Best Conveyor Poems
Striving for Political Correctness
By Elton Camp
It would just be the end
If by words we do offend.
There’s the devil to be paid
If we call a spade a spade.
“Vertically challenged” means short.
“Horizontally challenged,” a fat sort.
“Nondiscretionary fragrance” means we stink.
“Living impaired” means your’re dead I think.
“Cerebrally challenged” and you are plain dumb.
“Hispanic” and it is Mexico that you come from.
“Niceness deprived” tells that you are mean.
As “oppressor-to-be” a young boy can be seen.
“Follicularly challenged” guys really are bald.
“Gay” is what males who hump men are called.
The “residentially flexible” will live out on the street.
“Nontraditional success” and a poor man you meet.
“Economically maximized” describes one rich.
“Economically marginalized” do live in a ditch.
“Visually challenged” is the blind guy you see.
“Reality challenged” people are crazy as can be.
“Locationally challenged” folks are those lost.
“Unjust self-esteem reduction” criticism’s cost.
A “maintenance portal” is the name for a manhole.
While “sexually dysfunctional” is a perverted soul.
The garbage collector is a “sanitation engineer.”
“Petroleum transfer specialist” pumps gas I fear.
The “termination specialist” other people does kill.
“Body entrepreneur” describes a prostitute if you will.
“Factually unencumbered” are the ignorant folk.
“Alternative answer” means an error was spoke.
If lazy, then we aren’t “motivationally disposed.”
“Discretionary fragrance” and perfume is nosed.
The “chronologically gifted” are just old.
“Rustically inclined” is redneck I’m told.
“Vertically gifted” people describes those who are tall.
“Client of the correctional system” a prisoner we call.
“Cerebrally gifted” people are those who are smart.
Be “metabolically challenged,” and dead thou art.
“Nonwaged” and it is a job you do lack.
“Amorally gifted” and a crook you track.
“Knowledge conveyor” speaks of the teacher.
“Personality repressor” describes the preacher.
With a “conceptual conflict” you are not sure.
The “under-alert” just some sleep will cure.
Now we are expected to play the “correctness” game.
Which means we call almost nothing by its true name.
In keeping with that, you see,
This poem is correct as can be.
Little Coffee House
It’s the coffee counter line-up
A conveyor belt of people
Ready for their little treat
A little piece of comfort
From their favorite beanery
I strum as I watch them
My guitar like an old friend
They should say hello to -
But they never do
Little Coffee House
My band’s playing for you
But what do you do
You just want want want your cups
Your little coffee mugs
So move up to the front
Funky-spiked hair dude
Jokes with the worker
He leans on the counter
(I think that he likes her)
But people are waiting
And he’s hesitating
So all the shoe tappers
Start to harass him -
Hurry up and pick one fast
Little Coffee House
We’re playing for you
But what do you do
You just need need need your cups
Your little coffee mugs
And that little coffee buzz
I look around the room
There’s a girl in a red shirt
Looking out of the window
She sips on a latte -
I think she’s an artist
She lays out her sketchbook
But she doesn’t start to draw
She turns to face the wall –
What are we doing wrong?
We don’t have to be inspiration
But how ‘bout entertainment?
Are we a distraction?
I can’t help but asking
Are we an invasion
Of the air?
Little Coffee House
We’re playing for you
But what do you do
You just sip sip sip your cups
Your little coffee mugs
Not listening to us
There’s a man on a laptop
There’s a girl reading Sherlock
There’s a guy on a cell phone
A boy eating Jell-O
I want them to look up
If they’d look up they’d see us
Are we so bad we should shut up?
Because I feel like we just suck -
I feel like we’re not even here
We’re jamming
To inattentive ears
Oh Little Coffee House
I feel I’m at a loss
We’re playing here for you
But what do you do
Your busy coffee mouths
Keep sippin’ till it’s out
If only you’d listen
You’d hear what you’re missin’
We’re not
Just another gig
Someday, we’ll make it BIG
Sip sip sippin’ cups
Those little coffee mugs
Sip ‘em till they’re out
Little Coffee House
I hold dear, this world ,eager with its changing seasons,
its sunrises, reliable as a conveyor belt.
I cherish its fields made pretty with
cornflowers, bluer than sky-colored starfish.
I adore its storm-tossed seas that mill around lonely lighthouses
its sacred forests with redwoods as tall as time passing.
I admire the grasping grapevines,
the dainty hummingbirds quicker than a frog’s tongue.
I take pleasure in flowing rivers with banks of polished stone
Survive and endure Dear Earth long after we are gone.
Today, a screech from a hawk reminded me
Of being in a car wreck years ago, like
The synapse door to my remembrance room opened
And the memory came down the conveyor belt
Into the window of my mind to arrive unannounced
Who’s in control up there? Some little sprite?
Why can’t it work as smooth when I lose my keys?
The memory room operator could use some training
Written: 7-16-2019
Mini Verse Poetry Contest 2nd Place
Sponsor: Nina Parmenter
SOME MEN
Some men were born to follow,
Some men were born to lead.
And some men take their pleasure
From the people that they bleed.
But this man was born to wonder
About all there is to see,
I lust not for power
For love will set you free.
Life is energy,
Time the conveyor.
Man is an animal,
Divine the purveyor.
Some men look for glory
In the wars that they breed.
Some men want a pound o’ flesh
From everyone they meet.
Some men will horde money
To fill an emotional need.
Some men choose words of steel;
A lesson never heeded.
Energy is life.
Truth is pure.
Man’s life will end
But the spirit endures.
Sometimes I laugh other times I cry
As the Conveyor belt rolls on by
The poems that us poets write
Bright as day – dark as night
Trying hard to read them all
Sometimes I wish the belt would stall
As I read page after page
Full of love – Full of rage
It has became so clear to me
We are one big family
We share our love and our disgust
With open honest loving trust
We share our laughter and our tears
The beauty of youth and wisdom of years
From all walks of life and different creeds
We open our hearts and spread our seeds
This morning I’ve read about love so true
And why the streets gather crews
I read of how compassion should never die
And how nothing hurts worse than a lie
From good to bad and bottom to top
I’m an ex-con and he is a cop
But that’s all as irrelevant as it can be
For I am a poet and so is he
When you look at a butterfly, what do you see?
The brilliant color and intricate design
A soft, gentle creature, serene
That morphs through its lifetime
And debuts in spring
Dressed in the most glorious attire
Even royalty is envious
Fragile but free with no inhibitions
Pleasing the eye of its beholder
When you look at a butterfly, what do you see?
I see a conveyor bearing
Two hearts attached for its wings
Each independent of the other
Yet they function as one
Exploring enchanted gardens
Tasting an array of choicest delights
Come each spring two hearts reborn
Grown together and morph into one
When you see a butterfly, what do you see?
Graves of many, dreadful dark and spooky.
Spiders hung and swayed a little kooky.
Pumpkins fierce howling red glow.
Walking-dead knock blow-by-blow.
Black wild cat moved its tail slightly fluky.
Dracula went out dressed as cranky Grinch.
Drank few too many got into tight pinch.
By foot dangled the mayor,
Threw him over conveyor.
Towns people came around with rope to lynch.
Pop Idol
Milk the applause, savour the day;
You only have thirty seconds left,
Of your fifteen minutes of fame.
Another band falls off the conveyor belt;
It’s time for you to be replaced, by another covers band.
Another wanna-bee, another piece of human trash;
Who simply follows the money.
In search of their star, in the music hall of fame.
Do you seriously think, you can last the pace?
And make another album that sells like your first?
You naïve fool, that’s what they call consumerism
And you’re definitely not, a new sensation.
You’re just another advertisement;
For their hit T.V. show, with the losers and the freaks.
Don’t you realize you’re only a star of car crash T.V.?
(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
I'm having to save a lady from an ape that's strong.
He throws barrels at me and his name is Donkey Kong.
I have to ride on elevators and conveyor belts to climb to the top.
But Kong keeps stealing my girl, that big gorilla won't stop.
It's a never ending battle or that's how it seems.
I have to smash fireballs and dodge jumping I beams.
By removing eight rivets, I caused the structure to collapse and Kong fell on his head.
I'm trying to save a girl with skin so white that she looks like she's dead.
Now that I see her up close, she's even less sexy than Al Roker.
Kong can have her, I don't want a girl who looks like the Joker.
(This poem was inspired by the arcade game that was made by Nintendo.)
When without umbrella
it poured mind wandered
how if it rained horizontally
it would rain as a blanket above
and not stagnate to breed bacteria
no spoiling of leather shoes
cow dung on road is waste
but in farm is manure
rain on road is not of much use
in lake in farm its lifeline
>^^<
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
By Hitendra Mehta
April 2011
For Members contest - Stream of Conciousness by Debbie Guzzi
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Furtive, I would slip away
any poor excuse
would do, make my way
across the lawn
into building twenty-two
Secretive and circuitous
I took an odd and winding
route... While bustling
they had no time
to wonder what
I was about
Far removed from
fluorescent gleam
conveyor belts and
machinery-
a soft-lit, silent
posh retreat
damask-lined walls
with greenery
Oddly placed
within the building
inconvenient
(so they said)
a glorious refuge
for an introvert
a quiet space to
clear my head
Oh, the job had
the usual “benefits”
health, vision, and 401K
and that was all just
fine and dandy
great and A-okay...
We even had
our own mini fridge
to store our food
as bitter drama
had ensued over
brown-bag bandits
(in days past)
We even had our very own
stereo to blast
And the HR lady
gave me the run-down
my first day
all the benefits
and perks
but I must say...
she left one out-
No doubt, the loveliest
perk of all
was that elegant
public restroom
in PR, (so fancy
without stalls)
hands-down the very best
job “benefit” of all!
___
Memories of my old job... where, evidently, a fancy restroom was the highlight of my career! ;D
I’m broke ‘n’ don’t think I like it too much.
Last night’s cab ride. No one turns the wheel now.
I stare through cathedrals whose glass I can’t touch.
I want to go home but I can’t see how.
Snow blind. A slow rolling conveyor belt.
Fresh plumes of spiraled smoke smoldering air.
A fire outside. Flooded roads start to melt.
I want to get out but can’t pay the fare.
Grey sparrows take refuge in candlelight song,
their throaty notes grapple Gregorian chants.
I’ve stolen music where short breaths draw long;
where spared by my own Dark’s draconian dance.
Slow down the belt. Thin tin buckles. Louder.
Churned poverty stops - returns as black powder.
11/13/2018
Crank up the innuendo spindle machine,
I predict an uptick
in textile conjectural manufacturing
Tabloid logs of disparaging hardcore data
come rolling on a gossip conveyor belt
Lies and self-promotion gets shaped
into a loose fitting, fabricated article
Woven for profit,
using speculative material
cheap as they come
The rumor mill is on a rickety hum
Paparazzi garment products
getting poorly reported news labels stitched on
Unreliable eyewitnesses
are making that old lying metal beast
groan as it run
Forcing half of the naked victims to get
dressed up in lawyer fancy worded injunctions
And the other nude half
racing to get their full metal jacket guns
Seems the off switch never gets turned,
as the rumor mill continues to churn
Cranking out dubious scandal grade clothing ...
Reputation buyer beware
of public paucity for consumer scarce loathing
con conveyor ~ belting blame
***