Best Industrial Poems
Santa stood in the warehouse
Full of nearly empty shelves
Last night they’d been ram raided
By a bunch of discontented elves
Recently infiltrated and recruited
Into an association of packing staff
Whose ideas and demands and wants
Caused Santa to cynically laugh.
He could have held out for longer
That much was very clear
But the clever blighters
Had subverted his reindeer
To make matters even worse
Pushing poor Santa to the edge
The blighters had gone and clamped
His only working sledge
Only thirty days to Christmas
He knew of no other way
Than to meet their demands
For increased shift working pay
He’d do what it took
To bring things back on track
And ensure he had enough
To fill his mammoth sack
He reached for the Gordon’s
For one last large stiff gin
Then went to arbitration
With a forced and fixed grin
The shop floor view of the newly promoted
Oh to be the factory foreman and to wear a posh white coat
Just the thought of all that power brings a lump right to your throat
No more dirty hands or hob nail boots or boiler suits for you
No more rushing through your break time just relax and drink your brew
Carrying your briefcase, there’s no need for you to hide it
We all know that like your head there’s not a lot inside it
With your clipboard and your pencil you can wander round the site
Whilst assuming great authority you put us workers right
You believe we are in awe of you and hold you in esteem
If that is what you really think your living in a dream
We have seen all your back stabbing and we don’t know how you sleep
Everybody knows you as a sycophantic creep
We heard you telling everyone in the works canteen
That you now had access to the managers latrine
It’s true that for promotion you were first past the post
Yet the workers here all see you as a bigger pratt than most
We have read all your new rules and how we face the sack
We are all in the union and we’ll be fighting back
Don’t go thinking as a foreman that your future is secured
Your about to be upended by a young smart-arsed shop steward
During the United States’ industrial revolution,
Eli Whitney invented interchangeable parts;
Identical components that could be substituted one for another.
This creation was made for machine—
weapons
cars
and other mechanical mysteries.
This isn't the case today.
Hips are interchangeable.
Legs are interchangeable.
Hands and fingers are interchangeable.
Hearts are interchangeable.
Now, not only with man,
but also with machine.
I can’t imagine it will be long before
software updates are reprogramming us,
instead of the devices we hold in our hands.
That we electrocute when wet,
and overheat when used for a long duration of time.
That we can recharge by cord
and turn on and off with the simple click of a button.
A small advancement, interchangeable parts were,
yet they contributed to further blurring the lines
between man and machine.
billy joel...keeping the faith...memories...so long ago
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ph7oZnBH05s&start_radio=1&list=RDph7oZnBH05s#t=0
stan sand
At the Depot
As the snow flies, on a cold and grey December dawn
to waiting homes no mails are borne
from the depot.
Phil Bloggs, a mailman, scans the news
but his screwed up tabloid gives him the blues
saying 'To compromise both sides refuse,'
at the depot.
Hark! Foxes, stray cats, rats, critters all.
though humans languish, have a ball
in the depot.
On letters, parcels and Christmas boxes
little mice play, as do foxes.
Such a sight you never saw.
as stray dogs chew and rodents gnaw
in the depot.
What fleshpots in sealed parcels beckon
hungry vermin, who can reckon
in the depot?
What meaty dish, what luscious pie
teeters in a box stacked high?
No robber cries 'stand and deliver'
though many freeze and many shiver.
Phil Bloggs turns to another page
and what he reads puts him in rage
in the depot.
For guns and rockets billions go through
but for impoverished nurses barely a sou
in the ghetto.
Enfolded in nature, we deliberately stand apart
Lurking heavily on industrial achievement
Luring generations to beckon towards the light
That man made idolatry of machine machine
Raging capitalism spleen from Darwin's dream
In intangible regime is impossible to wean
Sucking at the fountain of corporate stream'
Prospects hover in gluttonous parasitic attachment
As layers of process separate human from source
Government zoning forces the management of crude estates
While paper weights stagnate the make up of landless ingrates
Into the sunset we’ll ride
And we’ll see how much you’ve grown
By the last words you choose to leave behind
We can pretend that heaven denied you
because you found your own path
We can pretend that we all don’t know what’s really going on there
A novel of lies,
Read it and weep
Read it and weep
If wishes were horses, beggars would ride
And it’s easier to rule with silence than to silence the ruler
And it’s an easy ride into the sunset when all your bridges are still intact
And it’s much harder to see the ashes of hell with your head in the clouds
But it’s so unsurprising to see you comforting yourself with a novel of lies
You know that if wishes were horses, beggars would ride
Standing there like a lemon
Thoughts too sour to protect your tower of porcelain
Such sweet irony to know you’re crumbling under that mask
A scroll full of ink of your behaviors that could be their own disorders
Read it and weep
Read it and weep until you crack
Wouldn’t it be nice if we all had genies in our pockets
Karma in a bottle, you gotta harness it the right way
It’s unsurprising you choose spite
Over learning about yourself
A nobel prize winner of carefully woven lies
But you know if wishes were horses, beggars would ride
Into the sunset, away from the burning ashes of your obvious end of the line
Santa's reindeer's decided to strike
So poor Santa was forced to hitchhike
He struggled with his load
But made it to the road
Along came a cyclist on a bike.
Santa said "any chance of a lift
Cos I've got all these presents to shift”
It then started to snow
And the bike wouldn't go
Then shot forward straight into a drift.
The army took pity on his plight
And gave up their partying that night
The Presents got delivered
With the cold they all shivered
And many got struck down with frost bite.
Written 29th November 2018.
rusted, busted, inorganically crop-dusted
hand-made on our very own assembly-line
low-flying tear-crying, cut-rate-buying
fair-trade-priced, but still...real fine
garment sweat-shop, Tex-Mex field crop,
Civilization Inc. prophets chanting it up
workin' twelve hour days 'til you drop
drinking Cool-(Inc.)-aid from corporate cup
the ol' family farm is right in the box
ol' Bessie's mooing fer all she's worth
sounding par per share of preferred stocks
increasing quarterly statements net girth
consume we must, as our numbers grow larger
we're either counted victor or the victuals
we consume awhile or face early departure
incorporating civilization's declared rituals
how many human souls can one world hold?
how many other species get a place here too?
how can we temper our needs uncontrolled?
how can we help Mother Earth get through?
© Goode Guy 2012-02-11
An Occurrence in New York at 4.45 pm on March 25th, 1911
True faith, liberty, the flag, our holy soil!
Is it the cause that grants the martyr’s crown?
Should martyrs owe this crown to tyrants or some evil foe?
Are banality, indifference and callousness less cruel?
Anno Domini nineteen eleven was the year,
(on Annunciation Day according to the Church),
Greenwich Village in New York the place,
an overcrowded sweatshop on a ninth floor the scene,
a quarter to five on Saturday, the Sabbath, the hour,
when it befell, ‘it’ being in this case, as the annals state,
‘the worst industrial accident’ this great city ever knew.
The culprit was probably an unextinguished cigarette
thrown nonchalantly into a bin of discarded bits of cloth.
One hundred and forty-six young workers, mostly women,
realized too late their hopeless plight. Hopeless, but why?
Their employers, with healthy profits and public order in mind,
to prevent the pilfering of garments and skiving before five,
prudently kept all exits from the shop floor firmly locked.
A young man and his girlfriend embraced before they leapt.
It was anonymity for the rest,
no parting dirge or priest to bless,
unlike Saint Joan suffering at the stake
Forgotten, did they suffer less?
Load her up he said
And it started without dread
We need to get it done
Until the job is finally won
But he got in the way
And lost his life that day
Flatten by 4 tonne stressed concrete
Meant his life was complete
So if you are transporting slabs
Over roads that are bad
Ensure that you chain them down
And when unloading without a frown
Be careful in the end should be your final say
Industrial accidents won't happen and it will be OK.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Thick smoke sick rising
into the stormy iron-gray sky
industrial gears and pistons
grinding eternity…
Lightning lances arcane
weathervanes over
a filthy antiquated metropolis!
Wondering!
a wandering of souls at midnight hearts
rising to a dirty sky a tower of Crimson, high...
With dark and narrow windows, fly!
Built to last on desires of a Beauty
build to last, shadowing.
Divinity is a place serene in my dreams
an alternate realities
the place I find deep in twilight
a place far, far from the Hidden White
in the secret, scared hours
as industrial smoke climbs high
into a bruised broken sky
thick, graying to black rising
into a storm ominous sky...
a cruel
industry,
something promising...
trees in industrial park
equals industrial park
Beauty of Nature can't hide
machinery of dead souls
Once, the sounds of industry,
giant leather belts squealing,
gears grinding, endless pounding,
steam billowing, strong aromas
emanated from factories holding
the dangerous machine beasts,
tended by, tired,malnourished,
men, women and children
shackled to their charges
by chains of poverty
Big bucks being made/weapons sales contracts, slush fund/death big business