"knick" poems
Shrek is wreck
Wreck is deck
Deck is beck
Black rack
In the back
Of the knick-knack
Zipppity bow
How is how?
In the luau
I only eat lard
Poems are hard
cancer
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 8:55 AM UTC
there is nothing i love more
than being
a girl
i love the way i speak,
with slang only teenage girls use
i love wearing dainty clothes,
feeling beautiful wearing them
i love collecting,
knick-knacks, records, crystals
above all
i love
the wonder of girlhood
romanticizing my life
perceiving my monotonous existence,
as a life worth writing about
Dec 4, 2022
Dec 4, 2022 at 9:53 PM UTC
Knick Knack, Patty whacks
Give away a soul
This old man just paid his toll.
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 2:28 PM UTC
What to do about wanderlust?
Should it be quelled?
Desktop backgrounds are my only escape
Maps with tacks and backpacks with knick-knacks
It all seems so far away
Cobblestone steps are wearing down
By the feet of enlightened in wondrous towns
While chairs are pushed in
Or left out of place
Thoughts are escaping to the vacuum of space
This Earl Grey is mint tea in Tangiers' seats
Or gold and black Yunnan at her highest peaks
It's sifting through pans of Fynbos' red leaves
What to do about wanderlust?
Should it be quelled?
I seem to dwell
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 11:47 AM UTC
i'm going to die here, i know i will,
they change their scope of helping me,
every time i slide farther down the hill,
"you can have this pill at a certain time,"
"NO! Wait! We've changed our mind,"
"you can have it at this new time, how kind!"
"just make sure there's someone on who can tell the time.."
and if i lay here waiting, for what i may or may not get,
my hands will slowly tremble and my mind so deeply frets,
all alone in this wrinkled bed clothes, no one sees me yet,
but now the nurses have come to me with a little more regret:
"the doctor says you'll now have to wait 7 more hours for relief,
it seems he doesn't like being awaken at nighttime when he sleeps."
so, i get to feel my tears build up behind my bloodshot eyes,
no one is here at all to help me understand just why.
you should see me now alone trying so hard now not to cry,
all i feel is stunned, cold shock and this feeling that i will die
--i'm going to die here, bit by bit, inside out and all alone,
i don't know what to do or say, or how to make last atone,
for all i've done in my life, that has brought me to this place,
to compose this death-wish poem to read as tear-drops paint my face.
but, for now with nothing else left to do in my hospice room,
i do the last thing that i can do the best, just write and wait for doom.
is there anyone out there?
help, help, help me, i beg and try to plead!
will anyone please come here,
hold and hug me in my need?
i'm going to die here,
and i'll be all by myself,
left alone like a broken knick-knack
on a dusty shelf.
___________
Nov 6, 2010
Nov 6, 2010 at 8:45 PM UTC
I used to hate your healthy avocados...until I had one
Not that your coffee tasted superior to my tea
But what's taste when you season mine with gun powder?
Yes, In case you did not detect
There is a lot of hate in this one
Call me aggressive and spiteful
Whilst holding your rifle
They say hate begets hate begets hate begets hate
So for you to understand
I put aside my ignorance and try to walk in your shoes
OK, let's start:
A lot of trees
Beautiful sky, delightful breeze
A rich land where tenants are a many and they shun the proprietor
I know I promised to be nice
But let's face it for that white picket fence, someone had to pay the price.
Start again:
Sunny coasts
Bacon, eggs on toast
Walk the dog in the park, life is not all that hectic here.
To make it clear, running out of coffee is my basic fear.
Flat stomachs
In fact, six packs!
Cupboard full of knick-knacks
and plenty of time to kick back and relax
Never-ending supply of niceties
Calm waters
Long walks along the harbor
and perhaps a tall pint of lager at the pub
Throw some juicy ones on the barbie mate!
Who cares if 6.2 mil in Somalia are starving mate?
You say to me:
"survival of the fittest, Darwin mate"
"It's so difficult to fit in" I say; so tiring MATE
Did I say that right?
I'm Mohammad, as James in a play called "Aussie Catch Up"
and I don't know how to play that part
What else can I say? they gave me a voice (although in English)
between the self deprecating migrant and the middle eastern rag head, the gave me a choice
And by the way my boss tried to anglicize my name
Said Sebastian had a nice ‘ring’ to it
Well go ahead, march to your colonial tune and have me sing to it
Oh healthy avocados, you're too ripe for my liking
Maybe I'm just used to a bit of rawness in my diet
To be honest
I have a heavy heart, a dark one
Maybe to reconcile, you should take a step
a very very very very very very long one
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 6:00 AM UTC
“The executioner’s face is always well hidden”
a Bob Dylan lyric
<>
mine own “ex,” in chest encased, silent, with grimacing smile,
happy to be of sir-vice, sent home unhappy, cause his cut,
not quite deep enough
this time,
though nearly succeeded,
but his biz is an-all-or-none inclusive Swifty tour, disillusioned,
he don’t get paid unless he brings my punched ticket to a glorious
sadness conclusion
someone asked (axed in local accent) if I’m nearer my god
having survived despite my best efforts at self destruction,
to which I’m smiling when uttering a “heartfelt prayer” of
Hell No!
cause the channel always been open and either side can initiate when so desired, the gates of love always open,
so wasn’t surprised when playing with my matches,
he went silent, but knew fully well, Mr. G a risk taker,
put his roulette chips on a “basket bet,” (1)
needing a double 00, to collect,
because, shoot, the timing was good…
Me?
ain’t naive enough to hope that a prayerful request
would not be met with a “now you want some intercession?”
and a heavenly sneer, cause we always been perfectly clear,
with each other, ask and you won’t receive, and none of that
what have you done for me lately razzamatazz,
nah, the record impurities gray
and no pencil erasures allowed…
knowing that the executioner will be back’ round someday,
my wounded heart too tempting to pass up twice, and
that’s ok, this old man learned to live with
a not entirely pleasant uncertainty,
*”This old man, he played one,
He played knick-knack on my thumb;
With a knick-knack paddywhack,
Give the dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.”*
but he didn’t play two, having no kazoo!
Sep 5, 2023
Sep 5, 2023 at 12:24 PM UTC
teething on the knick in your lip, mind blinded.
seeping through dragonfly wings like syrup sunlight.
you emerge without an egg-tooth. draped in moist.
you loosen the nail in your coffin
with drowsy crowbars
and scones.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
How can I be so dispensable?
Useful, perhaps,
but dispensable.
Like toothpaste
that you squeeze
and squeeze
and squeeze
until I’ve run dry
and there’s nothing left
that I can give to you,
so you don’t put me away
with your knick knacks and treasures
but place me in the trashcan
without a second thought,
a fond memory,
or kind goodbye.
Goodbye.
Jan 28, 2011
Jan 28, 2011 at 9:56 PM UTC
I was born with butterfly's on my tongue
and glitter in my veins
People tell me its dust but I know better
I see it whenever I get a knick or a scratch
and it falls down like feathers
catching the light and dancing like kaleidoscopes
Like the shimmer of fish scales
Like Christmas lights
Like twinkling stars
I am a book
and every mark on my skin is a memory written in
fine sharp detail with a red glitter pen
Stress line on paper
Faded ink blots
And when I open up
I'm magic
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 5:26 AM UTC
Watching her sit with her crossed legs
And her gaze upwards
Like the world is too petty
For her eyes to surrender.
She was magnificent, yes
But her looks feigned a lie
Her eyes could **** with intense fire
Her scent was amicable
For her preying hands
And if a being so unfortunate
Crosses her path
Or meets her eyes
She springs like a cheetah
And rips them apart,
Metaphorically, of course.
.......
My eyes wander off
.......
His frenzied looks
And unshaved face
Ruffled up clothes
Looks like he has had his worst day
Wonder what's got him so worked up
Must be a hangover
Must have had a drink too much
Last night
Yes, I can see a wife
Beaten up in an alcohol-fueled mania.
But those petunias in his hands
Beautiful
What a contrast to the man himself
A mistress?
Or an attempt to gain forgiveness
From his wife?
.......
Sipping the best local tea
Sit back
And let my mind have its spree
.......
Pick pocket
Such an adorable face
Blue-eyed, her tiny hands
Slipping in and out
Procuring knick knacks and wallets.
Life was never fair
Mother's sick and in a tarpaulin roofed
Shack off the main street.
Dad's a drunk
And she's had enough with that nonsense.
Her timed precision and skilled fingers
Workings its way for a loaf and
The extra change for her mother
Curled up like a ball
In pain.
.....
Change for the tea
And morning paper.
Picking up a stride
Take a left from the plaza
Into a throng of living bodies,
And to be one among
The many lives
Toiling,
Living,
Breathing.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 1:38 AM UTC
Unconditional love:
1. noun; when you willingly pay the consequences for the actions of the one you love at the expense of your very existence without even knowing if he understands or can appreciate just how much those consequences have cost you;
(I wonder if you can get a second mortgage on your soul?)
also, 2. when you're able to smile at him even as you watch him take the left-over pieces of memories from your garage-sale of a life and put them in another woman's home, while the time that was supposed to be your final treasured moments and/or memories together, melts away like yesterday's makeup oozes down my clammy face on an unusually humid Palm Springs summer morning. And, even though you knew this was coming, and you tried and tried to warn him, you just smile and wonder in which bloated bag of odd but familiar, priceless knick-knacks your heart ended up in and hope he recognizes it if he ever accidentally runs across it.
(Today I learned the definition of unconditional love.)
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 5:37 PM UTC
●☆●♡●☆●
I hold my breath when
you come to me
Or call me on the phone
Your non~questions rarely being
How are you Mom
But that you need money
You say it is for good things
Like food and clothes
Maybe it will be after...
When you begin to heal
I try and protect my fragile heart
Cause I don't know when
the war will break out that
will tear us again
Carefully packed bags
now ripped and strewn
across the foor
knick knacks fallen
with the slam of the door
On the phone for a moment
longer than you approved.
Punishment of your spite,
ugly names that came at me
like pellets and angry wasps,
while the woman
on the other line
told me it would all be OK
Assured me
over and over
A three minute call
that ended too soon.
Too long for You to wait.
Longer than the Morning
was patient, while you slept
as I lovingly packed your food.
▪●☆●▪
Copyright © 2015 Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 5:32 PM UTC
They once asked
If we looked forward
To trainings
Well I know
I do
On top of the
Cold regularity
That calms
On top of the countless
Hours endured
Under the sun
Like statues
There is one thing
I look forward
To
That is meeting
The lot of
You
Twice
A week
Two blessings
In five days
Of chaos
The seventh batch
The remaining five
Somehow
During those two
Or three
Hours of training
You guys somehow
Manage to take
All
That weight
Away
Introducing me
To new sound worlds
Teaching me
How to dance
Or just watching
And listening
To your amusing
Conversations
On all sorts of things
So
Open
Carefree
Not
Judgmental
No comparisons
And always
Each time
Each session
You'll never fail
To pull out
A genuine
Smile
Or
Laugh
From deep inside
This Abyss
One that cannot
Be contained
Or restrained
Or just simply
Watching the
Plain
Innocence
With all your kiddish
Knick-knacks
Just for a little while
It banishes
All that
Complexity
And through
All the gruelling camps
All the scoldings
All the punishments
The yelling
The pain
The standing
We still stuck through
You guys
May not know
How much it means
To me
To have such a platoon
Keeping me going
Through the tough times
When I really want
To give up
And give in
But just seeing
The five of us
Huddled together
In the smallest
Circle
Making small laughs
Small jokes
The complaints
The whining
It somehow makes things
Feel
Right
Pulling up that
Swinging end
Of the graph
Into a positive
Curve
At the end
Of the day
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 11:45 AM UTC
Oh, why do I sit here staring into my screen wasting my time when I've lived such a life? I look around me and see nothing but memories. Memories. Filling the walls, living in not just photos hanging on the walls but in the books. Bent pages reminding me of when I was younger and used to bend them despite what the librarian told us all before we checked out our first books. Memories in the knick knacks on my shelves, telling me stories that only I can hear.
Stories of when I was little and my grandfather bought me a tiny glass frog with a crown on its head to sit on my shelf and be my prince. Memories in my pallet. I feel the layers of paint caked onto and into the wood displaying different colors and mountains of texture from the years of dried paint, years of dried ideas and creativity that were thrown onto various canvases and papers, also hanging on my walls screaming memories, memories, memories.
My life has been nothing but them. For after one moment passes, it is only a memory, yes? Just think, if every moment is to only be transformed into a memory, that could be forgotten, or disguised as a useless object on your shelves or your walls, why waste them? For objects grow dust. But my life should not.
I will dust my memories off and bring them to life. I will start living, making memories out of every moment and not wasting them. And every day I will dust them off and keep them clean, remembering the wonderful life I have lived.
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 3:15 PM UTC
The moon is a disco-ball upon black waters
The sun is a lava-lamp upon our pale backs
Planets are mines for department store jewelry
Hearts are black-lights for otherworldly knick-knacks
Truth is an onion; it peels and makes you weep
Earth is a landfill where bones and secrets sleep
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 5:48 PM UTC
this old poet, one of the first, to see your wave,
when he was playing knick-knack paddy whack on his shoe,
the old poet then played two, and said,
yes, I will follow you
Please
imaging-imaging that old poet with a glanceable cursory,
a small smile whispered, with entourage of a nod and a wink,
stands, knowing he is in the delivery room, a witness,
to first steps of a babe starting a new life
marvelous miracle by touching a button, a new line written,
not crossed but connecting by pressing "Follow"
with a finger from a hand, a human fringe,
attached to a breathing mind and a thinking heart,
the first to follow you, a ceremonial gesture of
innovation magic incantation, a new moon blessing,
a living person believing, remembering, the longest ago,
his first own graceful acknowledgement and eyes speak,
yes, I will follow you
the new poet, astonished at this induction to the smallest
Hall of Fame that they alone own the only key, study that
number, that number 1, the first to follow, kinda looking over
their shoulder to make sure the old poet still there on the morrow,
sure enough there are now two, safe in the back pocket,
a tabulation of humans who speak volumes of trust, saying,
yes, I will follow you
the old poet, imaging-imaging the babe, dancing round
the room, invigorated, challenged and the faucets pouring,
can't write it down as fast as the trains arriving disgorging,
words unique in new combinations and the rush of blood
from heart to head to those newly literary fingers bleeding
happy creatures of creation as if they are Noah
setting sail to save us with verbs and adjectives
two by two all for now species unheard of
the old poet wants to send cautionary notes, the path strewn
with frustrations of no inspiration ditches and inescapable cliches
that sound fresh but just aren't, the disappearing satisfaction,
the inability to get it just perfect, and so many obstacles
to be prophesied,
but he does not, these things must be self taught,
today let it suffice the initiation, the first crowning of
**yes, I will follow you
for this the way of the poet
10/16/17 5:09pm**
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 5:22 PM UTC
it's dusty, i swipe grime off my skin
my memories piled up in stacks of
knick-knacks, yellowed notebook pages,
and drawings from when i was twelve
i haven't cleaned my room in a year
too scared, anxious
to touch anything
the fear of breaking my fragile sense of identity
that i've clung to
it's desperate, lonely
sleeping in a dusty room
i wipe the sweat from my forehead
cobwebs weave through my strands
clinging in clumps as i
rummage through my belongings
i hadn't seen these things in a while
remnants of when i was
happier, even though i said i wasn't
i'm a year older again
and soon i will be years and years older
and i will leave this room behind
for now,
as i stay for
a little bit longer
let me revert back into
the child i was.
May 26, 2023
May 26, 2023 at 6:54 AM UTC
Cliche
Life ***** then you die,
try and laugh, no need to cry.
Everyday is a new beginning,
can't keep my head from spinning.
Life's a journey, not a destination,
waiting for my train at the local station.
Same ole **** different day,
always do things your own way.
Don't you hate when that happens,
food on face, with no napkins.
Try walking in someone else's shoes,
it doesn't really matter who's.
Don't worry, be happy,
no need to be snappy.
Always do as your told,
that cliche is getting old.
Another day, another dollar,
midgets are people too, just smaller.
Don't bite the hand that feeds you,
unless of course it's filled with poo.
You can't always get what you want,
but when you do, always flaunt.
Every rose has its thorn,
why does **** look like corn.
Find the light at the end of the tunnel,
I badly want a mistletoe belt buckle.
Don't know what you got, till it's gone,
if you got brains, you don't need brawn.
Love will find a way,
I once heard a band say.
Fame is only fifteen minutes long,
where you're at, is where you belong.
Friends come and friends go,
but it's family, you will always watch grow.
There is always a mountain, you must climb,
everyone will commit at least one crime.
Put that in your pipe and smoke it,
if you have a son, buy him a baseball mitt.
Only believe in what you see,
bad things always happen in three.
Don't always believe what you hear or read,
red blood, is what we all bleed.
Knock, knock who's there,
before you open, please beware.
Knick, knack, paddy, whack,
all girls love a good *** smack.
Money don't grow on trees,
in life there are no guarantees.
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 10:24 PM UTC
He’d been able, after some gentle persistence,
To wheedle his way into the place
(He’d been vaguely recognized by the caretaker,
A certain affable familiarity his stock in trade, after all)
And he had been decidedly deliberate in his search for the shoes,
Though he’d been quite certain where he’d left them,
Simply hoping to drink this all in just one more time
But though the rooms were ostensibly unchanged
(He'd noted the odd knick-knack and piece of bric-a-brac
Had been secreted out, to be preserved or pawned)
They held no fascination for him now,
Simply concoctions of hardwood flooring,
Decorative wall coverings, staid pieces of furniture
(Indeed, the paterfamilias of this whole mélange
Increasingly beyond his recall-- he could hearken back
To a certain hail-fellow-well-met in his demeanor,
And he'd had an affecting smile,
But he was unable to conjure any further details
From the recesses of his memory)
And with nothing else to moor him to these silent rooms,
He'd slipped on the ostensible reasons he'd come in the first place
(Their uppers maintaining their whiteness
Through any number of bleachings,
The soles worn to a near smoothness)
And, nodding perfunctorily to the mansion's steward,
He slipped away, heading to some other party
Carrying on in more or less perpetuity,
The battered bottoms of his shoes
Leaving just the faintest marks as he crossed the dunes,
Soon to be buffed away altogether by the breeze.
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 11:29 AM UTC
The knicks and the knacks of you and I.
The knicks as you chisel tru the glass enclosure around my heart.
The knacks of.. of.. of.. you on I…
Tear the walls down,
I mean beat the walls now.
The knicks and the knacks that have come to define our pact,
our pack,
our.. Knacks..
I visualize and shiver,
even in the shower the gentle whisper..
Touch…. Your… Toeeee……s
Oh stop it,
ur making me blush,
making my heart rush
The knicks and the knacks that have come to define US…
But wait,
hol-up!
Isn’t that what you wanted US to be?
The ability to derive pleasure selfishly.
Your narcissistic tendencies,
expecting me to conform to this atrocity…
But I did…..
Oh yes I did…
and foolishly,
candidly,
unrepentant in every way,
I enjoyed every knick,
every knack,
in our little knick knack
------
you can check out this poem and my other works here http://tonipayneonline.com/poetry-by-toni-payne/
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 5:01 PM UTC
you know
they say
just a short time ago
humanity entered
interstellar space
outside the bubble
of our shining sun
few seem to notice
really even care
there's no man or woman
hopping or plunging flags
on distant faraway lands
just a machine, gathering data
and things
intangible
to you or me
i guess that's no surprise
given the way we've treated
this place
crowding it with metals on rubber wheels
coal plants with giant top hats or
explosive mushroom hats made from
radio active rocks and things or
tons of knick knacks molded from
oily wells and burning stacks or
grocer shelves lined with seedless
fruits and other mutant creations or
chemical sandwiches for lunch
and dinner
all the while
marveling at
how far we've come
i hope we find nothing out there
no planet should be treated
like
this
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 4:06 AM UTC
Grandpa loved angels
Kept them scattered throughout his room, his house, his life
On everything from pictures, to figurines, to trinkets
Alissa found a penny with an imprint of wings with the year of her birth on it shortly after he died
How strange, we all thought
Grandpa had a lot of things,
Luck charms, knick-knacks, practical jokes he carried just in case
He kept his humor in his back pocket
I visit my grandmother in her home that used to be theirs
She is now as vacant as the Detroit winters are cold; the ten years without him have stripped her of any warmth
I think a part of her left when he did
I enter his study and look through every drawer, discovering a part I neglected to understand when it was present
I never showed much interest in anything he told me when he was still around
I only really knew of the things he kept in drawers, cabinets, on shelves
Everything he owned is as constant as it ever was
His belongings remain untouched as if he hasn’t been gone for over a decade
I feel too much alive in this office of a dead man
I run curious fingers over the bindings of books, stopping to pull at Dickinson, a faded collection of poetry inked with flowers on the front cover
I remember the dictionary the size of my six-year-old palm that intrigued me so greatly; the ability to fit so many words into such a small area was nothing short of fascinating
It is the one physical memory I took home with me after the funeral
I had wanted it always
I now picture it hiding in the back of my drawer in my childhood bedroom where I know it still is
On his desk there are so many key chains, bills from another generation, maps, postcards, watches
So many things I am not sure what to call them
I am not sure about a lot but
Grandpa loved angels
Angels and ***** jokes
One to keep you safe and the other to make you laugh
I keep both with me always,
Just in case.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 4:32 PM UTC
i was in a terrible accident
one of those classic floor waxing accidents
scarred my face
FOR LIFE
i cant fill out my mustache anymore
my right side
near the corner of my mouth
BARREN
then there was that other one
terrible accident
folding clothes this time
SCARRED FOR LIFE
standing over a table
repetitive motions
each and every arch absent
DEFLATED
oh god remember that one
scarred for life
accident etched in
ORGANIZING RECORDS
the shelf collapsed
the knick knacks from the top shelf
cracked Funkadelic
NO MORE FUNK
and while i lament
****** stache
flat feet
broken record
real things happen
like that zit between my eyes
overgrown shrubs
1080p overheated
i mean things REAL people care about
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 3:38 AM UTC
Not sure why yard sales didn’t make the Stress Scale ‘cause the uptick in adrenaline, the ramped-up apprehension of letting stuff go, especially stuff that's been around for a while, the feeling of loss, picturing someone with your old stuffed pony, it’s painful.
This saying goodbye to things brings an emotional dilemma, a mixed-up sense of knowing it's high time for the thing-a-ma-bob with no actual relevance, to be dumped while some queasy feeling of unexpected meaning to the thing erupts.
And an inner kid sputters, "No, please not my wacha-ma-call-it, no, I’m not ready yet.” or your favorite uncle's favorite chipped ashtray along with the obnoxious bric-a-brac, knick-knack, from; who was it again, suddenly becomes the Hope Diamond.
Yep, yard sales are tough, your private junk out for all the world, to ****** to turn upside down and sour-faced putting it down, as you breathe a sigh of relief the bozo didn’t take home your treasured, dusty paper weight with the faded shamrock inside.
Seriously, yard sales are like putting your whole life on the front page, exposed to strangers, because friends with your best interest in mind, tell you to simplify, clean out, move on, start anew after they’ve witnessed your life fly apart…
Like a paper napkin flies up into a gust of wind, swirls upwards catches forever on a branch and these self-same, well-meaning pals are incapable of your need to keep the rusty tea kettle, the one you boiled water in to make tea for your sweetheart every day.
Then, when finally you’ve sorted through it all and it’s laid out defenseless in the grass, beside the “House for Sale” sign, you spot some **** fool, your dead mother's "Old Faithful" trivet held high, the one she got on the only vacation she ever had, yelling, "Hey sis, will ya take a dime for this?"
And the raindrops begin to fall.
Sep 5, 2011
Sep 5, 2011 at 10:26 AM UTC