Best Collector Poems
I am a hoarder of antiquities,
offering longevity to ephemera.
Obsessed with an insatiable
urge for accumulation
I fill every available nook
stacking layer upon layer
of emotional possessions… a
treasure chest of memorabilia!
Then, in wistful, solitary
moments of isolation,
I shall seek their reassurance.
Memories: a lifeline to sanity.
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Writing Challenge - December -
Any poem NA'd in November 2019
Sponsor, Dear Heart- Wiishkobi Ode
Placed 1st
Chosen POTD ~ 24th October 2019.
We are all collectors of love that for eternity will feed the soul
When ONE love has passed from earth it's just a memory that brings days of hurt
When WE have passed on from earth in heaven our souls marrow into one
Our essence no longer shy.
T Reams copyright 2015
The Tear Collector
Tears they fall, sometimes bless-ed
In their burning
Watered reminders of a hearts capacity
To connect emotions
Soft welling they sting
And find their language of wet lashes
Run their courses
As ancient rivers carve their way
Through stone barriers
Tears collected vanish in vanquished aches
Evaporate to silence
Leaving their mark, their fragrance
Breathed in the molecules dispersed
Cut to the edges of wishes
Images of longing
Hearts slowly breaking in two
Still holds you
Weep for you
I do
Behind the hard choke rasping and sobs
Moans sniffling for a beauty
Both found and lost
Delivered Jesus to red rimmed eyes
That see beyond and into the sanctity of pain
It cried; I; not for myself
But for you, for her, the rest of the world
Broken by innocence
And ignorance
The heaving heavy chest digs its well of sadness
In slow counted beats of blood
Grief for love
With these sickles gouged deeper to the flaws
And spread their knowing further
Into the fathoms of your soul
Tears; the reflections of venerated smiles
Become the augury of responses
Of sight pierces the darkest, fallen pool
Tears; the written messages of sorrow and laughter
Covert their collection of sacrifices
And fall bless-ed humane
The merciful and pitiable denizens
Of a stronger more courageous face than Gods
They beat with the bravery of flesh
More holy; than heavens sacred
Have these tears
For more sure they are in their tactile salt
Are these tears
Have lived
And in your tears a more profound betterment exists
More, much more of life
Stronger
Braver
And more courageous
To face their own existence
Than the pretence of their presence
In God
My life is full of sense:
I have a big collection of
fridge magnets, calendars and hotel slippers
which my friends bring me from
their trips. I have the rare stamp
I found on the street. I have the flippers
I bought off a church sale.
Alas, I can't swim... Luckily, I
have neither wife, nor kids in my collection.
When I feel sad, I don’t
need to lock myself in the bathroom for crying in
the company of my red-nosed reflection.
23/07/2019
Tri-Con Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Emile Pinet
WISH COLLECTOR
To the collector of wishes
I wish you well
Perhaps you’ve lost mine
within your pail
To the collector of wishes
Please recheck
Perhaps its still there
Within its depths
To the collector of wishes
My hopes are slim
Perhaps some new stars
Are much too dim
To the collector of wishes
I’ll wish anew
Perhaps maybe this time
It won’t go askew
To the collector of wishes
I wish you well
Perhaps this new wish
Will find your pail
© Debra Squyres 10/02/2019
He was a man of short stature and a little over weight too
A tax collector always wanting more, sort a like me and you
But on that one day when our Lord Jesus had come to town
He tried making his way if even to just see His pure white gown
But he was too small and over the large crowd he could not see
So in order to be just as tall Zacchaeus decided to climb a tree
And as the Lord came near He looked right up at Zacchaeus' face
Calling him down by name He made clear the work of God's Grace
Jesus said come down Zacchaeus immediately I will eat at your place
Now all the others this they would see and wonder why such the case
But to them Jesus paid no mind and ate with whom many called a thief
As it was always the sinner Jesus would find to all of the others disbelief
For as together they ate it was this simple sinner who came to repent
As the others had to wait in not really knowing what Jesus' Words had meant
Zacchaeus gave away half his money and paid back four times what he stole
For now this simple man could see that all true gold is stored up in the soul
Luke 19:1-10
His coffin was lowered deep into the ground,
they sprinkled cold earth, tears fell without sound.
From low in the grave echoed several loud knocks,
seemingly coming from under the box.
The mourners’ eyes widened, they turned tail and fled,
fearing such noise would awaken the dead.
The graveyard fell empty, the rapping returned,
now sorrow’s fresh roses lay withered and burned.
A guttural voice mocked ‘Knock knock dear departed,
I have come to complete the transaction we started’
‘What do you want?’a frail voice replied.
‘Please leave me in peace, I have only just died’
Malevolent laughter stagnated the breeze,
all earthly sounds suffocated with ease.
‘It seems you’ve forgotten the tryst that was planned
for the day your spent life was entombed in this land.
To pay for your years of excess and deceit,
you mortgaged your soul, I have the receipt.’
Amid cries for mercy, and spine chilling screams
the casket’s wood splintered as Satan slipped through the seams.
Take me there,
walk it upstairs,
do it anyways,
ignore the plains,
you've been there before-
within a walk or a gaze,
it's sin to return these ways,
so heed the fault,
build and then praise.
A half-moon wind caresses naked skin
as a whispered prayer takes flight
Love me well when you dream tonight
Moonlight hosts a symphony opera
with natures orchestral might
Insecta songs they sing , for you
and friends in your care, I in theirs
At these unholy hours
thoughts prove masochistic
Wise counsel naught but acoustic
Un- remittance rends and rips
A lover’s melancholy grips in violent tics
Unpleasant distance will cause regret
For in passions sad neglect
lust and jealousy are bred
Thence in stealth their war is waged
through empty fortresses, razed
where loves light hath fled
but for one last cry distressed
Alas, with deeds time hath cheated
surrendered prayers gone unheeded
Lay thee abed, in privacy to wed
and weep alone instead
for those whom companionship
hath left for dead
As mounted specimens in camphor beds
Insecta songs they sang to deafness
with only a half-moon wind as witness.
(N.b- I abhor anyone who kills for beauty and art- just thought I'd let you know in advance x)
Let me look at you-
Aquamarine, ultramarine, powder blue
like paper Angels jinking on thin string
lightning wingbeats make your colours sing
flitting, unconcerned, unbridled joy,
loved you, stalked you since I was a boy.
High on Lavender, bathing in the sun,
pastel shades beating lazy applause
joy cut short by me because....
I wanted you.
And now you're mine.
Here you are, ready to take flight
but you can't.
I've saved you, really.
Whatever out there comes to pass
can't touch you now- you're safe
beneath this glass
in stasis, beauty captured at a cost.
Life was lost
but... I too feel a sense of loss.
Can't quite pin it down.
Toy collector:
He holds the bear gently in his old wrinkled hands as he gazes into its kind beaded eyes. The toy collector sees love lined in its double stitches and his childhood in the busted toys smile.
There stitched in black thread he can hear the sound of a child laughter, happiness, and growth reviving his memory of youth, like a jolt of life to an empty vein.
The years have passed freely, almost fleeting by. He had no more time to play in grassy school yards or hide from girls wearing satin dress, he had to grow up. The boy eventually turned into a man and was forced to pack away his toys regrettably into a wooden box.
There they sat in the attic awaiting the return of their beloved friend while he aged slowly into an adult.
High school came and went, college, even marriage but unfortunately he was never blessed with his own child. No one to share in the lined pleats of his own childhood. All of this he now recognizes in the bears sandy eyes.
The toy collector hands his most prized procession to his wife, a dazed look covering his forlorn face.
She takes his withered hand and speaks gently in his ear.
“All the memories in the world could never replace the love between a man and his bear.”
“Yes, but even the toy collector eventually grows to old and must let go.”
He replies in woe.
His thin lips force a smile as he repacks the boxes that escaped him long ago and in the early morn of the next day he patently sits alone outside for a bus to come.
The driver honks her horn and greats him with a warming smile.
“Are all of these toys for our orphanage?”
The toy collector regrettably nods.
“Things have been pretty rough but this will surly lift there sprits up.”
She confesses as she gently grabs a random box.
As she stacks them one by on into the now cluttered van his bear falls onto the pavement below.
Unable to pick it up he wrinkles his brow with great sadness.
Suddenly the passenger door opens revealing the face of a young girl and as she draws near she extends her hand and clutches the bear.
“Did you find a friend little Lou?”
His heart melts as she kisses the teddy gently then smiles.
“thank you.”
The child coos softly.
The toy collector lives in the toys he collects, but the man lives forever in the bear the child now possesses.
fog branch
lawn leave
soil hedge
coil mirror
realm say
hedgehog
butterflies
grass haze
fog branch
I collect words
as the Reaper collects souls
telling the story
just before it unfolds
distinctly descriptive
played out into scenes
as if the stage lights up
I'm awake in my dreams
I collect data
with the scan of bright eyes
soaking in surroundings
my retinas describe
in the blink of an instant
I stop, as I think
whatever this place is
its my oasis, I drink
Just before the reflection collapses
I've seen a glimpse of my end
all the faces smile at me
of my ancestors, within
I keep it with me, to this very day
it helps me excel now, in a familiar way
The corrosion of caring creeps up at last,
Rust all around your heart
As flakes of red-brown flutter, powdering down,
Filling the scavenger cart
Of ashes and dust from the past.
It rolls away, fickle and fast.
I just love all the pussies that I meet,
Resting at my doors for me to say hi and greet,
Pussies pussies everywhere I roam and go,
Moving into my personal space and flow.
Do you love the pussies that come your way?
Do they make you feel good every single day?