Poems about trinket

You sit on the mantel. You're displayed on a shelf. Beautiful trinket boxes, what treasures do you hold? On the outside, you're shaped from potter's clay, handcrafted from wood, painted, or adorned in some other way. Few are fragile and crystal clear or weighted in brushed pewter metals. Received from family and friends or given as a gift from me, each one artistically born is showcased for all to see.
Upon initial notice, these trinket boxes allure a silent radiance. Kept still in a quiet collection, the fascinated are drawn to what's concealed within. With no lock to open, no token to hold, they find it's a place, a presence of mind where hidden thoughts, buried emotions, and unspoken truths reside.
These cherished boxes guard dark secrets and haunted regrets, they hold memories of tearful hurts and cries of laughter, celebrated victories and scars of defeat, there are stories of first Loves, of found Loves, and Loves lost too soon.
Remembered moments never to live down and events wished to be forgotten, faded life to a disappeared stance. Mindful of lessons learned from choices made, there's resisted behaviors that stood in the way. Placed trust in guided hands, emerged the dreams have taken flight. Shined in the sunlight, illuminated with a candle's glow, these trinket boxes hold the beautiful treasures of me.

I have a trinket
I hold the world in my palms
And in the world i hold a woman who owns a voice that calms
This trinket is not magic
It's a godsend in disguise
And it harbors the words of a woman
With bright blue sky eyes
Now the distance is quite an issue
But it won't hold our demise
There are many miles ahead
And time is on our side
So I'll just lay here awake
Chatting away with someone in which i confide
And maybe one day I'll get a package
Marked precious cargo with you wrapped up inside

I finally realize
My dream was never
To break away from
The world
As stardust of
Once upon dreams
Waiting to be reborn
Into the hearts of
A billion souls
That will touch upon the world
As it has never touch upon mine

But to take the storm of the universe
With all of its glorious aches and sorrows
Not for the world to one day remember me by
But just to able to shield one fragile little star
Within the palms of my hands
Savoring the warmth
Of giving all of your love
To a singular seemingly insignificant
Being

To not refuse the world
Or one day
Be a bigger part of the world
But to cradle
A World in the soft palms
Of my callous hands
Giving it all
Keeping it warm
Against the howling wind
Of indifference

She stopped eating until she was nothing but right angles and sharp edges. It was if she couldn't understand the math of the world she lived in, so she sought the neat geometry of the curve of her hollowed hips, the bend of her wishbone elbow, and the measurements of her rag doll ankles.

Your heart is porcelain
You cradle it in the darkness
In the dust you run your fingers
Against the edges searching desperately
For cracks that appear
Chastising yourself when one is found
Filling the spaces with glue
Hoping nothing will escape it
Did you hear me knocking?
Did you hear me walking up the stairs?
Creak
Creak
Your bedroom door swings open
You lie on the bed made up perfectly
Running your fingers along
The chambers and honeycomb connecting
Tissue.
The room dim lit and dust
Ten million nerve endings connect and discharge on your skin where we touch
Rushing armies of red blood cells swim to satiate the need in your brain
For oxygen
You recoil at my touch at first
Understandable
So I pull the brittle dust covered rocking chair
From the corner
I pull up the blind to let the yellow afternoon sun pour in
Pupils adjusting from shadow
You detest the warmth and brightness for a moment.
Your eyes wide with fear as
I sit in the old chair
A strange statue I feel I have become
Watching you
Watching me
I read to you
From a dusty tome
Full of English poetry
"Would you come outside
And play with me? "

Oh, that?
That little trinket- I nearly forgot- really.
Little trinkets, tinkering tangible objects,
Can be quite fun, believe me.
I've had my fair share of fond memories.

You know the saying, “Reduce, reuse, recycle. ”
Sometimes I do that with my words.
Reduce, let loose, reuse, abuse, recycle-
The cool thing with words is that they are multifaceted,

But, gosh dangit, sometimes there aren't rhyming words with “recycle”... So you do just that: recycle- again (and again, and sometimes again, but, this time, paraphrased)

Anyways. Unfortunately, my tired brain forgets,
So unless I jot it down well,
Those goals with their multi-facets,
I underestimate them until they reveal themselves.

By this time, it may be too late,
But I forget how I'm young.
However, If I were to be blatantly
Honest, hearing this, at first, stung.

Growing up, you hear about lists
And how people want to accomplish
Certain things- you get the jist.
The standard I set for myself flourished

In the environment I was given,
But only after I was old enough to drive,
Know how finances operated for livin',
So that I may be successful. To thrive.

I'm sorry to bore you with my words:
My tales of unforeseen potential.
Growing up is fun, but I've learned
How the use of those trinkets are circumstantial:

You gotta know when to take advantage of them.

Cobwebs collected in
Four corners, tins reflecting
Sunshine along the wooden borders,
A cash register from the fifties
Was ironically up for sale, a mirror
From the sixties, gold leaf shot glasses
Glimmered, mason jars and fondue sets,
A tea service, Corningware plates, thimbles,
Candelabras and goose quill pens shimmered
A mannequin with costume jewelry,
Old Army outfits, icepicks, bread pans and shaving kits
The air was stale, like grandmothers house,
Several traps within eyeshot in hopes of a mouse,
The days lunch stood open with late morning coffee
Perusing a giant ceiling fan overhead, old time
Rockers and brass bed sets
A clerk with bifocals and white apron nursing a wood
Pipe with black cherry tobacco,
A shelf with horehound, licorice and rock candy,
Guitar strings, sewing needles and 'medicinal' blackberry brandy*...

This trinket this tiny beads of fashionable
Necklace
Of stones not acrylic or rhinestones but from
Rocks
May not be seen in trinket shops or in some
Glass case
Rocks of the Alps looked like little trivial chalks
Now
In one of my traveling that I found the trinket
For her
The small stones tugged at my longing heart
At home her eyes alighted she ask "can I have
This father? "
And I bought her this trinket piece of tiny art
This trinket fashioned from boulders of rocks
To obsidian glistening pearls round her neck
She wore it well matched her hair her pretty
Little locks
Cost me a little fortune but with this tiny trinket
I can looked back