scattered in the sand
colored stones mixed in with shells
memories in bag
My son collected baseball cards;
My brothers did, as well.
My Beatles card collection
Was the female parallel.
But there’s an opportunity
For everyone to buy –
Although it’s hard to understand
A decent reason why –
Some trading cards that feature Trump
In poses quite bizarre –
An astronaut, a cowboy
And the weirdest one so far –
A superhero with a body
So unlike Trump’s own,
It would be quite ridiculous,
But somehow it is known
That people buy them!
Shelling out, for every NFT,
Enough to question what’s become
Of each one’s sanity.
How low can one man really sink
To hawk himself this way?
It’s mortifying to confront
Such ego on display.
Silver candlesticks and other thingamabobs
Of questionable use in these modern times,
And riffraff scattered throughout in gobs
Most are reminiscent of long-ago pastimes
Of younger years spent happily gallivanting
Around the globe in search of new ventures
Now I spend entirely too much time, daunting,
Searching for my eyeglasses or my dentures
And trying to figure out how to dispose of
The knickknacks and what-nots I’ve collected
Not enough drawers I can into them shove,
On shelves they are dusty and much neglected.
I’m thinking that’s what my executors are for
So, I’ve designated a few people who will care
Who will make an inventory and open the door
For an estate sale, when I have gone over there
Time comes when my collections are scattered
To the four winds and have lost their meaning
Folks enjoyed them in my home, I was flattered,
But, now I am doing some necessary cleaning.
Written July 23, 2022
Collectibles
I stand in the half light and cast my eyes
On so many facets of life.
Standing, hanging, sitting in disarray,
Defined by price and market trends.
Things once loved, or cherished,
Admired, coveted, or just well used.
Everyday things that have seen or felt
Or been a party to a family life.
They wait in silence for a new beginning.
How many eyes have seen a crystal light,
Or hands have used a well worn tool?
Whose lips have touched a gold rimmed cup
In happiness, in peace, or war.
How far back in time do their memories stretch,
What tales can each impart?
A sampler spells out thoughts or prayers,
Stitched with care from love or threat.
Pewter measures, bent and worn,
Poured out hope or watered down despair.
A silver pointer shows a holy text,
Dispelling fear of death to come.
Mirrors framed in ornate styles
Reflect a thousand faces,
Young and old,
That now lay buried, long forgotten.
A new life beckons these who wait
Their chance to once again
Belong.