"keepsake" poems
Mum had been gone a couple of months, six I think… (An ordinary day, feeling hollow but doing OK) …when I realised I could get rid of the sofa.
I thought it was ugly, she thought it was a bargain. A sofa’s not a keepsake and it was certainly no heirloom. I’d not inflict it on my kids. I got rid.
If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. Even if it meant keeping the sofa.
Redecorated. Bought a new telly. Spent frivolous amounts of cash on scatter cushions. She disliked scatter cushions. I thought they were cosy.
My little boy drew on one of the cushions. On purpose. I was about to smack the back of his legs… (Mum would have, she smacked me when I was little) … I stopped.
I never wanted to. Had known all along, somehow forgotten.
If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. But she would not smack my children.
Mum had been gone a year… (Planting bulbs, feeling conspicuous carrying a shovel ‘round the churchyard) …and I missed her.
It was as hot as the day she died. There was no breeze up on that hill, no cloud. Beautiful views stretched right out to the sea.
My little boy had grown, he helped carry water and dig holes. My baby was learning to walk, she wobbled on uneven turf between the headstones. I wanted Mum to see.
If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. No question.
Mum had been gone three years… (Bulbs were doing OK. There was nothing left to plant that rabbits wouldn't nibble) …and I realised it was time to move on.
I kept the ghosts quiet while agents showed people round. The house sold. We moved away. A warm, terraced place in a small town by the sea. Dad died.
Mum has been gone eight years and I miss her.
Looking out from the Downs across cliff-top and sea, the churchyard seems nothing more than a soft-grey fleck on the green edge of town.
If I could bring her back now? Everything’s changed.
Ghosts exist. They sit in empty chairs and speak kettle-whistle. Wishing us well.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 2:34 PM UTC
THE PAWN-SHOP man knows hunger,
And how far hunger has eaten the heart
Of one who comes with an old keepsake.
Here are wedding rings and baby bracelets,
Scarf pins and shoe buckles, jeweled garters,
Old-fashioned knives with inlaid handles,
Watches of old gold and silver,
Old coins worn with finger-marks.
They tell stories.
5.9k
Must I admit: that
being with you was like
pulling out a single
strand of hair, daily.
Look—-
this fleshy white
button ferally crowning
To begin: with the scraping
of my own scalp off
lining brainwashed
finger nails as a reminder
to my heart still beating
upon this earth
so that you may take
the bottom piece to split
my split ends in half
leaving broken off
eyelashes underneath
the talons. Were they your
keepsake to search a shine
when combing foreign
locks? Your reminder
in the strangeness of
other bloodstained
women?
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 5:56 PM UTC
She put on her make-up, her dress and her watch
She pulled up her socks and put up her hair
And in her hair, she placed the umbrella
The small green umbrella
had at first been a joke.
There in her cocktail
on their very first date.
He had taken it from the ice,
setting it above her left ear.
She walked out the door, down the driveway, to the car
She pulled out from the drive, and into the street
And in the rearview mirror, she caught the umbrella
She had worn it on each
of their dates after that.
Through all the long years.
Through all the happiness,
and sometimes the fights.
It always kept them connected.
She entered the building made of soft colored stone
She met with the nun, who helped her with the practice procession
Through her walks down the aisle, the sister noticed, but didnt ask, about the umbrella
She had worn it the night
that he had proposed,
just as she would
on the day they would wed;
and the next ten years after that.
She saw more cars pull up, more friends and family arrive
She met with them all, and spoke with them softly
They were all accustomed, of course, to the fifteen year old, faded, umbrella
Ten years after the wedding
she still had the keepsake.
She had even been wearing it
on the most tragic of days.
The day of the accident,
the one she survived.
So she walked down the aisle, and arrived center stage
She smiled at the calm face of the man that she loved
She then reached up to her hair, and inside his casket she placed
The Small Green Umbrella
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 2:19 PM UTC
I have always believed that it is possible to see through the defenses of those who keep secrets tucked into their back pockets like wallets with a little more cash than they are comfortable with, if one is willing to look closely enough. It is apparent in their heavy eyelids, as though the weight of what they are carrying is resting on their eyelashes. It is apparent in the curve of their lips, and the way they are not able to smile to their fullest potential. It is apparent in their hands, and the way they are not able to hold anything, as though their fingers are already full. However, I never realized that it was also possible to notice leaves clutching secrets to their chests like keepsake necklaces passed down by their great-grandmothers until one afternoon when I was walking between two bushes. My feet were carrying me lackadaisically down the sidewalk toward my dormitory when something to my right caught my eye. Among a congregation of green leaves, I noticed one blushing sinner. She sat in the center, as though she was attempting to blend in, but her pink cheeks made her stand out from the rest. When everyone stood in unison, she followed a few seconds behind. When everyone clutched hymns and bibles in their hands, she tied her fingers in knots to appear busy. When everyone partook in communion, she bit her lip quietly. But there was something about the way she held her hands in her lap, with her palms pressed together and her fingers interlocked, and the way she wore her hair behind her shoulders in curls that made me want to get to know her and every secret she kept tucked beneath the belt of her summer dress. But we don’t always get the pleasure of conversing with sinners, and we often are not even willing to have those conversations with ourselves.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 2:50 PM UTC
Dear Sanity,
In the night, I wake to find myself without your company, but the warmth of the chain about my neck keeps you at the forefront of my mind. The heavy links rake across my flesh searing your disapproval; pulling me to your ankles so that I might kiss them for mercy. Branded at the chest by this heart of yours, though, I am the very antithesis of your will. I was seduced by the comfort of your homogeneous masses and tempted by the fruits of my curiosity. Yet, it is through fire—the deep passions of my essence—that I will be reborn. And you, who I loved through the eyes of others, will HOWL at my betrayal! Then stand upon your mountain peak and bludgeon me with reason so that I might know what your light looks like.
To what end? So that I might cling to this chain, this keepsake, which I did not need until you bestowed your judgment. Yes, judgment, though you would have me believe it is your friendship, your safety, your sympathy. Like the swelter of a thousand suns you oppress me saying, “Keep quiet your ***** yearning!” So who would know better, the hour of my discontent, than you who watches me, unblinking, during the day? It is here, at the tween of night, that I shed the scales from my eyes and throw off your burden of want—the goals for which you leave me always pining, but never appeased. Is this shirking to seek the dark? So be it. I will cloak myself in blood—for all that I am wrong—and dance in the pale light of the unassuming.
—Pandora
--------------------
And the faces of the homogeneous masses drew forthwith to witness dawn.
In a drawer,
There was found,
A locket with
A minor crown—
Of leaf: laurel,
And shaded night.
When opened up
All succumbed to fright.
For found inside
Was a broken light;
Pandora’s hope
Had lost the fight
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 2:00 PM UTC
The cello sings Ave Maria.
Distilled calm; blister packs
In a wet July.
There is peace in every grain,
So fine. Wore away the stone,
Three drownings in the sea.
Annihilation
To build a monument
We settle upon:
Our paradise recovery.
There is warmth after the rain.
Ukulele played on the
Gran Cervantes balcony.
Off-white scars;
Pyramids with no eyes.
Every stoner sleeps.
Every kind heart cries.
The Arc of Life sings a lullaby,
Still I cannot get calm.
In a wet July
A comfort to staying inside.
We tried, wore away our lungs,
Three renewals in the sea.
A leap of faith,
An old keepsake
We contrived upon:
Our lunatic discovery.
There is movement in death.
Pollen falls to the ground;
Exhale of recovery.
Dead-end joy,
Statuettes with no eyes.
Every criminal weeps,
Every kind heart lies.
The cello sings Ave Maria.
The strings that heal
In a wet July.
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 9:28 PM UTC
I am a war torn casualty hopelessly lost in an unfamiliar landscape.
I pick myself out of the rubble of a crumbled existence,
casting aside the well worn masks of my own invisibility.
I am stopped in this breathing place,
my quiet cocoon of safety
where unpredictability does not dwell,
but neither here does life,
neither here do I.
The silent screams that well up inside me never find their way out
and my door remains locked, the world shut out.
"The war is over," I try to convince myself.
This is my holding pattern.
I wonder will I ever feel brave
enough to unlock that door and
venture forth into life again?
Who am I without my captor's angry lies,
that cruel mouth that formed words defining me,
those rough hands that molded me
into the shapeless form of his invention?
I never thought to tuck myself away in safety,
hide myself in a tiny crack, or between pages of a book,
my treasured keepsake that I could run fingers over later,
smiling and whispering, "Yes, I know you."
No, I abandoned myself years ago,
left myself a motherless child.
The hands on the clock go round and round.
I dig through rubble behind a locked door,
searching for the girl I abandoned long ago
on the battlefield of disenchantment.
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 12:09 PM UTC
I know no one's perfect
But is it really worth it
Just for a picture in your wallet?
Plastered on happy faces
Don't even know what day it is
Was there even a good reason for it?
You deny the lies behind the walls
While truths fall on center stage
Got the applause, but this ain't a game
And when the lights fade
You'll be regretting every decision you ever made
Life ain't just a picture or a keepsake
It's standing right in front of you
And you gotta live with every choice you make
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 7:32 PM UTC
I should be ecstatic
I should be breathtaking the second I walk
into the room with you
I should be full of effortless perfection and captivating laughter
I should hold you like the rare gem you are
polishing you, weightless by your worth
I should weep with sweet gratefulness over our stunning photos
and memory keepsake moments
I should be a beauty queen rolemodel
exhibiting class and coordination and intelligence
I should be ravishing in your love,
a kaleidescope of pinks and yellows and magic
I should be bathing in the taste of your devoted kiss
and sunning under your Carribean embrace
I should be a blonde hair blue eyed American dream
Instead of a
Miserable maniac that can't even write a ******* poem.
Instead of a terrible daydreamer,
bored by the periods at the end of your sentences. . .
Instead of a tarnished transient seeking foolish adventure
Craving endless oceans, cliche flight humor, and saving
animals I didn't even know existed to begin with
Instead of a jaded view from every set of empty eyes
Instead of an indulgent *******
that wants more than this terribly wonderful life
that you've offered me.
I really should.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 9:51 PM UTC
In the ocean I saw her
A frail wisp of a wave
A silver bodied dolphin
That I forgot to save
I saw her in the ocean
I wish I hadn't though
A blackened hollow apple
Frozen in the snow
In the ocean I did see her
I swear it to be true
A golden haloed angel
That fell into the blue
I did see her in the ocean
So many miles away
A dingy brown eyed gypsy
That I once turned away
I look for her in the ocean
The part of my soul lost
A sickly whitened memory
That to the sea I tossed
In the ocean I look for her
A fallen shooting star
A purple midnight aster
That I left on the tar
In the ocean I found her
A crimson coated shell
A keepsake from a rainy walk
That from my pocket fell
I found her in the ocean
Grey she was to my despair
My bright lightning beauty
That had lost all her hair
Jul 10, 2010
Jul 10, 2010 at 8:59 AM UTC
Have love ever been easy to deal with sympathy?
Just so, Her iron lung breathing calamity of apathy
Beyond eyes and words ,her beauty spoke
Kindle once vital, now perish slow with smoke
Suffocation cannot feel this good, can it?
a crime of love shall never see acquit
A poetess sung for me a poem of love
Soft words - with stings of venomous dove
Being so deluded by some natural artsy
Dreams woven on silent obscure spree
Cold touch of her once warm soul
Shattering pieces now never be whole
Poignant themes of once happy souvenir
Whispering breeze of lonely December
Brings me smile then tears falls down
a deep breath sigh and again I avow
holding onto the keepsake- my folded hands try
Squeezed by broken dreams- once more I cry!
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 11:45 PM UTC
our withering is changing. we have new lungs and the sour mercy of our discotheque is no longer
earth shattering. new bells that'll ring, ping the sonar of thus far, and right now. our iguana
is bothered but our cactus is out of practice, so we malice the wrong people. brown scotch
botched in the locust plume of our nothingness.
all in the night jar.
we palm the coin of many realms but snooker the genie into 4 wishes for kicks.
we split the bucket list and enlist strange agents to embroil the liturgy of our silence
with the umbrage of our slumbers.
where rumbles the blunder of our measured steps
as we stumble through the rapscallions of our private thoughts in the after hours.
we empower our oblivion
by kissing on the mouth.
this is how we keepsake sacred, but escape velocity by way of quiet... this loud.
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 7:41 PM UTC
I stole myself a keepsake for remembrance of my father,
a bracelet made by he that lasted 3 years, no longer
I picked me out a souvenir in summertime Muskogee
but now they sit so rusted and do of nothing to me
I hang old captured memories, tacked into my right wall
but they still just stand, a memory, that's all their worth in all
I will need no souvenir to remember you
I will need no keepsake hung up with a sticky glue
I will have your hand to hold, forever and again
If I need reminder, I just gaze up past your chin
Even all the words I wrote, someday will be just that
They may still hold a meaning, but I can never bring it back
The pearls pierced through my ears handed down from generation,
even they are getting old throughout this newer nation
Stories ended with their what if's and could have's
are too far passed now, just sit for some good laughs
I will need no souvenir to remember you
I will need no keepsake hung up with a sticky glue
I will have your hand to hold, forever and again
If I need reminder, I just gaze up past your chin
Why do we need bibles and these holy books to say
something once was, and I think again one day
I only can remember that one time I landed hospitalized
because the get well notes be still on my shelf advised
I used to keep a diary when I was just young,
to write down all I saw until it wasn't all fun
I will need no souvenir to remember you
I will need no keepsake hung up with a sticky glue
I will have your hand to hold, forever and again
If I need reminder, I just gaze up past your chin
For you are my souvenir
living life with both so near
Your hand is just a reminder
of the time that we have spent, in you, the meaning finder
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 10:05 PM UTC
There is a strong sentimental attachment
to an old dark blue pickup with pin stripping
Hadn't driven it in years…its tires were loosing air
Intentions of getting it road worthy were slipping
A neighbor spied it … asking if it was for sale
Saying he needed something like it for hauling
With a sigh… I relinquished my keepsake affection
With a boost… it sputtered… then purred without stalling
Too late to reconsider and backing out of the deal...
Giving a gentle pat to the shinny chrome bumper
I lovingly said, 'Take care of the ol' girl...
she'll be good to you if you maintain and pamper'
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 1:24 PM UTC
They walked in together with flushed faces and cold ears, after walking for what seemed like minutes in the coniferous forest surrounding the cedar cabin. Those minutes were actually hours, but when they were out here time did a funny thing and sometimes stopped all together. He hung their coats in the closet as she stripped herself of boots and socks, with bare cold feet she walked across the patterned carpet feeling its fibres between her toes. She perched herself on the couch in her favourite reading spot. He then too assumed his position on the couch allowing a space inside his outreached arm to be filled by her appreciative body. As she blankly gazed at the green life out the window, he gazed at her. Memorizing the freckles on the bridge of her nose and the way she puckered her lips without noticing. Absorbing all of her for a keepsake in case she decided to disappear as fast as she had come. This girl, he thought, is the most beautiful combination of genes and timing I have encountered in my life. But he didn’t mean physically, he meant her laugh and her stubbornness and how she believed she was spontaneous but every moment of her life was planned. It scared him how much and how detailed he saw his future, and how she was undoubtedly in it as far as he was concerned. Sometimes he wished he didn’t feel so much for her, for them. He had been hurt before and he grew accustomed to the calluses around his heart.
She breathed it all in, slowly but thoroughly. She breathed in the warmth of the burning furnace, the smell of wood that was still alive. She breathed in his sent of musk, soap, and mint. She breathed in his delicious smell of love, his pheromones. This place was exactly what they needed, some time in a surreal place to remember each other and how well they used to fit. How well they do fit. The stress and distractions of everyday life were tugging at the strings that kept them woven together. All they needed was time to be silent together, time to think together about different things. She knew that their hands and souls would fit together again like they always had, if they just gave it a chance. And now, here they were in their own made happiness. Sitting here as one piece of human, making love in the most innocent of ways.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 4:10 PM UTC
Ah, her
I'll spare her name for the sake of mystery
But this feeling that is stirred up is quite real
I'm pretty shook, I can't deal
Where do I start?
Her eyes, of course
Eyes as calming as the ocean tides
They pull at mine, drawing me in
Making me want to be by her side
Dark brown, making me melt like brownies
Hair like fire
Beautifully gleaming in the sunset
Wavy curls, waving at my heart
Capturing me in a trance
Oh, she makes me want to dance
That smile
More beautiful than the Nile
Her laugh is a soothing melody
Kissing her lips seems to be my remedy
Oh how I wish I could with her
To show her how much she is worth
Worth more than what she's been told
By both young and old
Worth more than how men look at her
She is a precious keepsake
A woman to cherish
One to take to the lake
And listen to her favorite songs
Her whole being is a song
A sweet melody that lifts my spirits
All day long
her.
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 8:53 PM UTC
Wounds heal but they'll always leave a scar. A little keepsake of memories. We may always lope that these wounds may heal without scars, that everything would out perfectly, despite us knowing that is very unlikely. It is reassuring that after time passes most will wear them with pride as a badge-like battle scar. Though I seem to fall into a hole of turmoil and confusion seeing as I'm not like most, I've always been different and found it hard to fit into the crowd. A blessing and a suede it may be but it is who I am and I promise you I'll always be your little "nerd" regardless of your desire.
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 6:25 PM UTC
You pick up your suitcase
Looking for new places to go
Something stops you
A whisper
Come home, come home
You swallow your fear
And hope for the best
Knowing this is what you wanted
Come home, come home
Ignore the whisper
You tell yourself
But what if you shouldn't
Come home, come home
Grab a little keepsake and place it with a note
In the package ready to send
By your picture
Come home, come home
You can't go home
You just can't
You left for the better
Come home, come home
Think of your life now
The great people you know
But you think of all the great things you left
Come home, come home
Years pass
You take a right onto a pebble path
You've done it at last
You're home, You're home
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 3:03 PM UTC
Where lovers do catch the very fabric of the heart
Your lips float with the grace of a snowflake
Snowglobe on the mantle for all to see
But only my hands to embrace
Precious keepsake
The moon-light echos the radiance of your touch
Drawing warmth to calm my inner throe
Soothing with every stroke
A master and a brush
My Picasso
In the lovers mind you endlessly wander in wonder
As you seek to grip the slow progress of carnality
Where your unchained immortality rests
Embroidered deep in my eyes'
Caress of reality
Dec 21, 2010
Dec 21, 2010 at 7:56 PM UTC
her paint by number love affair
was planned down to his kisses
was everything she expected it to be
wasn't long before truth showed
it was a love like a paper flower
but it would never grow never thrive
it was just ink and paper rendering of
what could have been
her paint by number love affair
so sad and forlorn
pasted there on the wall
like child's keepsake
gives no warmth holds no future....
paint by number lovers
never argue
never cheat
hollow smiles carry no joy
meaningless pleasures under the covers
meaningless words that have no answer
paint by numbers love affairs so easy
so hollow
sad and forlorn
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 12:47 PM UTC
Move down upon a hollow road
Dreary wind’s gentle tap on your door
The grey bird’s path in willow lanes
Skeletons for evermore
Or lest the snow falls on the ‘morrow
And quiet drapes winter its sheet
Keepsake my sparrow in the morning
In memories ‘til spring we meet
Jul 14, 2011
Jul 14, 2011 at 5:54 AM UTC
No more light through the window doth glow
No more wisteria vines to climb and grow
Grandparents long since dead
The home remained abandoned wondering what lied ahead.
***** never more to play
Piano keys crushed by cruel hands that day
Torn, broken, and abused
Deceived, tricked, and misused.
Farewell to the best home with rosy hue
Farewell to the light shining through
You were torn apart never to be mended
Life's joy inside your walls all to soon had ended.
We remember you with smiles through our tears
For we miss seeing the home we saw for many years
As long as I can remember and before
You were always there with old cherished door.
Though still gone, you're preserved inside our heart
The best keepsake box that will never break or fall apart
And while I miss you especially on days like today
Forever in my poetry you will safely stay!
Although I never once lived inside those priceless walls
My heart to you calls
And as fresh as the morning is new
Is my poetry and love for you.
~Marian~
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 11:16 PM UTC
It’s silly for me to trade
My worth for something made
Up just for a keepsake…
A keepsake paper trade route I adjourned
To pacify a need I had begun to forlorn.
Fashioned by the angst of my discretion.
Lo and behold! Here I stand my heart I made open
Know this, I never put up nor faltered a thought
Then again true colors sprung up revealed a dismay.
What I had longed for, I quivered…
Apparent of what I foreclosed…
For I will not resolve to disclose any matter.
Should I have to, I am welcome.
I am a lion, that’s what I am.
Yes, I may have faltered but never will I am.
I can only take the blame for the actions I had begun
And the hurt, I take it, from which had sprung.
But never will I lift a finger, once I know I am betrayed.
For I know the worth of a friend,
I was blinded by my self-dismay.
Settle your thoughts, my dear, for such resolution;
For I have placed God to be my absolution.
Distance plays disregard to known other virtue.
See me as I am and you’ll see me I’m true.
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
*I want to go there with you
You know, that place you whispered to me
Whilst I was deep asleep in your arms
Where the air is cool and the river awaits for our feet
With wild horses and overgrown fields of dandelions and bluebonnets
Take me there
And keep me there, like a gem you wear night and day
Passed down from unknown times
But precious to you
A keepsake worth more than all the coins that have ever passed through your fingertips
With a love so sweet you refuse to take the last bite, for then it will be no more
Take me there and I will always stay*
Nov 15, 2017
Nov 15, 2017 at 7:51 AM UTC