Long Old stuff Poems
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The movers came to clean out my house,
And said to one another
“Let’s remove ALL the furniture!
The baby carriage and accessories
have served their purpose.
That old stuff is nothing but clutter now.
Don’t let the mother see us
take everything out.
She might want to save her heirlooms:
uterus, cervix, tubes and ovaries.
They really must go,
and it’s better to move them all at once.
Let’s make it quick.
We’ve got other cleaning jobs today, too.”
My baby’s room is empty.
The movers sealed off the space and left.
Where did my baby furniture go?
Was it handled with utmost care?
Will it be reused or recycled?
As owner for decades,
why did I believe their “better out than in”
prevention strategy and problem-solving remedy?
Who decided that I could live
without furniture anyway?
Will that area of my house shrink
for lack of occupancy?
Will the vacuum bring ecstasy, grief or pain?
Will the plumbing to my bathroom expand?
Hist er rec to me!
Does anyone understand why the head of my house
grapples with questions at hand?
Bags all packed and ready to go?
I wish that were the case.
Tossed some clean clothes in the trunk,
With some things I can’t replace.
Won’t take time to be ready to go.
I don’t wanna see her face.
Leaving behind lots of junk;
Getting out of her space.
There’s some good stuff that you should find
At Saturday’s yard sale.
Cowboy boots, mechanics’ tools--
Nothing fancy or upscale.
You can have the gal I left behind.
You’ll get her better than wholesale.
Watch out, she plays dirty pool,
And puts her men through Hell.
Things with my gal were getting cold.
It’s time for some upgrades.
Nothing there was working right--
Need a new gal ready-made.
I want a gal that’s better than gold,
Without charades or masquerades.
Saint by day, sinner by night,
That’s easy to persuade.
(chorus)
I’ll miss my worn-in cowboy hat
And slightly worn-out clothes.
I’ll miss my rig and lariat
With the yellow Texas rose.
Counting all the things that I gave up,
You could naturally infer—
Though I’ll miss a lot of my old stuff,
I definitely won’t miss her.
Yes, I’ll miss a lot of my old stuff,
But certainly not her.
I haven’t toked in many years
And though it’s just as well,
In Amsterdam three years ago,
My nose picked up that smell.
I breathed in deep and reminisced
About my younger days,
Those weekend nights engulfed in such
A mellow stoned-out haze.
These days in New York City, though,
A scent pervades the air.
It’s weed, I’m told, but to the old stuff
It does not compare.
In fact, its noxious odor
Comes the closest to a skunk.
I wonder if imbibers
Are aware they stink, stank, stunk!
When we partook so long ago,
The ways that one could tell
Were our beatific faces
And our cravings – not our smell!
when I was this many
you can't count the thumb
I had this soft friend
a horsey, all felt and tan
about the size of a piece of toast
but with legs
I could sleep with it
up close to my face
and curl up to be safe
I called it Grell
my parents never could
figure out why
they talked about it a lot
and giggly smiled
I always wanted Grell with me
at my nap
in the car
when I was afraid
Sammy's dad had to leave forever
and Sammy from next door
would never see him again
he cried, we both did
I gave him Grell
so he wouldn't be sad at night
it was all I had
I missed Grell
then, when I was
this many and
this one over here
Sammy's family moved
I thought Grell was gone forever
much later, when I was big
I heard Sammy died in the war
about then, I was packing my things
and my mom gave me a box
of old stuff when I was
you know, really little
stuck in the corner at the bottom
faded and dusty was Grell
I picked it up softly
I think Grell was sad
and put it in my suit pocket
later that day, I went to
Sammy's memorial in the city
I saw his mom
I gave her Grell for Sammy
she said she'd give it to him
it was the right thing to do
Sammy will be happy now
and so will Grell
4/2020
L Milton Hankins
My Personal Favorite No 2
if a had a saturday morning to give you
i would bring a sunday vibe and a ginger ale float to your door
we would watch night tracks and dance to the good old stuff
however it is monday in the modern world and you are no longer mine
i remember our movie tuesdays talking about being thankful to make it to hump day
we embrace, cuddle, and play via stroke sessions on anticipation thursday
friday we feel rich and we ain't feelin' anyone or anything with even a hint of 'bill' in it
being that today is your birthday and i am fully blocked from any and every wonderful thing that is you
all i can do in the moment is just submit to the tears and be thankful for all memories made with you
Just me thinking of me.
I have a collection of myself,
As well as feathers, and old computer monitors.
And the worn out December.
Tattered like the creatures that eat spiders at night.
It’s only me in here.
In my t-shirt and jeans that seem to have too many pockets.
I have a collection that could include-
December and me.
Just me thinking of syrup, pine cones, and wavy things.
I have enough of myself everywhere.
Just like we have enough fall leaves until the leaf fairy comes through with her teeth.
I know things about the night.
Old stuff and empty candy wrappers.
Just me thinking of me.
Not because I care.
It’s just that I have a five dollar bill in my pocket today.
Old and crumpled.
A beautiful thing, in these small farming towns,
Is the place where we dump all our trash,
The remote little area, void of people,
Where we can rummage around for a stash,
You see, the place is divided to a few different parts,
The rubbish, the steel and the wood,
There’s areas for trees, and for building debris,
Dumped, because it’s no good,
But to this little eye, there’s treasure in there,
My treasure is the shiny brass pot,
Or the old wooden chair, with a story to tell,
Tin drums, and other whatnot.
I love the short visit once a month, or so,
Where I can leave my rubbish behind,
And search around looking for thrown out wealth,
For the abundance of old stuff to find.
(“Depth Psychology Merit Badge”, 2015, original oil)
The mind is a mysterious thing
Handling the conscious and unconscious
Simultaneously,
A true multitasker behind its multimasked face.
So much remains below the surface
Monitored, projected and reacted to instinctively
Without even needing to rise to the level
Of conscious awareness.
And what does rise, getting all the attention,
Is often the same old stuff
Patterns and habits, worries, hopes and fears
Wearing deep grooves so hard to erase.
Below, the current shifts, fluidly
In tidal rhythms but with a constantly creative
Playful air that seems to defy
Its survival imperative.
How can the mind be so accepting
In the face of change’s annihilation?
Maybe it knows something in the depths
Which we mere mortals with rational logic reject.
Something fluid, tidal and creative
Something both above and below
Something which is a nothing
But the light reflected in her face.
(10/7/25)
A day to forget
It was a rotten day from the start, got up late
feeling as if he had not slept at all and the night had been dreamless
all his phobias leak into his dream, making the day
easier to endure.no point turning on the TV, same old stuff wars
It is easy to stop a war but near impossible to stop
and this war is a conflict about values.
He made a coffee but had no milk, and the toaster didn’t function
ate a banana instead; versatile fruit easy to eat
and not as fattening as slimming prophets say.
They were having lunch at a Scandinavian club it was dark
looked like a den for unhappy escapists, angry people talking
critically about the country they had chosen to live in.
They ate stew at a local café, and a fly landed on his wife’s food
she is a hypochondriac who claimed she had been poisoned
hauled her into the car, which had a parking sticker.
When she felt better after her brush with calamity, he drove
her to a nail bar, while waiting he played the radio
When he started the car, the battery was flat.
Blurry e-motion
Waiting on words;
Upheaval swirls
Meal time posture
Food court harvest;
Same old stuff
Chinatown fringe
Walkabout excursion;
Hot humid weather chokes
Word for word jazz
Relevance juxtaposed;
Poignant verse strains
Book store punctuates
Tucked in a corner;
Niched following
Verse genres ply
Moods and variations;
Starling change surprise
Clap books monochrome
Small print runs;
Modest readership circle
Works on offer
Book bargains tease;
Second-hand relevance
Simple repast
Eat when hungry;
Flexible meal duration
Migraine fatigue hits
Siesta to recharge;
Stop gap measure
Cash and carry
Shopping trip downtown;
Happy getaway
Tired eyes droop
Glare of noon day sun;
Sudden shower wets
Casual visitors
Impromptu discourse;
Catchup chit-chat
So much to say
Hourglass reprieve;
Abruptly cut short
Conversations hurl
Mid-afternoon visit;
Twenty years backlog squeezed
We style a smile
Catch-up with past wit;
Great mileage in minutes
Joy in swift passage
Touching bases now;
Moments in retreat
Leon Enriquez
13 June 2014
Singapore