Best Asbestos Poems
I am trying to sleep here; can someone let the world know?
Somewhere the pressure cooker whistles,
Rises in the night air, the smell of pulao rice.
The peddler selling eggs on his final tour,
The ringing of his cycle bell and paddle distinctly heard,
Elsewhere a cat mews, finding a safe spot to rest,
Or mayhap from hunger, I shall know never,
Dogs bark at a ragged man pacing fast,
His sole hanging slippers chatter away against tar,
As he glances at the canines from the corner of his eye.
A weak twig falls off the peepal tree nearby,
On the asbestos, creating a cracking noise,
Unendearing to his ears, the toddler wails,
A rickshaw shifts gears, as I shift sides
The sound of acceleration arrives at my eardrums,
A pillow atop my ears I rest,
An attempt feeble in decibel-arrest,
I am trying to sleep here; can someone let the world know?
I sense the creator is perhaps
The conduit in this conspiracy,
A gentle wind blows,
A pair of unshut windows rattle,
A metal latch dangling beats out-of-rhythm,
The jamun trees rustle, sounding
Like sand falling on tin-sheet,
The sound of roaring cheers
From a cricket match on TV otherwhere,
Triggering the flow of my curse on technology,
At the apartment gate,
A bunch of teens giggle away,
To a cunning joke or a murder mystery,
I wonder in utter dismay.
A medley of noises, of all kinds and creed,
Can someone let the world know, I am desperately trying to sleep.
Hamilton, Ontario,
Is a steel making town.
You can hardly tell it,
When the sun goes down.
The slagpiles glow as the big furnace throws,
Another batch of ore.
Big ingots sit on the railway cars,
Behind the big steel doors.
They call this place DeFasco
One of the largest in the land.
It has dirty little secrets,
Buried in the sand.
Something happened one autumn night.
I'd heard the older men tell.
The shift boss heard someone screaming.
It came from the bowels of hell.
A father and son were working,
Breaking slag from a big ladles spout.
The young man couldn't get out of the way.
When the molten metal poured out.
The molten metal mixed with the mud,
To make a sticky muck.
By the time the father turned around.
He saw his son was stuck.
The boys workboots were on fire.
As he was buried to his knees.
Even his asbestos clothing ignited.
He begged to his father,"Please,"
"Put me out of my misery,
I know my days are done."
His father pushed him under the slag.
He killed his only son.
They found the old man later that night,
Running circles in the rain.
They say he never spoke another word.
They say he'd gone insane.
Sometimes during my coffee break,
I'll sit and I'll think a while.
I often find myself wondering.
Just what's under that pile.
They call the place DeFasco.
One of the largest in the land.
It has dirty little secrets,
Buried in the sand.
Note; I worked at the DeFasco Steel mill in the early nineties, and was told this story.
River Findings
The Ohio winds around hills
and streams down the hollows
passes steel mills, brick yards and scrap yards.
It carries tug boats, pushes barges, and hauls
black coal stripped from the mountainsides.
The Ohio’s littered banks
are home to train yards
filled with graffiti-covered box cars
rusting relics of the Southern Pacific
and the Norfolk and Southern railroads.
Erector set bridges span
the murky river and link Ohio
to “Wild, Wonderful, West Virginia,”
the Weirton Mill,
and Homer Laughlin China Company.
In towns called Powhaton Point,
Shadyside, Bellaire, and East Liverpool,
houses are stacked on hillsides
with an array of slate,
tin and asbestos shingled roofs.
Ball fields and corn fields,
concrete parking lots and shopping malls
are full of busy people
who fail to appreciate
the river’s charity.
There are roads with cryptic names like Goose Run,
Pinch Run, Riddles Run, and Rush Run.
There are towns named Brilliant,
Costonia and Calcutta,
each with their own secrets.
North on Route 7 bars advertise Karaoke
and all you can eat fish fries.
A plethora of car lots and gift shops,
bait stores and gun supplies
dot the countryside with
a never-ending display
of marketing profanity,
but the river rolls on
never compromising her dignity
never surrendering her boundaries.
White-steepled churches
stand like beacons of redemption,
while billboards promote“Hell Fire Fireworks,”
“Gentlemen’s” clubs, sleazy motels
and the “Forbidden Zone Exit.”
Still the river moves along
around the hills and down the hollows
proud and powerful
chanting and rippling with satisfaction
a stalwart testament to her tenacity…
Tiny spiders spill forth from a crack
in the plaster wall. Crawling, spelling
out the answers I’ve sought.
Filthy wall vibrates with words.
Words, that drip and ooze down
onto the asbestos tile. Breaking
up, each letter sizzles into a small
cloud which rises into flickering fluorescence.
Words that are the answers
I’ve sought all along.
Answers to the questions
that I never asked.
If only I could remove myself
from this concave mattress,
capture the smoke.
See what I saw.
Thaw.
10 tons of icy sins
crushing my limbs.
Preventing all movement.
Save a blink here and there.
Clearing the blur of dried eyes.
Bringing into focus her approach.
Injecting dull relief into my veins.
Fighting sleep to learn
more. I can’t ...
Some years from now
the Devil throws a banquet –
In hell, of course – where he alone
unquestionably rules:
A banquet table plated for
greedy fools: to his right,
Barack seated; with Hilary at
his heated left; Bidden,
unable to tell where he is –
so after a brief, delirious spell,
decides himself quite content
with just the odious, strangely
familiar smell – Hunter doing some
cooking – agents told to shy
from looking – ordered not to
allow lawful booking:
Pelosi and Schumer,
for the first time
realizing themselves entirely
powerless...yet, hopelessly
addicted to procuring votes,
hotly plot how to send
the Squad copious
asbestos notes – His Majesty
offers them, another plate of
hot coals, with a side-dish of
charred souls – some fur lined
totes, to go with stylish
Arctic coats –
In my day we played outside, riding horses,
Playing hide and seek and on swings and slides.
And only on rainy days
Were we confined inside to play.
We played slap jack, crazy eight, go fish
And Lincoln logs was our dish.
Everyone drank coffee and tea
No caffeine worries did they see
All our houses were painted bright
And no one heard of the lead base plight
The new homes of the day had asbestos,
But what the hey!
This was during World War II
Where our fathers, brothers, uncles and aunts
Left our homes for foreign lands.
Here at home when sirens screamed
It was our Air Raid Warning Drill.
And companies that worked through the night
Were required to paint their windows black
Safety was our countries goal
Here at home and on foreign soil.
We played at the lake and tanned or fried
When we got home a little cow cream was applied.
Where I lived prohibition was still affirmed
And Bootleggers were the cops major concern.
The air we breathed was just air
Unless a corral or hog farm were near.
Transportation was car, bus or train
The only planes I ever saw
Were B 29’s heading for foreign soil.
I can’t help but wonder how we survived
Compared to the rules and laws we now abide.
I just heard a well known man say
“No more Santa Claus he is to fat”
“It’s bad for kids to honor a man like that.”
The Christmas tree has become “Happy Holiday”
No prayers in school, It breaks the rules they say.
Religion in government there is no place
“In God We Trust” is a disgrace.
When was the last time the Constitution was read
Were our Forefathers out of their heads?
“Merry Holidays too and you best take a stand
If you want to continue to have Peace in Our Land.”
A Note To My Algebra Teacher
By Elton Camp
I well recall what you used to say
That we’d use algebra every day
Without it, life wouldn’t be complete
For, with algebra, it would be replete
But factoring equations has yet to arise
And no quadractics, what a big surprise
Slope I haven’t yet needed to calculate
Methinks you did, somehow, misstate
To determine the value of X and Y
There hasn’t yet been reason to try
I find binomial multiplication is of no worth
To ninety-nine point nine percent on earth
A lot more honesty you should have tried
For about the value of algebra, you lied!
I think I know where you are most likely to be
May it have asbestos computers so you can see
When I left school at age fifteen years
This brave new world held many fears.
I got a job from the schools careers man,
I was going to be a trainee electrician.
Turners Asbestos Cement in Trafford Park
Was where I was to train to become a spark,
Thoughts of a holiday soon fade away
Out of school on Friday, work on the Monday .
All dressed in my best, I thought I looked a catch
Black pants and jacket and shoes to match.
Walking down the street I felt rather smug
Army surplus backpack with my book and mug,
Cornbeef butties, milk and sugar in my brew can,
Going for the bus felt just like a grown up man.
Only when I finally got to work disaster struck,
Within minutes I was covered in asbestos muck.
It being my first day,no overalls 'til Tuesday.
Working in the cutting room all day, Oh man!
The place was thick with dust and no extractor fan.
When I walked the gauntlet out of work that night,
From head to foot I must have looked a sight.
No one more embarrassed than me that day,
Folk all laughed at the ghost coming their way.
Jacket and pants were only fit for the bin.
To add to the shame all Mum did was grin.
© Dave Timperley 27 December 2016
(What Mankind Forgot)
We forgot our place in life
We forgot how to be alive
We forgot our connection to life and the cosmos
We filled our homes, schools and hospitals with the killer asbestos
We forgot our ancient wisdom
We forgot the wisdom from the opening of our heart the knowledge and stories of How we did come About and how we did start
We forgot the knowledge of natures forces
We forgot the power from the deepest of sources
We stole from our planet and are using up all of its resources
We forgot our path and our dreams
We polluted our once purest streams
We took from earth many things we did not need
We built cars, planes and trains that pumped out poison that us and our future Generations are Expected to breathe
We have to take we cannot leave
We ditched our horses and bred them wild
But wild they are not
Their help and ability we forgot
We forgot our true purpose
We are caught in the mass trance of fabricated consensual reality
We lost sight of our authenticity
That inner spark that drives us towards our happiness and self-realization
We lost our True destiny
We forgot that we are here to be realized as spiritual beings embodied in a physical form and Embedded in a congenial universe
We forgot that everything revolves around and is love
We forgot how to love and be loved
We live on bended knees to a force that isn't seen with thy eye
That should see the truth
We cannot see without the proof
We forgot what we once stood for
We shunned it out and locked the door
We are no more
What we once was
Mankind has lost all scense of what it means to be free
Be bend down and hand away our pride and dignity
To the power that over rules our reason to exist
We are stranded and scared in a forever descending mist.
Written by sarah Linklater 28th march 2015
Tell me again
This wealth you gasp and clamour for
This strategy you wield
From the invincible substratum
Where the hunt pursues the frenzied heart
And the congestive traffic of arteriosclerosis
For what do you deal
The long evenings swinging on the green and
The soul's sanity again?
I have checked for definitions
One say it is production from the land
And I hear in it engines
Ripping out the earth's red heart
Another say it is a product of labour
And I imagine a weary mother
And the pains of dystocia
Besides you own no land
Where concrete does not mushroom
Into skyscrapers
And dirt abominable in the atmosphere
And I guess labor is not physical.
Some say it is a measure of value
Of what you own
Was that the members of my body
For I pay tax for
Is a mere rental, not mine.
Easement only entitles me
To brown paper bags blowing in the gust
And the oily wrap of hamburger papers
I never bought them
They just fell where I bare the cost without the benefits.
Men who own revenue are rich
You say it is policy
That the labourers clock in at eight
I say its power
That make men to make wealth
They give away for the pittance of wage
All morning I have watched them
As they check their assets of grief
Before getting to security at the gate
Grief is suspicious you know
Only terrorists have grievances.
We bring our last resolve to work
The heart like a derrick
Grappling with the weight in the sky.
It is all your wealth
His mother phlegmatic coughing
And asbestos dust
Thickening on the lip of the child
I have no love for the Midas disease
For still its free
The open air
The sun cracking nuts in a tree
And the wild shout of cataract
And below me the immense gorge
Where the water trickles
Under the dam
Irrevocably to the sea.
Martians, they don’t live here
Even astronauts keep clear
Residing though in darkest places
Charred: the eyebrows on their faces
Up from underground they creep
Resembling small asbestos sheep
Yikes they bleat at red hot feet
11 May 2021
Contest: Planet Acrostic
Sponsor: Matt Caliri
As little child walked in the field of flowers,
Picking and smelling them as she grows,
The pervading air fragrance of Guava
The majestic mellow Mangoes too in wet season,
The atmosphere of green garden eggs,
Caressing melody of crunchy carrots cracker,
The hidden colours of pineapples,
Bulb of yellow oranges lighted the line green trees,
Would be in season all year, including rags to
riches filling Maize
And pods shelled nourishing beans,
Surging umbrella leaves of papaya,
Shallow rooted coco-yam,the variegated
lettuce that brightens everyday,
With the crowded bananas are growing everyday,
But now,they are in wet tins and dry cartons
For that very busy mankind.
The landscapes within are beautifully measureless,
The Jacaranda and Tamarind trees had cast
Their shadows on the plain, and not forgetting,
The Silk-cottons and the wilderness of palm fruits
That grow tall and sure,
And under them we played cracking out nuts and
eating them,
But now, elevated long balcony, we have
That you stand and weep of the passing phases.
The sepulcher we all grew up in,
Might not be the same dungeon now,
And the cradle you are born in
Could well be the same abode now,
Thatched roof has given birth
To corrugated reflections,
Likewise the fragile asbestos fight for space with concretizing flat,
The mud debris has turned to bricks and plaster erect;
New galaxies of dwelling and scattered
About in a festival of designs;
Some are like an octagonal
A cone, a triangle and spec angular façade yet unseen;
All glasses, cupped and straight down
Like the eccentric mansions in heaven,
The spec tropic clime had turned suddenly,
The wind blows and smell of change,
The sun blaze down on man and space and warned,
Of great consequent yet in the
Outer-atmosphere would burst,
As we are cuddly warm
The poles wildly discharged their zillion captured
Water in a spasm of deluge right upon us…I think,
Like urchins, we fumble forgetting the next hour,
But what would happen is nature’s raison d’etre;
Man and his environ scope both have shibboleth gone pathways
And fast we are turning into artificial humankind.
Kangaroos look funny in horns and underoos
Nothing like the holidays down under…
So many sweets to taste and plunder…
Mistletoe hung over head…
Sweet dreams in our slumbering bed…
The jolly man shimmying down
The hot family hearths
Not making a sound making his rounds
Asbestos underwear protecting his parts
The sweaty old boy in red
Cursing the heat of points this far south
While blimey citizens are snug in bed
Explicatives flowing from his mouth
Merry Christmas to all those down under
And happy New Year a day bloody sooner
Having no snow is a god awful blunder
The whole island should be sat in a corner!
Rlm ‘10
Carcinoma, melanoma sick twins
Inside their innocuous hosts grin
For surface tension brings no chagrin
Another, common diagnosis will time lend
Healthy cell structures to amend
Immune systems with guile befriend
In state of denial, journey begins
Signs not to the human eye hidden
But worry has healthy mind forbidden
Asbestos, carbon dioxide, dioxin
Immune filters will certainly fend
Smoking, over eating, years of gin
Only near life's end wages will append
Per chance through pore seeps pathogen
To rally antibody troops always an antigen
Discolored figment under skin
Bright pigment from allergen
A red rash can dry with benzine
Yellowish splotch need carotene
Brownish bump harmless toxin
Black mole surely genetic origin
Benign cyst lacking needed vitamin
Purplish lesion can cure with Neosporin
Small lump only a gland that's swollen
Goiter rarely takes malignant spin
Asbestos Pudding
Here have I an ethereal belly
And, before me, asbestos jelly!
(In sly reference to College workload of assignments as inspired by mountains whose bedrock is endowed with asbestos mineral))
JM
22nd Feb’ 2014