"girders" poems
Late night. Footsteps.
Crane necks and girders.
Fog lifts. The wind cries.
Steel bones in moonlight
I'm out
so late now
and it's Sunday night and Summer's ending
soon.
I'm aging
with questions
fermenting in my mouth
ignored for years
Fenced off. Unfinished
project shelved and waiting
for next Spring.
Cool night eclipsing
years spent indexing,
answers mislaid and
blueprints unrolling
Components rusting,
crane necks and girders.
Steel bones in moonlight.
Tight lipped and staring.
Fall comes
construction
halts now and the walls stand half
complete
And outside
the chain link
shrugging off the cold and
still wondering when
Step through unfinished
building. Get home. Shelved
until next Spring.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
Bricks and mortar, steel and boards,
Phone poles lined with power cords, on
Pothole streets, where engines roar,
'Neath smoggy skies, where jet planes soar,
Where penny merchants peddle wares,
And news reports pretend they care,
Where vagrants sleep, and children stare,
And people work for lives not theirs,
That's life in the jungle, adrift in the herd,
Where terrestrial beasts envy free flying birds
Where the pundits stand polished, and speak empty words,
And the artists paint portraits, while posted on curbs,
Where the men push carts, full of empty cans,
And the women spend paychecks, for spray-on tans,
Where the truckers drive loads, 'cross a thousand mile span,
To appease the great gods of supply and demand,
Asphalt and tarmac, girders and glass,
Terrarium trees in cemented sod grass,
Ripe with the stench of exhaust fumes and gas,
As the choir lines up for the 10 o'clock mass,
While the brokers all scream, at a packed stock exchange,
As the veterans in wheelchairs sit begging for change,
That's life in the jungle, it's just a big game,
But remember you're playing, lest you go insane.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 11:01 PM UTC
The streets are clear, we're hydrophobic
Hoods propped by hats and socks pulled high;
The rain brings peace to the agoraphobic
Puddles form moats and clouds fill the sky.
Splash, droplets hit the window,
chauffeured by the gale outside.
Squint your eyes and flash back
boats tilt starboard, with the tide.
The captain shouts to the decks, paranoid
'Clear the decks and brace for impact'
Without turbulence we are disenfranchised
Boredom becomes us when we're boring.
Shake it off and stare at the dot to dot
the residual carving of water as it slides
Another droplet falls beside it, parallel
it aligns, growling thunder overhead.
Without stirring we are robotic workforces
Without awaking we are left inside
The constructs created for us, by corporate-
conglomerate elitist-psychopaths.
Two drops of water on the window
simmer red with burning anger.
Crash lightening sears the sky
Rage becomes you, girders melt.
The starry night undercurrent, flings
us backwards, never up, as democracies
which seek to serve sink into a sea of
stocks and shares, the wall street journal
sits atop the captains lobby, economies
were meant to tumble as the working classes
fumble for bread, men in suits gaggle
and toast to the millions they left for dead.
Resistance is futile, when eighty-five
of the richest suit owners sit on currency
that was meant for the three point five
billion who aren’t driven by gluttony.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 12:51 PM UTC
Ghost Relics
Downtown,
where Main intersects Main
you'll see the last living tissue
of a breathing bazaar.
They weighed down her chest with bricks and girders.
It's a wonder she breathes at all.
-
Wander too far in any direction
and you're sure to see the husks
of once proud and bustling businesses.
Abandoned sanctums of mortar and majesty.
Scars of the Midwest etched as constants in our mind.
Dusty and silent since the cradle.
-
The theaters are bedeviled with dolled up haunts
who just wandered over from Greenwood to catch the matinee.
Management still leaves the lights on for kicks after hours
to throw off their sleep schedules while they wait for the feature to start.
Up all night, sleep all day; they read by neon and slumber under Sol.
Here I am, left lounging in The Devil's Chair. Crickets keep quavering.
-
Underneath the Franklin Street overpass sleeps a family bound by naught.
They watch in dawn's light as the few pedestrian that traverse Cerro Gordo
advert their eyes as some sort of silent symbol of respect for their situation.
It's as if the very stare of a privileged man could drain 'til depleted.
They never ask for anything, they just wade it out and listen to
the cars overhead, the train-clock's trumpet, and the heartbeats in between.
-
Leaks are patched, potholes filled, and yet
we're still loosing blood; becoming beguiled.
So many stray cats in the civilian savanna,
aimlessly seeking names and second chances.
"This premises is under police video surveillance" -
hanging like ornaments from streetlamp poles.
-
Guarding the gates
of a dwindling dominion,
as the armies of Union and Grand
wait in their camps
for the rust to take hold
of her iron veins.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 12:52 AM UTC
I'm born
Airborne
Forlorn
In war torn
Discord
My ripcord
I pull for liberation
Alienation aviation
Away from a station
Of no relation
Where their elation
Lies in degeneration
The fright fair
Nightmare
In sight there
Is a right scare
But light flares
From an illuminated theater
I dive into art
To fill my meter
I consume
Darkened tomb
Screen in room
Is where I loom
Inspiration blooms
From a sense of doom
My separation reparation
That will lead to veneration
My artistic fervor
Drifted further
Drifter's murmurs
Lifted learners
But gifted murderers
Shifted girders
Of shame and honesty
To my grave of modesty
Where they prey upon me
This plagiarism
Layered schism
Cratered rhythm
Of great decisions
Now I make incisions
With repetition
And the definition
Of words stolen from me
They're all I can see
And I can't get free
Or just let it be
Consumption disruption
At this junction
I can't function
A plagiarist
****** mist
Grips my fist
Makes me wish
I don't exist
I must resist
Before I miss
My chance at bliss
They're ****** me
By aping me
Making me
Shaking trees
Of bumblebees
With rumble pleas
On humble knees
Drinking antifreeze
Nobody cares
What's fair
They bear
And share
Blank stares
Up stairs
Of artistic compromise
Integrity lost in lies
They're not that wise
I hypothesize
My baby
Caught rabies
From Hades
Now ladies
Flock to a thief
Giving me grief
Beyond belief
In my coral reef
Sword in sheath
I drown discreet
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 2:29 PM UTC
The blushing barn barks
With bleeded hues
Gutted girders
The once held the strict structure
Now hold hollow hidey holes
For all the remaining vermin
While the festering flesh
Of the butchered beasts
Burn the sinuses of strangers
Who walk through the burnt broken building
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 1:18 PM UTC
LAY me on an anvil, O God.
Beat me and hammer me into a crowbar.
Let me pry loose old walls.
Let me lift and loosen old foundations.
Lay me on an anvil, O God.
Beat me and hammer me into a steel spike.
Drive me into the girders that hold a skyscraper together.
Take red-hot rivets and fasten me into the central girders.
Let me be the great nail holding a skyscraper through blue nights into white stars.
2.5k
We lay, you on your right side and I
on my stomach
you can hear waves crash
(steel girders twisting under stress)
An ocean of mercury, sloshing lightly- less than silently.
Ripples radiating as waves collide and
a drop is flung free,
into the perfect moment of separation.
As the bauble is balanced,
I float momentarily flawless- circular with surface tension;
my wagging tongue wrenched free and swallowed whole
in the moment while I wait
for your answer.
I asked
are you in love with me.
Sep 2, 2011
Sep 2, 2011 at 7:47 PM UTC
“Every act has meaning. Accident is a word born of confusion.” –Agnes Whistling Elk
Some memories are like crude graffiti
some gray in museums
still others, vulnerable chalk on the pavement
all fade
dawn makes no promises
it never has
If you’re afraid of what the night will bring,
or worse, you know
what it’s like to be young and out
of control
leaving a scent trail of blood and flowers
for the monsters of yesterday to follow
just let them
the fighting makes me so tired
Rust in the sun until rubies form
cry through the night until you have diamonds
pressure makes us perfect
because it made the cracks that
make us imperfect
fear is ancient, normal, mundane even but
fear is the anticoagulant
Meanwhile, I am very busy
construction’s going on in Hell
disrupted by
random clouds of
revolting, revolving gravity
knocking girders loose
violent vertigo
claiming kingdoms
work horses slide
into black holes
yellow tape flails as
white flags
cranes arch and spark
swing into the dark
silky black tar bubbles,
pops, seals
everything is
untimely interrupted
and later
ungainly speech mocks
the tombstones growing in the lake
Pain is like a good book
so hard to put down
separation of critical
moments crystallize
until everything has a compartment
and no one can touch each other
Decades old daydreams stink stale
like sour seeds in green fruit
lilies could grow out of so much
manure.
Rot bleeds through involuntary walls
The past is sweating,
afraid of what I know
May 17, 2010
May 17, 2010 at 11:40 PM UTC
Covered in rust from pig iron girders, and dust from the nicks in old bricks that time cracks
I cannot relax and wish
I could just blow up those buildings and stack them in mounds on the ground,which I realise is no different to what they are now.
Fred Dibnah would know how
he would have taught me,teached me
he was a preacher man
and could demolish with polish as easy as pie, all those monstrosities that laugh as they scrape at the sky (they should bow)
It should be back to the drawing board for those clowns in the towers of the towns where the ring roads depress us.compress us until we're back in the mould.
and the old men in whitehall who still play billiards with no ***** should heed what we say,
we don't want it this way.
We want works, we want perks,we want more out of this living that you are not giving and we're sick,
do you hear?
we are sick to the pits which no longer exist except in the memories of miners and women who scrabbled through dirt and put scraps of coal in their skirts and then carried them home.
Poverty is the bone upon which poor people chew
but be careful down there
one day it may be you
that's being eaten
being beaten
by us.
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 7:24 AM UTC
I want to be a superhero. I want to shoot heats beams from my eyes like I shoot...spit, from my uh, mouth. I want to save people in the burning building. Lift girders with a finger and hope with my words. I'd give food to the poor and teach respect to the rich.
I want to show the kid on the ledge that the bully is the loser and not him. That he has a life to live and what an ******* says is just a bunch of **** And no matter how many times he jumps I'll pull him back on the ledge, show him that the hero he looks up to was just like him. Show him miracles happen and if he's lucky he'll become the hero in his eyes. Show him scars are scars and they're just out battle wounds, that even his hero gets hurt sometimes.
I want to be like Tony Stark. Have an ark reactor in my chest powering a suit of armor. Knowing that any second my heart will be torn apart. Be like the Hulk cause I have such anger inside that sometimes I want to turn green and break things.
I want to have the power of Thor, and show others that despite their expectations that deep down I have something they won't ever have: Compassion.
I want to be a superhero. Because despite my expectations I am a hero in someone else's eyes. In another world, place, dimension I am the hero I want to be. And I know that eventually I will be a hero. I may not have powers but I have enough hope that maybe one day: I will.
But this isn't the future. I am in the present. And right now I am not the hero. Maybe I'm the villain.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 8:40 AM UTC
Inspired by the dream of the founders of city
Collated by planning of leaders and mayor,
Built by the muscle and sweat of believers
A Masterpiece fashioned for pride and for care.
Magnificent structures of bridges and tunnel
Faultlessly conjoined by highways of God,
Dreamt by the forebears of knowledge and passion
Crafted in concrete and sculpted in rod.
Towering edifices scything through city
Asphaltic motorways curving with grace
Estuaries bridged by elegant girders
Created by vision with tears on it’s face.
Fashioned by strength and belief in the promise
Fashioned by fortitude's strong hand as guide,
Crafted by people's belief in tomorrow
A Vision for Auckland and nation with pride.
Marshalg
With the Wellconnected Alliance.
AUCKLAND N.Z.
(Inspired by the animation on a good Mayor’s face)
6pm,14 February 2013
© 2013 Marshal Gebbie
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 12:45 AM UTC
The clouds whirl around horns of the gate.
The blush of the morning is tangerine
and gold. The blossoming chorus from the bay
for now is just silence, fog and a silver lining.
The cinema bulbs are flickering out.
There is Coca-Cola in my soul.
There is anguish in my bones.
Luxury paid for the tightness of my skin
and an artifice of love.
It blew away like dry grass.
I think God is a librarian,
crumbs in his beard, fingerprinted specs.
Cataloguing the hours I spent on my knees
his matinée idol, his evening sandcastle,
stones applauding his work in the Cali tide.
What can he do to me?
Witchdoctors can forecast rain from my guts.
A poor wading bird can fish me up
and photograph my corpse iconic like Evelyn Hale,
but that 'man' can do nothing…
I see the Island rising from the mist
like it’s throwing off its coat.
I’m like the birdman, in my way.
I’ll be remembered
flying.
Perhaps I can even make it magnificent?
The boys on the boat will talk over their beers
of that triple tuck swan dive,
the acrobat, a harlequin that tumbled
like a shadow on the rising sun
Kamikaze, I Samauri!
The war drum beats, on, on but I’m done.
l am in the eye of the storm.
I am the harbinger, the horseman -
And the universe is a ball in my hands.
I made you up, I’ll rub you out.
The sky is holding the Sun and the Moon.
5am. Circling gulls. Harikiri.
Machinery rings upwards through the girders.
Equinox. Tomorrow is untouchable.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 10:21 AM UTC
The earth mourns and weeps
The death of her precious trees!
Do not put me up on lease
No more concrete jungles, please!
When you lay down the girders and beams
Don’t you hear my silent screams?
I dream of an earth evergreen
Where birds chirp and monkeys preen
A place where all animals happily roam
And make the soil fertile and loam
I pray you make me plastic free
Every two feet please plant a tree
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 11:27 PM UTC
I arrived at my station in Kaliningrad
as if posted there by an army of desires
entering through the gate with a firm set jaw
into the guarding teeth of iron girders
driven into the soft soul of the soil
by hammering heels as bold as yours
approaching a fateful encounter quite naughty
amidst ghosts in an Eastern European night
its sights built when all roads led to Königsberg city
taking pretty daughters of frightening Prussian knights
to a military parade past the rust of heavy industry
a call to arms wrapped tight up against youthful skin
dark forces dressed in lace trimmed girdles of passion
its secret codes covered by accents slightly Russian
sounding like love slipping into a cold war assignation
you were too beautiful by half
too perfect to wear jeans
so like the uniform concrete paths
abandoned to such ghastly stains
they attract me like works of art
that someone envious of being outlasted
had to spray with swirling tattoo paint
yet the matt camouflage fades fast
while your beauty is chiseled into my days
its ageless gloss defying the wind and dust
whipping across the wonderful blocks called home
built by socialist bloc labourers whose ***** hands
must have toiled for the day you were born
and set free the naked ambition of men that yearn
for a dessert of finely moulded vision
beyond the blue vein cheese and a little wine
into warm baths steaming away the tension
which had crossed our paths with precise chains
snapped together in a demand for attention
“stop - no tourism beyond here after 5pm”
but you knew diversions locked in 'till round 2am
a stress release submitting to the pull of a comforter
gentle in the peace of the goose-down we slept in
the softness of the rattles
the worst
of your corrupters
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 9:18 PM UTC
The oil's spilled; the weekend’s spent.
Battering rams adorn our newest cars.
The coral's bleached, our girders bent,
and as the ash falls, drones fly on Mars.
The poker chips clank on the felt.
Sweltering mules sway drunk in bars.
A toddler falls, receives a welt,
and as the fires grow, drones fly on Mars.
I could not bear to speak the truth
when you had asked me where went the stars.
A cow sits in the kissing booth,
and as the sky blackens, drones fly on Mars.
The wind has fangs; my heart now sags.
A feral pig grunts to mass applause,
Now childish men hoist cryptic flags,
and as the crops fail, drones fly on Mars.
Aug 19, 2023
Aug 19, 2023 at 2:35 PM UTC
Oh gone are the days of white sheets draped on propped up cushions;
Of safety in delicate, wavering structures only strengthened by imagination.
This fort is of unseen iron, steel and girders - bound and secured by all of my insecurity.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC
Were I given a life to return
To hold again my newborn son,
I'd take time to be present,
Really "there,"
Beside, behind him,
As he learned to run.
Instead of the tower on the hill
I tried unsuccessfully to be,
I'd walk beside him on the path,
Reminded of my boyhood memories;
I'd leave the sermons to the priest and be the dad.
I'd get us shovels,
Deep to dig our conversations,
Embrace the work and sweat and look for more,
Pick and bar our way to Rock,
Drill and blast our anchors to the floor.
Before the storm surge of his teenage years,
I'd strive to see strong footings were in place,
Weld strong the structures while the girders rise,
Pray the work would stand the weather's cruel face.
The past, now present has me chilled;
The distances are lost in haze;
What I see now from my distant hill
Reveals broken structures to be razed.
God grant us time to renovate and fill
Remaining years to bring Him praise.
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 1:05 AM UTC
Sweaty bones, cracked
metal and marrow ionised,
Rusty toxins dripping,
running the gully of the chest
Freezes
As sudden as it had broke.
Shaky, quivering limbs; fingers swollen
like tiny girders
Ready to build - Again
The foundations of another fix.
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 5:06 PM UTC
Does it exist?
I look down
The direction of sight, below the concrete rail
There’s grass and blankets, Frisbees and pups
And a vision of love gone right.
The hands intertwined are wrinkle lined
Worn out with age and aching
Rough from life’s work
Yet soft in the finger’s embrace.
Those hands have perhaps held a plow
A newborn aloft
A needle and thread in fine intricate work
A rifle in a foreign trench.
A pen pushing letters to form words
A gavel to hand down sentence
A mixing spoon and bowl
A handle of a coffin.
Maybe they’ve held an unopened letter
A glass raised in a toast
A wedding dress
A framed photo of someone lost.
Chalk in a classroom seminar
Hard packed snow ammunition
A nervous hand in a dark movie theater
Clean sheets of motel rooms.
They look up
Their direction of sight, above the girders
There are clouds and birds and me
Studying their hands holding on in lasting love.
They walk away
Hands still knotted
And it is my proof
Of a love like that.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 6:07 PM UTC
Tap dance on girders, Ben Franklin Bridge
Jubilant prepubescent boy making mockery
Alpha doggie dodging any common sense
Step ball change and windmills free range
Little show off teetering on brink of disaster
And a dare of unabashed audacity
Stare, stare, and stare down his prey
Tap a whack tap, double time flick flack
Intensity that cannot possibly go away
Dared youth’s eyes give all hints to fear
Though no tear will come to his pride
Other boy steps and glides
Reach comes forward, disaster tap mongrel
Puppy stepper’s got to be a go-getter
Holds his hand out and comes quick the grab
Trembles a fright, Speedline in sight
This rail from Jersey to Pennsy might bite
Shaking and tapping, absurdum jacking
The slip; it’s over as you knew it would be
Alpha Dog sniffs that bridge to this day
Searching permissiveness, lost in foray
But if he hears one tap or a click or a clank
Jittery twitchiness, on that you can bank
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 5:59 PM UTC
The sun cracks the sky where the albatross
flies; the clockwork waves splash
Lunacy, the morning haze disbands.
Your patchwork raft, the labour, the scars;
The salt and the spray assault
the ballet: the majestic way you stand.
Your teeming suitcase, a thousand journals,
Their iridescence forms a compass
gleaming north to your merits.
Mountains ahead are distant, hills behind are old
Marvel in awe, gasp as your youth
floats passed, whipping up paths of sand.
Grow and glow, perspire and expand,
shadows are cast for eyes to follow
a menorah of promised plans.
Sand turns to brickwork, pebbles to mortar
squint across the water and scuff a hoof
lunge and press digits on freshly laid girders.
Pull back the bow and aim, no doubt
In grey-matter but a quiver
full of knowledge, a diver in a mirage
A bridge to greener land.
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 9:38 AM UTC
Steel girders high above,
support a railroad, criss-crossing underneath
to keep it from falling down.
Vertical beams extend from massive
concrete blocks, as tall as two men and as wide.
Megan & Tim 4evr.
Who are Megan and Tim?
Two kids, ages thirteen and fourteen, respectively,
convinced their “love” will last
forever. Honey, say that you’re mine,
and I’ll be here ‘til the end of time.
No question of whether to stay or go:
he stays by default. Why wouldn’t he?
Promises and promises pile on,
like heavy rocks placed on your chest for a crushing.
She yelled, jerking me away from my thoughts,
“Hey, wake up and watch this!” as she swung from
the rope, letting go at its peak and flying downward into the water,
landing with a massive splash, like a beautiful
fountain centered in a grassy patch
in the middle of a rich man’s driveway,
lined up perfectly with the massive iron gate.
I laughed, she climbed back out,
and we dried off, and we left.
It was one of those humid days, when you
can feel the sweat building up in your pores
like water behind a dam, just waiting for it
to burst out. We rolled the windows all the way down
(she insisted on that, I hate having them down),
and I told her about the graffiti. She didn’t find
the humor in it, and spent the rest of the ride
giving me a thoughtful look, as the wet summer heat
lay heavy on my shoulders.
Mar 31, 2010
Mar 31, 2010 at 4:19 PM UTC
Recall the river flowing
Far far below the timid edge
Of chasm walls, above the falls
Where rainbows blink and salmon ******
Chrysanthemums reflect the rust
Of iron struts that mark the ledge
Where once a bridge was growing
It sprouted forth and blooming
Stretched eager beams across the span
To tame the walls, above the falls
Where boats were tossed and men would heave
With weighted nets their women weave
To pass the lonely days -- So ran
Their lives with chores consuming
A tempest storm was brewing
And raged along the chasm ridge
To smash the walls above the falls,
Upheaving trees and hurling rocks
To bend and break the cinder blocks
And girders of the iron bridge,
It's vengeance wrought undoing
The damaged bridge was bending,
It's proud commanding arch detached
To strike the walls above the falls,
The roadway and the pavement went
To spiral down in swift descent
Into the torrent flow -- Unmatched
Destruction brought it's ending
Proud men lament the falling
And mark the day each solemn year
Beneath the walls -- Above the falls
Foundations lay beneath the stone
And ever will remain at home
For those with hearts to see -- No fear
Should halt the brave recalling
Of elder days when rowing
Beneath majestic fashioned beams
That spanned the walls above the falls,
Emotions streaming like the flow
Of swirling waters far below
The mighty bridge -- Distant it seems,
Yet near to those still knowing
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 9:36 AM UTC