Mountain plumbing is constant crisis
Joe Cottonwood

Terry and I climb a different hill today,
a narrow trail
weaving among wildflowers
where we search for an old water intake,
finding rusty pipe but no collection box.
Mountain plumbing is constant crisis
as storms re-engineer the landscape
while three hundred houses wait to wash.
Terry, you should know, operated
the water system for years and years
in our old hippie town.

Moving on,
we walk around the former reservoir
that collapsed in the winter of ’82.
Now that was a crisis.
I say I used to come to this hilltop
every day at sunset with my dog
to meet a woman and her dog.
Terry says thirty or forty years ago
he used to come to this hilltop
every solstice to drop acid with his buddies.
“When was the last time you took LSD?” I ask.
“Last week,” Terry says.

Terry, you should know, is seventy-two
with cardiac plumbing that has
weathered a few storms.
He says the trips are milder now, sweeter,
like spring-water from the little glen
on the hill above his cabin,
gurgles out slowly
but worth the wait,
at the end of that trail
only you and I know.

Spouting [10w]s all day makes me feel like a faucet.

Aphorisms
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aphorism
.
Plumbing
Allen Wilbert
Allen Wilbert
May 5, 2014

Plumbing
screaming in pain
cleaning her drain
it was very clogged
I am very logged
loved my plumbers crack
she gave my ass a smack
faucet beginning to leak
from the point of the peak
ended up in bed
she gives good head
wanted bill to be free
told me during my morning pee
I said you lost your mind
so I poked her from behind
how about half price
she said sorry no dice
please free she would beg
as she played with my third leg
running wild was my imagination
you could feel my frustration
after the plumbing was all done
it turned out she was a nun

Mari Gee
Apr 12, 2012

i am the piper
cept my pipes are
a bit rusty

out of tune
melancholy

its too late for monthly checkups


but you never seem to mind

but you see the only reason they are
so worn out
is because i sing my melody
as loud and beautiful as I can
every time we do the dance of passion

no, they can't be rusty
because
i've serenaded so many other women before you
that can't be

you,
your melody is sweet, pure, harmonious
but of course, you've only just started

you make me feel like an old man
whose pipes have seen generations
i almost feel bad serenading such a pure heart

but i know what will happen
you will leave me soon
yes, I know from our passion dances that you
love me
but when you find another whose music is sweeter
more pure than my coarseness
i promise
you will love him more

its only a matter of time...

Wack Tastic
Wack Tastic
Nov 14, 2013

Watching strange scenes,
On a fabricated screen,
I did not know where I ended,
And the vision,
Existed.

Hipulse
Hipulse
Sep 29, 2012

Words flow no longer a trickling drip

but the raging Mississippi with that

dream steamboat demotic.

It is good and I am whole.

The spirit is alive

and flows from these enlivened fingertips.

I am my own and this energy will be harvested.

I will storm and I will rage from dawn

Through the twinkling night.

poetry and plumbing
Joe Cottonwood

“If you grow old, it is your own fault,”
I say to Terry as we
climb the mountain behind his cabin.
Terry is wearing a device that measures
his heartbeat and sends it by cell
phone to doctors at Stanford.
Terry has a flutter, nothing
serious, probably.
Terry has a great heart, actually,
something serious,
warm and wise.

We ascend this hill on Tuesdays
every week discussing
poetry and plumbing
our twin passions
the gathering of mountain water
funneled into pipes
delivered to homes,
the ordering of words
funneled into pages
delivered nowhere, sadly.

We discuss friends fallen or falling,
the arc of marriages, parenthood,
oddball relationships,
each a story and a puzzlement,
webs woven of love and rage.
That, and motorcycles, we talk,
pacifist veterans who walk
still seeking sense of an
incomprehensible war
shaping our lives.
We are harmless.
We survived.
He, the Air Force;
I, the draft.
So we hike, hearts pounding,
the simple friendship of two old men
seeking the hilltop
again and again.

Terry Adams, poet and friend.
Of the plumbing profession?
Francie Lynch
Francie Lynch
Sep 22, 2014

Strange question indeed,
So I asked one and all;
Explain to me:
“What's a plumber's ball?”

Family and friends
Heeded my call,
But none could confine,
Refine or define it,
Yet Paul was sure
He could design it.

Still, none could satisfy
My caterwaul:
“What the hell is a plumber's ball?”

Does it sweat the pipe
Or wiggle the snake:
Can it clamp the nipple
For Heaven's sake?
Could it snap on the cock-hole cover?
All these queries
Made me wonder.

Has it something to do
With hardness leakage,
Or screwing the ball-cock
To stop a seepage?
Has it anything to do
With a saddle valve dripping,
Electric eels,
Or two pipes mating?
And, I heard of male and female fittings,
And should I worry
If I'm standing or sitting?

If you're discharging the head
Or elongating the pipe,
Does the plumber's ball
Help it snug tight?
Is it in my tank,
Or in my bowl,
Beneath the floor
Near the drainage hole?
Is the plumber's ball
In the back of the truck
(Jeff laughed and said
One could rub it for luck).

I asked Michel
If he could tell,
He sensed it was something
He could smell.
I sought out Ray,
Perhaps he'd know,
But he was on call
To restrain a back-flow.
I couldn't ask Gary
For his wisdom and sense,
He was wigglin' the snake
To unclog a wet vent.
Henry, Rick, Scotty and Brian,
Gave shameless answers
I couldn't rely on.

It's not a crapper, tail piece
Or Johnnie-bolt,
Or catch basin, reamer,
O-ring or pipe dope.
So I searched the Net
With a fool's wonder,
And read of ball-checks,
Gas cocks and plungers.
I know it's too late
To ask Rolly or Ross,
For both of them knew,
And that's our loss.
And Ernie's gone golfing
So I can't ask the Boss.

With final resolve
I fell to my knees,
To pray St. Ferrer
With grace intercede.
His silence left me
In a state of depression;
Had Ferrer washed his hands
Of the plumbing profession?

So nothing could settle
My wherewithal,
I still didn't know,
What's a plumber's ball?

Suddenly, it hit me,
He's never wrong,
The Dalai Lama of dip-tubes,
I'll ask John.
Where others did falter,
John's a rock:
He knows the difference
Between a gas and ball cock.

With a knowing smile
He embraced our Hall:
Here, good friend, is your Plumbers' Ball.

Penned for the occasion of  Saucier Plumbing and Heating 79th anniversay Ball.
Rolly and Ross were the original owners.
St. Ferrer is the patron saint of plumbing.
If you have such an event to attend, feel free to modify the above.

I was three , no bigger than a west Texas tumbleweed . . . just three .

My mother hung the wash out on the line
and wiped the sweat off her brow with her hand .
Half an hour later the clothes were frozen .
Blue Norther . . . you can see them coming
a hundred miles away .
Wichita Falls , Texas . . . on the Wichita river .

Moses sat on a mountaintop gazing at the promised land but it was out of his hands now .
Leaning on his staff , the one that ate the Pharoh's two serpents . . . sssssssilently a single tear falls to the ground .

No fence could hold me . . . I was over or under in seconds .
A terror at three , a potential runaway .
The police knew me by first name  . . . just three .
The plains of North Texas , jackrabbits , coyotes , rattlesnakes and all . . . were home .

Forty years of desert wilderness ,
till the last man , woman , and child of Egyptian connection had died ,
. . . . . . was such a sacrifice made . . . . . .
Moses was the last to fall .
On a mountaintop of no consequences .

      "Run Rabbit Run"

 
To comment on this poem, please log in or create a free account
Log in or register to comment