Best Studio Apartment Poems
To see him - just to see him -the impetus of my desire.
To gaze upon the long gold silken locks
that adorn his pefectly shaped head!
Transfixed, I watch his elegantly slender body
moving lusciously on his dance floor,
his arm around the waspy waist of his current woman.
With vicarious pleasure, I see myself as her,
imagining the feel of his hands along my hips
as we sway to the music’s sensuous rhythm.
Oh, to be so close as to breathe the scent of his cologne,
and as the music slows . . .to savor that moment
as he presses his cheek next to mine.
How I would exult in being that woman he is holding In his arms.
He sees me, but he looks right through me,
for I am but the lowly employee of a catering company.
The chasm between me and him is as large as an ocean.
I imagine he sees me as a lowly gull
hovering on the horizon of his vision
amidst the other lowly seagulls who like me,
go back to their small houses
feeling like scavengers after their night of service,
taking with them the leftover food he gives away to us.
I leave the opulence of his mansion, returning to my studio apartment,
knowing my revelry remains a mockery.
*Forgetting the line limit, I had removed a few lines, one containing the word "opulence" so now the word has been placed back into the poem.
Aug. 31, 2018 for John Hamilton's Eight Word Challenge-8 Poetry Contest
Words that were to be used: 1. Silken 2. Chasm 3. Exult 4. Adorn 5. Impetus 6. Mockery 7. Opulence 8. Vicarious
She was big-boned. Her spirit
a fine-spun sprouting of prairie brome
threaded through moss and engine block.
Her home was a pine and beatboard camp
for wayward cats.
She would discourse from her tangled porch
where poems grew in small pots
muddled with Ramen noodle and Maui Wowie.
Her life often vacationed to a studio apartment
on the east bank of her right eye.
She wrote on the back of her mouth
with cigarette smoke.
Her poems were the rain-filled footprints,
of Jack Kerouac.
She had pronouns before and after her name.
She wore a local fame, made legendary
by the gaps in her thoughts,
thoughts she shrewdly refused to fill in.
Froth
by Odin Roark
Come
Be my operator
Me your camera
Medium shot
Lower Manhattan sidewalk café
He in Armani suit accented with Ferragamo tie
She with Jimmy Choo and Prada outfit
Both with Latté and croissant
Low angle
Bottom of refuse chute
Zooming up through food trash
Hurtling downward
Tortillas
Rice
Chinese vegetables
Big Mac wrappers
Wide angle
Textile floor
Sewing machines
Steam pressers
Dark skin
Yellow skin
Back to back
Fans whirling
Sweat flying
Finishing food break
Quickly down the chute
Garbage
Traveling
Into subway car
Dark skin
Yellow skin
Heads bowed
Exhaustion at end
Night
Manhattan
Armani and Prada
Dancing
Drinking
Rolled $100 bill snorts
Night
Bronx
Yellow skin
Dark skin
Fire escape mattress
Bathtub mattresses
Wall to wall
Families on straw mats
Domestic fights next door
Depriving sleep
Night
52 floors up
Skyline view
Moonlit bedroom alight
Prada with Eye mask
Armani with face scrub plaster
Seashore CD lulling sleep
Wide
Night shift
Congressional mailroom
Rows of paper-shredders
Reams of documents
Header – “Minimum Wage Proposal”
Pages upon pages
Shredding into recycle bins
Low angle
Nightstand projection clock
Ceiling lit up with 4 AM
TV comes on
BBC morning stock report
Armani raises head from pillow
Puts on glasses
Stares at TV screen
Removes glasses
Manually turns off TV
Spoons Prada
Sunrise
Bronx studio apartment
Chinese family lines up
One bathroom
15 readying their day
Wide
Textile floor
Steam building up
Hundreds of idle sewing machines
Prepared
Close shot
Espresso foam machine
Latte cups waiting
Froth filling the frame
“I’m reading your poems, Mama”
She wrote while we were chatting online today
I was thrilled
What could give me more joy
Than to have my 19 year old
My only child, the light of my life
Read my work?
Then she typed…….
“I read it, Mama
The poem you wrote about Daddy,
‘He comes looking for me’
It’s so pretty, Mama….I cried”
A warm feeling came over me
Joy…..
Yes, joy!!!
Joy that my words had moved Shereen
Or...or was it because she loved her daddy so much?
“He didn't blink an eyelid when I told him,” I grumbled.
“I know, Mama!
He isn't emotional
Be patient with him, be patient.”
I smiled
How she loved and defended him
He had just returned from Cyprus
Where he had spent several days with her
I could not go
My teaching schedule always clashing
With our plans to be together as a family
Not emotional?
If she could only understand
He had cried on his way to the airport
My husband...
The man who never cries
Who doesn't show his feelings…
He cried remembering their goodbye
After having given her a last hug
Right outside her small rented flat
He was surprised to find her on the street
She had rushed down after him
And there she was
Flagging down
The borrowed car he was driving
Waiting…wanting
One more hug from Daddy
The big college girl
Living away from home
In her own little studio apartment
There she was
Standing in the cold
Wanting yet one more hug....
From her daddy
He cried
She cried
How she loves him
This man whose genes
Seem to have dominated over mine
In creating this living beauty...
Her curly hair
Her complexion
Her height
Her beautiful shapely body
It seems that she got everything from him
But wait…..then again
She got my heart
My love of music
My depth of emotions
The luxuriant thickness of her hair
YES! I MUST and WILL take credit for that
She inherited my love for writing
She already has a poem published
My little girl
My 19 year old baby
Who reads my work
And sheds tears
She is my living breathing poem
The best of who I am
And what I have to offer
The best of my love
My greatest accomplishment
My daughter….
Shereen Natalie Ghali
My legacy to the world
Eileen Manassian Ghali
PS......if you want an idea of Shereen's writing ability, then look up the poem she wrote for me on my birthday...It's entitled...The Month of May- My Daughter's Tribute.
I just finished reading a new book
Which peers deep into human brains,
Methodically examining each sex
To see what is and isn’t the same,
And while men and women are much alike,
I was fascinated by the difference,
And how this could affect our world-views,
For example, I’m going to begin—
Sexist. Sexist! SEXIST!!!
You’re a sexist. Sexist! SEXIST!!!
But I’m talking about medical sci—
SEXIST!!!
Okay…so the other day I saw a report
About how hormones affect the mind,
Comparing estrogen and testosterone,
And both their effects over time.
Now we’ve known from the beginning
That these two do different things,
But it’s amazing looking at brains
To see their influence on thinking—
Sexist. Sexist! SEXIST!!!
You’re a sexist. Sexist! SEXIST!!!
But this stuff is well known. Ask anyone who’s had gender reassign—
SEXIST!!!
Fine…so the other night on cable
There was this great documentary,
About hold cold, ice age conditions
Changed and shaped our bodies.
Hey had a fascinating discussion
About how the musculature of males
Played a big role in mate selection,
And the food that was avail—
Sexist. Sexist! SEXIST!!!
You’re a sexist. Sexist! SEXIST!!!
Oh, shut the hell up you shrill, whining harpies! Reality doesn’t care about your god-damn chants and propaganda. We’re like any other sexually dimorphic species, so use you damn reason for once and stop screaming like petulant children!
(Stunned silence)
Uhm, so, like…would you wanna maybe go do something later?
(More stunned silence)
Unbelievable…
What? We can go back to my place. I’ll put the cats in their cages and we’ll have the whole studio apartment to ourselv—
(Sound of running)
Hey?! Come back! SEXIST!!!
He stole a gun today,
a telescopic rifle made for hunting.
From a sixth floor window overlooking Main
he thinks, 'how cool!' that the 'scope brings
the people on the street so close and focused.
He spends all day breaking down
the gun and re-assembling it,
polishing each part until it gleams.
He fits the telescope,
lifts the weapon to his shoulder
for just another look.
He'll bide his time until it's rush hour.
The streets will be teeming with people
making that last minute dash to get
last minute presents for Christmas.
The time has come, his palms are moist.
In the cross-hairs a Salvation Army captain,
a pregnant woman on a cell phone,
an old man struggling with his walker,
and children, lots of children.
A half-hour passes.
he slowly lowers the rifle
and puts it back into its case.
A half-hour passes
and he stumbles down the stairwell
to the street, his mind confused and torn.
Crossing a bridge he stops
to hurl the case into the river.
He wanders slowly home
to his studio apartment,
his haven of forgetfulness,
his pressed and perfect Ranger uniform
and wonders why he just cannot stop crying.
It snowed in Baghdad yesterday;
The Whales will have to find
Somewhere else to go;
The Islands are SOLD OUT.
The traffic in the sky
Is going to get worse;
As the Earth floods again,
The Lost City of New Orleans comes to mind.
Noah looked out his window,
And it was unseasonably warm,
Not a cloud in the sky.
He decided to go fishing,
But when he got to the ocean
They told him it was CLOSED for renovations.
The gods looked up from
Their studio apartment in the ghetto.
"He doesn't realize the flood
Will come from below,"
One of them says, which is not important.
“The land named by RED which was inappropriately christened
For one thing it is not, GREEN
Is the stage it will take place on.”
"The people want to know WHEN?" the God of Traffic asks.
"Tell them, sooner than you think,"
Says the God of Money,
Who knows death is imminent.
The Almighty Dollar goes home,
And takes a bath with a bread maker,
As Noah tries to resurrect
A miniature version of his ark inside a bottle of ABSOLUT.
By: Joseph DeMarco
He took down his gun today,
a telescopic rifle made for hunting.
From high atop the rise the people down below
appear so close and focused through the 'scope.
He spends all day breaking down the gun
and re-assembling it,
polishing each part until it gleams.
He fits the telescope,
lifts the weapon to his shoulder for just another look.
He'll bide his time...
The time has come, his palms are moist.
In the cross-hairs there are children,
lots of children dressed in Santa suits.
Where are the men with rifles on their backs?
...the men he was expecting?
A half-hour passes. He slowly lowers the rifle
and puts it back into its case.
Another half-hour passes
and he stumbles down the stairwell
to the street, his mind confused and torn.
Crossing a bridge he stops
to hurl the case into the river.
He wanders slowly home
to his studio apartment,
his haven of forgetfulness,
his pressed and perfect Ranger uniform,
and wonders why he just cannot stop crying.
He took down his gun today...
He grabbed his gun today,
a telescopic rifle made for hunting.
From a sixth floor window overlooking Main
the telescope brings the rebels on the street
so close and focused.
He spends all day breaking down
the gun and re-assembling it,
polishing each part until it gleams.
He fits the telescope,
lifts the weapon to his shoulder
for just another look.
Why won't the noises stop? Explosions,
and the burning of cordite in his nose and eyes
ingrained into his memory.
He'll bide his time until it's rush hour.
The streets will be teeming with rebels then.
The time has come, his palms are moist,
the images are changing.
In the cross-hairs a Salvation Army captain,
a pregnant woman on a cell phone,
an old man struggling with his walker,
and children, lots of children.
there are no insurgents here.
A half-hour passes.
He slowly lowers the rifle
and puts it back into its case.
Another hour passes
and he stumbles down the stairwell
to the street, his mind confused and torn.
Crossing a bridge he stops
to hurl the case into the river.
He wanders slowly home
to his studio apartment,
his haven of forgetfulness,
his pressed and perfect Ranger uniform,
and wonders why he just cannot stop crying.
He tossed his gun today, and begged for help.
Darkness beneath,
The torn and tattered sheets
You lie awake,
And feel the walls shake
As again this year,
Christmas ends in tears
And with all the gifts,
Your life just shifts
Cuz Dad's job kills,
And Mommy can't pay the bills
So you just lay and weap
Cuz you just can't sleep
But you swear,
You'll one day make it out of there.
She loved her forty-two year old boy, so completely,
He was her obedient little guy,
His actions never made her sigh or cry.
She was glad to fold his laundry ever so neatly.
The arrangement was not one hundred percent sweetly,
As his dad was not totally on board.
Tried to move junior out, on his own accord.
To a studio apartment over in Wheatley.
Mama thought she could keep her baby rather neatly,
But he ran off with a bossy looking dame.
Who was soon wearing the family’s good name.
Now they’re living with Mom, in her basement, discreetly.
He stole a gun today,
a telescopic rifle made for hunting.
From a sixth floor window overlooking Main
he thinks, 'how cool!' that the 'scope brings
the people on the street so close and focused.
He spends all day breaking down
the gun and re-assembling it,
polishing each part until it gleams.
He fits the telescope,
lifts the weapon to his shoulder
for just another look.
He'll bide his time until it's rush hour.
The streets will be teeming with people
making that last minute dash to get
last minute presents for Christmas.
The time has come, his palms are moist.
In the cross-hairs a Salvation Army captain,
a pregnant woman on a cell phone,
an old man struggling with his walker,
and children, lots of children.
A half-hour passes.
he slowly lowers the rifle
and puts it back into its case.
A half-hour passes
and he stumbles down the stairwell
to the street, his mind confused and torn.
Crossing a bridge he stops
to hurl the case into the river.
He wanders slowly home
to his studio apartment,
his haven of forgetfulness,
his pressed and perfect Ranger uniform
and wonders why he just cannot stop crying.
He stole a gun today...
On the summer of 1996, I came out of the bathroom,
frozen and scared, but deep inside I knew that I was the happiest person in this very room.
I walked to my husband and back-hugged him tightly,
he kissed my arm and asked what was wrong hesitantly.
"Baby, what if I told you that we have to move out from our studio apartment?"
"What?" He at once looked at me, throwing down the piece of parchments in his hand.
I nodded as tears flowed down my eyes,
his face turned into a perplexed surprise.
"A-are you?" He held my shoulders tight,
Our life was illuminated by the bright moonlight.
"Yes, hon...it's the best day of my life!"
He kissed me deeply as if once more I was his bride.
We didn't expect anything, nor did we care,
But God answered our prayer, that was very rare.
7/28/2018
Around the corner
from where I live alone,
in an unfurnished studio apartment,
there’s a shabby restaurant where
I often sit nursing a cup of coffee.
I asked Life one day, “Why me?”
Sitting across from her and
looking directly into her eyes,
“Why did you come to be with me?
I never wanted this. Now I’m distraught,
You have given me nothing but
heart-ache and pain,
broken dreams and empty promises.”
“I was a contented spirit,
Roaming the realms of the heavens
immortal and eternal;
But now, thanks to you, I am
besieged with mortal maladies and
haunted by your old nemesis, death!”
~Contest: Chapter 1 Poetry Narrative
~Sponsor: Matt Caliri.
He stole a gun last night,
a telescopic rifle made for hunting.
From a sixth floor window overlooking Main
he thinks, 'how cool!' that the 'scope brings
the people on the street so close and focused.
He spends all day breaking down the gun
and re-assembling it,
polishing each part until it gleams.
He fits the telescope,
lifts the weapon to his shoulder
for just another look.
He'll bide his time until it's rush hour.
The streets will be teeming with people
making that last minute dash to get
last minute presents for Christmas.
The time has come, his palms are moist.
In the cross-hairs a Salvation Army captain,
a pregnant woman on a cell phone,
an old man struggling with his walker,
and children, lots of children.
A half-hour passes.
He slowly lowers the rifle
and puts it back into its case.
Another half-hour passes
and he stumbles down the stairwell
to the street, his mind confused and torn.
Crossing a bridge he stops
to hurl the case into the river.
He wanders slowly home
to his studio apartment,
his haven of forgetfulness,
his pressed and perfect Ranger uniform,
and wonders why he just cannot stop crying.
He stole a gun last night...