Essential Home Accents

Essential Home Accents by Home Fashion Express

Essential Home Accents


Thanks for visiting our web store. Shop and buy top sellers in gifts, collectibles, home, garden and seasonal decor. Give your home a  makeover indoors and out. Search or browse through our listings and discover the awesome selection of new products. We have something for everyone on your shopping list, him, her, or the one who has it all.



skip to content

Gift Ideas

Finding the right gift idea for that special person or event can be quite a challenge. How do you decide what is the most appropriate gift to show how much you care?

Our Gift Ideas section provides you with easy to read articles chock full of great gift ideas that will help you decide what's best. We add new articles on gift ideas almost daily. So, make sure you bookmark this page so you can return whenever you need help with your gift giving events!

Poem of the Day: Jessie Mitchell’s Mother

Into her mother’s bedroom to wash the ballooning body.   
“My mother is jelly-hearted and she has a brain of jelly:   
Sweet, quiver-soft, irrelevant. Not essential.
Only a habit would cry if she should die.
A pleasant sort of fool without the least iron. . . .
Are you better, mother, do you think it will come today?”   
The stretched yellow rag that was Jessie Mitchell’s mother   
Reviewed her. Young, and so thin, and so straight.   
So straight! as if nothing could ever bend her.
But poor men would bend her, and doing things with poor men,
Being much in bed, and babies would bend her over,
And the rest of things in life that were for poor women,   
Coming to them grinning and pretty with intent to bend and to kill.
Comparisons shattered her heart, ate at her bulwarks:
The shabby and the bright: she, almost hating her daughter,   
Crept into an old sly refuge: “Jessie’s black
And her way will be black, and jerkier even than mine.   
Mine, in fact, because I was lovely, had flowers
Tucked in the jerks, flowers were here and there. . . .”
She revived for the moment settled and dried-up triumphs,
Forced perfume into old petals, pulled up the droop,   
Triumphant long-exhaled breaths.
Her exquisite yellow youth . . .

Gwendolyn Brooks, “Jessie Mitchell’s Mother” from Selected Poems. Copyright © 1963 by Gwendolyn Brooks. Reprinted with the permission of the Estate of Gwendolyn Brooks.

Source: Selected Poems(Harper & Row, 1963)

Gwendolyn Brooks

More poems by this author

Still Falling For You (From "Bridget Jones's Baby" Original Motion Picture Soundtrack) - Single - Ellie Goulding

Still Falling For You (From "Bridget Jones's Baby" Original Motion Picture Soundtrack) - Single by Ellie Goulding

Neon Nights

With raindrops no longer falling, this street in Beijing, China, hums back to life under the glow of neon signs. Your Shot photographer Caue Ferraz took this photo in the neighborhood around Jingshan Park, a 57-acre green space with views into the Forbidden City.

This photo was submitted to Your Shot, our storytelling community where members can take part in photo assignments, get expert feedback, be published, and more. Join now >>

A Flash in the Distance

Flashes of lightning illuminate the night sky above Lake Ontario, as seen from an overlook in Lyndonville, New York—located about an hour from the Canadian border at Niagara Falls.

This photo was submitted to Your Shot, our storytelling community where members can take part in photo assignments, get expert feedback, be published, and more. Join now >>

Trump says he signed the $1.3 trillion bill for national security reasons but there's a lot in it he's unhappy with

President Donald Trump will sign the $1.3 trillion spending bill he previously threatened to veto, two sources tell CNN.

Into You (Workout Mix) - Single - Power Music Workout

Into You (Workout Mix) - Single by Power Music Workout

Poem of the Day: How I Discovered Poetry

It was like soul-kissing, the way the words
filled my mouth as Mrs. Purdy read from her desk.
All the other kids zoned an hour ahead to 3:15,
but Mrs. Purdy and I wandered lonely as clouds borne
by a breeze off Mount Parnassus. She must have seen
the darkest eyes in the room brim: The next day
she gave me a poem she’d chosen especially for me
to read to the all except for me white class.
She smiled when she told me to read it, smiled harder,
said oh yes I could. She smiled harder and harder
until I stood and opened my mouth to banjo playing
darkies, pickaninnies, disses and dats. When I finished
my classmates stared at the floor. We walked silent
to the buses, awed by the power of words.

Marilyn Nelson, “How I Discovered Poetry” from The Fields of Praise: New and Selected Poems. Copyright © 1994, 1995, 1996, 1997 by Marilyn Nelson. Reprinted with the permission of Louisiana State University Press.

Source: The Fields of Praise: New and Selected Poems(1997)

Marilyn Nelson

More poems by this author

Blonde - Frank Ocean

Blonde by Frank Ocean

Long-Lost Justice League Mortal Costumes Finally Unearthed

The suits for George Miller's Justice League: Mortal movie have finally been revealed.

Congress blocks DeVos agenda in spending bill

Some significant proposals championed by Education Secretary Betsy DeVos and President Donald Trump were rejected in the $1.3 trillion spending bill that's making its way through Congress.

SuperFly Remake Trailer Puts a Modern Spin on an Action Classic

Future provides the soundtrack for Sony's reimagining of the 1972 Blaxploitation classic Superfly.

Trump: I'll never sign a bill like this again

President Trump says he signed the spending bill but also criticizes part of the bill and Democrats.

Poem of the Day: Time Problem

The problem
of time.          Of there not being   
enough of it.

My girl came to the study
and said Help me;
I told her I had a time problem   
which meant:
I would die for you but I don’t have ten minutes.   
Numbers hung in the math book   
like motel coathangers. The Lean   
Cuisine was burning
like an ancient city: black at the edges,   
bubbly earth tones in the center.   
The latest thing they’re saying is lack   
of time might be
a “woman’s problem.” She sat there   
with her math book sobbing—
(turned out to be prime factoring: whole numbers   
dangle in little nooses)
Hawking says if you back up far enough   
it’s not even
an issue, time falls away into
'the curve' which is finite,
boundaryless. Appointment book,   
soprano telephone—
(beep End beep went the microwave)

The hands fell off my watch in the night.
I spoke to the spirit
who took them, told her: Time is the funniest thing   
they invented. Had wakened from a big
dream of love in a boat
No time to get the watch fixed so the blank face   
lived for months in my dresser,
no arrows
for hands, just quartz intentions, just the pinocchio   
nose         (before the lie)
left in the center;            the watch
didn’t have twenty minutes; neither did I.
My girl was doing
her gym clothes by herself;         (red leaked
toward black, then into the white
insignia)                  I was grading papers,
heard her call from the laundry room:   
Hawking says there are two
types of it,
real and imaginary (imaginary time must be   
like decaf), says it’s meaningless
to decide which is which
but I say: there was tomorrow-
when I started thinking about it; now   
there’s less than a day. More
done. That’s
the thing that keeps being said. I thought   
I could get more done as in:
fish stew from a book. As in: Versateller   
archon, then push-push-push
the tired-tired around the track like a planet.   
Legs, remember him?
Our love—when we stagger—lies down inside us. . .   
Hawking says
there are little folds in time
(actually he calls them wormholes)
but I say:
there’s a universe beyond
where they’re hammering the brass cut-outs .. .
Push us out in the boat and leave time here—         

(because: where in the plan was it written,   
You’ll be too busy to close parentheses,
the snapdragon’s bunchy mouth needs water,   
even the caterpillar will hurry past you?
Pulled the travel alarm
to my face: the black
behind the phosphorous argument kept the dark   
from being ruined. Opened   
the art book
—saw the languorous wrists of the lady
in Tissot’s “Summer Evening.” Relaxed. Turning   
gently. The glove
(just slightly—but still:)   
opened Hawking, he says, time gets smoothed   
into a fourth dimension   
but I say
space thought it up, as in: Let’s make
a baby space, and then
it missed. Were seconds born early, and why   
didn’t things unhappen also, such as
the tree became Daphne. . .

At the beginning of harvest, we felt
the seven directions.
Time did not visit us. We slept
till noon.
With one voice I called him, with one voice   
I let him sleep, remembering
summer years ago,
I had come to visit him in the house of last straws   
and when he returned
above the garden of pears, he said
our weeping caused the dew. . .

I have borrowed the little boat
and I say to him Come into the little boat,   
you were happy there;

the evening reverses itself, we’ll push out   
onto the pond,
or onto the reflection of the pond,   
whichever one is eternal

Brenda Hillman, “Time Problem” from Loose Sugar. Copyright © 1997 by Brenda Hillman. Reprinted with the permission of Wesleyan University Press.

Source: Loose Sugar(Wesleyan University Press, 1997)

Brenda Hillman

More poems by this author

Poem of the Day: St. Patrick's Day

Down the long library each marble bust
shines unregarded through a shower of dust
where a grim ghost paces for exercise
in wet weather: nausea, gout, ‘some days
I hardly think it worth my time to rise’.
Not even the love of friends can quite appease
the vertigo, sore ears and inner voices;
deep-draughted rain clouds, a rock lost in space,
yahoos triumphant in the marketplace,
the isle is full of intolerable noises.

Go with the flow; no, going against the grain
he sits in his rocking chair with a migraine,
a light in the church all day till evensong,
the sort of day in which a man might hang.
No riding out to bubbling stream and weir,
to the moist meadow and white belvedere;
on tattling club and coffee house a pox,
a confederacy of dunces and mohocks —
scholars and saints be d-mn’d, slaves to a hard
reign and our own miniature self-regard.

We emerge from hibernation to ghetto-blasters
much better than our old Sony transistors,
consensual media, permanent celebration,
share options, electronic animation,
wave motion of site-specific daffodils,
closed-circuit video in the new hotels;
for Niamh and Oisín have come to earth once more
with blinding breastplate and tempestuous hair,
new festive orthodoxy and ironic icon,
their faces lit up like the Book of Kells.

Defrosting the goose-skin on Bridget’s daughters
spring sunlight sparkles among parking meters,
wizards on stilts, witches on circus bikes,
jokers and jugglers, twitching plastic snakes,
pop music of what happens, throbbing skies,
star wars, designer genes, sword sorceries.
We’ve no nostalgia for the patristic croziers,
fridges and tumble-dryers of former years,
rain-spattered cameras in O’Connell St.,
the sound mikes buffeted by wind and sleet —

but this is your birthday and I want to recall
a first-floor balcony under a shower of hail
where our own rowdy crowd stood to review
post-Christian gays cavorting up Fifth Avenue,
wise-cracking dialogue as quick and dry
as that in The Big Sleep or The Long Goodbye;
for we too had our season in Tír na nÓg,
a Sacred Heart girl and a Protestant rogue,
chill sunshine warming us to the very bone,
our whole existence one erogenous zone.

I could resign these structures and devices,
these fancy flourishes and funny voices
to a post-literate, audio-visual realm
of uncial fluorescence, song and film,
as curious symptoms of a weird transition
before we opted to be slaves of fashion —
for now, whatever the ancestral dream,
we give ourselves to a vast corporate scheme
where our true wit is devalued once again,
our solitude known only to the rain.

The one reality is the perpetual flow,
chaos of complex systems. Each generation
does what it must; middle age and misanthropy,
like famine and religion, make poor copy,
and even the present vanishes like snow
off a rope, frost off a ditch, ice in the sun —
so back to the desktop and the drawing board,
prismatic natural light, slow-moving cloud,
the waves far-thundering in a life of their own,
a young woman hitching a lift on a country road. 

Derek Mahon, "St. Patrick’s Day" from New Collected Poems .  Copyright © 2011 by Derek Mahon.  Reprinted by permission of The Gallery Press.

Source: New Collected Poems(The Gallery Press, 2011)

Derek Mahon

More poems by this author

Poem of the Day: Spring

Nothing is so beautiful as Spring –         
   When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;         
   Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrush         
Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring         
The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing;
   The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush         
   The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush         
With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.         

What is all this juice and all this joy?         
   A strain of the earth’s sweet being in the beginning
In Eden garden. – Have, get, before it cloy,         
   Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,         
Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,         
   Most, O maid’s child, thy choice and worthy the winning.         

Source: Gerard Manley Hopkins: Poems and Prose(Penguin Classics, 1985)

Gerard Manley Hopkins

More poems by this author

Idaho senator holds up vote over rivalry with deceased governor

As Congress raced toward another spending deadline, most were watching Sen. Rand Paul's objections to a proposed spending plan. But another Republican was creating more headaches for GOP leaders: Sen. James Risch of Idaho.

Into You (3LAU Remix) - Single - Ariana Grande

Into You (3LAU Remix) - Single by Ariana Grande

Different Now - Single - Fetty Wap

Different Now - Single by Fetty Wap

Behind the Curtain

Circus performers in Hanoi, Vietnam, prepare for the show minutes before it gets under way. Nguyen Thi Thu Hiep, shown here stretching, is a contortionist. For extra money, she also performs at private parties and social events.

See more pictures from the September 2016 story "A Life at the Circus: Going Behind the Curtain in Vietnam."

Brave Enough - Lindsey Stirling

Brave Enough by Lindsey Stirling

123 Victory (Remix) [feat. Pharrell Williams] - Single - Kirk Franklin

123 Victory (Remix) [feat. Pharrell Williams] - Single by Kirk Franklin

Porg Secrets Revealed in New Last Jedi Behind-the-Scenes Video

A new behind-the-scenes video from the Star Wars: The Last Jedi Blu-ray shows how the beloved Porgs were built from scratch.

A Walk on the Wild Side

Ye Ye, a 16-year-old giant panda, lounges in a wild enclosure at a conservation center in China’s Wolong Nature Reserve. China has been creating reserves to restore and protect disappearing panda habitat and is now introducing captive-bred pandas into the wild.

See more pictures from the August 2016 feature story "Pandas Get to Know Their Wild Side."

Where the DCEU Went Wrong and How They'll Fix It Going Forward

The DC movie universe has stumbled and crumbled at the box office with some modest success but things are soon changing in a big way.

Black Panther Fan Creates Wakanda Text Translator

Some hardcore Black Panther fans have gotten into Trekkie territory with the Wakandan text translator.

Losing My Religion - Kirk Franklin

Losing My Religion by Kirk Franklin

Sandy Oasis

Anguilla, a British territory in the Caribbean, is a nation of tranquility, but Sandy Island takes it to another level. This speck of sand in the bright blue waters is constantly reshaped by the ocean and weather, and visitors to the cay are encouraged to make reservations. Your Shot photographer Matthew Wade captured this shot using a drone.

This photo was submitted to Your Shot, our storytelling community where members can take part in photo assignments, get expert feedback, be published, and more. Join now >>

Poem of the Day: In the Coma

My friend was in a coma, so I dove
Deep into his brain to word him back. I tried

To sing Hallelujah, I Just Love Her So in
Ray Charles’s voice. Of course the silence grew.

I couldn’t sing the alphabet song. My voice
Couldn’t say words I knew: Because I Could
Not Stop for Death, He Kindly Stopped for Me.

I couldn’t remember the Dodgers and the Giants.

I tried to tell the stories that he and I
Studied when we were young. It was confused,
The Invisible Man was laughing at how a man
Felt History jump out of his thick fair head
And beat him half to death, as being the nightmare
Out of which Isaac Babel tried to awake.

The quiet. Next time won’t you sing with me.
Those great diminished chords: A girl I know.

The cold of the coma, lightless. The ocean floor.

I struggled to tell things back from decades gone.
The mournful American soldier testifying
About My Lai: I shot the older lady.

Viola Liuzzo, Spiro Agnew, Jim Jones.

And by the time I count from one to four
I hear her knocking. Quiet of the deep,
Our mouths are open but we cannot sing.

Source: Poetry February 2016

Robert Pinsky

More poems by this author

Chris Pratt Predicts Infinity War Will Be the Biggest Movie Ever

Chris Pratt is so grateful to be a part of Infinity War and calls it the biggest movie ever.

City of Sun Showers

Even in a rainstorm, Paris lives up to its nickname of the City of Light, as sun streaks through storm clouds over the city in this image by Your Shot photographer Raffaele Tuzio.

This photo was submitted to Your Shot, our storytelling community where members can take part in photo assignments, get expert feedback, be published, and more. Join now >>

Pacific Rim 2 Thursday Night Box Office Surpasses Expectations

Universal and Legendary's Pacific Rim Uprising debuted with a solid $2.35 million in 2,850 theaters before its official bow in theaters today.

Last Jedi Director Finally Reveals His Secret Cameo

Rian Johnson has finally let fans in on his whereabouts onscreen when it comes to his much-talked about cameo in The Last Jedi.

Mark Hamill Wants Luke to Return as a Scary Force Ghost in Star Wars 9

Mark Hamill discusses whether or not he would return to Star Wars following his turn in The Last Jedi.

Poem of the Day: To The Indifferent Women

You who are happy in a thousand homes,
Or overworked therein, to a dumb peace;
Whose souls are wholly centered in the life
Of that small group you personally love;
Who told you that you need not know or care
About the sin and sorrow of the world?

Do you believe the sorrow of the world
Does not concern you in your little homes? —
That you are licensed to avoid the care
And toil for human progress, human peace,
And the enlargement of our power of love
Until it covers every field of life?

The one first duty of all human life
Is to promote the progress of the world
In righteousness, in wisdom, truth and love;
And you ignore it, hidden in your homes,
Content to keep them in uncertain peace,
Content to leave all else without your care.

Yet you are mothers! And a mother's care
Is the first step toward friendly human life.
Life where all nations in untroubled peace
Unite to raise the standard of the world
And make the happiness we seek in homes
Spread everywhere in strong and fruitful love.

You are content to keep that mighty love
In its first steps forever; the crude care
Of animals for mate and young and homes,
Instead of pouring it abroad in life,
Its mighty current feeding all the world
Till every human child can grow in peace.

You cannot keep your small domestic peace
Your little pool of undeveloped love,
While the neglected, starved, unmothered world
Struggles and fights for lack of mother's care,
And its tempestuous, bitter, broken life
Beats in upon you in your selfish homes.

We all may have our homes in joy and peace
When woman's life, in its rich power of love
Is joined with man's to care for all the world.

Charlotte Anna Perkins Gilman

More poems by this author

Spice Girls Will Reunite in an Animated Superhero Movie

The Spice Girls are shopping around an animated superhero movie that could bring Girl Power to a new generation.

Golden Hills

Your Shot photographer Hannah Overeem captured this shot of her dog, Badger, an Australian cattle dog, in Chino Hills, California. She writes that the contrast of the golden field and blue-and-white sky give this image a “surreal” look.

This photo was submitted to Your Shot, our storytelling community where members can take part in photo assignments, get expert feedback, be published, and more. Join now >>

Poem of the Day: On Imagination

Thy various works, imperial queen, we see,
    How bright their forms! how deck'd with pomp by thee!
Thy wond'rous acts in beauteous order stand,
And all attest how potent is thine hand.

    From Helicon's refulgent heights attend,
Ye sacred choir, and my attempts befriend:
To tell her glories with a faithful tongue,
Ye blooming graces, triumph in my song.

    Now here, now there, the roving Fancy flies,
Till some lov'd object strikes her wand'ring eyes,
Whose silken fetters all the senses bind,
And soft captivity involves the mind.

    Imagination! who can sing thy force?
Or who describe the swiftness of thy course?
Soaring through air to find the bright abode,
Th' empyreal palace of the thund'ring God,
We on thy pinions can surpass the wind,
And leave the rolling universe behind:
From star to star the mental optics rove,
Measure the skies, and range the realms above.
There in one view we grasp the mighty whole,
Or with new worlds amaze th' unbounded soul.

    Though Winter frowns to Fancy's raptur'd eyes
The fields may flourish, and gay scenes arise;
The frozen deeps may break their iron bands,
And bid their waters murmur o'er the sands.
Fair Flora may resume her fragrant reign,
And with her flow'ry riches deck the plain;
Sylvanus may diffuse his honours round,
And all the forest may with leaves be crown'd:
Show'rs may descend, and dews their gems disclose,
And nectar sparkle on the blooming rose.

    Such is thy pow'r, nor are thine orders vain,
O thou the leader of the mental train:
In full perfection all thy works are wrought,
And thine the sceptre o'er the realms of thought.
Before thy throne the subject-passions bow,
Of subject-passions sov'reign ruler thou;
At thy command joy rushes on the heart,
And through the glowing veins the spirits dart.

    Fancy might now her silken pinions try
To rise from earth, and sweep th' expanse on high:
From Tithon's bed now might Aurora rise,
Her cheeks all glowing with celestial dies,
While a pure stream of light o'erflows the skies.
The monarch of the day I might behold,
And all the mountains tipt with radiant gold,
But I reluctant leave the pleasing views,
Which Fancy dresses to delight the Muse;
Winter austere forbids me to aspire,
And northern tempests damp the rising fire;
They chill the tides of Fancy's flowing sea,
Cease then, my song, cease the unequal lay.

Source: Poems on Various Subjects Religious and Moral(1773)

Phillis Wheatley

More poems by this author

Flood of Color

Floods bring a mosaic of color to the rice fields of Y Ty, Vietnam. The wet season typically lasts from May to June in the mountainous village.

This photo was submitted to Your Shot, our storytelling community where members can take part in photo assignments, get expert feedback, be published, and more. Join now >>

Poem of the Day: Asylum

After Roselia Foundling Asylum and Maternity Hospital, 
corner of Cliff and Manilla

This is the house I was born in.
Look at it. Asylum.

Narrate it:
Notice the sloping cornice, look at the curved windows, etc.

This is the house I was born in.
The cast-iron balconies / not wide enough for bodies.

Look at the photos:
3 stories, 8 front windows and a wide door.

Dark red brick / inlaid with brown stone.
Women’s bodies / expelling  / banishing  / 

Leaving the babies there.
Look at the photos, include the photos.
Source: Poetry April 2016

Jan Beatty

More poems by this author

Poem of the Day: Kyoto: March

A few light flakes of snow
Fall in the feeble sun;
Birds sing in the cold,
A warbler by the wall. The plum
Buds tight and chill soon bloom.
The moon begins first
Fourth, a faint slice west
At nightfall. Jupiter half-way
High at the end of night-
Meditation. The dove cry
Twangs like a bow.
At dawn Mt. Hiei dusted white
On top; in the clear air
Folds of all the gullied green
Hills around the town are sharp,
Breath stings. Beneath the roofs
Of frosty houses
Lovers part, from tangle warm
Of gentle bodies under quilt
And crack the icy water to the face
And wake and feed the children
And grandchildren that they love.

“Kyoto: March” from Riprap and Cold Mountain Poems copyright © 2004 by Gary Snyder. Used by permission of Counterpoint Press.

Source: Riprap and Cold Mountain Poems(Shoemaker Hoard, 2004)

Gary Snyder

More poems by this author

'You Dropped Something!'

Your Shot photographer Suyash Mehta gained a souvenir from a passing eagle in Satara, India: a long feather. India is home to nearly two dozen eagle species.

This photo was submitted to Your Shot, our storytelling community where members can take part in photo assignments, get expert feedback, be published, and more. Join now >>

Trump: 'We had no choice but to fund our military'

Hidden Gem

Forged by the wear of water rushing over rocks, Olo Canyon in Arizona is concealed inside the Grand Canyon. Its alluring landscape includes natural springs and rocks shaped like cathedral amphitheaters.

See more pictures from the September 2016 story "Are We Losing the Grand Canyon?"

Different Now - Single - Fetty Wap

Different Now - Single by Fetty Wap

I Told You - Tory Lanez

I Told You by Tory Lanez

Search by Price
Exclusive Offers

Exclusive Offers

Sign up to receive exclusive promotions and discounts from our store.
Gift Cards
Express Order

Express Order