Best Warehouse Poems
320 has a great bunch working there
They show a lot pride they really care
I personally don't consider any of this work, to me it's all fun
Sweat already pouring from the Warehouse heat and the morning sun
Daine and Nathaniel welcome to a great team
We cover one another on tasks in Warehouse 317
We have the mother of all mothers coming our way soon
Enough fun coming to make you wanna bark at the moon
I am looking forward to the thirty thousand guests
So let's wipe the sweat from our brows and make it look effortless
Monique is going to miss out on this great adventure, Zena is now the one caught in between
Local Purchase stop pulling your hair out, what a great place called Warehouse 317
There is Hezakiah handling the turn ins
He has to be careful and watch the NSN's
Glen handles the Turretts and parts to the shops
Without Wonda and Michael, the production stops
Gabrielle is the Goddess of the Hazmat
Shipping is now on cruise control with Doug there, but we all wear so many different hats
Jerry is the main director of this sometimes circus scene
Under our wonderful big top at Warehouse 317
A manager is only as good as her or his people allow them to be
I am thankful for all who I work with and my extended family
I love where I work and I am so happy to come there every day
All this fun and very good pay
DRMO is handled by Elsa and Fred
This is where all the useless parts are sent
The Carpenter Shop has Jason
That is where they do the packaging and craten'
Tom runs the show at Container Ops
David is in charge of the Turrett Shop
The mechanics have the vehicles coming in and going out at a tremendous rate
The Shop Clerks keep the ordering and parts requirements up to date
Vehicles to be shipped, Motor Pool is on the scene
But it all starts at my favorite place, Warehouse 317
I am sorry if I missed anyone such as Tammy at Safety, or Miss Lilly at PBO
Overall the operations are under the direction of Rick and Joe
The Front Office Personnel answer the phone
Without them, there would be nobody home
The shipboard stuff handled by Wholesale
Shop's parts handled by Retail
I personally want to thank everyone for all they do
This place could not do what it does without me or you
So I am not trying to be rude or mean
But I must end the saga now, come visit us at Warehouse 317
He's good at his job
Never slacks, never gives up
Miss him when he's gone
trolley car dining
grapefruit sized saucy meatballs
cheesecake for dessert
this is the place
for every face
we're nice
so don't think twice
its clean no mouse
and have '
WAREHOUSE PRICE
My Barn, my Warehouse, Storehouse is fulfilled
A building of raw materials
A glass mirror to reflect a clear image
That I may see far ahead of no hidden image
Supplies have been given
My needs, wants, and desires has been fulfilled
According to His riches in heaven has been revealed
Where the enemy can not kill, destroy, or steal
What a deal He has given to us
Turning rust into dust no more curse.
The supplies He Has given to all of us
No-fuss, no-rust, no-curse
This is what I must do to receive
Open my heart to believe
No greave, no disbelieve just achieve.
My Barn,my Warehouse, my Storehouse fulfilled
with substances of quantity, quality revealed
You may ask is it real
Only if you believe, receive, achieve and it will be revealed.
Beneath a roof of corrugated sky,
shelves stretch into the haze—
steel sentinels cradling the weight
of repeating cardboard skin.
Sodium lights flicker overhead,
a nervous god with faulty wiring,
casting a pale-yellow glow across the floor.
Refracted rainbows glint
in pooling oil that won't dry.
The air smells of stale rain
buried in the dirt of concrete fields,
and on the tongue
it tastes of metallic memory, oxidized.
A faint click of cooling pipes
syncopates the hum of vents.
Gears scream
ripping through silence,
a warning sound threading the dark.
Conveyor belts drag time,
relentless,
sorting,
without pause.
Surrounded by
pallets stacked high,
of boxes waiting to be read.
Some have dates crossed,
names scratched off—
wrapped and stamped
unclaimed inventory.
Others spill from torn corners,
stained photos—
of metal buckles
and white veils.
I came looking for a box
with a familiar trace—
small handprints,
prayers folded beside lavender wicks,
a letter I forgot I wrote.
I need to know if I’m marked for transit,
or have to stay.
But dust clings to rafters,
settles on shelves,
on forgotten dreams,
gray on gray.
Aisle after aisle,
we could walk forever
and never find our name.
The exit doors seem open.
For the souls on hold,
boxed beneath the cold,
processing signs—
suspended,
longing for the next scan.