Winch Poems | Examples

No More Welsh

I went to search for a used winch in stuff auction market:
found not bad yellow winch
his owner said am from Welsh,
do payment now no more welsh

The Impotent Poet

sputtering poetry,
   the impotent poet
      tells me, she was
“…puttering around Pittsburg.”

          potent poetry. perhaps,
        alluring alliteration
      potentially portends
   the winch to wind up
this bucket of water.

         diviner twitches, dips,
      dares to deviate
   direct, dilate.

like a mad scientist, moronic
   not to move these ready-made
      sputters into a test tube, shake
         and let them explode!

an avid, alliterative logophile
   holds the power to possess,
to render the procession of
   spoken word into usefulness.

alert to the prowess of moving lips,
   gears cranking creativity and giddiness,
      glad tidings go on and on, when
sputtered with regards to my sister’s trip.

In Praise of Washing Dishes

With hands immersed in suds and water warm,
I stand before the sink, humbled vassal,
To plates and dishes, grease and grime the norm,
My task to cleanse this polychromed passel.

Each cup I cradle with a gentle pinch,
Their curves and corners, every angle blessed,
Rinse them speckless, my soapy palm a winch,
A chore completed, my service at rest.

For though this labor at face is mundane,
It's in the simple things we find our grace,
And so I wash each dish with grateful strain,
And let their gleaming surfaces erase

The chaos and the clutter of the day,
A small but satisfying task, I say.

The Grave Diggers Song

They lean upon their shovels
smoke a Marlborough,
keep away from the mourners,
always shovel ready.
Even the utility hut is hidden yet ready,
it’s back where the graves peter out into headless mounds.

Theirs’s not the burden of loss, nor are they tasked by grief
as the undertaker crew are.
Swift, and professional,
they resist swapping vulgarities until the work is done;
just fill in the coffin-plugged hole,
hum the ‘grave-digging’ song:

“So long you’re almost done.
Ours the winch and lowering straps.
Ours the pork chops for dinner,
Ours this pleasant labor.
Ours the cold beer.
Yours the slow fuse of corruption.
So long,
shovels need cleaning,
the boss is watching
so long,
so long,
  so long.”

Love Does Not Flinch

Love does not flinch, if beguiled look away
Heart aglow, to music divine it sways
Veering not off course, even by an inch
Seeking no victories, it needs to clinch
Vibrant emptiness, lets God have His way

Each cell and pore of form, devoutly prays 
Gods love and light the all, as our mainstay
For vaporised presence, this path a cinch
Love does not flinch

Recognising weary souls, go astray
Love enablement, makes life but a play
Inner alignment, does the love pulse winch
Vibrant is-ness, symbolic of a finch
Colourful rainbow, erasing all grey 
Love does not flinch

12-February-2021

Grave Diggers Song

Death makes its appearance regularly. They lean upon their shovels
smoke a Marlborough, keep away from the mourners.
Always shovel ready. Even the utility hut is hidden yet ready,
it’s back where the graves peter out into headless mounds.

Theirs’s not the burden of loss, nor are they tasked by grief
as the undertaker crew solemnly do. The best are swift, professional,
they resist swapping vulgarities until work is done;
just fill in the coffin-plugged hole, hum the ‘grave-digging’ song:

“So long you’re almost done.
Ours the winch and lowering straps.
Ours the pork chops for dinner,
Ours this pleasant labor.
All that loved you
want you now be gone.

Ours the cold beer
Yours the slow fuse of corruption.
So long,
shovels need cleaning,
the boss is watching
so long,
so long,
so long”.

Grinchy Finch

Grinch Finch

I once was hired to use a winch
to wrap it’s chain around a tree
a tree that held a frightened cat
I knew that this would be a cinch
for nothing ever worried me

I didn’t know there was a finch
who nested there and what a grinch
and then I felt  a little pinch
an assault that made me flinch
my facial muscles gave a squinch

who is this angry bird so meek
to threaten me with its small beak
the cat was saved and I had vowed 
to wear this moment like a shroud 
and never speak of it out loud

no more to use a winch and flinch 
or squinch because of a small pinch 
by anger of a grinchy finch
who woudn’t even give an inch

What Makes You Flinch  Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Julie Leigh Rodeheaver
June 16 2019

For Chris Wanjala: the Song Whose Tune You Cannot Sing Alone

For some things, once is not enough
When wine is fine, you want one more tip
When a song tickles, you ask another jockey
When you stare at the sky, the second time is better
When you pass the brook, you look back again
When you smell sandle wood, you confirm with winch
Even lip, bids you twice, then you part
Touch the bosom of the hill, and you embrace 
If Chris L. Wanjala enveloped you, you wanted more
It seems where good people go, they wanted more
For some things, once is not enough
Let me write on the epitaph of one  
Whose tune you cannot
Sing alone

Surcease

Why, does existing have to be 
a visit of time then leaves me. 
Threads of my life are still unsaid.
Silently I wipe away tears 
of lapsing thoughts, sorrow and fears; 
throwing off spider webs of thread.
I stand by the window and gaze
at white ships depart a blue maze 
they have sought to borrow ahead. 
Everyday another Sunday.
Every day is silent and grey;
prison of aches and pain I dread.

Why, does existing have to be
burdensome. My mortal thoughts flee
like rain drumming at my window, 
then trickles releasing a dam 
leaving me brittle to exam
my own conscious; what do I know. 
Surpassing life hopes as I winch
loneliness devours inch by inch.
My lips quake and swell at my low
detaching my dying cinder.
I can't take another winter
confronted with the ebb and flow,

not being able to foresee 
mental skills decline as I grow
old and suppose to comfort me.



6/13/2018

The Clouded Window of Time

Why, does existing have to be
burdensome. My mortal thoughts flee
like rain drumming at my window, 
then trickles releasing a dam 
leaving me brittle to exam
my own conscious; what do I know. 
Surpassing life hopes as I winch
loneliness devours inch by inch.
My lips quake and swell at my low
detaching my dying cinder.
I can't take another winter
confronted with the ebb and flow,

not being able to foresee 
mental skills decline as I grow
old and suppose to comfort me.



6/12/2018

Art

By and by
Words forge ply
Fly so high


Touch and touch
Words buzz nudge
Spear as such


Inch by inch
In fond pinch
Watch word winch


Dream by dream
In swift streams
In fond themes


Lot by lot
In sweet spot
Love funds lot


Face by face
Prime pure pace
In deep space




Leon Enriquez
03 May 2018
Hamlet a Place, ACT

And Then Some

8/15/17


Beyond guns and funds
Involving moons and suns
From here to kingdom come
And then some


By the skin of one's teeth
Above and beneath
Any peak
Near and far from fields of wheat
Or creeks

Won't always be a cinch
Even in a pinch
Just might cause you or others to flinch
Thus requiring the use of a winch

All along
Rather get it right then wrong
And do a bang-up job
Before I'm gone


Don't be an egghead
Caught up with what he and she said
Make sure you and your family stay fed


It may require a lot of elbow grease
Despite if you just want peace
And to buy and make your family a feast with meats and sweets
Whether or not it has to do with your pockets getting obese
Regardless of similar and different beliefs
Will everything eventually cease?

Rod's Spanner

I have some favorite tools I use,
Whenever I ply my trade, 
From the hammer in my leather pouch, 
To the retractable cutting blade.

I also love the spanners I have, 
One metric, the other in inch,
When I use them to tighten to my car,
The small electric motor winch.

And the ratchet, socket and circular saw, 
Displayed inside my shed,
I love these names said loud and proud,
From mallet to Phillips Head

And I use these tools every day,
I use the chisel, the grips, the wrench,
I love disappearing all the time, 
By my old warn wood workbench.

Winch a Cinch

with clinch
of teeth, a clench
of fist, straining to flinch,
the sail inched up, on tug of winch,
a cinch

Woke Up This Morning a Pirate

Shiver me timbers
What's going on
I was dressed as a pirate 
When I woke up this morn

I looked in the mirror
And let out an Arrrr....
I came equipped an eye patch
And a swash buckling Scar

I felt the strong urge
For grog, meat, and cheese
Went into the kitchen
Told the winch who lives with me

It's my new pirate attitude
That I have to thank
For the look that I got
And why I'm now walking the plank

When I arrived at the office
It wasn't the ship I'd hoped for
And security at the front desk
Barred me from bringing my saber to work

With all these modern day regulations
How's a pirate to get a break
When the only body of water nearby 
Is a drainage ditch and man made lake

And the only pirate booty
That I'd hoped to see 
Is right now swabbing the kitchen deck
While talking mutiny

Still the days barnacle adventures
Had a lot going on
As my head hits the pillow
I wonder what I'll wake up as tomorrow morn

• Short Winch Poems
• Famous Winch Poems
• Best Winch Poems
• Read Winch Poems
• Long Winch Poems
• Winch Quotes