Long Conveyor Poems
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We’re rightfully concerned
It seems to be a dark dubious world we’re bringing you into
Threatening and not so promising
How long can we shelter you from it all
You’re tiny not even able to crawl
A babe not yet in school~ fastforwarding ten years
Can’t even imagine the so-called progress
As it is, it’s hard to keep up
Everyone’s on a technology conveyor belt
Though a clever trompe l’oeil
We see veneer attempts to shrink
That gap between the have’s and the have not’s
Thank God we’re only grand-parents
Maybe age, fatigue or nostalgia gets the better of us
We seem to have lucked out growing up in the hippies era
Sure it had its problems but it certainly was amazing
Everywhere mostly peace and love they were the golden years
Thinking back~ seems obvious that the magic element is
Youth, innocence and naiveté
AP: 1st place 2020
MUSING AT THE LIBRARY
Curmudgeon staring me down, what do you think betwixt those eyes? I dare to stare back this time. “Are you having a good day, sir.” “No!” he says back just as fast. But perhaps I laugh with a mischievous twinkle in my eye, perhaps sir, just a scintilla bit better.
She stares at me unknowingly cutting in line, ready to speak, then doubles back for someone was before her. She shuffles to the next counter with her stack and opens her jaw, “Are youuu Jewish? Because you look Jewish…” and I just stare back at this odd woman, rude woman, what is she jabbering about. I’m befuddled.
Supergeek, and I say this lovingly, gives me the lowdown on everything humanly possible about the comic book world. Even the color coding of heroes and villains.
“Oh, I’ve got something special for you to do,” she rubs her hands together before I can rub the sand out of my eyes. Oh, boy!
And there’s the “Do you remember me?” and just like a book with outline, the colors come back to me. I erase the red hair and make it gray and I wrinkle up the paper. Oh yes, I remember you!
In the sorting room, I put my feelings on the conveyor belt. They fall into a variety of bins...adult, child, ones I leave behind, those headed outside and those to shelve.
10/12/2018
Each poem I birth
Is a child of my heart
Flesh of my flesh
Bone of my bone
Word of my soul
Conveyor of my emotions
Each one is unique
Different….
One is always happy
And sees the bright side of life
The eternal optimist
With not a care in the world
With a song on her lips
She traipses about and everywhere she goes
Flowers bloom
And the sun peeks out
To welcome her
The other is intimately acquainted
With her mother’s world
Of suffocating despair
She sees the tear behind the smile
The insecurity behind the laugh
Her loneliness
This child of my is consumed by worry
That Mama may go through with it this time
And no longer be there to love her
She quietly watches
Her daily fight for survival
For escape
From the demons that haunt her life
And so…she bears her sorrow
Trying to be strong for MAMA
Her tears she hides as she cries in the closet
Knowing its Mama’s tears in her eyes
And Mama’s pain in her heart
I love this child of mine, for she sees what no one else sees
One of my children was conceived in frenzied passion
And she is its embodiment
She devours life
Her passion relishes
Life
Love
Nature
Friends
She is intense to the point of insanity
Those who know her are electrified by her presence
For she is….
Always endearing
Always charming
Always in love
Always flirting...teasing...pleasing
Always passionate….to the point of losing herself
In the moment
My little one….ah, my little one is a romantic dreamer
Her eyes never focus on the here and now
She perches on the windowsill
Seeing her castle in the distance
Waiting for her knight in shining army
To sweep her away on his gallant steed
With flowing mane
And thundering hoofs
Matching the thundering beat of her heart
She waits to be whisked to
A forever land of dreams
Of flowers and sunshine
Of birds chirping by streams
And love better than in the world she’s seen
Oh, but my eldest
How my heart bleeds
For my child of wrath
Born of my affair with Zeus
Sending out thunderbolts
Livid by injustice
Seething with anger
At all that is inhumane
Welding his sword
Eager for revenge
For retribution
I fear for this my child
Who often is about to draw blood
In mortal combat with the enemy
Ever at the point of death...
(End of Part I)
Eileen Manassian Ghali
In my life of sixty-five years, I kept a few secrets, some I still do today. There is one secret that I've held onto for the longest time. Keeping my silence was easy because it was one that I withheld from my dear mother for so many years. You see, my parents raised me and my six other siblings in a small three-bedroom house in a community that was built for WW2 soldiers and vets. My father worked at General Motors when he got back from the war, while my mother stayed home tending to all of us rascals and getting us off to school. At night, when dad came home, mother would go to work as a waitress at the local diner. As you can probably imagine, it was a struggle for them financially just to keep up with the mortgage and the rest of the bills constantly. One day, while my dad was working on the assembly line, he accidentally got his sleeve caught in one of the conveyor belts, and it sucked his arm into it, breaking his arm in several places. It was terrible timing because at the time it happened, the mortgage was almost due, and his checks covered most of the payment. My father enjoyed working with his hands a lot, and with that being said on the weekends or in his spare time, he would make things out of wood and sell them at the local so-called flea market in our hometown. He made chairs, benches, figurines, baseball bats, and many other knick-knacks and other whatchamacallits. But on top of breaking his arm, two weeks later, he fell ill and ended up with pneumonia, so he was out of commission for a few weeks. Mother worked double shifts just to try to make ends meet, but that just didn't cut it. I was twelve years young at the time, and I contributed some of my newspaper route earnings to help. My two older siblings contributed some, too, but that still didn't make the grade. On the weekends, I secretly took some of my dad's objects that he made and sold them to my friends and their parents for pennies (sort of speak). Somehow, with everyone adding to the pot, we were able to pay the bills until my dad was back on his feet. When mom fell ill some twenty years later, I told her about my little secret. She held my hand in hers and with tears in her eyes, she said to me- "Now I will tell you a secret," and with her meek soft voice she quietly whispered..."We knew you did, son."
keeping tradition
the apple fell from the tree
secrets unfolded
"Just get your titles, stick to study, son,"
she used to say, "no matter what it takes."
She saw me as the family's Chosen One,
escaping that conveyor-belt of cakes.
When I got home, she'd be already gone
("If only for your future children's sakes!")
the hairnet and the overalls to don,
to start the night shift, down at Bettabakes.
The belt would grind and drone (it never stopped),
conveying cupcakes, candy caramel,
vanilla-flavored, sugared, cherry-topped,
towards Goods Outward's gaping mouth of hell.
This sluggish river she'd have gladly swapped
for Acheron or Lethe, switched the smell
of almond paste for brimstone (could she opt
for somewhere far less tedious to dwell).
And me? I got degrees, up to my ears,
steered clear of Bettabakes, at least. Became
a lawyer and a teacher, one who steers
the kayak of his soul down much the same
dull river as his mother, but my weirs
are bigger. "National", you name the game?
"American"? It's baseball. Many beers
ago, I ceased to think in terms of fame
or fortune. Work's just work, and must be borne.
From graduation to the grinning grave
it sweeps us, slowly, down a valley worn
by those conveyed before us. Each new wave
of fancy fudges sets out, feeling scorn
for docile drudges, but winds up enslaved.
Our only way is onward, just like pawns,
towards Goods Outward's yawning architrave.
As counsel for defense I saw them pass.
It mattered little if they roared, or knelt
in supplication. Since all flesh is grass,
we have no choice. We play the hand we're dealt.
And now I watch each earnest, eager class
of youngsters, see their fine illusions melt:
they merge into one nameless toiling mass,
conveyed towards oblivion by The Belt.
I carry within me a vast void, hidden deep in the realms of my soul,
That remains silent on busy days, when thoughts travel far and wide,
An abandoned space, once inhabited by ancient gods,
Whose ghosts danced in the flickering light of an ancestral cave,
A residual cavity left in the evolution of the mind,
Yet ever-present, a constant signal in every shiver of my being.
I try to fill this void with all sorts of dreams and realities,
An endless stream of goods gliding on conveyor belts,
Fictions baked in the ovens of the human mind, each illusion offering
Temporary satisfaction, but all eventually evaporate,
Swallowed by this abyss that remains ever unsatisfied,
An invisible wound that conceals the need for something deeper.
There is still an empty space I carry with me, impossible to fill,
Resting at the center of the human destiny, a persistent need to be cultivated
And cherished in my deepest silence.
It is the only thing that draws me towards the immaterial gravity
Of an unknown God or towards total nothingness, a mystical field
Of force persisting beyond logic and reason.
In the twilight of my soul, shadows and lights intertwine
In an ethereal dance, each movement a living metaphor,
Thoughts slipping through ancient spaces, seeking to uncover
Deep meanings and unknown truths, tied to immortal shadows
That shape my most hidden dreams and fears,
A flow of consciousness that runs infinitely, sought by the heart.
This void remains, an integral part of my being,
An unyielding space, filled with the endless desire to understand
And to connect in a vast and mysterious universe,
In the hope that perhaps one day, the inner light will shatter
All shadows, bringing complete meaning and eternal peace
To this persistent void, a promise of a fulfilled soul.
I see you for everything you are
What are you?
A poet?...a poet
Define poet for me
Are you a poet if you write many words
Are you a poet if you put many ideas in writing
Are you a poet if you think many thoughts
Are you a poet if you simply write blah blah blah over and over again
Who defines me as person if I cannot define myself
I am a poet
Good or bad
Worthy or unworthy
I am still a writer of words
a conveyor of thought
I dance with words and they with me
I love words
and words ...Oh blessed!
love me
But
There is a greater cause!
...so pause
To be a poet
To touch the intrinsic chord
Stir the cosmic soup
Be the pebble chucked into the pond
One ripple...one glint
as light off the water
to lift or companion
to patron
to hold
A chalace...the golden cup
to be the Holy grail
Chosen
from which a soul may take a sip
Forever blessed
As one if only for a fleeting moment
Not alone
Why do politicians lie
And our wallets deftly pry,
Puff and bluster all the time
Their intent to cheat sublime.
Are we dumb or just naive
Of that talent to deceive,
Smiles aplenty to go round
While broken promises abound.
Why venerate them so
And not tell them where to go,
Pay good money after bad
The whole thing is rather sad.
When we put them to the test
They begin their quest with zest,
But time passes all too fast
Their resolve's not there to last.
We vote them out and start again
And get another just the same,
This conveyor belt of life
Sure to bring us yet more strife.
What solution may we ask
To complete this ingrate task,
Maybe ply them all with drink
Hoping this will help them think.
As to us, let's tune them out
Find a corner where to shout,
Release the loathing and emotion,
Survive the show and the commotion.
Let's be real and rather blunt
Lest our message we might stump,
There is another old profession
That earns its money by the session.
We might as well embrace the ride
Taking bumps full in our stride,
For if we blot out all the noise
They become mere soulless voids.
Seven medications and I can spell none of them.
I have thrown sleeping pills and pain reliever into the fray.
For the morphine was not cutting it.
I was in dire pain. Then I took a baking soda bath.
Pure heaven, that bath. Instant relief.
Joe ran out and bought all the baking soda the store had.
He had to rent a truck to bring it in. He is crazy like that
When a loved one like me is as sick as I am.
The truck broke down on the way down the driveway,
But I revved up our magic conveyor belt and we had that baking soda inside
lickety split. It is filling up the kitchen, the hallway, and most of the bathroom.
I have enough room to squeeze into the tub, so all is good.
Seven medications and I can spell none of them.
I have thrown sleeping pills and pain reliever into the fray.
For the morphine was not cutting it.
I was in dire pain. Then I took a baking soda bath.
Pure heaven, that bath. Instant relief.
Joe ran out and bought all the baking soda the store had.
He had to rent a truck to bring it in. He is crazy like that
When a loved one like me is as sick as I am.
The truck broke down on the way down the driveway,
But I revved up our magic conveyor belt and we had that baking soda inside
lickety split. It is filling up the kitchen, the hallway, and most of the bathroom.
I have enough room to squeeze into the tub, so all is good.