Best Boilers Poems
Matchstick Bikes
To tinkers and toilers
I salute,
From mending boilers
to weaving jute,
Man and boy
for generations,
I will unemploy
your occupations.
To brewers in sheds
I sink a few beers
To wet the heads
of our engineers,
From flat cloth caps
to matchstick men,
I will see the collapse
of pushers of pens.
To bakers, tailors
I wish you well,
To the soldiers and sailors
who fought and fell,
From doctors, nurses
to hobnail boots,
I will give your purses
to thieves in suits.
To the grieving docks
I drink a toast,
To tackle and blocks
and shipyard ghosts,
From warehouses, workshops
to fishing trawls,
I will flick my mop
in empty halls.
To union dues
I shake your hand,
To cleaning loos
and farming land,
From railway gauges
to industry,
I will turn the pages
of history.
To factory lines
I raise my glass,
'Neath abandoned mines
of times now past,
From overtime
to austerity,
I will frame the grime
for posterity.
To the silent mills
I tip my hat,
To what ever ills
and this and that,
From a steelworks spew
to a builders hole,
I will stand in a queue
to draw my dole.
To finance, the city
I bow in awe,
To show no pity,
to flout the law,
From sellers, buyers
to pickets and strikes
I will slash the tyres
of your matchstick bikes.
© RJVHorton2016
The night of the living dead is coming…
Take heed and lock your doors
The witch trains blow the whistles
As they leave the devils jaws.
He strikes the boilers on this night
He lets the witches catch his prey.
They dress as zombie’s ghouls and ghosts
But they are here to take you away
The witch trains come to take your mind
The bokor controls your undead life.
The devil sends the zombie’s
For undead flesh to hand out strife.
The zombie has no thoughts to own
He is controlled by higher authority.
So lock your doors on the night of the dead
Or the zombie will come and take thee.
Use your mind, the one God gave you
Put thoughts of good into your head
Revile the zombie that eats your brain
You don’t want to end up a living dead.
© GG 15/10/2013
In south Africa the .witch trains. were believed to be staffed by Zombie workers controlled by witches that took the night time passengers and turned them into zombie slaves.
In Vodou Bokor is a sorcerer that revives the dead and controls the mind.
Sunshine and stormy weather,
From egg,to feather,
Grains until I am matured,
Off to the boilers for sure,
Cluck,cluck,cluck no more,
Chopped or bi-sect in four,
Leg,wing and thigh,
Jerk,bar-b-que or fry,
Brown stew or curry,
Get me ready in a hurry,
Natural seasoning or powder spice,
Finger licking,I am so nice,
Rice and peas or mashed potato,
Done at home or nicely catered.......
Tom said to his kitten: Don't hunt! It's hard work!
Leave hunting to others and don't be a burk
Watch me and heed me and later admire
We'll slink to the future - a far distant fire
There sat some bald apes - one cooking some meat
Fur clad and thick bearded and great hairy feet
Tom stares at the bald apes - wide eyed and miaows
They throw him a meat scrap - the kit just says "wow"
Did I just see that? Blind luck or a trick?
Why did they feed you? They must be so thick?
Tom cat said just listen. I have a great plan
We'll domesticate bald apes to better catkind
We'll make them build wheat farms then store all the grain
To attract vermin rodents - our staple buffet
Breed bovine and ovine to fill up our bowl
Carved wood then ceramic then hand made with gold
From stone tools to bronze craft to iron we lead
The wheel and the ploughshare makes sure that we feed
Mud huts to brick houses to keep us bone dry
Wood fires, coal boilers - to cold say goodbye
We'll make them cat worship - a pyramid scheme
Then reinvent printing - cat posters supreme
Electrics and TVs and PCs - the net
Cat websites and movies on YouTube - no sweat
Then rockets and spacecraft to aim for the stars
But somewhere warm thank you - it's real cold on Mars
They might have big brains but what's better than clever
Is ruling the clever - forever and ever
And when we are settled in their mortgaged homes
With sofas and cushions and beds for our thrones
And though we are fed, we'll go back to our roots
And stare at them wide eyed - miaow to be cute
Entry for "the love of kittens" contest
7th January 2017
Cicely Catherine Charlotte,
Child of a cosmopolitan century,
Captain of the cruise vessel
Cooling its boilers in the cove.
Cicely dispensing catnip
creates crazy feline
cuckoo climbing, jumping with
crack me up comedy, provided free.
Conjuring cat creativity
catnip can’t cleverly control;
calamity aboard a cruise ship.
In crystal dreams of cat-hood
colors writhe in catnip fields
containing cat-antics, a
cabal of cat’tastic
conjuring cats.
Consequentially, the not-so-cute problem
cast upon the ships crew
causes a great cleaning bill
cleaving its way into my cruise line
capital when, cute catnip filled kitties
cast cat-cookies and crap on the carpets.
Cleaning is by no means cathartic;
coughed up catnip-furballs, neither.
Even worse when cats like eating Cajun food;
coloring the ships carpets a saffron red.
Crafty cleaners, I suppose
could create some conquering detergent but, the
cost could easily run sky high,
for calamity cat’s cursed ills, so
cruise ships might best consider not
allowing cruises with cats.
amidst the thunder and the thuds
of boilers and blocks panting evermore
in a halcyon sea, the territorial gulls
shriek their high-pitched sadness as they soar.
and all throughout the gray outline
the groaning of the waves are heard,
as steel slices through the blackish brine
and lonely hearts are stirred.
Debris
There was a time when I was a seaman travelled with
a cardboard suitcase and my best shoes wrapped in newspaper.
I always wore khaki mainly because people would think I was
an American, back then I thought it a great country; still great but
But her leaders look like nine to five clerks.
I have read many books but mostly cheep pot boilers.
Due to my shyness spent most time in my cabin and left my ship
when there was no more to read. I did developed a fondness for
Hemingway he never overwrote is books.
But for me reading had its hidden hazard as I tended to become
the person I read about.
I once read a report about me it said I was grumpy drank too much
- I must have been reading Hemingway at the time and had no social
skills and never mixed with others. I was a lousy seaman and only
enjoyed going ashore places I had read about and had an historical
meaning I could connect with. Well all this is in the past I was not to
know I was ill and introversion is a burden.
they snorted and toiled
the sound of swords being hammered
the vanquished lay screaming
a tale of rank deception
with a maniac for the wind
and damnation in the boilers
trailing smoke and scrap metal
basically they peel your skin off
and noisily eat your liver
while you grok the new data
his prayer was bless the quiet night
but the soldiers liked their slops
it was an idiot army always hungry
the finest BBQ caterers
a government contract could provide
but got blasted through the shower stalls
by the Bureau of Infinite Statistics
the past is never the way
the demon gods and goddesses
of ignorance and superstition
don't want to be in the modern world anyhow
which God take your pick
if religion is a form of rot
what disinfectant should we apply
what brand of antifreeze
mano a mano went the money
we squander ourselves
at the jungle meat tournament
it was MardI Gras
and goblins were in the woods
at the stadium dome-o-plex
the howling hooligans lusted for blood
and they by jiminy got it
you don't shed time like a skin
the 300 decapitated that preceded me
were prone to outbursts of dire warning
its more than a game for compulsives
they play Russian roulette every day
the best of them last 5 days
resurrection is just around the corner
stoic echoic prosaic Prozac
before the world nothing
before your birth nothing
the same old nothing question
the audience was defiant
with hammer blows and headbutts
violin bows arced through the dawn mist
illiteracy as the team mascot
will not do in any sense
a little less self dialog
said the projectionist
hi res wifi high five
the highest resolution possible
aren't we supposed to get smarter
as fast as we can
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.site11.com/
Walton’s Scrapyard
Mr Walton was our local scrap man
He wore a great big hat
His yard was squeezed between
Two terraced houses
And I was always amazed at that
The yard was full of junk
Rusting scrap
And old tat
Tangled up and piled up high
That was fascinating to a Nipper
Like I
Old bicycle frames
Bits off boats
Bits off trains
Twin tubs boilers
Old wire old prams
Parts from a lorry and caravan
Wagon wheels and engine blocks
Infarct If it wasn’t there
It didn’t exist
Because he had the lot
At the back of the yard built up high
He had a pigeon loft aloft
A rat fest I’m pretty sure
I used to watch his pigeons fly around in flocks
Thirty forty Racing pigeons
Maybe more
Us Nippers would scavenge the common
Lie marauding Vikings
Pillaging tips and hedgerow
For metal to be weighed down
To make a few pennies
Or even half a crown
Copper and lead
Made the most brass
And suddenly things went missing
From the White city fast
Mysteriously
A bike left carelessly by a door
Old boiler and wires from an empty house
Piping under the floor
The garden swing
From next door
Please don’t tell
But anything we could sell
Your Mum would turn around
To wash your clothes
Washing machine gone
Just a leaky hose
We’d burn the plastic of the copper wire
That stunk worse than a burning tyre
Tie it in nots or twists
Put it in a sack
And that was that
Off to Mr Walton's
Happy as Larry to weigh it in
And come out
With a pocket full of pennies
In us shorts and a grin
Merrily we’d go
Off toward the sunset
Toe to toe
To the Beeroff
To buy some pop
Spic and fags
With our dough
Yes, we liked to borrow things in those days
Unlike the kids of today
Ooh how shocking.
Peter Dome©2019.
Do I trespass if I knock at your door
Would you be frightened to see I also have a full cup
And call the cop because I am black and you are white
You were none of this I would believe
We had no dividing line except that within our gender
And yet for all, our words could climb from bed to bed
And I could against their promise lay my head.
I am not threatened by a woman revolting against history
And fear the dumb traditions than more than I fear
The truth liberating our different poles to embrace the center of our love
There is no dividing line between the poet and the word.
What then shall we make for a facade of difference
The absence or presence of the sun
For day and night only describe the inadequacy of the eyes
Stars are liquid boilers and builders of atoms into dust
Nothing solid in the bright space of it my mass would trust
Atoms, cells, male, female, lovers and distinctions
Deceivers all, we made them to be the delusion of us
Endlessly we yield
To the giving we are receiving back again
This coming and receding
Pounding in our hearts, wrapping us in swaddling tides
Nursed by lactating time ... this is all we have and kiss
Time the imitator of eternity by persistency
Have fooled our hearts with vanity
Now we are not so rich again without your words
Rolling, rocking, to and fro
The pendulum of our illusion is a dry breast of milky way
We are ahead by the words wings beating in our brain
The cage flustering the feathers in their flight
From trees, herds and people, rocks edifying the rigor of the stream
Life moves backward while standing still
From the seat where imagination changes gear
I hear an engine groaning up an hill
Across inflexible landscapes, and the many distinctions of our selves
The illusion of difference is a solid wall.
Let us like children blow our bubbles still
And seed the air with its own vapor
I love them coming into being, and suddenly popping out again
And for some pretty ones felt the weight of love's despair so
What is the meaning of morning here if night is always there
Waiting at the curving of the sun?
Who left the door open for the milk man coming up the stair
He picks up the empty bottles, leaving apples in their place
You must bring down to him milk again
To nourish my famished tears among the ladderless world of stars.
Funnily it is the shame of sham that shampoo runs away down a drain. Oh dear. What an absolute disaster for the many supporting bottles bearing differing names. Nevertheless it is the revered gel that will last in its cast of sachet. No problems with dressing up an updo update upon upcoming uniqueness. Dares to be a giant hippopotamus in a bathing suit waving. Wave back then. Go on or he or she will be unhappy. Oh dear. Oglala's originals organised organs. No keyboards though. Standing sipping seeding seedlings. Stew. Hahahaha and boiled boilers booking. Hahahaha mystified parrots peering. Hahahaha and an onion skin eating its breakfast. *** unification z
It’s great to be a member of the global elite,
The bean poles in my garden are standing proud and neat.
Organic veg is thriving thanks to ample bags of peat.
I never hear a siren roaming down my street.
I’m fairly relaxed when an airline goes under.
Got a business proposition? Let me find you a funder.
“When will I fix their boilers?” my tenants do wonder.
I’ll soon find a scapegoat, if I should make a blunder.
A product of a public school, the pride of Shrewsbury,
Forcibly convinced that you would rather be me.
The reality is I’m at the top of the tree
So every branch manager is looking up to me!
My diary is dependent on the diligent Katrina,
She runs the show like clockwork, you’ll find nobody keener.
She cuts through all the jargon so the minutes are much leaner
And can text me at the golf club or on my yacht in the marina.
I’m awfully busy, cannot give you an appointment.
Upbeat copywriters - you can find a place in my tent.
Relatively shielded from the risks of disappointment,
You’ll never find a fly in my ointment!
If the radiators splutter, I call my handyman,
If my money’s on a racehorse, then I hope it runs to plan,
On the promenade at Paignton I’m a suave and sandy man,
To a certain travel agent, I’m her “neat and dandy man.”
My doctor comes a-running if I ever get a cough.
Your trusted friends will recognise when you’re a toff.
I flutter like a butterfly high above your moth
So the sprinklers on my lawn are rarely turned off.
Sundays see me mulling over crossword clues
While my weekend valet cleans my outdoor shoes,
Got to keep my name out of the news.
Remember buddy: heads I win and tails you lose.
Now most of my investments are quite discreet,
There’s a chalet in Antigua and a villa in Crete.
Want some carrot cake while you’re thinking on your feet?
Then you’d better not quibble with the global elite.
This poem first appeared in the P.U.W. Anthology "In the Name of Democracy - Poetic Voices" on 22nd May 2021.
We’d just buried poor old Peter and we’re back now at his wake,
and of course it’s sad to see him gone but it’s great we can partake,
in giving comfort to his widow now that the hardest part is done -
funerals are really small reunions - for kin and friends less one.
These are the times to catch up with the mates from long gone days,
and it must be nearly thirty years since Bert and I had chased the crays.
The mists of time have swallowed up Dick and my working situation,
but now the three of us are once again indulging in a conversation.
We laughed about the characters who once graced us on the clock,
and we brought up Union matters that gave the management a shock.
So with a few quite beers now in us we’re neglecting the deceased,
until we were joined by what I’d call the roving friendly Priest.
And tête-à-tête that we’d indulged moved back to poor old Pete,
with questions laced with afterlife when God turns up the heat,
especially after what we’d heard in eulogy that filled the kirk,
about the splendid life Pete lived before descending to the murk.
The Priest had listened quite intent, then with I s’pose a sombre tone,
he put a question to us three about, the day St. Peter’s on the phone,
“When you’re lying in your casket with family mourners gathered ‘round.
What would you like to hear them say before I place you underground?”
Dick rubbed his chin a mite, responding then with his desire,
“I would like to hear them say that, because I stoked the boilers fire,
the factory had the driest steam in any plant for miles about -
Yeah, I’d really like to hear them say, I’m the greatest boiler man no doubt”.
All ears then turned toward me, intent on hearing what I’ll say.
So I took my time to bumble over what I’ve done in me day …
“I would like to hear my family say Dad, it was as smooth as silk,
and we really miss your lunch box filled with that A-grade powdered milk!”
Albert laughed but looked embarrassed, thinking it’s a shot at him,
for every day his Gladstone bag was filled up to the brim,
but then he frowned and gave a nod and moved away from his disproving,
“I guess I’d like to hear them say - ‘Gee whiz!’ Albert’s flamin’ moving!”
IS THE END NEAR?
This civilization resourceful and strong, disrupt and destroy as they go along
Scientist’s try very hard to get by, hysteria still brings a scream to the sky
A ceremony performed to bury our dead, savagely killed or died in their beds
Anxiety makes us aware of all things; even the birds can’t be bothered to sing
This dilemma will pass but what will it leave?
A man with the answer tucked up his sleeve.
No furnace, no boilers and no one alive, is our civilization doomed soon to die?
100ft. under the paving, 100f o into work.
Heat attacks via, boilers, stoves & grill.
Languages thrash & assail the ears,
Chilling the blood of the faint hearted.
Why do it? Fulfil artists quest?
Unpaid by the guests our two hours of stress,
Hours of prep functions of 100’s demand,
Bins of ‘turned’ spuds, sacks full of veg,
Work for the youngsters learning the trade,
Guided by elders experienced & skilled.
Stay alert for 'the orders'; answer "toute d’suite”
Ever aware of high standard’s demand.
Teamwork smooths edges, as tensions rise,
‘Tools’, armed for battle with soup, fish, or roasts.
Satisfying those titled, indulging & spoilt.
With training & practice, dexterity grows,
With passion helps the designs shine.
The gifts gained last us a lifetime,
For the staff & customers; ‘sometimes’.
The pay-back of skill's greater than pay.