Best Antiques Poems
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.
Mom has always loved antiques
I have never asked her why
Perhaps it's the connection to the past
Maybe the craftsmanship
The smell of ancient wood
The curves
The fact that they were built to last
She turned a passion into a business
A few small pieces in her living room
A sign on a door
Interesting how businesses are born
Bob there by her side
Together building on her dream
There once was an old sawmill
Where men had worked with their hands
Hard work had its demands
Each one did what he could
Their strength remains
Locked within the wood
Those same hands had built mom's home
Over one hundred years ago
Time dripped on it didn't slow
Mom's home became the perfect place
To celebrate the past
Her home and business
Built from things that were made to last
The business grew
Taking over the home
Visits from patrons
Calls on the phone
Busy all the time
No space for them to be alone
It became time
For them to expand
They looked to the future
The life they planned
Built on their historic land
A new addition built from old wood
Soaring ceiling
Above them stood
I remember the beams
Spectacular
From an old barn hewn from fir
Lifted on Bob's wide strong back
Formerly they had been just a stack
A one of a kind home
Filled with love
With bedrooms and landing up above
The kitchen was the centre piece
A place to gather
Filled with love and peace
Love of the past
Hope for the future
Has alway been a part of her
Together melded and celebrated
As a result I appreciate
The solid
The values
The ingenuity
Forever engrained in my blood
My respect for the old
My admiration of antiques
Remnants of the business still remain
The building sold
Mom loves going to auctions
She still sells at local Antique Markets
Sadly Bob has passed on
Thankfully mom has moved on from her sad
She too is made of stronger stuff
Not unlike
Her beloved
Antiques
An old poem and this one is about old things.
For Broken Wings' contest. Written April 13 2013
Oh, my, how excited, elated, I would be
to receive sudden financial prosperity.
The true appeal would not be the tangible
but the freedom I have longed to handle.
It is so easy and fun to imagine
the idyllic dream-cottage I would fashion.
If my pen and intent have successful flair,
Perhaps I can transport us all there.
One super, great thing about my new home
is the location in a unique, universal zone,
where society, by law, must leave me alone
and never again cause me or mine to groan.
First, I’d hand my home dreams to Thomas Kinkade
whose involvement my enthusiasm would persuade.
He would build my perfect cottage in a glade;
quaint goose bump appeal with each modern update.
Country, antique and Quaker furnishings throughout
would be joyously bought using my new clout.
I would slowly decorate within and without -
extend the thrill, I would without a doubt.
A Walt-Disney-mind will fashion green grounds
over which perfect billowing clouds will abound.
Cute, gleeful birds will provide uplifting sounds
and precious flowers will pop color all around.
Somewhere on my lush, beautiful property
will be awesome fun for others and me;
ATVs, a bowling alley and bumper cars;
a racquetball court where everyone stars;
a baseball field where rivalry will spar;
an inviting lake twinkling beneath the stars
where fishing and swimming are never barred;
and, a babbling brook playing nature’s guitar.
Every morning will wondrously begin.
Before any voice has even spoken,
a gorgeous song will be piped in,
Cat Steven’s singing, “Morning Has Broken.”
An antique blue vase sits proudly upon my book shelf;
A gift from my aunt who knew how much I loved blue.
We would shop for hours in quaint little shops
and I would see her tired face smiling with delight.
A hand held mirror of wood and old glass, another gift for
each child, she imparted its value for me to keep safe.
I bought her a lovely cherry wood table with a harp shaped stand
and she loved it and used it for years. In her eighties when she moved in
with her daughter, she packed it up carefully and shipped it to me.
It will always remind me of how dear she was to me.
She used to say, I have always loved antiques, and now I am one!
She has passed on now and I miss her so much,
lovingly, some of her antiques she has passed on to me.
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.
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
Outside a quaint town in fair Vermont,
by my family’s vacation home,
is a small field with fences and sign,
in the warm month’s it’s a place to go.
They have a flea market on weekends,
rows of tents pitched under mountains green,
for most people it is just old junk,
but it is fascinating to me.
There’s a tent that’s selling goat-milk soap,
I did not know that that was a thing,
the man behind it smells of hippie,
but not too much, since he’s still selling.
Next to him are magazines that
were new back in my grandfather's time,
postcards from before the depression,
so many that it boggles my mind.
Across from that, old iron housewares
from a century that is long past,
rough-hewn evoke memories
of a wholesome time that couldn’t last.
Besides that place, hand-turned wooden bowls,
from a shop the next county over,
their pretty, yes, with natural lines,
but at that price, I will say, “No sir!”
Then there’s the tent with all the old books,
dangerous place for men like myself,
it’s foretold I’ll pick up old novels,
but which ones? I can never foretell.
A guy is selling old comics books,
another is hawking baseball cards,
gaudy women’s clothes are over there,
near cheap tools and pieces of old cars.
There’s the guy with army-navy stuff,
yellowed manuals from World War II,
and more knives than you could ever need,
yet I still walk away with a few.
Of course there is the hot dog vendor,
with cheap prices you don’t find these days,
then a tent with essential oils,
I just roll my eyes and stay away.
Buy cheap bandanas for the nephews,
little guys will think that they’re so neat,
the I meander back to my car,
let the wheels take the stress off my feet.
Antiques and Curios
A collection of Antiques and curios,
Covered in dust on a cellar floor.
Things once made for a purpose,
No longer of use anymore.
Record Player with wind-up handle,
Once sung out the old Seventy-eights.
A music box with broken spring,
Film scores of the all-time greats.
Gas mask, unused in a chest,
A wartime ration book, stained, slightly torn.
Hobnail working boots, coal black,
Scuffed at the toes, well worn.
An old encyclopedia, open at page 12,
Dwarf stars, Meteors and Asteroid,
The mysteries of our Solar system
and a Comet we may need to avoid.
Vintage clothes in leather suitcase,
Fashionable back in the year.
Someone would probably buy them,
For the right price, not too dear.
Pots and Pans of Copper and Tin,
Ornamental handles and lid.
Hard to imagine they were ever used,
But, by the signs of wear, someone did.
A collection of old newspapers,
Bismarck disabled and sunk,
A periodical about holy orders,
The life and times of a Monk.
Moth eaten Teddy Bear, only one eye,
Tracks for a blue clockwork train.
Toy soldiers of lead, standing proud,
Down somebody’s memory lane.
I began to feel rather intrusive,
An invasion of a man’s private life;
Never to know treasures keeper,
Was he at war, leaving children and wife.
An assemblage of curiosities,
To move them would feel such a crime.
I will leave everything undisturbed,
Treasured by someone of the time.
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!
Thirty eight years has gone by
Songs as old as baby's lullaby
Still the two leather boxes has survive
When she open with her key... to my surprise!
There... greeting cards, flowers and letters
White papers before... now brown colored
Flowers earlier fresh red... now wilted but preserved
Spotless written words ahead... now little blotted
She said they are priceless and timeless
Though, some laughed and said corny and useless
Yet, from any gold or silver to her its invaluable
For by these her distant love became possible
As this the testimony of her love
...Embroidered and made perfect by God
Her one and only true love
...No other than - my great dad.
(c) Olive Eloisa
2:00 AM
APRIL 11, 2014
Contest Name: Antiques
Sponsor: Black Eyed Susan
5th Place.. Praise God! :)
________________________my most endearing mom.. :) thank GOD.. :)
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
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.
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
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