Best Forklift Poems
With spring approaching quickly and milk is upon the rise,
our factory employs seasonal workers to resize,
the employee pool to accommodate the milk intake,
which means twenty-four by seven with such a lot at stake.
The milk dryer needed packers and more cleaners on the floor.
There’s a need for extra lab staff, truck drivers, and some more,
‘til with most positions filled, except one so it did seem.
The warehouse needs another forklift driver for the team.
Mick our production manager had from two nominees to pick.
But must consider who was better; which one will do the trick,
so in my control room we met to show me their régimes,
and both of them were similar so had to find another way.
Bjorn was Norwegian who is back packing for a year,
while Murphy is an Irishman who has settled very near.
And to try and solve the puzzle on who we think may be best,
we came to a conclusion they should take a written test.
So Mick prepared for both a twenty question simple quiz,
hoping this would prove that one, is a better fork lift whiz.
Mick sat them inside his office where he could watch the pair,
as they gave answers to this company’s questionnaire.
It’s never pretty telling folks they miss out on being hired.
They can get very angry once they know they’re not required.
I was ushered to the office once a decision’s made.
The losing candidate was Murphy and he was quite dismayed.
Mick explained to Muphy that from twenty questions asked.
“Bjorn and you got nineteen right with the answers you both caste”.
“Why did I lose?” Murphy whined. “It’s a case of being biased,
seeing we got nineteen right; one more would be the highest”.
“That’s your problem Murphy. The question you got wrong was eight,
and after reading both your answers, here’s what sealed your fate”.
Mick gave an explanation looking Murphy in the eye,
“Bjorn’s answer was ‘I don’t know’ - and you wrote ‘neither do I”.
There once lived a woman called Lady-de Leisure, who turned not to men, but food for
pleasure.
She ate everything spicy and sticky and sweet, the poor lady could not even see her poor
feet. From dusk until dawn, all she would do was eat, drink, break wind, burp belch and poo.
But one day whilst eating her thirty fifth pie, the lady burped loudly, keeled over and died.
The funeral had to be held outside, but people they came to say goodbye.
The coffin itself, you’ve never seen bigger. The bearers were three forklift trucks and a
digger.
The hole in the ground was fourteen feet wide, and even then the coffin scraped at the sides.
So if you are thinking about being a lady of leisure, look elsewhere than food solely for
pleasure.
Sammi was crushed in snow and ice,
Under the beam of a forklift truck,
Being driven by her dad on his farm,
Such that her back did break, no luck.
Her physio at Glasgow’s Southern,
Sent her to top Stoke Mandeville,
Because she showed interest in,
Sports and exercise’s cool bevel.
“I thought I’d be in a bed forever.
So, then…a wheelchair was amazing.
Sounds strange, but I was so happy.
Then to find [myself competing]
in sport in my wheelchair, [mega],
has just been incredible, [indelible],
Sport has helped me [lots], hugely,
Helped me to accept it really. [Able].”
Before the accident Sammi played,
Hockey, did gymnastics and ballet,
So disability sports just means that,
She can continue on with her way.
Sammi met Jo Butterfield, club throw,
Whilst in Stoke Mandeville, a click,
And the two of them have become,
The leading Scots athletes thick.
In Swansea at the 2014 Europeans,
Sammi returned with three golds,
One for the 100m, one for the 400m
And another for the 800 metre’s folds.
Then in 2015 in Doha, the Worlds,
She bagged a bronze this time,
And was a star at Rio de Janeiro -
She intends on marathoning fine.
The work I do is not the most prestigious one,
from four to twelve thirty I drive...until my shift is done;
a forklift driver rarely takes a coffee-break,
and being courteous and helpful to customers means a lot.
My long-life dream was to be a songwriter like Andrew Lloyd Webber, but my songs
didn't click...they never made the Top Ten on the Billboard Charts;
and although they didn't sell well to make it my profession, I still hold my thumb up...
that if a famous recording artist performed them, I'd have a huge hit!
My free time is devoted to creating lyrics that I will set to music in late hours;
and I would never be a Mozart, Verdi, or Beethoven if didn't knock on doors
and expose my works to those who would be willing to listen without reluctance...
could one be old and succeed as the young ones with fresher, brighter ideas?
For now, I remain the same blue collar guy coloring more illusive dreams;
many approach me and say," Don't give up...you have plenty of chances!".
I do want to believe that and wear the deserved crown and be lauded as others...
'till my lucky day comes, I must make a living and have the faith of the achievers.
One more Day
Life is pointless, let’s end it all.
I'm not Brad Pitt and you’re not Lauren Bacall.
I drive a forklift and you stack shelves.
We’re only two inches, taller than elves.
End this misery, let’s call it a day.
No reason to live on our monthly pay.
Don’t give me that smile and don’t pat my back.
I’ve nothing to give you, there’s so much I lack.
Don’t bring me coffee and stare in my eyes.
And I won’t bring you flowers, as a surprise.
Stop telling me we can do it, life will change soon.
Stop reaching for the stars - promising the moon.
You know it’s useless, nothing will change.
We’re doomed for mediocrity - is that so strange?
Stop those sparkling eyes and beautiful smile.
We’re poor and we are hungry, bills in a pile.
Don’t cuddle me in bed, to take away the pain.
Don’t be so optimistic when you try to explain.
Life is my burden, it’s weighing me down.
But you stand there smiling, you never frown.
Perhaps tomorrow, will be better than today.
Your love has convinced me, so I promise to stay
more the norm than the exception
in this wonderful capitalist rape room
where coming into work can mean
leaving early without a job & a
pink slip, with a pat on the back & a
“thanks for being such a good worker”---
armed with all the facetious nonsense
that emanates from the mouths of
higher-ups, whose jobs are just a little
more secure than your own,
making them bent further over the table
with the drill shoved so deep up inside
them that you couldn’t pull it out with
a ****ing forklift,
if you even dared to try.
and on the day you come in &
they’ve taken away some of your coworkers,
leaving you “alive” as far as the workforce
goes (for one more day), you feel an odd
sense of guilt & blame, like it should have,
like it could have, like it will be you---
much like on imagines a survivor of a plane
crash sees the deaths of their co-flyers as
a precursor to their own fessing up to
that certainty of mortality,
you close your mouth with a sudden horror---
because these people were your friends,
as far as the workplace is concerned---
you’ve spent hours, weeks & years with
them & their fate has been decided with a
****ing red pen & a greeting at the door
when they were coming in,
because the higher-ups didn’t even have the
goddamned decency to give them a call
prior to the beginning of the work day---
so now, they hang their heads, some cry,
and in the eyes of all of them is a new
terror…a head full of “what am i gonna do?”
adding them to the legions of
america’s growing unemployed---
oh the wonderful “land of the free,”
where you can smile as long as you are
****ing
economically
viable.
tomorrow, they go online to file for
unemployment, to start the hardest job that
there is---
looking
for a
job.
and you miss them.
and you hope the best for them.
and you know the cards are stacked against them.
and you know neither obama or romney is gonna
****ing help them.
and you go to sleep so you can get up in the morning &
go back to the slaughterhouse,
hoping today isn’t your day (always tense & ready for your
time) &
hoping that wherever they are,
that they are ok.
This factory has the bales delivered. Bales of unwanted, disused, thrown about, torn up, ripped and antiquated clothes. Once loved but not now. Bales measured by tonnes. Bales needing the forklift. Bales delivered once a month.
This factory hauls these bales, one at a time, to the factory floor. On the floor they are ripped open and gutted, their blood of clothes oozing across the floor before the cutters. The cutters who take never ending handfuls of this gut to their trolley, to their cutting machine.
This factory slices arms off, rips legs open, carves neck lines off, zippers and buttons slashed away, never to see the pants again. The entire garment scored back to its crude original form. A form of square material. Square material with nothing of interest, unwearable.
And tossed into the empty waiting bag, Waiting to become 15kg of unwearable square slices of material.
This factory fills an empty bag to 15kg, hundreds of 15kg bags. These bags await the drive to a new owner. An owner who’ll love this square rag in a moment. Become intimate with this square in a moment. Sharing this square with oil, grease, dirt, mud, rust, stains and fuels.
Once unloved and unused becomes unwearable to useful and one last spike of intimacy again before the inevitable oblivion takes the rag for the final joy ride.
The rag factory.
A secret is granted
any curb captain
listening.
To speak rarely and
with roots.
Blake wears a hardhat,
drives a forklift for
Metal Products.
Whitman collects
unemployment in the mail.
New words
are mined coal.
They are the drink
from bags,
the suicide in jail,
and
the housekeeper
called only by her first name.
Keeping pace
with a secret at
the speed of light
is the wisdom felt on crowded subways.
The Team.
Here we are in Gayndah town,
The parks are all filled up.
With Caravans and Motor homes,
‘N’ Backpackers trying their luck.
The pickers are around the trees,
And filling Gaypak bins.
As cold and frosty as you please,
They’re picking Mandarins.
When the fruit arrives at Gaypak,
With the staff all ready and able.
The Mandarins are washed and waxed,
And rolled across the sorting table.
This is what to look for,
Sharon tells them one by one.
The number of bins is thirty four,
It’s an average sort of run.
Black Spot, Splits and Sunburn,
Hail damage and Sooty Mould,
Juice the stuff that’s too deformed,
Or whatever can’t be sold.
Karen’s on the packing floor,
From there she runs the show.
She’s the boss and that’s for sure,
So don’t upset the flow.
Aunty Pat she is there,
As Karens’ Two I C.
She checks that all is run to plan,
Without her where’d they be.
The pattern packers work away,
Under the watchful eye.
Of Sharon ‘n’ Gayle in the day,
And Elaine and Linda at night.
The forklift drivers as we know,
Work with skill and speed.
Up and down, to and fro,
Always they are in need.
At Gaypak they’re a cheerful lot,
They talk and laugh and joke.
Even when it’s bloody hot,
But they are conscientious folk.
When knock-off time comes around.
There’s one who wont be late.
Speedy Gwenda will be found,
To be the first one out the gate.
Afternoon shift takes the reins,
They carry on the work.
Without a break they step right in,
The fruit, they’re here to sort.
We can praise the workers all we want,
And praise the management too.
But nothing works and nothing moves,
Without the maintenance crew .
All in all this is the team,
Of which they can be proud.
That sorts and packs, and sends,
The fruit, all around the world.
One day a skinny pole was wading through the swamp when it happened upon a typhoon resting by a small tree. Oh hello said the pole to the typhoon. What are you doing by there? Should you not be up in the air. Kaleidoscopic silver flames fan the resulting fires. And the golden cup smiles in sheer contentment at the auric display. But wading is not walking nor waltzing. And stuffing aprons with nuts, jam and jelly is not a wise idea and nor is it clever either. Without sitting down attempt to carry a mop across a diamond studded floor. Raised ridges rather rudely risk rivers. And a dormant hillside snows like an atomic aroma. Such a diversion sign giggling in a playing field.how rather entertaining that is. But butter buttons breastplates. And a nine millimetre pistol weaponry shield can lift the heaviest armour. What a conceited nightmare. What a complete cake collapse. What a mess. Now must tidy up with a fork. But no forklift truck today. Too busy. Ok then good. Quiet not a questioning quotation mark. And a percentage will be silenced with the thud of one acre of hob nail boot. Hahaha finger puff pastry in lines leaping. Haha silly said sausage singing songs xxxxx morphology Z Z Z Z
4% mnm
Mountainous syllables can never really tread lightly across a rope bridge. But living in a cabbage house is fantastic fun for many leaves make many rooms and many rooms make much rubbish. Don't trip over the staircases. Nor the bins. Nor the fireplaces. Be safe in an oceanographic breeze. It is often wise to counter count. And never leave a leaf door ajar. Ok? Good. Fodder not a fried fish. Especially when driving a forklift truck. Ponder not the wonder of a damsel on a butterfly couch. How very sedate! But neither seductive nor secretive for serpentines are often deceptively shark like. Particularly when partially shaded by a curtain. Pull shut then open to reveal. Wow such revelational defects. How quite ornate. And a man in a suit with a small briefcase is often as round as a round house. No spring in a portly framed partridge. But carrying a cartridge through the airspaces can bring a ship to life. Smiling. Waves kiss the sides. And sailors play swan lake on harmonicas and violins for the dusk often brings dust. And to halt is to delay only for points are gained by talking treadmill like in large halls with lecterns'. Drink then. Capsicum rice flavoured juice creates much lemon spittle. How rather remarkable are the quotes from the pickled saged cavern dwellers in yachts awaiting the demise of development. The continuation of a fluctuation is a fascination for a fattened form. And so the bead arrives on slightly bended knee in a small sixteenth century chapel. Hum not a tune of trotting uniforms and hooves. No haha to that. It is merely a zero percent of a demonic deficit sweep. Swimmingly seemingly surpassing swamps. And a door swinging happily. Haha jumping jamming junipers. Hahaha statutory static void. Hahahaha xx pea leap. Xxxxx monopolistic Z with the p y q. 89.0. Xzx
A Quote by: Saint Augustine
Truth is like a Lion, you don't have to defend it, let it loose, it will defend itself.
Layers upon layers of deceit, when we practice duplicity
we lose the way of authentic self;
When truth has been buried within the walls of denial,
the soul suffers great loss;
Ask a child or an old one if they know truth when they see it
ask yourself this,
Can a bushel of light hide underneath a barrel
without bursting out from the cracks?
Drive the forklift of truth, take it to the penthouse
for lying will only keep you in the jailhouse of suffering
Truth is best served warm, with compassion and empathy
be as true to yourself and others, as you can.
Six months
crazy crazy crazy. they said
man "you have to be crazy
shes 6 months pregnant man
whats wrong man''cant you see
the words of my friends
as they try to get me to understand
that how can i love a girl
who has been left pregnant by another man
OK" this is how the story began at the home deport
I was at work in the lumber department
had just walk over to the ply wood aisle
after spotting Eric on the forklift to get a crate of cement
So i was putting away some PT lumber
when i heard a gentle sweet voice says "can you help me
and when i turn around there was this pregnant girl
and she was so beautiful but her face were unhappy
So I said " sure how can I help you
She had a voice that was so soft and sweet
She had black wavy shoulder length hair
And an angel face with red lips that looks so sweet
She then started to tell me with her beautiful voice
That she wanted help with getting a piece of ply
And if I can cut two pieces for her
And which is the better one to buy
I did everything to make her very happy
And make her feel appreciated at the home Deport
So I told her Congratulations with the baby
And I started to walk away to isle 24
Then I stop and said " let me help with the cart
And would also help you put it in your car outside
After I close the car door I said your husband will help you at home
When I said that she let's out all the tears she was trying to hide
She was left by her boyfriend after he got her pregnant
And for the six months she was making it on her own
And she told me everything about her life story
And I told her from today you are not alone
And I give her my number " and said
Call me or text me anytime day or night
Anytime you feel alone and wants to talk
And she smile wipe her eyes and said " all right
Three days past and I didn't heard from her
But while at work at the home Deport she was on my mind
I sweep the aisle and flat stack the lumber
But still I keep thinking of her all the time
Then late one night I got a call from her
And she was crying and said "she feels so alone
And how she hope I didn't mind she calling me
So late while I am at my home
continue on six months part 2
4% mnm
Mountainous syllables can never really tread lightly across a rope bridge. But living in a cabbage house is fantastic fun for many leaves make many rooms and many rooms make much rubbish. Don't trip over the staircases. Nor the bins. Nor the fireplaces. Be safe in an oceanographic breeze. It is often wise to counter count. And never leave a leaf door ajar. Ok? Good. Fodder not a fried fish. Especially when driving a forklift truck. Ponder not the wonder of a damsel on a butterfly couch. How very sedate! But neither seductive nor secretive for serpentines are often deceptively shark like. Particularly when partially shaded by a curtain. Pull shut then open to reveal. Wow such revelational defects. How quite ornate. And a man in a suit with a small briefcase is often as round as a round house. No spring in a portly framed partridge. But carrying a cartridge through the airspaces can bring a ship to life. Smiling. Waves kiss the sides. And sailors play swan lake on harmonicas and violins for the dusk often brings dust. And to halt is to delay only for points are gained by talking treadmill like in large halls with lecterns'. Drink then. Capsicum rice flavoured juice creates much lemon spittle. How rather remarkable are the quotes from the pickled saged cavern dwellers in yachts awaiting the demise of development. The continuation of a fluctuation is a fascination for a fattened form. And so the bead arrives on slightly bended knee in a small sixteenth century chapel. Hum not a tune of trotting uniforms and hooves. No haha to that. It is merely a zero percent of a demonic deficit sweep. Swimmingly seemingly surpassing swamps. And a door swinging happily. Haha jumping jamming junipers. Hahaha statutory static void. Hahahaha xx pea leap. Xxxxx monopolistic Z with the p y q. 89.0. Xzx
7/27/17
Going into light and dark places
With a steady pulse or as my heart races
What in tarnation
I see so much greed and starvation
Here to change the world
Whether or not using objects that are straight or curled
I'll still give it a whirl
Maintaining composure
It's far from over
But getting closer
Similar and varying degrees
The will to succeed
Knowing I shall bleed
I won't give up so long as I can still breathe
In and out of orbit
This is no horseshit
I'm not going to forfeit
I'm all game for it
Whether or not I have to use a forklift