Long Cranking Poems
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Written: June 18, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Robert James Liguori
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In glowing slime, Zoltar coins click and pile,
A silver box for green bills makes him smile.
Its glassy shell goes ticking a tinny refrain—
A zinc gear strikes a copper vein.
The soiled, smeared glass catches my sheen,
A ghost-volt amid grime fuels my adrenaline.
Two unblinking bulbs, too cold and bright,
As I put my money in his slot, it ignited—
Not breathing, not dead—stuck in sterile zones,
A painted mannequin on camphor thrones.
He lifts a hand of yellowed, brittle wax—
His features locked against a smirk’s cracks.
“Press close,” the speaker rasps in rusted mesh,
A synthetic tongue that mimics human flesh.
Static unfurls, within decades of dust—
A fake artifact that begs for your trust.
No prophet stirs inside this iron cage,
No cure to soothe a modern mortal’s rage.
The cipher fails to heal, or serve to cope—
It’s just a camshaft cranking out false hope.
He slams a plastic fortune through the slit,
a card saying I will reap fortune with lousy wit.
I read the inked spectrum of false desire—
While bulbs merge in bright phosphor fire.
I turn away and leave the box behind,
A trap of gears designed to catch the blind.
It whispers riddles to the empty floor—
A Zoltar speaking, stilled, forevermore.
The bus is half-full, empty seats are occupied
by the soon to be born, the soon to be dead,
those in transition.
The medium knows he is a guest in a stranger’s dream.
When he thinks about this, he shivers and turns
to the window, lets himself be distracted
by the dusty fields, the wind cranking farms.
A bespectacled matron moans
as the knit of her life slowly unravels.
Eighty years dead; white mice
have been born and have passed away in her head.
A travelling salesman yet to be conceived
stares about him, thinking he is in a movie.
People speak a language he does not understand -
there are no subtitles for his state of mind
however, his future occupation has already been seeded
within the mixology of an ancient starlight.
The medium wishes he were more accustomed
to the slow process of astral dissolution
and regeneration.
Passengers cling to the long straps of their minds
as the Greyhound sways.
Some occupants dream
that they have a real ticket for this life,
others may have purchased a ticket,
but not a destination;
they fidget in their seats,
and wonder why the trip is taking so long.
Down the faithful brick stones he goes with his favorite monkey Spiff
through the alley where twilight glints soon turn from pinkish to gold
beneath a yawning sun. Bringing forth a new day, Tee Hee the nonpareil of his industry is an enigma to the passing crowds. An unravelled mystery that shows up at the break of dawn, and plays until the torches of a liquid day pour into lunchtime. Then the chink chink of coins arrive. At the drop of a hat they both perform, for the sake of a handful of coins.
music is the haven of Kings
an organ grinder's swing
and a monkey's right wing
A little orphan girl comes around with a small calico blue pie
that she found in the dumpster both broken and mushed to the pulp.
She sits herself down and with eyes round as frying pans she watches
as the monkey brings the hat to his nose to chase away her woes
Thrown like a star into a vast sleep
she opens her eyes to take a peek
Gazing at tranquility she falls in deep
Hurdy gurdy, hurdy gurdy, hurdy gurdy gurdy he plays on, as if it were his song
"Roly poly, roly poly, holy poly poly" he sings on
All the street clowns disappear, and as time stands still,
a young beating heart listens,
for the sound of a cranking pipe organ, while a savvy monkey
who knows his worth, quietly rakes in a small fortune.
Leaderboard paradox
Bard, crank or chatterbox
Irreconcilable
Most undeniable
Two titles possible?
Can't have all three
Flourish and elegance
Meter and relevance
Grasp of the elements
Sensitive delicate
Post the best poetry
For all to see
Building community
Post with impunity
Dishing encouragements
Never discouragements
Attaboy lunacy
Nice job! Spondee
Magnitude, quantity
Content moronity
Quality suffering
Sputtering, stuttering
Faster through brevity
Haiku for me
Where is the paradox?
Chatter and atta-talks
Raising poetic stocks
Moving up leaderboards
Elevates all their scores
Best that you just ignore
All your competitors'
New poetry
Elegant, painstaking
Beautiful, time-taking
Longer time finishing
Numbers diminishing
Falling so rapidly
Not even on page three
Drop productivity
Maybe you finish a
Poem or three
Status? ridiculous
Leaders? superfluous
Seek to equilibrate
Advocate, animate
Irreconcilable
Paradox schmeradox
Sharing delightfully
Cranking productively
Poetry supersedes
All rivalry
—————
For the “This or That, Vol 10” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
Title: Irreconcilable Paradox
Date written: 02/17/2022
94 degrees
and rising
4th day in a row
Vegetation is turning yellow
Flowers are wilting
Tempers are rising
Air conditioners are cranking away
TVs are blinking
People sit idly in chairs, not moving,
staring at screens,
mesmerized,
until they fall asleep
Too hot to garden
Too hot to clean
Too hot to neighbor
Everyone is hiding
inside like they do
in the winter
when it is too
cold to go outside
We are held hostage
by our weather.
Why do we live in
a climate like this?
Our children are
here, or our parents.
No other reason
unless it's our jobs.
Money is important.
This summer's evening still echoes
with the distinguishable city' noises:
the screams of adolescents,
the cranking of cars and motor-bikes
the loud rotating blades of helicopters,
and the blasting music
from luxurious convertibles
that unawarely tranfix...
We can get away
from this madness,
and find a silent,
infrequent place
where nothing has to be hushed;
where the firmament
emanates a perfect peace
to submerge us by awe
as we coalesce
in a lascivious wish...
We can return to be innocent,
and lean over blue waters
to cover the still lake
with beautiful,velvety roses
as the gondolier enthralls us
with his poignant vocals...
The quite geese float
in the aromatic lake of flowers,
inperplexed by our presence
as we lean over blue waters,
so intoxicated by the balsamy air,
to invoke and inflame
an incessant desire
and incur no regrettable fault...
sputtering poetry,
the impotent poet
tells me, she was
“…puttering around Pittsburg.”
potent poetry. perhaps,
alluring alliteration
potentially portends
the winch to wind up
this bucket of water.
diviner twitches, dips,
dares to deviate
direct, dilate.
like a mad scientist, moronic
not to move these ready-made
sputters into a test tube, shake
and let them explode!
an avid, alliterative logophile
holds the power to possess,
to render the procession of
spoken word into usefulness.
alert to the prowess of moving lips,
gears cranking creativity and giddiness,
glad tidings go on and on, when
sputtered with regards to my sister’s trip.
Would a starry sweep
Alight against an engine
As seemingly the great aghast retain
The seven sent, the cranking, a bespoken
A hotel, a precipice, a lantern
Will witted the seats perplexed
Weighted in among outlook
So lore is not the shattered page claiming
Wine and windows, the hoisted village lit
From one to another against the 8th
The moon swing eradicate
Would take offense like a game
The sweet success of thine party strewn rile
Wheeling the window lifting a ship house
The commotion to view earth from afar
How afar the moon and twixt
Bells by the 8 door exit
Always the shift of 7 flat
The feast of proportional enemy
Cast across the ozone, observing
The visit of views, the Space Hotel sights
Such an assertion wild, stars
The great Space Hotel alright
Days passing on by
Nights sometimes I try
Finding the answers to the why
Seeking to find
Some piece of mind
Keep looking over here
Over there
Eventually, that is where I'm bound
Under the ground
Can't change
Nor rearrange
Always stays the same
Whosoever be to blame
Can't find Peace
No release
Forever in the dark
Can't find the park
What a lark
Night forever remains
Echoes in these chains
All parts that are the stains
Forever is the night
It's endless flight
The future that I see
Hearts no longer free
Hunger that can't be fulfilled
Your water is naturally distilled
All gets you killed
Wanking
Cranking
Man kind the living zombie, hiding in the night
Hiding from the light.
Taken without a fight
Lost is the light
The river of lost souls
Forever it flows
past my door
Wanting ....ever more...
City of enternal desire
Caused this fire
Forever it burns higher
Taking all
On a Tumbling fall
Never to end
The souls it does bend
To hell it will send
..Never to mend..
Used to be a part
A shattered heart
Mended
Winded
But not the same
Lost part of my brain
A dove
Unable to love
always the dirty white glove
Search you will find
Things that remind
Things better off left behind
Life....... there lies the stain
Getting it rubbed against the grain
Waiting
Waiting
No hate
Stepping beyond that simple fate
Empty of tomorrows
Of all the sorrows
Burned out desires
No spark of the fire
Embers has faded
Degraded
Burned away
.....Nothing left to say....
Another afternoon of horrid heat.
I need to chill with sweet ice cream.
Homemade, with ripe strawberries.
Hand churned takes time, but it's the best.
My tongue will lick the paddle clean
then I'll put three scoops in a frosted dish.
I'm not greedy but can't resist the temptation.
So worth the wait and all the cranking labor
for such a refreshing dessert!
One last plump berry perched on top.
I'm beginning to drool. It's time to go.
I have to eat quickly, before it melts.
Chop! Chop!
June 21, 2022
Ice Cream Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Julia Ward