Best Smokestack Poems
Not in tea leaves, in shoelaces tie existence--their harsh and meshing material
bound, tethered, undone with a gentle pull.
The bunny ears
and clumsy fingers bouncing along the faux-marble
hallways: the future politicians and CEO's and poets
wiping caked mucus on the white-washed brick foundations--
babbling babbling babbling babbling.
A blood-stone bed surge of tidal maturation,
soon to be lost in the variant eddies of life;
the finger-painted puzzle-box open and unsolvable.
Their parents, for they are honorable, as
picket-fences are honorable, as
tracksuits are honorable, as
Zoloft is honorable, sit ajar
on school streets of vibrant myriad cars quietly dilapidating
behind Armor-All dashes. Old ladies waving dutifully
at lifeless lawn ornaments like lifeless lawn ornaments soon themselves in front of homes because
the youth only want something old when it's time to marry,
Googling what the heart feels for the occasion.
Smokestack color windows of depreciating souls searching drunken
down the glossy oak
bar through bent light of whiskey glasses and broken values
they blame on Nietzsche and the price of condoms,
finding a sad reflection seated at this world's dampened end to spread
like ashen snow
again and again and again on sweat-stained futons,
after the lurch toward the water, sloppy with kisses
and lace.
Church bells sound off one and two
O! clock tower
marching Heaven to Hell but got lost in Devil's Lake. They do not hear
the beaten shopping cart radio wobbling like a tripodal Dog,
telling us Jesus stayed inside because White is translucent in the rain.
But,
the wander-footed waywards, leaden eyed, tranced in droning hums of small town streetlights--
or red red copper hangers
or lucid jaundice confessions
or gangrenous light-slivered closets--
break half-empty
beer bottles on familial-faced slogans plastered to an under-bellied bridge and sway
like ebbing wind on the unsure-step shore banks, drooping wasp legs
over the ever-rising precipice
to vein-rush Hellgrammite powder
with their one remaining shoelace
and leave their shoes behind.
Categories:
smokestack, home, old, lost, lost,
Form:
Free verse
truth steeped in lies is no truth at all - wind collaborates with smokestack
3/27/2019
Categories:
smokestack, judgement,
Form:
Monoku
Energy’s Suffocating Gallop
by Odin Roark
Ancient blood soaked sand
Plumes its sticky residue
Beneath rapacious hooves
Dust storms of evil stampeding beside pipelines
Goad flow to tankers
Where ubiquitous black gold addiction
Steers toward pervasive profit-docks
Behind sweat lathered greed
Winds of historic baggage
Tether their historic words and song
Blessings and curses
Exciting swirling vortexes
Windmills of molten fire
Entitlement’s rape and pillage of breath
Of pores once absorbing purity
Evil’s global bubble
Appearing as mankind'
Robed in white zealotry
The blinded hawk-minds
Embrace the Middle East predatory contaminant
Wallowing in solipsistic riches forgotten
Awake only to pick tomorrow’s gluttonous prey
The world turns on turbine propulsion
With oceans bowing to its slavery
Delivering liquid smokestack suffocation
Silent killers preparing ghosts
Of time’s new-century-plague
Ignored
As oil gorged tankers find port
Release their pandemic sleight of hand
A destruction as innocent as rabbits from a hat
Charms the ignorant
Beguiles the wannabes
Wheeled transport
Delivers the demise of children’s hearts
Left to take a number
Unaware there is no lottery
Only loser-consciousness
Adult indulgence clinging desperately
To evil’s mane and tail
As it whips gullible eyes
Into cataract submission
Alien life hovers above
Grieving the minions destined
To find black energy’s ashen dust
Sprinkling its fool’s gold
Upon a barren planet
Categories:
smokestack, political,
Form:
Free verse
28 Cracks In The Ceiling
I take my red-inked dagger in hand
And succinctly spew its secrets for all to see.
28 cracks in the ceiling, and I lost count.
There’s a storm moving out of the west.
I can smell the thunder and
The titillating turbulence of tintinnabulation.
An old lady sits cross-legged and knitting,
Waiting for the sweating sun to sink.
“I was just a girl in 1925… and now…”
The endless strained faces out there
Tell stories of death, disease and depravity.
They know the eternal worm is the other one
In this passion triangle.
28 cracks in the ceiling, and I lost count.
Snakes frothing in suburbia.
The megabytes of Zanzibar jettison out naked bone chips.
Later months and trivial dimes.
Smokestack realizations in a tent.
Church buttresses holding up my whining soul.
Green Edsels down in San Pedro.
Michelobs and round sassy broads fingering erect nipples.
With a Susie in each arm
He lights a cigarette in honor of grand appeasement.
Sensuous sinews entwine effervescently.
More loose chicks in short skirts,
Pouting and scamming.
Times are hot in the old town tonight.
Music and misery, wine and wickedness.
Stubborn clocks disarm with water-resistant influx.
I was a princox in petticoats.
We met at a Tastee Freez at twilight.
28 cracks in the ceiling, and I lost count.
Categories:
smokestack, confusion, old, lost, lost,
Form:
Dramatic Monologue
The restless night had ended
abruptly. Caught between dreams and
consciousness, the town was arching towards
the sprinkled light of dawn. A perpetual regularity
reigned over the dusty path that led wayfarers and commuters
alike in and out of this forgotten cluster of humanity. Somewhere
out there, a man cursed, and, as if to answer, a woman laughed. A
repetitive metallic clang—the whines of an iron plate being hammered upon an anvil—
twisted with a dog's tedious, short barking to form a discordant ladder of dread, telling how the day might turn out. Punctuating that were the weary shouts of
the night guard. An advice. A message. “Awake! Morning is here.” “Awake!
Morning is here.” A woman walked beside countless others in a long, silent
procession. Steps measured and heavy, hardly disturbing the dirt, eyes ever
forward, locked at the sunrise. Life hadn't been kind to her. At forty-five she
looked sixty. It was just her luck that age had been frivolous enough to come
early, and sketch a crude lesson at cubism across the pages of her skin. The
grey streams on her hair had become a roaring river of high
monsoon. The frozen, dark pools of her eyes had given way
to the smokestack dullness. On that day, like the day prior,
she had woken up with honks of a garbage truck out on the
street and drunk the cheap, inky tea that she
had made for herself and her son.
Bathing under a valveless tap, she
had put on her helmet, and set out.
The siren from the jute mill had blared
with an obscene loudness and promise.
She had to answer. She squared her shoulders
and trudged on, reeling back into the open maw of her
her slow, almost languid death, like a cassette on rewind.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Date: 31 / 12 / 2016
Categories:
smokestack, aubade, death, humanity, life,
Form:
Concrete
Memories Of The Sydney Tram
This fabulous road transport vehicle had it's humble beginnings
in the 1880s, were horses pulled the double-decker trams along
the various streets of Sydney, they moved pretty slow and the
people wanted to move at a much faster pace.
Soon to follow was the steam tram, although a faster alternative
it would cause all sorts of problems, especially the black soot
which came from the smokestack, this would never do.
It was approaching the turn of the century, in the 1900's
along came the cable tram, were the cable ran through a slot in the
middle of the lines giving the tram it's available traction, although
a lot faster than the horse and more than a match to a steam tram
in clean street running, it was not until the first of the electric trams
came into service, that people were satisfied.
Trams had a marvellous ability to move large numbers of people
from the racetracks and the showgrounds where they had the Royal
Easter Show, they were environmentally friendly and the people
loved them, all except the Government and the Oil Companies of the
time, they envisioned the future of transportation to be made up of
fossil fuel burning cars and buses, yes it would seem there was no
room on the streets for the people's friend, the humble tramcar.
Trams came and went until the 1950's, when plans were made to scrap
Sydney's greatest asset, the trams, when 1960 approached there was
hardly anything left of our great tramway system, and in 1961,
Sydney's last two trams made their final run into history, it would appear
the Government and Oil Companies had won the battle or so it seemed
until the late 1990's when a move to bring trams back was achieved and
they now run from Central station like their early predecessors,
running around Darling Harbor almost like a parody of what they once
were, still who knows what role the tram may have for Sydney's future.
Categories:
smokestack, history,
Form:
Narrative
Last Train Runnin’
For Bob Dylan
The nickel-plated moon howled outside my window like a bullet missing from its sleeve
A lyric tore through the autumn wind on a smokestack through the trees
Like a ghost that whispers metaphors and won’t tell you what they mean
It fades into a whisper while you’re stuck with what you’ve seen
It was a song about a storyteller with a verse about the past
Hung long inside my restless mind and hid in shadows cast
The metal grinding six-string guitar like wheels on the tracks
A songster told of flights and journeys playin’ down the facts
I rose so slow from my humid sleep sat stone still on the bed
I just let that smokestack lightning ring inside my head
That blues harp whistle horizon deep, rumbled, then it rolled
Like that midnight hour at crossroads’ edge Robert Johnson lost his soul
I heard union men and the coal-black din of ******* on the road
Capos working a child to death, and never payin’ what they owed
I heard a folksinger storyteller whisper dreams inside his sleep
Hand out lighting from a whisky bottle with lyrics meant to keep
Its melody was awful sweet as that train rode through the dark
And the music from that locomotive left these visions on my heart
I saw lonesome hobos warm their hands saw travelin’ roads-men too
Saw Mississippi John leaving home before his song was through
Now that singing storyteller made me rise and through my window peer
I loved the sound that whistle made, the music I could hear
I looked through the high lonesome sound that made that whistle cry
I saw a train on the edge of midnight, I saw Woody Guthrie wave goodbye
Categories:
smokestack, poetry,
Form:
Ballad
Floating in the river, there are
Chunks and bits of ice,
Lazily meandering,
Their journey imprecise.
The water’s gray, the sky is blue;
A smokestack bellows white.
An early morning winter walk
Such eyeings do invite.
The promenade belongs to me;
Manhattan’s yet to stir.
The neighborhood is mine alone;
The pigeons would concur.
Categories:
smokestack, city, morning, winter,
Form:
Rhyme
They unload life’s lead
into unseen enemies
machine gun memories
flying rapid fire
recollections and musings
spent shells amassing
mental turbines spinning
smoking the room.
And they yawn and doodle
ink stains for amusement
their purpose loosened
without caffeine courage
meetings adjourned
aimless wandering down
immaculate hallways
wounded reflections
in thoughtless pursuit
of quiet relief.
And they nod gingerly
with grim understanding
lives in the balance
teetering on a wire
as the bird careens
by the smokestack
somehow in
silent recognition
of lives interrupted.
(click on picture for Angst & Anger)
Categories:
smokestack, addiction, recovery from,
Form:
Free verse
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Categories:
smokestack, nonsense,
Form:
Vogon Poetry
Lincoln Special
Abraham Lincoln’s Funeral Train
Ma, pa, and I dressed in our Sunday outfit, excited for the “Lincoln Special” to come up the track as we stand at the train depot.
After departing Washington, D.C., on April 21, 1865, the black-draped train bearing President Abraham Lincoln’s coffin, spent nearly two weeks winding its way through 180 cities and seven states before reaching the assassinated president’s burial site in his hometown of Springfield, Illinois.
Buck boards and horses with their riders running by dust clouds form, covering everything with dust, I sigh. Making us use our handkerchiefs as we cough and pace beads of perspiration causing tiny streams down my brow and face leaving thin streaks in the brown dust.
A great swell of the blackest charcoal smoke billowing smokestack, whistle blowing steel wheels against the rail cause a braking, screeching, vibrating sound; locomotive coming up the rail into view, like a charging black rhino. A massive moving machine, carrying Abraham Lincoln, a fantastic sight to take in.
Many made the journey to pay their respects.
“Lincoln Special” also served as a publicity boon for George Pullman, who lent the use of his new, luxurious sleeping cars for the comfort of passengers traveling from Chicago to Springfield after Lincoln’s burial, orders took off for Pullman’s sleepers, which featured polished black walnut interiors, chandeliers and marble washstands and made overnight travel much more enticing for passengers.
11/9/2021
Railroads, A Historical Glance Back Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: BJ Legros Kelley
Categories:
smokestack, political, presidents day, tribute,
Form:
Free verse
Riverboat on the Mississippi
Folks dining on scrimp, grits, and cornbread
Drinking booze and gambling like crazy
Going to Bourbon Street just ahead
Down in that Cajun Queen, New Orleans
The big paddle wheel keeps on rolling
Down to the Cajun Queen of the Gulf
Where the real money is unfolding
And a thousand green bucks is small stuff
Down in that Cajun Queen, New Orleans
The big paddle wheel keeps on churning
Black coal keeps that steam boiler humming
Noxious fumes from the smokestack blowing
Nightlife on Bourbon Street is jumping
Down in that Cajun Queen, New Orleans
Cathedral spires standing very tall
Off Canal, near downtown Bourbon Street
Near a hotel by a shopping mall
Where folk are getting some daytime sleep
Down in that Cajun Queen, New Orleans
They wait for night, ‘til just after dark,
To find the places of blues, jazz, and rap
A swamp of raunchy acts, joints, and bars
Folk can get caught like mice in a trap
Down in that Cajun Queen, New Orleans
Categories:
smokestack, city, river, sin, travel,
Form:
Rhyme
Feelings of despair dredged from the murky dephths of my past
Hoisted through my corroded conscience's porthole
Reconnoitering barge of restitution pushes despondent thoughts through my inner being
Then tows the shame and guilt of my depraved condition to mind's hatch
The murky dross of yesterday's sins seeps deep into my addled psche
The residual guilt oppresses my soul
The brackish bilge of cankerous jealousies trolls through my grieving spirit
My trembling hands grasp the anchor of remorse but slip into the deeper moor of penance
Earlier missteps have my struggling feet sinking ever deeper in the quicksand of hopelessness
The smokestack spews nautious fumes from the froward deeds of my virile youth
My shaky rudder teeters as the raw sewage of past debauchery overwhelms my senses
Sailing my sinking yacht to the edge of sanity and rational existence
Carried along by the unsettling currents of inconstancy and vacillation
Docking in the harbor of reclamation and recompense
Categories:
smokestack, allegory, depression,
Form:
Free verse
Picture This
Your body contains eight hundred
Trillion trillion Carbon atoms.
And that’s not just
Hyperbolic hype!
What is even more astounding is…
That one in eight of those carbon atoms
Recently was expelled as pollution
From a smokestack or exhaust pipe!
(adapted from the book “YOUR ATOMIC SELF” by Curt Stager)
Categories:
smokestack, adventure, appreciation, body, change,
Form:
Didactic
Standing on the top of the cliffs, overlooking : Melancholy Sound
The ominous black whistle of a Fairy tale; Princess Cruise Ship
In the light of blind LOVE, a smokestack wails as the smell of Death ; Abounds
The groaning ebony whistle, evaporates into the Portals of the past
Leaving the image of Everlasting LOVE written in the sky by the Golden Rays of the Sun
I walk away leaving my Reminiscing behind
Inspired by Janette Fisher’s Contest : “ Sounds Familiar “
Categories:
smokestack, death, lost love, love,
Form:
Free verse