Keepsakes – Cecilia Combs

They glitter and sparkle and shine,

Yes, they do, the keepsakes.

Others brood and mull and whine,

Clustered and cramped in a drawer that always sticks, overflowing with keepsakes.

There’s an elaborate instrument to tell the time.

It’s round face, dotted with wrinkles and numbers, smiles at the other keepsakes.

There’s a string of gleaming pearls, fashioned for a neck divine.

It used to nestle in warm flesh, now nestled among cold keepsakes.

When the night goes long and sun hides,

Some poke their heads out of the glass cabinets and whisper, “Hello, keepsakes?”

And others wriggle out from diaries and leather-bound spines,

And reply, “It is we, the keepsakes.”

Pins and brooches and cigars and pens line,

Up to giggle with dolls and cars and pillows and keepsakes.

And together they turn and gaze at the heavenly sign,

That sliver of a waning moon as it says goodbye- it itself the Universe’s keepsake.

When twilight fades to dawn’s early shine,

Quietly away shuffle the keepsakes-

Before the old door can sigh,

And creak open to let in the master of keepsakes.

He handles them gently and polishes away their grime,

Yes, he cares for the keepsakes.

He is loving and kind, because is one of their kind.

Yes, Wells, relic of now and future times, he’s one with the keepsakes.

A Simple Life – Cecilia Combs

It’d be easier to fill the air with–

Buzzing of statics and cries of rocket jets. 

To cover the ground in–

Bicycle tracks and muddy footprints.

To feel nothing but–

Ice cream sliding down your throat, or smooth bottle caps in your palm.

Surround yourself with simplicities–

Little, calm niceties. 

It’ll help keep everything straight.

Instead of getting lost in 

The smoggy fog of a cruel Monday morning,

Or in a maze of harshly colored wires,

Stick to the straightforward and streamlined path.

It’ll be easier than to notice quiet pleasures,

Cat’s purring, rainbow spurring, and candles stirring-

Pleasant atmospheres.

It’ll be easier to laugh at dumb jokes and listen to a symphony of crashing waves,

To watch a firework show of flashing carnival lights, 

And feel perfectly satisfied.

All this is easier,

If you live a simple life.

Ivory and Crystal – Cecilia Combs

Big round table,

Brown and crude,

Seated around unnamed guests, 

Stifled but never rude.

Their host had abandoned shoes for socks,

And a normal suit jacket for one with sleeves a greenish hue. 

He gobbles down good meat and fine cheeses, 

And slurps at a delicate champagne glass.

His eyes are haggard and tortured,

From an eight-day tramp, 

His body and face though, 

Seem aged beyond all the years you could wish for from a Genie’s lamp.

Then he begins his tale, tapping a pipe as rhythmically as a clock, 

And his guests listen, silently asking each other with incredulous nods, “Do you believe it. No, do you?”

And as yarn spins into a prophetic tapestry of horror and heart-sore, lips become graves of would-be teases.

What sane mind would concoct such a feat? What sane man would sacrifice himself to such a task?

And that round, brown table,

Was situated in a round, brown room.

Full of nothing remarkable, but a delicate little machine that no one wants to label,

And two little blips of a strange reality in full bloom. 

Yes, two little flowers,

Pearly-white, 

Which survive longer than the host,

Yes, two little flowers,

That whisper of ghosts.

Yes, two little flowers,

Forged from

Ivory and Crystal.

Which, though only two and very little,

Imply a world in which they’re lithe petals- 

Are stronger than hope.