Best Manikins Poems
After we met
I thought we really had something,
Really hit it off.
It wasn’t the words we spoke,
The easy fluorescent trail they made.
Maybe it was the Japanese lantern
Glowing over your bare shoulder
Or the smile you threw
To the side-
To someone.
Or maybe it was the cool damp air,
Slight seduction of rain
But no rain.
Perfect, cool molecules,
Layer on layer,
Air sitting on air.
But after, I couldn’t find you.
I couldn’t find you
In the heavy-sitting valleys,
Behind the cool barriered hedges
With stone guard dogs,
In the palm shadowed boulevards
Or the canyon mazes.
I couldn’t find you
In the final exhalations of space,
On sun baked, cracked cement plaza drives.
I couldn’t find you
In the starkly lined avenues
Amongst the serious-expressioned manikins.
It really is a desert here, huh?
Had said the pale cheeked waiter from Wisconsin
While we waited for you to come back.
Yes, I thought, touching the sweating water glass.
A stage set in a desert
Filled with mirages and promises
And doors that no one answers
And roads that curve toward the sun.
We both knew you weren’t coming back.
I won’t find you again
But I will keep looking
And looking
And looking.
There is always that chance.
Yes, to find someone like you.
That chance.
I leave alone,
Tip under plate.
A dog barks at my steps,
Waits, barks again.
We are both close,
Yet impossibly,
Far from home.
Into the groove of unthinking action,
file after file of manikins pack in --
beings above see the circular groove
peopled with puppets, all on the move.
Deeper yet they wear the groove down;
manikins' footfalls forever resound.
Of "outside", they now all think no more,
their eyes forever fixed on the floor.
Mechanical movement is all they can know;
movement defines all the life that they show.
The speeds of the dummies vary a bit
as they wear down the floor of the pit.
He was sitting alone in the corner
In a little cafe at the painting of Monet
And was talking to imaginary friend
About thinness opaqueness fear
Sensation of heat cold anger despair
Cruelty he claimed is the language of reality
Not the barren lame poetry with vulgar
Metaphors hiding behind empty words
Cruelty was the only honest way
To open the hidden heavy doors
Into suffering human soul and heart
And talk about things that matter
Through shamanic art of reaching
Deep into the guts of true teaching
And bringing light to the dark corners
That have never been lit before
Actors dancing in overpowering way
Manikins with terrifying theatrical faces
With empty eyes staring at the audience
And drilling through their souls
Objects of strange proportions
Surfacing in a dreamy scenery
Of unrecognizable ghostly world
Of the modern stage transformed
By the means of the theater of cruelty
It is the only way to be honest
To himself Artaud claimed
And believed
He was right
He sacrificed his life
To this idea
And died lonely forgotten
On the bare floor
Next to metal bed
That stood at the door
He tried to open so hard
In a madhouse
Where magic of theater
Truly belongs
So many manikins
In the store windows
Dressed in fashion clothes
What does happen at night?
When no one is around?
I ponder this question
Do they come to life?
Walking on the floors?
Having a chit-chat
Or walk on the floors
When I am in the mall
I do ponder this scene
there are places and people in America
that are scared to death
of looking old and growing older
where a new wrinkle or two when found is a terrible scary thing
a birthday is not celebrated but filled with dread
a man fears the hairs falling from his head
laying on the pillow of his bed
changing the color of gray
to any other color to hide it away
a look in the mirror becomes a tragedy
if you appear older than twenty three
when your real age is forty three
in this place Beverly Hills, Hollywood and Newport Beach, California
where the people appear to look like plastic unreal manikins
with their skin pulled tight across their face
thinking they are the most beautiful people of the human race
hollow eyes with a pound of make-up looking back at you
their bodies are nipped and tucked
and all the fat is sucked
jelly filled plastic bags become breasts and butts
is this the future look of humanity
I recommend you grow old with grace
don’t worry so much about your face
there are places and people in America that are scared to death
of looking old and growing older
where a new wrinkle or two when found is a terrible scary thing
a birthday is not celebrated but filled with dread that you’re getting older
a man fears the hairs falling from his head lying on the pillow of his bed
changing the color of gray away
a look in the mirror becomes a tragedy if you appear older then twenty three
when your real age is forty three oh woe is me
the place is Beverly Hills, Hollywood and Newport Beach, California
where the people appear to look like plastic unreal manikins
with the skin pulled tight across their face
thinking they are the beautiful people of the human race
hollow eyes with a pound of make-up looking back at you
where their bodies are nipped and tucked
fat is vacuumed out and jelly filled plastic bags become breasts and butts
is this the future look of humanity I hope not
grow old with grace and don’t worry so much about your face
Headless manikins all in a roe
Which one will end up being the hoe?
If you could stand them out in the snow,
You would be amazed at which way they blow!
Punch them in the gut for they have no feelings.
Snatch them, pull them, bite them make them go a reeling.
For after all, they work for the U. S. A.
And we elected them our leaders and now we must pay!
And if you are fortunate enough to draw a paycheck.
Take a gander at what is taken for taxes and say, "HECK!"
This is a mild expletive compared to what we should say,
For when they're finished with it, there's not much pay!
And you may ask me, "Just what do they take?"
And I say, "Look man, HELL's BELL's" so for our sake,
Let's put them back in a roe, in the snow,
And beat them with a stake, or even a rake.
And about which one will end up being the hoe!
Just read the daily paper and watch Fox News
And by gracious, you will know!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
“Honorable Project”
`Tis all we manikins that run in this race,
And only one that receives the one prize.
But the awesome truthfulness, of this,
Often we find on this, our thinking’s amiss.
And that is__ all together we are ONE! Guys!
Behold! The Sower(P.L.) went forth to sow,
The seed being only one. God’s word!
Some seeds of one seed, fell by the wayside.
Many of wayside, sitting on wayside, cried,
This being the most glorious truth every heard.
Let’s mount up with our words, our Eagle wings,
All brothers of one feather, together.
And from milk of strife we shall all be weaned,
For of love’s word we all have the same genes,
Together, no storms, no trials, too tough to weather.
For greed hath no seed, where upon to feed,
Houses divided, remain undecided.
Therefore, sow the one seed, not of greed,
Seed upon which the wayside still do not feed.
Love’s word, the seed in which you are delighted.
For love’s seed, not of thorns or wayside greed,
The one upon which, we in the race should feed:
Will always be the one that shall exceed,
For eternal life is the one prize, we need.
For: Projects and Credits,
In Honor of: Dane Ann Smith Johnsen
Placed #8
Do I wake or dream?
Another one –
Life is a bowl of cherries.
One more –
Not with a whimper,
but with a bloody big bomb.
The house is ply-struts and particle composite.
Mum is cardboard,
but dad and my little sister are manikins,
and my older brother is a painted figure
of a younger brother’s imagination.
My dog is a real dog
chained to a bolted stake.
I wonder why my cardboard and plastic family
have a real dog?
Nevada is hot, not like my prairie house,
just a little house, like this one,
yet here I am adopted, and in the desert.
Mother is at the sink washing cherries, naturally,
Father is at the kitchen table
smoking his pipe, naturally.
Little sister is playing with dolls on the floor
melting in the heat.
Big brother is starting to singe at the corners.
The dog is listlessly sleeping.
A clock on the mantle is clacking loudly,
not telling the time but counting downwards.
Another one –
Goggles on now please.
Another one -
This is not a drill.
There’s a blinding light on the horizon.
Will I awake in time?
I miss my obliterated folks already.
Did they really sacrifice a dog
to see if an A-bomb could kill it?
Valued clients, we have listened,
and have taken on-board
your concerns and suggestions.
From now on, the display manikins will
be of a deep puce green color
so as not to marginalize
any ethnic variants.
In our book section
the last a copy of the Constitution
was taken out of the shelves and buried
(thanks gardening department).
We are now a gun-free zone,
and will be defenseless
from attacks from gun-toting maniacs.
Please bring the kids.
We hope these changes
will improve customer service
and assure you of our pledge
to keep pandering toward a ubiquitous
uniformity of puerile solutions for all.
In the jumbled backyard of mind
they arrive in dark cowls,
gather behind an inverse eye,
wait there for the eyes themselves
to flip those images over into
a word chewing anger.
Manikins move in those shadows,
tussle in a muted violent parody
of action and reaction.
There is blood, it is dark,
it is cloudy.
War begins at the eyebrows,
mittens fumble
with small caliber ammo,
deadly enough but not explosive,
claws must grapple
beyond the roar of the pulse.
Suddenly you see her
not in her fury but yours;
storms subside into summer showers,
a mock performance of Othello
exits stage left, a shamefaced cast
comically admitting the farce.
"I am a fool
and I don’t deserve you."
Breast heaving, she turns away
to repaint her emotions
for a moment hating that she
loves you,
yet knowing she has won again
another blindfolded battle.
long legs looking
lace & doily,
fit for grandma’s
china cabinet
& just as porcelainesque
in perfectly painted lips
& an inanimate gaze,
but there’s nothing of pre-sexual
purity in those long legs
looking lace.
lascivious my thoughts left
her walking by thw window,
watching my curious eyes.
she said i reminded her of her father.
he’s dead, she said.
she reminded me of me but
instead i said i was just watching
the manikins,
hoping for a cigarette.
she worked three jobs
& she said
she didn’t have enough personality
to be followed around.
she asked if i ever thought about
piercing my *****.
i have but i shook my head,
no.
a brush of my arm
and a smile asked
how I thought she’d
look in the dress
in the window.
Again I thought about piercing my *****.
She went inside with me five steps behind.
the homeless people
alive in cracks we avoid.
each displays no grace nor glory.
We turn our backs, are so annoyed.
Worn overcoats over scrim pajamas,
angled hair and leather-ed skin,
bags and bottles are their bangles,
we’ve become loveless manikins.
some have singing voices.
souls beautiful yet never heard.
some lay choice-less
all have only what we deserve.
there are angels among them
Sent to check on you and me.
watching, waiting for any kindness
To save us from what we deserve.
What do we know about the homeless people?
Sleeping in the cracks that we avoid?
Those who seem to have no grace or glory.
We turn our backs we’re so annoyed.
John K. O’Zemko
Revised 01-13-2023
02-19-2009
Can you hear the hypnotic hum of the production line?
Education Rehabilitation factories rolling out images of humans made of plastic and wood.
Minds are erased of parental guidance.
Memory banks programmed with political correctness.
Manikin, manikin
Original thought, personal passions, is like a stick of dynamite, it will splinter their heads.
They are invading our world.
Replacing our friends and family, when they go to sleep.
Don’t allow them to erase your original thought, snuff out the polite to your burning passions.
Beware of the manikins, manikins.
Written by Stephen J. Vattimo 5/4/2020
Swans row the sky
just feet above the copper water.
Gulls twist their necks to watch
a lone sailor on the prow
of a sludge-decked dredger.
On the slate thatched gambrels
of a lesser known roofs
spotters search for night bombers,
the figures have turned to stone
as do all oft repeated passages
from dog-eared scripts.
London growls under the axels
of diesel driven dreams.
A stork has visited
an attic full of discarded toys
bells ring out for new born sales.
Barges reek still, just as when
sweat was as common as dirt.
A window in Baker street
opens to let pipe smoke out,
it uncoils in the air
like a left handed genie.
Tower bridge drops upward,
to quarantine all gawkers.
Meat mongers return to their
blood-soaked cradles
before the dawns leery light.
The city is a fable,
It is aflame with tall buses
that never were the same,
yet there is sea oil seeping
from the tunnels and runnels,
where entrenched gutter snipers
lie low.
Here in the denizen dinge
the sure footed dead
avoid being seen
by the googly eyes of alien robots,
tin manikins that crab-walk
along Regents Street
barking Chinese commands
at oppressed corgis
and other less compliant drones.
On what was once Speakers Corner
hunched pavement artists
dribble into the chalky cracks
between showcased hoopla’s.
Slyly the loitering snollygosters,
lollygaggers and stumblebums,
crane their ductile necks to see
shell games in full view
even as they vanish.