The Tracks of Forlorn
The gravel is new, freshly laid,
The boundaries bordered by fences we've made,
Walking along in my tarseled feet,
In the dark of the night and midsummer's heat,
I look at the tracks and feel the horn,
The world at my back and all of their scorn.
The train passes by on ridges of steel,
Shaking the ground and all I feel.
It rolls along as the ground surely shakes,
The peace is shattered as my mind itself quakes.
Stress of the mind feels like torrents of sin,
As the wind rushes by pushed from the lead engine.
Memories flash by as trains eat up steel,
Running through mind like an old movie reel.
I've lived and I've loved, but memories are torn,
Like the train of my mind on tracks of forlorn.
I've stood and I've felt,
Pondering now the cards I'd been dealt,
In the dead of the night and train's aftermath,
The silence is deaf'ning on the cold gravel path.
-Debra
They don’t make car parts at night.
The factory is open tomorrow.
I’m taking a walk.
Out of the house when it’s night.
I might eat breakfast.
Something rotting.
When it’s all over.
I’m not in my house now.
I learned to make car parts some years ago.
I’d rather be…
A car tire.
Squealing around, easily, treads last a long time.
They don’t make anything at night.
I should be asleep, but the factory is open early and…
I need to get ready soon or they might get me…
If I were a tire, I would be very happy.
People dream about work at night.
I should be dreaming of making car parts.
So I can wake up and make car parts.
Except when I’m awake my wrist hurts.
I’m awake and nothing is being made right now.
The factory is opening in four hours.
Everything I make in there is perfect.
They don’t make car parts at night.
How do I know?
Because I’m here right now.
poet at the factory
It had been a long day at the factory but
when there was a break, he jotted down a few words
and during the day, it became a poem- he always
had a pen and block ready, words were so flighty he may
forget what he wanted to write if he waited too long.
Coming home and told his wife
I wrote a whole poem today, a good poem
his wife asked if the poem was about her, no he said it was about a tree
the one at the entrance of the village.
His wife went back to the kitchen and slammed the door
The poet came out of his cocoon and said to his wife:
All my poems are about you, my muse, with you at my side
I can`t write about the old tree in the village
They kissed and made up, and both lived long and had good deaths blissfully unnoticed by the world.
O my dear Charlie,
How could you just forget,
Our love for chocolate,
Which was given to you as a factory.
You loved it and had magic,
To make the owner get elevated from tragic,
He was impressed and gave it to you,
And you took it as a gift from him too.
You are the boy of words,
And who flies higher than even birds,
The public now asks you to fulfill the responsibility,
Of distributing chocolates to them and bringing them stability....
- THIS POEM IS WRITTEN KEEPING IN MIND THE STORY OF CHARLIE AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY BY ROALD DAHL.
It has stood abandoned for years,
the toxic soil too costly
for developers to clean up.
It's vast, dark, gutted interior
echoes an absence.
And yet a tuft of grass
has pushed up through the oil
soaked concrete floor beneath
a shaft of sunlight falling
from a hole in the ceiling.
It grows on this narrow stage,
a thin beam of light enough
to sustain it and drip a little
moisture down for it to sip.
It clings onto life
as a poem does, pushing
through a crack in the soul,
seeking out enough light
for it to live for awhile
in a hostile world.
In the land of make-believe
stands the Happiness Factory
It is a building filled with goodness
And people ending wars
There is no crying or sad faces
just laughs and appreciation of
the goodness in life
All religions are respected here
as if they are bound together
by the strong energies of the universe
Not a day goes by
where people will not dance
in utter joy and excitement
for all that is good
Why not visit the Happiness Factory
you will have happy dreams from now on
and you will realize
the world can be a decent place in which to live
In this town or nation of ours I felt that one house
is a palace at least globalization raises such fact
that sometimes tis nationalism and patriotism?.
I did not mean the other houses felt most or water
that is why blue or dimness lunging
however just like politics the door is better.
Gathered around in a cool hue,
Moments and energy are manifested, the cool and median truth
The dense obstacles within the mass, play instrument to this device
A binding formula hidden, as clarity shares no answer.
We serve so we can serve again, our moments for resurrection.
I am a painting factory
cranking out eight to ten canvases a week
it is my gemini mentality
it is my high mccormick energy
I am a poetry factory
slapping out seventy poems a week
it is my iowa roots
it is what I know how to do
I am a cartoon factory
scribbling down eight cartoons a day
it is my cross to bear
I blame my mother, the energizer bunny
Two things at once can both be true
A trial you passed, a verdict past due
No longer in thrall,
A demon recalled
Will cease to have power over you
—————
H/T to Robert Gorelick’s The Recall Demon
Ever since the “Bright morning star”
dared with his creator to spar
craving the seat on mount’s north side
his mind molded the idol, pride.
The seed of pride, a torrent spawned
in creatures formed at earth’s first dawn.
Desiring to be like God,
they fell from grace and became flawed.
Mankind’s mind like a workshop weaves,
the idols to which his soul cleaves.
He never seems to have enough
So, he makes a god of his stuff.
With an axe man cuts down a tree
And builds a house upon a lea.
Then from the wood, he makes a cup
to use when it is time to sup.
He carves a god, shaped like an elf
and places it upon a shelf
then lights a fire, prepares a meal
and worships it as if it’s real.
Conceived in curious, corrupt minds
these idols everywhere we find
Be it lust for sex, wealth, or fame
their paltry pay is all the same.
Of idols made, there is no end.
When God to us is dead, we spend
life’s precious pearls as passions sway
controlled by gods, like pawns in play.
We were fashioned to worship God
and by His presence to be awed.
When we do not give Him his place
idols of vanity we’ll chase.
At the MC1R Mutation Station
Like everywhere else, we’re fighting inflation
This economy sure does take it’s tolls
A few cutbacks, but within regulation
Just to meet our minimum sales goals
We started shipping product without any souls
They may also come with a few freckles less
Not many noticed, according to our polls
We tried to ship faster to boost our success
With a new promo called the ginger express
Still not as quick as that hot-tempered mail man….
His delivery speed is one to impress
In a cost saving effort for our new plan
The current shipment will only burn and not tan
They can, although, make their own vitamin D
Saves on natural sun light for their life span
There was a shipping error at the factory
The Emerald Isle put in an order you see
We shipped 10 times the amount there instead
They’ll stay as per our no return policy
We soon hope to put these cutbacks to bed
Our product really is as great as they’ve said
Industry led in all things chic and unique
This brand new batch of clever, feisty, redhead
For all fellow Redheads that have trouble with automatic doors, cheers!
Fac Create
It all goes on in the factory
You name it they do it
A right old place of events
From art shows of cool paintings
To strip shows of hot ladies
Via a secret room for ing
Along with a Russian spy hiding
The flower seller downstairs
Equalled by the roof top ballet
The tattooist of the middle floor
Plus a Satanist who likes pigeons
Drinking takes places in the cellar
All this and more in the factory
Anything creative goes here
Pop down and give it a try
but we should be able to go back
review with now mature eyes
those infinite mangers
where we were dumped
at the end of the treadmill
in the drying area
of the assembly line.
we should be able to see
what expressions our matrices had
if they were happy and smiled
or kept a stern manner
an absent look
serious and frowning.
because the gods
were always extruders
injecting flesh, bones and fluids
in our humanoid molds
and we being just the elusive fruits
generated in series by the macabre verb
from a divine pack of sociopaths
deciding to engender us
to play to make it hurt.
Men with chains
Come on the lips of kisses
Vibrating warmth and passion
Kindness that lights the heart
With feelings alive, pouring out
Tender hope over the thoughts
Men with chains
Clinging together, preparing
To lock the locks
Turn the keys to the prison
Of dark longings
Men with chains
Quivering rage on the sullen embraces
Of blazing rage, piercing
Her dreams with a custody
That clips her wings
Men with chains
Remind her why she needs
She cries – she tries
To remember why
Beneath a black eye
Men with chains
Shadow even the heart
With storms, assaulting
The spirit’s deafening silence
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