Bought nine notebooks from a thrift store
they were cheap, sure, but something more
they smelled like lilac’s form an old lady’s house
an aroma that doesn’t make me gag or grouse
I had to ground myself from stopping
in front of huge flea market for shopping
garage sales used to take all my cash too
might need this I’d say, lifting up a left shoe
Mate was nowhere in sight, maybe lost in a loo?
Any chance you know what happened to the right?
The vendor laughed, and promptly ducked out of sight
This broken mirror only needs a little bit of glue
Let’s go to some thrift stores, suggested my Uncle Lou.
We don’t need cash after bills are paid, said his wife, Sue.
The thrift store takes donations
And we’ve given clothes before,
So while going through my closet,
I decided to give more.
Some fancy dresses I won’t wear
Might work for someone new.
I dropped them off, but as I left,
The mirror let me view
A man who held a jacket,
Turning it this way and that
And of course I recognized it
From its former habitat.
I was glad to tell my husband
His old coat might have a home
And it served a double purpose,
Inspiration for a poem.
Cinnamon, my childhood doll,
I barely thought of you at all -
of where you went,
or how, or when,
but I was only little then.
Now I'm crying, lost in time:
layered under years of grime,
you sit quite still
upon the shelf
and I am back inside myself.
The antique market fades away:
I reach for you amidst the fray.
My Cinnamon,
my childhood friend,
our story wasn't meant to end.
Contest sponsored by Charles Messina. June 14, 2023
A Graham used to wealth lavish
And to easy fun The slavish:
In the two had not seen blemish
"Let those who wish it be squeamish!"
Now, it is Graham's white wedding;
He knows where the thing is heading:
Skin to Excesses just deaden
Or wife's face might, sometimes, redden...
"Means I'll have to my belt tighten;
That way all my problems lighten:
What man does, his future brightens
And the blackest of scenes whitens!"
A married spendthrift readjusts
Or faces dragging in the dusts...
The thrift shop takes donations –
Clothing, housewares, jewelry, books
And much of it is junk, but some
Deserving second looks.
I rarely make a purchase but
At times I fill a bag
With items I no longer use
For them to sort and tag.
It hasn’t happened yet, but still,
I wonder how I’d feel
To see a stranger wearing
My old clothes – would they appeal?
I ditched them for a reason
But to see them looking fine
On another person’s body,
Would I wish they still were mine?
no G string
Thrift Shop Guitar
1520 songs out
To either family The Land is God’s Gift:
A Divine Portion plus Trophy to lift,
All trespassers to quit making it swift,
Another day to never towards it drift …
A Land The Talk of legal documents gone through
And newspapers armed with Truths mixed with The Untrue;
An entry into the tussle of a busy-body spend-thrift
Making it a plot about which death should be sniffed
And from which one could Man’s folly rift.
But they’re two uncaring families
Impatient for The Bitterest Rift
And for same cancelling their homilies
And appearances for Talks briefed …
Two family disputants over prized land
Not wanting to hear that it is mere sand.
The voice of death tho a whisper still
If exercised is loud and shrill
A couple of coins & sign the line
May just buy you a little time
Library’s filled with ancient tomes
A lot of stories of the unknown
On going tales of lore
Their to impress the present whore
Two bits to cover the eyes
A few roses to deodorize
A Constant rattle to the soul
can create more havoc than you know
With A few scriptures recited well
Place a dollar bet and you’re out of hell
From our minds the hero’s rise
Revealing how we lived our lives
Speaking in circles nipping our tails
Creating enough wind to billow a sail
The flag of glory is beyond repair
Yet plainly visible to all who dared
This is to Francis& Keith &
The Captains of thrift ANSWERS TO ANXIETY
There once was an old man in Madras,
he did never ride a city bus,
walked to work saved money
for one joyful journey,
when time came forgot where money was.
July 1, 2019
Syllable count : 9/9/6/6/9
Checked on howmanysyllables.com
Contest : Humorous Limerick
Sponsor : Tania Kitchin
Would you take a dollar?
No.
Okay. Thanks.
Would you take a fifty-cent piece?
No.
Okay. Thanks.
Would you take a quarter?
No.
Okay. Thanks.
The haggler has no idea how to haggle really, the
vendor thinks, not realizing she gets more things for
a dollar, a fifty cent piece and a quarter than anyone
else in the world.
The buyer leaves with her dollar intact.
There is another garage sale two houses down, right?
Would you take a dollar?
No.
Okay. Thanks.
Would you take a fifty-cent piece?
No.
Okay. Thanks.
Would you take a quarter?
Yes. Sure.
Thank you very much! I love it!
Nearly all things
pertinent to life
are dispensed
in measured
finite quantities
money
clothing
shelter
food
water
oxygen
even relationships
and our life itself
in precious drops
moments
of time
So, thrift in
nearly all things
is merely a logical use
of these resources
in appreciation
of their value
their basic
necessity
to our
survival
But even frugality
can go too far-
when it becomes
a competition
us against them
a vicious fist-fight
in the bargain-bins of life
when it makes us afraid
that there's not enough
to 'go around'
robbing us of compassion
or understanding
or greater vision
when it destroys our ability to
hope for better things
withholding the means to
achieve our most
important dreams
it becomes counterproductive
to its very purpose...
By all means, use your life
and all that you have carefully
gratefully and mindfully
but in all your various economy-
always remember to
spend your dreams lavishly
and spare no kindness
I was never a girly-girl.
I am not a sorting, throwing away, cleaning girl.
I am definitely not a wash-the-dishes or wash-the-clothes girl.
I am more of a fill-up-your-spaces with junk girl.
Buckets of junk, baskets of junk, junk to
Put junk in, junk to sit on top of other junk.
I love thrift stores, garage sales, and flea markets.
Antique malls in town have my credit card number
On file in case I lose it again.
Being prissy is not for me.
Neither is being a girl; I’m a wild woman.
Definitely a SEASONED woman.
Confined in the heart and mind
Of a 9-year-old boy.
The boy side of me laughs
Silently at the prissy people who
Sort and purge and clean.
What sillies!
Wasting their time on something that keeps need re-doing,re-doing,re-doing.
My children can sort my junk after I’m gone. Or the grandchildren can.
The Thrift Store
The thrift store holds relics of time,
Wondering what lives were lived in
the shirts left behind.
A red dress dances on a hanger,
Wondering who danced in the dress before.
Who gave it life?
Did it start with a night on the town?
To only end with a lonely night in bed.
The stain on the sweatshirt,
A beloved sweatshirt with the
strings coming undone, unraveling,
no longer useful, abandoned,
by an owner who once
knew how to love.
A suspect stain on a white wedding dress.
A faded brown stain that may have been
a bright red, faded by
many washes of bleach.
To hide the lies of a day
better left to forget.
relics that face the chance
of a new owner to live in it,
to breathe life back
into the lifeless. To dance
the dance of life one more time.
her opulent presence
is beautifully crafted on the night of the mind
her tattooed form elegantly painted sensitively
but oh so erotically
lip rings and candy necklace feast for the lusts
but she knows your eyes are on the plunging neckline
she is a deeply written romance novella
she is a poem of darker daylight
longing within her good girl image
to be as bad as bad girl can be
beautifully written in that smile
written in the sunshine of the opulent soul
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