Best Hand Me Down Poems
In so many shades of black and white, I find you after all these years;
leaning against that old weathered clapboard schoolhouse,
high on the hill overlooking the Fundy Bay,
and again, I inhale the fragrance of those wild sea salt roses
and feel the ocean mist upon my face, as I look out at those
sunbeams dancing on the tops of those rolling waves.
There you are, in your hand-me-down dress,
with socks pooling around the tops of your shoes.
There, third row to the far left, sporting a home made bowl haircut,
and a smile of utter joy.
After all years, in so many shades of black and white,
I find that little lost girl, and I am a kid again.
In so many shades of black white, I find the true colors that are me.
~~~
Author: Elaine Cecelia George
I was shot by Cupid's tainted dart
And puppy love awakened my sleeping heart
Tried to impress with exaggerated tales
Mark the box letters sent through the mail
Hunted and fished for sport and food
Baseball games with the neighborhood crew
Dirt always flying from old gravel roads
Wearing my brother's, hand me down clothes
Baseball cards popping bicycle spokes
Stealing the babysitter's pack of smokes
Riding my bike to the nearest creek
Stripping off my clothes to the water I'd streak
Change from my Sunday suit after church
Running around in just shorts with no shirt
Family meals three times a day
Each time we'd all bow our heads and pray
Lied about it all with two crossed fingers
Dad finding out meant a real humdinger
Turn around and do it all over again
Way back then when I was ten
by Daniel Turner
Jan 29, 2016
the deer died with her eyes open
which means she watched herself
become field
something permeable
I found her on the third day of autumn—
found autumn wearing her decaying hide
like a hand-me-down dress
the flies had already written their poems
in the metaphors of her throat:
small black punctuation, multiplying
I wanted to close her eyes
but my hands passed through
what I once believed was boundary
later the biologist told me
decomposition is just the body
finally telling the truth
about how many selves were always
inside you waiting to be released—
even the child who never grew old enough
to be revision
now when I say I, I mean the forty trillion
bacteria who call this dirt-body home
I mean the deer
the flies
I mean the light
that passed through her
and landed here
in this poem
which is just another way of being eaten
which is just another word for love
by the porous self
I’ve always been restless since I was a kid,
to settle near drives me insane.
I’ll just throw together the best that I can
what I own and be gone again.
Boxes long packed I had stacked in a shed,
are obsolete, so I feel that I have
to lighten my load for my road ahead,
then discover an old photograph.
Stopped in my tracks, I sit on the bench;
I look deeply into the face.
My eyes go all misty as I travel back,
to a little old weatherboard place.
Where I remember the warmth in the kitchen,
on those cold and wet winter nights.
Hot steaming soup; the open wood fire,
and the flickering kerosene lights.
How the family was close knit together.
We hadn’t even heard of T.V.
Chatting while eating our Sunday roast;
neighbour visits for hot scones and tea.
Bare footed we ran through the paddocks,
seeking out mud or a puddle.
If we came down with an ailment,
the remedy - a kiss and a cuddle.
Patched up were my breeches and socks.
Most ‘jumpers’ were ‘hand me down’.
I was so proud of my ‘new’ clothes;
showing everyone who came around.
Rabbit was our staple diet.
Trapped in the bush at the back of our home.
‘Chooks’ we kept for the eggs;
only eaten if we killed one of our own.
Blinking, I came back to earth;
took a breath and so pleased to find,
what I believed was forgotten,
is deeply entrenched in my mind.
Dormant I wait for the moment.
Something releases memories I have.
A tear falls and darkens a spot,
on Mother’s faded photograph.
She used second-hand water.
Water which had first been used to scrub vegetables, or rinse the dishes.
And poured it over her red geraniums with loving hands
Waste not, want not....that was her motto.
In offering such hand-me-downs to her flowers, ....they cared not. ....
For her own apron was a hand-me-down...made from a worn out shirt. ...
In her small way it simply told
how she had learned to cherish what matters most.
That even the smallest things, have value.
Her flowers seemed to know her gentle way, her tender touch...
You half expected that when she turned away,
the flowers would leave their place to follow her,
the way the kittens followed from the barn when she came up from milking the cows.
There may be other languages of love,
But those stubborn red geraniums would not die...
they simply bloomed brighter and brighter,
as if they understood whose tender hands were there for them.
Written for my Grandma....who loved her garden...
(A true story)
Now i grow older, and beauteous memories turn to weeds,
this blood in my veins turn to water, like a river cold desolute
in the valley bleeds. Yet still on the hill rise i see
"Aunt Mary" Her hair more golden by the day, when my memory returns
and i think of september, and how she succumb like the freshness
of new mowed hay, her passing beautiful and she would have approved.
Alas here in "Back Beck Cemetery" In december the rushing waters
hum a hollow song, the wailing tune of midwinter,
to an unconcerned yet obedient audience.
the chilled musty air
agonize the aging stone...
deep waters rush by.
The tombstones glisten in the pale unloving sunlight,
my spade and i rendezvous there five and half days a week,
just to dig a little for the human race, just to carefully lay some of them here,
some holding on to their earthly hand me down attributes, some rightly earned,
others a relief from the eroding sentiment of life.
Oh! Then there are the infirmed, and the joy of knowing I,
here in this their final resting place, knowing this their very last winter of discontent!
© Harry J Horsman 2013
Every so often, my mind wanders back to the summer of my youth, where a specific memory awaits.
Having completed my first year at University, I’ve come home. My younger brother John, fifteen, seems all grown up, so different. He’s gotten taller but it’s more than that.
I'm surprised when he offers me a tour of his new ‘Boyz Only’ clubhouse. I almost wonder if he has missed me while I was away, likely not. The shell of a hand-me-down camper has been converted into a hangout. When I mention that he keeps it surprisingly neat, he snickers and reveals his stash of hidden girlie magazines, safe from the inevitable parental inspection.
I am impressed, and at the same time, I can’t help but feel like I’ve entered a time bubble, a door, a transition. On one hand, it feels surreal; on the other hand, it’s simply an honour to just sit here as a guest.
I talk to John about what it was like to adapt to life in the big city. He talks to me about his recent exploits and his adventures with his friends. It isn’t long before we reminisce about the escapades we shared when we were younger. In our pauses, we’re somehow cognizant that we’re one step closer to adulthood, to what we might call freedom.
In the past year, I haven’t thought much about home and our countryside fields. For me it’s more about what the future has to offer. But on this day, it’s tangible how John and I are setting out on different journeys. He is next in line to fly the coop and I'm sure he realizes it. As we spread our wings, it’s obvious that the gap will only grow.
This precise moment clings golden to me, ever so close to the surface of my heart.
at the forest’s edge
by the old baseball field
youth within reach
AP: 1st place 2024, 2nd place 2026, Honorable Mention 2025
Submitted on September 1, 2025 for contest 2025 POETRY MARATHON MILE 13 sponsored by MARK TONEY - RANKED 1ST
and on November 15, 2025 for contest 2025 POETRY MARATHON QUALIFIERS' FINAL PLACEMENT sponsored by MARK TONEY - RANKED 14TH
She used second-hand water
Water that had first been used to scrub vegetables
or rinse the dishes
And poured it over her red geraniums with loving hands
Waste not, want not...was her motto
In offering such hand-me-downs to her flowers
They cared not
For her own apron was a hand-me-down
Made from a worn-out shirt,...
and simply told
that she had learned to cherish what life gives:
even the smallest things, had value....
Her flowers seemed to know her gentle way, her tender touch...
You half expected that when she turned away
the flowers would leave their place to follow her,
the way the kittens followed from the barn
when she came up from milking the cows
There may be other languages of love
But these stubborn red geraniums would not die....they simply bloomed brighter
Thinking about the good old days
Reminiscing for a little while
Some memories made me happy, some made me sad
Some brought a tear and some brought a smile
And I wondered
Were we the last generation
The last generation
To put lighting bugs in mason jars
To look at tail lights and name the cars
To lie in a field and count the stars
To go trick or treating in the local bars
Then I turned on the radio
To an oldies station that took me back
Listened for an hour or two
Put my mind right on track
And I wondered
Were we the last generation
The last generation
To drink water from a garden hose
To be proud to wear hand me down clothes
To sneak a cigarette at the local park
To play in the street well after dark
Then I fell asleep and dreamed of the past
Seems we had a Utopia but it didn’t last
And I wondered
Were we the last generation
The last generation
To play baseball and share our gear
To walk at night without fear
To have laws written in black and white
To still be friends after a fight
Then I went downstairs to call an old friend
Never wanting the old days to ever end
And I wondered
Were we the last generation
The last generation
To walk each day back and forth from school
To have parties with friends at the community pool
To listen as a bluebird sings
To be happy without material things
To play the game fair and square
To end each day with an evening prayer.
And I wonder
H O P E
“Hopeless,” they mocked her in school —
Oakiness in progeny opened other possibilities!
Palatable pearl curated grand’s hand-me-down.
Everlasting Hope - God’s prize.
1/8/2020
Juliet Ligon’s What's In A Name Poetry Contest
I learned on a relic...quite bent out of shape,
rusty and dented..... and not even quaint!..,
An rattle-trap, hand-me-down, that had seen better days
A ten year old's wishes, had faded away....
But, then on my birthday, as I opened my eyes...
There sat a beauty, my birthday surprise
My very first bike.....shiny and red!!
My dreams had come true.....as I jumped out of bed!!!
I tore off the ribbon, to take a good look
No time now, for breakfast, no time now, to groom
I jumped into my clothes, and then burst from the room
Onto the sidewalk, and into the street
Shouting to everyone.. "Will you come, look at me??!!!"
With legs long and tan, I began peddling fast
The sun hid it's shine, the cold wind was brash
Breeze blew through my hair and into my face
With time on my side, I was winning a race!
We were sailing along, I could hear the wheels spin
Over the hills, where often I'd been!
Clutching the handles, pumping my knees
I flew past the graveyard, as I peddled with ease
Far down the lane that circles the fields
With rows of tall corn stalks, all waiting to yield
Passing the warehouse that sold Daddy's seed
I flew past the postman, and the church near the square!
A turn 'round the corner, the train depot there!
Splashing through puddles along the bumpy old track
My legs kept on peddling......with no looking back!!
Didn't notice the dark clouds or storm in the sky
The air was so sweet as I held my arms high
Was I dreaming? I didn't care...as I glided in time
All the happiness I felt, all the joy of that I ride!
I remember that birthday....that's been hidden inside..
Look at me!! Look at me!! On my red bike, it's me!!
Don't you see??!!! Don't you see!!! ... That young girl was me!!
Like a clock that's unwinding..!! That is me that you see!!
I remember....I remember....How happy and free
As those wheels spin beneath me
Look at me !!!!!!!!! Do you see??
Free as a bird....it is me, it is me!!!
Wheeeeeeeee!!!!
We laughed at each other’s jokes
not more than a full moon passed.
On a slick surface, half-smiles crack
a wintry face. My soul abandons
breath in a lifeless bird’s nest
unsteady on a teetering limb.
Under bare trees, my roots
tangle in decay. Nearby,
February dips a toe into warm
streams cried, connected by
frozen acquaintances. I am
no more than a shiver
in late spring, bits of fallen bark.
Did I call you clever or cruel?
Your burly charm crumbles
like brittle bone. A silver fox
traces my lines, the comings
and goings of my own mistakes,
naivety, iniquities, my slips, stains,
incongruous existence. Winter slaps
both cheeks till summer burns
tender flesh. I called you mine or
whoever I dreamed you to be.
When did I get old, lose
my evergreen glow, my ability
to grow and stand alone?
Your laughter follows, echoes
from mockingbird skies. Love strays
into a thinning wood, more sly
than I. An enemy came disguised,
carried away my better days
with lies, came to chip at shells,
fragment smiles. I wish
for more than days connected
by endless seconds –
acquaintances, pretenses. I sip
black coffee to remind me
of your bitterness. I start days
with a half-smile because
it’s a start. I trace, get-to-know,
embrace my own lines. Dawn lifts
veils, finds my smudges -
my little gifts of
mottled, hand-me-down colors.
We traveled side-by-side
too long on far less
than a quest, more like
our own tour guides on a hike
to nowhere. We wasted time,
called each step a discovery.
You, like a cult, tried to suffocate,
berate, till silence was all I knew
of me. Tomorrow marks
the return of hazel-eyed summer.
Tonight marks the return
of a full moon's bare-backed ride
across striated sky, over my lines,
where I will find I.
(a work in progress)
(All right you scallywags of questionable seaworthiness, we begin with an up-tempo step-liveliness.)
Send him aloft, high into the crow's nest,
He'll keep watch with his keen young sight.
Let me out, the wind is a-freshenin',
Roll me up in the middle of the night.
Over to the hatch and have a check within the hold, lad,
So we know that down below, the ship is nice and tight.
Roll into the galley, and fetch the cook potatoes,
But throw 'em in the water if they've got the bleedin' blight.
Roll me out into the wet heart o' the glossy sea,
Hand me down a whoppin' tankard o' rum,
Tomorrow, on the hunt we'll be,
The Captain knows where that foreign vessel's from.
Roll me into our sheltered island hideaway,
We can sleep a while before dawn's early fight.
Give us one drink but we're gonna cut it off right there,
Gotta wake up in the mornin,' gotta wake up feelin' right.
Roll me out, now we're after a prize, boys,
Watch out for the shallows in the middle of the bight,
Roll me away, don't let them hit us broadside,
They'll soon surrender to our mighty pirate fright.
(Okay, me hearties, slow it down a shark's whisker...)
Now we're all as happy as the humpback whale,
We'll treat the prisoners fairly, or it's impolite,
The sun slips below the rail, the briny dark will then prevail,
The crew's asleep, full fathoms deep, of moonlight take a bite.
Roll me easy, there's peace upon the ocean,
The softest wind, and stars a-burnin' bright,
Drift through the water with that slow rockin' motion,
When we make it back to shore, our tales they will write.
(Avast ye now, slow it on down until yer barely makin' a wake...)
Roll me quiet when I think about my lost girl,
Nothin's bigger then than me a-wonderin' why,
Roll me back because I can't forget the dead boy,
And turn your head away, before I start to cry.
Lyrics II-The Black Crowes
Sponsor: Rob Carmack
My Poem:
Cut me some slack tonight,
ease off until I find my sight,
and light,
I’m on my way downward; it’s your song,
you’re always wrong,
I’m never right.
If I get one slim record of your past,
can you fold your cards at last,
and fast,
there’s no rising in the east,
the west is unbound, at least,
while I bleed for your old mask.
I beg, cut me some slack tonight,
throw pity on my knees; let’s not fight,
it’s alright,
you dragged my down onto mercy’s floor,
I keep falling, begging for leniency once more,
you’re always wrong, and I’m never right.
Craving your pardon, down with my hands,
fall when I stand, no one understands.
I'm begging baby, cut me some slack,
you're always wrong...I'm never right.
Craving your pardon, I hate clarity,
found in charity, death to my severity.
I'm begging you, baby, cut me some slack,
throw pity on my knees; let’s not fight.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Black Crowes-Descending
Have mercy baby
I'm descending again
Open your eyes baby
'Cause this time it's sink or it's swim
No sermons on ascending
No verdict on deceit
I have no selfish memorandum
No, no confusion for me
Not for me
Curses, curses and clues
Feast, feast for fools
Curses, curses and clues
Feast, feast for fools
So have mercy baby
And hand me down
Well, it was just a few years ago
You'd hand me up and a map right out of town
But I would let it slide
Slide like mercury
All silver and quick, baby
Poisonous and deadly
So deadly
Curses, curses and clues
Just a feast, feast for fools
Tell you now, curses, curses and clues
A feast, a feast for fools
Let me say curses, let me tell you no clues
Forever just the feast, feast for fools,
Curses, curses and clues
A feast, a feast for fools.
Date Written: May 6, 2016
The American Flag, we fight for it
won't let it touch the ground
Free speech, okay to trample it
High Court is so profound
Let them burn it, tear it up
socialists have spoken
You know they none have fought for it
their common sense lays broken
Hand me down philosophy
believing wrong is right
Sacrificed integrity
don't understand their plight
Let them walk among the graves
that lay through out our land
They'll see ancestors, never known
that died, so they could stand
Each day they tear it down some more
and soon, below half mast
With no one left to fight for it
our freedom will not last.....
GOD BLESS AMERICA
Pete Yuhas