"catalogs" poems
Tuna sandwiches on white bread
Carried in a paper bag
Josh Groban on the CD player
Season Three of 2 broke Girls
Matching shoes and purses
Vacation in the Pocanos
Subscription to People Magazine
Pennies in a piggy bank
Silver-beige 4-door Accord
A little college but no degree
Always ten pounds overweight
Celebration meal at Sizzler
Artificial Christmas tree pre-lit
A mole that wants removing
Off white walls, pale green carpet
Outfits from mail order catalogs
Paydays with no yearly bonus
Jeopardy and Wheel of fortune
Polyester perm press everything
Bic Stik ball point pen
Swanson's TV dinner
Flip phone with no camera
*** two times a week and Sunday
Writing verse nobody reads
ljm
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 1:22 AM UTC
It was a pretty standard bench;
the same one in the catalogs
with golden lillies
engraved right into the plaque
on the back rest
But Oh, how I loved
to sit there for hours
just kicking my feet back
and forth
watching the cars go by
He sat there once too
beneath the moon
and under the oak trees
in all his galant glory
I was ashamed;
but he was beautiful
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 9:04 PM UTC
It’s never easy
starting midstream,
when your joints squeak like old vinyl.
Worse to end just as you begin,
editing hope into bullet points,
buffing your portfolio like a coffin lid.
You kneel to metadata while the holy algorithm decides
if you're human enough to be blessed.
Better to read old Nabokov,
nap in your robe
(the good one with pockets),
wait for the mail like it’s 1998
when catalogs still mattered.
Let purpose dissolve, like the vitamin
you dropped in the sink.
You failed to fail,
which sounds noble
but feels more like
accidentally surviving.
So drift toward the grocery by the newsstand,
nod to the pretty barista with the knife-edge bangs,
pretend the papayas mean something.
You’re the median of middle-aged.
Your knees, both traitors.
Your dreams, reruns.
These lines limp
like your fifth attempt
to rebrand the layoff as a sabbatical.
"Don’t derail, just project
your better self on a screen."
Crop the hair, dim the lighting,
hide the existential dread
behind a well-placed emoji.
Let rhyme stutter
like a pull-string toy,
half-broken,
slightly too cheerful.
Feet unsure, eyes fogged
(by pollen, by memory, by news).
There’s no noir here,
no brooding detective,
no dame worth lighting a cigarette for.
Just this:
the echo of effort,
forms half-filled,
where even your name looks uncertain.
So let’s call it.
Let’s bury the draft,
archive the ambition,
delete the app.
End
where we never really
began.
Jul 28, 2025
Jul 28, 2025 at 10:03 PM UTC
I stand in awe.
In awestruck-awe.
I see no flaws.
Even with my faith I see no flaws.
overwhelmed.
Crazy, mad, impossible, some would have said if they knew just a bite-size of your grace oh God.
How I stand in the middle of your radar.
As the waves and frequencies of your grace surrounds me.
The only fear I would have is that it would be too overwhelming for me to take in.
When the devil says you don't love me.
Remind me to see the horizon.
An endless, endless, endless, stretch of grace.
As my sin increased, your grace increased...all the more.
Because it's endless I would not be able to wrap my head around it and make sense of it.
Only to make sense, something that is so profound, and absolutely indescribable. Even the word 'indescribable' alone won't fit it.
Let alone your grace, how about your love. Your mercy. Your power. Your majesty.
Endless.
Endless catalogs and memoirs of what you have done for me.
Never a remembrance because they aren't dead. No.
When anxiety comes, God, remind me of your word. Your promises.
Ocean of grace.
Not yet, have I seen your face.
I wait till that day, just push me at your own pace, and carry me closer and closer to your face, as I slowly fade....
away.
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 7:20 AM UTC
Head a hostile environment again
Emotion overthrows intelligence
Fragile skull accepts another beating
and indecency becomes preference
Absorbing black into gray matter
Meticulous infiltration;
Makes death a desire
and living a fear
Friendly fire
Mind battles disease, disease
obliterates mind to violence
collided with sharpened corners of myself
****** mess, wrong message
Swallowing hostile heavy medications,
contain my elation so that overjoy
doesn't morph into mania, or joy
Mass of electrons now inside
find nothing positive; thought paralyzed
Deviating cells that scare themselves
from the darkened sanguinary state.
wide eyed faces searching for a homeostasis
Far from stable since demon's rule
Constant epiphanies with no execution
turn to facts filed in brain catalogs
Fully aware solutions are there,
but the drawers are glued shut
~kb
Jan 29, 2019
Jan 29, 2019 at 12:43 AM UTC
i wonder
how we managed
to convince our hands
not to hold onto each other
when we said goodbye.
now, i'm writing
inside this flying can;
thinking this might be the closest
to a home.
these small seats,
with even smaller legs space.
these funny-shaped windows,
where all you can see are
white clouds,
and sporadically
some lights.
tiny houses,
with even tinier people.
and us,
tiny giants,
reading overpriced perfume catalogs,
listening to mispronounced english,
using disposable low-fidelity headphones,
inside low-light low-love low-cost
low-everything
airplanes.
Feb 23, 2021
Feb 23, 2021 at 9:35 AM UTC
I am here and it is the day after.
I lift a pile of unread mail off of a chair and open the blinds,
And watch the sun boil the dust in the air. I set and I take it in.
The room smells of old corsets and perfumed talcum powder.
An antique Lady Schick Consolette hair dryer
Hides partly obscured under the heavy frame of the carved mahogany bed
Along with stacks of magazines and catalogs and…………
God knows what else lurks there.
And I realize that I am the only one now lurking,
Looking into a room that had been forbidden to me
The soul domain of the lady of the house.
But she in not here to make things tidy for this impromptu visit.
She would be so shamed by my eyes taking this all in,
Her secrets, her pills, her special candies, her oils, her perfumes -
All of the alchemical accruements of femininity in jars and tiny boxes.
And the symbols of her wizardry, her diamond encrusted Eastern Star ring,
Pendants, broaches, earrings, necklaces, bobbles, bracelets, clasps, loose pearls-
From a strand I broke long ago during happier days.
The sun dust boils from this cauldron now,
This stuffy, over stuffed chamber of perfume and chocolate,
Of daybeds and special treatments, laxatives, gels, powered and pills.
I dream…..a can of gas and a match would be a fitting end
And then I see it on the dresser, an old photo of a family, a pretend family
And a face is cut out of it, his face…….and so I feel, for a moment
Her pain and see the world has she may have seen it. So be it. It is done.
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 11:01 PM UTC
Tell me, are you a library, full of stories?
Are you a collection of fiction and fact that no arms could contain or no minds that could grasp?
I look into your eyes and I get a glimpse of the catalogs and genres which you keep within you.
You must have had your fair share of history; that is one textbook I want to study and memorize by heart.
Do you think I can be the one to take care of you?
I want to keep you a classic and as a monument in this era of advancing technology.
I will clear the dusty parts of your heart and wipe the slippery surface of your crying face.
I will caress every page you own and help restore the words you've been trying to preserve.
I may not be the one who found you first but I will be the one to stay by your side, until the day either of us crumbles.
So let me check your books out and let me return to you so very often.
Let me call you my favorite place and my second home.
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 11:51 PM UTC
Hello happy hour!
I see you're now reduced
to fifteen minutes of
soft drinks and
smiling depression:
simper and wine.
check that...Sprite.
But I'll drink to
nagging doubt anyway.
Cars are now a kick.
Who knew gridlock
could offer such joyride:
the drive home each day
my ******** sabbatical.
I wrote 3 letters the other day
(the handwritten, paper kind)
and feel a little
like Jane Austen.
I think she'd like Dr. Pepper,
but not Mr. Pibb.
Too foppish.
Then there's this:
the wax and wane
of life between the bed
and the couch.
There's six degrees
of separation
through the five layers
of this reusable face mask.
Speaking of masks:
"one for the money,
two for the show,
three to make ready
and four to go."
And somehow I know
I will never breathe it in
that way again.
Random curtain calls:
I'm so starved for someone
to talk to; the mail lady
had me at "hello."
I offered her a soda.
Mail order catalogs are king.
The Saturday Night Special
from the burglar alarm brochure
was my final good buy.
Aug 29, 2020
Aug 29, 2020 at 1:03 AM UTC
The woman body is designed for my desires.
No matter the shape/
Let her be.
If her rolls unfold /
then her rolls I'll hold.
If she sees a tenth of her beauty than I'll see twenty.
My point...she must understand that she is one of a kind.
True Beauty can't be measured by the masses who follow catalogs .
True beauty is simple with intangible flaws.
If you really love her start with her toes....slowly .
Let her teeth sink in her lips as she waits...patiently.
Work your way up and pull her in closely ...munch.
Taste the fruit and let the juice run wild...lunch.
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 9:25 PM UTC
Remember the days when our shoes were stolen by the earth.
And false Truths could only be read
On purple stained Popsicle sticks.
When we were willingly kidnapped by the
antihero's of our Fantasy.
And Stockholm Syndrome devoured us whole.
When false prophets graffitied their wisdom onto bathroom stalls.
While we washed our religions down the sink.
And our purpose along with it.
When the letters of every books pages flowed into us
Like a torrenting river we struggled to make sense of
But reinvented us all the same.
When we didn't believe a friends last words
Could be spoken through a mouth in the neck.
And the whisper we'd hear would fall victim to our failing memories.
When we met the loves our lives everyday of the passing decade.
How our hearts shattered into countless parts.
Yet we loved through the pieces of it all the same.
Perhaps these recollections have faded.
Perhaps they still reside here.
Or are mixed in with catalogs of fiction,
So that we can learn to make sense of all these things.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC
Where Eagles Soar
Fade not light the rear of night’s blackness so dims all the beauty that light gives and surrounds us so
Placed to draw and because the effects of appreciation we spill out of homes seek the wild in natures
Trails the dappled sun dances on the leaves oh how tension it does relieve we without exception do
Blend into Each shade drenched undergrowth there moods do their best broods to reign in our thoughts
to give
A halt to measures sometimes this act can increase even enhance experience you zero in instead of
Allowing the mind to disperse in all directions but to define to outline the loveliness of form particulars
Separated for detail and the penetrating gaze these moments are catalogs of special meaning as they
Collect and permeate the soul wonder lastly invades broken and bruised affected areas mellowness will
Surge through the entire being the spirit soars unexpectedly richness moves in like the mist all division
Is harnessed now it becomes a benevolent power that can be driven either great distances or to the
Heights of splendor there you lay down the thoughts that war and allow peace to transcend all
Difficulties only victors hold the heights by clouds and windy delights see and know as the eagle shows
Vistas expanses that ridicule limitations go ahead and soar you’re only touching how your future will be
In company of angels that will no longer be hidden from the royal family now your birthright is known to
All from the golden crown to the righteous robe with the royal crest a coat of arms that bears the word
Mercy depicted through a crown of thorns not dripping with blood but that are blooming with the Rose
Of Sharon with the earth as the background shinning in the brightest light
Feb 5, 2012
Feb 5, 2012 at 5:24 PM UTC
When the body falls and lands into the dirt
Would you care to guess which one hurts?
The bullet that killed him, or the scars that bled
Ignoring your feelings in these words you read
If you were to write upon his tombstone
"The boy who always felt so alone"
Would you point and laugh, Caring not to cry?
Or try to act cool, and tell your friends a lie?
As you continue to build a persona of a facade
Which is created through media and catalogs
A kid sells his should to his very blade
Hoping to escape the images you made
But when its too late and you think you're brave
You search for this kid that's lost in the cave
The kid that's to far gone to be saved
The same kid you pushed into his grave.
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 1:29 PM UTC
I'm not sleeping tonight.
I know if I tried, I'd fail
So instead I'm thinking of you.
Cataloging you in my mind.
Simple things: favorite colors and foods
Deeper things: experiences and viewpoints
Deep things: do you notice when the moon glows?
I've got most of the first section down, I think.
The second will need time to fill.
The third keeps changing.
The third is most important to me, you see.
What color do you think music is?
When you see the sun
Do you think of power
And creation and destruction
Or do you think of skin cancer?
When you eat
Can you feel your taste buds celebrating?
Basically, do you notice important things?
Do you see what some people don't care about?
Because I care.
And your catalog can't be finished
Until I know.
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 7:18 AM UTC
so many tables
stacked with catalogs
and coffee cups
our long discussions
cluttered with memories
and
relatives
long renting spaces
underground
potential plans made
like guest beds in our minds
favorite tv shows
devouring our
afternoons and evenings
together
dotted with
occasional power
struggles
minds at odds
a generational
dissonance
the backdrop
for the need
to leave the nest
again
freedom I sought
and liberty
was gained
now
flash forward
less than a decade
later
and you
are wrapped
in a mere
flesh shell of existence
no longer engaged
in this world
with anything
but breath
and discomfort
thankful
for tender mercies
am I
for you
still remember me
for
now
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 1:44 AM UTC
where have the years taken me
all my streaks of silver
put on my head
subtle character lines on my face
to show my age
is this what they call
the mature woman
when looking in catalogs
to dress appropriately
i don't know if i like this
my mind is still in my earlier years
my body tells a different story
aches that crept up
sorry ma'am but you have
a little arthritis from
old injuries
so now what
go about your business
with tender care
here is your prescription
don't over do it
eat a balanced meal
exercise moderately
keep that twinkle in your eyes.~~lorilynn
copyright*lorilynn 2010
Oct 7, 2010
Oct 7, 2010 at 5:12 PM UTC
Everything I own in my home
Came from mail order catalogs
From the authentic Star Trek front door knocker
To the Lavender bear rug in the hall
Some may say I'm a nerd
Truth be known I just don't like shopping at the mall
The selection in this weeks issue is outrageously sweet
Place your order fast, do not stall
Just name your collection they come complete
Darth Vader bean bags, plus Yoda sheets
Only Mail order can you find a Chartreuse scarf
In the store they tried to sell me yellow, it just made me ****
And with Finger Hut having daily specials
From hot air balloons for hamsters to Jacuzzi fish bowls
There's no need to question my answer
Just mark it all down as sold
With UPS and FedEx these days knocking down my door
I barely have time to open up my mail order score
As piles and piles of boxes are taking over my rooms
I pull out the latest magazine and place my order for June
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 5:48 PM UTC
I the indiscriminate
feel strangely tired with in the eyes
they fill up corners of my vision with Zz's
and catalog hours as moments at rest.
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 2:42 AM UTC
in the car
sat next to my mother
sweating along to the country songs on the radio
my toenails scrape against the bottoms of my shoes
as i scuff the them against the worn carpeting
the car smells like very berry hibiscus
and black coffee that reminds me
of a place before they were gone
at the cemetery
it feels wrong to be alive
and i make sure not to step
directly onto the headstones
because the horror movies always warn
me of hands coming up through the dirt
but i can’t
help but to think of how nice
it would be to be held by my great grama
one last time
even if i got dirt in my eyes
it would be nice to see her again
i’m sorry that
i didn’t go near her coffin
i remember his funeral too
though i don’t know how many years ago
it happened to be
i cried the hardest
and i remember at her funeral
how my mom and sister were talking about how
proud they were that neither of them cried
like i did
and i felt small and weak and childish
but also
painfully human
i find that
it is easier to think of the cemetery
as more of a library for the dead
because most of them are as old
as the dewey decimal system
and i’m just pawing through the card catalogs
looking for a hand to hold
your parents are
under the c category
c for classen
c for caring
c for compassion
c for clarity
c for cherished memories
c for come back
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 1:10 PM UTC
Delayed reaction
Bitterweet one-note transaction
Turn a blind eye
Voice it in a lie
From compulsive catalogs
Gift-wrapped by mythomaniac hands
Mixing false theories
With hour-glass sands
Because everyone can
And everyone will
Believe the scientific rulebook
And how the high heavens, they shook
So long as it looks pretty
And speaks in a foreign accent
Join hands in singing the praises
Calculating our own descent
Passively uninvolved?
Problem solved...
Jan 21, 2020
Jan 21, 2020 at 6:03 PM UTC
=====================
I love my beautiful craftsman's brain
Wisdom helps my ignorance to drain
I love my head of thick black hair
Enjoying the sun and moon in chair
I love myself regularly day and night
Diamond in my eyes makes life bright
I love my golden musical voice
Rejoice in melodious song of choice
I love my soft elastic muscular heart
Stretches my true plan action to start
I love my abundance of delicate stomach
Digests everything without pain and ache
I love my masculine energy and fertility
Which gives me desired family of ability
I love my healthy sturdy body the whole
Which helps me achieve worldly goal
I love my whole self better than a dog
Enjoying all catalogs in summer and fog
I promise to love my soul an eternal embrace
So that I can love you all with just and grace
I love myself so I can love the whole world
The whole world is precious oceanic pearled
Written by
~~~Jawahar Gupta~~~
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 1:20 PM UTC
hallways,
fluorescent lights
the faint scent
of
latex gloves and
sheer nightgowns.
you stand there,
slowly breathing
in rhythm with
the ticking
clock.
he holds your hand,
the very touch
the transfer of
warmth
between your fingers.
you feel,
somewhat relieved
like if this were meant
to
simply
happen
you were glad
he was there.
didn't you always want this?
to be swaddled with
twinkling toes
and miniature socks?
was it not you
who felt the movement
and prayed for the unexpected?
the results aren't
even the hardest
part.
it is the waiting,
the absorbing
the acceptance
the denial,
it is the
in-between
yet also
the after.
as the blood
swims through
the plastic tube,
the liquified
decision
right there
in crimson red,
waiting to tell,
wanting to whisper
"your life may change,"
you look through
memories,
moments,
like catalogs
in magazines.
what happens next?
no one knows,
except the specimen
painted
masqueraded
in crimson red.
Jan 28, 2022
Jan 28, 2022 at 6:30 AM UTC
Now I’m brunching
on weekends
Painting black bird wings
On my face
My hair spirals
Spirals
Spirals
Like my fear of the space
Between the face in the mirror
And the women in the catalogs
And yes
Yes
I’m getting closer now
To that ideal
I scribbled in ink
On notebook paper
When there were
Fewer lines on my face
I wait in lines
For the train
Wearing stilettos
Growing up tastes like
Black coffee and
Owning four mascaras
That all look the same
On my face
I take your hand
We look like
Your American dream
May 9, 2019
May 9, 2019 at 4:49 PM UTC
Soon Sears will be history
J.C. Penney is all but spent.
Even mighty Hudson Bay
Sells their building and pays rent.
Here at Macy's flagship store
Friday was black indeed.
They couldn't process payments
at close to normal speed.
Jeff Bezos is a billionaire.
Brown boxes flood the mail
Clicks beat Bricks is the news at six
Is it lights out for retail?
He started out by selling books;
lost cash on every sale.
Barnes and Noble bled a ghostly white.
His competitors turned tail.
Competition is the rule
All change comes through disruption.
As catalogs give way to clicks
some stores need extreme unction.
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 8:36 AM UTC