Long Fittings Poems
Long Fittings Poems. Below are the most popular long Fittings by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fittings poems by poem length and keyword.
Afterglow
by Michael R. Burch
The night is full of stars. Which still exist?
Before time ends, perhaps one day we’ll know.
For now I hold your fingers to my lips
and feel their pulse: warm, palpable and slow;
once slow to match this reckless spark in me,
this moon in ceaseless orbit I became,
compelled by wilder gravity to flee
night’s universe of suns, for one pale flame;
for one pale flame that seemed to signify
the Zodiac of all, the meaning of
love’s wandering flight past Neptune. Now to lie
in dawning recognition is enough:
enough each night to bask in you, to know
the face of love: eyes closed, its afterglow.
All Afterglow
by Michael R. Burch
Something remarkable, perhaps,
the color of her eyes, though I forget
the color of her eyes; perhaps her hair
the way it blew about? I do not know
just what it was about her that has kept
her thought lodged deep in mine; unmelted snow
that lasted till July would be less rare,
clasped in some frozen cavern where the wind
sculpts bright grotesqueries, ignoring springs’
and summers’ higher laws; there thawing slow
and strange by strange degrees, one tick beyond
the freezing point which keeps all things the same
till what remains is fragile and unlike
the world above, where melted snows and rains
form rivulets that, inundate with sun,
evaporate, and in life’s cyclic stream
remake the world again. I do not know
if we can be remade?all afterglow.
To the Post-Modern Muse, Floundering
by Michael R. Burch
The anachronism in your poetry
is that it lacks a future history.
The line that rings, the forward-sounding bell,
tolls death for you, for drowning victims tell
of insignificance, of eerie shoals,
of voices underwater. Lichen grows
to mute the lips of those men paid no heed,
and though you cling by fingertips, and bleed,
there is no lifeline now, for what has slipped
lies far beyond your grasp. Iron fittings, stripped,
have left the hull unsound, bright cargo lost.
The argosy of all your toil is rust.
The anchor that you flung did not take hold
in any harbor where repair is sold.
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.
Simple short phrases
Taken from the grayest clouds,
charcoal mist collecting my thoughts
Entwining my heart with pointed sorrow
as my stupidity takes center stage to a sold out show
Weakened at the knees, disjointed disappointments,
assumptions falter my eyes
Blinded by the sight of one more
licking the seasoned wounds of past regrets
Channeling frustrations with a remote, the mute button not working
Shoe fittings find my mouth, at least in silent words
Crying inside and outside too,
rivers of lost dreams stored in a mason jar…its lid rusted shut
Wrenching my fingers, twisted knots,
lacing fears that are merely a mirage
yet still flourish in desert dreamscapes fluctuating
as camels drink from my oasis on Wednesdays
Then, as if a window opens, words are heard
simple short phrases
tiny syllables counted
in Haiku fashion
and in an instant my heart spins in circular motions
A smile of winged happiness adorns my face,
sun pours through and zephyrs unfurl their sweet aromas,
dancing from flower to flower…to my heart
It is amazing how words can affect us
when all it takes is a whisper of affection,
from you to me, to make this moment,
this day, this world…the perfect place
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!
The bride intends to trash her dress,
The why is anybody´s guess.
Apparently, today it´s hip
But I say - sweetheart, get a grip!
That gown is gorgeous, made of magic,
Harming it would just be tragic.
Swirls of fabric, sparkly belt,
Down the aisle, hearts did melt.
Think of all that time you spent
´Til, to you, ´twas evident
That this would be the one you´d wear,
A bridal gown beyond compare.
All those fittings, all that cost,
In one minute, will be lost.
Though you´ll never wear it hence,
Trashing it just makes no sense.
I beseech you, blushing bride,
Do not by this trend abide.
Wearing it brought so much joy,
Trashing it - I´ll just say Oy!
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.
I was once misfortuned with being called a tool
by a man who believed I was most often the fool.
By a soul who only ever acted on his own behalf
I was told that I'm often used, simply do the math.
I played along with his insult as it was meant to be
by showing mock indignation at this thing he said to me.
I gave him then a ponderous look, and then I dully said...
"yes, but am I a useful tool? or am I broken then instead?"
He huffed and gave me a look, "you know what I meant"
Responded I, "I bet I'm new. not broken, worn or bent!"
He ignored me for the moment, his annoyance was clear.
"maybe I'm a cracker for nuts! A bottle opener for beer!?"
"Or yes! a wrench used for nuts, bolts, pipe fittings or more..."
He glared at my next words, "hopefully not from a dollar store"
I nudged him then, smiled some, "oh don't get all mud stuck"
"Hey! what if I'm chains or a tow-rope.. pull you out with any luck."
In his impatience, he yelled, "STOP!" He was looking rather mad.
I left it alone, got tight lipped, but oh what fun I just had.
Stop myself? "Ha!" I blurted then "I'm wily in my crafts"
"If I'm a tool then so are you, I'm using you for laughs"
The engine: Long and black
And sleek as she could be
She shook the earth in her approach
As her heraldry.
An atmosphere of steam and smoke
Expanding in her wake
The Queen-of-the-Rails speeds on
An arrival soon to make.
Massive is her presence
Enormity her design
Power is her excess
This Queen is so refined
Once she ruled with majesty
When o’er the rails she flew
But … now, this one last time,
The railway bids: “Adieu”.
Slowly when she comes to stop
We see she’s thoroughbred
When water, steel and hard, black coal
Within her there are wed.
Her regal-ness resplendent
In fittings’ shining bright
Commanding our respect
O’er the rails of her last flight.
Now sitting at the siding
She’s puffing rhythmic breath
The museum’s destination
Of her life commits its’ theft.
Photographs will mimic
Her image of today
But missing from those photos:
Glories of Yesterday
When o’er the steel she thundered
Demanding from all who saw
Respect for Her grand power
Which held them all in awe.
But Glory, she found, was fleeting
When “progress” came to call
Her future then was set in stone
In the writing on the wall.
Now we hear the brake release …
Her throttle then is moved …
She inches down the shiny track
Where the land with steel is grooved
Then as she gains her speed
And whistles out her “yell”
An announcement for all to hear:
“I know I’ve served you well!”
She’s journeyed through the ages
And a boy – an old man now -
Watches as she fades away -
He waves, then shouts out: “Ciao!”
But in his mind is yesteryear
With his dog there by his side
Watching near the railroad tracks
Where the Queen-of-the-Rails did ride.
And long from now whenever
He says: “Remember when …”
In those times of reverie,
She’ll come alive … again.
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”.
There's a feeling of sadness
Mixed with a wistful awe
As we pick our careful way
Across a rubble strewn floor.
An eerie sort of half light,
As though hiding from the day,
Hiding our history until
It's finally thrown away.
This building still stands
Though gutted inside:
I suppose now it represents
A city's lost pride.
Graffitied walls
Fittings smashed
Not much left
Of its proud past.
I can see the lock gates.
Now sealed against the tide,
Imagine an old sidewinder
Waiting patiently inside:
Waiting to land wet fish
That valuable tasty haul
Brought safely on board
From its bulging trawl.
Imagine steel segged clogs
clacking clicking up the road,
Bobbers walking the tunnel
To handball this load.
Seen from a window the old dock
Just a sea of reeds, silted and gone
Hiding a chequered past
As time has moved on.
I sit to reflect for a while
On a broken office chair:
I can feel the past
Flowing through me there.
Such a sense of sadness
Now filling my head
Time to get up and leave,
This building is now dead.
One last walk around outside
See huge cracks in the wall.
How long before the dozers
Finally make the bricks fall.
On the White Fish Authority roof
Children have set a fire
Maybe a symbolic recognition
Of its coming funeral pyre.
The flames gutter and die
As the children run away
And the once proud building
Survives yet another sad day.
This piece of history can be saved
If we don't wait too long
Like so much of our past
Once it's gone it's gone,
Who’ll remember the sidewinders
And their Bell Bottomed Boys
In this place of eerie silence
Once so full of life and noise.
A sparrow hawk stoops
As we walk away
A sort of hopeful end
To a sad and weary day.
I was asked to do a voiceover for an independent Documentary Film Maker, and so had the privelege of entry into prohibited places. After hours of filming over many weeks the project was sadly put on hold with the arrival of Covid 19.