Best Antique Poems
Your love shown like an antique bloodstain on the dress of our decay.
You pushed your hand through
the over grown garden to crush the final living rose.
Blood seeped from your pores.
We held hands on our last night on earth.
We dance on the graves of loved ones lost.
And we kissed under the trees
and under the sky.
We sold our souls to the vampire in our dreams.
We sung about broken hearts and lost souls as we cried.
We were never meant to be.
You can take these tears.
Watch the blood drenched TV screen flicker with anticipation.
Dancing in our sorrow.
And singing in unrivaled beauty.
Get off of our roads!
You're obsolete, an antique
Go back to Nineteen-fifty
You're blocking traffic!
What's that? Ha ha. You said that
-- You're a symbol of gridlock?
Image # 4
July 08, 2019
Fives and Sevens Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Joseph May
I took my periodic stroll through the local antique store today.
I stumbled over things and stepped 'round clutter to make my way.
I looked for clocks, found none, but saw many things I could do without,
And those are the things that I propose to tell you all about.
There was an old buggy wheel - I could see no use for that.
I saw horse collars, washboards and someone's stuffed Angora cat.
On the wall was a photo of a Victorian guy glaring back at me.
Also displayed was a chamber pot and a scraggly Christmas tree!
What use have I for a manure fork or hubcaps for a '47 Dodge,
Or a shaggy buffalo robe or shriveled scalps from an Indian lodge?
Displayed were coffee grinders and old Prince Albert tobacco cans,
A portrait of Napoleon and a hood ornament for a '37 Mercedes Benz!
Hanging on a clothes rack was an old soldier's moth-eaten uniform.
I have no need for a hornet's nest that once held and angry swarm.
Though I found many things I could do without, not so my spouse!
She bought a cart full of gimcracks and trumpery to clutter up the house!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
First Place in Black Eyed Susan's "Antique" Contest - May 2014
A summer Saturday night brings them all out grates shining
spit polished chrome, driven by bald men with pates shining.
Candy apple red antique corvettes with white wall tires
soft topped convertibles from Isadora Duncan's estate shining.
Well preserved women with beehive hair in leather bucket seats
go out for a ride with their Romeo's down the interstate shining.
Elvis dreamed of bee bop queens escorted round the scene
down, down town in La La land on the silver screen shining.
So put on your pedal pushers, grab a bottled Coke Classic
tie a scarf in your ponytail and dress like jail bait shining.
Cause it Saturday night at the antique car show and "YO!
and I wanta conjugate on that bumper's silver plate shining.
The small antique shop beckons to me as if calling my name
I hurry to enter with great anticipation
The chime above the door provides an eerie greeting
The store is aglow with articles of times past
I pass from aisle to aisle my eyes darting from relic to relic
I see high top shoes with white laces
I see brushes and combs with pearl handles
I see pictures in boxes of families in fine clothes
I see a doll in the corner eyes staring blankly ahead
I see worn dresses on racks with lace collars and bows
My journey through time continues as I move on in haste
I see a stringless violin in a black scuffed up case
I see silverware with fine bone handles
I see pocket watches with long golden chains
I see hundreds of tiny bottles that once held fine fragrances
I see scratched phonograph records strewn hither and yon
I see fine tools of the trade in hand crafted cases
I see rows of fine china all hand painted with care
I see a faded picture of a child with long golden hair
Suddenly I pause as my mind starts to reflect
Everything before me shelters a story of long ago
They are not useless items that I view but the relics of lives past
Each article once the personal possession of a living breathing soul
With a new respect for the articles before me I move on
Ghostly images of faces now accompany each piece that I see
If I purchase just one it must be displayed with the utmost dignity
For its original owner will have bestowed its care to me
I leave the shop with my new treasure all neatly wrapped
The chime above the door signals my departure
The stale aroma of the shop is replaced by the cool evening air
Life, as fragile as the tiny piece of crystal that I carry, goes on
Copyright 2007 Charlie Gragg
Upon an empty shelf in a place
No one can remember sits a doll in lace
Frilled collar, Elizabethan taste
Blue eyes twinkle on her face
Cherubic lips ready for a kiss,
Dusty blond - of a quality long missed
Alone on a shelf she just sits
Waiting for someone to remember her
in her antique abyss.
sits in silence
hums old songs
rocking-chair blues
It may be dusty, gross or reek;
It’s sure to sell if it’s antique.
For Susan’s Antique contest
And of all the roses there is none more lovely than the antique rose,
nothing compares to the classic old-rose shape, round and with full petals;
tumbling from a vase or garden trellis, creamy roses soft and pink,
in my mother's vast planting there was always a place for these vintage roses.
Quite beautiful and romantic for a blushing bride to carry down the aisle,
under my kitchen window they grow in harmony with my other sweet flowers;
even at my mother's funeral, her casket was draped in antique roses.
Really they are my favourite flower and I have fond memories of them,
on walks around the garden with mother we would pick a bouquet of colors;
sweet oyster, pale pink, nude and rose, vintage beauties of perfection,
even the antique rose grows at mother's tomb taken from her own wild garden;
soft and gorgeous, they are perfection for love and for eternal grief.
____________________
November 4, 2015
Poetry/Acrostic/Antique Rose
Copyright Protected, ID 15-723-640-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Acrostic
For the contest, Favorite Flower,
sponsor, Nayda Ivette Negron
First Place
-The old antique mirror
Hung upon the bedroom wall
It belong to my Grandma
A wedding present from an in-law
A well-loved and treasured gift
once was shiny and brand new
Now a reflection of the time past
A cherished memory of Grandma that I knew
The first memory of that old mirror
was at a tender age of two
with shiny eyes, I kissed the glass
sweet, innocent pure and true
Years went by, my Grandma aged
I had a family of my own
We stopped by to see her. The story she would tell.
How Grandpa hung that mirror in the bedroom of this home
We loved that old mirror. It belong to his grandma
A wedding gift of priceless love meant more to us than gold.
A hand me down, a family heir-loom, sweet memories untold
as she beams with pride as her story would unfold
The last time I saw that old mirror
It was the day my Grandma died
Sweet memories come rushing back, as tears filled my eyes.
I love you grandma I said my last good-bye
The old Antique mirror
hung upon the bedroom wall
It belong to my grandma
A wedding present from an in-law
A well- loved and treasured gift
Once, it was shiny and brand new
Now a reflection of the time past
A cherishing memory of Grandma that I loved and knew
3-11-2021
I took my periodic stroll through the local antique store today.
I stumbled over things and stepped 'round clutter to make my way!
I looked for clocks - found none, but saw many things I could do without,
And those are the things that I propose to tell you all about!
There was an old buggy wheel - I could see no use for that!
I saw horse collars, washboards and someone's stuffed Angora cat.
Hanging on the wall was an austere Victorian guy glaring back at me.
Prominently displayed was a chamber pot and scraggly Christmas tree!
What use have I for a manure fork or hubcaps for a '47 Dodge,
Or a shaggy buffalo robe or shriveled scalps from an Indian lodge!
Displayed were empty cigar boxes and empty Prince Albert cans,
A portrait of Napoleon and hood ornament for a '27 Mercedes Benz!
I saw a set of 1920 Brittanica Encyclopedias and a Corona typewriter,
Well-worn snowshoes, a tuning fork and strangely, a bishop's mitre!
Hanging on a clothes rack was an old soldier's moth-eaten uniform.
What on earth would I do with a hornet's nest once hosting an angry swarm!
Leaning against a wall was a hood and bumper for a '37 Ford Tudor.
On a shelf was a gas mask and tin helmet from the First World War!
Though I found many things I could do without, not so with my spouse!
She bought a cart full of gimcracks and trumpery to clutter up the house!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
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!
I watched as she dusted and sneezed;
'It's worthless, I'm certain,' she wheezed.
I thought I'd be rich -
oh, life is a b.tch!
(My desk got a clean, so I'm pleased...)
written 26th April for Joseph's contest - about Anita Manning from The Antique Roadshow
Wall clock was invented,
When Twelve hours a day?
Mao I
(After an ink drawing by Mao I, Song dynasty, c. 1100
in the Freer Gallery of Oriental Art)
Faded, brown, discrete, as flowers pressed
in some antique book or magazine suggest
an intimate mood--fleeting, flown,
perennial, between timeless print grown
meaningless, his femur sausage-linked
bamboo or supple joint-less trout, lightly inked,
survived the arson and the coup d'etats.
We find no window-sized Madonna
or noble in fluffed moustache
winking across the room at a burgher
winking back.
Here on a silk pane, light-boned swallows
toss in the wind-sifted willows,
While at wind-arrested edge of flight one flies
caught forever turning in his almond eyes.