Best Factory Poems
Welcome,
to the Soul Factory
We have cool souls,
sophisticated souls,
luxury and economy.
Choice is a matter,
of who you want to be.
Yes we ship souls,
to many exotic places.
The beauty of some souls
shine through on faces.
But that isn’t true
in a few cases
Still our souls fit,
into big and small spaces.
We offer young souls
and old souls.
Some souls refurbished
with extra hot coals.
Each soul’s prepared,
to play different roles.
Some kind,
some cruel,
others may play the fool.
Uncontrollable souls,
might not follow the Golden Rule
If you are lucky
you’ll find inner peace
Those souls are mostly
shipped to the east
They know more,
even though they have the least
Somehow mindfulness,
calms their inner beast.
They are content
during famine and feast
Once selected,
just wait and see,
if your soul will make history.
Unfortunately we can’t promise,
there’s no guarantee,
some souls prefer obscurity.
Others seem to thrive on inner misery.
They may not match,
your life expectancy
Either way traveler,
you get what you choose,
there’s a no return policy,
here at the Soul Factory!
For Caren’s What would you make if you had a factory contest.
A divine blacksmith didn't forge winged hearts of gold,
to soothe the burn of others.
Nor mold my body into a scratching post chant.
Where others can shed their dying dream ghosts.
I was conceived from the sable fingertips of Dali.
flint hearted with a sheen of midnight black matches.
Straddling devil's dunes, in an upside-down desert...
My heart wields a wicked chain, has selfish yellow teeth.
It billows like an old factory,
discharging microscopic monsters,
easter island heads
the bones of carbon and oxygen
a pure oasis of death...
Ride these ragged flanks
eat the melting clock
roll the chipped toothed dice.
Turned from flower to flamed out rock...
If you want.
Factory Recall
I looked beyond The Open Door
into a mystical Soul Factory
There amidst the unboxed souls
was Invisible Jim and The Ghost.
The ghost’s skin was reflective like a mirror
allowing me to see The Lines on my Face.
The factory was an unusual place
with floors carpeted in Dandelions
At each station angels sang a Star Baby Lullaby
I asked one “What are you doing?”
She smiled and responded
“I am installing a Patriotic Pause.”
An overhead speaker blared
“It is time for Designated Rain,”
I was careful to protect
the Butterfly in My Pocket.
Workers started moving
so I asked “Where are you going?”
“We are Stepping into The Temple.”
“May I ask Why?” “Sure, we are Searching For Jesus.”
So I followed the Girl With The Quiet Voice.
I was unsure How To Feel,
so I began by Lending Both Hands.
It helped in Finding My Way..
I was then joined by The Borrower.
He Was the one Who I Am
but Some Time we’re not Close Enough to Know.
Perhaps I need some Kimo Therapy
I was directed to Rose in The Garden.
Her roots had Deep Inclinations.
Would I Abandon all for This Dark Lover?
She set me on my Memory Go Round.
That place of Painted Ladies and Weeping
There I searched for Guys Advice in a Fools Paradise
Inside of me A Sense of Emptiness,
still she would become my Favourite Mistake.
She Touched The Water and my soul
becoming My Ocean.
Still I have Unanswered Questions
Some might say a Bad Bargain Made.
At the Soul Factory I left behind
my Church Perfect Surface.
In my Minds Eye the Screen Flickers.
Change Ain’t Easy but now I’m Different.
The breeze Whispered Your Name.
While I was looking for Psychedelic Sound!
No I know why I Can’t Get High Enough.
Instead let me rest in a the place of Chaotic peaceful Thoughts.
There I can sit under the Wisdom Tree
and listen to The Quiet One.
That garden where angels do the Butterfly Dance.
I long to languish there in Rainbow Coloured Camouflage.
By Richard Lamoureux
I wrote this one for Charlie’s contest using my titles from past poems. I didn’t read the directions properly so wrote another one that I entered.
In the land of make-believe
stands the Happiness Factory
It is a building filled with goodness
And people ending wars
There is no crying or sad faces
just laughs and appreciation of
the goodness in life
All religions are respected here
as if they are bound together
by the strong energies of the universe
Not a day goes by
where people will not dance
in utter joy and excitement
for all that is good
Why not visit the Happiness Factory
you will have happy dreams from now on
and you will realize
the world can be a decent place in which to live
A BOX FACTORY
During the time of enslavement,
Many stories were told.
Life as a Mississippian was not uncovered.
In Black History, no one knows the tale
Of Wolfe’s Plantation there in the hills.
Life is a plentiful.
They farm cotton and planted corn.
They raise pigs, chickens, and hogs.
They fish as a pastime.
They embraced their struggles and strife.
Down the road a bit is a colored man’s home.
He’s jubilant in his daily chores.
He works hard to take care of himself.
He loves his family and provides their financial support.
He is a tenant farmer and a leader for the plantation boss.
Life is a holistic nub.
Jep gives his first and foremost respect to the Lord.
He had taken over the farm for his father.
Wolfe’s Plantation was different from the others.
Imagism veraciously boxed.
Today, technologically constructed for stratagem and discovery.
This box factory is metropolis revamp.
Yesterday can be revived innovatively once again.
___________________________________________
Penned February 05, 2015!
Life isn't a wish-granting factory.
It's the sweet cover of open lip's mockery.
It's a house for all to live in -
the liars, the murderers and the rest of the sins.
Life steals your childhood dreams,
puts it in a jar and makes it seem
as if it just gifted you a present
because you lived in its past and presence.
Then in the future - if Life gives you any,
you'll see that Life is playing games, at once, to many;
you'll resent Life for giving you puzzles and quizzes
that once resolved will just turn to mere bliss.
In the corner of The Room where broken things lie
are your wishes - once soaked with hope but now dry,
drained from the core as time goes on
flowing in the dumpster of Lost and Forever Gone.
But at the end of the day, you find
as you lay on your grave and memories rewind:
Life was honey, it was fun and precious but on the contrary
you recalled the simplest truth - that Life wasn't a wish-granting factory.
"Life isn't a wish-granting factory" is a quote from the book "A Fault in Our Stars" written by John Green.
once again, it is done.
and Dread abounds.
i must re-prepare, they say
and crawl beyond Familiar Words
to make a Home again
for a little while.
and say goodbye
to just-rooted friendships.
i must re-acquaint, they say
and crawl beyond Familiar People
to make a Home again
for a little while.
always they smile in indifference
and offer up token strategies
as the town shutters-up beneath them
and the graveyards go abandoned.
now, once again, i stand before the world
within the full measure of my Isolation.
a cacophony of Choice.
yet i hear Nothing.
I got told a joke this morning
It really made me smile
So I thought I would share it on poetry soup
But in my own unique poetry style
A lady went to the dentist
She sat in the dentist’s chair
She was feeling really nervous
She wished she wasn’t there
The dentist thought he would put her at ease
As he put on his rubber gloves
He told her a little fictional story
Of a Canadian rubber glove factory
Into vats of latex the employees dip their hands
Big hands, medium hands and small, all the workers think its grand
They peel them off when they are dry
And into labelled boxes the rubber gloves lie
The dentist works on her teeth for a while
The lady doesn’t move or crack a smile
Finally the dentistry work is complete
The old lady arises from her seat
She gets on her coat and pays her bill
There is something on her mind still…..
Do they use male staff to produce condoms in a similar way?
The dentist laughed and said have a nice day
Jan Allison
25th April 2014
Our Smoldering Factory Town
free trade, a brick around
It’s gurgling, swollen neck. Surrounding
gray quiet smolder, evokes,
Once thriving factory smoke
A Crumbling horoscope
once paid it's worker's, soaked
in quiet desperation.
We are it's rusty antiques
sinking ships on outsourced seas
a swollen, bailout casualty
a fallow field, a dustbowl breeze
While children sew our sneakers
In bananna sweatshops, cheaper
hands can make, children's fate
wont matter, they'll dig deeper.
There are those bleak days
Of cold wintery winds
When the mind is frozen
The ink flows not
The factory of poetry is on strike
Better pay demanded
Better conditions
Longer happy hours
There are also those days
When the mind can not stop
Ideas flow faster than the pen
Do you not love those glorious wonderful days
When the poem factory is open for business
This quaint haven away from Seeing Eye
No sound of the loom now at nature’s call
Here on this coarse park bench in deepest fall
Gloomy clouds above threatening blue sky.
Song of the Blackbird rings out yet so shy
Speckled Thrush nags his mate in tuneful squall
Lush green lawn an ocean of food to trawl
Twisting squirming succulents soon to die.
I now will have to end this little verse
Clown on a motor mower not at peace
Feathered friends scatter to a higher place
I look to heaven now in silent curse
Back to the weaving shed and all that grease
Lunch break in tatters silence without trace.
© Harry J Horsman 2010
My child has no toys
They were all made in China
And broke in one day
My child is in therapy
All his life
And has been divorced twice
Different firm within the factory
The location the belly
Cowpea the raw material be
Having brought into the factory
But afore processed to be boiled
The tongue a transporter
From the gate of the mouth
Passing through the oesophagus track-way
Enzymes within functioning as workers
And the finished product derived
Distributed by the anus
The fart is produced
For the consumption of the people
I've pushed and shoved my way
to the front of the field trip line
for I desperately desire to go
to the Fancy Foot Factory!
I have dreamed about this day for
like forever, so desirous am I to
trade in these freakishly funny looking feet
for smooth, svelte, sophisticated
small and oh so dainty feet
with the most admirable, manicured
toenails on the planet.
From the first moment I became
aware of my frightfully large
phalanges (I even recall playing
with my long toes as a kid)
and comparing them with other
normal kid's feet, I felt like
a female hobbit (fortunately, my
feet aren't hairy!)
They say the Fancy Foot Factory will guarantee
their foot replacement work, so I can feel
fancy and fashionable
for the right fee, of course!
One question, though. Do they come
with a lifetime supply of stylish sandals?
Written on 3/16/2017
Working for years, in TIME FACTORY ,
I follow every order of my boss THE CLOCK,
I wander in space from dark to shine,
Knocking every door, every district and every block.
Many people just avoid the knock,
Some who open the door, shut it back for once and for all,
I think I m not scary enough to make them so shock,
But that’s cruel truth, most of them are so scared afterall.
Only few open their doors to welcome me,
They respectfully greet me,
Courageous are they, not scared of me,
They take the risk and call me in.
I believe even with odd looks, I deserve some respect,
I introduce myself to them as OPPORTUNITY,
Though they are shocked by my identity fact,
I gift their life with sense of success and security.
I’m OPPORTUNITY disguised as weird soul,
much like angel but not so pleasing for all,
My wings ascends from my feet,
I do not wait long, for anyone,
Wings give me the power of speed,
Once ignored I will come back for none.
I hide my identity,
With scanty hairs falling across my face,
I decide your destiny,
Once u reveal true colours of your face.
What is weirdest about me?
It is bald backhalf of my head,
But its god’s great dynamics,
Once I fly off, you cant hold my hairs and grab me back.
My name is opportunity,
I knock at every door,
Without any discrimination and partiality,
I give you the choice to open the door or to ignore.