"machinist" poems - Hello Poetry

There’s a god in this space computer There’s a person in this space cocoon There’s a spirit in red defeating the holy There’s a trio of sailors flying past the moon There’s a left-handed man drifting in a probe There’s an astronaut gliding in an earlobe There’s a malfunctioned leader stuck on Mars There’s a determined machinist amidst the stars There’s a sacred yellow Judas in the jaws of life There’s a bloated bellow shooting from the tree of strife There’s a solitary soldier among the aliens There’s a black slab of faith between here and then There’s an eight-pointed star of architectural riddles There’s a cow, a spoon, a dog and a fiddle There’s a god at number two, a bird at number three And there’s always Jupiter to seem higher than thee There’s an eye full of molecules There’s an eye full of stars There’s a blind man full of loneliness There’s an empty void at large

0

Dec 31, 2011

Dec 31, 2011 at 9:06 PM UTC

lucy-tonic

Pinwheel Farm

There’s a god in this space computer There’s a person in this space cocoon There’s a spirit in red defeating the holy There’s a trio of sailors flying past the moon There’s a left-handed man drifting in a probe There’s an astronaut gliding in an earlobe There’s a malfunctioned leader stuck on Mars There’s a determined machinist amidst the stars There’s a sacred yellow Judas in the jaws of life There’s a bloated bellow shooting from the tree of strife There’s a solitary soldier among the aliens There’s a black slab of faith between here and then There’s an eight-pointed star of architectural riddles There’s a cow, a spoon, a dog and a fiddle There’s a god at number two, a bird at number three And there’s always Jupiter to seem higher than thee There’s an eye full of molecules There’s an eye full of stars There’s a blind man full of loneliness There’s an empty void at large

20

Firstly, I'm not a body-shamer. To each their own (a good phrase, though grammatically incorrect), But sometimes I find it hard to understand The tatoos, the piercings, the colors and placements. The usual answer, if I dare ask: I'mhxpressthinmythelf. Good for you. Does the diaper pin through your cheek Tell us you're a Dad or something. Na. The quarter inch bolt and nut through your ear? Are you a machinist or a plumber, or something? Na. The doll-house plates in your lips? Are you a Duck Dynasty fan? A member of the Audubon Society or something? No. I'mapontingxprschmyselpth! Sorry, what was that? I'mapontingxprschmyselpth. I'm sorry. I don't quite get what you're saying. I don't mean to be rude, But could you express those plates for a minute... I... I get it.

0

Feb 13, 2017

Feb 13, 2017 at 1:45 PM UTC

francie-lynch

Express Yourself

Firstly, I'm not a body-shamer. To each their own (a good phrase, though grammatically incorrect), But sometimes I find it hard to understand The tatoos, the piercings, the colors and placements. The usual answer, if I dare ask: I'mhxpressthinmythelf. Good for you. Does the diaper pin through your cheek Tell us you're a Dad or something. Na. The quarter inch bolt and nut through your ear? Are you a machinist or a plumber, or something? Na. The doll-house plates in your lips? Are you a Duck Dynasty fan? A member of the Audubon Society or something? No. I'mapontingxprschmyselpth! Sorry, what was that? I'mapontingxprschmyselpth. I'm sorry. I don't quite get what you're saying. I don't mean to be rude, But could you express those plates for a minute... I... I get it.

23

is this craft that chose you, not defined by millimeters, precision absolute, curvatures, so eye pleasing they demonstrate no tolerance for tolerance of the ordinary the skill of words, too, cut so fine, find the extraordinary within, refine, refine, refine, shave away the trite, the reused, discard, instant recognition, unusable cut new cuts, thy spirit tolling, thy soul trolling anew is thy toolings earth sourced from and of the ever better, ever closer, always newer make thy own designs, faithfully execute the new born original, by elevating, with the tools in you, provide us, by illuminating no thing machined, can ever be as fine as the originality that requires soft spoken definition in new ways, heart and hand guild crafted when God designed the Connecticut autumnal leaves, overriding the summers's single green, good but not miraculous, insufficient, when contrasted with the shades of red, yellow, purple, black, orange, pink, magenta, blue and brown of newly fallen words and worlds in the season of change write me a tool so elegant, so complex, so refined and yet so simple, that its point will force no choice, but engrave gasps of pleasure upon my faltering eyes, my slowing heart, my exhausted limbs, and make me live again through your finest creativity heat heat heat burn to look beyond

0

Nov 23, 2014

Nov 23, 2014 at 9:38 AM UTC

third-mate-third

Machinist, Tool Thyself (for Joe)

is this craft that chose you, not defined by millimeters, precision absolute, curvatures, so eye pleasing they demonstrate no tolerance for tolerance of the ordinary the skill of words, too, cut so fine, find the extraordinary within, refine, refine, refine, shave away the trite, the reused, discard, instant recognition, unusable cut new cuts, thy spirit tolling, thy soul trolling anew is thy toolings earth sourced from and of the ever better, ever closer, always newer make thy own designs, faithfully execute the new born original, by elevating, with the tools in you, provide us, by illuminating no thing machined, can ever be as fine as the originality that requires soft spoken definition in new ways, heart and hand guild crafted when God designed the Connecticut autumnal leaves, overriding the summers's single green, good but not miraculous, insufficient, when contrasted with the shades of red, yellow, purple, black, orange, pink, magenta, blue and brown of newly fallen words and worlds in the season of change write me a tool so elegant, so complex, so refined and yet so simple, that its point will force no choice, but engrave gasps of pleasure upon my faltering eyes, my slowing heart, my exhausted limbs, and make me live again through your finest creativity heat heat heat burn to look beyond

69

Inside the machine, the mechanism turns -- Spokes and gears, built from lessons learned. But the gears are rusting, not turning so smooth. So the product they yearned; Would be one the thing they would lose. The gears still rusting, not turning so smooth. Placed inside were the finest reactants -- Ordered specific for the upper-class faction. But the gears are rusting, not turning so smooth. So the machine produced no more than a fraction... Far from proficient for the hunger to be soothed. The gears still rusting, not turning so smooth. Inside they found some things unexpected. The outside was fine – yet, the inside dejected. They found the gears rusting, not turning so smooth. So they closed her back up, left the rusting neglected. And maybe for the best, for the machine had been abused. The gears still rusting, not turning so smooth. But the rust bore down, wearing the gears. Until the machine had seen her final years. The gears still rusting, had stopped turning smooth. She closed her eyes and her ears, to free her from her fears. For they learned from the machinist, and chose simply to lose. The gears still rusting; not turning, however smooth. So they fixed her up inside, with some tape and some lies. But she refused to move -- for the machine was now wise. The gears were no longer rusting, yet not turning smooth. The diagnosis unclear, they said “Everything dies." But the machine had learned the ability to choose. And her gears no longer rusted, yet never turned smooth. This path showed her poise -- her new eyes, ears and voice. To exclaim that her gears had stopped turning by choice. Outside they found shine, but inside laid the rust, Festering, growing, and being taught to mistrust. Until the machine could no longer function -- Though the catalyst was no more than a simple deduction: The gears no longer turned, regardless of how smooth, But that's simply the product of a machine left to choose.

0

Feb 19, 2013

Feb 19, 2013 at 1:48 PM UTC

bad-luck

The Machine

Inside the machine, the mechanism turns -- Spokes and gears, built from lessons learned. But the gears are rusting, not turning so smooth. So the product they yearned; Would be one the thing they would lose. The gears still rusting, not turning so smooth. Placed inside were the finest reactants -- Ordered specific for the upper-class faction. But the gears are rusting, not turning so smooth. So the machine produced no more than a fraction... Far from proficient for the hunger to be soothed. The gears still rusting, not turning so smooth. Inside they found some things unexpected. The outside was fine – yet, the inside dejected. They found the gears rusting, not turning so smooth. So they closed her back up, left the rusting neglected. And maybe for the best, for the machine had been abused. The gears still rusting, not turning so smooth. But the rust bore down, wearing the gears. Until the machine had seen her final years. The gears still rusting, had stopped turning smooth. She closed her eyes and her ears, to free her from her fears. For they learned from the machinist, and chose simply to lose. The gears still rusting; not turning, however smooth. So they fixed her up inside, with some tape and some lies. But she refused to move -- for the machine was now wise. The gears were no longer rusting, yet not turning smooth. The diagnosis unclear, they said “Everything dies." But the machine had learned the ability to choose. And her gears no longer rusted, yet never turned smooth. This path showed her poise -- her new eyes, ears and voice. To exclaim that her gears had stopped turning by choice. Outside they found shine, but inside laid the rust, Festering, growing, and being taught to mistrust. Until the machine could no longer function -- Though the catalyst was no more than a simple deduction: The gears no longer turned, regardless of how smooth, But that's simply the product of a machine left to choose.

38

I feel the friction raising blisters to fingers. I feel the whispers of the smoke when it lingers, a siren rifling delirium and biting to the throat of a genius who questions how bad miasma hurts the singer. It's the quintessential fever dream between us Oh, he's so smart, look at his three page diatribe describing his rage, he's a machinist yeah Go join the dire parades of craven weakness. Admire reagents calculated to the T, brewed and created for playfully degrading, and raising heart rate, lying to you, and prying from your fingers. When they ask you why you're dying be facetious. Just sew the mask on to your face and make it seamless. Breath it in. Smell the plastic and bone. Relax enraptured in what half of us know. We drink the rumors from a chalice, sink in fallacies of balance, humor actuates the patterns, and its harder to battle the tumor after it's grown. Then we're just grass on the road, and we can laugh as we go, and we can act as if inaction ain't the crack in the stone. And we'll be baffled alone. We'll be the practical applicants of a graph of a lung, hung in a school. Drooling hospital drones. Stool in a bag on his side. Try to hide the agony in seeing lagging behind tank of life on a chain. Banking his breath on a check, and when it bounces he dies. It ends faster than you think it might. Don't even start.

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Dec 12, 2018

Dec 12, 2018 at 4:00 PM UTC

AaronE

Don't even start

I feel the friction raising blisters to fingers. I feel the whispers of the smoke when it lingers, a siren rifling delirium and biting to the throat of a genius who questions how bad miasma hurts the singer. It's the quintessential fever dream between us Oh, he's so smart, look at his three page diatribe describing his rage, he's a machinist yeah Go join the dire parades of craven weakness. Admire reagents calculated to the T, brewed and created for playfully degrading, and raising heart rate, lying to you, and prying from your fingers. When they ask you why you're dying be facetious. Just sew the mask on to your face and make it seamless. Breath it in. Smell the plastic and bone. Relax enraptured in what half of us know. We drink the rumors from a chalice, sink in fallacies of balance, humor actuates the patterns, and its harder to battle the tumor after it's grown. Then we're just grass on the road, and we can laugh as we go, and we can act as if inaction ain't the crack in the stone. And we'll be baffled alone. We'll be the practical applicants of a graph of a lung, hung in a school. Drooling hospital drones. Stool in a bag on his side. Try to hide the agony in seeing lagging behind tank of life on a chain. Banking his breath on a check, and when it bounces he dies. It ends faster than you think it might. Don't even start.

39

There's a light flickering in the attic The shutters, They creak and they clack There's a knife in my sheath There's a horror Beneath Where we're going there's no coming back... There's a terrible plot that's unfolding A machinist we may never see Chilling shrieks and shrill screams "So much worse than my dreams." ... They're just parts now; Silent. Company.

0

Dec 5, 2013

Dec 5, 2013 at 12:13 PM UTC

katsa

Footfells

There's a light flickering in the attic The shutters, They creak and they clack There's a knife in my sheath There's a horror Beneath Where we're going there's no coming back... There's a terrible plot that's unfolding A machinist we may never see Chilling shrieks and shrill screams "So much worse than my dreams." ... They're just parts now; Silent. Company.

15

Manual labor isn't for me So I freed myself from the farms drudgery I'm a classical scholar and a fine linguist Emancipate yourself from being the definition of living breathing machinist You can get free if you want to All you have to do is use your mind, Pay your dues, Expand your intellect, Earn respect I wasn't born to assemble on a factory line, Lotta yellow boys never put that to mind Never will Never dared to dream So they perspire as another part of the machine

0

Jul 18, 2013

Jul 18, 2013 at 1:45 PM UTC

shelby-hemstock

Roebling Reasoning

Manual labor isn't for me So I freed myself from the farms drudgery I'm a classical scholar and a fine linguist Emancipate yourself from being the definition of living breathing machinist You can get free if you want to All you have to do is use your mind, Pay your dues, Expand your intellect, Earn respect I wasn't born to assemble on a factory line, Lotta yellow boys never put that to mind Never will Never dared to dream So they perspire as another part of the machine

14

tell me do you like the machine? you spend mondays in the sun? where do you belong? whom do you conform? ...did we reach the sun? ...where are we from? who are you to speak that the wires would be weak that the system works anyway? the machine produces anything want to see what's underneath it? deepest creatures you won't believe it... no truth to be told. no truth to be told. let's close the deal. some weeks off, a free meal. you don't know what to do anyway. but as on sundays, lying in your chair, fishing in the blue sea still not knowing, (anything) how deep it really is but left as you catched a fish.

0

Oct 10, 2016

Oct 10, 2016 at 3:42 PM UTC

Ruemliblader

Tiding waves (machinist's monday)

tell me do you like the machine? you spend mondays in the sun? where do you belong? whom do you conform? ...did we reach the sun? ...where are we from? who are you to speak that the wires would be weak that the system works anyway? the machine produces anything want to see what's underneath it? deepest creatures you won't believe it... no truth to be told. no truth to be told. let's close the deal. some weeks off, a free meal. you don't know what to do anyway. but as on sundays, lying in your chair, fishing in the blue sea still not knowing, (anything) how deep it really is but left as you catched a fish.

23

Suicidal tendencies and there doesn't seem to any amenities, what's happening to me, can't decipher what it is that makes up my reality. Confusion clouding up the once bright picture inside my mind, now I'm hanging out with the wrong crowd even though I know I don't belong in their grind, in a life full of crime. What happened to me, why is every thought of mine filled with all this ****** *** negativity. What is real, what is fake, filled with regret deriving me for finding destiny's sweet hope filled cake. Suicidal in denial, pastor I confess that I need a revival, giving up my proud title, making a change to myself no longer going to stay so fickle. I know I am rhythmical genius, busting out rhythms like I'm a lyrical machinist. Grew up native, lived being treated like a disease by these white privileged ******** that think they are better than me. **** and to make it worse my dad wasn't in my life for the first fourteen years, got bullied at school, and you know I got called many racial slurs'. Don't get no break, not broke, not rich, I am somewhat of a lower middle class but I keep getting squished by this economy as if it were an anaconda snake. Depression seeps in, getting so provoked by this tenacious sin that got me wanting to finally give in to society's whim. Family in turmoil, to spoiled and ignorant to each other, they to busy being to offended by each others indifference. No wonder mostly kids or teens commit suicide, because with all these obstacles coming at them, they may feel like there is no other place to turn to or to hide. Got encouraged to be creative and imaginative at a young age, but then school came in and I got so disengaged. They killed all the innocence I had, but I never got pressured from my mom for top notch marks, so it wasn't so bad. I don't think I could handle having that extra burden on my life, tried doing the christian thing to but I no longer really contribute to that fraudulent style of life.

0

Dec 11, 2015

Dec 11, 2015 at 4:57 PM UTC

ClassyJ

Suicidal Tendencies

Suicidal tendencies and there doesn't seem to any amenities, what's happening to me, can't decipher what it is that makes up my reality. Confusion clouding up the once bright picture inside my mind, now I'm hanging out with the wrong crowd even though I know I don't belong in their grind, in a life full of crime. What happened to me, why is every thought of mine filled with all this ****** *** negativity. What is real, what is fake, filled with regret deriving me for finding destiny's sweet hope filled cake. Suicidal in denial, pastor I confess that I need a revival, giving up my proud title, making a change to myself no longer going to stay so fickle. I know I am rhythmical genius, busting out rhythms like I'm a lyrical machinist. Grew up native, lived being treated like a disease by these white privileged ******** that think they are better than me. **** and to make it worse my dad wasn't in my life for the first fourteen years, got bullied at school, and you know I got called many racial slurs'. Don't get no break, not broke, not rich, I am somewhat of a lower middle class but I keep getting squished by this economy as if it were an anaconda snake. Depression seeps in, getting so provoked by this tenacious sin that got me wanting to finally give in to society's whim. Family in turmoil, to spoiled and ignorant to each other, they to busy being to offended by each others indifference. No wonder mostly kids or teens commit suicide, because with all these obstacles coming at them, they may feel like there is no other place to turn to or to hide. Got encouraged to be creative and imaginative at a young age, but then school came in and I got so disengaged. They killed all the innocence I had, but I never got pressured from my mom for top notch marks, so it wasn't so bad. I don't think I could handle having that extra burden on my life, tried doing the christian thing to but I no longer really contribute to that fraudulent style of life.

3

Puffing steam is what i do, an innocent child only 2, a mind corrupt and full of sin, only darkness can be find deep within, Someone created this young child, While he was being born bodies were being piled, God cries as it begins to rain, he wishes we didn't create all this pain, And through this sorrowful mist, the greatest creation still defies the greatest Machinist, This 2 year old child grew up in a world of hate, broke up with his girlfriend on his first date, he lived till he was 14 years old, till he shot himself in the bitter cold.

0

Jan 24, 2019

Jan 24, 2019 at 1:47 PM UTC

Dr_Midnight

Sinners

Puffing steam is what i do, an innocent child only 2, a mind corrupt and full of sin, only darkness can be find deep within, Someone created this young child, While he was being born bodies were being piled, God cries as it begins to rain, he wishes we didn't create all this pain, And through this sorrowful mist, the greatest creation still defies the greatest Machinist, This 2 year old child grew up in a world of hate, broke up with his girlfriend on his first date, he lived till he was 14 years old, till he shot himself in the bitter cold.

14

Third eye blinded, And the pictures you Sent wouldn't download When I couldn't make In time and the spaces Make for long distance relationship, I can hear another voice, Retaliation of the missing, Work into an alcoholic And rage the machinist By needing more and more. It wasn't enough that I'm Impaled onto supports, The kid should be mine, Just can't be there So I'm replaced by a loser Who refuses to make money, But can make me when I'm not around, Away to support you, Supporting me, I in me Without you And working for the nothing I've become.

0

Nov 15, 2017

Nov 15, 2017 at 1:58 PM UTC

dedpoet

The I in Me

Third eye blinded, And the pictures you Sent wouldn't download When I couldn't make In time and the spaces Make for long distance relationship, I can hear another voice, Retaliation of the missing, Work into an alcoholic And rage the machinist By needing more and more. It wasn't enough that I'm Impaled onto supports, The kid should be mine, Just can't be there So I'm replaced by a loser Who refuses to make money, But can make me when I'm not around, Away to support you, Supporting me, I in me Without you And working for the nothing I've become.

24

Does the sender dance to the tune of the rights Does the messenger believe in love and call it food Love letters washed in limbo, I've stopped Sands and jaded solace of Soho and the midnight lurks hanging like gallows stark in starlight just like we hugged The arms of the machinist broken by the assuaged quirks We won, and this integrity of the jejune kind A lively berry in the possibilities and Probabilities of time, flickering crystalline face like the mirror across your sea Ripe and the average Brit ****** mystery doesn't excite your insightful side Here something for you, to remember, I have drawn the lines to tell me where does it draw to my incubation Something that makes this broken poetry Sounds complete when you are reading enough from me Trending poem, titled indelible plenary How is it really?

0

Aug 7, 2019

Aug 7, 2019 at 10:56 AM UTC

aditya-roy

City TItle

Does the sender dance to the tune of the rights Does the messenger believe in love and call it food Love letters washed in limbo, I've stopped Sands and jaded solace of Soho and the midnight lurks hanging like gallows stark in starlight just like we hugged The arms of the machinist broken by the assuaged quirks We won, and this integrity of the jejune kind A lively berry in the possibilities and Probabilities of time, flickering crystalline face like the mirror across your sea Ripe and the average Brit ****** mystery doesn't excite your insightful side Here something for you, to remember, I have drawn the lines to tell me where does it draw to my incubation Something that makes this broken poetry Sounds complete when you are reading enough from me Trending poem, titled indelible plenary How is it really?

18

A machinist Breaking his parts Bringing his art In lintel print

0

Nov 9, 2018

Nov 9, 2018 at 10:44 AM UTC

aditya-roy

Managed Means

A machinist Breaking his parts Bringing his art In lintel print

4