Neighbours of rejection
Posted: Thu Dec 08, 2011 7:48 am
NEIGHBOURS OF REJECTION
Dark and dank and dusty, dreary drab and old
once these things were treasures now they leave folks cold.
There a headless statue. One old rocking horse
Flower bedecked bonnet. Disco ball of course.
One large brown credenza – once it graced a hall.
Old military photographs in sepia on a wall.
Mismatched cups and saucers, tarnished brass spittoons.
Birds in glass domes watching. Pianos out of tune.
Like a spider scuttling ‘cross her sticky web of silk
comes the owner muttering. Moustache made of milk
festoons his top lip whitely as he grimaces a smile
and asks if he can help or would we like to browse a while.
We take him up on his offer – to his lair he returns,
we smell the Indian curry or perhaps something he burns.
Faint, the smell of camphor wafts around the room
and the scent of violets seems to pervade the gloom.
Hidden treasurers dully gleam on velvet, moth eaten.
Medals here for valour – for an enemy was beaten
in a war to end all wars they said. Though alas it wasn’t
for we still fight wars today and end it seems it doesn’t.
Here’s a tie pin, diamond set, with a black onyx stone
a lovely gift for someone if perhaps a tie they own
The silvers somewhat tarnished but would polish up a treat.
Are tie pins even worn these days? Not by the blokes I meet.
Threading the eye of a needle we negotiate the room
The ding dong of the bell chimes as someone enters the gloom
that turns everything to a shade of dusty muted grey
from the old encyclopaedias there mouldering away,
to the globe suspended in its frame with countries pink and green.
On top of the world Australia – better days the globe has seen.
Though in truth the world is twisted – so the truth the globe does tell;
for some countries shown are long gone – they’ve already heard the knell.
One could fancy as they browsed here that a little hocus- pocus
could perhaps be going on - if on mystique one did focus,
for a turban made of purple silk is sitting quite resplendent
with its peacock feathers turquoise eye watching o’er all – transcendent.
Let the genie out of the embossed green bottle is a thought
merely fleeting, one imagines. I suspect with danger fraught
such an action could turn out to be amidst this dusty clutter.
Surely a dust storm would erupt – caused by the genies flutter.
But there is nothing here that grabs the true collector’s eye,
just a mish mash of old treasurers, relics of a time gone by.
Though some things are truly charming they are not what I desire
though I would have once. A wicker pram with solid rubber tyre.
Or the doll festooned in lacy dress and bonnet, ribbon edged
as a child I would have died to find her placed upon my bed.
But through jaundiced eyes I look and see a place for dust collection.
So I’ll leave them resting here with their neighbours of rejection.
Maureen Clifford © 12/11
Dark and dank and dusty, dreary drab and old
once these things were treasures now they leave folks cold.
There a headless statue. One old rocking horse
Flower bedecked bonnet. Disco ball of course.
One large brown credenza – once it graced a hall.
Old military photographs in sepia on a wall.
Mismatched cups and saucers, tarnished brass spittoons.
Birds in glass domes watching. Pianos out of tune.
Like a spider scuttling ‘cross her sticky web of silk
comes the owner muttering. Moustache made of milk
festoons his top lip whitely as he grimaces a smile
and asks if he can help or would we like to browse a while.
We take him up on his offer – to his lair he returns,
we smell the Indian curry or perhaps something he burns.
Faint, the smell of camphor wafts around the room
and the scent of violets seems to pervade the gloom.
Hidden treasurers dully gleam on velvet, moth eaten.
Medals here for valour – for an enemy was beaten
in a war to end all wars they said. Though alas it wasn’t
for we still fight wars today and end it seems it doesn’t.
Here’s a tie pin, diamond set, with a black onyx stone
a lovely gift for someone if perhaps a tie they own
The silvers somewhat tarnished but would polish up a treat.
Are tie pins even worn these days? Not by the blokes I meet.
Threading the eye of a needle we negotiate the room
The ding dong of the bell chimes as someone enters the gloom
that turns everything to a shade of dusty muted grey
from the old encyclopaedias there mouldering away,
to the globe suspended in its frame with countries pink and green.
On top of the world Australia – better days the globe has seen.
Though in truth the world is twisted – so the truth the globe does tell;
for some countries shown are long gone – they’ve already heard the knell.
One could fancy as they browsed here that a little hocus- pocus
could perhaps be going on - if on mystique one did focus,
for a turban made of purple silk is sitting quite resplendent
with its peacock feathers turquoise eye watching o’er all – transcendent.
Let the genie out of the embossed green bottle is a thought
merely fleeting, one imagines. I suspect with danger fraught
such an action could turn out to be amidst this dusty clutter.
Surely a dust storm would erupt – caused by the genies flutter.
But there is nothing here that grabs the true collector’s eye,
just a mish mash of old treasurers, relics of a time gone by.
Though some things are truly charming they are not what I desire
though I would have once. A wicker pram with solid rubber tyre.
Or the doll festooned in lacy dress and bonnet, ribbon edged
as a child I would have died to find her placed upon my bed.
But through jaundiced eyes I look and see a place for dust collection.
So I’ll leave them resting here with their neighbours of rejection.
Maureen Clifford © 12/11