Long Sideboard Poems
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Household Auction
Saturday and Sunday
Refreshments
I must sell some family heirlooms from grandmothers attic,
there are many items, jewelry, glass, lamps, and some furniture;
but the most treasured item is a mahogany sideboard quite exquisite,
beautifully carved, and ornate with dragons and scrolls and gorgeous feet.
I noticed you arrived a half hour early and saw you wandering,
many times you returned to the sideboard and caressed it so gently;
approaching you, I offered you a coffee and we had time to chat a bit,
I told you that the sideboard had sentimental value for me, it was grandma's.
People came and went and many lingered with the lovely sideboard,
you know it is in pristine condition, has never been repaired or refinished;
it is a scarcity, hard to find a vintage piece as profusely carved and deeply loved,
in an antique shop they would mark it up 500%, I am auctioning it at a reduction.
I will not be long-winded, if you are interested, you can trust me,
dishonest, I will not be, this mahogany sideboard is the real thing, no rip-off;
take your time, have another coffee and then we can talk again if you want to,
I am no antique dealer, just a girl with some beautiful things that I need to sell.
In the end, I could not sell the mahogany sideboard . . .
________________________
February 24, 2016
Narrative/The Mahogany Sideboard
Copyright Protected, ID 16- 761-247-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Although I hardly gave it a thought
I didn't really doubt
our miniature juniper, a bonsai,
would survive our desert vacation.
It likes the dry
air of our home, needs water
once a week at most and seems
meditative and active, both. While away
I rediscovered my love of agaves -
sotol and century
plant - met Mortonia and became
reacquainted with squawbush, its citrus
drupe which makes traveling the long horizon
of the desert uplands endurable.
Live oaks - emory,
wavyleaf - dominant and regally spaced
giving ground to mesquite only on the sere
sand flats. I counted and drew inflorescenses,
spikelets, florets, awns but grasses
remain a mystery
their microscopic parts. This year
I'll study, give them serious thought before
our Spring starts. The cactus wren was the one
bird I could be certain about. Sunsets
made me sorry
the desert is not my home. But the ocotilloes
flowered before we left and that made up
for the vicious attack of a hedgehog cactus.
Impressive, ponderosa pine and Arizona cypress
the canyon canopy
watered with snowmelt and along the high cliffs
limestone formations predating our arrival by
ten million years of weather. Newspapers
kept us aware humanity had not accomplished yet
the end of history
and that was fair. The planes were full of citizens
who no longer applaud upon landing. Snow flew,
not a pinyon pine or manzanita within two moons
walking. On the dining room sideboard, waiting,
our miniature juniper.
While captains sail for foreign shores,
For thunder, reefs, adventure and gales;
I dream of sock drawers besides warm clocks,
While kettles sing their steamy saucy tales.
While my passport sleeps stone-cold under the bed,
I never count the days that I've lost,
While toasting thick-cut slices of bread—
I'm a homemade salad, chopped and tossed.
I love my domestics—they're all such homely bliss;
Why go out when that's so inane and insane?
My old routine—It's no hit or miss—It's no abyss,
Just sweet pure sameness, so pleasantly mundane.
Home is where the soul loves its slippers,
Wearing a weathered coat and weary pride;
Where old regrets are served as kippers,
With poached eggs, sunny soft yellow inside.
The old grandfather clock in the hall
Chimes seven bells: "Are all hands aboard?"
Not to call the watch or some tavern brawl,
But to signal a buffet meal served sideboard.
I fold the clothes to patter-pats on window panes.
Sweep the floors dancing to ye old rock and roll,
Wash the dirty dishes over and over again,
Cranking up the karaoke to fire up my soul.
The garden knows my cold bare feet,
Better than cobbled stone roads beyond;
I pick herbs and fresh green leaves so sweet,
Then I turn the soil, and clean the pond.
So raise your mugs, I'm home tonight—
Heave away, haul away, let me stay,
At home in paradise of bliss and delight
Belayed and stayed beneath the archway.
So haul away, I'm homeward bound,
Where kettles sing of choppy seas;
Where my same old routine is crowned—
With a gravy boat, and baked mac-and-cheese.
The carpet was worn -
The pattern thin in some places,
But it was a “good” rug,
A real original Oriental.
We had others, too, and a
Silver tea service, slightly tarnished,
(Sterling, of course)
On the mahogany sideboard.
The upholstery on the
Living room chairs
Was a little tired, but
It was good “quality” furniture.
And we were descended from
Someone who came over
To this country on the Mayflower!
Mantras I heard many times
When I was growing up
In a “good” neighborhood
My parents could ill afford.
Mantras offered when I complained
That my friends had new furniture
Or prettier rugs, or, even worse,
Wall to wall carpeting.
No penny loafers for me –
I had a serviceable pair of shoes.
The “new” skirt was handed down
From a neighbor’s daughter.
Store clothes were from sales
And always “practical”.
Only years later did I finally
Realize my mother was making
The best of the hard times
And gave up much for us.
It was her way of trying
To make us proud of ourselves
And our heritage, to make up
For the things she couldn’t give us.
Good morning Mr. Goldie
And welcome to the show.
How is life for a goldfish,
Our viewers would like to know?
Well, as you can see, my world is round,
So I have three-sixty vision.
I can see the sideboard over there
And round here’s the television.
I watch a lot of programmes
And I like them on the whole.
But sometimes I’d change channels
If I had the remote control.
Of course, I live under water
So my world is rather quiet.
And, although he feeds me twice a day,
It’s a pretty boring diet.
I like to see the visitors
Who call from day to day.
I’m trying to learn to lip read,
For I can’t hear what they say.
He’s recently got a girl-friend,
So the next bit’s censored I fear.
Oh, I could tell you a thing or two
About what goes on in here,
Well thank you Mr. Goldie
For giving this interview.
Please end by telling the viewers
What the future holds for you.
I’d like to do some travelling
And I hope the time will come
When my owner decides to move me
To a big aquarium.
I’ll swim to every corner
And meet lots of other fish.
I might meet a lady goldie.
Yes, that’s my greatest wish.
But, for now, I’ll swim in circles.
Just going round and round
And round and round and round and round
And round and round and round.
Vae victis! Her quick eyes spy out the field.
Reconnoitred, the foe's dispositions have been noted,
quantified, assessed. The forces of order
and tidiness, in neat array,
perfect their alignment, await onslaught.
The sentinels stand guard:
A pot of jam, a jar of marmalade are emplaced
on the strategic salient of the dining-room table.
In battle-dress, knives, forks and spoons,
the infantry, have been fully mobilized. Now battle!
The moment's silence is conflict's omen.
Certain of the issue, she advances,
knowing all order is as brief as day,
while primal Chaos ruled
when all was void.
She crawls towards an unwary footstool,
a defenceless lone straggler near the door.
This, with one fell blow knocked out,
her target would now appear to be the oak sideboard.
With a sideways reel, the feint is over.
Blitzkrieg is launched on the dining-room table,
the heart of enemy operations. She tugs
the table-cloth; a pepper-bomb descends,
inducing heavy sneezing fits
(didn't they outlaw biological warfare?)
Thus repulsed, she makes for the paper-stand;
papers, magazines, ordered by number, edition or day,
take heavy poundings till they lie scattered,
littered on the floor.
The main assault no longer brooks delay! She tugs again -
the infantry charge down.
They miss the mark but make a hellish din.
With head well positioned for cover, she tugs
a third time, and with a mighty splut
the jam-jars teeter, topple and tumble,
and tumblers crash down with deafening jars.
With jammy hands, the victress daubs the walls,
and in triumph commemorates her feat.
By the shindy wakened, Father stalks in,
his face like that of Jupiter tonans
before the fatal blow.
Her sunny smiles pierce the dismal gloom -
O double conquest! Did Gaul, cowering
to the gore-drenched blade, love Caesar,
the British tribes, defeated, bless Agricola?
What smiles leave hard a little tear
makes tender as a lamb, and Dad,
a willing captive to her wiles, gives in -
surrender unconditional.
And Mum?
She'll do the mopping up, of course!
Whatever happened
To afternoon tea
Served around four o-clock
It used to be a daily ceremony
Out came a pretty cloth
From an old sideboard drawer
To put on a small table
Used many times before
On to this table
Doylies and napkins placed
Precisely and carefully
There was no need to race
Then came the china
A person's very best
Teapot and cosy
And an antique spoon rest
Fairy cubes of sugar
Along with bowl and tongs
Wireless playing softly
To the now old-fashioned songs
Now to the best part, the spread
Oh! the spread
Everything home-made
Especially the bread
Assorted sandwiches, sometimes ham
Mostly it was scones with cream and jam
Nothing elaborate just wholesome fare
Loving-kindness sprinkled there
Not a Macdonalds to be seen long ago
And preservatives were not so prevalent
So, most grew their own vegetables
And had gardens with fruit trees
Used old-fashioned methods
To nurture these
They grew organic without realising
Healthy, rewarding and very enterprising
A curled-up bundle of skin and hair
Adorns the window-seat
The sorry remains of Kitty
The old lady down the street
To those who saw her struggle daily
With her heavy shopping trolley
All of her ignorant neighbours
And her estranged sister Polly
To all of the people
Who used to stand and laugh
Here lies Kitty, loner Kitty
Written on her epitaph
Kitty was a lonely soul
No family or friends had she
Only the teenagers two doors down
Tony, Beth and Marie
They'd pop in on pension day
And ask her for a loan
With no intention of paying her back
Got money for drugs then left her alone
Just the other day
She'd decided to have a look
In the sideboard drawer
For her pension book
The book wasn't where she'd put it
In the right-hand drawer
Maybe she'd done like two weeks ago
Dropped it on the post-office floor
Mrs Kemp had brought it round
Said she'd noticed it after she'd left
She stressed she was lucky that it had been found
Nearly a victim of I.D theft
Her state benefit had been cut
Though not told the reason why
Thinking about rent and energy bills
She'd often sit and cry
Tony, Beth and Marie are banging on the door
What do they want from Kitty?
They've had it all and they want more
Kitty is now at peace
Her maker she has met
She died alone in squalor
Her heart filled with regret
The council fumigated the house
Used disinfectant till it was replete
The only evidence of Kitty
A large stain on the window seat
There are so many like Kitty
But no-one cares ask why
Abandoned by society
And left alone to die
All that remained of Kitty
Was curled up on the window-seat
The quiet soul with no-one
The old lady down the street
From across the park I see the house,
Open windows spilling pools of light
Onto the wide wraparound porch.
As I walk nearer, I take a look inside.
On the walls, framed paintings
And a cluster of family photographs,
Over-stuffed furniture, a little worn,
Sleepy dog on a towel on the chair.
Through the side window I see
Shelves crammed with stacks of books,
A daybed, cluttered desk with a computer,
Drawing table, a rack of supplies.
Candles on the dining room table,
Mahogany and glass china closet,
Old fashioned sideboard with
A slightly tarnished silver tea service.
Upstairs, lights glow behind shades,
But in the kitchen a cheery brightness!
Someone moving, talking, carrying a plate
And laughing at some unknown joke!
What sort of people live in this house?
I think I know - comfortable, unpretentious
People, real, who live and love and care.
Heart full, I tread the steps up to my porch!