Best Foundry Poems
It’s been a day, brother, it’s been a day.
I’m ridiculous for lack of content,
All my plot holes are on display.
Am I doing OK? Am I having a day?
I can’t get a call back. I sat on a thumb tack.
It woke up my skinny white ass.
I’m mad in the morning. I’m angry afternoons.
I’m ornery as hell. I’m bloody pissed, as well,
And sick of the puddler’s stupid drama:
“We’re down by the bow and headed for the bottom.
There’s gonna be a ruckus, boys, so smoke ‘em if you got ‘em.”
Good lord, it’s just clinker and slag.
All the king’s horses are slovenly nags.
Nothing but losers and misfits
Posing as rakes and roues.
Like red beans in chili con carne
Causing gas bending over the blarney.
I re-organize the hectic and recognize the stone.
And yet, because my truss work was contrived
Of wrought iron, rather than steel,
It resisted corrosion while exposed to the storm.
Though I’ve been ghosted and gas-lit,
Led around like a halfwit,
I still miss Jenny Wren’s chrysanthemum smile,
And I'll always have a thing for Amber Rose.
So, I’m mailing my love to Azerbaijan.
Baka, Baku, it isn’t Shikoku,
But it sometimes makes me smile.
And I thank my clerestory windows,
They let in the light and vent out the heat,
Affording me the grace to do my job.
What is… inherent,
what’s not… implied
Epiphanous moments
—waiting inside
(Bryn Mawr College: January, 2021)
Larks are ascending funnels of sky,
songs smoke from enteral chimneys.
In an industrial park a fine Autumn light
burns bright.
Shoes fill with walkers,
we are out and praising
the clanking machinery,
for we are all leaves
in the same furnace.
What we suppose
to be sleep and decline
is a wooded factory, a whittle and grind
gearing-up for an over-spilling,
a bundling color-filled season,
one that will in time
hammer snow out of spoilage.
The Larks are trilling,
they rise to the top of their voices.
Conveyer belts of cooling hymns
are ready to be parceled and sent,
addressed graphically:
'Return to Sender.'
“For he shatters the doors of bronze and cuts in two the bars of iron.” — Psalm 107:16
The foundry's quiet as a catacomb as I open up doors alone,
the furnace quiet in the back, molding cars still on their tracks.
Products of our previous toil, blood sweat, tears, and maybe oil.
Walking through a habit learned, do not touch lest one get burned.
Footsteps echo on the grates; I pass behind the tank of hate.
The lake of fire all contained, bound by steel and God's domain.
The water runs both day and night, keeping hell inside its shell,
for if the raging beast escapes, the iron bends. And the concrete breaks.
Stifling heat caress my lungs, within the path of grit,
it takes my breath and begs my soul—submit.
As I make my way into the yard, stumble on some steely shards,
skids and forklifts standing by; they look at me and ask me why?
The heavy doors announce a groan, the peace of man who walks alone.
The lights ignite the blackened pits, of auto cast and rust and grit.
And in the back, the beast awaits, the men of iron beyond the gates.
Coward of the Meltdeck
Far out across the distant hills, the angry sky sparked red,
A violent shade of violet as thunder woke the dead.
Pitch-black against the midnight sky, the clouds lost all control,
Unleashing all the fury of the heavens down below.
I skirted from the warehouse to the safety of the melt,
Before the marbles poised as raindrops and cooler air were felt.
From the safety of the black dirt and heat from yesterday,
I gazed upon my heaven's wrath, afraid to look away.
The storm outside kept raging on, the foundry windows shook,
Until the coward of the meltdeck dared a second look.
And just as quickly as it came thundering into town,
The wrath of heaven disappeared, and quiet settled down.
I softly thanked my Lord for such an ominous display,
And then I thanked Him once again for taking them away.
I walk the halls of ghosts.
Of all who came before.
The memories of the foundry floor
Reverberate in my mind.
I remember silhouettes of friends;
See them smiling there.
I see toolbags, slung up on their backs.
Hear their crazy laughs.
Their grunts of strain. Their eyes in pain. As bolts found home.
As my mind wanders these halls, still entrenched in work,
Thoughts loop large to previous days.
Wishing for days gone by—to reach and grab a piece.
Stuck in the here and now—more in back than in front.
Training new by old. Futures to reveal.
Fresh hands to shake, and smiles to share...
Toolbags of their own.
Perhaps a sign of times, as future comes and goes.
Perhaps a sentimental fool in hallways, I suppose.
- Debra
So God sends us an angel every now and then,
As you struggle to find your path with a heart that's on the mend.
My beacon in the night sweats in the foundry heat,
And usually sneaks upon you with tarsaled aching feet.
A stocky Venezuelan, a man that we called Bear,
Is certainly annoying with his finger jabs and stares,
Always calling me the "boss" whenever I lost hope.
To glance upon his face, there just was no disguise:
A genuine look of caring had settled in his eyes.
An unexpected saving grace from the demons in my midst.
He came to sit with me as my healing mind took root,
Grasping for reality amidst the foundry soot,
Shaking from absurdity a quaking quiver known,
Keeping darkness in its place till my footing had found home.
He may have called me boss, but the Bear holds candlelight,
Single-handedly stood with me as demons tried their might.
As angels always go, with others they must tend,
The candle-toting Bear must go home again.
So, leaving foundry friends and pain behind, he went where he belongs,
And shared that massive flame.
To the wife of worldly Bear, I hope that you will see
That God sends us an angel as we stumble to our knees.
He is a true friend of mine, of that there is no doubt,
And I'm glad to have known him in these foundry cindered walls,
Working alongside him, a depression that takes leave,
Bear, focused on my healing as I left the devil's lair.
I wish the very best to both,
May you always have happiness within your years betrothed.
Take care, buddy!