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Nat Lipstadt Jul 12
~for Woody’s pilgrimage, his exodus to Egypt~


I’m the mother of your maidenhead.
I’m the widow engorged in Ganges flames,
seeded, raised, in the coal pit born we were,
first mined, sent cross country by red rusted freight
car to the birth sac where we came~conceived.

simple, your beginning, is our end, they could
not never cut this cord tween us with an instrument
of hardened steel, cause it was god-birthed in a
steel furnace in the three river city, where we were
molten formed, fired woman, fired man, too-blackened.

you say come worship me, but I cannot, we are too
samed; the flesh of metal, the black blood of a mountain
seam, if we were to worship in our own imagery,
a sin, of ten commandment status, not a trifling,
imagine, a golden calf, an idol of our own making,
what glorious fury’d consequential if I bent knee to
love an undulating woman, a violation of volition,
between us, there can be never, the tangential of free will.


11:18pm Sat Jul 11
Jon Thenes Nov 2018
fired into space
suit-less bullet
beyond Lung
beyond The Furious
implode
strained through Eye
and then plumb line into a Calm Oblivion
life signs sip out
and Still

increasing in velocity
a bare murmur of action
a traveller until gravity
then put the Vehicle into currency
contribute to The Furnace
In to this furnace
I ask you now
to sing another song.
In to this furnace,
where the stars grow old
and the dreamers walk barefoot
I ask you now
to kiss me a thousand times.
In to this furnace
I ask you now
thought by thought
let us die
you and I.
In to this furnace
I ask you now...


- Samar Charulingah Godfrey
Arcassin B Sep 2018
by Arcassin Burnham

In a room full of sinners , there's girls , and there's boys, and there's false leaders
Planning and preying on all of the people,
People are starting to wake up and realize what's going on because of the misguided teachings,
Freeing your mind in this cruel world don't make you any less of a person , man it only gets lethal,
Banding together is the only way in this life , Maybe we should call a meeting.

Times are hard you see,
Suicidal teens , slowly increasing,
Into the furnace,
Brutal memories,
Clashing of teeth , hands out , say please,
Down into the furnace.

I never thought that we would make it far in this condition,
I never thought I could determine what this means,
I never thought that I would see the light of day again.
I never thought that I would kiss like what they did in movies,
I never thought that love would really deceive me,
I never thought that....
Everything would fall into place, at the wrong pace.

Times are hard you see,
Suicidal teens , slowly increasing,
Into the furnace,
Brutal memories,
Clashing of teeth , hands out , say please,
Down into the furnace.
©abpoetry2018

https://arcassin.blogspot.com/2018/09/open-furnace_27.html
Aparna Apr 2013
Writhe, burn, twist and roll,
Bodies on fire as hot as Hell, itself.

He pled for breath at the flicking furnace,
"Rot, in misery!" said Satan himself.
Leigh Jun 2015
Stop kindling the fire.
Wait until the embers are
Enough to forge a season;
To kiss hot skin to sleep
Or to the raggedy edge, to tease;
Not all for fun but again to feel
The glowing ashes left in the pit

Kept alight, I felt their heat
And how they dwindle --
Stifled by the chill of passing time
And the many crystalline branches
Chipped from snowflakes

"Winter must be cold for those
with no warm memories..."
The sentiment reduced to shards;
You were my winter warmth,
But it's my spring that
Carries the frost
.

.
i
no less than two hundred souls lie
        clustered along the shoreline
        lowland they call a town.
there where the hilltops look
        below, where salty waves
        in unending sequence
        lap the rocks.
the foam floating still is fading
        and the icy gloom of night is gone.
the tug-tug of the diesel engine
        interrupts the balmy silence
        of the sleeping town.
perchance,
        here is a variant
        (or is it?)
        on new island soil
        tread one another foot.

       ii
away now from the busy hum of
        factory, from the hurrying trucks,
        daredevil drivers, the unwelcomed
        whistle of the morning train,
        from the strained scream of the
        lumpia vendor, from the sophisticated
        melody of nightclub music, from the
        alms-begging cries in crowded sidewalks,
        from pretending graded glasses seeking
        sheep-skin, high-pressured ticket seller.
        away form the honk-honk of waiting
        limousines, the haste of presses
        accommodating headlines, the cackle
        of the radio announcer.
        it takes a sea to part the two,
                and many others more, yet the
                watery distance do mend the broken
                piece-part of the broken whole.

      iii
broken by the water barrier, part of
        the broken scheme – a stray mass
        the grown untamed.
blame it on the ills of war, a frenzied
        sickness, a cancer-growth.
        a callousness undisguised
the city’s pleasure is a farmlife’s
        leisure and these
        in different garbs exist.
not even mindful of the worms
        that eat up the human heart,
        like a rotting fruit.
with colored goggles
        the hue is blood-red and shady black.

  iv
o city of pain,
vineyard of desire
o burial ground
        where lay bedfellows
        they who came, stayed, gone,
where stumps and leafless trunks
        are bare to the sun,
        breathless and devoid.
while fingers are busy
        counting metallic coins.

  v
no, not a flood shall cleanse
        this wild and wanton fleshliness,
        nor upturn the barren farrows,
        not the rise of the tides
        nor the fury of the winds
        not even the whiplash of a strong hand.
the deluge in every clayey figure
        in the farm and furnace.
the going up beyond the worldly
        watermark of the passing tide
        that is man.
the man
        the self
                is the starting point
                from which the line
                        of the circle revolves.
                        and in our chambered brief hours
                                of aloneness, shall speak
                                a shrill deep-seated voice
                                to which we shall be all ears
                                        and shall tremble.
Tennessee Coal and Iron
Ensley Works , Birmingham , Alabama
Ensley Highlands , 30th Street

A turn of the century wood
framed house , sitting high on top a hill
Sitting on the front porch swing
in the sweltering August evening air

Playing "Your car next" , as cars ran
up and down the hill
Swapping turns , who gets what , laughing
at some of the outrageous wheels

Then as darkness descends
the dark skyline turns to Hell
Jets of forced blast air hits molten iron
and the gush of flames shoot high into the air

Eleven , twelve , maybe more
all the blast furnaces roared
as sparks flew up into the smoke
Surely these are the Devil's works
Where men are tortured so

As this for a backdrop now
it was time for ghost stories galore
Headless people and black drabbed ghouls
and little girls dripping wet that drowned in some unforgiving lake

We would draw up knees to our chest
in spite of the oppressive heat
And I would jump every time the breeze
would rustle the hidden leaves

So scared were we as bedtime neared
we'd ask mother if we could
spend "the night with you"
Ha ha ha , she replied , "NO !"
And then she went
Boo ! Boo ! Boo ! Boo ! Boo ! Boo !
Barnabas Smith Jan 2015
The flame begins to flicker
Darkness creeps in
The furnace stands strong
Yet no heat remains within
written c. 2003
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