Best Collecting Poems
sea mist collecting
creeps among rocky tide pools…
the sea never sleeps
for what my eyes see contest
We broke in two and it amused him that I was still counting...
I could hear the night whisper beyond his ears, the bed we lay ourselves down upon and
passion was considerate when his mind let go....
she was direct and unforgiving and I...
gave.in.
I could listen to the tumbling of my heart for ages and I collected music as my lips split
in half, it was only to kiss him, you see, only to allow him to know...
how I bled.
I tasted myself as the night wore on, exhausted yet hungry for his arms, I studied my own
in the afternoon, multiplied my freckles and wondered if my child would be ashamed of the
scars that decorated my skin, prayed she would never know how years could bite, so I
reached for him when the clouds became cold and I became...
scared...
as I frightened myself to death in the realization that we....
were still so alive.
The ground we walked on spoke of faults and mistakes, there were cracks in the earth yet
my hand still held his, he was clueless and I was silent but we slept well, he and I,
after passion erupted and the sky split...
when the clouds collected my music and rain sang, just to show him, how the days
could
bleed.
Collecting teardrops
of little comfort or warmth
Shadowing the promises
of ribbon shaped clouds
floating silently in harmony
with my heartbeat
My mind drifts softly
The darkness comes
on a sunlit day, reaching with its hand
through this wood framed window
streaked in sadness
but transparent so that I may see
into the fabric of my memories,
desperately fighting the fears
that slowly form
Now I sit here collecting teardrops…
so many shed, flowing anguish
embedded of a loss,
outlining the cracks in my heart,
etched in tomorrows,
lost to yesterdays,
when today you are gone
6/1/2017
The tide weaves and wends
its' way among the pier posts
where I will dig for tiny
shark's teeth and whelks in the sand;
I love making genuine oceanside jewelry.
The Little Tykes
The little tykes,
They’re early trained
To hold onto little bags —
To carry their collected needs,
Or special treats,
Or found symbols of imaginings
To be kept for them alone —
In their name-labeled bags
That decades later they’ll keep
In the cabinets and closets
Of what they’ll call
As their own homes.
————————————————————————————-
(C)sally young eslinger 6/21/22
Inspiration:
From binkies with a toy and spare diaper; to Matchbox car and a glittery
stone found on the ground: to lunches; to…
Anyone here old enough to recall Penny Candy choices?
Currently like picking $1/ piece in specialty chocolate shops
I lie on the edge of the tidal pool
trying to find a pretty shell.
The face reflected back at me
is a face I know so well.
You lie on the other side of the pool
grumbling, as you usually do.
Helping me search for treasures,
a summer pastime for me and you.
The water ripples, our faces distort,
a perfect shell you've found.
I see your smile as the water settles.
Neither of us makes a sound.
Seashells forgotten, we lie on our backs
on the rocks that surround the pools.
Not as young as those faces in the water.
Just a silly, old pair of fools.
A fleeting passing shadow,
so soft in a dreamscape’s grey,
collects from past’s silhouettes
to sharpen memoirs image
revealed in dreaming glitter,
stark now in memory’s recall,
the past, now present, replays
©Debra Squyres
11/07/14
Written for: Silhouette of a Heptagonet
Sponsored by: Nette Onclaud
Theme: Silhouette of Night
All her pill boxes
understood to be collectibles
neatly arranged on her coffee table
treasured baubles, bits of metal
Varying uniquely in size, in color
each in a replica of someone's dream
rare in their form,
nearly minted in quality
entrancing small fingers and innocent eyes
telling their stories with secret compartments
tendered with nimblest artisan hands
existing, cocooned, in the quiet of her living room, an urban museum...
I'm sensitive and I collect damage too easily
I sit here and I write but the words don't come too easily
I collect it from the people who come after me
I'm a collector of hurt feelings and for you it's not plain to see
it's okay, though, i'll collect it while we talk on the phone,
me to you but you to other people instead of me
maybe it's because I'm sitting here without you
writing out verses to ask myself "did you ever need me anyway?"
The first time I met Mei Is Woe, I felt so badly, I begged our co-workers to give up a sick day in the sick day fund, not realizing they had done that so many times, it would not be an easy collection.
Our selfish co-workers flatly and adamantly refused to contribute to Mei Is Woe’s flower fund, even after I told them about her bursitis, lupus, and long time suffering boyfriend’s non re-election.
I wasn’t going to share this, I admitted, pulling out the big guns, because poor Mei asked me not to, but she’s out sick today, to straighten out her unfortunate drug-addicted relatives, who are anything but perfection.
Yes, completely honest Mei is Woe had nothing but trouble, and no matter how hard I begged, or how much she suffered, our co-workers seemed non-caring, and totally un-eager to help with my well-intended collections
Finally, In-the Know, another fairly new co-worker heard the “truth” as we like to say and said, Bill, you might as well give up, no one is going to contribute, and I tell you this with total love and affection.
I already knew it though, because I had spent the morning going room to room, and spoken to everybody, about my grave concerns for sweet, darling, forth-coming Mei’s well-being, and what we could do with good intentions.
Mei is Woe texted me at midnight last night that her long-suffering mother who had recently had a heart attack, was precariously close to death, and she needed cold hard cash, for her oven which was on the blink, convection.
Several insensitive colleagues howled with laughter upon hearing this news, sharing that Mei Is Woe’s mother had passed in ’84, ’91, and ’08 before they started writing down for what went the money collection.
Mei is Woe was eliminated from my phones after she abandoned me for a psychiatrist, who would not write a doctor’s excuse, but whisked her away from the world, possibly understanding Mei is Woe’s chronic affliction.
Collecting my dreams from a treasure chest
I hug Snoopy and Troll dolls one last time,
They knew my little secret childhood crime
So I tagged their backs with hums, sublime
And no one understood my tight unrest.
Opening a box, keepsakes fell somehow
Velvet frocks saw my look, a tender pain,
And more for sale; my heart started to rain
Oh memoirs I had to let go…again,
As teapot brewed, feeling alright for now.
A classic watch peeped like a dangling star
It’s glass frame broken, yet alive and warm,
Dad slow-dancing me in the blue rainstorm
I saved this above all, without doubt or norm
Cherishing his touch so near, though skies afar.
Anthony Slausen's Treasure Chest Contest
Collecting Words
A first poem by Dr. Karen Lynn Ellefsen
I had been collecting words long before I knew how to read them
To use them
But love them none the less
At one time I collected words like cleaning products
Collected but not used
Dusty yet not forgotten
Hidden but not to me
Locked away with a key I could not find
Once found and then opened
Never to be locked again
I do not know when it began
First the cleaning than the words
The journey led to poems
No rules
No restrictions
No laws to obey
Such abandon I wish I learned,
I wish I knew,
long ago
Long before the sun generously kissed my skin
Why would we all not be poets
With such freedom
Such bliss
Such decadence
The wait is now over
The words move from the collection to the page
They no longer carry dust
They move
They speak
They live
Maybe THIS is the witness to my life
Words on the page speak of the life of this…
…The life of this woman who found the key
The key was a compass
To lead her back to herself
Where she was never missing
This woman found but never lost
Leaves a gift for you upon this page
Your key
Your compass
Your self
Seashells pave the beach
ground grit is the sand
like old clothes in the opportunity shop
forlorn shells an adornment of remnant remains.
As I walk I cherry-pick
the shells with bright colors
with appealing shapes and patterns
whole shells, complete with smooth entire edges.
But my choice is riddled with guilt
for choosing only the best and brightest
well-decorated headstones
to adorn my shelves, at home.
Under the huge tree of creation
Sits down the scent of death
On the round chair of air
Putting his hands of shadow
Upon the adjacent table of ether
Carefully he keeps a keen watch
On the ripples
Created by the falling sound of leaves
Like a ray
He stands up after hearing a roar
And rushes down to the door of waves
To collect the soul
From the chest of the identified star.
Comic Collecting
By Ian Van D. Chandler
I have this comic.
It’s the scariest comic I’ve ever read.
Nothing tells me anything like these telling pictures.
Sketched to action and tale.
It’s the scariest comic I’ve ever read.
I found it in a house I broke into.
Sketched to action and tale.
Speaking to the reader about being found.
I found it in a house I broke into.
Turning it’s own pages, all the way to the end.
Speaking to the reader about being found.
It tells me, I’m a lost dog.
Turning it’s own pages, all the way to the end.
I have to read it, I have to.
It tells me, I’m a lost dog.
And where I’m gunna go.
I have to read it, I have to.
So I get to the end.
And where I’m gunna go.
Because it’s horrific.
So I get to the end.
Where I’m supposed to be found.
And where I’m gunna go.
As if I need to draw another picture.
Where I’m supposed to be found.
Sitting on the porch, right before the sunrises.
As if I need to draw another picture.
Of what happens right before the horror.
Sitting on the porch, right before the sunrises.
Waiting to be found, with a broke arm and a bloody hand.
Of what happens right before the horror.
When I broke your window.
Waiting to be found, with a broke arm and a bloody hand.
With my eyes open like blinds.
When I broke your window.
And found the scariest comic I’ve ever read.
With my eyes open like blinds.
Nothing tells me anything like these telling pictures.
When I broke your window.
and now, I have this comic.