"antiques" poems
i am seven and in your living room
with antiques & photographs
of family that are more like strangers
and handshakes at christmas
there is a jar of circus peanuts by the armchair
and i remember being told that these are here because they are never out of stock
and that *they are the only things
children will not want to take from me*
i still do not like the color orange.
i am eight and round the bannister
to an upstairs that reminds me
of heaven in that
place i can't go sort of way & i am
knuckle deep in your pumpkin pie
wiping it on my uncles suede jacket
our hands still shake but the jury is still out
on if he looks at me and napkins the same
i hope you do not sleep
with my apologies under your fingernails
i will not say them out loud
i know i should have mowed your lawn
i should have been a home
for second hand smoke
if i could go back i would be your ashtray
i remember the day you forgot who i was
i bound into the room and throw my arms
around you like an armistice
and you ask who i am
we are not in church
but everyone stops singing
i am passed from child to child
while we all laugh
but my lungs feel like
they've been mugged in an ally
who's son does he look like, mom?
my father says like gospel
you pull on your cigarette
sip from your watered down wine and shrug
and i am neck deep in forgetfulness
i imagine alzheimer's
as being born again every day
so, we will spend ages
looking at captions to photographs
telling your stories to strangers
as my father begins to forget
and when i imagine probate
an unfamiliar hand unfolding a will
to be read to wayward angels
i want to burn down the house
and sleep in the ashes
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 3:00 PM UTC
cemeteries worn
delicately fall on chests
like grandmother's old necklaces
and inscriptions from headstones
draped in cold bronze
bought and sold, their epitaphs
like grandmother's old word
her lovely verbs
swathed in gold,
and ever were costly rhinestones weaved in
until every meaning to her lovely words were lost.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 5:29 AM UTC
A haunting stare with a serious note
Originates in a lad just thirteen
Ready to command or to set to task
Obedient, mature, and quick to rule
More comfortable with adults than peers
An old soul has he, loves cars from the past
Collects Civil War relics and antiques
Spends most his time reading and researching
Reads historical fiction, lost in time
Analyzes plants, insects, and ol' coins
He could be described like Chaucer's Cleric
"And gladly would he learn, and gladly teach."
He desires, especially, silver
Yet, gold and ex-presidents faces too
Protects younger members of his small clan
Only his hand will be attacking foe
It might be his fine grades, his quirk or two
That humbles his parents. Proudly they stand
And admire their first born miracle
A babe no more, his age will meet his soul.
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 7:11 PM UTC
*There was once a man
Who looked at the moon and asked
"Is there anything I could ask,
that you can answer?"
There was no reply,
as expected.
The next morning, there was a dog.
The man crouched down
in front of the dog and asked
"What are you up to today?"
The dog walked past,
as expected.
In the afternoon, there was a girl.
She was sitting on a bench in the park.
The man sat beside her and asked
"Are you waiting for someone?"
She kept gazing at the sunset,
as expected.
Night falls in a pub in the city.
There's a drunken man, had many bottles.
The man approached him and asked
"Is something the matter?"
The man finally collapsed after too much drinks,
as expected.
Lastly, in a room there are antiques.
One is a mirror in an intricate frame.
The man looked at the mirror and asked
"How do you feel today?"
There was no reflection,
as expected.*
Nov 15, 2017
Nov 15, 2017 at 12:14 PM UTC
Mother must have said it a thousand times,
Look with your eyes, not with your hands
But I was careless, full of youth
I wasn't the most privileged coming up
I respected things though, knew the meaning of money
But I was careless, full of energy
The Squirrels Nest, oddities and antiques
Mom loved that place, pricey as it was
But I was careless, full of curiosity
She used to take me there, that odd corner store
Mom would browse while I explored the wonders within
But I was careless, full of nerves
I remember just how it felt when she slapped me,
Large Minoan vase, my helmet, shattered on the floor
But I was careless, full of destruction
Mother said it a thousand and one times,
Look with your eyes, not with your hands
And finally, I had learned
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 4:16 AM UTC
In the amber sunroom the regal canary perches,
Surveying his sun soaked kingdom from a golden throne,
Positioned just below the thick wooden rafters...
They might as well have been treetops.
The weathered oak armoire below, their immovable trunk;
The oversized tank, teeming with exotic fish, his ocean.
Through the translucent shades, the engorged sun turns orange,
And settles on the domes of the distant dragon trees.
Soon the silver haired woman, with "dust in the creases of her face,"
Will open the arched doorway, and into the sultry Moroccan air he will spring
Majestic yellow wings propelling him above the treetops,
Diving towards his vast ocean, circling between the dusty antiques,
Reveling in his glorious freedom, yet always returning,
For that is only the penultimate pleasure of every evening;
She will always call him home with the suculent scent
Of a luxurious dinner: mango, pomegranate, and papaya.
A sharp, tumbling trill disrupts his peaceful musing,
A flashing crimson streak leaves a momentary swatch,
Emanating from the open window, invading his territory and ending atop the amoire.
He refuses to look at her, intent on maintaining appearances.
She comes and goes so freely, innocent of any thoughts for me.
Feathers ruffling with discontent; jumping, leaping without direction.
Seeking the highest perch, closest to being free; only to be confined
By the bronze rods of social correctness, locked with the brass clasp of my own fear.
His little lion's heart becomes a battering ram,
Smashing against the inside of his toothpick ribcage.
Rapid fire thoughts soon dissolve in an attempt to compose
A song that is worthy of her. And so he waits, and watches her turn,
Red wings outspread, escaping back into the evening sky.
That blazing orange ball, finally sinking beneath its own weight,
And the failing strength of the mighty dragon trees,
Now merely blackened silhouettes of their former glory.
Jun 29, 2012
Jun 29, 2012 at 3:39 PM UTC
he is a lover of brokenness.
he likes antiques,
collecting little fragments of things.
he hates breaking them,
so he finds brokenness,
fixes it up a little,
takes a few pieces and leaves.
he's already taken a bit of me,
and unless I shatter again,
he'll leave forever.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 8:33 PM UTC
Must you be here in such an interesting illusion?
Why must you sit in such... vogue?
Here though, you exist in fashionable cyst.
Bygone futures of blighted sutures
Youngster-stale and eight-hundred pale
Destitute pasts of layer passes present
Horses gather at the gates of heaven
Spitting at me
And in this way, I've given myself nightmarish feelings.
Yellow blocks provides battery-colored translucence a doubt of mortals
Tungsten belated harmony
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 3:37 PM UTC
**Parades of knaves,
And smitten sheep;
Came to pervade
OUR hide and seek...**
*Depraved – I caved
To strut; to seek
Tirades of graves
With CREEP antiques.
CHARADES engraved
On my physic;
Enslaved, I waved
Through gift-wrapped chic.*
**For Beneath enclaves,
She seeks the meek
whose souls – she'd flay,
To Hide-and-TWEAK.**
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 6:04 PM UTC
I’m thinking of a place
With a monkey and a sled
A brand new jar of cottage cheese
Just resting on the bed
An envelope with butterflies
Upon the stamp it wears
And a basement sitting at the top
Of someone else’s stairs
~
A very special place
Where the beach is at your door
And multicolored tangerines
Will help you mop the floor
A casserole with tuna
In a bowl of cocoa beans
Where a question is an answer
Or at least that’s what it seems
~
A place where you will notice
That the sun it always shines
And toaster ovens tick away
Below the shuttered blinds
Jeopardy is on the tube
Wherever you may go
Antiques shuffle down the street
As every road will show
~
When you are in this special place
A trolley will say hi
A weeping willow sings a song
As it forgets to cry
Hibiscus on the front porch
Welcome all who do drop in
The price it has been lowered
As the morning comes again
~
You’ll see while in this special place
A necklace on a whale
And smiles at the dollar store
They always are on sale
A seagull and a crescent moon
Now share the skies above
But most of all while in this place
You’ll see that you are loved
~
You will learn this special place
It lives within my heart
To offer you a haven
When we find we are apart
A sanctuary nestled deep
That forever will be true
For here within this special place
I always will love you
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 7:15 AM UTC
Rough and wet of tongue
silky of fur and hide
bestest bestest friend
on a lifelong ride
Paws to pavement
ground and grass
ever by my side
Companions to the bitter end
simple joy and pride
As the winter years roll on
as we slow and creak
in the company of canines
never alone or weak
Paws to the carpet
tile and or wood
if only they could speak
Comrades in silence be
both of us
antiques
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 8:46 AM UTC
I belong to you
whether you like it or not.
ever since that celestial night we spent together reminiscing about how broken we both are
but not the kind of broken
that people are afraid to touch,
or the kind of broken that can be seen on the surface,
the kind of broken that comes with giving your heart willingly into hands that tremble and shake whenever they hear the word 'commitment'
what was it about your touch that made me forget every dark and protruding insecurity that paid rent in my heart
Was it the way the corner of your eyes wrinkled every time you blessed this world with your forgiving smile
was it the way your laugh sounded like every one of my favourite songs perfectly in unison
was it the way I finally understood what home meant when you grabbed me by the shoulders and told me that I am a song worth being sung from rooftops
Was it the way I romanticized the idea of us, two dismantled antiques on a dusty floor, neglected and unappreciated, falling in love with each other
maybe.
I'm not sure if you're 'the one' but I am undoubtedly sure of the way I wish I could replay moments we've shared over and over and over again and maybe some how download the first time you ever uttered 'I love you' onto my retinas
I am sure of my devotion to you and how it is synonymous with how the moon will never give up on the sun, how the bees will never give up on daisies and how we will never give up on each other
I am broken
and I am mangled
and I am terribly sorry
but I am also blossoming with love and the burning urge to finally define 'forever' with you, if you'd let me.
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 2:43 PM UTC
If you remove darkness inside me how much matter would remain?
Would it be a clean break or would that shadow leave a stain?
The antiques passed through generations only weigh me down
Heirloom weakness and shame parents wore as crowns
Would bring all the way till I crossed the finish line
Their weight is making progress steadily decline
Yet when I try releasing find their grip is way too strong
Have no other choice but drag these heavy burdens along
I fear limbs decay the more time that passes by
Friction wearing holes in flesh
I can't sever ties
A broken soiled reputation all I've seemed to gain
Blessings one by one like drops of water swirled the drain
Under layers of appearance is a piece of myself I rightly hate
Seems to be too large to safely amputate
These cheap thrills have gotten more expensive than platinum and gold
Their toll taken by draining my peace and prematurely making me old
As I held dreams in hand I stumbled and I fell
Shattered as they hit the floor
Hopes more fragile than eggshells
Then clumsy feet only made the mess worse
Every step makes a crunching noise
Wish I could somehow reverse
I never knew growing up would cause me to feel so low
Only when flying too high that I see how far the pavement waits below
The little girl in me died now there's a stranger in her place
Look in mirror and am terrified because the stranger wears my face
Nov 25, 2021
Nov 25, 2021 at 12:28 AM UTC
What is lovely in a world
of splintered wood and faded golden rings,
stained glass and tarnished silver,
hearts, antiques, and other broken things?
What may have been discarded in the past
Now shines to brilliantly to perish,
not alone in longing to be loved
and dying to be cherished.
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 7:19 PM UTC
mmm
you dredge up the memories of lost secrets
gathered up
in made up words and our twisted limbs and now
packed with yellowing newspapers in the cardboard boxes
lining the attic
ancient jokes are unpeeled too, dry and cracking
they emerge to see the sunlight
but are quickly blinded, ouch!
those pictures of our shared smiles and oh so tender embraces have faded
to sepia tone in their brittle wooden frames,
be careful as you grab them down from the shelf,
they might break.
Mmm it all comes back to me now
-our treasure trove of antique memories-
as you oh so slyly mention them in passing,
slip in those references that you
know
I’ll remember,
Aren’t you cool as a cucumber now?
but they crumble quickly in your hand
and I only hear wisps of our whispers
as the record player leaves scratches on the disks
ah darling be careful you’re about to drop it all down the 3 flights of stairs and it might all smash into microscopic pieces so very
very
soon
Jan 4, 2011
Jan 4, 2011 at 1:12 PM UTC
Its a silent chilly night
Sitting here alone
My boredom is maximum
Decided I need a night out..
Perhaps just a walk and breathe some fresh air...
Walking past the old museum
A glimpse of an old man
sitting on a chair...
His shadow on the wall can tell
Just how bored he must have been
Working all night long..
especially on a chilly winter night
I approach the old watchman
Offers him a cigarette,
It may sound crazy
but I really need a company
This Night watchman says, quite surprisingly,
" everything is quiet"
too dead in the museum...
as if he understands my curiosity
about being a night watchman
I don't need to probe more
he says its too eerie in the inside
surrounded with a hundred to 800 years old artifacts
and some classic works of dead artists
I work for the pay... he says...
I don't need to protect the antiques..
To this I am quite amazed...
but he says, " at night when everything is dark and quiet"
the museum comes to life...
my heart beats faster to this...
a real creepy story.. he is telling me..
He admits having difficulty to breathe
when he sees all the musical instruments
played by themselves one night...
when he tried to run... all doors are locked by themselves
he even peed in his pants watching all the statues
dancing and partying in every floors of this very very old museum
a spooky place... yes... ghostly spirits yes...
name it.. he says "I have met them all"
and even shake hands with them every night...
I have cold sweats... I have goosebumps...
I ask him whether he'd like a tuna sandwich
I'd go and buy them and come back for more chats with him
Its 3 am and I am listening to all these horror stories
from an old night watchman...
He agrees for the offer of sandwich
and demands for a black coffee too...
I runs to the nearest Seven Eleven
and returns as soon as possible...
I am standing here now in front of the old museum
with sandwich and coffee in my hand...
The Night watchman isn't there anymore...
he just disappears...
Curiosity makes me come back
the very next day
only to find out..
the Night watchman I talked to ...
and smoked with...
has passed away a year ago...
what an eerie feeling...
I just had an interview with a dead Night watchman...
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 12:38 PM UTC
pierce my eyelids with fish hooks
and reel the thin line in
slamming my eyes shut
so I can finally sleep
I have stayed up countless nights
nailing my body to the hardwood floor
screaming in hopes
that something will change,
nothing does
and in the morning I find
splinters in my back
linoleum tiles replace
the skin on the bottom of my feet
for i find myself either in the bathroom
dying, or the
kitchen trying
and there are no longer
skeletons in my closet,
rather the haunting voices
of family and friends who
chose death over life
and they hang like outdated
fur coats that just
take up space
and I don't know if
I am the hanger or
silk lining inside.
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 12:33 PM UTC
I have gathered all time tellers,
grandfather clocks, alarm clocks, phones, watches -
to tell you that : I have all the time in the world for you.
It might not be the most sophisticated way
to say that I have an ear for listening and a heart for consolation,
but don't be too skeptical with my methods.
Forgive me, maybe, perhaps, if I can't be so bold and concise.
At least, now we've got all these antiques to talk about.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 10:04 PM UTC
I was doing research in Hubei
Where they executed Yu,
That deity soldier glorified
By Buddhists, Taoists too,
I sat perusing manuscripts
That dated from the Ming,
And came across a reference
About Yu’s finger ring.
A ring of gold so broad that it
Would fit a peasant’s wrist,
For Guan Yu was a mighty man
His ring, an amethyst,
Set round with groups of diamonds
It was lost the day, they said,
That Sun Quan had ordered them
To lop off Guan Yu’s head.
They lost it for a thousand years
It turned up with the Ming,
Was lost again in battle with
That mighty force, the Qing,
I’d heard it round the market place
A whisper, now and then,
That ring, it might have surfaced
In the village of Maicheng.
I scoured the streets and alleyways
For signs of old antiques,
Researching as I went, I walked
Around the town for weeks,
I found a backstreet corner shop
One night, and open late,
Run by a dodgy Chinaman
A total reprobate.
He had links to the Triads, they
Would come into the shop,
A shifty group of gangsters with
Their stolen goods to pop,
From where I sat with manuscripts
Up on the second floor,
I’d look straight down the staircase
Watch them come in through the door.
One day they brought in a bundle
Tied up in a burlap sack,
Threw it down on the counter, said:
‘What do you make of that?’
Fang Zhang then opened the parcel and
He pulled out a giant hand,
The flesh the texture of leather with
A monstrous golden band.
The ring was almost immoveable
The hand, with fingers spread,
Could grasp a maiden around the waist
Or crush a warrior’s head,
I held my breath as the Triad tried
To disengage the thing,
And all the while the diamonds flashed
On that massive golden ring.
Fang Zhang paid over a block of notes
That looked more like a brick,
There must have been a million Yuan
From what I saw of it,
The Triad left and I caught my breath
Fang Zhang had pulled it off,
He threw the hand in a ******* bin
And then I left the shop.
He hid the ring as I walked on through
I had to get some air,
I’d caught a glimpse of a famous ring,
A thing I couldn’t share,
They’d say it didn’t exist, that I
Was dreaming, if I tried,
They thought that it had been lost to view
The day that Yu had died.
I went back down the following day
The Police were there in force,
They stood out front and barred the way
From normal ***********
They told me through an interpreter
Of the ****** of Fang Zhang,
His face was black, for around his neck
Was a massive, ringless hand!
David Lewis Paget
(Pronunciation: Guan Yu - Gwon you
Hubei - Who - bay; Sun Quan - Sun Chu-arn
Qing - Ching; Maicheng - My - cheng
Fang Zhang - Fang Shjang (soft J))
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 9:26 PM UTC
As a child I always covered my ears
whenever I started to hear my
parents fighting about whose weekend it was
And I hated that term
Whose weekend it was
Like they owned me
As if I was nothing more than some
quarrelsome barter being habitually swapped between living quarters at the end of every week
Sometimes I wished nothing more than to be
invisable, camouflaged along the wall
of dusty old antiques
Because the only ones you ever saw
fighting over them were old people who smelled
of pastries and lilacs
But I got tired of waiting for that
And I got more tired of the ********
small talk and forced awkward smiles
and when push came to shove,
At eight years old I was tired
of being handled with kid gloves
I grew up feeling like a token of fair trade
And in school I learned that fair trade
really wasn't fair at all
Some were taught to run while others
are forced to crawl to cross the finish line
but even that can't buy you time
Because at the end of the day
I still find myself coming back to that
original thought of the antiques along the
wall of items that nobody bought
And when you see that your only
company is dust and stale air,
life finds another way to remind you
that nothing is fair.
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 2:50 PM UTC
We hadn't spoken
Too much had been left unsaid
Now silence sits there
Collecting the dust
Like one of your projects
Waiting to be fixed
Never forgotten
But not cared for as it was
Left 'till much too late
You left suddenly
A quick fix out the back door
Me left unfinished
Still,
I'll remember you
As I choose to- the Tinker
Everything just so
You'd sit at your bench
Stripping the wood of varnish
Bringing out beauty
Polish here, dust there
Every detail adjusted
Perfection strived for
Now that you are gone
Your antiques your legacy
I'll remember you
For the good in you
And I will try to forgive
you the dark hours
I will have to start
Mending memories that you built
A Tinker's daughter
Rewiring my grief
Sitting at your workbench and
Stripping it of guilt
Sit and watch, Tinker
Watch me try to mend a heart
Left in disrepair
Polish here, dust there
Every detail adjusted
Acceptance strived for
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, pleasant to dream of old friends---like nothing happened:>
drove the beetle blue
no driver's license just liked the view
send my apologies
to the streets of mysteries
or was it misery in disguise
upon the old she cries
like the hidden furniture
spoke in signs
memories and secrets called mine
tiger rug in luxury shop
familiar gazes made feet stop
never true when doors are slammed
antiques in a swift can slip the hand
a heart of glass
of a weighed mass
maybe not the dream but the morning stance
reminds hints of a glance
her empty seat in a wallet
buries pictures in the back of the pocket
and I ask and count wall blocks and thoughts glue
does she think of me like I do too?
------ravenfeels
Jul 25, 2021
Jul 25, 2021 at 3:53 PM UTC
Mr. Nobody--
A wrangly thing
some could call him a snob
or a high chinned minister
who was ordained
with a polished Apple-Phone
and his signature
swirlesque embroidered
wrist cuffs and tie clip.
He is the founder
to any computer based company
that processes tiny micro-chips at a price of
99 cents, and charging 100 dollars
for each "upgrade".
In his spare time
he's sponges around
lofty paintings,
filtering through new and old antiques,
but always coming back
to lackadaisly lounge
around his things.
Where a house is
up-kept by maids,
and in his closet
hangs the silhouettes
of personalities,
that he likes to try
around his family.
This is what I imagine
of Francisco, the boy buying coffee
at this Local Caffè
and as he leaves
that Apple-Watch lights up
reminding
about a job interview today.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 2:40 AM UTC
I do not need a cigarette in my hand
A flat stomach
An eyebrow piercing
An infinite knowledge of Socrates.
I do not need
A quick-witted tongue
To be easy to please, short in stature, soft spoken, impatient.
I do not need
A fondness of antiques
The latest car
26 pairs of shoes
Diamond earrings,
To be passive,
To be alluring and enticing and likable, noticeable, noteworthy, appealing or interesting.
I need my heart. If my heart does not allure or compel you to see if I really do have 26 pairs or shoes or if I really am a smoker, if I am passive and soft spoken, if I am tall or short, then I am not compelling enough. My heart should be what catches your attention and what makes you stay.
My heart overrides all else when looking at my worth; my 26 pairs of shoes will not comfort you, but my heart will. Therefore, look at someones heart. That is where you will truly find someone rather in who they are than what they are.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 1:15 AM UTC