“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.
Hush now—
let the generators hum.
Let the sodium lights
sing their electric hymn.
Gravel settles into itself.
Steel cools.
Boots rest by doors like obedient animals.
The moon drapes silver
across the fence line
as if tucking in a child
too tired to dream.
Sleep comes cautiously here,
through thin walls
and thinner patience.
But somewhere in the wiring
of night,
a softer frequency plays—
A lullaby
for men who build
what they may never live inside.
Cracked dusky humid industrial decay
Perched crows survive death of abandoned Chevrolet
A testament of humanity’s constant change
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
Only girl in class
dresser and cabinet built
keepsakes from my school days
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.
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...
Big bucks being made/weapons sales contracts, slush fund/death big business
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.
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
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
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.
Industrial decline
There were few oak trees left in the valley
they had been chopped down and used in the clog industry,
ash trees were tried to make clogs, but it gave
people foot disease, which manifested itself by causing
webbed feet; excellent for swimming but not for walking.
The Birch was tried, but workers refused to work with this type
of the tree, the clog industry went bankrupt as more and more
people preferred tennis shoes with a posh label.
The valley declined they went to Lisbon to find work and some
studied, became doctors and politicians, one can be both.
It was a Paradise for the donkeys that roamed free from the harness
and the pulling of a plough.
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
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