"memorabilia" poems
As life is created from her womb
Bountiful preparation is needed
Charisma, duty, and love
Develop the best care offered
Ecstatic for recording memorabilia
For such experiences occur only once
Given the opportunity to successfully grow
Home redefines as “elsewhere besides the abode”
Ill from separation
Joy still remains in the love connection
Kept in touch through messages of endearment
Life becomes more heartwarming
Mothers nurture endless dreams
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 1:41 PM UTC
Cup after cup.
From the bottom of a well
lined with discarded mugs from
memorabilia shops
I strain my eyes
and through my tangled eyelashes
I fight for vision between sun rays.
The world might always smell like
coffee gone cold.
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 2:30 PM UTC
Her birthday cards
All lined up on the mantle like
Happy paper people, waiting to give praise.
She placed her flowers just below
On the fireplace bricks like
A bouquet garden,
nurtured for ripe admiring.
It’s an impromptu display, in gentle notions reading:
“I am loved!”
Next to Grandpa’s old chair,
Where part of Grandma’s heart sleeps
At night.
What a beautiful home
She has kept
And keeps.
Memorabilia of a better time
When pride came from the simple things.
With a warm heart and keen eye,
Every adornment
In its proper home placed,
And atop the fireplace mantle
Is where you’ll find
The birthday cards.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 11:42 PM UTC
The time must come when
we put aside recipes untried,
socks unmended, old fabrics
too pretty to be used -when
the bottled nuts and bolts
-the springs, the locks
unused -waiting,
wait unused
-the memorabilia of hope,
the rusty steel of life.
The time must come when
cease to lie -lotions,
Elixirs de Leon -when we
fail our bite to the night-soak
and think not -care not, of that
breath that does not count anyhow
-when reason mirrors wrinkles
-undreams romance.
-hooked rugs of might-have-done,
school albums, what not become,
leather bottles, convalescing sun
-and the quieting ice.
When I read the Sports/
Society page, I ask myself -them,
'How will you go down?
-willingly? -with,
if not a Bang, a Whimper?
-if not with, without
the Apotheosis of Drug?
(-from http://www.condition.org/ )
Jun 9, 2010
Jun 9, 2010 at 5:05 PM UTC
Ordinary people
carry action figures
on their dashboard
and stop in still traffic
on their way to work
to stare at the circus billboard
wishing they could be
the incredible flying man
who soars above the Ferris wheel
and disappears beyond the horizon.
The human cannonball lives
with his mother
in a musty basement
filled with old baseball cards,
beer can memorabilia,
an ash stained billiards table,
Chicago Bulls jerseys,
and pictures of Goldie Hawn
and Evil Knievel.
The human cannonball has
high blood pressure,
frequent anxiety,
a wheat allergy,
a jaw that pops
when opened too wide,
a crick in his neck,
a bruised shoulder
from falling
into the net
over and over.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 1:31 AM UTC
I
Ah, did you once see Shelley plain,
And did he stop and speak to you?
And did you speak to him again?
How strange it seems, and new?
II
But you were living before that,
And you are living after,
And the memory I started at—
My starting moves your laughter.
III
I crossed a moor with a name of its own
And a certain use in the world no doubt,
Yet a hand’s-breath of it shines alone
’Mid the blank miles round about—
IV
For there I picked up on the heather
And there I put inside my breast
A moulded feather, an eagle-feather—
Well, I forget the rest.
1.9k
Rooms are sort of a sanctuary---
especially for a teenager,
a place to build your own world
even though you feel sort of stuck there.
I took down everything in my room
before I left for college 4 years ago
and now it’s not so much my room
but a room that I stay in sometimes.
There are still remnants of clear tape
that held up posters and photos
and other teenage memorabilia
I surrounded myself with.
When things got boring or lonely
it meant sneaking out of the house
to wander around the neighborhood
with friends or headphones
and then eventually back in my bed
staring up at the stringy lights on my ceiling.
The time I snuck out and smoked my first joint
I didn’t know whether to cry or to laugh
at the fact that I could almost see
the community center I took swim lessons at as a kid
just beyond the end of the lighter.
I think I needed someone to talk to because things got bad,
but all of my feelings and energy went into obsessively building
a world for myself that I could survive in
despite the fact that it was hurting me.
I rearranged my reality into something bearable
but destructive at the same time,
because the only freedom I felt like I had then
was choosing what I wanted to see.
I felt closer to these things than anything in my life;
it was a world made up of memories with friends,
hours and hours of music,
and following some sort of fandom.
Leaving it all behind was like
killing a part of myself that helped me keep going.
Somewhere down that road
I realized that happiness was a choice,
even though my world made of things I depended on
was gone and my problems were still there.
I’m building a different world for myself elsewhere now
but sometimes I end up back in this room
and it feels a little empty
but also the right kind of nostalgic.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 3:35 AM UTC
My allegiance to be a leader
Leader of my culture
Vow to righteous cultivation
Raise my right fist
And I tell you this
I will never quit
Low souls I will always lift
My determination is greater than or equal to my liberation
Truly in the past I've gotten content
Bent
Ripped
Torn
Hesitant
Forgot why I was born
I ask for your forgiveness
While I'm a realest
I know I have to be rigorous
And stay consistent
Because now days everyone who's put in position loses their coherence and fear the consequences
Like why work so hard to be a star?and get everyone to witness,
Get everyone's attention
...
But don't have a mission!
PUT A CAMERA IN FRONT OF ME
TAKE A MILLION PICTURES
MAKE A DOCUMENTARY
I CAN BE COMPLEMENTARY
GIVE ME ENDORSEMENTS
I DON'T EVEN WANT THE PROPORTION
I'LL GIVE IT TO THE DISTORTED
MAKE ME A RAP ARTIST
AND PUT ME ON THE RADIO
LET MY VOICE BE HEARD THROUGH THE STEREO
I hope I don't speak this into existence
Because all I need is a microphone with my voice coming through the PA system
It's a shame that I might need security
But it's not strange that I might need security
If I attract too many brown faces and people who come from unfortunate places
That's where they draw the line,
Speeches for memorabilia
But my work will be erased
Hope I don't sound incredible
I would not sound ridiculous if you remember our intellectuals
They don't accept anyone who's exceptional
They don't want to see anyone who has a big dream in their retinal
Hopefully I can manage with
About 30 plus years of residue
Give up?
Naw that's just what the rest will do
Fight for our lives
And take a chance with my life
Whatever it takes to restitute
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 9:52 PM UTC
The marketplace (the one I admire
from the opposite side of earth)
is adorned with
best prices,
city memorabilia,
and vendors willing
to drop their prices for
the Western Civilization.
This is the gaudy side of town.
But just on the other side
of the crowded booths
is a bay that opens
to the sea adorned with
sunny afternoons,
crashing waves,
and books in hand and toes in the sand.
Your peaceful solace outshines
my tranquil plains adorned with
fallen leaves,
barren trees,
and the whispers of poetry that
is in the wind and
in the blue and orange sunsets.
Yet we are in solace together.
"I'm taking care of myself, and I miss you too"
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 10:49 PM UTC
Run to catch the train
Porous metal sound grinding
Needle drops
The strings creep
tunnel wind sweeps like the first note of the
symphony
Sonic upheaval
Your subway trash
Spending all this cash
Submersible weasel
I'm out of breath
My cheeks are red
I look like I'm 25
You're looking at my phone
Convinced I lied
My bag is checked
I'm on the next plane
I say I'll be back
But what if I never see you again
How angry would you be
How hard did you fall
Racing through the turn stiles
Gotta make last call
I dropped my gloves in the pub
All the mementos you keep in your closet in a corner on the floor
All this upheaval
Your memorabilia
People are just people
You collect them like a hamster like there will never be more
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 5:36 AM UTC
Surprises
Sweet efforts
They make my heart melt
Make me forget sadness
For even just a little while
I appeciate them
I even treasure those moments
Because for that instance
I feel they care
I know they thought of me
That I am a somebody
But I want to sleep
I'm not a warrior fit for battle
I am not a fair maiden to be saved
And I am not a victor in this conquest
*the world will go on but I-
I will not*
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 7:02 PM UTC
We’ve accomplished grace
In the eternal august night
To unchain a soul that is contrite
Her soft touch gave men a pleasurable fright
She made me endless dry nights
With a twist of the forthright sunrise.
I’m wondering
I’m wandering
In your vast spacious eyes
I’ll find exile in your fragrant dream
I’ll watch your promises steam
In the waning night
I felt the lunging freedom by the touch of your hand
To the glimmering dusk
We’ve failed to alternate
To the passing bliss
We reasserted
To your musky perfume
Angels tried to elaborate
Frozen words of wonder you maimed
A love hitherto acclaimed
Wintertime is upon us
Memorabilia
Worn dour faces
Grazed by memories
Wintertime is upon us
Lenient breaths
Defying the freezing weather
Like white cotton bursting into the air
Numbed fingertips
And cold lips
Winter was the season of you heart
Winter became the season of my life
Now loneliness is my last supper
The ice for my heart will scupper
I’m alone amidst the feral waves of sobbing
And my heart is drunk with its salt
The crescendo will exalt
Now I must repent
For the placid lament
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 5:49 PM UTC
and the bus windows fogged by human heat became a part of this child, and the wooden roof rot recliner
for summertime phone calls, and the crying neighbor woman’s sticky mascara,
and the hot asphalt became a part of him…the sideways light on the trees fifteen before dark, and the tract
house mazes at night, and the hidden playground underground,
and the blooming jasmine over strangers’ fences…invisible barking dogs…and burnt bike wheel tracks,
and glittered marsh gorgeous and toxic,
and cherry tree lined freeway, and the bitter fruit afterward…and the purple grateful palms…and the
neighbor’s unbloomed roses;
and the car rides to Elsewhere, and the urban self-sufficience envy,
and the free tickets from the out of town hero…and the wild-haired directors pacing preshow
lobbies…and the squirming audience beer-in-fist…and the blush-stained sidelit Cordelias…and
the honest snickers clearing the building into the cold lot still and quiet,
and all the changes of city and country wherever she went.
The red couch, the red rug, the blue kitchen, the dying dog,
The star trek memorabilia, and the dusty book garage, and the overcooked rice leftover…
the weight of guilt, the thought if after all we deserve every ounce,
the streets themselves, and the midnight three block nightmare runs to safeway…and the barbeque smell from not-my-house,
and the ****** children stumbling to the bus,
the brass chimes that fell off the door, and the dead grass backyard blanket, and the overgrown fields
where your dad smokes *** and the heat wave transposed radio, and the bird nest window mold ,
And the lawn flamingos become a part of him or her that peruses them now,
flame retardant,
american canyon: The Gateway to Somewhere Else, hallelujah, hallelujah,
Amen.
Jun 12, 2011
Jun 12, 2011 at 6:27 AM UTC
*The art we make.
Child of our imagination.
Looking back at us.*
The farmer let us into his old
Storehouse. Where food and
Goods had been stacked and hanging
Centuries ago, there were piles of
Rubble and memorabilia.
Half drunk and inspired, we filled
A bag with old objects. Brass scales,
Leather blacksmith protective glasses,
Razor blades and what not.
"Guess were going steampunk," you
Concluded, and I agreed.
We spoke briefly of bats, and
Retreated. Back home, the fire was still
Going. You sat down with your
Drink on the floor, arranging objects
Onto the canvas. Bronze spray paint and
A sharper eye for detail than I ever
Had. You nearly forgot to drink your
Wine, and apart from my applying some
Sealing foam and other handyman
Touches, it was all your creation.
I helped you to your feet -glass in hand-
And you stood there with a paint stained
Finger on your chin. Pensive; still working.
A part of me stumbled slightly deeper in
Love with you there, another took your
Picture in my mind, my eyes blinking
Like the lense of a camera, before you
Tilted your head against my shoulder,
Eyes not leaving the work in progress.
*"Don't you just love it? The art we make.
Child of our imagination.
Looking back at us."*
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
Zeerow, The Hero
Was a spectacular fool.
An unrepentant tool,
He run on philosophy
Based on misogyny,
Of raging homophobia
And collected memorabilia
From the Third *****
He didn’t like to be questioned
Whenever it was mentioned
Because he knew something
The rest of us were missing.
He knew as he knew day and night
That he was one hundred percent right
And we were all certifiable imbeciles
That made him totally irascible.
His compassion undetectable
He thought himself respectable
Because he kept his bigotry quiet.
But few could actually buy it
Because his brow-lowering scowls
And not-so sotto voce growls
Gave him away rather quickly.
And sometimes things got sticky
When he found him surrounded
By those previously grounded
In his wordy, misguided opinions
That we were all his minions
And he was some kind of lordling.
So how could we find him boring?
Yet we did. The best we could, we hid
Whenever he showed his face.
Especially in a public place.
The only thing that made it worse
Was that in the final verse
Some idiots elected him to office
So he got to irritate all of us.
And he did so officially,
Doing so quite efficiently.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 12:02 AM UTC
The heart is magnanimous
Never wary, to give up
Hope always kindles an
Eternal fire within the chambers
Providing light
To the experiences in life
Every chamber holds
Memorabilia collected from
The life events we encounter
With a psychic ability
To help us take decisions
And transform to face life
The challenges and experiences
Valiant heart beats
Essence of life in the rhythm
Cocooned within the walls
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 9:10 AM UTC
These people...they're obsessive. Hoarders of memorabilia associating success with handshakes, photographs and play-dates. I'm surrounded by squiggly lines vandalizing art and silhouettes of super-heated sand granules encasing a substance so vile that it permanently damages the frontal lobe of the collective consciousness. Inspirations float helplessly about the sea of underachievers and people-pleasers. What is success? Is it simply to impress the people around you? To instill envy upon your enemy? I won't even begin to dissect the differences. I can't even begin to protect the witnesses. The costumes are insignificant. The same tired, scared, eyes stare blankly at themselves from behind every mask. The ladder needs some broken rungs. The bladder bleeds; soaked in *** People milling about, spilling their sins. Reaching out sure looks a lot like clawing, and what is the difference between pleading and begging? May it be the same difference between dancing and squirming? No matter what we do, we all feel unworthy. So, I guess all that's left is: Learning. Teaching, not preaching. Boy, this place sure is unnerving. A shuffling mass of introverts sent into a downward spiraling life of discomfort, soon to be snuffed out with possessions. The empathy for the undead is utterly apparent, and arguably, inherent. Looking for answers in dusty pages and plastic heroes. Punks, Drunks, Nerds, ***** Women with bright hair and crooked teeth. Men replacing the hair they've lost on their heads with that which sprouts from their chins. I need a drink, I think. But in actuality what I need is a warm bed and a couple centuries of sleep.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 2:15 AM UTC
. {a parable of celebrity} .
Ol' Rip [died January 19, 1929]; was a horned lizard
commonly referred to as a horned toad, or ***** toad,
whose supposed 31-year hibernation
as an entombed animal is believed
by some and doubted by others.
His name is a reference to the fictional character Rip Van Winkle.
In 1897, a horned lizard was placed in a cornerstone
of the Eastland County Courthouse in Eastland,
Texas along with other time capsule memorabilia.
When the courthouse was torn down 31 years later,
the cornerstone was opened on February 18, 1928,
a live horned lizard was produced,
allegedly from within the time capsule. The lizard became a celebrity,
and went on tour,
even being taken to Washington, D.C. to meet President Calvin Coolidge.
Ol' Rip died eleven months later,
and his remains are on display in the new Eastland County Courthouse.
In 1973 the body was stolen
and an anonymous letter explained
that the finding of Ol' Rip alive had been a hoax
and demanded other unnamed co-conspirators come forth.
When no one did, another letter was received
saying the coffin and body could be found in the county fairgrounds.
The coffin was found there and returned to the courthouse.
Some speculate that the body in the coffin was a substitute,
the real lizard
| now held in a private collection. |
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 3:28 AM UTC
i.
She is becoming
As she hast ameliorated mine pang's;
Her radiance is chatoyant
She melt's mine thought's, with her dusk black and wet bang's.
ii.
Her bungalow is mine own
Bucolic and historically hidden;
We're passionate in ourn dwelling
The walls brushed with ourn amour', tucked between ceiling's.
iii.
Memorabilia she keepeth
Of her childhood in a small room;
I stareth at her adolescent memory photo's
Thinking God made her on the moon.
iv.
Feeling how blessed I am
With mine Jane, neath her plume's;
Her wing's stretch out, north to south
A defense from demon crew's.
v.
A exemplar to the Almighty architect
The embodiment to all mine livelihood;
She's the road to peace, from west to east
On mine knee's I looketh to her, I kisseth her feet.
For she's mine queen...........
©Brandon nagley
©lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane nagley dedication
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 6:20 PM UTC
Porcupine flesh gilded the entirety of her skeleton.
No one ever dared near the beast.
Just to fear the beast.
Her stomping, poking and prodding.
With the peasants retreating,
she grows pleased with her malice.
I too left the battle.
For I know, that without a meal the beast will die.
I pledge vows of waning mettle,
collect memorabilia
and stash it all in a box
underneath the California Live Oak
down on Mildred St.
A rightful place for things to rot,
along with every spiteful thought.
Mark the spot with an "X"
and next April all will be a distant memory.
Just remember.
With out a meal the beast will die.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 5:16 PM UTC
(In English, we were supposed to write a poem based off of George Ella Lyon's poem "Where I'm From" and this is the one I wrote)
I am from picture frames,
from Dove and Suave.
I am from the white house on the corner of the street
(far enough from the train tracks, close enough to the park).
I am from lilacs,
from the rose bush on the side of the house,
always humming with bees.
I am from crocheting and complaining,
from Edith, Rachael, and Susanne.
I am from blind eyes with a blue glow,
from "Speak up!" and "Sit up straight."
I am from "Now I lay me down to sleep..."
and old, golden cross necklaces.
I am from Ohio,
turkey, and sweet tea.
From the night my grandparents ran away togethers,
and the glass wedged into my father's finger,
the day god lifted him from the driver's seat.
I'm from the upstairs closet,
sitting beside childhood memorabilia.
Images of faces I never met,
and those I'll never forget.
Bags of animals,
stuffed with imaginary souls,
and boxes of books
which tales will never grow old.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 12:30 AM UTC
Around the bend, baggage claim.
The carousel comes around again.
I try to find the ones my own,
I see the first as it comes down.
This first one, small, so quaint, so plain.
Carries all of my pain...tings.
The second slowly drifts across,
I'm glad that this one was not lost.
A medium size bag with a tiny hole,
It carries the remnants of my soul..dier memorabilia.
Two more bags I await, the next one appears at the gate.
Another smaller bag that is beat up, and tattered within.
If opened you would find all my sin...icle comics that I
collect.
As I wait for my final bag.
Hours pass as times drags.
I ask where it may have gone,
I'm told it was lost before the plane had flown.
Saddened with this news alas.
For that final baggage held my past...els.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 10:10 PM UTC
On my way to the attic,
each step creaks
protesting.
I’ve worn this path smooth.
I reach the landing
and turn.
You sit there
on top of a stack of boxes
easy-access
composed, legs swinging
insouciantly
I brush off the light
layer of dust,
open you up to the dark room
and take out a golden trophy.
After reminiscing, I return it.
You put your clothes back on;
I fold you shut and walk away.
You don’t bother taping your seams
you never did.
What we do isn’t pretty.
We aren’t two starlings
in our own murmuration;
we are a ****** of crows.
Our dance is getting away with felonies.
Take it from a jail bird
a trophy is no occupation.
You watched as I was polished and shelved,
captive after a year
of looking for a champion.
She had me cast
at the start of that long year
well before she clinched her title.
I was touted around, then passed on.
She never dusts me off, dear.
That is why I smudge your sheen
I have no shimmer left myself.
That is why you stay
you seek the heft
of my cast-iron company,
the weight we have borne
six years without touch
sixty ****** crime dramas
six hundred batches of half-baked cookies
six thousand nights in.
You are my memorabilia.
I just don’t want your dust to settle as mine has.
I want you to dance, gilded, on the sky.
On my way to the basement,
each step squeaks
inviting.
I’ve worn this path smooth.
I reach the foot.
Brothers greet, glasses clink,
plumes build, couches sink.
The ceiling dances with golden trophies
all with your composure
gleaming
legs swinging.
Nov 16, 2012
Nov 16, 2012 at 5:36 AM UTC
The best of your days,
spent in vast fields of memorabilia.
Golden drops of sunset rain,
wash over your haste,
and you reach out for the hidden starlight,
to rewrite the melodies of your broken heart.
Mar 30, 2021
Mar 30, 2021 at 3:51 PM UTC