"auctions" poems
My Grandmother's Hands
My Grandmother's hands told many tales
Of scrubbing steps and broken nails
Hand-washing clothes in enamel sink
Red football socks turned white towels pink
When not baking cakes at the old gas stove
Rag-rugs with old scraps of material she wove
Pantry shelves filled with powdered egg
Homemade rice pudding sprinkled with nutmeg
Sea-coal burning on an open coal fire
Bread on a toasting fork burning like a pyre
Grandma plumping up pillows from beneath granda’s head
Applying ointment to sores caused by being confined to bed
Hours spent at auctions bidding with her hand
Buying an incomplete bed wasn't what she planned
Back home in time for tea, crumpets and homemade strawberry jam,
I can still recall the smell of it, bubbling in the pan
Switching tv channels with a flick of her wrist
That’s how we did it back then, when remotes did not exist
Working hard all of her life, meeting everyone's demands
Every line and wrinkle told a story
On my Grandmother's hands
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 11:09 AM UTC
We take a shortcut
through the narrow walkways
of the old village
across the cobblestones
and by the white-washed tabby wall
to the waterside where slave ships
once plied their trade
My dog lingers nose down
as if each stone has a story to tell
and ***** an ear to the wall
where the auctions were held
She looks at people differently now.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
Burn my trees with
Raging spring's desires
Toxic my river with
Flowing summer's sadness
Pollute my air with
Falling autumn's hopes
Hold my heart with
Freezing winter's loves
Cycle this year
Slow perserverance
A step at a time
Patience guidance
Demanding sacrifices
Thoughtful fickled flights
Fairy tale's stories
Deceiving future plights
Weighing both shoulders
Declining all offers
Not all goods
Guaranteed for auctions
Bidding the worst
Inviting trial lessons
For our life's
Full of surprises
Grinding salts from
Summer's sadness
Drizzling our plate of
Spring's desires
Infused balance reviving
Autumn's hopes
Undying believes in our
Winter's loves
Life is a cycle revolving mystery
Spinning the air that we're breathing
Falling those tears our eyes are crying
Rising with smiles from our cherish presents
Rewinding the clock for our future predicaments
Not realising we will always be
A full circle
©2014 Maman Screams
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 9:03 AM UTC
*grilled stamina spiced with arrogance
marinated egos in bitter gall source
a touch of pickled common pride
a suggestion of mashed personality
served generously with indifference
on a platter of wonderful ignominy
going like hot cakes in these sad days
of lies emblazoned against night skies
hurry my man while stocks last
and before the merchants of doom
begin their desperate auctions of ethics
done with cynical glee and callousness
held together by a spread of mediocrity*
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 1:31 AM UTC
To you, she was splattered paint on a wrinkled page
Half stuck to your wall by one piece of tape
You always looked past it, but wouldn't throw it away
You barely realized how it complimented your day
So many colors, so bright, no direction
An overwhelming mess serving as calming affection
But still, you were passively looking, searching for art
Waiting to lay eyes on something that would pull on the strings of your heart
You wanted something flawless, with pretty pastels
Something that at upper-scale auctions would always sell
Once you found it you'd take her down
Bid her farewell, thank her for being around
Everyday you'd look past her unaware of the comfort she provided
Who could blame you? She wasn't what you were looking for, you just collided
Overtime, the tape weakened but you didn't see
You left the window wide open and she drifted away freely,
You came home and noticed something was different, but at first didn't know why
You noticed the painting was gone and to your surprise, started to cry
For the first time in a long time you felt that pulling at the strings of your heart
For the first time in your lifetime you realized that painting was art
No wonder you could never find it, that painting was yours
But you were never proud to own it, so it was no more
It's funny how they say art is never appreciated until the artist is gone
Such a tortured process the glory takes so long
Van Gogh was overlooked now he's timeless
His work went from invisible to priceless
To let something like that escape would be a sin
Some people save up their whole lives for a piece of him
So let her be your Van Gogh,
only appreciated once she had to go
Her messy colors once meant nothing to you,
now they're all you'll know
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 10:48 PM UTC
(Am extremely large man standing at a sorely inadequate podium announces, in a softened loud auctioneer voice)
"Love to the highest bidder, a heart lies on the block. Who dares to start the bidding? Drift away from merely talk."
"Ahhh…however, just a little twist"
"Legal tender is no good here, put away your cash. Your credit matters not, just put down the stash. You had better have your merit, that’s the only way you're buyin' here. I hope you understand it."
(Flustered woman turns to leave, muttering, "Some auction!")
The large man continues…
"True, this may seem like an auction of the most material nature. But I assure you ma'am, You have every reason to stay here. Cause this is the infamous, No Gut Shot Block, where it's not so much about what you have, more to prove what have you got."
A woman from the crowd yells, "But I got all this money?"
"You can pay your way in other auctions, but not the one on this day. Yet I see your bid of impatience and that’s the lowest offer today. Who will be the next to place a bid, who will be the next one to call, which one of you is willing, to show this heart here one of your flaws."
"It's still an easy game…highest bidder takes the heart, but twist of this little game, is that to win is to completely fall apart…."
…..A man walks by a door and hears women sobbing, and as he passes through a door he hears a women say, "Gentlemen, the bidding will begin shortly"…..
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 1:03 PM UTC
Lit by angels and adrenaline
silent auctions, abductions
still as death decends here
Archadia dimmed
a dimension of distractions
sinking in a pretty little nest
feathered with fear
she sinned so softly
knowing nothing else to sleep beneath
twigs and bones returned from the battle
gnawed clean from anxious teeth
so brittle; you become a love song to the cold
a rattle of defiance
a longing for a place you cant face alone
this is not Archadia
these sweetly poisoned streets
full of tempting berries
choking on my mind
every sniff every sip every inhale is all we have
to stop what we are in-between
awaiting, impatient
feral from empathy
dreaming of each others bliss
an escape to humidity
an instant view of the sea
it might fix this
but it doesn't
I wish , I wish
my memory could imprint on me
that cascading fading message
I always leave in rem sleep
that lack of loathing now I'm older
old enough to know life's secrets
still too young to live by them
this is not Arcadia
this is a January town
where every new idea never starts
an eternal dance
a feast for show
so starving eyes swell
the grass is always gone where I go
I wish , I wish
the night could take me to Archadia
my silence as loud as
the auction lost
here were are; in the rotting sequence
pining for a reward
I'll build my own Archadia
out of precious words, molecules of hope
how to enlighten
omens of wonder, summer rain excitement
I roll down the grassy hill
turn another page
to somewhere I can smell resilience
a rest bite, evacuate the cold and reunite with your innocence
Welcome to Archadia
where hands are full of strength
a land full of scents that warm frantic souls
giving out their tidings
tiny rebels repel your decisions
deviate what you hope to replace
for here is your Archadia
empathy is everything
a peaceful wave of lighting
a quiet sob of clarity
an instant view of the sea
Welcome to Archadia
you're here to be free
Oct 24, 2023
Oct 24, 2023 at 4:49 PM UTC
Remembering
Drive-in
Take a dive
Bungee
jumping
Marathon Race or
Dodge me poker face
Jerry Lewis
all laughs Wild cheeks
Her homemade fudge
Can pick up
anyone's desire weeks
The dodge brake
Oh! Please me
For Heaven sake
A love big mistake
Reincarnation______*
Dodge leaks life stinks
Hail the plumber
As fast as Mary blinks
Jim Carey on
dumber To abuse the
Hummer
BMW the beamer
Rejoice
The car oil
leaks purple
((That Dodge Divorce))
Here's Joyce
to drink Saturday
Night Johnny
Drenched her thirst
((Snapple))
Tire flat as a
Pancakes
I Hop mouth racer
A-D-D American
Donald Duck
Starbucks any luck
Robin knew
the CEO
Howard Schultz
in Canarsie
Babalu skip (LOU)
Dodge Star dipper
car racer (D) cup
Flags her down
Like a homemade fudge
The 50's antique cars
The Preacher can melt
your brain
The homemade fudge
Was dripping
He auctions car collection
Affection her imported cars
with fudge ice cream
the seventies
Disco All straight long hair
In the middle
His beard so gritty
Topsy car Turvy
Curve your car
Enthusiasm
Cars and Coffee
The Comedians
Became naughty
Mothers beach house
Homemade
fudge
Could win
over
and melt
any Judge
Dante' Dodge battery
Mesmerized switch
Her eyes like fudge
Regardless
the forties
or fifties
Sorority college
Dodge authority
the twenties is not
a Priority yippee
We can do what we want
The computer Hippie
Emails hot fudge
((Those Viruses
Minds))
Whatsoever
Please with a
but in between
Innocently
sweet
Alabama
Miss Charlotte
Sweet Carolina
What could
ever be finer
Then molasses
Then we age we
are linked
into chains
on our neck
with glasses
The competition
Move quickly
the dodge right in
Time for the fifties
roller skating
My Prospect Park
me ice-skating
Too many people
heavily mating
May 20, 2018
May 20, 2018 at 3:18 PM UTC
Whether it turned out good or it turned out bad
casting back through the memory I have to admit
He
were a bonny looking lad, a reet bobby dazzler
as gran used to say.
But everything went wrong or went to Hong Kong and everything else came from China.
These days.
Huddled in corners to have a quick smoke where we spoke of Formosa which always seemed closer than Taiwan ever did.
Those days.
We bid at the auctions to buy friends for the weekends and then we go home on our own.
Self sacrifice is a heresy,
ask them down on the front line
where time wages war
on the poor.
He were still a bonny lad,
mum said,
'takes after his dad'
who
were a bonny lad too.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 4:11 AM UTC
I lay on stained mattresses amidst oil paintings and mirrors
Lattice veils of mascara run down my pallor cheeks
As I stare down at the blood pooling in my outstretched hand
Reflections stare down at me, winged suicide girls and soldiers
All eyes across the room staring down with me, to the checkered floor
My pale pink toes brush the tile, the soles black smudging the gloss
White, blaring, chandeliers above, candelabras with jeweled adornments
Gracefully falling downwards like tears, my own indenting upon satin sheets
Wrapped tight around my legs, falling loose around my shoulders
Caping me, hanging open at my ******* bruised and swollen
Though I've no babe, and so, I clench my eyes against the staring
Chiding me, beguiling me, burned in behind my eyelids there,
you. are.
Whispering like chiffon, along with the fabric of my dress beneath your manicured fingernails
Tracing the edges of my gooseflesh and regaling me with tales of woe
and wonder, of the conquests of art, fine frames and fantastic auctions
Our freedom, held capricious on the winds of chance, before
Now love, our love, your love, provided such an opportunity, a chance to fly away
This you mumbled to my neck with adoring kisses
as relieving as fresh rain against my skin, hands tuning the zipper along my back to play such a fine melody like a phonograph
A pretty thing, to be molded by such hands, with as much regard as handling a Monet painting
I see it clearly after all
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 5:42 AM UTC
In places that are our modern stages:
In searching bars of auctions and other pages
I looked for faith I craved for trust
But I find just little more than noisy dust
Click after click , do it again , be quick
No way to halt , motionless will make us sick.
I think I should have stopped there, then:
Once trap shuts , you are inside the den.
I could not see, because of night perhaps,
With fever of search close to collapse
Got what memory can not contain
Ideas that I nursed for long in my brain
My babies of mind offspring of thought
I had them before but now I forgot
Replaced by trends of modern waste
That chained around of my own waist
My head, once beautiful, funny and round
Got squared, - now it fits the background
I wish we were brave and therefore free,
Above blue screen what else do you see?
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 8:10 AM UTC
Muted Voices
Frankie Fuller·Thursday, October 29, 2015
One side was green
The other was dry and withered
Which side of the fence did they belong?
Always on the outside looking in
Yet never wanting to enter
Once on a last day of summer
One become a single rain drop
A beautiful blackish blue
Where the crows would always sing
In the lonely trees
An unknown era was lost in time
Methods of stepping softly
And pretend,were first developed without end
As the blackist of blue
The birds would step back
As they,the humans would step forward
The days became shorter
The days became dim
The days became new
Once the most beautifullest
Women in the world was blind
But when others once made comments of her beauty
She felt as if their words
Was of a meaningless nonscense
Because she knew the world
Was full of pathological liars
Yet she always had affection
For the one with the muted voice
As a seeing eye dog
He once guided her away so faithfully
From the market of slave auctions
One side was green
The other was dry and withered
Which side of the fence did they belong?
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 10:37 PM UTC
I've not known the feeling
Nor can I even concieve
The notion of being whole.
Selling my brand months at a time
Interested parties holding auctions
Unaware, or unwilling to acknowledge
The stock in future endeavours
So now I exist in 2nd hand memories
In the back of the mind, or the attic
Covered in dust, overexposed
A monument to my regrets
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 3:14 PM UTC
They will try to fool you, tell you that retooling our factories will fuel the economy, making life better, it's an alpha bet from the ruling class, set the men to work again, to line their pockets with gelt again and then,
we'll be scrapped.
They tap into the psyche of people like me, but this ship is sinking, the Captain can't see it, it's caught in a whirlpool and there's no one to free it.
Alpine Cathedrals buried in mountains as grey as Welsh slate
where the men broke the tiles that covered the World.
And the old pits where Miners crawled flat to the coal face
to break out the fuel that heated our homes.
They're freighting us out to the Mausoleums, no doubt that my turn will come,
the industry that made me and the ones who came before me are being dismantled, sold off in auctions and spoke of in whispers like the ***** secrets they keep.
Still they'll try to fool us, tell us we're dreaming and all the while scheming,
but the pits are gone, the quarries, the lorries that fed from them, the communities, the men and their lives, children and wives, schools and they're still trying to fool us.
If we've never had it so good, where is the coal or the wood for the fire, where is the food and the clothes we can't buy anymore, where is the bottom drawer where we saved for those rainy days.
I'll tell you,
it was burnt with the rest and now no chairs for the guests that will never arrive,
to survive we lost it all.
They or them are the same ****** men, there's no difference, their politics are the shame of the system, we should get rid of them, but they won't allow it.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 7:42 AM UTC
Dear Brother Jesse:
Papa Piglet has been telling me stories lately. Those conventions sound really fun, and someday I would love to make it to one. Unfortunately its hard for me to make it to the meetings. And just to get to stage two costs ₹12,000. Stage one sounds hard too, I think I would have trouble making it to all the auctions. Maybe religion just isn't for me....(?)
Your fellow Whifling,
-Mobard
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 1:55 PM UTC
People’s rhymes sold in auctions, please take caution
Of the window washing smileys panhandling toxins
Give no option, moshing many minerals
Cocktail parties are more hardy maybe visceral
Rock the mini marts when the boys tumble out
To cull clerks hurtin’ in no cocktail lounge
Shout outs as loud as the whole neighborhood
Mounds of scatter chips blitz grub to scrounge
Shout out to the clerk, sorry we’re super drunk
How bout not being a dupe or **** you entertainment monks
Who’d of thunk these the spunky thinkers of tomorrow
Jul 1, 2017
Jul 1, 2017 at 1:07 PM UTC
guys see girls as meat,
they prey on us like animals
As one girl leaves
Another one sets the captive free
just, one isn't an option
in a mans world, girls are sold up for auctions
They pretend they are here for the right reasons,
telling themselves they are
But inside their screaming for attention
and maybe even a laugh
They don't see the impact they have from their actions
because their stuck on a path always filled with distractions.
They don't see what they missed,
because when their girls heart is gone and sealed away,
with another mans kiss then they instantly regret
the very thing they did.
May 26, 2018
May 26, 2018 at 12:21 AM UTC
In between notebooks
writing on the back of bank statement envelopes
My money would be in wise temperance
if I didn't haunt auctions for cursed instruments
I got a bargain baglama in route from Greece
it's just the chase
the replacement of writing songs and hard work
I could at least join the fox hunts
but don't forget coming from those that are forced to hunt
Sometimes envious of that pressure again
but don't resent cause it's just weakness
What I can't force myself to emulate
the neo-Malthusianism of my anointed material condition
________________________________________________________
I'm back at it
running out of space
Might have to switch to that student loan
refinancing scheme from Chase
I won't even open it cause
I'm just waiting for society to value
education as a better use of time than
bailing out bankers gambling on the
backs of the poor and middle class that take all the risk
You swindle their paycheck and taxes too
Worshiping at the alter of the greenback printer
Sell your grandma and your grandchildren's future
___________________________________________________________
I think I ran out of unimportant mail to write upon
I need to do my taxes so I can stop stressing
about hoarding unopened letters
I'm afraid I'll find some catastrophe like a disease
or a stolen identity
There's too much to fear in the 21st century
Yes, how weird
there's no aristocratic family lording over my plot of land
I'm not even a renter anymore except
to the bank and I get my food from multi-national global kings
Much less personal than the ****** that used to rule our lives
Now they're depersonalized into the corporate body
Escaping heaven's mandate
I suppose
Through layer and layer of fabric reality
the market, democracy, technology
is the belief that this whole world is fake
Ascribing deity to digital creators
Bad faith actors
Pretending it's other than profit you desire
"Profit's just a means"
but you need more means to make more means
What's the real product you're peddling?
Do you not have pride beyond the money making aspect?
Why do you highlight such shortsightedness?
Jan 25, 2023
Jan 25, 2023 at 11:04 PM UTC
I’ve done all that I can to **** you out of my mind,
But there you crept, around that corner one shallow grave away from reminding me that you’re alive.
Tonight for dinner, sleep was the chosen course, forever desperate as I tried to escape,
It’s a sublime feeling when I find out that it’s not you, but myself that I hate.
A cookie cut out problem has me set on edge and plagued by doubt,
The most complex of solutions, give me time, we’ll figure it out.
What is that, there, cradled in your arms?
The verbal whip, knuckles white as you’re satisfied by causing harm.
Shut down and shut out so I sang myself to sleep tonight,
It’s ok, I agree - the tears bring out my color, so bright.
There’s a narrow line, be ever gentle lest it breaks my fall,
Gather courage and make a pact with fear so I don’t feel so small.
I understand, I think, just exactly who you are,
I give in to my guilt and my shame, and it’s straight back to to the corner, that I crawl.
I listen intently as your footsteps approach me lightly,
I feign sleep as we pretend that we love one another nightly.
Mar 22, 2018
Mar 22, 2018 at 6:34 PM UTC