Long Antique Poems
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Grandmas are experts at baking cookies and other things,
For their grandkids and the delight to them it brings!
She reads and tells of family lore as they sit upon her lap.
When sleepy heads begin to nod, she rocks them for their nap!
Grandma's house is the place to gather for the holiday seasons.
Her hams, turkey and pumpkin pies are some of many reasons!
In each of her family members she takes so much delight,
Making each feel special - they are the apple of her sight!
Grandkids patiently teach her the mysteries of the computer.
She in turn dispenses counsel for living, as their special tutor.
Grandmas are always there to nurse bruised elbows and knees,
And to help young minds to perceive God, the stars and trees!
Grandmas are notorious for producing grandkids' photos in a trice!
Not once, but many times - really! one time would suffice!
God bless them for establishing solid family foundations,
For their boundless love and mentoring for ensuing generations!
Truth be told, Grandmas are just antique little girls!
(Tho' some may sport tinted blonde or even purple curls!)
Some even collect and coddle porcelain dolls I'm told.
I reckon that is fine if it keeps them from growing old!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
100 Years Beyond
David J Walker
And after all
The mirror did not reflect any of the rain
From last Fall
Dryness is the grand prize won at contests of skill
At county fairs
Young girls always find ways to be perfect at something but
Boys don’t seem to care
Today we have scheduled a tour of an antique shop
On the older end of 34th street
Sanitation engineers supply the wares
A friend of a friend knows someone who remembers when
It was a dirt road
Many of the names on the sidewalk shingles are
Familiar and are the same printed in the phone book
On the nicer side of town
100 years ago turns out to be closer than I thought
Which means 100 years from now is almost here
Dark space
Cold
&
inexorable
soul
adrift
heart
stopped
plopped
shocked
gawked
I see you
in
majestic
&
forlorn
debarred
Not alive
Not dead
depressive
state
bereft
of
cocoon
&
callousness
drunk
on
cashmere
kisses
on
brink
of
wonder
as
flying
soaring
beyond
tipsy
skyline
glimmering
where
love
left me
breathless
soaked
inebriated
with
aroma
of
flowers
snagged
in
tangent
thought
needle
thread
tales
of
antique
mauve
lodge
in
every
stitch
and
soldered
spirit
wanting
to
learn
about
peace & love
a
touching
scale
to
climb
hanging
upside down
from
clouds
in
a
starry
sky
1st place contest winner
Written: March 1st, 2023
Your Pick Again Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
NOTE::THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' (intuitive cadence)& so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Listen to the wind sweeping autumn leaves,
pirouetting amongst a citrine sunset.
Whilst light rain collects at corners of windowsills,
illumination from a crackling fire
bounces upon unpigmented mourning walls.
Silent weeping occupies microcrevices,
confined within the splintering memories.
The creaking of an antique rocking chair
melds with the restless nocturnal atmosphere,
of time no longer waiting in the shadows.
Sheer onyx fabric draped over photographs—
death came much earlier, not from hate or spite,
but to erase the endless suffering,
of years wreathing in perpetual chronic pain,
locked within fragile bones and a trapped mind.
So do not curse the gods, my dearest love,
nor get lost in voids of sorrow oblivion.
Know peace has now been brought to my tired soul;
I wait patiently until we are one again.
Remember me, the cool glass milk bottle. I used to sit on your front porch early in the morning. You could hear me arriving before the sun was up. I am a Bateson Model Dairy milk bottle, beautifully made of thick clear glass. A lot of milk bottles have been replaced with plastic but I am an expensive looking quality original. I am one of the most popular milk bottles in the area.
I came from a small processing dairy in Wingham, Ontario where the Bateson family owned and operated their business for many, many years. Working seven days a week during the very early hours bottling milk delivered from local farmers producing hundreds of bottles for their loyal customers.
Remember the wonderful clinking sound of the milk bottles arriving? Leaving out the empties represents many people’s first concept of recycling. I can remember that relatively traumatic moment when I was replaced with the carton. There was just something really wrong about pouring milk out of a carton because it didn’t have that refreshing coolness of a glass bottle. A cold bottle of milk has a certain integrity to it and the glass retains that. What a shame.
The milkman would deliver me to the door and collect the empties which held a few coins or milk tickets to pay for the fresh bottle of milk. Many conversations occurred on the stoop of each home as the family pet circled for a sniff. My travels around town went from the horse drawn milk wagon to a square van. Sometimes when the van stopped the old dog, Dina would wake up to chase a cat up a tree.
Over the years my shape has changed and my new caps gave me some upbeat fashion. But the quality of my contents stayed true. Sadly, if you show a child a glass milk bottle today he won’t know what it is. I come in many shapes and sizes, the quart, the pint, the half pint, the creamer and many more. The name printed on my side changed little over the years to keep the nostalgia of the small time dairy business.
Now I am considered an antique waiting on dusty shelves in antique shops for a new home. When you see me you may be thrilled to find a bit of history to place on the mantle of your home. You might recall childhood memories of the comforting sound of the milk man arriving at the door with fresh milk so very early in the morning.
I lounge about, walk about, crocking
a hymn of praise or two.
Heaven, is heavenly,
or is it a fake and fanciful heaven
created
for fanciful and fake poets?
I sit by a sweetly flowing stream'
a host of gay vividly colorful flowers
speak to me
in the high-falutin language
of antique songs.
It is wonderfully wonderful,
yet I am bored,
bored with the supranormal
and the ethereal nature of nature,
bored with the endless beauty
of all that I encounter.
The loveliest woman I have ever seen
visits my moody meditations,
she tells me to write and to stop ing,
but I just cannot,
for I cannot pen the transcendental
or sublime, without mentioning the ugly,
and the dark history of suffering
and there is no dark suffering here,
not even a sniffle or a tear.
I am bored, not unhappy only bored,
and I want to go back
to my shatty life and write
about my misery and yours.
I figure heaven is not a location
but a state of mind,
and that my heaven in reality
is a place
where demons and angel's battle
for the right to fight on -
forever.
I was born an old soul, a step out of time,
And antiques or just old things come to me;
Vintage clothing and jewelry are a passion,
I love to wander the antique shops.
A fancy cup with a small chip does not bother me,
A welcome addition to my window ledge;
The dust and cobwebs in the depths of the shops,
Enthrall me to poke around in boxes.
Each old item whatever it may be is a treasure,
These old things take me back in time;
Back to an era that I feel is where I really belong,
I love to turn back the pages of time.
I like to set my dining table with mismatched dishes,
Found in junk and antique shops, all different;
Beautiful colors and designs, hand painted flowers,
A little crack does not change the beauty.
_______________________________
April 12, 2014
Poetry/Verse/Turning Back Time
Copyright Protected, ID 04-557-403-12
All Rights Reserved, 2014, Constance La France
It was Halloween and a week at my new job as a broker in real estate,
we have a new listing, an old Victorian, after years being stuck in probate.
My boss excitedly told me the address, smiling as I felt dread and panic,
I secretly remember visiting that creepy place years ago, feeling frantic.
He tells me I must go there tonight to make sure it’s secure and not left open.
Darkness settling in as I walked to my car, praying the lock is not broken.
Memories flooding back, I was sixteen when exploring that home one night,
we were teenagers looking for a thrill, wanting to explore the haunted site.
We entered the home one night, laughing about the rumored doom and gloom.
The floors creaked, as the chandelier started to flicker in the living room.
Frozen in fear, seeing shadows of human silhouettes descending the stairs,
glowing eyes and growling from something living near the antique chairs.
We ran out of there, never to go back, swearing to keep that night a secret,
we knew we were not supposed to be there and that no one would believe it!
Trying to forget while walking down the driveway with my flashlight and mace,
there it was, the old Queen Ann Victorian with a turret and shutters all in place.
I tried to relax as I climbed the brick stairs to the huge gothic wooden door.
The door was left open, I stood there frozen, fearful of what might be in store.
I quickly grabbed the knob, locked the door, slammed it shut and ran to my car,
I then heard growling, looked back and saw glowing eyes and the door now ajar!
a decayed
unfulfilled dream
of mine
an antique coin
that has oxidized
on both sides
coated
brown and green
as if
dry gangrene
has set in
on a dead tissue
no longer flickering
light
when kissed by the sun
(Yalto)
Patina Poetry Contest/Winner(10th Place)
Sponsored by Anthony Slausen
Date written and posted: 06/30/2018
Helel: "In accordance with awe, shall we not wet the beaks of the impounded and open the golden maw?"
Kate: "Come and find the firestone broke the cradle and the heath is afeather, I shall but sprung like a promise to weather."
Lucifer: "Is the gloomy stake left with feet adjoined for a door, the promise is ancient, the antique is so pourn."
Aurora: "Timidity like timely strikes the ground flashed across the weathered hetherseconds like amber on the fritz. "
Uraeal: "I copiously decline the stooping ingate of a plan, like vespers cross dark circles and racoon city is old and planned."
RK: "So fearsome but tired the wolf, hell is rolled up and death has rolled over."
DR Dragon: "angsty pray for the weary let Zeus now dowse next and inspect the coral city."
Zeus: "In videographic cards there are other games, let wicked things while I ask them to say."
PW 1: *Has returned, tires of the usual stroll and begins towards the old stones.*
arophc varuag: "Tip back the gamed throngs like milling wet eaves that parlay for soon songs."
The Forbidden one: *Has returned, ushers forth to find the fray this here and now*
---End of act II---