Long Conveyor belt Poems
Long Conveyor belt Poems. Below are the most popular long Conveyor belt by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Conveyor belt poems by poem length and keyword.
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
seems like ten
i had nine million thoughts of you
8,999,999,000 of them were daggers to my heart
the one thought that i held on to was recycled and turned into a message from God
it took me 3,650 days to realize that quality time with you was a sneeze in a thrift store full of ripoffs
now for seven days a week, i move on like a turtle intentionally constipated
i always carry that small wonder like a 15 year old butterscotch disc
at least butterscotch is still a friend of mine....
did you ever read that poem and hip yourself to the internal message
now my heart is on a temperamental conveyor belt
the surgical tools used to fix it have all decided to become animate and retire
the tears from my heart make black roses grow and inspire an odd senility to the whole of me
yes, it feels like another ten....and i thank you from the bottom....
....that i will never get over....
fascinated by the things
hovering in the punishing
sky. both the wicked and winged,
or the bare and featureless. pulled
along in a conveyor belt parade,
a silent march in the stratosphere.
floating forward to the place called
Limbo.
jagged horns pop the
clouds like balloons, withering skin
grazes the twilight. the softest
sky being cut into ribbons as
if it was a present that was
meant to be ripped open all along.
those foggy phantoms following
along. reaping the seeds they
sowed when they were more than
souls.
what a wonderful gift it must be
to hover over this hollow place.
I’m broke ‘n’ don’t think I like it too much.
Last night’s cab ride. No one turns the wheel now.
I stare through cathedrals whose glass I can’t touch.
I want to go home but I can’t see how.
Snow blind. A slow rolling conveyor belt.
Fresh plumes of spiraled smoke smoldering air.
A fire outside. Flooded roads start to melt.
I want to get out but can’t pay the fare.
Grey sparrows take refuge in candlelight song,
their throaty notes grapple Gregorian chants.
I’ve stolen music where short breaths draw long;
where spared by my own Dark’s draconian dance.
Slow down the belt. Thin tin buckles. Louder.
Churned poverty stops - returns as black powder.
11/13/2018
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
On wings of self-destruction she relishes the panic
In the control room of the living
It was meant to be a family journey from heaven
Everyone on board to enjoy the passage
Then she launches herself as a guided vile missile
Mission nearly accomplished
Seat belts fastened and cool drinks already served
A knowing smile from the stewardess
The airport tower signals a clear runway for runaways
Paradise calling on a flight path to hell
Final announcement we have unchecked baggage
Please alight from the vessel
Puzzled but not unwilling he adjusts to the order
Takes his case from the carrier
He had not packed his belongings entirely on his own
Before placing them on the conveyor belt
Assisted and extended suicide had been in the making
Strapped to transgressions of boundaries
In time he got off the the airbus to help other travellers
Maybe he should take a train on his own
When the jet craft exploded he watched the fire ball
Sad but relieved that this voyage was over
31st January 2020
"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’m on a conveyor belt! Get me off this conveyor belt!
I hate living a life of deprive.
Every day is the same, morning roads are unchanged,
And at work I’m not even alive.
See, I’m subdued, I’m detached, isolated from fun,
The fun of owning the happy and kind,
Instead, it’s the same, same words and same game,
Now I know that I am losing my mind.
Jump, roll and run, I’ll escape this treadmill of hell
Jump off and run to the free.
Be free of the time, artificial dull time,
And swim through the beautiful sea.
Yes, now my life is free of convey, not stuck to a time,
Not preparing to exist as a dead.
Because I can soar with the birds, then write beautiful words,
And do it all up in my head.
Energy.
Twirling around, lying down.
But your eyes are going out of focus.
You make a blurry wish.
You wish not to fall through the couch.
Focus, and you’ll be able to sit upright for a minute.
Then sinking, and shrinking will occur with use.
You haven’t had coffee in two days.
But you’re more coffee than ever.
Empty cups and turning them over to wash and dry.
All day, the conveyor belt rolls toward you.
You need to wash huge pots and pans.
The conveyor belt continues.
Cereal and milk, pouring, pouring, pouring all day.
You haven’t gone to the coffeeshop in a week.
Or anywhere.
Just listening to clicking, and shaking sounds.
Trying to listen.
Energy.
But without caffeine.
Is like roller skates within you.
Nothing gets done until nighttime.
Make cookies at 3:00 am.
Come to life.
Dancing cookies.
Coffee.
You still never mailed that electric bill out.
Power down.
Lights out.
But still-
Energy.
on auto pilot in slow motion
my conveyor belt keeps moving
on a creaky carousel
aroused in boredom
suspended in apathy
a jester on weary shoulders keeps mocking
teasing and picking at scabs
thorny wounds from too much baggage
have abandoned rose petals
in the wilderness of making
I wonder whether I should pick up the luggage
or claim compensation for lost property
yet hesitation sets in
as it is not clear what to do with the proceeds
sometimes I would give a penny for thoughts
of joyful anticipation but fear that the truth
would be unreal
amongst the lonely passage of time
there is hope however
because these days airports never close
flights of fancy can be delusional
dereliction of duty-free travel is a scam
only I can choose purpose and destination
before eventually my ashes end up in a Teddy bear
for care free travelling