Catalogues Poems

The Archaeology of Gravity

Love, he says, sounds like a door
closing softly in a room built for your name—
that measured click holding its breath,
the air swelling in its pause,
as if the walls themselves leaned in
to listen for what would not come.

Later, he becomes a man
rewriting himself in a language
he can almost hear but never speak—
his phone dim on the table beside him,
your name a faint tide
appearing, receding
before the edge of his resolve,
each unsent word heavier than speech.

This is the archaeology of want:
he dusts the edges of your gestures,
catalogues the tilt of your cup
before your mouth finds the sentence,
traces the seam
where your hand once crossed his skin,
keeping each relic
as if it could shift the sky’s design.

And perhaps this is why
when physicists speak of the force
that threads galaxies together,
I think of him learning
to love in the way light bends—
how it travels centuries
to arrive at a place already changed,
still carrying the warmth
of where it began.

AI helps or replaced human

2025.05.11
A.I. helps or replaced human.

I enjoyed window browsing
Shopping but not reading catalogues.
Physical travelling instead of videos watching,
The David Attenborough.
Which would not give you the satisfaction,
From all your body senses.
I always dream off being able to
Swim in the oceans, emerged my body totally.
Climbing up all the steps
Of the light houses and high towers,
Walk on the water breakers,
To witness how the ocean water 
Smash onto the man made features.
Watch the waves splashed the piers
And stamp my bare feet
Along the sandy beach. 

AI could not help me
To do all those life' s activities,
With its help, I might be travel better and further.
I might be able to enjoy musics and songs
From another levels, but I still wished
To do things on my own.

Where Did I Go?

It whispered
From afar its sutble tones lay
On a bed of acceptance
Pillows tossed away the heat
Competing against the harsh winter
Where grey found its way
And south was the compass point

A mane that once tested wind
Now lay among a barbers tread
Coin handed for less chore
As nods of reflection 
Bows with the brow
And body limply rises from the chair

For age slips unnoticed
From behind an invisible cloak
Once a vibrant image
Where fear held no quarter
And dare danced free
Tears now weep in silence

Minds race through catalogues
Titled, where did you go?
Recalling a thousand memories
Of the good and the bad
As fingers navigate
A well worn face

Come back to me!
A desperate cry departs
But no-one listens
Another day goes by!

Cruise Brochures

Viking sends me sleek brochures
For every kind of cruise.
I guess they figure that they really
Don’t have much to lose.

There certainly must be a lot
Of people who will look
And then be wowed enough to find
A trip they want to book.

We’ve traveled with them several times
Before pandemic days
And for the tours that they provide,
I have the highest praise.

My interest in that type of trip
Has waned, yet in the mail,
The catalogues keep coming;
All that effort’s bound to fail.

Perhaps to companies that big,
To go to that expense
Is worth it if such nudges
Push some people off the fence.

Paper Doll

      
      Pressed on perforated lines by a lonely playmate 
      Affiance instant, folding fingers christen simulate 
      Phantasm button nose,  rosebud lips,  locks flaxen
      Escapist catalogues outfits alphabetically, all prim
      Repairs rapid, creases cease, orchestrated by him


      Dependable quotidian, fix fold away any faults
      Origami girl gives empathy, mouth without insult 
      Lilliputian with ripped ringlets, rested submissive
      Lets crafter cover stiff corners with sterile kisses






                    Thirtieth of April 
            Thoughts overpower actual

Lost Art

Lost Art

There was a time
when we waited eagerly
for the mailman -
when mail deliveries 
had actual mail in them
 
There were real 
hand-written letters 
from parents,
cousins, children, friends,
maybe a lover,
perhaps birthday cards 
or get-well wishes
or postcards from far off.
Now we have e-mail
instant gratification –
no waiting for days
Jot off a note with 
a click and it’s there

No more long pages of
small talk about family, 
friends, the neighborhood,
or a new recipe,
things that make
letters enjoyable.
Now mailboxes overflow
with advertisements 
unwanted catalogues 
political cards full of 
slander of opponents
and dubious information

Most of all, requests
for money, accompanied by
unwanted and unneeded
tote bags, return labels, 
t-shirts and greeting cards -
all paid for with money
supposedly sent
to provide help
for some needy cause
Trees sacrificed for what?
junk mail, trashed as soon
as it’s out of the mailbox!
What of all the history
gleaned from letters 
over the years?

Most e-mails are deleted.
Whatever could be learned 
from them is gone.

The written letter 
has become a lost art.

Another Stint For Clint

Mr Clint Eastwood, one top dollar guy
Other film makers just watch him and sigh
With back catalogues they can sit back and rest on
Our Clint has released a brand new neo-western

Cry Macho’s the title, I’ve not seen it yet
But it will be ‘wicked’ on that you can bet
My wife said that cowboy is ninety years old
He won’t stampede horses he won’t dig for gold

I told her I don’t know what it’s all about
But Hollywood know how will figure it out
Maybe he’ll shoot folk and watch them all die
And then tell his nurse he can’t remember why

That one time gunslinger, occasional singer
Gets on screen come ons from each passing humdinger
There’s cheroots and liquor, yet what he wants most
A box of viagra… he might need a gross

I mean no offence to that great fellow, Clint
Who gets propositioned by each passing bint
If my ridicule seems a tad over zealous
Don’t worry, Clint… it’s just that I’m jealous!

The White Bedroom Set

"How sweet to the heart are the scenes of my childhood"

                                   Samuel Woodworth, 1785-1842

I remember wonderful childhood days
many special ones were spent with my Dad
reminiscing makes me sad in some ways 

Going with you to auctions made you glad
watching the bidding sometimes was a bore
bittersweet memories make me feel sad

You took me to auctions and antique stores  
We ate cooked onions and steamed red hot dogs
You bid on the set with the white drawers

It wasn't the one with the pinecone knobs
excited you won the white bedroom set
dreaming of pink bedding in catalogues


For years we laughed about that winning bet,
 it wasn't the one you wanted me to get

11/19/2020
Contest: Terza Rima Form
Sponsor: Constance La France

Printers Apprentice

A printer's apprentice is my youth was

My canvas a 4 colour Heidelberg press no less

A 1000 + tons of  solid steel industrial ingenuity

That changed and formed the landscape we know today

Cyan,
Magenta,
Yellow,
Black

Through paper cuts from shuffling paper

And cleaning ink it would bleed into 
every crevice and cut in my hands

That to the untrained eye it looked as if i never washed

The ink what in which my hands lay

I printed black on white instructions you would find inside medicine boxes

And glossy catalogues to business card's

So through the power of printed ink

Reminiscing back

Somewhere out there to this day

Come what may

I may not have been Leonardo or Banksy

But hopefully I somehow left my mark

However insignificant

So i reap my own graffiti

Like the soldiers of the red army did on the Reichstag wall's

Before the rise and fall

Of Nazi and Communism

Finis

Uncharmed by the bloom of fresh roses white,
I shall with the mute prop of unspeaking sticks,
Like a bored mollusk loathe my slowing walks;
And pine for eternal still with wee cursing clicks. 

Uninspired by thrills of chart-topping songs,
And no longer revived by their lisping beats,
And aided by sad hammers and rioting tongs,
I soon shall fault all Earth and her tepid treats. 

Not fresh world's trending fashion’s catalogues,
Nor its luring vogues in their cyclic monologues, 
Shall this last pilgrim's going even slightly delay;
All men’s warmth unwanted obstacle in my way. 

Thievish night's erstwhile dreaded gloom
Shan’t prove such a feared quieting tomb,
For her dusky shroud may better warmth
Spell than all sluttish breath's jaded cloth.

I’ll gradually disdain these slow-turning rounds,
And slowly uninterestedly rise to stiller grounds.

The Catalogue Model Fooled Me

When I was younger I used to think I would look
Exactly like that catalogue model if I had that pink coat,
And those fuchsia polka dot gloves, and that fur hat.
So I would buy them, but my hair would stay the same.
My face did not get younger,
And they simply did not look the same on me.
An epiphany I had the other day.
These models do not eat food. 
They serve them wallpaper, and make them throw it back up.
I smile thinking of this as I stare at my pink coat 
In size double zero that I could have never worn in my life.  
I only ordered it, so the man on the 
Other end of the phone would not laugh
When I gave him my actual size.
Dhramned catalogues anyway!

12 Days After Christmas

all the rush is done...
and santa retreats again...
into his burrow...

after christmas sales...
reign now on winter days...
so i go shopping...

not in catalogues...
or on the net...just real stores...
to find those...bargains...

small town or city...
time for after-presents fun...
and buy what i want...


stan sand

Flat Pack Wobbler

Flat pack Wobbler

Procured from mega shop, a straight-lined box amid a cardboard wall 
Where jig saw chattels rise above the queues of flatbed wheelies
And underarm catalogues patterned with an iconic list of what they are
When the blocks are sequenced and affixed with laborious strife
A transformation takes place that gives the pack new form herewith
Long live the flat pack table and its tedious sway in frail chipboard
Seated upon upon a quartet of nailed on props that creak objection
It takes its varnished place in harmony with four bolted chairs that match
And for a while it serves to hold the plates and cutlery just grand 
Until the careless etch of scratches weave marring patterns on its top 
Forever to remain as though a work of scribbled art and wrinkled mess
No longer wavelets in the soup, a tidal wave is now the norm when the legs teeter
Today the food’s aslant and the drinks decide to slide and slither to the floor
The props have given way, they’re tired and now submit to glory
And the table returns again to flat pack with eternal gratitude




 


 








quartet of props

Fit To Stay

The pieces of the day
Fit to stay
As my mind catalogues
With it all 
It never clogs
Room like a stall
My betrothed on the line
Giving good love
And whispers
Keep the pieces
From washing away

Six Weeks

What have you done to my life
When I think about it, it cuts like a knife
Don’t you have a heart
Or am I just not that smart
For six weeks I sold myself
Defiantly not on the shelf
Needles in my arms
As dangerous as firearms
Had to find a shower
I needed it for will power
A plate of food
If you are in the nude
Every part of me
Wished it could be free
You fed me to the dogs
I’m now in all the catalogues
Speed dial just for fun
I’m there like the noon gun

• Short Catalogues Poems
• Famous Catalogues Poems
• Best Catalogues Poems
• Read Catalogues Poems
• Long Catalogues Poems
• Catalogues Quotes