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Chip Buchanan Sep 2017
Oh bright and shining spectacle!
Your ***** deal's done cheap;
With few parts missing, rock bottom bargain bin
Of the Saint Vee Dee ***

Aaron, a bleached buzzcut behind the counter,
rings up shirts and skirts by the bag full, for
old ladies shopping at a discount, trying
to brighten a two-room flat with curtain
printed flowers from 1969; for single
moms with their little ones unattended
breaking vases in the aisleways;
for bins of moldy records jamming
Mitch Miller sing along
against Electric Prunes and Strawberry
Alarm Clock in polyvinyl preserve,
and songs of lovers parted
years before he was born;
for bits of time and scenery lost —
the everyday is what's real.

A living foul breathed commercial museum —
Magic Kingdom jigsaw with pieces gone —
Salvation's soldier has no insurance.
Aaron closes store after six o 'clock,
he goes home and dreams
his teeth are broken.
gracie Feb 2019
here’s to the thrift store sweaters,
well-worn, wooly and warm,
meant for curling up
with a book and hot tea
as the snow comes
twinkling down.

here’s to the little stray cat
street-smart, striped, and shy,
tossed to the curb
but somehow still grateful
for the touch of a stranger
passing by.

here’s to the weary lovers
run-down, restless romantics who've
learned to stitch up their hearts
and put on their smiles
because life is too short
to waste it
i heckin got this
gracie Oct 2018
Keats says, "transcendence of the self",
so you become a fox, copper-coated,
bright-eyed. You become the light of a
harvest moon, playful and sweet,
dancing across the forest floor,
you become a lingering scent
on my thrift-store sweater: balsam or
cold brew coffee, wafting
through the bustling café. You become soft
Sunday afternoons, forehead kisses and
pretty words whispered over the phone,
the curl of my lip as I drift off
into sleep.
i think ur p cool
i like u alot
maybe we could... hang out? or somethin'
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2013
Why Men Cry in the Bathroom

For so many reasons.
I will tell you the why.
I think you know,
Or perhaps, you think you know.

Men are always O.K.,
Even when not.

We expect the worse,
Accept the worse,
We are forever unprepared.

Wearily, we cry,
In the bathroom, in private,
Lest sighs slip by,
We be unmasked,
Early warring, strife signs warning.

Copious, tho we weep
Before the mirror confessor,
It is relief untethered,
Unbinding of the feet,
An uncounting
Of beaded rosaries,
Of freshly fallen hail stones,
Of night times terrors
By dawn's early edition's light,
and welcomed.

But look for the mute tear,
The eye-cornered drop,
*** tat, that never drops,
But never ceases formation and
Reforming, over and over again,
In a state of perpetuity of reconstitution,

The tippy tear of an iceberg revealing,
And I see you peeping, wondering,
What is beneath

Look for:
the torn worm-eaten edges of spirit,
thrift shop bought, extra worn,
grieving lines neath the eyes,
where the salt has evaporated,
discolored the skin.
worry lines,
under and above,
browed mapped, furrowed boundaries.
the laugh line saga,
where better days are stored,
recalled, as well as recanted,
publicly, privately.

Why just men?

I don't know,
it is all I know.

Jan 6, 2013
your effusive and lengthy comments are each a poem in their own right.  

Tinkered with June 22, 2013
With a push from Bala,
A serial peeper, thank God!
Philipp K J Nov 2018
Why do you thrift speaking? she asks him very often.
He is choked with words,
Over cooked and sticking each other.
But still he keeps quiet.
She likes to be heard.
He too to listen.
There is less effort in
Listening than  to lisp.
The truth is that
formless word is God!
When it comes out of her mouth it had transformed into a form. But when the words
Butterfly out of her mouth it takes wings
And sings
soothing his sense.
He tries to see in her speech
And in each of her word
The formless presence of  
This keeps him still quiet,
A silent reverent listener.
Hence she asks him often  why
Do you  thrift speech?!!
He smiles and keeps listening...
CK Baker Nov 2018
Covenant park central
parallel, east-side west
waiting on the
print defender
(and Lichaten queen)
he appears randomly
and distorted
with a broken smile
shuffling down
the Smithright trail
in his Mac Tack
and cinnamon shades
(sun bags and thrift ware
stacked three high
on a rusted rat trap)

An open ended
panel van
crashes the curb
as a long-boarder
dodges the tail
and kicks up some dirt ~
the plumb tree
and sunbeam double wide
hold steady in the fish eye
as the warehouse carny
and tire-less 510
shine brilliantly
on the dull and
dripping scene
I picked grey for the sheets
to cocoon our tangles
and black for the curtains
to block out the light
after sleepless skin bliss
in the morning we'd drift
merging aural wires
where flesh cannot press
unified on a fraction
of new foam mattress
dew lattice charted upon
have breakfast in bed
then get up and eat
giggling over tea steams
poured in black and red
Japanese porcelain cups
I found at the thrift shop
with cherry blossoms
fired on their insides
gracie Jan 2019
the tall, brown-eyed
scholar with tousled hair and 
endless supply of sarcastic comments; 
stolen sweaters and car rides and
cartoons. sipping hot cocoa
out of Star Wars mugs, study dates, 
playing hide and seek 
in Walmart, hugs that 
made me feel whole

first heartbreak
******* in his passenger seat because 
he "needed it”;
a lonely winter learning 
he did not love me and 
a season spent intertwined 
with a boy who could not 
fill the void in my chest.

golden hair, ocean eyes,
sunkissed skin and downtown flea markets.
threading my fingers between his
sharing our poems over skype
iced coffee and patched denim and 
fresh yellow flowers stashed in my locker.
hugging in the hallway,
silly love notes and soft smiles and 
laughing so hard my ribs hurt.
a sensation of warmth that could rival 
pure sunshine

unopened texts
a subtle disconnection
i held his heart in my palm and
let it slip
i still carry the guilt in my fingertips

overalls. shoulder-length hair, i 
fell in love with the way he said my name
strange, unrecognizable on his lips, ringing
each syllable like a pink-petal
a thrift store parking lot, draped 
across his lap, one hand in my hair, 
the other around my heart;
stolen kisses at stoplights. shivering and 
holding each other so closely
i thought 
we might never unravel

disintegrating. distance withering away 
my heartstrings; familiar pain and
longing to be held
bitter tears and night air
stroking my hair
in place of the way
his hands made me
an old poem. the loneliness comes and goes;
poem format inspired by haley
Emily Jan 2016
The girl who would rather spend her Friday night at home organizing her room than at the parties.
The girl who would rather curl up and read at lunch than sit and socialize over talk of nothing but "people".
The girl who would rather drown out the world with music than sit in class and be involved.
The girl who would rather work alone and finish her homework in class, than sit in the big social groups making weekend plans.
The girl who would rather be independent and be judged as a loner than be friends with people who will secretly judge you.
The girl who would rather collect books and records than makeup.
The girl who would rather study astrology than watch every show on Netflix.
The girl who would rather thrift shop and buy $3.99 boots than buy top of the line $80 boots.
The girl who realizes that all of this does not make her any better than them.
The girl that realizes she is only trying to impress herself; confidence is key.
bekka walker Apr 2014
I meticulously pick the cracked and peeling finger nail polish from my fingers.
Staring down.
Focusing on anything but your eyes.
The beating of your heart is like a metronome, setting the rhythm of the room.
You've whispered me your secrets, fallen in love with my evasive glances, blotted out my smudges and redecorated them in your mind.
To you, I am a thrift store find, but a treasure nonetheless.
I put my head against your machine of a chest,
My lips mouth the empty words I wish I could make true.
My hungry soul is a picky starving child.
I greedily collect hearts in my hands and groan as they get heavy,  afraid to give them back.
Yours is the freshest.
It is I who is weathering your heart.
With my silence.
With my tears.
With my selfishly stolen kisses.
I want to tell you to run away, but my own fear of loneliness paralyzes my tongue.
"you're beautiful, you have cute feet, and I love you."
As you slip a delicate silver shackle around my neck.
The tiny silver heart dangles above my own.
I want to tell you to run away, but my own fear of loneliness paralyzes my tongue.
Anonymous Freak Jun 2019
Linoleum floors,
And water damaged ceilings.
Second hand clothes
Riddled with an array of allergies
To choose from.

When I was a young girl,
I was very firmly warned
That no good and godly man
Would want a woman
Who was
“Damaged goods.”

The isles of plates and cups
Look like a glass castle.
A shining fortress
Of colorful china
And distorted reflections.
And worn paint,
Or just out of style.

No one wants a woman
Who’s been used.
Your body is not your own,
It belongs to your future husband.
At least
That’s what they told me.

Leather jackets
That smell like cigarettes,
Boots with scuffs,
And faded curtains.
Always inspect CDs before you buy them.
An army of electronics
Lined against the wall.

Behave with a man
As if your future spouses
Were in the room with you.
Don’t touch each other too much,
It leads to
“Other things.”

Obsolete books
Colored on
And ripped.
A used book tells more than one story,
The one written out in ink,
And the history
Of the hands that have held it.

Hold a flower
In the palm of your hand,
Now crush it.
It will never be
The same again.
That’s how it is
With your virginity.

Dolls with faded faces,
Aged and off colored plastic.
Suspiciously sticky children’s toys
From the eighty’s.

I think I belong here,
I’m used.


But I love thrift store finds.
RCraig David Apr 2013
From my "Bestifreadaloud" series about a girl that got away that Spring because I waited too long.

Part 1 The Past
A case made now faded of a simple place, a time, a space,
a perfect moment let pass in haste.
Clasped in clashes,
brash in passion,
rose from ashes,
desire fires every second's essence as it passes,
a ton amasses.
Fast bloom,
Blast!! Boom!!
The past relapses.
Notably lesser song notes float hopeful, emotional ends and remember whens.
Sent us spinning, then spin adrift again.
Sprung in spring, we fell,
Some are reasons to recall.
Summer's season breaks, we fall.
Flocks fly down and fallen callings fade to Winter's south.
How fate related still debated.
Re-Sprung the next Spring' rise, chance misses fate this date.
I weighed and debated and waited too late

Still all these years alone, the "one", the "purpose" unsought.
Capturing thoughts,
The ones I caught and tossed,
Things I was taught and lost.
Proof framed and embossed for a cost.
Coping through the unabashed hopes to one day cash in on all this stashed trash I clash with.
"Smash it?" ...the thought crossed.  

Unimpressed by my evidence of self-less requests,
pursuit of self-evident truth proves a most ruthless abuse.
Even less are my skewed protests for “selfish quests" at the behest of the very strangers I sought to impress.
I digress.

The years compound, bossed around, kicked down but soundly employed,
I turn cold, blaming Freud for defining my non-violent, intolerance threshold on page 23 of some textbook I should have resold.
I go silent. Grow old.
"While your whining and shunning your shinning,
They're sinning and winning." Bad timing.

Girls come, go and follow this shallow, hollow fellow on the run.
While preyed upon...I paid a ton. I play.
The sum never more than the cost of rented fun.
Without insight but consent forthright,
my 30 years of intent were spent in a fortnight.
Still bent on shedding every pound of one first-moment's ton I lost not won.
Can't buy happy for less than the cost of your one-ness.
While prayed upon...paid a Son, they say.

part 3

Ohh the wait....
Ohh the weight...
My set-adrift-soul's mending depends solely on tossing
lost cause cost-spending into thrift.
Well it's a beginning.
All the amassed notes, quotes, boat-floaters,
and sailboat hopes spun in one 1-ton loss moment sprung that one Spring.

Now and again, it creeps in,
like slowly growing stinging nettles around a squelched,
once steaming scorched dream kettle.
Still stays packed away in my heart's darkest parts.
Blurred by time and place,
this burning, misplaced furnace space lays in wait.

Such compiled cold-case denial files from other life trials, lay piled in haste on my proverbial, "less pressing" messy desk of "not ready to face."
Too scared or daring to date, try to relate or contemplate
how to best equate this great weight.
Wait?... Wait.
Elation brewing from pursuing future fruition or ensuing
pure ruin gates these fates from moving, year-to-date.
For the sake of trying or dying forsaken,
another day awake is another day gained or taken.

I found her again,
the town's she's in
but she is taken and then
She learns of my wait, it's weight, my fate, she's shaken,
another ton amasses again. I pretend.
Lay down.
Drown the score of sounds surrounding.
Furthermore, slow the pulse-pounding abounding your core.
Fill your breath.
What is less is gone, tomorrow more.  

by R. Craig David-Copyright 2012
Logan Robertson Dec 2017
Dear Santa

all i want for Christmas is a penny lover
a women that enjoys the small things in life
the lincolns instead of the benjamins
thrift instead of trendy
peanut butter instead of steak
my bottom shelf written poems instead of polish
the small things in life, Santa
the small things
is that too much to ask for
your gift to me
sans the star spangled spangled
the fireworks
the silver, glitter and confetti
i would endear
can you help me Santa
i dream
i dream real
a simple snowfall
me with her on the bunny trail
doing the bunny hop
later sharing a hot cocoa
borrowing heat, and time
Santa in my dream
i can see my mirror
a pincher
a thinker
wrapped pretty
maybe in ancient ski gear and attire
but together
and maybe in love
santa, in retrospect
i ask for a lot
because my heart would be filled
Merry Christmas

Logan Robertson

Diana Sep 2018
I want a relationship
That's anything but typical
One that defies cliches
And the definition of spontaneous

I want to be so in tune with another
To the point where it feels
As though a piece of me
Has crawled its way into him

I want a relationship
That takes a detour from anything
Such as dinner and a movie for a first date
To thrift store shopping
In the streets of Seattle
At dusk
While ending the night
At a warm cozy cafe
Situated on a quiet corner
In the shadows of the city
Where poetry is either
Softly spoken
Or bitterly belted out
From within one's own soul
On a rugged beaten-up stage
With nothing but a spotlight
And wooden stool
All while we sip on tea
(Because I don't like coffee)
And reminisce on the moments
Worth remembering
That were made that day together
In between fits of laughter
While secretly dreaming
About the future ones to be made
In the comfort of our minds
As we tightly grasp our warm mugs
In front of our lips
To hide the shy smiles
That dare to make an appearance
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
Your past, your romantic past, is a shadow. Like all towns, Port Angeles was a combination of rain and clouds, sun and mist, with a chamber of commerce, barrooms and boards of directors, the known and unknown. No one of course is completely unknown. I was known for my tragic love life. She had found another man, a backwoods man, living on the land but not above a night on the town, who according to her would wipe snot on his pants, a statement of poverty or thrift or anger against the niceties of society. All of us heated our hovels with wood but only the rich burned hardwoods, me and probably this guy were softwood gatherers.

            There were few aspects to my life. First, I can remember a nook in the kitchen of the house I shared with a beautiful faceless woman who wore a ring in her nose where I wrote and watched flocks of unidentified birds comb a tree for seeds. This particular day the sky was blue with clean pillowy cumulus clouds floating toward Puget Sound. I believe all the poems written in that nook have been forgotten by their author.

            Nights, for entertainment, I would wander the aisles of the supermarket, admiring everything and buying nothing. I had no money. The fluorescent lighting, clean straight neat shelving and floors, warmth and the fact I could identify nobody attracted me. I lived on cream cheese and honey sandwiches eating them leaning against the kitchen sink. Thinking go back to New York City which is what I ultimately did. Drove cross country nonstop three days and three nights seeing and feeling nothing.

           This was during the Reagan recession inherited from Carter. I'm unclear how presidents affect your life but good or bad, democrat or whig, alive or dead you've got to get a job, which I did. I supervised the living arrangements of developmentally disabled adults in what I thought were humorous contexts that gave no offense. They were beautiful and incorrigible having regular *** without protection. Normally harmless they'd sometimes have altercations with their neighbors. I balanced the checkbooks, paid the bills. Supposedly teaching living skills, I had few of my own as evidenced by my sleeping on the floor, I had no bed. One mature woman colleague judged me a short-timer living a useless fantasy about big cities. Still lost in my own history, still didn't know the calculus.

            I had a dog, Shade, black lab, leftover from my near-marriage until she realized I had no economic prospects, no interest in further *** or her logger boyfriend, and a complete inability to translate or imagine nesting and gestation. My homework comes to me in daily disconnected increments. Shade lived in my gray van, a Dodge slant six, which I could never afford to fix. Once the driveshaft disconnected from the rear axle and I tied it on with rope. Drove 60 miles on a knot. Shade was hyper and sad, both. He smelled bad but was a good dog with a lonely heart. When my wife who wasn't a wife finally found a boyfriend who wouldn't wipe snot on his pant leg they took Shade to British Columbia where I believe he runs free on a vast estate by the sea. I once beat Shade like a slave because he attacked a small dog out of frustration and loneliness and until I had kids and started saying and doing things just as bad to humans it was the lowest meanest moment of my life. The farmer who saw it will never forget or forgive it.

            Having confessed all this there's just one last fact to tell. The mountains were cold, the waters clear, deep snow and shadows.
Debra Speed Jan 2019
You said that you were leaving, you said you needed more
But hadn't we made sweet love just the afternoon before,
You'd rent a downtown studio and leave me with the lease
I found it hard to even breathe, oh lord grant me some peace
You said I had no vision, we know that's not quite true
I had such plans for just us three, our dog and me and you
A little house, a garden gate, you'd paint a pink front door
Now I won't save my money, cos we won't live there anymore
I'd buy you blue hydrangeas, you didn't like your nose
Your look was kinda quirky with ill fitting thrift store clothes

You started going out to clubs, loud music, flashing lights
But I don't really dance much and the drinks are overpriced
So I stayed home to mind our dog, he hates to be alone
Never checked when you  got home
I try to find a pattern to the lies and the deceit, were you exchanging numbers with the men that you would meet,
: It's just some drinks with girls' from work "
The texts that you'd delete

You took way more than your fair share, didn't leave me with enough, but I have my art, my dogs my books.
While you collected stuff, I vacuum the apartment and tidying up the drawers, the place looks so much cleaner than it ever was before
I finf some things you left behind and put them in a box
" Say could you come and get it, I'd appreciate it very much "
You say " I like what you have done how you've rearranged your stuff "
I think yeah it's called minimalist, cos you didn't leave me much
I hugged you said "You're looking good ' you didn't hug me back
And then you left I realized, dpon't need no welcome mat

Now every time I go downtown, I break out in a sweat
Cos I don't want to see you and I haven't seen him yet
So I'm moving to Los Angeles with palm trees, surf and sand
Though I will probably stay inside, cos I don't really tan
I'm standing on the sidewalk, waiting for my ride
My dog is in his carry case with his favourite chewy bone
I dread the lines, security, and travelling alone
But nowhere feels like home.

And every night I pray to God that it will end in tears
You'll wonder what became of me through the ensuing years,
You will pull my picture, I'll be by a pink front door,
Not looking wretched anymore, cos I'll have put on weight
You'll see the blue hydrangeas planted just inside the gate
And on a checkered blanket, under a shady tree
A little curly haired child, a minature of me
I hope you'll cry some bitter tears remembering what you,ve done
Does your mind ever take you to that dreamy Summer morn,
When we laughed and primped and preened, and put our finest on
Nervous anticipation, happiness and pride
Finally those five words were spoken  "you may kiss your bride "
With trembling hands I lifted up the creamy spotted lace,
Bent down and very softly kissed your pale and tear stained face

I'd buy you blue hydrangeas, you didn't like your nose
I used to like to watch you paint your pale and dainty toes
A pretty peachy colour, it's name was dusky rose
Don't know why I remember that, just lonely I suppose
Love, sadness,
Don Bouchard Aug 2018
Dad didn't want a coffin.
"Cremate my last remains,"
And so we did.
Cool and dry,
His ashes, urned,
Lie beneath the sod
And prairie sky
Waiting some clarion call,
Some trill of hope,
Bright, re-constitutional,

Mother's wishes rise before us:
No crematory,
No embalmer.
Just her blanket,
Just a hole
Dug beside our Dad.

The law would let her wish be true,
But her children won't.
We're searching coffin plans.
Reverently grim,
Lovingly deferential,
Dutifully rebellious,
Solemn this journey be.

Pine boards to honor her thrift
But smooth and tight,
Rope handles, fitted lid,
Perhaps a little trim,
Perhaps a sheaf of wheat carved
For the old farmer she was.

We'll bury her,
Wrapped in her blanket,
Tucked securely in pine
Beside my father's ashes.

Like a grain of wheat she'll lie
Silent in her final say
Inside our final say
Waiting Resurrection Day.
Life moves forward, a conveyor belt that moves so slow, so fast, as to be indiscernible. The time is upon us.
Hans Taylor Nov 2018
I’ve more or less had to delete you
Ever since your Facebook wall
Turned memorial
But I still had clothes of yours
Now they live in a thrift store
They’re still there, I checked
Not to bad mouth your fashion sense
I’m just now getting used to
Referring to you
In the past tense
I still tense up when I hear your name
I used to do the same
Whenever you popped up in my contacts
I had to erase you to overcome that
And you were the top one at that
To tell the truth when I near your old place,
I take detours
But I suppose that’s a silly way to do it
Since you don’t live there anymore
And anyway,
I swear I see your face in all kinds of places
The parking lot where we sparked a lot
The back of the park, no lights, a good spot
I'm running out of ways to change the subject
When people ask why I never delete voicemails
About once a year I just feel the need to hear it
And I cry a bit
And I’m lying about the size of the bit that I cry
But never mind that
I hop on Spotify and listen to music
Our favourite songs of the time are hidden
In a secret Spotify playlist that I only play sometimes
Like I need some kind of alibi when I think about you
And I still make excuses, you know that
I never visit you
Sorry about that
It still blows my mind how loud a needle drop can be
When you swap a vinyl disk for a friend’s skin
I can still remember you scratching it
And that one time when you brought up six times
That you wanted to die
I should’ve probably seen the signs
But I didn’t at the time
And now I am frustrated
When newspapers
Quote your name as a cautionary tale
There's a whole lot more to you
Than a convenient warning
About the dangers of drug use
You are my friend -
And there you go, I've done it again
You were my friend
And it makes my teeth clench
When people who will never meet you
Put it down to a lack of strength
A missing backbone
But if you’ve checked my bones lately
You’d find they were mostly empty
I have leaned on so many crutches that they have fused with me
And I saw you at role call
For “alive”
Every morning
Until the day you died
Even when you hadn’t heard from your dad in weeks
And I apologise for all the missed calls on my part
One too many
My fault
Mea culpa
Tell me about the Ace of Wands!
Tell me about the Ace of Wands!

This has been poorly imagined I admit:
The sunny penthouse
Open to the breeze
which presses and sways
through the sliding glass doors

Upturned champagne bottles
set in buckets of melting ice
A crystalline view of the Pacific
Or dusky Vegas lights

Strewn silken sheets
A **** carpet you can grab on to
The myriad of variations under a rising Moon

Yet Leather and Ecstasy are no where to be seen.
And though I wasn’t thinking of Sardinia
or of the Amalfi
That is a great idea

1. a spell of rough, energetic play.
2. a farce.

(An earth-sign cusp is slow no matter how much air)
creeping into my mind’s eye
(Thank you Time)
was my dodging of the slow-moving bullet
Alas, the lumpy bed in Hollywood awaits
with serviceable sheets
Encased in variations on a theme of
brown everything
A soul death in faux wood paneling
Someone else’s earring on a
grubby carpet floor
that offers you
burns for your back that won’t heal so fast
if that’s what you want
There’s the opening of the door
on the purring refrigerator
to look at cold nothing
And think nothing
Cystitis is on its way
And yes,
Too much dust

Don’t get me wrong
I have no real issues with dust
I have stood
Alone in the semi darkness before
In such a living room
Staring at this luminous particulate
On album covers
and in the glare of backlit windows
Floating in a beam from
a ceramic thrift store table-lamp

I was on my way to find the bathroom
Where a pair of pink ******* lay
in wait for

Bachelor dust
Is old
I can write my name with my finger
in that which rests
upon the turntable’s hinged cover
In case you don’t remember
What they call me

As I’ve said
I’ve got nothing against it
Ask the dust
Go ahead
Ask it
Resting quite comfortably
on the bookshelves
If there are bookshelves
As if it had
something to do.
I ask it why?

my invading molecules subdivide
and grow more comfortable

Why do I smell the stench of
chaste virgins and ***?
The intoxicating odor of foxed letters from an epistolary exchange regarding:
One Fair Maiden and the Devilish Pursuits to  Compromise Her Virtue?
The Opinions and Observations of Fallen Fruit
Here: The woman and her only true
And Here: The sticky absconder who smells of fish.
They meet.
She blinks.

The dust replies
It’s a simple plan:
The Dear Lady is to be led
by pretty words and unspoken indiscretions
her dowry in the end, useless
She’ll be banished to the counties
To be a governess
or the
Bored companion
of the only living relative who will
Admit her services
Unpaid in silver coins
He is Blind and his Cook has left
and Mean.

She is Ruined.
Perhaps she will escape
to Italy
and die
in the sunshine.

The dust tells me another story
The same century still
This time, a miscreant princeling
surrounded by Trifles
Picking up one bob and then another
Preoccupied by uselessness
Perhaps a strawberry
Perhaps more claret and his mistress’s left breast
Tonight will be the scullery maid
Who will lose more in the end
Than she could ever possibly imagine
Tossed out of the kitchens
to Providence.
God bless Her.

The dust tells me
It’s mercantile, my dear
It’s all transactional
But look at me
I’m here for a time but am easily
Agitated and
Aeolian driven
Ever blossoming fugitive clouds of swirling devils
Interstellar Reflection Nebulae
As you can see
I’m never in one place
So I say keep it movin’.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2019
The Deepest Twist

for my friends who know that when HP says this my 1300th
poem, it’s off the mark by hundreds; nonetheless
1300 is worthy number to celebrate your affections

you return back my older children, fully grown,
my eldest word babies who never ever visit,
blessing them anew, lavishly, with special wishes

take them,
with both hands, a reacquainting occurs,
the old words, deep twist, now hurtful hurt because
reimagining when and how easy they came to be birthed and
how the replication of that process is now a
practiced impossibility

how they burst forth, in purple majesty, wheat waving,
wholly formed, bathed in holy water, leaving no stretch marks,
only just an empty sac inside instantly needing,
needling me into auto-refilling right away

even the twenty four hour, hard deliveries,
long and arduous, were so easy created faust-fast,
that the errors of typography contained,
became lasting hall marks, iconic nomenclatures of
passionate loving-nonpareil

now, well past point of urgent addiction,
unlike then every glance, each sidewalk cracking,
lamppost shadow casting was
a sea story for a deep dive delving asap

supplied answers for the internal badgering incessant
happy ****** need, mine, to go, spill the words,
cab or bus motion nursing them,
now they come slowly strolling,
semi-formed, needy, inconclusive, reused,
and feeling as trite as a cloth coat from an old thrift shop,
so wanting for tender loving care,
which is to provide when you are
four score

wondering how easy it was in prior times when inspiration
fell like a deciduous tree’s fall colorings gifts or
as little children’s nightly multitude variety of dream tales,
when whole worlds uncovered, nay, universes,
hidden between summers green grass blades,
or in unique snowflakes

the semi-forgot love affairs that parented poems
by the score of scarred orchestral scores,
now love circle-turn in holding patters in the
crowded skies above nyc,
awaiting for a trafficked man to give permissions
to “run-away”land that rarely is granted

once, poems in turbulent fluid born, noisy ripping of skin,
****** by the emitting of  constant calming tenderous words,
wonderful drippings, so many multiple births in a moment,
even the OBGYN is complaining,

give other poets a chance at parenthood!

the awesome anger of human tragedy is now so shopworn
from over experience,
even god visits less and less, for it is written,
nothing new under the sun*

though soon his annual visitors day approaches (Day of Atonement) and god will require new
words of human comforting,
a new poem acknowledging that being godlike
is ******* hard work,
for humans are annoyingly capable of incredulous kindness

how can one justify allowing unlacing acts of insane violence to tear
the hand stitched lacing fabric that’s ever ready
to bring us together in an instant elegiac joining

the truth is every one of todays poem are clawed,
shovel dug out from cavities and crevasses,
your new words of recognition of the oldies but goodies,
iron of irony, make it hard, hard, painful to write
without an epidural to numb the painful
dumbing down

when I am breaching my waters, I am hard to spot,
we ancient humpbacks live beneath the deep distanced,
cold waters for many more minutes
than we need surface for breathing,
the show-off fluking, less and less,
and when we birth,
every two years,
must bring the calf-poem to the surface instantly,
to breath, lest it die,
all the while repeating to ourselves:

what was miraculous writing is now nearly invisible,
to blinded fingers that arrhythmically cane tap,
words difficult to recall, recalculate, recalibrate
into a wholly poem

only the **** tears,
that same shameful violin permanent-accompaniment,
they laugh at me when now, they alone
come first quickest, all too easy,

appearing nataurally,

without a formal
“He says, "Son, can you play me a memory
I'm not really sure how it goes
But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete
When I wore a younger man's clothes"

Sing us a song, you're the piano man
Sing us a song tonight
Well, we're all in the mood for a melody
And you've got us feelin' alright”
Aaron E Aug 2019
Baptized in the framework,
emboldened dregs,
stolen legs,
having the will enabled,
will stoke flares.
Hope there's enough left,
to capitalize and trademark,
These machination metaphorics may get way dark.

Witness the churn,
turn barrel, pour fuel.
Envision thrift in the burn.
Unequivocal innocents in the thick of it learn,
gun metal, flower petal.
Power is sick of our tone.
They play their tricks on our young,
to build a system above.

We killed the sadness
fit to galvanize
a truthful spirit,
loose beneath the masses.

lifted powder keg,
rug and broom,
others soon to be suiting fashion

Buried in a priory cast.
Wire he tapped,
isn't the first,
was a fiery blast.

I heard the ground stir, out turned choirs of wrath.
Give baron bread, give miner shaft,
and all the pigs just laughed.

All the swine surrounded, founded "Freedom".
Heavy quotes aligned to,
"leave em lying".
We declined to deify, redefine our civil vision .
Twisted lips and sirens, rent,
systems turn, climate,
worth, time to learn to hear and listen,
kids,  earth, diet.
'On the list I promise'.
Truth can't hurt if you stay quiet.
Truth in earnest moves the strongest.
Our seeds to earth are truth in kindness.

Sarah Clark Nov 2019
bought ten old sheets at
the thrift store today,
                     feverish whim

          these dreams of fire
          bolt me from sleep

escape a window two stories
high, a sheet rope, if I
had the nerve

who has  -nerve-  these days?

though still we bend over our                          
Eric W Aug 2018
Dreams of you -
a person never even met.
Chased around a thrift store,
second chances abounded.
A house promised and built
at the foot of a dam,
we knew better.
What monstrous water
should drown us
in our longing,
cracks shown in words
and walls.
It's like the subconscious mind
knows all along
and produces images of
your words before they are
consciously digested.
How can you be found
in dreamscapes and a spotless mind
when you have been lost
in reality
Remembered this dream last night after seeing the words this morning
Hope White Sep 2018
How to Write a Poem:

***** your finger and bleed directly onto the page.
Buy a typewriter from a thrift store and poetically sit in a coffee
shop until your muse walks in.
Sleep with your professor and let her write your poems for you.
Hold private seances at the cemetery.
Read your high school yearbook
until your poems seethe with forgotten teenage angst.
Specifically berate your current lover
but then assure him the words aren’t about him.
Drink yourself into oblivion
but blame your inner artist for your demons.
List all the sins of your mother
and conveniently forget those of your father.
Clutch your pen until a stigmata appears in your hands.
Speak your truth,
but tell your friends
your poems aren’t from your own point-of-view.
Osiria Melody Aug 2019
All bundled up in autumn weather
Birdsong echoes through the trees
Sitting alone on a ratty bench
Listening to the crunch of fallen leaves
Sipping on dark coffee in hand
Embracing the well-tempered air

You come up to me decked out in leather
Birds leave their post momentarily
Sitting with me on this ratty bench
Staring at me with no words to say
Sipping on dark coffee in hand
Embracing the unsettling air

I speak my mind, no icebreaker
I say that leather don't look fine
You giggle sarcasm, which stings a lot
Grinning from ear to ear, you say,
"I can't believe that I'm speaking to a thrift shop."

Finally, I level my gaze with your creepy kind
And say, "Knock it off, it ain't cool."
You blush rose red, which makes me giggle
Head hanging low in embarrassment, you say,
"Sorry, but you're so beautiful."

Feeling at ease, I tease a little,
"Bet that you say that to ev'ry girl you meet."
Unfazed, you shoot another glance like a dart,
A target to my heart, you say,
"You're the only one that I've said that to."
I dispose of my coffee cup, now empty

Crunch of fallen leaves dimimish
My surroundings slow like fading light
Embracing each other, our hearts beat together
Gently like birdsong, now echoing through
the trees
We share a kiss, tenderly

This marvelous scene played out in my head.
Aaron E Oct 2019
With each breath,
the words we left erupt into contingency
clever quips afford an inference sold, stark in it's consistency.

If ever I was taught a thrift aligning threads along a canvas.
Head to toe, snake oil or poison, chalking up life's mysteries
The needle treads along indifferent rhythms
often missed in lieu of lecture
lifted structure, painted fracture
vivid summer, lazy *******

lay the meaning on at will along alliterated thrill
fulfill the seam content to spill
to drill the point in that much faster.

tears of sadness
tears of laughter


Why does it work
to levy silence or flirt
to learn a line of some actress
or divide up the earth
assert a picture infatuated with prying for worth
when it ain't there.
"I don't care,
I ain't tryna get hurt."

Have a word, agg a bird on, classic
who's drinking champagne,
who's getting turned on

Choose a new frame for the tragic.

Are we laying the groove
or are we playing in traffic.
No spoilers.
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