Knickknacks Poems | Examples

she inherited millions

she inherited millions
her parents’ house, furniture, clothes, knickknacks, jewelry, daddy’s watch
never spent a penny on a couch, never chose a painting or a necklace
satisfied with mommy and daddy’s things, wore mommy’s clothes
a spinster, who spent her money frugally on groceries and utilities
turned her thermostat down to fifty-six in the winter, to save money
satisfied with her parents’ furniture, never chose a comfortable couch
left a million dollars in the bank when she died
no one to give it to

Tchotchke

Spring cleaning comes and I seek to expunge from every counter and corner
All clutter and dried rose that serves no purpose
Knickknacks and little trinkets all go in the basket.
To be given to those who have lesser or resold or simple lost forever

There it sits on the mantle, an object grotesquely elephantine
Rounded edges so it fits into no corners
Claiming center stage, grossly out of place
Into the basket it goes leaving only a rim of dust in its absence 

Spring cleaning is over, expunged from every counter and corner-
-all clutter or dried rose that serves no purpose
Knickknacks and little trinkets all go in the basket 
The basket goes to the salvation army down the street

I sit and relax after a long day 
Coffee in my hand, eyes fixed on the clean mantle
There it sits on the mantle, the object grotesquely elephantine
rounded edges so it fits in no corners

Claiming its place in the center
Of no value but it still remains
Like the one who gave it
My tchotchke

The Real Gold

A lot of life I’ve lived; in all these years
some attitudes and thoughts of mine have changed.
Here’s one example: I’ve got fewer fears,
but one thing mainly I have re-arranged.
I’ve switched around the way I used to feel
about possessions. Now that I’ve grown old,
It’s so much easier for me to deal
with quitting seeing things like they were gold.
I realize the many things that I’ve
been spending money on mean so little.
Simple joys are the real gold; I’m alive!
The many things my kids would belittle -
my records, knickknacks, clothes and lovely rings.
Time with family is much more worthwhile.

In The Matter of Nothing

Heaven could be like an infinite holiday
without grief and burden of war 
without physical or emotional pain
A family reunion everyday
bathed in the purist of light
manna nibbled from crystal plates.
 
Heaven could be like a tide pool
a place where cracked limbs grow back
where hearts are gently put back into place
where children play on trampoline dreams
where everything is glazed in the spirit-Godspeed. 

Heaven could be where secrets of being are revealed
where peace is accepted naturally
where sin is gleaned rendering the soul pristine.
Heaven could be trimmed in cherub knickknacks
made from the messiahs' precious hands-

Heaven could be a place where you finally meet
Leonardo -Vincent- Mother Theresa or Martin Luther king -
Heaven could be just a melting film reel, in an L.S.D dream.
man-woven from the matter of everything and nothing.

My Miniature Odyssey

Some days I just wanted to tread muted waves
not knowing whether
what grazed my leg was a porgy,
or a Leviathan reaching out to me from the gradient depths.

The paranoia kept me afloat,
the fear drove me to swim to shore.
When I made it back to the sand,
I chose not to live as I did before.

Walking away, I looked back at the dunes, gray and dulled,
yet the sun cloaked the sky in an orange nightgown.
The ocean smiled that evening,
a pearly white grin born from the descending gleam. 

From what I saw in the horizon
in the sheen, dimensions were torn from the seams.
the sea’s teeth melted away,
its dentures rotted into a violent green.

A craterous head, so alien, so organic
crowned with mesopelagic knickknacks.
Phosphorescent eyes surrounding its gelatinous skull
poked out of the boiling cauldron that was the Atlantic.

Its behemoth sized hand, with fingers gnarled and gangly
erupting so fast!
Contrasting the married sky of lavender and apricot
Levi, then gently waved me goodbye.

Bridge Chairs

If you have bridge chairs, playing bridge
Is not their only use.
Try mah jongg or canasta -
Any game needs no excuse.

Or set them up for extra guests
So everyone can sit,
Especially if there’s
A fold-up table where they’ll fit.

The same goes for a coffee cup,
For cocoa or some tea
Can fill it up as well as java -
Wouldn’t you agree?

Of course, that coffee cup may rest
Upon a coffee table,
Which may hold books or magazines,
Despite its coffee label.

And yet, if you’ve a bookcase,
You may get some eye-roll looks
If the shelves have only knickknacks,
When it’s meant for holding books.

A Week After Christmas

It's now a week after Christmas,
Guests have packed up and gone,
Regular knickknacks are back up,
Decorations are down.
The Christmas tree is dismantled
To be towed away and then burned
With wrapping papers and ribbons,
Unwanted presents returned.
Another Christmas is over,
You'd hardly know it was here,
But the festive joy lingers,
So raise with me a cup of cheer,
And when that ball drops down at midnight,
Let's shout out with all our might,
And ring in another bright
And very Happy New Year!

                               !! Happy 2024, Poetry Soup !!

The Kibitzy Kleptomaniac

A kibitzy klepto keeked like a kakapo at a kerfy knotholey kist that kept knickknacks made from kidskin and krimmer in it. His knockoff kiths were knackered of the kookie knucklehead's kleptomaniacism- kudos to them!

An Obsolete Man

Divorce robbed him of surprise,
left him disused,
parts of his brain tingled less,
he grew blasé, he had to improvise,
extemporize parts
that were less prone to rust and mold.
It seemed he was a bare broom,
one that could no longer sweep away 
a rising sense of purposeless.

Then it was that a new surprise found him,
he began to make yesteryear trinkets
knickknacks held together 
with a duct-taped nostalgia.
Walking sticks and old-school picket fences
were carved from the bones of his memory.
Other doohickeys such as
paperweights for light-headed ideas,
or knickknacks to fill in
those awkward holes in people’s lives.

Success returned, so did a new wife.
She had a lever, a jack,
to hydraulicly lift him up
when he occasionally sagged.
She used superglue on all his loose bits.
It’s wonderful what a new lick of paint can do.

Thingamabobs and Knickknacks

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

Garage Sale

she never threw anything out 
the driveway is filled 
clothes hang on racks
hers on the left, 
a few of his on the right
tables of her shoes
kitchenware, pots, pans
knickknacks, tchachka’s
souvenirs from long ago trips
some of the furniture
will go..there’s no need 
for all of it now
the most valuable, 
jewelry, some paintings
are in the garage
the money isn’t important 
at this point
it doesn’t matter….
how can he put a price 
on what’s been taken
his memories aren’t of
a particular dress or 
pair of earrings she wore
he won’t look at a painting
or photograph of a trip
and think of her
he misses her smile, 
the touch of her hand on his face
the look in her eyes,
how she curled up inside him
in bed at night, stealing his warmth 
… when she spoke his name

Suicide Note

All things have fallen to the wayside
And I cannot bring myself to go beyond the front door

The coffee table is messy with unopened mail 
And haphazard cigarette ash

Dusty knickknacks are silent and undemanding 
Each with its own place on the shelf

The past is nonsense, the present is nonsense
This life makes no sense

Breathe in breathe out don't breathe
Death is the only sensation ... cessation...

Home

The rugs in the living room
Are thin in places, and
The dog has scratched
The painted floors.
The end tables are crowded
With family pictures
Instead of knickknacks
Some of the bath towels 
Have slightly raveled edges, 
And a washcloth is left in the tub.
There are books and newspapers
On the coffee table and
Hardly a place for a coffee cup.
But the house smells of
Fresh baked bread or cookies,
The lights are on, and 
The welcome mat is out\. 
Friends feel free to just drop by.
It may not be fancy, but
It’s a house that’s happy
And comfortably “broken in”.

Each Small Ornament Reminds Me of You

I always considered you littered my home,
Small knickknacks adorning overcrowded shelves.
The marble statues you bought from lovely Rome,
I leave them there, a memory of ourselves.

And in gay Paris, you just went mad with joy
Those miniatures saucers, jugs and a vase,
Insisting each was her special lovely toy,
Dainty trivialities, there's no more space.

But without Limoges, can one live a true life?
She packed them carefully thus to take back home.
Porcelain I had to pay for my dear wife,
How tired I was, each elegant shop to roam. 

Such charms, rings, bracelets, miniature houses
Lured by magnetic charms, earrings and pendants,
From Upim*, Milan she bought tens of blouses 
At Lafayette, I waited in attendance.

She's left me with all these little ornaments
Beautiful up to a point I must admit;
Shall I cherish them for what each represents?
Give to charity or leave them in my writ?



NB Upim is a superstore in Italy.

Time To Clean

Some people’s homes are sparkling;
You could eat right off the floor,
With not a speck of dust the mop
Decided to ignore.

Each day they polish, vacuum, scrub;
All surfaces are cleared,
The picture frames and knickknacks
Shiny when they reappeared.

But I do not include myself
Among those folks I know
Whose homes are neat and spotless
With that lemon oil glow.

Yet every now and then a voice
Within me starts to nudge,
Reminding me it’s time to clean,
A job I do begrudge.

So now today my windows gleam,
The tabletops as well
And if you came to visit,
You’d detect that lemon smell.

Of course, nobody’s coming here
But still, I’m gratified.
If I claimed this was my new routine, though,
You will know I lied.

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