Know Notes Aloud

 

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Maybe or not
nothing, keyed
but a breath taken
anchored to create
seatbelts denied
smoked grass, poured gas
rear view backseat driven ride

base guitar, black bass
four strings uncooked and cast
re-keyed, the tiger swam at last
by darned maps, medicine token chips
drumsticks feather fields,
wild deer ticks
running lights and a pedal
steel guitar lick

beautiful chess boards fell
soon pieces meet neatly with love
playing muttered muddy water songs
a music sees the ebony cartel
dances become plays, plays become dances
with the turning of an allen wrench

blues crowds faded, creeks begin croaking
fenced, the dazed and hoaxed
despair dated, the fretboard floating,
blanched, the neck bowed, straightened on rosewood, coaxed
tuning proclaims know notes aloud

wolves blinked, eyes break opened
bluer than Utah’s salt lake
a world understood, stood understood, vinyl swill,
sweat pouring, pouring piano rained
water pelting like bullets kill
tickled ivory keys looking arranged
pictures hang, stretched on buffalo skin
promised like lines in pools
a dive so deep, one polish kiss

pride changed the rules
the sun re-aligned, flared and poached
winning ways, cymbols snare, united states lease
high hats, and luminous dates, a golden roach
guns lifted, marching marshell, swollen peace
a market place, large fruit, top of mantel
money tucked in the wallet of time, nothing urned
bongos banged, fired by candles, the war burned
c clef that says know notes aloud

a flight ticketed, flirting contained,
a baby’s handprint due,a tailored garden, a reading road
calender’s re-printed, a press word key ,labor day cue
weekend goodbyes, memories sent abroad susustained
a foreclosed site, autumn maple ray, paved, slowed
grass marquee played, the bees harbored, john deer shoed
from a to z,uncharted paper bundled, ride
laminated, cut, pasted, then pathed
highway ridden, Kentucky skinned, Louisianna and lathed

one new fishing rod, pinned, our fate, basted word press
our black grandmother’s address,
Gerry Mandered, us again split in two
walking in silver, slandered, shoes
a crooked clap, again at the cape
a four track, trading tape
a clapping preamble
a horn’s blow, geese honk
the majority whip
the tambourine trembles
are unheard, redress
we are the singers
sounding
the siren
know notes aloud

Poem by Heather Whitley Gibson

Pinned Between

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She walked that kaleidoscope scene
pinned between that flat
cooled glass, chewed edges dated,
colored raised and faded.
Without a trace the scar
was the perfect mark.
The unbroken embrace,
wearing an odd dress.

Pairs of sorrowed shoes,
tied necklaces.
The letters lettered gold,
raised and braised.
There were wars to retrace,
prayer to be spoken.
Hands to raise, collar bones broken,
cold coals turned over.

Open grace, spines of books,
the scar, still the unbroken embrace.

She saw the forgiving, the setting,
a rock sliced.
For a ring sliced in guillotine time
harnessed like chalk words.
Slapped together, erased,
shifted the sugar.
Then flour floating down
the ashed snow.

A rolling stone gown reminisce,
kaleidoscope address.
The fading scar, the bird’s recall
a Siamese cat’s fall.
The wired coo coo clock,
outside the held phone call.
One lonely sigh, a forgiven stay,
a tomorrow sing along.

Will-owing the age of sight.
Younger roots bearing to the right.

A rolling stone gown reminisce,
kaleidoscope address.
The fading scar, the bird’s recall
a Siamese cat’s fall.
The wired coo coo clock,
outside the held phone call.
One lonely sigh, a forgiven stay,
a tomorrow sing along.

Woven deed made, a baked chicken.
Tobacco leaves, the tucked skin

Poem By Heather Whitley Gibson

Yesterday’s Moth

A cloth thread
it was yellow; shinning
bright steel blue
cob webs; recyclability
drips design retractable
and Tuesday received
buckets freely
I see a moth
from yesterday poems on
a blank piece of paper
cloth; thoughtfully pinned
inside made
thoughtfully re-read intimately
exhaust/senescent
tube; in my heart
leering down
it’s sinful weakness

My ears are doing-that
windshield-wiper
thing-slowed-down
wiping out
hands off; buzzards; leftover
ground down white wrapped yarn
the bones of a coat; hung hanger
wreck debris aged
falling of the bone
in waves; falling off the bone
in waves; it just comes
nothing hurts
it’s supposed to

 

Poem By Heather Whitley Gibson

Love and Fake Antiques

 

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‘But I bought it in a French antiques store, I paid five hundred for it’, pleaded the woman of the older couple dressed as if they had fallen from an Edwardian picture postcard. The onlookers looked on embarrassed for this obviously respectable couple. The Antiques Roadshow appraiser of antiques stood with bowed head in silence not wishing to add to the couple’s embarrassment. The wife with the powdered face and antique lace hair-net was not giving up easily.

‘This is genuine French antique’, she pleaded with a raided voice that was now bordering on shrill, ‘We bought it while we were on our honeymoon in antique stores in Versailles fifty years ago’. It had now become a collective buying decision. The blame shift was obvious to those near enough to hear and certainly to the antiques appraiser.

The lady appraiser of antiques was hoping some of the production team from The Antiques Roadshow would intervene but nobody rode to her rescue. She reached out and put her hand gently on the fur trimmed sleeve of the irate ladies coat.

‘ I am sorry but as I said this is a reproduction of an antique, it was ‘aged’ by unscrupulous people and then sold to unsuspecting people like you who were very honest and too young to have the  knowledge to see it was a fake’, gently reasoned the appraiser in her most reassuring voice.

‘She said we were stupid’, the lady in the hairnet address this to her husband who stood with hunched shoulders and a look of resignation on his care worn concerned face.

’Dear, it was a long time ago, perhaps we should just forget about it and accept what this nice woman tells us, it is not an antique, the antiques store is to blame so let’s go home’, pleaded the suffering man as he looked at her with loving soft eyes.

‘It is your fault, you and your , ‘we must buy a nice French antique as a reminder of our honeymoon’, well this is where another of your stupid ideas have got us’, the woman in the net wagged her head and shoulders as she quoted her embarrassed husband in an even more shrill voice which bordered on a scream.

‘It wasn’t even your money, it was my daddy’s money you spent on that worthless French Antique’, continued the woman in the net. ‘Daddy was right, you were a fake, a pretender, an imitator of a real man’, screamed the woman at her now very pale and downcast husband. ‘All we had that we cherished after fifty years was that now worthless antique,’ she poked him in the chest with her bone like finger.

‘A fake for a fake, it was to be the start of a great collection of French antiques, you said, an heirloom for out children,’ she continued to poke him even harder. The Antiques roadshow Antiques appraiser was between two minds, ‘should she interfere in this now domestic row or should she just quietly slip into the crowd’. ‘Well now we have no French Antiques and we certainly have no children, you were a fake there too’. The lady in the net was crying now and her pokes were devoid of energy just open handed pats against the flat of his chest.

He reached for her shoulders and gently pulled the lady in the net into his embrace. He kissed the top of her head and turned her away from The Antiques Roadshow appraiser of antiques. She gestured to the worthless example of fake French Antiques that lay almost forgotten on the green blaze of the antique card table. He waved it away with a flick of his wrist saying, ‘Give it to charity, we have forgotten about it already, our son is waiting in the car for us.’

Reality dawned on the antiques appraiser and on the near faces in the crowd. ‘Could I not have pretended, just this once’, silently The Antiques Roadshow antiques appraiser admonished herself with sad tears in her eyes.

Author’s Profile

My name is Patrick, I have collected and traded in antiques and collectibles all over the world since the early 1970’s. I like to find nice french antiques for nice people. In these articles I will share with you my insights into many aspects of dealing and collecting antiques and related with antique stores.