"collectibles" poems
Evening colours
come crooning to me in the swallows
flying by:
saucers in the sky,
as I wait for the bus
that will go and halt on the wall
in my living room.
The evening is somewhat dull now,
let me hurl a few stars
at the horizon:
I have a dozen in my purse.
All of them gifted by you,
collectibles, kissables.
My tiara princess, the hair-band
is your secret wand.
Ah, my leg, it's
stuck in Grosvenor Road.
So I hurtle back. and loop forward.
Folding memories neatly into my
back-pocket.
There's a Divergence Theorem
gone missing here, volumes
are not going sheet-smart.
I want my nj's.
I could drown in those dimples.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 3:15 PM UTC
three of four funerals
gun collection, gun
long narrow boxes in the trunk of my first car
Dad’s dad, Bergen-Belsen, babbling
Dad’s mom, floorboards
Mom’s dad, collectibles
Mom’s mom, alcoholic
obituaries, guns, boxes, garages
adults, guns, St. Peter, Joni
Dad’s dad, lessons, dreams
Dad’s mom, cabbage recipe
Mom’s dad, extra hugs
Mom’s mom, low blows
memories, value, months
A pawn shop good rate
moral boundaries:
kids on the street, no parents
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 5:26 PM UTC
The world changes around me but not as I sit perched,collecting memories and organizing them in my thoughts that sprout up through cracks as would a **** in concrete. A dandelion. Not you, a rose, like in Tupac's poem. And i digress because thats what I do more often than not. We speak of our impressionist dreams that are just alike, but not yet realized. Not a one. Well one or two but that's it. And that's only a tip of an iceberg. Which is us in danger of melting like the rest of the revolutionaries along with all the changes occuring around us. Will our love change right along with us and everything else? how will it be to be forty and married? Would we be content? would you go search for him? If you found god would you be done with me. Would you declare me a heretic if I didn't go to church and let jesus live inside me along with the rest of my collectibles. If you found god, would I pretend to have as well so as to not lose you. Hopefully, and isn't that all we are, a sack full of fast foods, hope and regrets. Nothing will go south or sour! We can't let it! Our love will survive all the ****** gods, alcohol, ****** alleys, concrete basketball courts, blacks in the ghetto, american presidents, economic revolutions, rapists, murderers, taxes, mortgages and regime changes. My tongue, along with my eyes, along with my lips, along with my fingers, along with my hair, along with my hair,along with my grey matter, along with my heart, does truly believe we will love longer, harder, deeper, truer and out last, out live, out happy, out joy, out defeat, out wit everyone. I told the elders we don't bother to pray. But we dream very well and not in the real world, not in their world, but in our world. The one we created for ourselves to fly in and out of rain clouds and swim in black water thats flooded on the inside of parking garages. I want to tell you things in a way that can convey myself and still be understood fully. I'm not sure if it is possible to get a ride, convey,write or paint my mind, my soul, my heart properly enough. but if anyone could ever understand my sore joints, and dances with death,it'd be you right? Because we are the same. we have been drinking from the same cup. and been dealt the same ****** hand but at different games. you are the lotus on your wrist and I am the owl in my throat and it means everything yet nothing to everyone else's big scheme. and still everything to ours. you are the only one here who understands why I think rain puddles with oil in them are beautiful.
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 9:58 AM UTC
Vegans are from Venus
Meat eaters are from Mars,
Vegetarians sit around the
breakfast nook light years
from Polaris, knee deep
in far away stars.
All the bread eaters are
closet bakers in disguise.
Those who lunch out
of dumpsters
spend their days
pulling the wings off of flies..
Nobody knows the
troubles they have seen,
and the apathy of the
middle class, well that
is nothing short of obscene.
The protein shake pumpers
sneer at old time
Bible thumpers.
While the yoga
young collectibles
leave a good portion
of the day largely unsung,
knowing full well they
have nothing worthy
to kiss off the tip
of their tongue.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 12:41 PM UTC
Somewhere tucked on a bookshelf is a book.
Dogeared, yellow pages with a hand written note.
In a box, lie trinkets — gifts, a pendant of Annie, a book mark.
Hand made cards, smudged with time.
An old doll almost intact,
Broken spectacles, pictures, a watch and postcards.
Some may call it clutter, junk —
And it’ll all go when I go.
But to me, they are the reason behind my smile, an odd tear.
More precious than collectibles or art —
They are pieces of my life,
My world and heart.
Mar 15, 2025
Mar 15, 2025 at 11:26 AM UTC
Let our collective imagination
Turn to stone
Antique collectibles
For our future
To own
The dissent
In current politics
Tries to prevent
The Third World War…
Earth’s civil war
The third rock
Becomes
The third world
Third eye
See’s it all
But
The blind leads us
Illuminati Catholicism
The Popes
False sense of hope
Falls
Since
The World holds on
And drags us
All
Down with it
Withering destiny
Dying
In the arms of humanity
Beautiful bibles
Used against
Those
Who know no
Interpretation
The courageous Koran
Has a cordial
Approach to
Oppression
The New Age Martyr
Dies
And ties a noose
Big enough
For two
Jews choose to
Subdue
The wealth
Money is the root
Of it all
But whose truly to blame
If the claims
To royalty
Are fought by all
No-names
Fight for fame
Like nomads
Of a tribe
The top
Is pursued
With the body left behind
Most kings end headless
With their body left behind
The future
Is a faint painting
Blurred from lack of vision
The piece lacks
Precision
From those high
Off power
Making the wrong decisions
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 10:58 PM UTC
Excuse my drifting-
I didn't mean to kiss you like that,
I was just trying to swallow the space between us somehow
because I think tonight the moon was stillborn.
All the tides seem broken.
The space is dragging with plaintive collectibles=
complacency in yellow-teeth cliffsides, and all the empty shells
in which we'd listened for the corners of our ocean
and heard it ebbing, relenting, reaching.
It rippled on our skins and made us twinkle then.
Now I'm missing you, the grating bottle-glass shards
are what my headaches are made of
and are what fill up my shoes.
When our spines unravelled, I heard rain-
letter-writing weather, bathtub weather,
knitwear-perhaps-on-the-beach weather-
but the puddles were coming from the sun.
I don't know quite when summer blew in.
We would have found canvas chairs in the park.
You would be taking pictures of yellow daffodils
in black and white with your big heavy camera,
and laughing at each sneeze because I'm allergic.
There's really no need now to listen in shells
for the clutter leftover in elegy-
platitudinous phrases, photographs, plenty more fish in the sea.
Words couldn't ever weigh the depths of it.
Only abrade and erode it.
Yours is a world that, for immeasurable gaps
and for whirlpools and whale sounds,
I am not a part of anymore.
But please excuse my drifting.
I will always love the echoes
and walk along the beach in search of shells.
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 11:25 AM UTC
I'm buying knick-knacks
to bring to Heaven.
Odds and ends to
comfort me
when I cross over.
Little things to
remind me
of living
on this planet.
I'm packing mementos
to bring to Heaven.
Small things
that will remind me
of everyone
I knew on earth.
Articles of
collectibles
that I can hold
or look at
when
I miss them.
Feet are walking,
albeit slower,
to the door that
leads to release.
The bright light
I've heard about
will be shining
for me.
Maybe I'll be
like a toss of smoke?
Able to watch
the final performance.
Check out
who bought tickets
and
who
declined to attend.
Flicker around
the homes and places
where my loved ones
live their days.
Will I be able
to touch them?
This I do not know.
If so,
I'll stroke
cheeks with fondness,
informing them
of how I valued
them in my
physical form.
I wonder if
I will find
knick-knacks of me
in their
hearts?
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 4:30 PM UTC
i thought for a long time
long enough to hear the ocean
being swallowed by all the salt
long enough to hear the earth speak
in its original dialect;
drawl'd, drawn out
patient as molasses.
i thought long enough that i could hear every sound
ever made. Dead sounds
decayed as cicada shells
even the ones in the forest no one was around to hear.
And i thought
it sounded like a fire alarm in some basement down the street.
i thought for a long time
with my eyes shut
i thought for a long time
with a power drill pressed against my neck
i thought for such a long time my insides dried out
decomposed
and fermented my blood
into gas
trapped in fleshy canvas.
My corpse was a blimp now
and i thought about having nothing in my head.
and then i was weightless.
my dead self floating into space
like a christian wet dream
all i saw was objects
objectively
getting smaller
like collectibles over years
And all i could think was How does carbon taste?
and I could see the world
as objects standing next to other objects
standing next to nothing unless there's
an object.
Like something that exists
and that's it.
And that's that.
i thought for a long time
slackjawed
with carbon stains on my teeth
thinking without thinking about meaning
without meaning
writing down a dream
and throwing it under a bus before you read it.
being without meaning
is not the same as meaningless
how pointless a meaning feels
until you name it.
So i wrote down everything i could think of
that meant nothing to me
straight down like a list
and I called it a poem.
And suddenly i didn't have to think anymore.
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 12:50 PM UTC
For our sakes
they are plated with silver
now
for our sakes
they are just pieces
of once upon a terrible day
disassembled bodies
flesh
with ragged edges
hung on hooks
for our sakes
collectibles
from afar
they look almost pretty
blood removed
and reasons
like justification
none
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 2:57 PM UTC
Her Garden
Her world is an explosion of colour.
Flowers paint her pumpkin walls,
Fuschias dance in her back garden
and exotic roses watch over the plants that play to her music that breezes from her soul.
She is their sun
and their shade-
their very earth
and their rain.
Her children are loved
and her beauty adorned
with the essence of God.
Her Home
So warm.
Large wooden windows give light to the rooms.
To be there is to be in history:
faded photos, art, collectibles, aged mirrors,
take me on journeys to old souls and to myself.
The walls that hold them are boldly coloured and yet so comfortable. Every corner is a suprise placed with care.
The butch duck on the grandfather clock has laid an egg and curiously glares at the fireplace in the opposite corner.
I will always remember her fireplace.
Her bed is dressed with a red and gold silk oriental throw and large pillows resting on the headrest.
In the corner a tree laden with colourful handbags and hats for all occasions.
She has a mirror on an antique dresser for company
decorated with rings and makeup and jewelry
and many many interesting things.
The basket holds scarves and gloves and shoes,
and her sheets hold the moment i was born anew.
Her Art
She is her art.
Full of suprise,
eclectic,
eccentric,
bright.
Her home,
her garden,
her songs,
her interests,
her way.
She smiles poetry and wears classical movies.
She dances flowers and daggers
and speaks mystery and passion.
So soft and perplexed-
a roller coaster of colourful tastes
and memorable aromas.
To meet her is a pilgrimage,
to lose her is to lose an eye.
Dec 9, 2009
Dec 9, 2009 at 6:40 AM UTC
he collects unopened packs of playing cards
that sell him this experience of
hyperventilating with the hope of something invaluable
popping up in an unexpected pack of playthings
“They’re collectibles!”
the customer’s wringing his fingers
like he’s pulled the crank of some slot machine
promised to pay out big
“THIS TIME!”
as he rips the packaging
to get at the meat of his purchase
card after card fanned before him
plainly shows his gamble
“Didn’t pay off
this go ‘round.
***** to **** and all,”
he gets the thrill he paid for
but still walks away with less somehow
Mar 6, 2023
Mar 6, 2023 at 1:27 AM UTC
She was called a pollyanna.
Positive exclamation addicted
she high-stepped and varied her pace
through life's shifting textures.
Retrieving sea glass and a scallop-cut piece of shell
from the day's foam ruffled waves
at the edge of iridescent aquamarine.
She lived as a greeter.
Always expectant, rounding each corner
to meet until-now unfound friends or catch
a coin's shiny glint from the sidewalk's crevasse.
A collector too, she gathered smiles as she
walked past and sometimes toward faces
moving to their meeting places for the day.
She said regrets lead backward.
Ruminations rehash long ago or too current
memories looking for what-ifs and what-thens
not in her mind the stuff of collectibles.
She chose to live today
and dream tomorrow
always loving forward.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 8:44 AM UTC
Open mouth singing
in your diamond shirt
embroidered with collectibles
of smiles and laughters
that you gathered that
day on the beach
Spellbound dreams
that you carry
in a silver faded necklace
carved with the initials
of all the constellations
you can point to
Wheatfield sun
dancing upon your
golden hair
of rainbow flowers too
you move the wind
and mother earth dances with
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 5:37 AM UTC
The golden baby
In the last slice of Mardigras cake
A half dollar
Well after they stopped being printed
A rare right sided conch
When most others are left
Are the rare treasures I find buried underneath
The glass bird
Dainty as can be
And the size of a nail
The miniature tea cup
A full set
Spoon and all
The Minni and Miki
Mouse holiday wear
mini collectibles
Miniature Kitty Kat
Pouches
In four different colors
Are the tiny bobbles I couldn’t bear to part with
The multitudes of dice
From classic six sided
To 8 To 12
Even dice in dice
More than can be counted
Erasers by the gazillions
Stingrays, baseball gloves
Eraser pencils with missing erasers
And a baby head detached from the body
Keychains, by the plenty
Sunglasses, Weapons
Dream catchers, bird’s with bells, all sorts
Of strange and curious oddities attached to a chain
Coins, many sizes countries
Fake, real
Dinar, Rupee, Euro, dollar,
Replica of ancient yuan
Jewelry-
Don’t even get me started
Necklaces, bracelets
Rings and earrings
Even though my ears aren’t pierced!
My hoarding tendencies coming to light in this
Curious collection of collections
Also known as
The objects in my closet
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 12:27 AM UTC
•*For Thyreez,
because she aspires*•
<>
most of us, no,
almost all of us,
collectors, of those little things,
real, substantive,
kept in that drawer,
reminders of collected moments,
of places people, successes, tragedies,
lumped together because,
just because
they constitute the pinpricks,
the meddles, safety pins, needles
of our lives, some treasures,
and a few collectibles of
black trimmed saddies
I have such a drawer,
admixture of single cufflinks, spare buttons,
Aaa batteries that might still work,
expired credit cards, charging cords for
devices long ago discarded,
a whole class of items I call
you never know when
some slides, pics from prehistoric times
when we never dreamed of magic phones
as life’s mini storage units
even I had
a lipstick kiss napkin,
just in case, when was required a
need a brevity taste of
a sad time-in-‘n-out
and back again
to feel human
but the mission critical
little things
do not fit in a drawer,
for they are the action’s & visions
we seize and keep in shadowy unseen
but inserted
grey cells
the taste, aroma, of that first cup of coffee
made by whoever was up first,
brought and placed on the nightstand
with a nudge, that failing, a very wet
kiss and a foot-beneath-blanket-squeeze,
the feel~touch of a particular locket,
the never-to be-removed-ever,
till it was
placed perhaps in someone else’s
drawer, shoebox, attic, or lost
in a ‘can’t be foundering place’
we probably have all three;
the drawer, the memory triggers,
the lost items that cannot be
lost, or forgot nor found
and I think and add all these,
I realize that this script
is
one such of the places,
where we put things,
we might need someday,
or maybe never but,
•you never know when!•
Jan 4, 2025
Jan 4, 2025 at 8:18 AM UTC
I got used to broken mirrors
they show me different perspectives
from all angles
Sep 30, 2020
Sep 30, 2020 at 9:42 AM UTC
In the chatter of magpies, beneath the sky so blue,
Nishu's words dance, and the world feels new.
"In the afternoon, below a grey blue sky" —
Her poetry, a song, as the moments fly.
"I hear the chatter of the magpies," she writes,
A symphony of joy, a vision in the lights.
We, too, find solace in those quiet calls,
Where nature whispers, and the soul enthralls.
Your “Collectibles,” a treasure chest deep and true,
Each line a memory, a fragment of you.
"Some may call it clutter, junk," they say,
But your words are more—the treasures we display.
"Welcome Solitude," a gentle space,
Where poetry breathes, with its calm embrace.
Like your lines, Nishu, we, too, find peace,
In the rhythm of life, where the soul’s release.
"In every flower, there is a poem," you write,
And in your work, a garden blooming bright.
Your words, like petals, unfold with grace,
And in your verses, we find our place.
Nishu, your poetry is the light of the day,
A guide through the hours, a warm ray.
Thank you for your words, your art so fine,
For showing us beauty through your poetic line.
Mar 26, 2025
Mar 26, 2025 at 11:16 AM UTC