Tinkers Poems

Parents

My father is no conversationalist. For all practical 
purposes he lives in the garage where he tinkers 
with nuts and bolts, the lawnmower and the car.

My mother talks a lot. She lives on the telephone,
and, when not at her housework, buries her nose
in travel magazines that tout places exotic and far.

It’s crossed my mind many times, and I suppose
I have good reasons, but I have firmly believed
the last time they looked at each other
(if it wasn’t dark) was when I was conceived.

The Most Joyful People On Earth

The thinkers, vagabonds, creators, songwriters, dreamers
The tinkers, builders, inventors, musicians and schemers,
Running in their minds are ideas that jump outside each box.
They are wild and zany, rivaling the soul of a fox.
Rest of the world sits back in fear of their confidence and mirth.
They are the happiest, most joyful, enthusiastic people on earth.

Janitor Ghost

When the owls are out of town
his studded boots kick-up featherless hoots.
He is the creak and groan of tired wood,
The splutter of an old aircon
yet more;
all inexplicable noises belong to him.
He crawls through crawl spaces to prop up places.
A chunky phantom who tinkers with gurgling drains.
He's the one who unplugs the unpluggable,
then trips the fuse box at night while you pee.
I hear him stumble bent between rafters,
imagine his bum crack mooning cobwebs and shadows.
He wheezes through long unheeded chores.
A maintenance ghost
grumbling as he bends over a beer belly,
that unseen plumber who rattles shaky pipes,
working hard on his night shift,
He's a clatter in the crapper,
patching up leaks between colliding worlds,
nudging our sleep as we cover ears
in our fretful dreams.

Whilst In Space

Whilst in space 
Slow-moving pace
Musical trilling tinkers
Tantalising sensations
Personally provocatively 
Gently guiding me further
Deeper to a blissful state
Enchanting euphoric energies
Swirling and whirling within, without
Where sparkling lights shimmer
Illuminating brighter
Gazing in awe the striking beauties reflecting light
These moments I truly treasure though now
Marvelling whilst my heart pounds faster
If only you could see
Only, what I see
Would you then breathe deeply with me 
and exhale the pain
To freely float
In unity
to peace
For other worlds await
Us...

Abundance of divine dimensions 
Entries to celestial arrangements
Spiralling with no navigation 
Security within is the essence of our perception
To release and liberate our spirits
Mine is here, Mine is there, everywhere
Embracing openly the greatness of all
Within my core from before and more
Timeless atmospheric freedom
Born again to be only
Again Born.

Untitled

it tinkers the mind

this feather drifting through me

on its way to you

Travellers

They still label us as gipsies and tinkers

but it is them with the blinkers

everyone is a migrant

and our culture is vibrant

let us not forget about Treblinka


23rd February 2021

The Beach

It's been way too long since my last lay
With a blue skirt girl on the westward bay
I couldn't delay my sport and had to pay
For the tinkers under the sun's last ray.

Her hands were crafty in the glancing gloam
And we finished before the plunging night 
The algae a -crackling with cyclostome
The coralline pebbles were holding me tight.

I smelt a whiff of opioid scheme 
Coming straight from her whitesilk thighs
Before I was dragged down to ancient dream
I gathered strength to disengage and rise.

she was quick to act and fell me on to her breasts
I was sure as hell I hadn't passed my tests
She stroked my limbs with tiny scree fingers
And kissed, and, kissed me like fearful stringers.

Suddenly she broke into ponderous laughter 
And the maniacal wind blew with hefty gust
She thrusted her pelvis to the water of the night
Through my meandering veins the feral blood rushed.

It's been way too long since my last lay
With a Cinderella on the westward reach
I found a Siren at Prometheus' end 
And she was a .. she was a beach!


Your Best New Poem Poetry Contest

Sponsored by: Emile Pinet
21 December, 2019

Kun Fu Zus Sei Fu Ling

A great cook is one who wears blinkers
With recipes one never tinkers
There are a few
Who dare and do
But results are usually stinkers

How To

Shine brightly night upon a happy man 
and watch him fill 
the shallow hole he dug:

Open his wallet.  
Infect his leather with latex & wealth.

Hand that man awash in darkness
a torch, not a lantern, 
and teach him 
the meaning of trampled daffodils
scorched writing poems to April.

Desterilize dirt and dust the dungeon
of a middle-aged dragon.
Tomatoes will vine and carrots leaf.

Suffocate the happy man 
you taunt 
with digs of faraway joy.

Suffer brown eyes of an innocent boy
who tinkers a muted flashlight
buried alive by his father’s spoon.

Poor Man Beggar Man

She tinkers change someone left on the table
waiting for brunch at the Bluebonnet Bistro,
a hole in the wall with thick on the windows.

Lost deep to thought, this rock ‘n roll liberal
in her mid-twenties and sage satin stole,
pockets a penny that weighs down the satchel

strapped to her shoulder and swung under table,
asway just above cherry red laced stilettos.
From a corner booth table, a sitting man stares

an impertinent stare at her pendulum satchel
and long dangled legs that sway to a torso
wrapped tight in proof of a Wolf Parade show

back in twenty fourteen - unable to go
back down below where he yearns to obey 
all known from each of each one of her toes.


12/20/2018

A poem about the diminishing return of memories as they're reduced and bid bare by time using an abbreviated variation of the sestina form.

The Tinkers

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.

Sound Dreams

without the whirl
of a happy sound
too quiet the fan

the dim lighting
lacking air
sans morning sun

thoughts stifled
with buzzing
the sweat pouring

breezeless tease
dreams of
Winters cloak

the loudness
of the tinkers
like bells

9/5/2018

Seize the Present

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.

Fair Day

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

Name Dropper-Kim Jung-Un

Put This Puppy To Bed

Kim Jung-Un of North Korea's shame
Tinkers with missiles in his grim game 
Whatsoever in his head 
Can he just put it to bed
So that earth doesn't wake up aflame



9/15/17

9,9,7,7,9

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