those long stainless spoons
bring back memories
the noise of the chefs bringing long trays
of food we would soon be dipping into
as trays would make their way along the line
gathering the daily meal the kitchen had prepared
the last duty was the exit dispensing
the bagged lunches we had already prepared
as they made their way back into the streets
the camaraderie in the kitchen
was a daily blessing
sometimes one could hear old gospel songs
or perhaps a newer popular tune
it was a shared joy
the art of bagging baloney and cheese
the banter between volunteers and recipients
and the Thanksgiving meals of the Salvation Army
escorting them through the line, seating them
oh, I could tell you tales from the shower detail
soap, shampoo, new t-shirt, specialty products
the smiles, having removed the everyday wear of life
a chance to walk into a new life for a moment
my walk from the trolley among them gathering
waiting at the door, offers of drugs, street reality
when i must confront the cruelty of humanity
it is here i remember, the heart of Christianity
Oregon 8/3/26
Behind a pane of vintage
glass he stands,
A silent wizard from a distant
land.
With golden turban and a
paisley vest,
He wakes to life at a coin's
request.
An iron token drops into the
slot,
And gears awaken what the
workshop wrought.
His painted eyes begin to roll
and gleam,
A sudden actor in a neon
dream.
The crystal ball lights up with
shifting fire,
Responding to the circuit
board's desire.
He nods his head and waves
a mechanical hand,
Dispensing secrets from the
desert sand.
"Zoltar Speaks!" his booming
voice declares,
To startled children at the
crowded fairs.
His motorized jaw clicks
open and goes slack,
Demanding that you never
look back.
A whirring motor drops a
paper slip,
Your future written on a
cardboard strip.
The music fades, the blinking
lights grow dim,
And quiet shadows settle
back on him.
He waits alone inside his
wooden box,
A trapped magician under
glass and locks.
Behind the glass, a ticking god of brass,
Who waves a withered palm of fiberglass.
The neon crystal bleeds a bruised magenta hue,
Dispensing plastic tokens, counterfeit and true.
“Your wish is granted,” the solenoid sighs,
While servo motors calibrate his glowing eyes.
He sits in a paisley vest and a gold-wrapped head,
Proclaiming: “Be happy living, for you’re a long time dead.”
Drop in a copper, hear his jawbones creak,
The algorithm’s gospel is the truth he’ll speak.
He shuffles fifteen fortunes from a secret slot,
Telling you of money, love, and what you haven’t got.
A silicon swami in a cedar cage,
Selling sudden adulthood on a printed page.
For twenty-five cents—or a swipe of your card—
He dictates the future of a weary backyard.
But if you feed the Deluxe Cabinet every spare dime,
He loops all his blessings in a paradox of time.
A timeless automaton, forever programmed to please,
Dispensing our destinies on tear-off degrees.
I'm learning not to embrace the frantic chase.
With things that are fleeter than me.
For things that wish not to be found.
For things that yearn to weave me to the frozen ground.
I'm learning to receive, graciously.
The things that may make you bleed.
Like love surrounded by white-hot fire.
Truth encased in blue blotted briar.
Peace is always worth the harshest sacrifice.
That doesn't mean I'll no longer engage.
To be that grand, golden giver.
It doesn't mean I've become a bitter quitter.
I'm still very much in the game.
I just lost the desire to keep score.
I'll be dispensing energy and shine more frugally.
Keeping company with dreams and gentle things.
Dodging the brutes and stained-glass boars.
Things that breathe just to bite and sting.
I pray the universe invites me to sample.
Its graceful rhythm and purity.
Of that sweet-sweet final sleep.
A mirage
Reflecting another path
Showcasing another life
Man to man
A timeless wonder
Ravaging the mind
Distorting thoughts and persons
Transcending sages
Traversing phases
Life, a treacherous haven
Selling tenuous dreams
Whispering delirious melodies
Slithering into nooks and crannies
Branching far and wide
Dispensing the message
Selling the vision
She's grown old
Having norished many a soul
Leaving her imprints on a stroll
Dispensing knowledge, never to fold
Many have been sheltered from the cold
Inside her strong walls, I was once enclosed
And encouraged to be courageous and bold
Taught to read, write, and do the math,
Preparing me for life's stormy path
Her externals are aged and unsightly
Yet she stands lovingly and waves politely
Her internals portray battles for survival,
And being held together with bolts and rods,
She's very much alive and thrives
She engenders memories of sadness and joy
Reminding me of experiences when just a boy.
With a reddish tin-top roof, she sits by the road
Where she's resided for more than a century.
There are still future stories yet to be told about
The little country church in a little southern town.
In your role for binary..You on how things be, chromosomes have not lied in millenia
Gone by..Reality its still the same.' Its straight
And plain.' Just cause some(well confused)
Ideas ' pie in the mud ' make things so God
Awfully un-clear..As sod-em.' Its an abberation of duty
Ruled on by some (un-fruend) fiendish perhaps? And quite snooty.? Though whats
In a name.? Though quite german, as would have been with the nazis, such a
Moniker connotes of much un-ease, a
Benign name discription, dispensing of
Twisted jusistiction.'
The bloodshot moon merged into the dark, hazy night.
People wandered aimlessly, avoiding a fight.
A sultry bar still open, dispensing hard stuff.
Bootleggers were abundant till the game got rough.
A man sat in a corner observing the scene,
The boozers drank too much like goblins dark of mien.
The quiet man went to a phone booth and whispered,
The platoon was ready, their commands were answered.
A large police squad arrested the offenders,
All were fined, and none offered any false contenders.
Did they learn their lesson and mend their wicked ways?
Go to nearby villages and consider their days.
Of Strings and Wind
As the embers fades
There emerges a throbbing pain
The then jostling crowd
Befuddled with many words
Now swallowed in shallow graves
Ebbing expectation
Of men of words
Amused by the enticing wind
Dismay at the broken strings
Dispensing scattered rhythm
I do not seek the sandy earth
for which to hide my heart.
The ebb and flow of ocean’s tide,
with time, would steal a part.
The water would rush over it
and as a thief would do,
creep silently, with fingers clenched
back into shadows blue.
While pulling at my heart's small door
to thrust and open wide,
dispensing all the treasures there
I worked to keep inside.
The ocean’s much too wild a place
to let a heart roam free.
So, tell me if you want it, Love
Else it should stay with me.
I mustn't trust the mountains high
for keeping safe my love
in a majestic stone embrace
up in the skies above.
A heart is not a treasure kept
within cold mighty walls;
nor on some perch up in the clouds
where hearts are prone to falls.
Such heights can be so treacherous
up where the eagles soar.
Their wings could carry love away
not to return once more.
So, it is best this heart be kept
between us, where we lay.
No other place is safe enough;
the mountains or the bay.
Will you yet give me yours then, too?
I promise I shall be
the safest home, much safer than
the canyons or the sea.
"Somethings become part of our existence, never dispensing them however old or cracked they are...! May not be out of any special fondness or attachment, but simply so, defying all rationale."- By Poet
The syllable count-10, 7, 7, 10 is followed in all the three limericks.
I owned my house many many years back.
Changed my furniture, even kitchen rack.
But there is a rusted sink. 10,
It is tilted at the brink
Fear if it will come off the hinge and crack
Now my sink looks a worn out contraption.
My wife's upset, has a hot reaction.
All its former glamor, gone.
In my wife's eyes, it's a thorn.
Still hold it to my strange satisfaction!
Though a washbasin, looks a urinal.
Water keeps flowing as through a canal.
In lower pipe, there's a kink.
Anytime my sink may sink.
Why I keep it, I have no rationale!
Asceticism and realism were embraced in baptism.
The era of waiting is gone. Emmanuel exists.
The spirit in him fluttered into doves of optimism.
Mercies fell amidst musing humanity like mild mists.
The graces with which he descended from the highest heavens
Radiated like a thousand moons. People stood perplexed.
The sun rose from all directions, against solar sessions.
Philosophies and theologies have become complexed
Does a ruby, sapphire, or topaz need a fire test?
Does the one who's born without sin need baptismal cleansing?
Designs, yet devised by destiny, need to be re-dressed.
Doesn't all disciplinary decay need dispensing?
He's the one who comes to take away the sins of the world.
By his ransom, the freedom of creatures will be unfurled.
The vending machine, though filled to the brim
now stands with a sign, my joy growing dim
out of order it reads, my heart does break
my cravings increase, my tummy it aches
The machine that once brought me such delight
Now brings forth frustration and wicked spite
The products it holds are now out of reach
Leaving me feeling sad, empty, and weak
The coins I spent before seeing the sign
Money I wasted, my wallet does pine
Cruel vending machine, I think I may cry
From the hunger and thirst, surely I’ll die
But still, I have hope in my shattered heart
In the future when this machine will start
Dispensing the treats that I love to eat
Look— a working machine I’ve yet to meet!
*I wrote this poem on January 26, 2024, as part of a ’30 days of poetry’ January challenge. This was day 26 and the prompt was: Write about your feelings when there is an out-of-order sign on a vending machine.
Who adjourns me
in this backlight story
Who will call the wolf
to dance in her captivity ?
Willow wisp dispensing hollowness
espied on fields of grey
The World's a stage
disembark at your own peril
Pontificate
your ardour
anoints us well
The television reveals
young people on a sandy beach
they are drinking in a sunset
and being beautiful.
It’s a lobster commercia
but we are not told that
until the lobster starts speaking.
We have made the young
as dumb as we were,
but they are catching on fast.
It’s impossible to regret anything
when the very ground under our feet
is begging for more fables.
Until the world is healed of our reality
we will carry on
dispensing sweet, sweet nothings.
We must be seen as fully clothed,
able to function on the old fictions
until we pass away
into our own story books.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.