Best Thrift Poems
Thrift Store Foreshadowing
by Odin Roark
Inventory of past life inventories
Poised in dress-parade attention
Obliging his obligatory inspection,
Seeking the suit that would fit him well,
Avoiding the over-priced,
Cleaned and pressed,
Yet with frayed collar conspiracy
Luridly foisting their prominence
Beneath overhead fluorescents.
About the store,
Bathed in mist-like dust mites and hidden cobwebs,
Dummies dressed in street-window conceit,
Stood like Nutcracker soldiers
Their Mona Lisa eyes tracking his every move.
As rickety fans stirred the summer’s air,
Racks of faded dresses sashayed to and fro from hangers,
Not knowing he was of manly preference,
Even though…
Racks of shirts and ties waved
As he hurriedly sought an exit.
Dead men’s boots and shoes vied for his attention,
As sweat-stained Stetsons rolled along the floor,
Chasing him back to his slumber,
Where his time to wake meant quashing the noisy Big Boy alarm,
Following his ritual of ****, shower and shave,
And the daily venture into the real world of fear.
Sadly…
His analyst, the only known confidant, gave little credence to the dream,
Until having to identify his still body at the morgue,
Her doubt developed a bit more dream consciousness,
Insomnia becoming her constant companion.
The Thrift Store
The thrift store holds relics of time,
Wondering what lives were lived in
the shirts left behind.
A red dress dances on a hanger,
Wondering who danced in the dress before.
Who gave it life?
Did it start with a night on the town?
To only end with a lonely night in bed.
The stain on the sweatshirt,
A beloved sweatshirt with the
strings coming undone, unraveling,
no longer useful, abandoned,
by an owner who once
knew how to love.
A suspect stain on a white wedding dress.
A faded brown stain that may have been
a bright red, faded by
many washes of bleach.
To hide the lies of a day
better left to forget.
relics that face the chance
of a new owner to live in it,
to breathe life back
into the lifeless. To dance
the dance of life one more time.
Nearly all things
pertinent to life
are dispensed
in measured
finite quantities
money
clothing
shelter
food
water
oxygen
even relationships
and our life itself
in precious drops
moments
of time
So, thrift in
nearly all things
is merely a logical use
of these resources
in appreciation
of their value
their basic
necessity
to our
survival
But even frugality
can go too far-
when it becomes
a competition
us against them
a vicious fist-fight
in the bargain-bins of life
when it makes us afraid
that there's not enough
to 'go around'
robbing us of compassion
or understanding
or greater vision
when it destroys our ability to
hope for better things
withholding the means to
achieve our most
important dreams
it becomes counterproductive
to its very purpose...
By all means, use your life
and all that you have carefully
gratefully and mindfully
but in all your various economy-
always remember to
spend your dreams lavishly
and spare no kindness
Would you take a dollar?
No.
Okay. Thanks.
Would you take a fifty-cent piece?
No.
Okay. Thanks.
Would you take a quarter?
No.
Okay. Thanks.
The haggler has no idea how to haggle really, the
vendor thinks, not realizing she gets more things for
a dollar, a fifty cent piece and a quarter than anyone
else in the world.
The buyer leaves with her dollar intact.
There is another garage sale two houses down, right?
Would you take a dollar?
No.
Okay. Thanks.
Would you take a fifty-cent piece?
No.
Okay. Thanks.
Would you take a quarter?
Yes. Sure.
Thank you very much! I love it!
The thrift shop takes donations –
Clothing, housewares, jewelry, books
And much of it is junk, but some
Deserving second looks.
I rarely make a purchase but
At times I fill a bag
With items I no longer use
For them to sort and tag.
It hasn’t happened yet, but still,
I wonder how I’d feel
To see a stranger wearing
My old clothes – would they appeal?
I ditched them for a reason
But to see them looking fine
On another person’s body,
Would I wish they still were mine?
I went to the BIG
bookstore and read
poetry by every author
that has been published.
Now, I can imitate them.
I can write you poetry.
I can give you a page of
thrift shop words—words
that belonged to someone else.
Please take them.
Hold on to them.
Hold on to me.
Soon, I will suffocate
you with my own words.
The voice of death tho a whisper still
If exercised is loud and shrill
A couple of coins & sign the line
May just buy you a little time
Library’s filled with ancient tomes
A lot of stories of the unknown
On going tales of lore
Their to impress the present whore
Two bits to cover the eyes
A few roses to deodorize
A Constant rattle to the soul
can create more havoc than you know
With A few scriptures recited well
Place a dollar bet and you’re out of hell
From our minds the hero’s rise
Revealing how we lived our lives
Speaking in circles nipping our tails
Creating enough wind to billow a sail
The flag of glory is beyond repair
Yet plainly visible to all who dared
This is to Francis& Keith &
The Captains of thrift ANSWERS TO ANXIETY
MOTHER NATURE SHOPS AT THRIFT SHOPS
I watched the trees grow strong and tall
The rain and rainbows is how they were able to thrive
I’ve heard tell of one, but as for me I’ve never seen one fall
The only ones I stand among are vividly alive
The compost was years of dried up leaves and tears
The soil rich with nutrients that we may continue to grow
Each summertime we did that which we did
And in the windy and woeful winter each one of us simply hid
Hidden from the wind and the frost falling down
Hidden from the winter’s woeful wail
Those were the times Mother Nature wore a wine stained gown
And others when she wore second hand clothes on sale
Trees all around me with stories thus to tell
A thousand years old is quite a lengthy tale
Then one by one my fellow trees simply fell
Dead to end up a fence, a rod or a rail
With a thunderous thud my neighbor’s roots could hold that tree no more
The tallest of trees fell as a gasping and gaping crowd gathered around
If a tree falls but no one sees it does it make a noise when it hit’s the forest’s floor?
Then I am the only tree when I fall, although all alone, everyone will still hear my sound
© 2011.…Phreepoetree ~free cee!~
She hadn't a friend who cared or family member around
As well as she had fared the loneliness is what she found
Tucked away in her mansion the neighbors so eerily distant
Drapes keeping out the sun like the rays were never sent
So many pictures of the past yet the joy had long since fled
It all just went so fast and so many things that weren't said
She really had just about enough for what was the reason
Surrounded by all of her stuff there wasn't even any pleasing
Then there was a knock at the door a local Catholic charity
They had a local thrift store it was called the Family Tree
Asking if she had any unwanted things that they could resell
As the money that it brings would help many others as well
She invited them to come in and then showed them around
Then with a slight grin saying all of this has kept my soul bound
You can fill up that whole truck and just take so much of this away
I'm tired of feeling so stuck but all that is going to change today
She kept just enough things but brought all those pictures along
Now suddenly feeling like she had wings she broke out into song
And when she did drive past that store seeing all her stuff in the window
Her emotions would begin to pour as the Lord she had finally come to know
A Graham used to wealth lavish
And to easy fun The slavish:
In the two had not seen blemish
"Let those who wish it be squeamish!"
Now, it is Graham's white wedding;
He knows where the thing is heading:
Skin to Excesses just deaden
Or wife's face might, sometimes, redden...
"Means I'll have to my belt tighten;
That way all my problems lighten:
What man does, his future brightens
And the blackest of scenes whitens!"
A married spendthrift readjusts
Or faces dragging in the dusts...
her opulent presence
is beautifully crafted on the night of the mind
her tattooed form elegantly painted sensitively
but oh so erotically
lip rings and candy necklace feast for the lusts
but she knows your eyes are on the plunging neckline
she is a deeply written romance novella
she is a poem of darker daylight
longing within her good girl image
to be as bad as bad girl can be
beautifully written in that smile
written in the sunshine of the opulent soul
I was never a girly-girl.
I am not a sorting, throwing away, cleaning girl.
I am definitely not a wash-the-dishes or wash-the-clothes girl.
I am more of a fill-up-your-spaces with junk girl.
Buckets of junk, baskets of junk, junk to
Put junk in, junk to sit on top of other junk.
I love thrift stores, garage sales, and flea markets.
Antique malls in town have my credit card number
On file in case I lose it again.
Being prissy is not for me.
Neither is being a girl; I’m a wild woman.
Definitely a SEASONED woman.
Confined in the heart and mind
Of a 9-year-old boy.
The boy side of me laughs
Silently at the prissy people who
Sort and purge and clean.
What sillies!
Wasting their time on something that keeps need re-doing,re-doing,re-doing.
My children can sort my junk after I’m gone. Or the grandchildren can.
2200 E High Street
Pottstown, PA 19464
Upon making a purchase,
yours truly murmurs bonjour
to the man/woman clerk
manning cash register,
(perhaps another day)
maybe soon as tomorrow
January twenty four -
two thousand and twenty,
I will explore
Moonlight madness sale
fifty percent off all merchandise
across the expansive floor
after getting weary and footsore
snagging garments for near future
return home to stock wardrobe (mine)
satisfied with basement bargains galore,
aye attest bang for buck heretofore
wearables specially bought with difficulty,
née impossible mission finding clothing
to fit this hunchback named Igor.
Rather than pay top dollar i.e.
as prestigious patrician wag
hashtagged with extremely
high price tag
(think chic boutiques)
uninviting to token
garden variety scalawag
(i.e. namely yours truly),
who feels more at home
attiring himself courtesy ragtag
garments, particularly scant legal tender
jangling within me threadbare moneybag
plus deformity drawing
less stares when I lollygag
(matter of fact many "Zerns people")
populate said very affordable - egad
even amiable animals
amble along to stash their feedbag.
Impact on very limited budget
affords me more bang for buck
upon locating rare find,
I feel analogous to lucky duck
quacking and fluffing tail feathers
scouting around for usable goods
another shopper did finish
with thence did huck.
There once was an old man in Madras,
he did never ride a city bus,
walked to work saved money
for one joyful journey,
when time came forgot where money was.
July 1, 2019
Syllable count : 9/9/6/6/9
Checked on howmanysyllables.com
Contest : Humorous Limerick
Sponsor : Tania Kitchin
To either family The Land is God’s Gift:
A Divine Portion plus Trophy to lift,
All trespassers to quit making it swift,
Another day to never towards it drift …
A Land The Talk of legal documents gone through
And newspapers armed with Truths mixed with The Untrue;
An entry into the tussle of a busy-body spend-thrift
Making it a plot about which death should be sniffed
And from which one could Man’s folly rift.
But they’re two uncaring families
Impatient for The Bitterest Rift
And for same cancelling their homilies
And appearances for Talks briefed …
Two family disputants over prized land
Not wanting to hear that it is mere sand.