Long Collectibles Poems
Long Collectibles Poems. Below are the most popular long Collectibles by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Collectibles poems by poem length and keyword.
There is adventure, just waiting, as I open the door
A tiny bell sings a tinkle, (old lyrics, perhaps)
To a place of discovery... inviting me in...
But offers in fact, enough excitement to thrill me
I often drop by, one chance for a glance
A dingy old store ..., this place I adore..
I scour the junk, the discarded old trunk, a bit of history in disguise
Elbow to elbow, wall to wall...a sea of collectibles to capture my eyes
Upon every visit, a brand new dilemma...how will I decide in the gloom?
How can I use this? Should I buy that? Will I have room?
Nothing like it in the world! Nothing so lovely, oh how I love this little shop!
Will it be cheap?....Something lost in a heap?....It beckons me to stop!
As the lifting down from the dusty shelves, the musty scent of wood
Telling a story...pungent and sweet....restore it?....I could!!
That antique rocker, perhaps it was lonely....so lost and cold
Or those dusty dishes...on the shelf...I rub off the grime..the flowers are gold!
Oh yes...I could give it new life....let it see sun, won't it be fun?!
Buried beneath the rubbish.....where do I begin?
A treasure, I'll think...Soon after the clink that nourishes a till
For mere pennies...I will haul it home...paint, polish or shine...that's the thrill!
How divine! Once it was theirs..., lost in a time zone...now it is mine...
Swift on the track of the years that had left it behind....
If I disappeared, very few would notice
My presence is small if even showing
That’s how I feel right now
But this will pass
I just have to acknowledge this little fact
I am never going to be normal
So how I think will also never be just that
And all this is supposed to be ok
Being the spare patch
That’s just around in case
Someone has a need
They can just use me
To temporarily cover anything they don’t want to see
Hardly appreciated
Because let’s face it,
I made it this way
I chose to be the "when ya need"
thing
At your beck and call
Always leaving behind little ol me
On those lonely play dates
With anyone but a playmate
No one ever saw worth past the distance my back could bend and curve
Just valued in the moments they needed to be served
Who am I, though
and
who did I leave behind when being played
like vinyl, every time
How many past versions have I been
that
were and were not actually mine
which I left behind
Im just a doll that bends into line, but
everything eventually wears down and breaks over time
If I vanished today
It wouldn’t make a difference
I died long ago
I’ve only been existing within this existence
The only difference would be the space on the shelf
Where odd collectibles collect dust
When they were supposedly
Too delicate to be loved and held
It lay
halfway down the hall,
once the spare bedroom styled
where out of state family once sprawled,
for a while.
Grown now,
two states away
with families of their own
all too busy for a visit these days
back home.
My niece once remarked
that the room is pervaded
by remnants of Christmas collectibles parked
in dusted positions faded
for my heart's memorialized condition sparked.
Herein displayed
the many gifts they gave
so many Santa and Angel figurines
Baby Jesus on parade
in happier masquerades once seen.
As the season approaches
with every possibility of time recalled
the past encroaches
in the hopes and dreams, we still applaud
the sanctuary of the Christmas Room.
By night I write in silence,
like the quiet checkered board in the corner of my room
violently erupting my dimensional thoughts.
It haunts the hours I am awake,
through fake goggles of glory, you think you see me
creating fictitious measures of expectancy.
I pass you on the dirty streets,
behind the wheel of your material needs
you steal a glance,
and by chance you look the other way.
A loose thread curls beneath your sleeve
and you heave at the idea of imperfection,
like a cold stone dropped in a pond
a bond of nothing but a bottle of booze,
rings of empty energy ooze from you.
Reality’s clamor of modern life
echo through the corners of town,
nature’s volume turned down.
Like a clown you laugh in your big fancy shoes.
History has been painted on these pavements,
spilt out and absorbed by the years gone by.
Now shriveled up and dry you shy away,
from a connection that’s begging you to stay.
But you don’t look into my eyes
and you don’t see…
the marvels that journey through me.
A closed book hooked on gas and money,
green envy of collectibles
you clown, you think it's funny.
Why not walk without your shoes?
Open your eyes and look what is around you.
Feel the cracked ground beneath your feet
and look at the people in the street.
Form:
FRAGILE
I watched my mother
Beautiful, petite, smart
Widowed at 28 with three small children
And people said, "Be extra good, your mother is fragile."
A blonde Jackie Kennedy,
Right down to the pill-box hat
The early 60s when women were pretty, songless birds
Protected in their husbands' split-level cages.
Remarry was the only way, "they" said
As she ran for public office, favored to win.
But he wouldn't have a wife that worked
Unless ironing his shorts three times to get it "right."
Glass is fragile. I found that out
As I heard him smashing it when he beat her at night.
Bones are fragile. I found that out
When mommy had broken fingers and toes after loud nights.
My mother was many things.
A victim. A woman. But fragile?
Mommy bird sang a song of invincibility
As she escaped her cage with five children in tow.
I have two girls of my own. Smart.
Beautiful. Compassionate. I am proud.
They know that fragile means breakable
And that women in our family are more steel than glass.
Fragile is for collectibles we buy and sell.
My mother taught me we cannot be owned.
Fragile is for birds without a voice.
But my mother sang, even if in a different key.
My mother was the strongest woman I ever knew.
I hope she looks down on her female descendants
And sees that one Jackie-like woman in a pill box hat
Inspired generations of decidedly non-fragile women.
January 26, 2017
SISTERHOOD OF AVON
Oh how I miss the sisterhood
the brrr...ringing of a bell
a catalog and a smile in hand
the scent of sweet cologne
nearly met customers at the door
miraculously in their own flavor
jingle jangle of jewelry
not fine but touchy-feely
and collectibles how i miss them
and the sweep of my youthful skirt
i was God-blessed with territory
— assigned not chosen,
a secondary job
i recollect three households
heaven sent, angelic psalms
as if I had travelled beyond earth’s borders
first woman, straight-laced, strict
believed every lady should wear skirts
a Christian, perhaps too pharisaical
Brr...ring at twilight and a gruff voice
a man barks, “who is it?!”
taken aback, “the Avon lady…”
a lovely woman practically
knocks over her husband, to answer
the door, sporting silver hair
she invites me in and we chat
over a quite different setting
— relaxed
Christian wearing pants,
so cheery and warming
— the bite of her husband mosquito-like
And now I’m not joking —
Christian sisters living next to each other...
do you see the theme of my life?
this dear woman’s married to a dermatologist —
certainly woman do tip their hat of facts
so i go off to water aerobics and notice my skin
has a rash
so i call
and being young and brash
ask
if i can ask her husband’s advice
the next morning i tell my boss — a naval Master Chief
that i needed to see a dermatologist,
and he laughs, “you’ll never get in”
i say, “sir, i already have an appointment”
so i had shingles, just on the cusp,
and was saved from much pain
for God is good all the time
all the time God is good
and when i step over the border into the heavenly realm
i will still sing of his goodness!
Brr...ring i miss the fine company and the singing
of customer’s doorbells
and one day i will hug my fine
sisters
12/21/2018
Shenanigans and poppycock -
the wild wood with unrest.
Will amazon deliver the chest
of acorns and walnuts before Winter sets?
On their “I” phones, those with bushy tails
don’t want to work for nibbles. Kips,
after a long, long, long day of texting,
waiting, shopping. Others hoard or steal
those treasure troves from every tree.
Collectibles, particularly nasty -
why would a little squirrel want a Barbie,
when a grownup can buy out and store
each box, in perfect shape, for a decade?
“Play with your phone, little kitten.”
Shenanigans and poppycock,
finger-licking goodness of ‘rents,
loving the kits with abominable gifts.
11/15/2022
Contest: THE CRAP SHOOT #2
Sponsor: John Lawless
You ask if my home caught on fire and I only have sixteen minutes to gather those things that I treasure; what seven things would I hurriedly carry off with me.
The first thing I would rush for, would be my husband's pillow. I hold it tightly when I go to bed to have him close. To remember the times, I would look into his eyes and taste his lips, to hear his heart beating with mines once again.
The second thing I would rush for, is a briefcase, I keep all our important papers, special small mementos and collectibles that I keep of my children.
The third thing I would rush for, would be my reading glasses.
The fourth thing I would rush for, would be my cell phone and call 9-1-1 after leaving the property.
The fifth thing I would rush for, would be my handbag with my wallet and of course some of my cosmetics, brush, aspirins, allergy pills, EpiPen, Tums.
The sixth thing or things I would try to carry out would be, as many of my oil paintings that I've painted and kept in my own collection; to me, are irreplaceable.
The seventh and the last would be, my husband's collection of Seraphim Angels by Roman or at least one. The angels meant the world to him. He would say the angels always made him feel a warmth inside him.
Take my car out of the garage.
It is really hard to put a value on some things. What is really important?
A fire is disastrous, and as little as two minutes, a house fire can turn into a rapid movement and life-threatening disaster.
2/5/2019
Poetry Contest :Seven Things You Would Save If Your House Was On Fire
Sponsored by: Caren Krutsinger
My son collected baseball cards;
My brothers did, as well.
My Beatles card collection
Was the female parallel.
But there’s an opportunity
For everyone to buy –
Although it’s hard to understand
A decent reason why –
Some trading cards that feature Trump
In poses quite bizarre –
An astronaut, a cowboy
And the weirdest one so far –
A superhero with a body
So unlike Trump’s own,
It would be quite ridiculous,
But somehow it is known
That people buy them!
Shelling out, for every NFT,
Enough to question what’s become
Of each one’s sanity.
How low can one man really sink
To hawk himself this way?
It’s mortifying to confront
Such ego on display.
Estate sale, treasures only to those who once lived here.
Stories long ago forgotten, maybe to never be told.
A somber event, people move wordlessly, occasionally whispering a “sorry” as they wait on the stairs.
We are like vultures, picking our way through the dead-feeling debris, left behind by other scavengers, and relatives.
I stare in amazement at the volume of glassware. The queen could feed an army with it, maybe two.
So many dated necklaces, hats not worn since the 60’s, a volume of books, some written in German.
A hand painted raccoon on a flat dark canvas grins at me. I try to leave him three times, but I cannot.
He is signed Carolyn 80. I match him up with a frame and they fit perfectly, no doubt partnered before the sale.
I believe the owner of this dwelling might have been an art teacher, as there are many paintings here, different dates, different signatures, and those horrible old dried up oil paints upstairs.
Her sewing machine was my next big find. She sewed, she was an artist, and she quilted.
An infamous she, who is no longer coming back to her home, never sitting in those plushy lawn chairs,
Never seeing her home again. The thrill of my finds dampens a bit by this knowledge.
Someday I will be this “she” they are wondering about.
I envision my four hundred and twenty odd paintings thrown onto a bonfire.
No one appreciates your collectibles more than you, the painter of your own life.
I leave somberly, holding my new sewing machine, feeling strange.