Long Forklift Poems
Long Forklift Poems. Below are the most popular long Forklift by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Forklift poems by poem length and keyword.
One more Day
Life is pointless, let’s end it all.
I'm not Brad Pitt and you’re not Lauren Bacall.
I drive a forklift and you stack shelves.
We’re only two inches, taller than elves.
End this misery, let’s call it a day.
No reason to live on our monthly pay.
Don’t give me that smile and don’t pat my back.
I’ve nothing to give you, there’s so much I lack.
Don’t bring me coffee and stare in my eyes.
And I won’t bring you flowers, as a surprise.
Stop telling me we can do it, life will change soon.
Stop reaching for the stars - promising the moon.
You know it’s useless, nothing will change.
We’re doomed for mediocrity - is that so strange?
Stop those sparkling eyes and beautiful smile.
We’re poor and we are hungry, bills in a pile.
Don’t cuddle me in bed, to take away the pain.
Don’t be so optimistic when you try to explain.
Life is my burden, it’s weighing me down.
But you stand there smiling, you never frown.
Perhaps tomorrow, will be better than today.
Your love has convinced me, so I promise to stay
The Team.
Here we are in Gayndah town,
The parks are all filled up.
With Caravans and Motor homes,
‘N’ Backpackers trying their luck.
The pickers are around the trees,
And filling Gaypak bins.
As cold and frosty as you please,
They’re picking Mandarins.
When the fruit arrives at Gaypak,
With the staff all ready and able.
The Mandarins are washed and waxed,
And rolled across the sorting table.
This is what to look for,
Sharon tells them one by one.
The number of bins is thirty four,
It’s an average sort of run.
Black Spot, Splits and Sunburn,
Hail damage and Sooty Mould,
Juice the stuff that’s too deformed,
Or whatever can’t be sold.
Karen’s on the packing floor,
From there she runs the show.
She’s the boss and that’s for sure,
So don’t upset the flow.
Aunty Pat she is there,
As Karens’ Two I C.
She checks that all is run to plan,
Without her where’d they be.
The pattern packers work away,
Under the watchful eye.
Of Sharon ‘n’ Gayle in the day,
And Elaine and Linda at night.
The forklift drivers as we know,
Work with skill and speed.
Up and down, to and fro,
Always they are in need.
At Gaypak they’re a cheerful lot,
They talk and laugh and joke.
Even when it’s bloody hot,
But they are conscientious folk.
When knock-off time comes around.
There’s one who wont be late.
Speedy Gwenda will be found,
To be the first one out the gate.
Afternoon shift takes the reins,
They carry on the work.
Without a break they step right in,
The fruit, they’re here to sort.
We can praise the workers all we want,
And praise the management too.
But nothing works and nothing moves,
Without the maintenance crew .
All in all this is the team,
Of which they can be proud.
That sorts and packs, and sends,
The fruit, all around the world.
Allegro
Crystal decanter, wine in a glass.
Tabletop woodwinds court candlestick brass.
Fine sterling service, stems in a vase.
High-tone enamel meets low double bass.
Pale yellow roses, peaches and grapes.
Clarinet colors tint saxophone shapes.
Citrus in concert, lemon and lime.
Echoes of summer in three-quarter time.
Adagio
There are brazen implications
In these muted, pulsing horns.
The strings are thick and creamy.
The bass line’s strewn with thorns.
Scherzo
Nail-tap percussion, tremolo drill.
Twelve o’clock whistle sounds cranky and shrill.
Shipping yard sunlight, loading dock shade.
Forklift holds pallet in mid-serenade.
Mustard-stained napkin, Styrofoam cup.
Strains of a power saw being tuned up,
Baritone belt sander wailing away.
White glove allegro turned grease monkey gray.
Rondo
Without darkness, there could be no light.
The sun would rise unnoticed.
Without silence, there could be no song
From either bird or locust.
Without winter, there could be no spring.
No flowers for your lover.
Without music, there could be no art.
They flatter one another.
Sammi was crushed in snow and ice,
Under the beam of a forklift truck,
Being driven by her dad on his farm,
Such that her back did break, no luck.
Her physio at Glasgow’s Southern,
Sent her to top Stoke Mandeville,
Because she showed interest in,
Sports and exercise’s cool bevel.
“I thought I’d be in a bed forever.
So, then…a wheelchair was amazing.
Sounds strange, but I was so happy.
Then to find [myself competing]
in sport in my wheelchair, [mega],
has just been incredible, [indelible],
Sport has helped me [lots], hugely,
Helped me to accept it really. [Able].”
Before the accident Sammi played,
Hockey, did gymnastics and ballet,
So disability sports just means that,
She can continue on with her way.
Sammi met Jo Butterfield, club throw,
Whilst in Stoke Mandeville, a click,
And the two of them have become,
The leading Scots athletes thick.
In Swansea at the 2014 Europeans,
Sammi returned with three golds,
One for the 100m, one for the 400m
And another for the 800 metre’s folds.
Then in 2015 in Doha, the Worlds,
She bagged a bronze this time,
And was a star at Rio de Janeiro -
She intends on marathoning fine.
This factory has the bales delivered. Bales of unwanted, disused, thrown about, torn up, ripped and antiquated clothes. Once loved but not now. Bales measured by tonnes. Bales needing the forklift. Bales delivered once a month.
This factory hauls these bales, one at a time, to the factory floor. On the floor they are ripped open and gutted, their blood of clothes oozing across the floor before the cutters. The cutters who take never ending handfuls of this gut to their trolley, to their cutting machine.
This factory slices arms off, rips legs open, carves neck lines off, zippers and buttons slashed away, never to see the pants again. The entire garment scored back to its crude original form. A form of square material. Square material with nothing of interest, unwearable.
And tossed into the empty waiting bag, Waiting to become 15kg of unwearable square slices of material.
This factory fills an empty bag to 15kg, hundreds of 15kg bags. These bags await the drive to a new owner. An owner who’ll love this square rag in a moment. Become intimate with this square in a moment. Sharing this square with oil, grease, dirt, mud, rust, stains and fuels.
Once unloved and unused becomes unwearable to useful and one last spike of intimacy again before the inevitable oblivion takes the rag for the final joy ride.
The rag factory.
The Bliss of Isolation
When the head of the nation
Said we need self-isolation
Well it was music to my ears
Because I finally had an excuse
To take my head out the noose
And not see her brother for a few beers.
His wife Marion is a moron
And Don’s a conclusion foregone
And she cooks worse than she sings
Don has no concept of life
That’s why he married his wife
And operates a forklift, amongst other things.
My wife had to make the call
And I let crocodile tears fall
But deep down the pleasure was great
She ummed and ahh’d on the phone
Finally, declaring, we won’t stay home
Then said we’re coming but we might be late
My heart was in my shoes
When she told me the news
And my plans lay in tatters upon the floor
Then I had a call from my niece
And told her that’s the police
Promising arrest if we stepped out the door.
Saturday would be bliss
Giving her brother a miss
There wasn’t a hint of anything going on
I was diplomatic but not rude
And said, ‘there’s a lot of food?’
She replied, ‘Well the extra's, for Marion and Don.’
David Cox 30/03/2020
It is all about children.
I know of a man who can be outspoken at times
he is also very rich, which can be an aber
the struggle to find meaning in life when
you can have all the physical things life offers
To be wealthy is a strain, do try it if you can
the man in mind also has a great sense of
wicket humor, which makes a so very human
He has the idea that people of means should
have as many children as they can
I agree the well-situated can afford to give
children a proper upbringing and a great education
and they will not have a disabling effect
the plague of poverty.
His critics are many, but that goes with the terrain
let me say the middle class also can have a child
or two or even three if they can afford that
the world needs lawyers and people to fill
office space and talk on the TV
As for workers, one child is enough physical
labor is no longer needed, anyone can learn
how to operate a forklift.
The rich man I know of has not spelled it out
like that because screams of protests,
might
lady riot, so let me put words in his mouth
It is all about children and the future
The work I do is not the most prestigious one,
from four to twelve thirty I drive...until my shift is done;
a forklift driver rarely takes a coffee-break,
and being courteous and helpful to customers means a lot.
My long-life dream was to be a songwriter like Andrew Lloyd Webber, but my songs
didn't click...they never made the Top Ten on the Billboard Charts;
and although they didn't sell well to make it my profession, I still hold my thumb up...
that if a famous recording artist performed them, I'd have a huge hit!
My free time is devoted to creating lyrics that I will set to music in late hours;
and I would never be a Mozart, Verdi, or Beethoven if didn't knock on doors
and expose my works to those who would be willing to listen without reluctance...
could one be old and succeed as the young ones with fresher, brighter ideas?
For now, I remain the same blue collar guy coloring more illusive dreams;
many approach me and say," Don't give up...you have plenty of chances!".
I do want to believe that and wear the deserved crown and be lauded as others...
'till my lucky day comes, I must make a living and have the faith of the achievers.
A Quote by: Saint Augustine
Truth is like a Lion, you don't have to defend it, let it loose, it will defend itself.
Layers upon layers of deceit, when we practice duplicity
we lose the way of authentic self;
When truth has been buried within the walls of denial,
the soul suffers great loss;
Ask a child or an old one if they know truth when they see it
ask yourself this,
Can a bushel of light hide underneath a barrel
without bursting out from the cracks?
Drive the forklift of truth, take it to the penthouse
for lying will only keep you in the jailhouse of suffering
Truth is best served warm, with compassion and empathy
be as true to yourself and others, as you can.
Over in the corner of Grandma McDuck’s Farm House
Was the cutest little bunch of kittens, and a quite dead mouse.
We ran over to look and squealed about the large cow.
The carcass was removed, and those baby kittens began to meow.
Wait until you see the cute exotic one, Grandma said.
He is just darling with the prettiest bluest eyes in his head.
He was jumping around a forklift, pulling a lever.
I said “What did you name him? I was thinking of Clever.”
“Clever it is,” Grandma McDuck quickly agreed, tickled.
He was now chugging down some warm cider, duly pickled.
I taught him to ski, swim, hike, and ride a bike without any paw.
He was the cleverest prettiest kitten that I ever saw.
Living up to his name, he played a clarinet in the band.
He wore exotic clothing and traveled everywhere in the land.
We see billboards telling about Clever when he comes close to town.
He truly is the cleverest cat we have ever raised or found.