learn to play. He never did,
The keys are out of tune, but the wood--
The curly maple keeps its seasoned glow.
A hundred other things that take up space
Flowered lamps, a bowl back mandalin.
Newer things would go there just as well,
We only keep them for the tales they tell.
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