Long Unabridged Poems
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and so you dust the book that's me
right off the shelf called LOVERS
You have found the others not to
be as enthrallingly intense
caressing the gilded pages,
you take a moment to admire me
through the layer of dust
with eager fingers you try to pry my cover
I will not let you open me again
those lines of love and rhymes of passion
encrypted with your name
will no longer be available to be read
consider this book, archaic
Put me back on the shelf
for I'd rather gather dust
then be poured over
by your careless fingers...
fingers that have traced other lines
eyes that have viewed other plots than mine
Leave me alone
for my mysteries were beyond your understanding
a book not for the novice in love
but for the mature
the secure
read the other volumes
more slender than mine
less complicated
more frivolous
entertaining
devoid of depth of meaning
devoid of passionate climaxes
and intricate subplots
Come back to me
when you hold me as a sacred volume
of love and life
the only sacred writ to fit your needs
then I will open my covers
and let you devour
the secrets of my essence
the mysteries of your universe
you will need no other book
to live by
to learn by
to love by
except this unabridged volume
of poetry
that is
me.
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Angrily, rain enfolds the insular rise of lawn undulating.
Anglers dream, envious fishermen, inside looking out urging
apostles, who elope within imaginary onslaughts, hooked unburdening's.
Aloft, thunder encounters lightening's insistent taunt, oracles fearsome uttering's.
And still, each fisherman's innermost summoning orchestrates this untoward
atmospheric downfall, each drop induced, prayerful, outpouring is underscored.
Admittedly many envious housebound inmates seek oceans, lakes, unexplored
although, the earthly torrent interferes pitiless, onerous, rainfall unleashed.
Absent the energizing rays introduced by ordinary sun, undone
are these enigmatic men in rooms, oar less, ship-less, landlubbers unconsoled.
Another day encases them indoors mooning over fish uncontrolled.
A trophy earned, stuffed, indisputably shows offerings untold.
Ah, fishtails energetically rise incensed by objections never unabridged
absent their earnest wives, imagination rolls on winds un-curtailed.
And so you dust the book that's me
right off the shelf called LOVERS
You have found the others not to
be as enthrallingly intense
caressing the gilded pages,
you take a moment to admire me
through the layer of dust
with eager fingers you try to pry my cover
I will not let you open me again
those lines of love and rhymes of passion
encrypted with your name
will no longer be available to be read
consider this book, archaic
Put me back on the shelf
for I'd rather gather dust
then be poured over
by your careless fingers...
fingers that have traced other lines
eyes that have viewed other plots than mine
Leave me alone
for my mysteries were beyond your understanding
a book not for the novice in love
but for the mature
the secure
read the other volumes
more slender than mine
less complicated
more frivolous
entertaining
devoid of depth of meaning
devoid of passionate climaxes
and intricate subplots
Come back to me
when you hold me as a sacred volume
of love and life
the only sacred writ to fit your needs
then I will open my covers
and let you devour
the secrets of my essence
the mysteries of your universe
you will need no other book
to live by
to learn by
to love by
except this unabridged volume
of poetry
that is
me.
Eileen Manassian
I was reminded of this poem that I posted on September 2016. I often look up my name on Google to see where my poetry as gone, and I'm so thrilled with my findings. My poems have found their way into books, blogs, school programs, internet educational and gaming sites, Instagram posts, Facebook posts, and as a Tattoo on someone's body! Someone has done a dramatic reading of this poem on Sound Cloud. I quite like it and thought I would share it with you. I have no idea who this person is, but I like what they've done with my work.
Here is the Sound Cloud Link: https://soundcloud.com/allouthelter/no-other-by-eileen-manassian-ghali
My original poem is found on this link: https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/no_other_826957
Three,
A blanket of white paints the floor
pure, pristine
unabridged
assignments in the void
footprints not yet laid
and I'm a dozen moments away
I look to your sky
and the lights
they light up the night
our night, our beginning
we're naked, we're pure
like the fresh laid snow
nothing traced, nothing known
where we've been, where we go
new paths lie ahead
where the trade winds blow
we trade
snow for sand
hope for hearts
mountains climb us
for we are the earth,
the stars,
the sun and the moon
we are the children inside
wandering about at last
taking first steps
wobbly but we reach out our hands
for trust and for love
My Gift,
“The pure present is an ungraspable advance of the past devouring the future. In truth, all sensation is already memory.” - Henri Bergson
I feel, I felt
tingles in the far recesses of my soul
swirling in an ever circular motion
surrounding the pounding of my heart
resounding inside and out
my echo chamber
I find comfort in that peace
your stillness, the silence
all I am hearing is love
bleeding slowly into me
transmitting signals
rushing alongside clear blue waters
swimming up into my substanance
my existence
filtering in thru the green
of those auspicious duck pond eyes
your gift warms me
each syllable entrusted
as life lies naked at our door
unabridged stories taking hold
we walk away from the past
and yesterday's wars
The september I met him remains etched in my mind
I sat in class awaiting explanation that never came
One by one minutes rolling by ever so slowly
I surmised he’d been a burn victim
I wondered when it happened
How old he would have been
How he suffered
How he healed
How he could now be so nonchalant
Over my inner spiel I didn’t hear a word he said
I was consumed in wait with unanswered questions
Then I spent the second half of class feeling stupid
Regretting the meddlesome monologue in my head
It was three hours of my life I would never get back
Really… how was it any of my business?
It was way back in those prehistoric days
Before the internet was full blown
Nowadays a simple google search
Would have produced a newspaper article
Instantly unravelling the mystery
I shook my head good and hard all week
Before returning to my second class with him
He never spoke about the elephant in the room
It boggled my mind why I expected he ever would
In a short time I became enchanted
With the magnificence of this man’s soul
He was a cultured learned gentle man
A poet possibly a genius
He was ordained to touch lives
To shake and rattle foundations
Disentangle paradigms
A transcendent grace exuded
From his every word
His every glance
AP: 1st place 2022, 3rd place 2021
Submitted on October 6, 2019 for contest FAVORITE PROFESSOR sponsored by CHANTELLE ANNE COOKE - RANKED 1ST
A few pages of unanchored memories,
A few crushed petals of life,
An unfeigned friend’s gift of love,
Leaves of reminiscences on the earth!
A life unabridged on tattered pages,
In ink, with a delicate hand,
A long journey - of bliss, and woe,
Precious times with beloved souls.
Nights beside the lonely flicker of a lantern ,
Unworldly feelings of a damsel, pouring heart,
Visioned life as surreal, and flawless,
Her love as unreal armoured knight.
The pages remained silent as a noiseless night,
Life went on like a meandering stream,
Feelings unexpressed, promises hushed,
The voiceless scribe remained unvoiced.
June 25, 2020
Inspired by An Old Scribe Contest
First Place
For "All Yours (March 24) Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Brian Strand
I saw the faces
of dolls.
Pink cold dolls,
blind frightened dolls.
Dolls with round uniform
shoulders.
Curtains hung everywhere like
skin,
I spread them like lips.
Through the window,
it was us in a cave.
My children were chewing on cereal.
With hearts of dough,
their minds were softer than clay.
I reached into the damp hole,
touched the unabridged volumes,
the pages packed with lies.
I reached wanting to save
them.
But my fingers were frost bitten
with rage.
The throat of my brain
swallowed me.
Each step I sank,
shadows were ink in my clothes.
Each word a vinyl toy
resisting the rain.
Until to reject the lies,
I garnish shoddy freedoms
like a thrill seeker.
Until I became a liar,
and my sleep
was watching
my murder.
The ideas cluttered and tarnished me,
indelible the notions by the
dumpster load.
Eyes in the darkness seemed
predatory.
But only alone,
I listened to the sound
of my wounds infecting me.
As a Marine
with a steel mind
for a trap
clamped shut,
I protect my ashes
from
the ignorant!
They thunder past
in radiant trucks,
on glorious tractors.
Their habitual smiles ablaze.
They turned the pipes
and melted the iron.
I did not look.
it was my head that was tilted
like a mannequin.
It was only me
who wondered if
I could hear myself
mutter.
And me who prayed
I might still be breathing.
Published in Cafeteria - December 1977
Prologue:
It takes a heart free of hate
to let go of a false ownership
to step beyond your fears
provide strangers a helping hand
It should be a pre-requirement
of possessing our largest organ
that which clothes a person’s frame
everyone should earn their coat of skin
defines them as humans
than we could easily separate and remove
the demons roam Earth disguised as people
they sat paralyzed
as various notes brushed lightly against their senses
eventually accompanied by bare traces of rain
stroked their faces with naked fingers
occupied their emptiness
with the welcomed whispers of music
spread their lips
leaving a lucent mark of bliss
on the bones of their cheeks
the melody
drew them into an imaginary reality
safe from the ugliness of their truth
“another day of hell on Earth”
(a hell willingly supplied by hollow frames reciting words from their Fiery Red God while hiding behind a faith they never understood)
temporarily frozen against the symmetry
of an angels canvas
they would breath the unabridged artistry
for a brief but satisfying moment
the musicians for the time being where their Gods
and they relished in the quenching fruits
filled their empty dreams
the simple beauty of song was undeniable
Epilogue:
It takes a heart free of hate
to let go of a false ownership
to step beyond your fears
provide strangers a helping hand
It should be a pre-requirement
of possessing our largest organ
that which clothes a person’s frame
everyone should earn their coat of skin
defines them as humans
than we could easily separate and remove
the demons roam Earth disguised as people
[This is the poem that made me think ‘Hmmm… Sixgun Sid?’
Which led to a plethora of (at least one) ‘adventures’]
*
Cowboys and Red Indians they ride in any weather
Though one will get a soggy hat and one a soggy feather
And all that soggy headwear has been happening forever
Cos Cowboys and Red Indians are really not that clever
Cowboys and Red Indians they rarely get together
When they chase each other they ride horses hell for leather
And Sitting Fox seeks Sixgun Sid for he’s a scalp to sever
And Cowboys and Red Indians they rarely get called Trevor
Cowboys and Red Indians they simply wont endeavour
To shelter under canvas when its raining… No, not ever
Yet even when they're soaking wet they shrug and say “Whatever.”
For Cowboys and Red Indians will share a teepee never