n Earnest's evocative Emporium
there's odds ends a whatnot or two
or they can do a brickbat
novelty knick-knack bugaboo
all nice and bright as a button
altho' they're twice as kitsch
odd oddments and sodments
curious curios contained in a niche
as well as folderol and bric-a-brac
brought from across the border
but the house specialty is really
antiques made to order
I’ve only desired to light old lamps with young wicks
(the tongues of flame must be blinking hard with vigilance)
Across dark, mildewed alcoves that smell of ink —her writing ink —
But one thing led to the other, and the ink I
Found froze in my eyes, the bottle instantly petrified among desert ruins.
I searched, from my village to Nantucket, borrowing
The courage of voyaging storms, seeking earnestly her quill feather,
Just to caress her pretty face with it.
But the power of distance arrested me midway and warned me
Of the dangers of costly adventures.
I hankered after a trained parrot —an amanuenses of note—
With less brilliant plumage,
Electrifying elocution,
To detect to me the protocols of her language.
But that, too, failed.
The parrot was either born mute or chose to be.
I did all I could? to seek, to find, to locate, to identify items
Belonging to her —bric-a-brac of a telling age.
And then there were none.
There are days
when I don't look
for much, just an old chair
on the back porch,
a few thoughts
to pick over, perhaps
a memory to recall and,
to entertain the eye,
splotches of sunlight
to dance around
a cup of coffee
cooling on a table.
Life distilled
to such a simple array
of mental bric-a-brac
set in a familiar scene.
Cezanne knew it
in a bowl of fruit.
And yet how clear
the moment, how
this bright beam
of consciousness illuminates
a patch of existence
making it a lens
into a world trembling
on the brink of becoming.
I keep returning
for more.
The art was most masterful on the dark canvas
Within the thick of night his hand was full of sweep
beneath the Muskan moon the artist quivered not
Etching silver dollar stars the artist took a leap
as he painted up the sky with orbs of sparkling dots
Celestial objects bright as light, a candle spark
moonlight, starlight, airglow, all a work of art
Applying white on black creating a celestial ark
he mastered in the light with darkness off the chart
Tinted colorants of amber midnight grains of gold
every brushstroke took him, to a journey home
Van Gogh signatures and visions stories yet untold
all night long he painted, from a sonic neo zone
Light to dark, with different distinction
he played shadows with God's bric a brac
Twas' a Masterpiece of fact and fiction
Oh ! He really had the knack !
The bric-a-brac shop waits on Rue Nationale.
In a sleepy French town.
It opens at ten,
And closes at one,
Till three.
Then on till seven in the evening.
Madame opens the shutters
Before going to feed her little dog,
Hettie.
Hettie's toenails clip clop on the ceramic tiles.
Madame feeds her green beans and tuna from a tin.
Hettie barks.
Madame sits at her counter
And waits for mail.
A customer comes in.
"Bonjour!"
"Bonjour. Ca va?"
A deal is done on a 1920s doll.
Three hundred euros until Christmas.
A good gift for a collector.
But no more customer's today.
All is quiet.
Evening comes.
Hettie barks.
She eats and drinks.
Madame is always kind. Hettie knows.
She clip clops to her basket again.
Madame thinks about her man in England.
She smiles, but no-one sees.
She shuts the shutters and puts out the lights.
Another evening alone with Hettie and the TV.
Her man is waiting. Her man is waiting.
Back then,
backyards were big enough
to nurture a growing soul
and provide a space
for the earth to play out
its seasons in full rehearsal.
There were wide tracks
of grass, trees to climb,
old sheds to rummage
with their interiors full of tools
and bric-a-brac
webbed in history.
There was food - ripe tomatoes
and corn from a vegetable patch,
grapes swelling
under a cool canopy of vines,
soft skins bursting
their dark sweetness
inside expectant mouths,
almonds, apricots and the luscious
dribble of a warm peach
down sticky cheeks.
Some had roaming chickens
with their bounty of eggs.
Backyards were blotting paper
for a child's hurt, a hiding place
to get away, a theater
for projecting the phantasies
of a sheriff or a princess
high in a golden tower.
And in summer, a sprinkler
casting a gauntlet of cold spray
for tiny feet to challenge.
Then it all ends
when backyards become
too small and more exotic places
call a restless soul to leave
its Eden and break the spell
of its beginning.
create a special place to dream
your own niche, a loner’s paradise
a nirvana, where you can relax
fill it full of comfortable things
pretty items that you have collected
bric-a-brac that you love
bring in scents that bring joy
sights that help your heart leap
people who uplift you
Salvaged trinkets from less mindful times,
doodads and trifles - mainly yours.
Electrical dinosaurs,
wrapped in wires and plugs – mine.
Not much furniture: particle board,
cheap impulsive clutter.
Browsers turn over knickknacks,
hope for an overlooked value;
we have none.
We have this jetsam, and this, and this
and that.
Treasures in-between bric-a-brac
and thingamajigs -
almost priceless, almost worthless.
If you found a fragment of an ancient Greek vase in sand on the edge of the surf, you can find as well all the others, provided that you have an eternity.
A time;
a sea;
salty and warm surf's hands, sorting through a treasure,
gifts from who knows who to who knows whom,
a bric-a-brac* of life:
green,
white,
orange shards of glass, turned into gems by numbers one and second on this list;
a button;
a dime;
a cork;
a toothless comb;
a children's plastic scoop;
an oval shell;
pebbles, tangled up in the algae's brown beard;
a cheap,
enamel on silver,
ringlet (my girlfriend lost it here in July. We got married in September, but she still feels sorry of this ringlet).
* (fr.) A collection of all sorts of rarities, art objects or just useless stuff.
24/07/2019
Writing Challenge 3, July 2019 - List - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Dear Heart
My blood calculated
The width and diversity of my body
My hopeless spirit level
My anchor placing sunken paws
Into the grips of the dirty earth.
I have grown like good stock
And unhinged myself of
My restraints and set foot
Before foot and conquored a gait.
My body all the while
A little box
Full of grey bric-a-brac.
I have manipulated my mouth
To mutter animal sounds
And pieces of precious code
That the others can understand.
These pictures fluctuate and flutter
Painted inside my head
A screen of endless manufacture
And invisible machines which
Surely stand higher than a god.
My blood calculated
And my evolution continues
Locked and stifled
On the sacred ancient ground
Where we bury our dead
And build our cityscapes.
Had a purge on my study today,
Loads of stuff to go away.
CD's and books, DVD's too,
All gathering dust, I'll never view.
Lots of bric-a-brac, pictures galore,
Cushions and ornaments and much more.
All stacked and piled on the table outside,
Just sat there waiting for me to decide.
Where it's all going, I had not a clue,
Then came a memory of the blue.
I saw a movie, maybe you did too,
About when good fortune comes to you.
All this I have gathered, not wanted now,
Remembering the movie showed me just how.
It was called Passing It Forward",
What you don't want, you can award,
To those in need, without any reward.
Take it all to the charity of your choice,
No need for acclaim, so don't raise your voice.
The shop can make money for their worthy cause,
It's a bit like playing at being Santa Clause.
Bringing presents for being good the year through.
Now you can help others, like others helped you.
Pass it forward.
© Dave Timperley 02/11/2018
Instead of a purse, Miss Prudie Plunkett carried a frumpy sack
Brazenly swiping, filching, odd & ends and bric-a-brac...
Until one day at the five-and-dime
The store clerks gave her a terrible time
Banned her for life and labeled her a kleptomaniac!
Your suicide
Wrests the act from the hand
So that fire can envelop the bottle
And skyward
And bright
And living
Technicolour dances in extremes.
We effervesce and burst
We rise up and with a fury
A million or more
We wilt back onto the vine
Waiting to be harvested and
Transformed into feed for machinery
The blocks and the slabs and
The blocs and the Slavs
And the pointed jagged teeth
Of a rusted saw three thousand times the size of the moon
We jigsaw and puzzle and pile up
And bric-a-brac away the inheritance
Of dead men coming into dead men’s fortunes
We store up and cascade
And chisel
At the face of a dam
As a plague of locusts descends
Within the imagery of Uncle Sam
We shoot in succession
And with twenty-eight barrels
We could split the world to pieces
And commit
Several of the greater nations
Turn and shoot and all goes black
As the litter is circulated
In samizdat and under purple cloth.
I think back of yesterdays
And particular summer days
When my brother and I might be bored or
Deviously in the mood to explore
Instead of conniving trouble to arouse
We would remember that old house
Abandoned way down the road
Decrepit roof, ready to implode
Where never would we go on solo mission
But soon our duo launched expedition
To see if at least it was still there
Whose it was we were unaware
Tiny and dilapidated, barely a room
Unmistakably no larger than a bathroom
One time we found a china cup
Another time, a silver coin face up
We were sure by a ghost it was haunted
We came to suspect someone taunted
By repeatedly planting odd bric-a-brac
As lures to keep us coming back
It sounded creepy so off we’d go
As soon as curiosity was ready to tip toe
But when we thought we saw snakes, ho
Believe me, that got us moving pronto
AP: 1st place 2022, Honorable Mention 2020
Based on my consulting this year’s almanac
June 30th being the best possible day for a BBQ out back
I sent out invitations to everyone, I didn’t hold back
There was the lumberjack, the nymphomaniac
The humpback, the hunchback and the hypochondriac
The kleptomaniac, the hemophiliac and the insomniac
No reason to leave out the egomaniac and the pyromaniac
Ooops and how could I almost forget our local amnesiac
I proposed a neighbourly exchange of paperback
I asked them all to contribute, call back or at least provide feedback
Eve of June 30th, gotta prepare my shack
Start to clean vigorously with ammoniac
Wash my floors and dust that miscellaneous bric-a-brac
To make room for guests, park my hatchback in the cul-de-sac
Find bowls for every possible sweet and snack
Think of various games including kayak and piggyback
Think I might serve some type of aphrodisiac
Put together a musical playlist of 60’s to 70’s flashback
Get all set for a promising night of banter and wisecrack
I think I’ve thought of everything and I’m right on track
O gotta go… I think I hear the doorbell- must be Jack
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.