Collectors
My name is Tom
I'm a collector too,
I love collecting.
They are men and women who
Value things, treasure things,
And search them out to hold them in their hands.
Cherish them, protect them,
Make claim to them as if they
Played some part in their manufacture.
Each collector has his own leaning,
Certain passions, and quirks.
Mine being books, and tins, and collectibles,
Connected to when I was a boy.
A wide berth of this and that
And a wider range of 'l want that!'
And if in my searches I had discovered
A major coded inscription carved
In some hidden spot my eyes had spied
Written in script on the underside
Of any apparatus with price tag affixed,
And purchase amount my purse could afford,
That I could use to magically gather...
I'd use it to decode my best moments
In antique stores and flea markets
Where this author on his hobby horse,
Like a look out in a crows nest
Sees long watched for land jutting up
Out of the sea and into view -
In this case, aisles of castaways -
Or like a naturalist tiptoeing through
Tall rustling grasses, step by step,
Eyes pacing left and right to search
Under the leaves or in the roots,
Finds a species never known!
The alert gene kicks over,
The breath and heart quicken.
Yes he sees, and his brain confirms
A perfect specimen of an overlooked
Flora, fauna, or fungi ... (Oh my!) ...
Where was I, what trail through what woods ...
My name is Tom
I'm a collector too.
If I had a sorcerer's means to collect
Memories in bits and pieces,
Slices of time my mind likes to store,
I'd collect those moments!
First, sight object.
Then a price to pay.
Can I Afford it? Yes or no?
The trembling dominant hand reaches
To grab the dangling tag on a string.
A look at the price; while thinking before hand
What is too much to bare?
What is too little to bare?
What is just right like a bear?
Price, decision, decided - It's mine!
My hands have wings and claws to grasp it,
Clutch it close to my heart and then
Survey the field for rivals behind me...
Take it to a cashier, blase in spirit
Feigning all the while it's real value
In the last ditch chance, house will discover
How really valuable, and not let it go...
"Wring it up please," I nonchalantly mumble.
Passing through the door, a chirotic gate
That side theirs, this side mine;
To clean, preserve, care for, and display
With a 'look what I found l added smile.
Then too there are pieces that escaped me.
Not because I blocked my desires
For some frivolous economic reason;
But, because the two of us
Buyer and seller, on a seesaw
Had electric charges out of sinc,
I wanted to buy, they wanted to sell;
But like a creaking door - out of tune.
These things stick out like desserts in a window
beyond a child's reach, except in a dream!
The first was a statue a Senufo bird sculpture,
A little wood piece roughly carved,
A Senufo bird, full of traditions
But this was a hundred. So I saved up.
And on that fitfull, as it was to me, day;
I searched for it; but it had flown!
The dealer had lost hope, no psychic he,
And auctioned it off of all that he owned!
Farewell little square winged, wing-ed bird!
The next was a love seat; but not something dainty.
A rust colored love seat expertly stuffed
And texture with rows of corduroy cloth ...
So comfortable! I'd sit on it while my mind
wandered and pondered how it would look
When placed just so in my own room ...
But sadly that too was not to be.
To be or not to be - decided not!
Third was a stick of flawless design,
A wooden stick, a someone carved shovel.
Surely no digging tool could go beyond it's use,
Beyond it's value at digging earth.
Ah but slowly - I'd see it each visit -
It worked it's magic on my soul.
The properties perfect, the carving accomplished,
The design elegant with each inch integrated.
More art than sculpture, more sculpture than shovel!
Hanging on a wall, tall and slender,
With every part essential, no part superfluous...
This story ends like the others.
Lost to another.
In fourth that I remember, of the collectibles on file,
was as big in size as my desire to own it:
A carved cabinet with tinted green glass;
A free standing, eight carved and curved leg, cabinet;
That reaching my arm high, came close to the top.
I six foot four with arms to match.
The price was thousands, the contents forgettable;
Though priced as precious china or porcelain.
Each visit I'd touch it to make sure it stayed.
But till I inherited a castle with acres,
The proper place for such a treasure ...
I'd have to own it only on visits.
A sweeping illness kept people away.
Two years had gone when I went back to visit
The wooden shrine of multi carved wonders ...
Alas, the windows had signs all the same,
Place for Rent, Place for Rent.
The rooms beyond empty with low lights.
The ten by ten, cabinet of carvings
Had gone. Place unknown
My name is Tom
I am a collector too.
I love collectors!
They are men and women who ...
I value as acquaintances and perhaps good friends,
If they were not trying to sell me their goods.
Too many times they see me perusing and
Seldom buying, so they get the message
That I was friendly if rarely a spender.
There for a hello, hi, and how are you?
If I could collect people as my collection,
I would enshrine all those good souls
In my own display case, my locked cabinet;
But alas these are people not to be chained
In anyone's reality, let alone their minds.
They had lives to live, to carry on with.
Antique malls closed, torn down or changed hands.
Some pass on and left emptiness behind.
Like the tally of items that I listed before,
Time to tally my favorite people:
The woman whose family escaped war Europe.
Here was a new life but void of the traditions
That gave the old life sophisticated charm.
The flamboyant painter of loud big oils
Who smuggled into his hospital bed
his cherished cat as if it was de rigueur.
The elderly couple with the one beloved daughter,
Who collected old photos that stood out from the rest
And published scrapbooks of the best of them.
The middle aged counter clerk that when a girl
Went to high school with the Everly Brothers.
The piano for sale that I was allowed to play
And improvise on for 20 or so minutes.
The soft spoken man with the loud golf shirts
Who collected tin cars and trucks galore
And always seemed to be tinkering in his booth.
The woman at the counter at that one place
And the man at the counter at the place next door.
Each welcomed me, and had something to tell.
She a greeting. He a complaint.
My name is Tom
I am a collector too.
I love collectors
And the rows of aisles, and aisles, and aisles,
Of things that some may want - maybe you.
Started in me from the glass dividers
That lined the five and dimes as a kid
Final story:
I was concerned that one mall I liked,
Not my favorite but one closest to drive to,
Might not have survived the years I'd been missing.
Each time I'd gone, I'd envision the building,
Old and need of repairs in the corners
And heating and cooling and roof and floors:
Could be renovated to something special.
The back rooms, into standout displays
Or cafe dining for intimate couples.
The front for music, the back for galleries,
And antiques and collectibles and books in between.
The building was one story, parking for 20;
A fenced in block of a warehouse with a door.
I drove up to see if it was still there
Or had the building been sold to another
For another purpose, another business...
What I found took more than one look.
Not my building - that had disappeared,
As if a giant hand stamped it flat
And replaced it with a six story monster
Shiny Windows but ugly already.
It had risen, a masonry mushroom,
To replace what was, out of order and thought
not memorable to enough people.
I saw the view, step by step,
Raising my eyes counting the stories
Turning my eyes to follow it's width,
A block it sat, cement with glass ...
Not for me! Will drive on!
My name is Tom
I am a collector too
I love collectors
How about you?
(c) Tom Hendricks 2024