The jingle-jangle of coins in the cash register
and the ringing of the bell
The click-clack of the Smith-Corona*
and the ringing of the bell
The raw power and whistled shriek of the locomotive
and the ringing of the bell
The ringing bell of the telephone call
schools now use a buzzer – not a bell
Is it a better world today without these forgotten sounds
~ and without the ringing of the bell
_____________________________________________________________
*An obsolete upright, manual typewriter. (Sniff, sniff).
There was a long queue at the pharmacy.
It was not easy to wait in the summer heat.
The air conditioner could not cope enough.
The three young and comely chemists were efficient,
Still there were so many people waiting.
But I needed the medication, blast it.
Under the soft hum of fluorescent light,
the drugstore was too full.
The air smelt faintly of disinfectant,
Too clean for comfort.
Still the chemists worked hard and smiled.
Behind the counter,
Bottles and packets were chosen and packed.
The bells of the cash register chimed fast.
Sick people were served, some with an occasional cough.
Change was given, cards were swiped.
Finally, my turn arrived. I grimmed.
“Get me some arsenic. I’m tired of waiting.”
With a laugh, my friendly chemist
Handed me some pain killers.
“Have a nice day, my dear friend.”
I smiled, stuck my tongue out and dared the summer heat.
busy coffee shop
poor Chings fingers chiming
on cash register
Ceclia prepares
hot and cold beverages
my favorite girls
;A mother and daughter team at my favorite coffee shop called Northstar coffee station in Piqua Ohio+
A throat tickling ambience
of chili garlic,
Mung Bean paste
and bottles of oyster sauce.
Clumsily, I knock over a glass jar
of curry powder.
A choking mushroom cloud
erupts.
The lady at the cash register
watches me jump backwards
flapping at the spicy miasma.
She is sixteen going on fifty.
Her disgusted frown speaks volumes.
I apologize, offer to pay -
eyes burning.
What I want now is a cheeseburger,
very mild cheddar,
definitely no mustard,
no sesame seeds, pickles
or onions.
Broken Promises are the labour pains
that birth the words “I’m Sorry”.
Good intentions don’t ring the cash register.
Nor do they heal the wounds
that sutures have only temporarily closed.
Fluorescent lights hummed
a monotone drone,
In the background,
the resonant chimes and dings
of the cash register sing.
A lone moth fluttered
past my empty dome
Light, purposeless,
similar to myself.
Glassy eyes wandered back,
staring deep into the infinite
assembly line I could not help
but lose myself in.
Neon nectars beckoned me
like a sugary siren,
I was a drunken sailor
to their decadent call.
I lost and found myself,
aisle after aisle
Until a warmth, a glow,
near divine, graced me.
A fresh soft pretzel
beckoned me to my very soul,
Golden yeast skin
cheddar cheese veins,
The savior I needed
to feel at ease again.
The wooden floor wore
decades of dust.
Near the doorway
brooms grew out of a fire bucket
and bloomed in an odd
array of heads. A pile of coir mats
lay stacked in a wheelbarrow,
all chorused in a WELCOME.
Bernie's store was a haphazard
sprawl of hardware stuff
and followed no order at least
by any stretch of logic.
Hammers were paired
with paint, boxes of nails
mixed company with hinges
and fittings for copper pipes. And yet,
Bernie had every item carefully
mapped in his head.
Ask for something
and he would take you
straight to the spot.
It had the air of a serious place,
almost like a church. Tools were
the blessed instruments
of a sacred order, treated with care
and reverence. Back then
power tools were just coming in
but none contaminated
the sanctified air of Bernie's
hardware store.
On the back wall,
above the garden tools,
hung a plain wooden crucifix
beside a picture of Bernie's
late wife. From her lofty height
she seemed to look down
with an approving smile every time
the cash register rang,
accompanied by a “thanks”.
I dream of a place
Where difference will come
And gather what is needed
Regardless of what's been done
There'll be fruits, vegetables
Legumes and grains
Cleaning products, necessities
And the sacred offering each will bring
....to the altar
No cash register will be seen
Because there'll be no pockets to line
Under the government of LOVE
Everything yielded, belongs to the DIVINE
....CREATOR
There will be no theft...possible
For taking has its price
The consumed product
Will reveal the sacrifice
Patience is the golden key
We will watch lives transform
The value of difference
Will become the norm
...AFTER the GREAT STORM
Written by Trudy Schrader on 06-09-2023
Rusty cans and unknown skeletons
Once useful in structure and convenience
Now sculpture the red clay and pine knots
Of the hidden gateway to the backwoods
My memory loses the battle
With a toy cash register whose numbers
Still shine black on white and flash higher
As they display, and the bells jingle
Tires and more tires carry worn treads
With water greasy from time and nature’s
Slow and steady return to her own way
Sloshing willingly into my shoes
Mats of old shingles once weathering
Storms and sunshine now lie quietly
Clinging to one another like lost children
Cowering in their barren vacuum of loneliness
Old men with tales of battles
And stories of crops, and cattle, and kings
Probably sat in that old chair
With whittled arms and broken legs
Sporadic visits teach a wondering history
More mystical and convincing
Than the fact-riddled pages of tomorrow’s assignment
Or the tainted explanations of our teachers
Blatant ignorance is blissfully putrid
Like a decaying rodent inside a wall with maggots spewing out of a crack perfectly placed directly next to the cash register at Godfathers Pizza lol
Excessively happy spraying an aerosol can of bug spray into a tiny place where you’ve wanted to live for far too long
While shoving change back into smiling customers hands
Showing up thirty minutes early to your shift to roll a blunt, but only to call in 25 minutes later and explain why you’re going to be a little bit late
My life has been toxic since the day I smelled my death at the age of 15
I'm sure that's where I came to terms with my mortality
More like the stage of awkward boners and f*cking teen spirit
A throat tickling ambience
of chili garlic sauce
settles over rows of Mung Bean paste
and bottles of oyster sauce.
Then clumsily
I knock over and break a glass jar
of hot curry powder.
The lady at the cash register
watches me jump backwards
flapping at the spicy miasma.
She is sixteen going on fifty.
Her disdainful frown speaks volumes.
I sneeze, and inwardly apologize
to a pantheon of Chinese Gods
for my sudden and wistful desire
for a White Castle slider.
Sarah Shopper!
Coupon please budget-y listen
and bankruptcy understand
That ATM Terminator is out there —
It can’t be mall bargained with,
nor consumer reasoned with
An Automated Teller Machine
doesn’t feel purse pity,
or cancelled check remorse
Or insolvency fear
And it absolutely
will not cash register stop,
checkout ever!
Until you are empty pocket dead
It was four in the morning
when he entered the 7-Eleven
and pointed at the cash register.
A middle-aged woman
hands over a pile of dollars.
He tells her: “My name is Jesus – follow me.”
She checks her makeup.
He waits patiently for her in the parking lot.
They drive away in a beat-up truck
hauling gardening tools.
You have to know where you've been to ignore where you're not going.
I can't figure out if I'm guy 3 or 4 in all these poems.
I know they knew.
The Taxi driver you met today knew.
The guy at the cash register.
You're in there, somewhere.
If we'd of had these last few months I would have yelled at you.
During that crisis, waiting for you to say what I needed to hear.
During that bad day when I needed that reassurance.
During that post sex period where you want to give me a thumbs up but can't because you think that's weird but it's not.
Where would you be when a cuddle isn't enough?
What would you say when my parents die?
What would you say if our child dies?
What would you say to me as I was dying?
You get one chance to say the right thing.
Saying the wrong thing is better than saying nothing.
Sitting in there with all that pain behind your eyes.
Dispensing IOU's of emotion.
You're not incapable, which makes me so mad.
Mad FOR you, not at you.
Whoever made you feel like you weren't enough was dead wrong.
You are Sisyphus trying to stop the boulder from rolling downhill.
Your sentiments are 2D, Flat, Arial.
Nothing I can touch.
Capitol Hill lawmakers
busy be sound byte spinning
Graft siphon those sawbuck bills,
so succubus sly
Cheshire cat revenue takers,
queeny crooked smile grinning
Wink the incubus eye,
and nod about
how much cheddar they gon steal
Fat cats sitting on a lounge relax
in their dark backrooms,
blowing cigar smoke rings
Marking the Treasury tax map
with grifter circles
Them Cheshire cat one tracks
love
puffing out the zeros
C2 O mirror and smoke
Disappearing cash,
tip-toeing up
the pocket chimney it goes
C2 O ash-tinted windows
Cheshire cats
ogling claws
greedily scratching fo’ mo’
C2 O taxpayer choke hold
Got a crooked, grinning clasp ...
Grifter greedy green paw grasp,
ain’t never gon smiley let go
C2 O mirror and smoke
Cheshire cat one tracks
love puffing out the zeros
C2 O ash-tinted windows
Every tax loophole ... open cash register,
they don’t ever shut close
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