Best Tinkers 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
Categories:
tinkers, society,
Form:
Rhyme
You cannot say tinker now.
It's simply not allowed.
If we are to be PC.
Not stand out from the crowd.
I love the way tinker sounds.
Memories from my youth.
Shrouded in woolly blankets.
Scary to tell the truth.
Turf fire smell and welly boots.
Bare legs beneath long skirts.
Strange accents from strange places.
It made them seem uncouth.
Wooden wagons on winding roads.
Cartwheels clanking in a row.
The clip clop of horses' hooves.
Their campfires all aglow.
"Spare a copper for the wane,"
is what they used to say.
The baby tucked inside the shawl.
Perhaps another on the way.
You cannot say tinker now.
That's a word from long ago.
A proud people with unique culture.
I was there, that's how I know.
Categories:
tinkers, appreciation, childhood, culture,
Form:
Rhyme
fair day
tinkers came this morning
out of the melting sun
like a rainbow in a cloud of dust
their caravans noisily come
music swirled about them
and women's ribbons flew
in their coal black hair red roses
still wet with the morning's dew
rat tat tat on the pots and pans
rat tat tat on their women too
the village men stood stiffly 'round
their faces glum mouths turned down
when the tinkers came to town
the village men burn with lusty fire
for tinker girls are sweet
but never closer could they come
to the swiftly dancing feet
'round and 'round like Christmas tops
skirts high above their waist
willow withy women danced
while their men they robbed the place
rat tat tat on the pots and pans
rat tat tat on their women too
the village men stood stiffly 'round
their faces glum mouths turned down
when the tinkers came to town
anxious to be off again
fairy vaner ponies stamped
flowing mane and tails held high
they pranced around the camp
now at dusk and shadows creep
too the music all must yield
not a blade has been disturbed
across that empty field
Categories:
tinkers, beauty, culture, dance,
Form:
Free verse
Lovers have each other so they,
will never have to be alone.
A king has his tall stone castle,
where he can sit upon his throne.
Musicians have their instruments,
and a singer will have a song.
Religions will have holy books,
to teach them about right and wrong.
The poets have their words to give,
the baker has a cherry pie.
The dreamers have their dreams to dream,
pilots fly their planes through the sky.
The artists have their paint brushes,
and sculptors have their marbled rocks.
Teachers have their eager students,
tinkers have their toasters and clocks.
People come in many colors,
and in every shape and size.
But I can’t help but wonder when,
we’ll ever come to realize.
It’s time we stop seeing the world,
in black, white, yellow, brown or red.
Each one has a different way,
of how their book of life gets read.
What makes us think that we are right,
while others will always be wrong.
Or that we will know the best way,
to tell people where they belong.
What makes me think that I can tell,
anyone how it should be done.
When I have so many battles,
with myself that I have not won.
We must learn to love and let love,
before we’ll ever really live.
We must stop taking a bit more,
than we’re ever willing to give.
Every person should be free,
to just let their lives go around.
But all I can see are people,
just putting other people down.
Categories:
tinkers, poetry,
Form:
Rhyme
Please allow me to introduce,
Without any pardon or excuse,
A man who needs no introduction,
To those he’s given instruction,
A man who has always helped me,
To understand extreme fallacy,
Through guidance and edification,
He spreads his extreme education,
Now he never reserves his lessons,
And always leaves his impressions,
Upon those he teaches his schtick,
For he is our scholastic mechanic,
Always he tinkers under the hood,
To find the best of what is good,
And now without further adieu,
I am proud to present to you,
A man who’s mind always races,
And affords us other head cases,
A view most definitely skewed,
By great wisdom and high I.Q.,
A man whom I proudly call my brother,
Who’s humble wit makes him tougher,
Than my boastful wages however manic,
…Our G-Man the scholastic mechanic!
Categories:
tinkers, brother, dedication, education, imagination,
Form:
Ballad
A song to sing
With a hither and a dither
A mighty river
The troubled brows of people pour
Blinkers, tinkers and many non-thinkers
Flood rushing down washed up shores
A surging roar!
A song for sure, we should not endure
Soaring high in advancing thicket
A lone wren strives to sing
Perched on a metal birch
But the traffic still thunders and the wren is ignored
And she must continue her search
Cease that din!, she has a song to sing
She flutters and flitters and scolds
Emitting high pitched squeals
Ever more raucous and shrill
When all seemed lost
And if by chance
There came a witching sound
Thrilling rounds of booming trill
“Oh! what joy!, I have a song to sing!”
That dawning morning
Dressed with a new found glory
She called with a hopeful “Churr, churr, churr”
The message, swift and clear
A statement for those that chose to hear
That gleeful “Churr, churr, churr”
“Hear! Come near, I have a song to sing”
Her music made and sounds of warbling notes were heard
Drifting, Floating
Warming winters breeze
The reply came quick
“What darling rhapsody, come fly with me”
“Fly, let's fly away please!”
“Birdie dear, we have a song to sing”
They stayed for a while
Breast upon breast and a small caress
United in harmony
They now have a new song, all of their own
Stronger, louder
A rapturous symphony!
“Fly, my love, we have a song to sing”
Four wings flapped, upon the current
They didn't eavesdrop on the bubbling chaos named din
Not any
Their chorus, resonating ripples of promise
Embraced every grim nook and cranny
Near and afar, they had songs to sing
Categories:
tinkers, bird,
Form:
Dramatic Verse
Here I stand on the front lawn for all gawking passersby to see;
A convenient spectacle on which neighborhood dogs choose to pee!
I try to keep my cool (so to speak) as people make sport of me,
With carrot nose, silly hat, arms formed from branches of a tree!
A corncob pipe clamped between charcoal teeth shapes my face;
I feel so ridiculous lounging here staring off into distant space.
Its those little household terrors who made me who I am,
Then they leave me to thaw in the sun not giving a tinkers damn!
I would just as soon have remained anonymous in a snow drift by the fence,
But if I may say so, I'm a handsome dude - that said in my own defense!
Politically correct jerks call me a 'snow person' upsetting me so!
Dang it! I'm a SNOWMAN and have been from generations ago!
Its cold out here but I reckon they dare not light a flame, lest,
It would hasten my doom which is so very tenuous at best!
So passersby, enjoy me whilst you can before my certain demise,
As I slowly sink to the ground liquefying right before your eyes!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Categories:
tinkers, humorous, winter,
Form:
Rhyme
Of Roma blood, gypsy am I, black of skin and eye
fair Dooriya named for the sea which calls to me.
For tribe and violin, I live, to God alone, I cry.
The road is home and children are my destiny,
as night descends a fires burn, I play and my man sings.
Fair Dooriya named for the sea which calls to me.
We are tinkers, tramps, thieves and wild wanderers who bring
the wheel of life, your karma's get, comes on dancing feet,
as night descends a fires burn, I play and my man sings.
"Kaska san," we say to you "Whose are you?" we greet.
Do you belong "Kas zhanes, Who do you know?"
the wheel of life, karma's get, comes on dancing feet.
No claim hold we to earth or sky although,
we own our own with laws which often bite.
Do you belong "Kas zhanes,Who do you know?"
a crystal ball
gleams by fire light
a wolf howls
If no known answers comes there's oft a fight,
of Roma blood, gypsy am I, black of skin and eye
and under fair or stormy skies, we will unite
for tribe and violin, I live, to God alone, I cry.
Contest: Let the Music Play On
Categories:
tinkers, adventure, beauty, god, history,
Form:
Terzanelle
I am a dreamer
A thinker of thoughts
A devout reader
One who tinkers with words?
And laughs at their form
Or cries at their sense
I am a man of my word
I’ll say what I do
And do as you say…
With a laugh along the way
No matter; come what may!
I am a father of two
Two boys in our image
Where boys will be boys!
Irreplaceable rascals we pride in their smiles
She laughs as we huddle –
Cries when no cuddles
I am tall
Yet it’s not a long way to fall
Although I bend
To kiss the lips of a very special friend
And sway – to get outta the way
During the month of a certain day
A husband I am
A lover; I will to be
A devoted being I am, with
Placid blood coursing through my veins
A man truly in love with his special friend
A wife for life and thereafter…
I am loved
I know that in my heart
I hear it in their voice
I feel it with their touch
I am blessed
I am Mark
Frank Herrera’s Poetry Contest – “I AM”
6 Nov. 2014
2nd Place...
Categories:
tinkers, me,
Form:
Free verse
My wooden dappled rocking horse
Chomping at the bit
Eyes deranged with fearsome fire
Does make my stomach flit
And whilst we race
At perfect pace
Within the purple yonder
No time to sit on laurels dear
Blow dandelions nor ponder
In hot pursuit
And silver soup
Carrots golden tempt refined
Forgetting where from whence they came
(So pitifully mined)
Past burnt glades
And auburn maids
All leaning at the fence
Smiling cheering so enthusiastic
Glorious pretence
The finish line is not yet raised
Nor shall it be
If ever
So I'll just smile and veer off course
And stroke a peacock feather
For in it's eye
Down to it's base
Generous shades to bring a smile
Hues of horizons past and fore
To relish for a while
Once I de board my rocking horse
And accept what is my fate
Mushy peas and stodgy pie
Upon a paper plate
My cloche has stains
Yet it remains
Firmly on my head
Whist ladybirds move in deceived
As they are born and bread
A spotted array
On golden hay
Smiles at nought at all
Just tinkers on dreams of better things
Wishing....
That is all
(please note the rocking horse represents my sense of urgency when i was younger to achieve something... anything)
Categories:
tinkers, adventure, angst, satire,
Form:
Enclosed Rhyme
He drops the tailgate on that old GMC truck
using it as a makeshift workbench
He tinkers with an old icemaker
determined to bring it back to it's former glory
He whistles an old country tune as he works with contentment
His screwdriver slips and the melody is broken
He cusses out loud as his knuckle begins to bleed
Frustration grows as he uses his shirttail to wipe the blood,
holding pressure on his hand with pure impatience,
his eyes fixed on the old appliance in pieces
The aroma of supper cooking
makes it's way outside through the raised windows of the old white house
He decides to give it up but only until tomorrow
His concentration is broken
and his mind is now on fried potatoes and onions
As he wipes his hands on an old shop rag he counts his blessings
They are abundant
Categories:
tinkers, blessing, culture, family, freedom,
Form:
Free verse
My hubby is a techno genius; he can fix anything that was made, at any time.
Yesterday he fixed my vacuum, for the hundredth time, from Nineteen-sixty-one.
And guess who was watching intently: yes, our friendly basement Trolls, of course.
Amazed by gadgets, screwdrivers, and such, love from their eyes, shone forth.
The next morning utility belts full of tools were hung, from around their waists.
They looked for something close to fix. They had to start, right now, right away.
That sunny morn ‘Acme Techno Trolls’ was born, the best, you know, around.
They were gifted… you might say, ‘a blessing’ to everyone with a tech, at home.
They fit a niche for those wives of tinkers, who won’t let go of anything that’s old.
Troll’s can tear anything apart, for near nothing; hammers are their specialty, of course.
When they are done, no parts will be found… ready for your tech to find, in the rebound.
So if it’s time for ‘out with the old and in with the new’, you know just what to do.
My dear friends, they’re good at what they do… This I can solemnly tell you.
And a bonus feature is- when they say it’s broke… Who will argue with a Troll?
You might say they’re definitely the dream come true, for the housewife of a tech.
I know, they worked for me… and I know, by heck, that they can work for you.
When happiness for those tech impaired… would come with the shiny and the new…
Once in a while… It’s the perfect thing… It’s the best darn excuse… It’s true!
Categories:
tinkers, fantasy, funny, imagination, uplifting,
Form:
Light Verse
Days arrive days go
January snow
Words shine
In dopamine and oxytocin
In black and white
In figures of delight
Also in colors
In milk and in liquors
The sensor in the prefrontal cortex
Is in a centripetal vortex
Sensitive to the letters
Holds the birds
The imagination tinkers
With their genetic make up
The bird of a tree
Is now in great glee
A bird in a pocket
Flirting with a locket
Poetry in the vicinity
Ephemeral days pulsate
For some moments
Into infinity
Making one psychiatric
For the love of Poetry
--------------------------------------------------
April 6, 2016
FOR THE LOVE OF POETRY- Poetry Contest
Sponsored by : John lawless
Categories:
tinkers, allusion, art, august, beauty,
Form:
Free verse
Colours Perfuse
Bluebell tinkers in soft mellow waters
splashing in her fantasy and dreams
Tolling oceans flicker chakra’s paths
ring truths and wondrous melodies
Crowned indigo with chanted violet
Peace in her gypsy’s carriage’s heart
She hears the colours smells shades
of pastels tastes aquamarine touches
All lapis lazuli synaesthesia molten
cores when she sees her crystal vision
Comes flows cascades crescendos
compiles her senses on life’s tapestry
A seeker finder clairsentient spirit medium
Bluebell slashes blues and brushes muse
27th January 2017
Categories:
tinkers, color, muse, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
in the shop with hardware and bits of wood
can make almost any man feel useful, good
a screwdriver, a drill, some papered sand
away from day-to-day, simply out of demand
just tinkering around with piddling things
the easy satisfaction messin' 'round brings
no major renovation, or building earthworks
just little improvements, near anonymous perks
unsqueaking a hinge, maybe unstick a drawer
fittingly better is what tinkering's for
whether it's the thing of attention being repaired
or the man doing the labor, it's hard to declare
so too, it can be with words on page or a screen
to ensure understanding, say exactly what you mean
a glued letter, word oiled, or nailing a phrase
brings the writer satisfaction of all he surveys
so I continue to tinker a little bit more
on a few couplet lines, with no guarantor
that I'll illicit from you, oh diligent reader
understanding or joy, from this rambling meter
but that is a small sideline to most of my tinkers
it's time tinkering matters to meandering thinkers
© Goode Guy 2011-05-23
Categories:
tinkers, introspection
Form:
Couplet