Best Auctioneer Poems
When the auctioneer first shows it,
I feel a sudden piercing shock.
My grandma's hand-sewn antique quilt
Is on the auction block.
It is the lovely basket pattern
And her stitches are so neat,
It must have taken tedious hours
For my grandma to complete.
I have taken such good care of it
Since my daddy left it to me,
And I wrapped up in it often
When the day was dark and gloomy.
Grandma sewed in her initials
And the year that she had made it.
One hundred-fifty-two years of wear and age
Couldn't help but start to fade it.
Grandma didn't know the fortune
That her hand-stitched quilt could bring,
When it was held up as an antique
In a future auction ring.
My heart is truly hurting
And I cannot stop the tears,
For giving up the treasure
I have loved for all these years.
Grandma made it for her hope chest,
While my grandpa was at war.
The year was Eighteen Sixty three.
My grandma was twenty-four.
But I know Grandma would agree with me,
That the life of our little Nell
Is worth more than a beloved quilt.
It is the right time to sell.
There is so much history going with it,
To this quilt's lucky buyer.
I hope he bids a hundred thousand.
Or if we're lucky, even higher.
For Auctioneer contest
100,000 dollars bid
When fate pulls at my haiku of heartstrings,
I curse the syllables of my poetic musings.
If I do not express my sorrows,
how will petals blossom in my garden?
Upon the midst of bewilderment,
lost without a bosom for a sanctuary.
Life can cause confusion;
seem somewhat an illusion;
when the mind only sees disillusion.
Upon the depths of despair;
placed upon the ledge of melancholy -
legs dangle, eyes stare into random space.
Absent thoughts have no demand,
yet the soul is insistent,
but, all that is seen is darkness;
charcoal horizons with no guiding stars,
with the moon obscured by dull smoke,
jaded eyes simply wonder why.
What has become of me?
I despise the voices controlling my head.
I'm afraid of the images they've created.
Who will save me from this ludicrous lucidity.
Can anyone prevent vicious vines from suffocating me?
Vertigo seduces the mind,
influencing it to leap - but it has no faith.
Below lies an endless void,
a collection of human delusions;
an abyss of crushed expectations.
Heaven's broken arrows rain down,
blood dripping with fragments of broken dreams.
A reminder of another false pledge -
the final episode of a heart's connection.
Flames of hell prepare to scorch me.
Sometimes growth is like a stream,
that has lost itself in an ocean.
No identity, misplaced and alienated,
so it dies a slow death.
A sigh can only become deceased,
when a heart does not beat.
So, why do so many die
when the water of existence is in your hands?
In the marketplace of life,
each merchant will give you a different price.
Some will try to sell you dreams,
others, goods on false pretences.
Be careful, not to give all your emotions
away to the first bidder;
life is an auction -
don't let the auctioneer play with your heart.
Sometimes love is an unpredictable enigma.
I'm tired of living around gambolling gambits,
who's games condemn a soul to suicide.
But, little do they know,
I am a master of self deprecating.
The greatest of all pretenders,
suffering from a poison mistake
that lives with me forever.
This is the last piece to go. All the others are sold.
I hate to part with it, but now that I've grown old
I need to find the right home for it before I die.
I'll explain its importance if you're wondering why.
You see, it's been a treasure since before I was born.
My father found it buried in a city that was war torn.
He marveled that among all the rubble and concrete,
no scratch marred its beauty nor was it burned by heat.
It graced our living room with the status of a Queen,
Most beautiful Brazilian Rosewood vanity ever seen.
Father had to have it to match the great beauty of his wife,
Adrianna, was fragile and giving birth to me took her life.
Father gave me the vanity, a priceless piece, an heirloom.
One rainy day I was bored and was dancing around my room.
I bumped into the vanity and from behind a drawer fell a note...
"Who ever finds this, look for the secret," my Mother wrote.
That was seventy years ago, and no secret did I ever find.
Age has taken my strength away and now that I am blind,
I can no longer search for the secret within this vanity.
I want it to belong to someone kind while I still have my sanity.
It's being auctioned by verbal bid so I can hear the voice
of the one I deem worthy of my treasure. I'll make the final choice.
Money is no longer important so the auctioneer will look to me
when that special voice I hear, I'll nod and that bid will be the fee.
I've set no starting bid and no reserve for it's time to let it go.
Come, take a look. Rub your hand across the wood grain's glow.
I hope you will find the secret my Mother hid so well inside,
perhaps a young man will take it home, as a gift for his bride.
The value to me is priceless, and I would sell it for only a cent.
If I hear something in your voice, I will know for you it's meant.
""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""
February 24, 2016 " The Auctioneer Contest by Mystic Rose
This coin depicting a head of man with laurel
is a rare treasure from the American History,
as an auctioneer I could sell it for a large
sum of money: its estimated price is over
two-thousand-dollars, it shows it was minted
in eighteen-ninety-four, come forward and bid!
I found it among pennies I saved for rainy days,
there must be at least four thousand of them;
my collection includes contemporary silver dollars,
many generations must pass to accumulate value...
any other collector would action them any day!
I jealously hold onto them to own a piece of History:
how they glitter in glass cases on my walls!
I may donate them to the American History
Museum in Manhattan and see them on display!
Many auctioneers would love to get hold of my silver coin,
their mind is set solely on greed, not thinking of its history
which can unravel fascinating details about of its minting process;
the unknown artisan was very skilled in itching date and image
on both sides to testify the greatness and wealth of this nation,
but Americans don't realize that they are very wealthy indeed!
it lives in an old chest
the auctioneer stated eyes fixed on it with a stare
I have a piece of history in my hands
let me show you he said with flair.
it is called a door quilt, he gave it a shake
made the American way ,full of dreams
females would every spare moment take
up the material and sew a few seams
they used them for warmth in those cold winter nights
each square is a talking point a memory a story brought to light
who will start me off with ,$500 the hands raise
up and up the value goes higher
'til it reached the unbelievable price of $3500.
must be a rich buyer.
Was brought by the Quilters Association of America.
used to be hung in their foyer a reminder to all
that a hobby is worthwhile no matter how small.
penned March 1 2016
bid $3500
.
U-umph, Oof-fa ha!.... There, comfy now?
Hey, would you pick up your tush,
reach in here and pick up your wife's locket?
It's down here under my cush,
and please get that screw driver outa your pocket?
That's good for me, yes much better.
Is it good for you too?
Yes, now go ahead and read your letter.
Hey, you remember when you and your wife,
saved me at that Auction in Aspen?
Talk about stress and strife !
I sure was a mess back then.
One last chance,
and I was headed for the rubbish bin.
The Auctioneer grabbed my arm,
And hollered out, "who'll bid it at a sixty?"
I remember being on stage watching you,
then it was "fifty five or bidit ata fifty -now fifty",
You didn't bid ; ..I thought I was through.
No one interested and he was droppin' fast!
"Biddit ata fortyforty thirtyfi-five bidit atta thirty two!"
"Bidda wudda gimme good chair, just alil bit dirty"
I was so nervous ; you just stared at your shoe!
"Lookin big bidder cudda cudda bidder thirty!"
Biddit abub bidja bidja bud, gimme gimme bouta fifteen on "er
well right then I Frayed My Hem! And thought I was a Goner!
"Wudja wudja cudda cudja gimme gimme biddit at about ten?"
That's when you looked up high and I saw the gleam in your eye.
I shifted my skirting, straightened my back and looked real bold,
You caught his eye, nodded your head and he hollered "SOLD!"
Well I rocked back easy and you went in to pay the man,
loaded me up and brought me home in your old van.
Y'all cleaned me up and gave me a nice shampoo,
and set me just so in your cozy library den.
You know..I'm really comfortable with you two.
I Have been since that auction in Aspen.
Hey! You dropped some popcorn in my... Oh ..never mind..,
Ahh..the memories..it's all good..it's all just FINE.
'
He mimicked all who entered the darkened room,
felt the fear in their eyes when watched with zeal.
He was a performer and his sidekick Sid seemed real.
Was that really him or was he wearing a costume?
He was just entertaining, they all did assume.
His mouth closed yet voices heard with reverberation,
the microphone shrieked when laughter was heard.
A comedian on stage though he said not one word
giving the excited audience an amusing sensation.
When he was through they clapped in celebration.
The curtain closes, and he cries; tears fall like rain,
he longs to be the laughter he gives while performing,
yet deep inside he knows that he is just mourning.
All the acting and engaging never erases the pain,
the show must go on, his humor must remain.
A ventriloquist who suffered from sadness so intense,
just a man who is applauded when feeling self-pity.
For he is a clown on stage, the king of Second City,
but his anguish too much, his torment too immense.
He was always so happy, this didn’t make any sense.
This man grew old and kept his sidekick Sid near,
he kept it in a locked in a drawer by the staircase.
It was available to open up and take out just in case
he wanted to restart his overshadowed and lost career.
He died suddenly, and Sid went directly to the auctioneer.
Sid was sold for a measly ten dollars; no less no more.
A mother bought him for her son to play with his dad,
but suddenly the son began to act strange and sad.
Sid was nothing but a dummy who brought abhor,
a lifeless evil fiend that hated being kept in a drawer.
Years passed, and Sid never found a true mate,
filled with rage he never let go of his hate.
The Ventriloquist Contest
June 21, 2018
Based on a poem by an unknown poet and written for a friend who bought a club at a golf auction!
It was old and scarred and the Auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste much time with the old Mashie.
So he held it up with a smile:
"What do you bid good folks," he cried,
"Who'll start bidding for me?
A pound, a pound" then "Two only two?
Two pounds and who'll make it three?
Three pounds once; three pounds twice;
Going for three" but no:
From the back of the crowd an athletic young man
Said, "Please let me give it a go."
Then wiping the dirt from the old Mashie,
And placing a ball on the ground,
He hit it as far as the eye could see,
And said, "I guess it's worth more than a pound."
The ball came to rest and the Auctioneer,
With a voice that was quiet with awe
Said, "What am I bid for this old Mashie?
You all know what we just saw!
A thousand pounds so who'll make it two?
Two thousand and who'll make it three?
Three thousand once, three thousand twice;
And going and gone!" said he.
The crowd all cheered but some of them said,
"We do not quite understand?
"What changed its worth?" Swift came the reply;
The touch of the Master's hand."
Break bad ‘n -a bid it anna bump it anna level um bum,
Twenny dolla bid ‘n all in an all done?
Well there’s five and twenny gimme twenny five!
Thirty! Be a thirty five anna forty dolla bid!
Forty beat about a forty ‘ n bout a forty…..five?!
Gimme gimme bidda atta fifty dere Sid!
Na dey’s sixty.. no sebbny!..land sakes alive!
Eighty bidditat eighty? bumpin abiddida biddida eighty?
Goin’ once goin’ twiced -SOLD to the front row lady!!
Whad in tarnation she buy, Joe?
Good question ..I don’t rightly know…
….She looked happy though!
Thank all you poetry soupers
for heppin' me call dis one out!!
Come back nex week, heah?
--Auctioneer -Joe
An unsophisticated feller attending an auction could find himself in a pickle!
The nuances, subtleties and gestures used in bidding could cost him a pretty nickel!
A city feller decided to attend a farm auction to see what it was all about.
Alas, he accumulated a heap of needless stuff before he could figure it out!
He was fascinated by the tractor, manure spreader, horses, hogs and cows,
And the chickens, goats, manure forks and hay to be auctioned in the mows!
The auctioneer began his alien spiel and the feller couldn't understand a word,
But farmers in overalls and John Deere caps knew exactly what they heard!
Bidding began on an old steel-wheeled 1925 Model D over-used John Deere.
The feller watched others offer their bids as he reached to scratch his ear.
The auctioneer yelled, "SOLD to the man scratchin' his ear over by the fence!"
He was the stunned owner of a tractor - it happened so fast he didn't have a chance!
Next up for bid were a fancy chamber pot, two horse collars and fifty feet of hose.
The feller in all innocence swatted at a pesky fly that had landed on his nose!
The auctioneer yelled, "SOLD to the guy who swatted his nose for fifty dollars!
Son, you got a steal! That's an antique thunder mug and so is them there collars!"
The auctioneer opened bidding for twenty bales of newly cut alfalfa hay.
The feller was distracted for a moment and waved at a pal across the way.
"SOLD" said the auctioneer, "Please write a check for this stuff to my able aide!"
The hapless guy was wondering how he'd explain to his spouse the purchases he'd made!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
An unmarked auction house in the cellar
Fat cat millionaires outbid one another
A quiet pissing contest
To be the lowest of low-lifes.
A living corpse up for gropes...I mean grabs.
She’s a virgin, for now.
Chocolate curls over a red silk chemise
Cerulean eyes, swollen.
Fifteen years old with her head in the clouds,
Drug-induced of course.
She wasn’t willing.
The closing bell won’t change that.
What do we suppose the winning bid will be?
A suburban mother sobs and curses god
from a twin-sized bed
drowning in red silk sheets and tears
under a boy-band poster.
Another runaway, the Sherriff had shrugged.
Third one this week.
He was in a hurry.
Working two jobs so he could retire.
I work at an auction, said he.
But no one was listening.
The Senator shared a knowing wink
Jingling coins in his red silk pocket.
I'll start the bidding.
4/7/15
The room was filled with everything
the auction had begun
I took a seat way in the back
I think row thirty-one
A lady sitting next to me
her hair a silver grey
Smiled and touched my arm, and said
"you've come a long, long way"
"How could you know?" I asked surprised
never being here before
But the Auctioneer, drowned out my words
"will someone close that door!"
Being closest, I obliged
then returning to my chair
Thinking now, how odd it was
it looked so dark out there
The Auctioneer began to speak
"your numbers are assigned
as I call your name and number now
please step into the line"
"Hey wait a minute" I jumped up
now shouting to be heard
"What kind of auction is this here?
the whole thing seems absurd"
"How can you even know my name?
I just now came to town!"
"Before you take your seat" he said
"please slowly look around"
So many faces, hard to tell
and then they caught my eye
John Bascomb and his family
and Joe and Lily Fry
"Oh no, this can't be happening"
I heard my own voice say
These people had all disappeared
ten years ago last May.....
FAMILY FARM - PASSING IT ON
Grandfather never dreamed of taking help from anyone.
Grandma was always there at his side, from the crack of dawn.
They were laid to rest together, where they chose to lay,
never thinking the farm would end this way.
Daddy was never one for taking help from anyone.
Mama was proud to be at his side, on the family farm.
They were laid to rest together, where they chose to be,
leaving the family farm to you and me.
Father to son. And son to son.
But keep it passing on.
Working a dream when hope was gone,
but keep it passing on.
Grandfather's here, and Daddy is here,
they kept it passing on,
now we hear the auctioneer
passing it on.
© Ron Wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
Part I – Plow’s New Home
He was squiggly and fat with dark round eyes.
The auctioneer held him up, but no ayes!
HE MUST HAVE BEEN ABLE TO READ MY MIND.
Five dollars, do I hear $10? …. A real find!
“He won’t get much bigger than he is now.”
My ticker was beating faster and how!
I held up my card; my heart did a jig.
Before I knew it, I had bought the pig.
Ruth had a cage; so we brought the boy home.
He was so much fun and he loved to roam.
Each morning, Plow would follow me around.
Rooting under bushes where snacks were found.
Plow worked in the garden everyday.
But then one day, the boy ran away.
Part II – Plow’s First Adventure
My heart was sunken and my fear took flight.
He was growing bigger, a yummy sight.
Suppose he had wondered deep in the woods.
Or worse yet, plundering the neighborhoods.
I loved that pig and his little pig snout.
Apple in my hand; Plow would take it out.
Sometimes the dog would race him for the find.
The pig and the dog seemed to share one mind.
What would Ginger do without her pig friend?
After three days gone, would our sad hearts mend?
He had grown so fat, safer if thinner.
I prayed to God he would not be dinner.
Riding to town down the winding dirt road,
We saw Plow confined; good fortune bestowed.
Part III - Courting the Sow
Down the way, there lived a pretty pink sow.
She must have been shocked when she first saw Plow.
He was eighteen inches long, not at all tall.
Yet, there he was flirting her in her stall.
The sow was huge, ready for the slaughter.
My piglet had roamed and become a squatter.
The landowner said his sow was in heat.
And there stood Plow with his head at her feet.
High ambitions for a pot-bellied pig,
He went half a mile for his courtship gig.
Running through the woods, he wanted to stay.
But we caught him and took him home that day.
We had to build him a special pigpen.
His days of free roaming came to an end.
November 13, 2014
P.S. Thanks for the Contest! I've finally started my book, today. This is a true story...and there is much more to come. Big Smiles.
I'll grab my sword and keg of rum,
To sail the open sea.
I'll be a pirate and not succumb,
To those that challenge me.
I'll chase tall sails, test their measure,
As they travel far from home.
I'll raid their ship, steal their treasure.
Leave them on islands to roam.
I am a pirate, in search of gold.
I am a buccaneer.
I've captured many, some I've sold,
A cut to the auctioneer.
Belay my friend, no trust in me.
I'll cut you through and through.
I'll feed your body to the sea,
And burn your city too.
I am a pirate, I'll steal from you.
A pirate's life for me.
I sail these waters, into the blue.
I'll be a scourge to thee.
contest A Pirate's Life for Me
9/10/15