Fittings Poems | Examples

Tin Man

I’ll be keeping this one rather brief;
my arthritis is causing me grief.
Now I’m not one to coddle,
but Bobcat’s a good model
and grease fittings would provide relief.

Bernie's Hardware Store

The wooden floor wore
decades of dust. 
Near the doorway
brooms grew out of a fire bucket 
and bloomed in an odd
array of heads. A pile of coir mats
lay stacked in a wheelbarrow,
all chorused in a WELCOME.

Bernie's store was a haphazard 
sprawl of hardware stuff 
and followed no order at least
by any stretch of logic.
Hammers were paired 
with paint, boxes of nails 
mixed company with hinges
and fittings for copper pipes. And yet,
Bernie had every item carefully
mapped in his head. 
Ask for something 
and he would take you 
straight to the spot.

It had the air of a serious place,
almost like a church. Tools were 
the blessed instruments 
of a sacred order, treated with care
and reverence. Back then
power tools were just coming in
but none contaminated 
the sanctified air of Bernie's 
hardware store.

On the back wall,
above the garden tools,
hung a plain wooden crucifix 
beside a picture of Bernie's 
late wife. From her lofty height
she seemed to look down
with an approving smile every time
the cash register rang,
accompanied by a “thanks”.

Potatoes and Mushrooms

Potatoes And Mushrooms



    Fries are not only deep-fried sticks to which nothing permanent connects
But also, what happens when a person makes some serious mistakes.
  And a way to eat however many potatoes a person wants to in one sitting           
 Even after a couple of inconvenient but needed fittings 

 Steaks are better for people than snakes especially at lakes regardless of who bakes but sometimes more fat than meat -although maybe not in sweet old Crete Maybe that doesn't bother a Pete or a Skeeter - however it does bother me even without bees.

The hatred of mushrooms is sometimes based on uncorrected misconceptions but they make poor brooms for bedrooms and awful grooms-not to mention bad brides but they are pretty good stuffed, as are potatoes!

Solidarity

I'm not too fond of the world today,
Too much rubbish and takeaway,
Nothing today is built to last,
Like the solid stone buildings of the past,
Comfortable homes with easy chairs
Axminster carpets on the stairs.
Wireless that was always on
Sadly this is almost gone.

Sterile apartments are now in fashion,
Chrome fittings and tiles are a passion,
For most who need a place to stay.
Comfortable homes have had their day.

Things today are not made to last,
Craftsmanship is a thing of the past.
There does not seem to be a rule of thumb,
For anything or anyone.
Solidarity is what we need,
No quicker fixes because of greed.
We all need to build a solid b oat,
That will unite us and keep us afloat.

Target of Opportunity - a Sonnet In Wrought Iron

If you aim to be a blacksmith, boy,
You’ll need fittings built to last.
So, know that if the anvil rings,
It’s been forged instead of cast.
You’ll need to stand the heat regardless
How the bellows feeds the draft,
And hammer down apprenticeship
While mastering your craft.
You’ll need to tend to all specifics
As to tolerance and measure.
And fashion every masterpiece
As a temporary treasure.
    A puddler turns out iron by the ton.
    A blacksmith makes the tools that get things done.

Modulations

The camera inside the picture
concertina's time-lines into exclamation points.
Antique tripods brace themselves,
their quaint brass fittings
help minds to adjust.

Some turn a grooved infinity sprocket.
Some cave paint on the arching
bones of elk heads.

If we are to discover what is out there
we must board a ghost train,
plot a milky way over a whiteboard -
orientate to relate.

Spirit, that invisible violin
in a trio of appearance,
is a lone lover.

The third lover arrives at night
walking across fingertips,
while a pale moonlight
moves hands around
a clock of want.

The other elements
of frequency modulation
are the sex machines
that transmits power to pressure,
they are small devices
that molest moments into prayer.

Lastly there is
the whistling tinker man.
The rattle of pots and kettles
behind his moving caravan
enchants all we children
of much lesser gods.

The Book of Job

You might have blisters on your hands from all your manual toil.
You may be climbing up a pole with an electrical coil.
Could be a produce vendor shucking husks from the cob.
It’s just a job.

You might have permanent employment, or only work from time to time.
You may have ring around the collar from industrial grime. 
Could be working in a hotel kitchen spearing kebabs. 
It’s just a job.

You might regard it a profession, a career, or a chore.
You may be forced to punch a time clock when you pass through the door.
Could be an undercover agent, or a thug with the mob.
It’s just a job

You might be laboring like Sisyphus for minimum wage.
You may possess a golden parachute for late middle age.
Could be widgeting the fittings on a thingamabob.
It’s just a job.

You might be entry level ready for the corporate sphere.
You may be hoping to retire in by the end of the year.
Could be cleaning up a crime scene where the vic was a slob.
It’s just a job

You might be licensed by the state to practice criminal law. 
You may be framing out a condo with a circular saw.
We all need to make a living, even trash-talking snobs.
It’s just a job.

The Atlantic's Gaze

I see colours
far from day
visible to sight
never fading away


I see colours
painting sad nights 
revealing to shine
of today's fight


I see colours
save dark nightmares
no dreams cut
crown our heirs


I see colours
life's living proof 
girdling true emotions
fittings to roof

The Invisible Violin

If we are to discover what is out there
we must board the Holy Ghost,
cleave the winds of time
into gods and tridents,
count the star clusters within us.

Under seeking skulls: those white domes,
antique tripods brace themselves,
their quaint brass fittings
helping us to adjust
to the future.

Some seekers turn a grooved infinity sprocket,
some paint cave paintings on the arching
bones of craniums.

Spirit (that invisible violin),
is the prime element 
in these spiritual machines,
some of which gaze into darkness,
some that can push behind the past
into a freely radical moment
unmolested by thought.

The secondary element
is the whistling tinker man
or any god we choose to name.

The tertiary element
is the rattle of his pots and kettles
upon his moving caravan.
We hear those tympanic chords,
then like hermit crabs
we leave our shells
and burst out into travelling music.

Bubble

Would you believe
Light on a bubble

Reflecting a dream
Floating so supple

There is a stream 
Of relief from a dream
Here is the bubble

I carene
Down the alley of me
Why am I in trouble?

The rusty colored buildings
With warm window fittings
Curve around me 
In a wave
And the sidewalk is
Soft with moss
I have been here before
And there are mystery friends waiting for me
Around the corner 
They are up on the roof
Somehow I know the way
To the up top
To the roof and the sun
To have fun 
I am intrigued
Floating  a dream
I float up the stairs 

The rooftop is free with the air
From street the bubbles float
With the sun and I breathe 
Like a cloud 
Reflections magnify with the sky
And the blue, gold and green
Rectangular screen in larger dream
Can’t wait to find dream friends in an endless light


I walk alone
In through the left door
I am on top 
Here comes the bubbles

Would you believe
Why am I in trouble?

Reflecting a dream
Floating so supple

There is a stream 
Of relief from a dream
Here is the bubble

I carene
Down the alley of me
Why am I in trouble?

Pink, blue and green
Coats the dream
Reflections on a bubble

Is It Only a Dream

The pies, the ham, the rooms of laughs,
Ripping bright paper, attending Mass
Was it only a dream?

The rush, preparation, front porch drops,
The anguish of fittings, will storms come or not?
Was it all part of a long dream?

Children are inside warm homes this day,
The babe of inspiration still asleep in the hay,
Is it just the mist of a colorful dream?

The carols are gone, silence prevailing,
Toyotas and Mazdas away down the road sailing,
Is it just part of a still passing dream?

To pour over, reread loved Christmas cards,
Simplicity, words not rivaling the bards,
Slip into nostalgic past dreams.

And I, in the center of boxes and candy,
Overload of food and a full freezer handy,
A lighted tree still blinks as I hold the dream.

Legs of a Goddess

In my youth I had it all
A flair for fashion
And the graceful moves
They saw me coming
As I geared up for
My seasonal fix
Of Cinderella fittings

I had my favorite store
Shoes from Brazil they were
In every size and style
Fabulous colors and hues
Heels to make you swoon
The leather was exquisite
The craftsmanship divine

Satisfied I’d leave that store
Walking on cloud nine
With fearless swagger
And the legs of a goddess
Yes in my twenties
I was hot ~ I had my turn
Till came the time to reluctantly
Pass on youth's baton



AP: 2nd place 2020

Posted on November 21, 2018

Witness

  

           you locked 
           up shadows
           in old chests
           with rusty hinges
           and ramshackle fittings
           those fields of tulips 
           seemed steeped 
           in blood & the weight 
           a thousand years 
           suspended from
           ropey tendrils swathed
           in straw , live twine
           the poplars wresting 
           sudden gales from
           the coast 
           their tall outlines 
           accusing the ochre wastes
           beyond and the striated
           skies while swathes
           of linnets sweep by 
           screechings ,  wings aflutter
           hastening the dusk 
           premonitions of thunder head
           down the headlands streaming

Dark Day

Black like a abyss 
where you have 
to go out alone 

Whats is the pain 
do you know 
reality escapes as smoke

How to describe the chains 
watch the beauty under the bars
waiting for the morning sun 

Our fittings are heavy
even harder to escape

Open the eyes in the 
price of sadness
an expensive price
that is so easy to pay

Fall of Natural Beauty

Women’s wombs, I guess
have run short of materials
beautiful babies are not born
paintings, fittings are after birth
Inventors paint and finish
things pregnant mothers miss
beauty made by machines
and bought in supermarkets
repair shortfalls and damages
to create beautiful adult babies
so artificial and ordinary

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