Best Collectors Poems
"The Collectors"
a kiss
spreads its alms
warmth on cold lips
Love comes to collect
the eyes tell a story
the messengers
opened
an untold mystery
passing
the plate
the collection
the black swan awaits
veiled proverbs watching
3 fates
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
vcb-ljb
mlb, klb, llb
Still not done with our kingdom
Ours is peopled by the low, the high
With abundant wealth that surround us
We still munch the stench of poverty
Like we swallow our daily ”Garri”
Though still in our Master’s Garrison.
Taken aback became my ordeal
When I saw the boys in the area
I wept for them the “Area Boys”
They are the condemned, the hopeless
The wretched, poverty-stricken, the destitute
Turned hoodlums and Tax Collectors
How do we say of them the forceful Tax Collectors?
The ones that saw a laptop for the first time
I was besieged by them as they sight the box in my hand
Shocked, as they told me not to camera them again
For people “camera us” with it for registration
Still in our kingdom,
Millions still dines with illiteracy
Ignorance has eaten deep into our fabrics
Fourty-seven years after cutting our teeth
Our senses still blurred with poverty
We can hardly drink “Garri” twice a day
Hunger they made our friend without our consent
Starvation they made our life-long companion
Misery, they made the daily toga of old and young
Shall we still stand akimbo watching helpless?
Alayande Stephen T.
02.29am
3rd February 2007
NB-For Area Boys at Mile 12 depicting the high level
Of educational degneracy of the Nigerian populace.
We are all collectors;
storing images and sounds
as museums their acquisitions,
and conductors, their array
of scintillating voices….
Some we obtain for profit
and some to simply enjoy--
a lovely face with charming
grace--a lyrical smile
with eyes that beguile--
the roaring wind
stripping trees and
flattening fields—amazing
how many worlds a heart can
hold--or vanquish in an instant
of rage.
Patience meets a quietude of Rosewood,
a quill twixt fingers, held in the left hand.
The trophy collector shares his boyhood,
as a quill fairs right assign no men's land.
A quill twixt fingers, held in the left hand.
A hallway clock grows in the midday sun,
as a quill fairs right assign no men's land.
Two men stand, no one out, son of a gun.
A hallway clock grows in the midday sun,
The trophy collector shares his boyhood.
Two men stand, no one out, son of a gun.
Patience meets a quietude of Rosewood.
Bill collecting creditors
can be just like predators.
People who collect marbles also
collect like terms. These people
may collect unemployment in
Florida as well.
Trailing starboard they collect flotsam
stored in their pockets, as they
converse and philosophize with
living plastic flamingos.
People who collect English dining
ware also collect dust. Their collective
unconscious has forgotten paradise.
They have all left Eden to watch the
antique roadshow in Minneapolis.
People who collect Swiss watches
also collect minutes and seconds.
Their angels crawl like oysters in perpetual
motion collecting seed pearls of prayer.
nathan martin 2009
collectors
dropping footprints
in idle sand, eyes wide
fingers hanging empty
delicate shells, bits of
sea-glass, heart-shaped
rocks, the foundation of
'I love you.'
an intake of breath, crouching
toes buried digging through
dirt and then
scrubbing the prize
clean, nestling it with a smile
inside her pocket
or illusion,
her eyes dull, her hands
slack her conscience
waiting.
~Comment Collectors~
Just forge ahead when things are
so dark!
Number of comments, do not a good poet
make into a lyrical lark.
Many comment just to be top on the Community
Board for heavens sake.
Thinking applause from big numbers must make
me important, big time! What a fake!
Read the comments, some as are empty as shells.
Some full of speciicity, I count these close to my
heart as well.
Some come by to correct you in front of others.
Please...... pass me by and go bother another.
Just compose good poetry as best as you can.
Reach new heights, forget looking for comments,
You came here to pen your best, for your fellowman!
~IF NOT NOW, WHEN~
11-30-2020
3pm PST
Wife, children, lovers,
debt collectors they are.
They collect without receipts,
spend without budgeting.
The cares of the world, are weighing me down.
To the point, that I wanted my thoughts; to drown.
Bills owed, finding their way to the mail box.
I want to pay them, but; I have too many roadblocks.
Collectors harassing day in and day out on the telephone.
Even on the "do not call" list they still won't leave you alone.
I try and develop a plan to suppress the harassment.
That didn't last very long, or even bring any appeasement.
The greedsome collectors send a pile, that is a waste of trees.
Just to collect their "grub" and jacked up hideous fees!
Then the greedsome collectors called me at work!
I called them back mad and was about to go berserk!
Then I received a whopping medical bill.
I felt so sick with disgust, I think I feel "ill".
In the mail was a pink envelope and what was inside?
An insurance bill that read "if not paid" then services denied.
I come home from my job feeling somber and "spent".
I opened up my check, of course; the government took their "cent".
They say when it rains, it pours.
Life’s tedious doldrums but, a different day; and more downpour!
At times we seem together as one
Yet divided, by a separate peace
A fresh piece of carne at a leopards feast
You love your mother, yet you hate your niece
The difference of what we do in life
The suspense your neighbors summon
As you sometimes brutally yet gently massage your wife
This is for my audience, my caretaker
This loneliness that satisfies your heartbreaker
The finale of one journey
Now finer mystery’s path a previous existing path
My weakest subject
Life could never be intensive as math
Once upon a time
We abused these utensils used to pass a laugh
As I lie across this highway
Crossed by an evil smirk, should I die this day
But this is for my audience, my caretaker
This loneliness that satisfies your heartbreaker
One more season to premiere
Unspoken chores
My reason to consider sympathy my dear
My lungs and finger tips
Instruments, hung, and yet linger over infant cribs
Beneath my nails, peeling scabs from my flesh
Seiged in hell, revealing punctured abs
Some old, some fresh
A lasting resting place
Man is passing, time so fragile
Yet it seems to be forever testing this vase
They promised that the debt would fade away
So students took the path they thought was right,
To study and find our scholastic way,
To keep our country's future burning bright.
Americans with good minds, sharp and free,
Where cowboys read of heroes in their books,
Cowgirls build homes for all to see,
Beyond the vanity of shallow looks.
But college dreams have turned to heavy lead,
All races and ethnicities in deep.
The interest grows while workers lose their bread.
The promises the lenders didn't keep.
From Texas plains to Floridian sun,
The SAVE plan starts the freedom we should've won.
The giant gray ones plod through black heat and dust.
To honor the bones of loved ones.
Picking them up one by one
With tender trunks and tusks.
Something ancient dictates. The plodders must move on.
So, this chain of struggle and respect quietly moves along.
All of the watering holes are drying up or completely gone.
They must move further away from the bones of memory.
They must find that vein of silver amidst the parched blackness.
To drink heartily- to play in -to bathe in-to pray in.
Military gear ~
Table to table veterans
Search out memories.
For James H. Beachboard
1928-2011
USMC 1947-1951
One of the Chosin Few
Battle of the Chosin Reservoir, North Korea, 1950
britannica.com/event/Battle-of-the-Chosin-Reservoir
No one is perfect.
We go Up & we come Down.
If we send a little something Down though, (while we're up) and place it somewhere safe, we can use these tools to get back up again next time.
We are Tool Collectors.