You sachet round the aisle
Just to seek an earnest romp
You flash your crooked smile
More of your parasitic pomp
A masher and a cad
You ever prey on their desires
Take everything they had
Then put out their friendly fires
You'll laugh your life away
You're quite the jester, yes it's true
I've just come here today
Saying, the joke my bloke's on you
No one ever calls you friend
Nor will ever recall your name
When you reach the bitter end
You'll know you played a losing game
No mourners will be present
Teary-eyed beside your grave
No tender reminiscent
No fond knick-knacks left to save
Some may find it sad indeed
But, all the same, I find it just
Time to plant another seed
One more idiot in the dust
“In my empty heart – only memories” by poet
Today our mother had his bed removed
and took posters down – even things he’d drawn
depicting stuff of which she’d disapproved.
Those posters that revealed his heart – all gone!
She took his dresser out, and all his clothes
she folded up to donate to Good Will.
His nice suits in the closet – even those -
as well as knick-knacks on the window sill!
I understand the pain she’s going through.
What good is there in taking all away?
The rest of our family's grieving too.
I press to my face a saved shirt of grey.
It was his favorite. In his empty room,
my tears release. I’m standing in a tomb.
Man's best friend
in need of a feed
is a friend indeed
so
with a knick-knack here
and a paddywhack there
give your mutt a bone
pat your pet
cuddle your canine
canoodle with your poodle
or smooch your pooch
and he'll hound you
'til the cows come home
wagging his tail behind him
desultery
make-believe
festooned
in
patterns
of
.pleasured
opulence
a
cornucopia
of
hedonist
innovation
flourishing
interludes
of seismic
seranades
embracing
sumptious
magnificence
AN OPEN FORM uses spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,& relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input &respond in a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood thus is inherently variable.
Professor: Setting is inducing trust that as a writer you are not volatile, nor giving lesser detailed thought about those knick knack, mundane also. can you give me an example Johny?
Johny: Certainly , can I ask the narrator type?
professor: say, camera setting...
Johny : genre?
professor : prose poem, light hearted or serious, both will do.
Johny : here you go....I bought floss and Hydrogen per oxide from the nearby pharmacy. I wanted to pick up my medicine too, but they were reluctant, altogether, seemingly so. I had to bypass.
professor : why so?
Johny: the only audible sound was a song..."when you say nothing at all."
Surely , verily a cranky setting! tired too!
As the counseling session was declaring, they begin as a parent asleep, raise them up asleep and send them to school asleep. Dreams ahoy!
A routine annual clean up
at the start of the New Year!
Among heaps of used up papers
and broken knick- knacks-
in the contents of her shelf’s drawer,
lay a photograph,
old and musty.
Memories rushed back as waves onto the shore.
She had kept it as a keepsake,
when love was raging through her veins!
A face that she wished to see all through her life,
now a bitter sweet reminder of joy and pain.
Through the years, what all changes
and how their love had faded out of memory.
Suddenly,
all too suddenly,
from the charred bones
of a died down funeral pyre,
resurrected someone,
with lovelorn eyes
bursting the bandage of time.
His sad eyes, rivetted at her.
She saw the smile fading out from his face.
Her eyes went dim with tears.
In the blurred image, she saw her past.
A torn leaf from life's chronicle.
A story she had hidden from everyone.
She felt the ground slipping under her feet
Blood and serum oozed out
and once more
she became,
a festering wound!!
Time may put an ache to sleep,
but anytime it may wake up and peep!
get out your words and try
try to make everything all right
sling them like arrows
into the gauntlet of time
do they even know
what they're trying to find
or do they just need to unwind
this old man played
too many knick-knacks too many times
too many paddy whacks to give his dog a bone
and that's okay... he's got his syllables
to lead him... astray ...or guide him home
it doesn't matter... they love to roam
over the highways and byways
through space and time
through the intricate mazes
of his heart and mind
not looking to mean anything
but to be happily lost.. like petals in the breeze
fluttering, floating and flying free
that's all they've ever needed to be
but if they could find their way
to a better place on some promising day
and could kiss you long enough
sink hard enough and deep enough
they'd never be forgotten
Today I feel unreal.
‘Decohered.’
Like a suitcase full of writings
and knick-knacks and scribbles
torn asunder.
Splintered.
And the collection that was contained
therein can no longer interact
in the same manner.
But then calmly you sit
and take into yours my hand
so that one thing remains-
I want to stay here.
" Obsession to live on memories losing past invites nostalgia." - Poet.
NOSTALGIA
Nostalgic notion nags for those already depressed.
Overwhelming obsession to reminisce dead events.
Sickness to swing on search of old sentiments of bygone days.
Traveling back along path of memories longing for relishing fresh.
Approaching in vain to access on chapters of past life.
Lingering over lamentation or contentment met in adrift days.
Groaning, grating, grinding grasping forgotten knick-knacks.
Intense inclination to live on remembrances.
Alluring rumination of long-lost dreams once aglow now fading..
Knick-knacks, bottle caps, pop tabs, and acid
The reflux of my mind of many memories redacted
Connections don't elucidate the fuzzy things that happen
Only emphasize the vacuity of brains fried and flattened
I wouldn't deign to age another decade with this habit
But self-control's a feeble virtue in youthful years uncounted
Demote me to a lesser life where everything is vapid
My rancor for the world only grows as time elapses
I press on indulgently into the sugared gasses
The romance of it influence next generations addicts
For boys discover empathy and girls affirm their status
They haughtily plod to the tracks as the sully train passes
Baubles and bangles
doo-dads and what-nots
Trinkets and knick-knacks
don't stir my pot...
Excitement, adventure
discovery, peril
Launch me over Niagara Falls
pulling levers in a barrel
"This old man, he played one……”
There has never been a more joyful homeless guy.
We had brought turkey sandwiches to his alley.
He had a small ukulele, and he was loving his song.
“….with a knick knack, paddy whack, give a dog a bone…”
“He is really something!” An old lady said to me.
She took the sandwich after asking if it had mustard.
I had a mustard packet in my pocket, so I gave it to her.
“I need two,” she informed me.
The old man was singing more loudly now.
There were six of us church people here.
I looked at Jim’s face because he was near me.
He rolled his eyes which surprised me.
I thought he would appreciate the guy’s enthusiasm.
On the van ride back to the church the others discussed the singer.
“He was ridiculous!”
“I loved his enthusiasm,” I told them.
“He was not that great a singer,” someone said.
“I loved his enthusiasm!” I repeated, but a bit louder.
Realizing now that I liked the guy with the ukulele better than I liked them.
Remembrance for a choker in my deathbed
(Read-only version, a knick-knack too)
Precious finger, the witnessing one, Count
The forehead of a pious one, leaving a mark
Glowing along days and nights, prayer mats, in trying times
And prayers at dusk. Prayers valid till the sternest hairline dawn.
I touched his forehead, long past after the soul is gone.
He was the only one in my life, the only one of his capable kind.
He was the stubbornest hand holding me and mom inside an elevator
He was scrutinizing the sky to let me fly, however superficial it may sound.
I got wiser through all these years. I earned wisdom.
In turning grayer hair colors too, underneath the head scarf.
You will see my purple there, but I will label it as a purple heart.
Torn tears are in sheets of Facial tissues, also, in mourning mistakes, never to be known.
Just for my persuasive temptation, for the next one,
How many harms roads are there along the enlightenment highway in one full Cloverleaf, the old one?
Oooooooh bagels and bread by golly
Rumors and ramekins, fools folly
This attitude aggregious
But a knick knack fecicious
Hold a tick, did you say napkins?
Not for glass jars and captains
A twist off jammed and stuck in a rut
Threads on a screw doing all the scut
A nail has it easy
All smooth and goes in easy
But time and hammer gave a chance
As long as it was done in baggy pants
So a squid with a quiver
Full of arrows did deliver
Down the narrows did they float
But on a paddle not a boat
So he ate his breakfast fast
And wiped the ink off from a blast
Broke open the container
It's no crazier than saner
Built the shelter speedily
With headphones on greedily
Balanced atop a wooden oar
A raft, no no, just such a bore
Not very analytical
But we won't become political
Since it was a higher ranking tenticle
Who made the inky wooden popsicle
A little poem nonsensical
Where sense is reprehensible
boxful of Scotland souvenirs at a car boot sale
a life’s possessions
in thirty or so boxes
from the back of a white Transit
knick-knacks from Scotland
a wee man with ginger hair
tam o’shanter
and a corkscrew
a picture of Ben Nevis
with all the red vibrancy
sucked out of it
by years of rising suns
through flat windows
a toilet roll holder
from Edinburgh
cartoon spider and an inscription
taken straight from Robert Bruce
“if at first you don’t succeed,
try, try again”
an empty whisky bottle
shaped like a hand bell
a small bundle of colourised postcards
in brown, green and purple
of the Scottish Highlands
a tea towel with a stubborn brown stain
of the Isle of Skye
a pint glass with a colour scene
lettered Aberd—n
and a dried bunch of heather
bound by a tartan ribbon
from the banks of Loch Ness
that bunch of heather,
forty six years picked
owned from honeymoon to death
thirty or so boxes
of worthless detritus
to rummage and ransack
on a summer Sunday morning
a life lived
in one of thirty boxes.
6.6.2011
revised 6.6.2022 6:45am
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