Long Smokestacks Poems
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Looking out my high-rise window
I can see shy Beauty
of civilly responsible
bird sheltering trees
Five of these
tunneling through man-made holes
in monotonously grey cement
step aside walks.
Lonely in my city window
I can see the desecrating drama
and trauma
inflicted on Gaia's organic integrity
Toxic shelters
treacherous streets
polluting smokestacks
Oil and gas fueled
Made In America
uncivil lack of holy natural
safe shelter.
Longing in my caged window
I can hear sirens screaming
and a car alarm
warning us it feels threatened
by incorporated investments
In pain
dispassion
pollution
anthropocentric dissolution.
On less barren days
when looking out this same window
I feel freer to learn
from trauma's malformed mystery
Looking up
at Gaia's heavenly sky
less troubled by unearthly anthro-hubris
as compared to trans-continental
pocked landscapes.
I notice how I feel
when looking outside
at the boarded-up house
across the street
As compared to
the organically organized green park
behind it
filled with sacred sheltering trees
Now quieting Earth's suffering
by singing with Her
up-reaching crowns of rooted trees
dancing to a holy breeze.
She personifies the rift between town
and gown in the city,
pageant pretty, in pale pinks pellet,
lace sleeved adorned,
like a primrose she stands prominent
a gringo cigarette in one hand
Mexico’s flag in the other,
her country ‘tis of thee
like the contrafactum
of an earlier English anthem
God Save the King,
American democracy
she paints her de facto
her homeland in turmoil,
under an anthropomorphized sun
lest the moon’s clash in her own sky
Olmec ruins, laid foundation
stone heads, deep-rooted cacti
leaving behind the natural nation
she’ll advance athwart
contra the cold chicken coop
industrialization’s smokestacks,
the iconic River Rouge Plant
ugliness versus beauty
a glossy façade?
homesick for her pagan past
Reindeer racks, huffing and chuffing - smokestacks
longing, like huskies, to run with shining
red sleigh. Commercials over, indicates
to Nick, in his hip black and red plaid, matching
fur-rimmed hat, pom-pom and whiskers, “Let’s go!”
Colorado Reinbeer to the rescue. The swagger
and lift of spirited gifts to neighbors.
Santa moves with the covid times, to cheer
up the down in the mouth, even the kids
with suds of their own - root or birch beer floats.
Sleigh bells and holiday harnesses play
in the steep mountain snow with “Ho! ho! ho!”
11/28/2020
Loosely based on a segment I saw on the news.
Smoke drifts from the smokestacks
On dark and gloomy days
Just before the first rains of Summer
Crates are collected and stacked
And thrown onto the conveyor belt
So they may disappear into the fortress
A robot sings songs of yesteryear
And humans simply stand by and observe
Give these jeering men some credits
Lest they starve without work
With their blossoming bellies
But they sure love Conservatism
Starving mothers fling underweight babies
Into the jaws of an unforgiving sea
Because they can't take care of them
But neither could they spare them
Remember when a wise man once said
Elections have consequences
A tower is built slowly from the ground up
It starts off small but becomes massive over time
Just like petty rants from the bird's nest seem small
Until they collect over time and form dogma
An entire generation tainted by evil
And the devil himself is blushing
Alas drown your sorrows at the beach
And swim in a sea of glittering garbage
Because this great sea sure does flow
Where thriving cities once stood
But now they reside deep underwater
Entombed by science denial
And for every peace loving Christian
Is one who spreads dissension like disease
Who thrives on stapling gays to the cross
As if it were 1965 in the redneck south
And in truth every person who lets it happen
Is just as guilty as the transgressors
When the good lord said love thy neighbor
Could he have known they'd cast the first stone
Upon all the liars and all the sinners
Just peel apart the jowls of the maiden sinner
And find the seven deadly sins cowering
From a man dressed in a burlap sack
Patience for appeasers is something I lack
And as I rip away the images of this distorted future
I look to the future in two years from now
And I just hope deep in my heart we've had enough
Because at first 2016 gave me a future to believe in
But now Morons Are Governing Again
Everywhere I go, industry dominates this world
Vehicles run on diesel,
Massive industrial complexes have many factories
That create a skyline of smokestacks
The heavens are filled with a gray only we have created
Man and machine have come together
Like haywire to wire,
Generating a power countries only dream of
Diesel, our main power source,
Allows massive airships with smokestacks of their own
To block out the sun
Nations around the world use machines for industry, war and everyday life
Without diesel,
It seems the planet will come to a complete standstill…
As an inhabitant of this industrialized world,
None of what I see around surprises me…
For I have lived in the midst of man’s mechanical reign
All of my days
But I often worry and question our remaining humanity
Some of us have grown prideful and cold
Nations have fought us
Merely to prove their weapons are stronger and better
At times I even wonder if we could
Possibly find other ways to go about our lives—
Like alternative fuel sources
Maybe it seems like the world is industrializing too fast
But no one seems to notice that after the Great War,
Industry spread like a weed that would not stop growing,
No matter what you did to it
One must begin to wonder
How long this kind of life can possibly last
I long to feel the sun on my back,
And to breathe in fresh air untouched by the fumes I know too well
Can we use what we have,
Can we use what we live for,
To build each other up,
Rather than destroying all in our path?
Shall we put our hearts into the cores of our unfeeling machines,
Or will we turn to Mother Earth with reverence and passion?
Taking and never giving back,
How can we expect our planet to provide and sustain us?
August 20th, 2014
Collaberation by Justin Connor and Laura Breidenthal
Two questions to ponder:
What do you think will become of this dieselpunk world?
How can this message apply to life in your own society?
Surrounded by smoke
of a bellowing factory
tied to a promise
I dare not breach
Walking a dream
of evergreen hills
drinking up fountains
of native springs
A flight of sparrows
a vast blue sky
a greeting in dialect
peculiar to town.
On ashes of pines
smokestacks now rise
not even a speck
of light in the sky
Covered by shapeless
unyielding clouds
the stars have fled
the moon has followed
And yet I am singing
in secret smiling
the promise I have kept
has kept me alive.
First Place Winner: Brian Strand-All Yours April 30 Contest
Sol Magazine 2008 Workshop Second Place Winner-Original Title: Village To Town- A volunteer Nostalgia
Of her gifts of nature,
once pristine flowing streams,
her green and blue majestic presence
in the infinite universe vast reaches,
My Jesus Christ left her in our care,
we must act now, not later-
for her survival.
Her earthly soul mourns as her
animals suffer, humans too,
her royal oceans with precious
marine life's waters sullied,
her rainforests plundered.
We must, as humanity,
rectify our trespasses against her,
for her survival.
Her polar regions sweating,
breaking off icebergs,
many of her kingdom species
endangered.
Stop the greed and the smokestacks
choking her air,
halt the pillaging of her resources-
for her survival.
Government officials, chasing me
A peaceful Naked being dance on the street
Woke from a nightmare being chased by blind eyeballs draped in flags,
City on fire, smokestacks, meat trucks, doctors of insanity.
I came to a decision
Gonna stay here in my Naked skin
I don't think there is a promised land out there anymore,
Gonna stay here in Cap d' Adge, France.
I say some prayers that the children of the world have a future
Where Nudism is accepted and not shyed upon
I ponder to why the human species shy away from something they came with,
Humans keep making this same mistakes over and over.
Luckily in this era the hate just keeps getting lesser and lesser
But erring on side of the positive
Put out more awarness about the loving community of Nudists my fellow Nudist,
Put out more faith in Nudism as it liberates.
Poetry is a mystic, sensuous mathematics of fire
smokestacks, waffles, pansies, people,
and purple sunsets.
Carl Sandburg
PURPLE PANSIES
A pensive-pansy bouquet,
vibrant diffusion of lot,
Borscht belt, Catskill-sunshine core,
platonic petals of thought.
Purple pansies are childhood,
of God’s wide-eyed creation,
innocence in royal cloak,
a roused imagination.
Deft purpleness recollects,
not grandma’s frilly feast days -
a sixty’s mod Easter dress,
painted nails of royal praise.
Fresh fairyland apogee
o’er green-sea, circular bowl.
Petal’s shades of light and dark -
a poet’s purple, vibrant soul.
6/1/2022
Purple Flowers Poetry Contest
used Rhymezone and HMS
At the 5:00 whistle
When the sunset in late November
Is less light and more molten
Like a blast-furnace window
Glowing above the highway home
Goo spilling from its sparkling ladle
Bent
At the off-ramp’s arthritic elbow
The city smolders
Under
The backs and braces of its groaning bridges
Like a half smoked cigarette
Crushed under the heel of a boot
An entire city is snuffed out.
The Man, my father, comes to this setting sun
As a welder
Flipping down his black mask
For his last day at work
With stars still tracing cross his eyes
And his factory-floor poems loose in his head
Like nuts and bolts rattling in his toolbox.
His visiting grandchildren
Sent from the Coasts for Thanksgiving
Clung like empty holsters to his massive thighs
May someday think Grandpa, what did you do with your life?
He wants to kill them
Kill them all
Lick his pink slip like a Christmas card envelope
And hang himself
With a drill
Still
Plugged into his whining hand
But on his last day home
With smokestacks steaming like gray volcanoes
The sunset remains wondrous to him
The Makar the Creator
He envisions a flower molded from bronze
Bloomed and shaped from his callused hands.