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Sharon Talbot Dec 2019
Another day and things are the same.
The sun shines through lace,
Obscuring my view to the chaos outside.
In here, it’s serene,  no pressure
To perform or produce,
Although I do.
No expectations of talk
During the day.
Everything I need is around me:
Books and notes and discs
With the record of my thoughts
And flash drives with feelings.
I have filled my rooms with
Things that fascinate and inspire,
Even after many years.
A red chair with printed pillows,
A prayer rug from Iran
On the wall above Buddha,
Brought a century ago by a lady
On her Grand Tour of the world.
My little, golden friend
Laughs at this excess.
Her photos of Florence and Venice
Cause feelings of nostalgia,
As if I was there in 1910,
When duster-clad ladies bought them
In Saint Mark's square,
Hand-colored by poor artists.
And on the other wall,
My young father gazes at me,
From the distance of sixty-seven years.
There are other houses from the past
And streets in my town
That almost look like now.
There are dark-finished tables,
Gracing the space between
The walls and the world and me.
Brass lamps glint out
Like beacons in the shadows
That trail the creeping evening,
For I am a mental traveler,
As Karen Blixen said.
She told her tales to Finch-Hatton
And Berkeley Cole,
On fire-lit evenings,
Like Scheherazade on her carpet.
I have no adventurers as my guests,
But instead, send my stories to a virtual world,
Hoping someone will listen and be inspired.
But even if the words remain unread, unseen,
I am content to write, to spin my tales
For my own ears and the future.
Trin Jan 2019
Mangle, the word alone indicates destruction.
the mutilation of an object until it is unrecognizable,
like the hands of maids in the 1800s.
The mangle has become a symbol of the working class.

An overpopulated, but unheard society.
Forced to work twelve hour days,
running at the whim of the wealthy,
unspoken and underpaid.

Diligently they worked,
sweat dripping from their brows as they scrubbed
the oil from the fabric and their hands,
washing away the filth from previous days.

Two heavy wooden rollers tightly aligned,
crushing spirits of the working class.
Wringing them dry like the sheet on wash day,
torturously expelling water from the already beaten cloth.

Buttons crushed under the intensity of pressure.
Hope dampened at the first attempt,
subjected to a second, if not third round of torture.
Only to accidentally leave an undesired crease.

A dangerous job meant for two,
hindered by the unraveling of a loose thread.
Forced to repeat the process again and again,
until finally, they reach perfection.

I can only imagine the history passed down
through the decades.
Put on display and overlooked
by a generation overwhelmed by technology.

The mangle is now a decoration piece from Grandma,
used as a table to support my coffee.
Its story, like the linen it so helplessly crushed,
a memoir of the working class.
The mangle is an antique washing machine used in the 1800s, if you don't know what it is, I encourage you to look it up :)
Francie Lynch Aug 2015
Producers are making films
On the decades of my life.
I'm sitting there, and
I think out loud:
I remember that!

At the Henry Ford Museum
They've displayed my Radio Flyer
And wooden Yo-Yo.
I lost them long ago.

Flea Markets sell postcards
Of Grand Bend Beach and Casino.
I bet my life there.

I've been told
My steel tubular kitchen set
Is retro.
I didn't know.

Classic Car Shows
Put barrier ropes
Around VWs.
They were cheap,
Dependable.

And everything's back in vogue,
'cept me.
Watching the documentary on The Seventies when I had another aging epiphany.
M Eastman Dec 2014
We sat on the floor
Of the antique shop
Thumbing through a large box
Of old postcards
Some of them have writing
and were mailed a long time ago
You buy only one
It's a faded love letter
With a line
"I love you in the same old way"
Tiffany Norman Oct 2014
Moths float out from behind
an opened, warped door.
I push my face into your clothes,
hung heavy like pearls
in an antique shop.
Stale and familiar,
the scent follows me
like a lost little bee.
It buzzes even after I leave.

Hopscotch down the hallway
to find dead crickets
in the bathtub.
Scuffed wallpaper camouflages
a cobweb. Metallic vines
curve around bursts of petals.
I’m certain you chose this pattern,
but I don't know.

Memories are few.
I fill in the holes with honey
and arrowheads.
Indian feathers and
an old brooch.
Piles of pie.
Did you love to bake pie?

Games of bridge
on that old, scratched table top
with a musty deck of Bicycle cards.
Each deck a photo album
of your face.

Your raisined face.
I remember holding it in my hands.
“This aint a walk for old womans.”
And out the door I go.
Empty handed and independent.

— The End —