Long Antiques Poems
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The store was most inviting
With its various antiques,
The kind of place for browsing
That a retro-lover seeks.
I stopped in on a Sunday
But I didn’t stay for long,
For the music that was blasting
Was a real religious song.
Now the owner makes her choices
Based on what she likes to hear
And she joined in on the chorus
In a voice both loud and clear.
Yet I think consideration
To the shoppers should be paid.
If the radio played country
(Not my thing), I would have stayed.
Had this happened close to Christmas
Maybe I’d have been prepared,
But I wasn’t, so I left and
I could tell nobody cared.
I’ve never been where they’ve been,
chasing mirage in desert storm.
I look into their still eyes,
see their vision transfixed on illusion,
the shroud of dust spreads on sneaky people.
The gleam of oasis out of their sight,
they lie on wasteland like shadows of dry trees
that have forgotten they were once green,
but I know they’ve lost their roots,
turned into wooden people.
Layer on layer of designed deception
morphs into molds of crafted mask.
The chameleon skin on their faces,
the smoke-screen I can’t see through.
The veil created by insecure people,
the light of reality doesn’t penetrate,
so they make their own darkened world,
don’t perceive when they turn into antiques,
but I know because for a long time now
I walk in the museum of masked people.
They build castles in still air of deep valleys,
no window opens on the opal sky.
The sun rays don’t light up their isolation,
their desolate minds remain obscure in dark,
for the spent sun sets for them unseen,
but the harvest moon doesn’t rise.
They become dark slices of starless night,
don’t know why all the dreams disappear,
but I know why no rainbow enters their heart,
for they’ve turned into opaque people.
September 27, 2019
Originally posted for :
Contest : Pick a line any line
Sponsor : Richard Lamoureux
December 9, 2019
Now posted for Contest : Best free verse July-December 2019
Sponsor : John Hamilton
Multicolored hands dissolved the pain, that rose within me
You were there; certain you'd win your part in the ring
Condescension became sparks I used as light to see
I held to my song you sought to silence, by your sting
Once again, your buzz faded and you fell flat
Hold firm the religious reins of your horse, I say
I offered flowers; you strutted, and then turn back
I gave you your day, with garland and songs unforced
Self-made pedestal holds no sap like earth's wood
You may think me soft as gel, nay! I am mahogany!
Papa was carver of antiques from those trees, you understood...
His hands were guided by the Source, the root of my recovery.
*
I am here on an archaeological quest,
to satisfy many a curious mind's request
for knowledge on antiques and artifacts
of Egypt's long extinct historical facts,
in treasured sands buried, like gold mines earnestly
sought for in stories shrouded in mythology.
With a large contingent just as curious as I,
hardly daunted by curses, but with shoulders high,
went to the field, with the sun baking us perhaps
to a baker's delight. With our rumpled maps,
we yonder searched, bitten as we went by perhaps
a million flies, getting relief from sunless skies
in times of fair weather, while hoping something lies
in the depths of the hot sands for our very eyes
to see. With my tools by hard work and search worn out,
I brushed to full view, the tomb, brilliantly carved out
of young blue blooded Tut, regally laid to rest.
To my wearied colleagues, I spoke in real earnest:
"To exhume the past, we are here at last."
He leans in; can’t hardly hear
No matter; the great-grands dear
The G-G-son responsive to speak
The G-G-pop an antique
Antiques are worth so much
It is good to stay in touch
One’s plans are far behind him
The other’s just touching the rim
The G-G-son responsive to speak
The G-G-pop an antique
Close, still, yet far away, and yet
Life’s quite riveting, you bet
One generation must clutch the torch
It is handed off; a path to forge
Somehow we live in one another
With who we are in astute color
The G-G-son responsive to speak
The G-G-pop an antique
Indeed old is gold
and so's I'm told
Don't be in a hurry
to have all antiques sold
For this old adage
Todate water it holds.
Indeed the good old days
had some good old ways.
So I'd rather not
exchange
old lamps for new
lest I suffer as in
Aladdin's tale
and lose everything of
value.
For if I lose my old lamps
I haven't a genie to
restore my loss
Thus beware of
modernism's shams
Don't let 'change' be
your boss.
We should know what
best be preserved
So olden values are
granted the respect they
deserved.
For some 'olds' are such
pure golds
that like gold they never
fade nor catch moulds
Likewise some golden
traditions are real
treasures
that can't be left behind
to the past generation
in exchange for surface
new pleasures
For that would be soil,
oops nooh, soul and
culture erosion
Pray keep some olden
golden customs from
such corrosion!
Ah the old mores
they might seem such
bores
but it's they who make
the best folklores!
Change for the better,
not for the worst
Always assess and
analyze any new thing
first.
(my religion has time-
tested valuable time-old
values too.)
gold is old
and old is gold.
I’ve never been
where they tread,
chasing mirage
through desert storm.
I look at evasive eyes
perennially petrified,
see their void vision
fixed fast on
fantasy,
shroud of devious dust
spreads on
sneaky people.
Gleam of opalescent oasis
out of sight,
they wane in wasteland
like shriveled shadows
of skeletal trees,
forgotten
they were once green,
but I know
they’ve lost
their roots,
turned into
wooden people.
Layer on layer
the dubious design of
deception
morphs into motif
of masquerade mask,
the chameleon skin
fashions the faces
with smoke-screen,
I can’t see through.
People of pretense
create cloaks of
charade
the rays of reality
thwarted,
so they make
obscure onyx world
their own,
don’t discern
they turn into
ambiguous antiques,
but I know
for I walk
in the museum of
masked people.
They build bastion
in enveloping emptiness
of abysmal abyss
of vagabond valleys,
no window opens
on the sapphire sky
secluded,
sunburst sequined sense
eradicated
doesn’t illumine
their insipid isolation,
their marooned minds
remain fossilized
in dark dereliction,
become slate slices
of starless night,
don’t know why
all the dreams
disappear,
but I know
no rainbow ribbon wraps
their remote heart,
for they’ve become
opaque people.
I’m thinking of a place
with monkeys and a sled
A brand new jar of cottage cheese
just resting on the bed
An envelope with butterflies
upon the stamp it wears
A basement sitting at the top
of someone else’s stairs
~
A very special place
where the beach is at your door
And multicolored tangerines
will help you mop the floor
A casserole with tuna
in a bowl of cocoa beans
Where questions become answers
or at least that’s what it seems
~
A place where you will notice
that the sun it always shines
And toaster ovens tick away
below the shuttered blinds
Jeopardy is on the tube
wherever you may go
Antiques shuffle down the street
as every road will show
~
When you are in this special place
a trolley will say hi
A weeping willow sings a song
as it forgets to cry
Hibiscus on the front porch
welcome all who do drop in
The price it has been lowered
as the morning comes again
~
You’ll see while in this special place
a necklace on a whale
And smiles at the dollar store
they always are on sale
A seagull and a crescent moon
now share the skies above
But most of all while in this place
you’ll see that you are loved
~
You will learn this special place
it lives within my heart
To offer you a haven
when we find we are apart
A sanctuary nestled deep
that always will be true
For here within this special place
I always will love you
Living in America was rather hazardous
My home had become dangerous
No help from a soul
Death by torture is their goal
Gangstalking is ever so true
Non-believers making you feel blue
Isolation slowly creeps
Pain makes us weeps
They are heinous with their remote Nueral monitoring techniques
While stealing your valuables, money, watches and antiques
They chastise you for organizational membership
Causing you to denounce your citizenship
Torturing you over a honorary degree
Harassing you in court with a phony decree
In your house they will place spiders and bugs
Prescribe you all kinds of messed up drugs
Give you a mysterious injection
Offer no help or protection
Blame you for what they did wrong
While making you feel like you don't belong
Your degree certificate they will steal
Everyone is fake and never keeps it real
Your MENSA membership certificate they will burn
Stand in your way while trying to adjust or learn
There are times when you even have to fight
Raping and Druging you while you sleep at night
Treat you worst because you were in the Navy
Make up all kinds of reasons that you are crazy
The list of problems go on forever
You try to figure out ways to stay clever
I DENOUNCE my citizenship from where I am from
Since I can't believe how America has become
The Antique store
Antiques she adored, a relic he was.
She had a special place for art.
Unfortunately it wasnt her heart.
I'm clinging on to the older things
the antiques of our time.
Sometimes they break or get lost.
I cannot replace them,
no one can replace them.
But I'd rather have an antique
than nothing at all.
At least I can say I enjoyed it at some point.
Teach me to make beautiful.
No beauty can I find.
Search me whole.
Tell only what thoughts appear to be mine.
First comings need an exit of least disgrace.
No one wants to be kept waiting.
For then their time might never come.
Trimmed antiques in dusty lace.
A whole world
Begging for
Change
Daring to dream
Endless altering realities
Figuring that the end
Generates a new start
Hinging on the application of
'I'
Just in terms of understanding
Knowledge of the self
Learning about the
Magic inside all of us
Nearing that
Ominous future
Persistent in the
Quest for a better tomorrow
Reach for it!
Stand up for it!
Teach the young to
Usher in their new era
Vestiges of ours gone
Without a second thought
Xenoliths of a different time
Yellowed antiques
Zealous youth to push aside our failures
When you don't need me,
you put me on a shelf
with your dusty trophies
you never really earned,
and antiques
you never took care of.
I'm up front, visible,
easy to reach
at your convenience.
But I know you would rather
take what you need from
your precious china cabinet.
Just know that when you fumble,
when you slip up,
and when you stumble,
your precious china will break.
But I will still be here.
I have gathered all time tellers,
grandfather clocks, alarm clocks, phones, watches -
to tell you that : I have all the time in the world for you.
It might not be the most sophisticated way
to say that I have an ear for listening and a heart for consolation,
but don't be too skeptical with my methods.
Forgive me, maybe, perhaps, if I can't be so bold and concise.
At least, now we've got all these antiques to talk about.
he is a lover of brokenness.
he likes antiques,
collecting little fragments of things.
he hates breaking them,
so he finds brokenness,
fixes it up a little,
takes a few pieces and leaves.
he's already taken a bit of me,
and unless I shatter again,
he'll leave forever.
By Aliza Kashmala Kiran