Long Tinkers Poems
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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.
May 1974
Why do you need to waste your time today
Writing an elegy no one will read?
Add the half-cent to the cent
And text to shivering text
For you were born to text
And save-
But let her be
She’s dead and gone
She’s with her baby in the grave
Yet they were of a different kind
They didn’t text
Their lives they didn’t save-
But let her be
She’s dead and gone
She’s with her baby in the grave
Was it for this you came to Warsaw?
To write poems about the dead in Dublin?
Not today but 40 years ago-
Does it matter where they died
Or when?
Does it matter where I live
Or when?
You can come to the party
At the Irish Embassy
The minister will be there
The ICC will pay their share
Forgotten by their own race who
Fumble on the greasy keyboard
Making money and texting tinkers
Skypeing and phoning in the temple of Midas
Please let her be
She’s dead and gone
She’s with her baby in the grave
But should we not know
Who her killer was?
Or at least know
Who connived at her killing…….
So was it for this you wrote your dirge?
To hold up the hatchet-
To puncture the peace process-
To live through that pain
All over again
Yet could we turn the years again
And be in that same month of May?
Could we just delete that day
And save ourselves from all that pain?
Just let her be
She’s dead and gone
She’s with her baby in the grave
She’s surely dead and gone
Yet justice must be done
And we must go on
You might cry-
(Like after the Stardust fire)
‘Why?’
And I would answer -
Between neighbouring nations
That have good relations
There are no secret files, no classified information
Telling the truth is no delirium of the brave
It is only what we owe to those in the grave
13.05.2015
*Image of Child Sad Suffering provided by Pixabay.
Not Of This Earth
Poetic Form: Narrative
Asymmetric mistrals warp speckled vaporous pallidness toward rhythmless voids. Obviates an evacuating azure as a midday star pivots to a twilight qualm. Numinous absent souls of supine prying pupils, yon ethers sinister obscurities, caught in stained oblique ocular whites. Drunken sanguineous veins to gluttony as impish tinkers sporadic doubts riveting telltale images. Metallic aerials ousted the clouds to unperceived iniquity.
Exhausting times since the alien armada infested Earth in a furrow of carnage. Abominable hordes disembarked, eviscerated whole metropolises. Hideous beings, an abysmal sight, smothered the remote vestiges of our civilized world. Cities ere their decimation had numbers reduced in fleeing desperation. The annihilation of life on Earth engrossed thoughts upon the scraps of humanity left. Ravenous creatures generating utter rampage to and abroad, slighting none to decay. Be they mortals or breathing existences of our lesser kingdom, perished in the bloodletting. Some kept as breeders for the succession of consuming time.
A cohort strung of plain folks, thrust as one in a nameless realm, sought ephemeral refuge in a subterranean hollow expanse. Bestill for the scarcity of fragile credence as the intrepid one, espy a grotesque glistening of crimson blood, secreting from the sheathed hoariness of fangs. Sentient rouses heedful footfalls per monstrosity exposed jawbone, that swapped shrill for snorts, neath laden eyes that had shrewdly scowling luminous orbs. Creepy anvils pierced hairline, afeared incus, sensitively measures close octaves, spurs the labyrinth's nerves. Alas, its vulgar pelt of bulky fur stretch hither and fro, bars clamors reach.
Cavernous chambered partitions mimic as trepidation ebbs nevertheless. Unceasing progress to that bemused destiny, as anonymous atrocities, plague each within their shells, e'er crucifying the last semblance of their true selves. Ardent impulses seeping via their lithe ruby channels, crossing neath the bits of their betraying skins, as they escape the nebulous sepulchral. Beasts at 6 o'clock, tho' what unknown lurks yon pits facade, save a future yet to be titled.
2021 May 12
Wanderer, at the crossing of these ways
well met! We have no sure knowledge
whence we have come or whither we shall go,
only we are here. But let us meet
in each other our own true selves,
forgetting lineage, confessing
we owe our being not only to great kings
but to tinkers tailors, beggar men,
thieves, to harlots as to queens.
Is Providence our parent, mere Chance,
or both? If Certainty you seek,
he will lead you to some cold place
by a bony hand. Seize the present
and make shared ignorance our bond,
frailty our strength, then
we shall not fear the fall of dice,
the sweeping scythe, for these release us
the very moment they would claim their prize.
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
Andrew Morton was a dreamer, and had been one for quite some time,
Just as language had to dream awhile, before it'd learnt how to rhyme.
Andy often felt like a wishing well, for he had such hopes and dreams;
Like one caught between a midnight maybe, and the red sunrise theme!
He lived in the house that he was born, and it was a house that he loved,
In agate hours of someday; like a handshake with the future, ungloved.
His friends also felt the future was faceted, and held shades of promise;
Like fragrant flowers, moonlit, or sangria butterflies, asleep in calmness.
Flowers and fancy clouds, trended the pink fad, as feeling family visited;
In final days of fleet spring, when loitering on the green, was prohibited.
Andy lived in the house of yearning, like the good old days, lost forever;
Or saffron sun, which rises only for today, as garnet birds, sing altogether.
Silky were starry nights of yellow moon, in a soft, scented breeze sector.
On the street of fluttering surrender. Lovely nature could not be better!
Andrew's nice neighbors were old friends. Some had grown up together;
In the joyous, white noise of youth, making looking back, such pleasure!
'Safari sunset' blooms opened in winter, in contrast to 'snow in summer';
The first, deep red, burgundy, and wine-red, and the latter an ivory stunner!
'Silver lace' blooms made gowns for the moon, as 'star magnolias' sparkled;
And 'sweet woodruff' scented blue shade, when breeze blew, unmarshaled.
Andrew realized that his life had no direction, for wishes were not enough;
And that he needed definitive goals and plans, as wishes alone, are just fluff!
For it's the things you do as you're wishing, that can make them come true;
So, his studies grew more earnest, like earnest dawn, very violet, all through!
This big change in Andrew, marked the last stage of growing up, suddenly;
As summer matures to the eyes of gladness, before latter colors, turn funky.
'If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
If turnips were watches, I'd wear one by my side.
If "ifs" and "ands" were pots and pans,
There'd be no work for tinkers' hands.'
I love having—
hating the feeling of wanting.
Wanting cuts my guts as consequentially as diarrhea.
I steal casually,
like second breaths after waking,
or proper newborns latched onto Mama’s nipple.
It is inspired vice.
There’s a teaspoonful of buccaneering Barbarossa
sprinkled in my lines.
I commit careless crimes—
not much outside the magpie’s range.
I am the cupbearer at Mass now.
All men are wanting persistently.
Other men’s carelessness is providential,
inviting nosy rats to the quiet catwalk.
I collect on neglect,
underprized nuggets
that poke at my wonder,
scratching curiosities.
I stole wives off petty husbands,
decaying cars banked by roadways,
the overhanging fruit of fat landlords,
words from Webster’s to ennoble intellect,
thoughts from tinkers;
Christ’s reflection—but the mirror stole it back.
Psych docs lower me on leather beds,
wanting to safe-crack my mystery.
I tell them Barbarossa blood ties tarnish, birth bandits.
Shrinkers countdown—
ten, nine, eight...
I am paroled to a fantasy field of rare, clean earth, of no lack.
There is my First mother.
She is a beauty queen.
Me, unseen.
She is careless,
drawn by luster.
I yell, spoiled apples!
Me, unheard.
She tastes.
She calls my First father to probe the coveted yield.
I am bidden too.
I eat.
Theirs is mine.
A primordial gift is constant craving.
When love is a failure
The bird of love sits in a gilded cage, sometimes
it gets out and flies in search of mischief.
Anton, a young student from a middle-class family
sat in a crowded café drinking a beer, when Maria
entered, she had a coffee since the café was full
Anton beckoned for her to sit with him at his table.
Lovestruck!
In infatuation, they had met by chance and nothing
about them made sense; Anton was well-educated
Maria could barely struggle through the headlines
of the local newspaper, but she was of a generous
disposition, eyes that mirrored her warm nature.
The bird of love was back in its cage and felt smug.
Anton’s family threatened to disinherit him,
Maria’s family of Tinkers were outraged that she
loved someone outside the clan.
The loving couple lived in the poor part of the town
Anton had a horse collect rubbish and brought
the stuff to the town’s waste depot, he
drank a bit, put him in a mellow mood.
After work, Anton sat in the stable reading books
and newspaper, sometimes Maria came and they
spent the night there.
At home were two sons who blamed their parents
for their poverty and lack of progress, they also
made fun of the mother, who had grown fat and
had rotten teeth, they also stole Maria’s cash
she stored in an empty biscuit tin.
Their love was so overwhelming they had no time
for the children; in the cage, the bird of love grinned.
(Dedication: This poem is for
my son, Michael Zachary)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
TINKERS #1:
Mind follows heart as feelings urge,
Intent floods start with poise and merge;
Charm has a way to ooze sweet balm,
Health primes each day as stillness calms;
Ask truth to tell in plain words bold,
Expect fine spell to now unfold;
Live in the light of ample surge.
Touch then clear sight with that blind purge,
Inspire fond feel in ancient psalm;
Now watch touch heal with magic palm,
Keep pulse right here with ideas sold;
Etch thus good cheer that warms the cold,
Reap as you sow such lovely things,
See happy grow grand buzz thought brings.
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
15 May 2016
Singapore
(Dedication: This poem is for
my son, Michael Zachary)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
TINKERS #2:
Meet that sure ease with words that show,
Imprint clear voice to sparkle time;
Charm follows choice in subtle rhymes,
Hinge a calm peace with poise that glows;
Aim to do well with peace of mind,
Exult in grace that puzzles earth;
Love sculpts your face in wonder's birth.
Touch grooms fine tell where honour signs,
Incline fond heart with faith that knows;
Note how you feel as insight comes,
Keep shrewd goodwill with action sums;
Entrance clear art with curious flow,
Risk flavours fact with speedy curl,
Succinct the pact of thought that hurls.
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
15 May 2016
Singapore