Long Bric a brac Poems
Long Bric a brac Poems. Below are the most popular long Bric a brac by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bric a brac poems by poem length and keyword.
Once within these very walls farmers woke at dawn.
The field was full of vegetable, the cows were in the barn.
Life was full of chicken clucks, and Mother's who could darn,
bales of hay stacked within but, all of that's withdrawn.
Within my walls, my embrace, I hold one matron chaste
a Smokey cat, and bric-a-brac, she's a lonely one.
Surrounded left, surrounded right, all her chores are done,
I can but hold, I can not mold, the ones that I embrace.
Four walls within, four walls without, a box of reverie
meant to hold the dreams of tykes, of pets and chick-a-dees.
Head held high, I seal the deal by denizens decree
and in the night, the shadows talk to comfort such as she.
A house, a home, a room, a box what stories people tell
but walls will not for you see, these walls are ancestral.
Based on my consulting this year’s almanac
June 30th being the best possible day for a BBQ out back
I sent out invitations to everyone, I didn’t hold back
There was the lumberjack, the nymphomaniac
The humpback, the hunchback and the hypochondriac
The kleptomaniac, the hemophiliac and the insomniac
No reason to leave out the egomaniac and the pyromaniac
Ooops and how could I almost forget our local amnesiac
I proposed a neighbourly exchange of paperback
I asked them all to contribute, call back or at least provide feedback
Eve of June 30th, gotta prepare my shack
Start to clean vigorously with ammoniac
Wash my floors and dust that miscellaneous bric-a-brac
To make room for guests, park my hatchback in the cul-de-sac
Find bowls for every possible sweet and snack
Think of various games including kayak and piggyback
Think I might serve some type of aphrodisiac
Put together a musical playlist of 60’s to 70’s flashback
Get all set for a promising night of banter and wisecrack
I think I’ve thought of everything and I’m right on track
O gotta go… I think I hear the doorbell- must be Jack
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
The art was most masterful on the dark canvas
Within the thick of night his hand was full of sweep
beneath the Muskan moon the artist quivered not
Etching silver dollar stars the artist took a leap
as he painted up the sky with orbs of sparkling dots
Celestial objects bright as light, a candle spark
moonlight, starlight, airglow, all a work of art
Applying white on black creating a celestial ark
he mastered in the light with darkness off the chart
Tinted colorants of amber midnight grains of gold
every brushstroke took him, to a journey home
Van Gogh signatures and visions stories yet untold
all night long he painted, from a sonic neo zone
Light to dark, with different distinction
he played shadows with God's bric a brac
Twas' a Masterpiece of fact and fiction
Oh ! He really had the knack !
'The silence of Marcel Duchamp is overrated'
All that chess-
Recall for a moment
That idle chit-chat,
That verbal bric-a-brac,
such flamboyant suppositional consciousness,
Let it noodle around the edges-
Blow this metaphor off.
Ratings challenge lies.
The deep magenta shadows,
The haze of grass smoke
'My face is my own, I thought'.
We need to remember,
Weaving around caftans
with a duodecimal swivel-
I think of Ben Johnson
And 'Shards of God',
Who is Hanibal?
Collapsing the elements,
My question is a part of the point of these lines,
A faked head,
Gaslight,
A form of women,
I can do nothing.
Other discourses speak on it's behalf,
There is a cost to the silent critique,
'The silence of Marcel Duchamp is overrated'.
Lights on dark canvas, the bow drawn back
A star arrow poised to shoot into the black
The archer's eye aims, he fires into space
But what is the target?The human race?
The brightness approaches, slowly at first
And then it explodes, a fiery burst
The end's really here, but then I wake up
Orion's still there, I reach for my cup
A dreamer I am, a spaceman I'm not
But I long to get up there away from this rot
I'll build a rocket to escape all my woes
From bric a brac things and some dirty old clothes
Escape from this life, have hope in my mind
Avoid this world's harm, be strong and be kind
I won't get upset, I'll live life at full throttle
Strive on and reach upwards, then I reach for my bottle
Constellations can wait, tomorrows always there
For mortals like me though I'm just Gods dare
Life is just pointless, I'm going to bed
With my friends Jack and Charlie I may wake up dead
Or maybe they'll take me to the place I dream of
Into the heavens where I can find love
My mind is my prison, my mind gives me hope
Addiction takes hold though, like a hangman's rope
I’ve only desired to light old lamps with young wicks
(the tongues of flame must be blinking hard with vigilance)
Across dark, mildewed alcoves that smell of ink —her writing ink —
But one thing led to the other, and the ink I
Found froze in my eyes, the bottle instantly petrified among desert ruins.
I searched, from my village to Nantucket, borrowing
The courage of voyaging storms, seeking earnestly her quill feather,
Just to caress her pretty face with it.
But the power of distance arrested me midway and warned me
Of the dangers of costly adventures.
I hankered after a trained parrot —an amanuenses of note—
With less brilliant plumage,
Electrifying elocution,
To detect to me the protocols of her language.
But that, too, failed.
The parrot was either born mute or chose to be.
I did all I could? to seek, to find, to locate, to identify items
Belonging to her —bric-a-brac of a telling age.
And then there were none.
Back then,
backyards were big enough
to nurture a growing soul
and provide a space
for the earth to play out
its seasons in full rehearsal.
There were wide tracks
of grass, trees to climb,
old sheds to rummage
with their interiors full of tools
and bric-a-brac
webbed in history.
There was food - ripe tomatoes
and corn from a vegetable patch,
grapes swelling
under a cool canopy of vines,
soft skins bursting
their dark sweetness
inside expectant mouths,
almonds, apricots and the luscious
dribble of a warm peach
down sticky cheeks.
Some had roaming chickens
with their bounty of eggs.
Backyards were blotting paper
for a child's hurt, a hiding place
to get away, a theater
for projecting the phantasies
of a sheriff or a princess
high in a golden tower.
And in summer, a sprinkler
casting a gauntlet of cold spray
for tiny feet to challenge.
Then it all ends
when backyards become
too small and more exotic places
call a restless soul to leave
its Eden and break the spell
of its beginning.
I think back of yesterdays
And particular summer days
When my brother and I might be bored or
Deviously in the mood to explore
Instead of conniving trouble to arouse
We would remember that old house
Abandoned way down the road
Decrepit roof, ready to implode
Where never would we go on solo mission
But soon our duo launched expedition
To see if at least it was still there
Whose it was we were unaware
Tiny and dilapidated, barely a room
Unmistakably no larger than a bathroom
One time we found a china cup
Another time, a silver coin face up
We were sure by a ghost it was haunted
We came to suspect someone taunted
By repeatedly planting odd bric-a-brac
As lures to keep us coming back
It sounded creepy so off we’d go
As soon as curiosity was ready to tip toe
But when we thought we saw snakes, ho
Believe me, that got us moving pronto
AP: 1st place 2022, Honorable Mention 2020
Into the lane
come wind, impetuous rain.
Trees are now a threat,
gesturing wildly, angry,
promising to snap,
eager to pounce,
to crush in an embrace
of leaf and crusty bark.
The village fête, though,
is like the show:
it must go on,
it must go on.
It’s fixed in time,
it’s preordained.
Brave souls
staff the stalls and serve,
to raise the funds
to fix the roof.
Spattered souls – pulling
their cardigans closed, tugging
their knitted hats further down their heads –
bravely measure out the day
in collected coinage
dropped into biscuit tins:
the target must be reached.
Cricket’s off – rain stopped play;
back to the crease another day.
But the ladies of the Guild
fête the thinning punters
with bric-a-brac and homemades,
with orange juice and lemonade.
It’s a parallel world –
the other one’s not here today.
This is all there is.
For this day only,
this is our fête.
"Simon Edy, known as Old Simon, (1709-18 May 1783) was a London beggar who may have served as an inspiration for a popular nursery rhyme. He lived in a derelict "Rats' Castle" in the rookery of Dyott Street. He was born in Woodford in Northamptonshire in 1709 and died on 18 May 1783. He had a succession of dogs and the last of them was a drover's sheepdog called Rover.
He begged outside the churchyard of St Giles in the Fields and was a well-known figure, being portrayed by artists including John Seago and Thomas Rowlandson. He wore several hats, coats, and rings and collected much bric-a-brac such as cuttings from old newspapers like The Gentleman's Magazine, from which he regaled passers-by. As he was a simpleton, he is thought to be a possible inspiration for the nursery rhyme, Simple Simon, which was published in the Royal Book of Nursery Rhymes nearby in Monmouth Court."
Simple Simon met a pieman,
Going to the fair;
Says Simple Simon to the pieman,
Let me taste your ware.
Said the pieman unto Simon,
Show me first your penny;
Says Simple Simon to the pieman,
Indeed I have not any.
Simple Simon went a-fishing,
For to catch a whale;
All the water he had got,
Was in his mother's pail.
Simple Simon went to look
If plums grew on a thistle;
He pricked his fingers very much,
Which made poor Simon whistle.
He went for water in a sieve
But soon it all fell through
And now poor Simple Simon
Bids you all adieu!