Best Cackle Poems
Perception
while djinnis cackle
I craft poetry
in this room
with both hands tied
I compose
on white walls
with an imaginary blue pen
Copyright © Darren White
July 27, 2018
My soul seems to be hidden today.
Where can it conceal itself?
I thought it was always with me,
Roaming the endless paths
That clatter the corridors of my mind,
coursing through my arteries and veins,
invading all essential organs
that keeps me alive all day.
Maybe it flew away
Like some mad eagle that lost its way!
I will not search for it.
It will return when it feels
There is a need for it.
My feet follow tracks unknown
Oblivious of time and space.
I meet old friends and strangers,
I pass on,
I do not recognise their mien.
I thread through paths lined
With rampant dark green ferns,
I slush through shallow muddy pools,
I rest below the copious hedgerows.
Down in the valley cows are milked,
Geese cackle and cocks crow,
Cats copulate in peace.
Fragrance of new-cut hay
Makes my nostrils flare.
Smoke billows from the chimney
Of an old cottage near the farm.
Should I invite myself,
Betake a country hearty meal?
I am welcome
Urged to taste the home-brewed beer
Or the new fermented cheese.
I feel a kind of peace.
Perhaps my soul is back
Or perhaps it's the beer or the cheese.
Who can say?
Turkey's on the table, both legs up
Everything was fine, 'til I made the first cut!
The turkey unleashed a "CACKLE!", then jumped onto the floor
All you could see was basted skin, bolting out the door!
"Catch that turkey!!", I screamed,..."That's our evening meal!!"
The neighborhood looked on in awe, while asking,..."What's the deal?!"
The turkey rounded the corner, boy, that sucker was quick
Dashing like a sprinter, pumpin' those massive drumsticks!
It darted down an alley, disturbed a hobo's nap
And there, seated in a corner, he jumped upon his lap!
"Thank you Lord!", the hobo cried..."Today I won't have to beg!"
"Maybe I'll start with a wing, or perhaps I'll have a leg!"
"Put the turkey down!!", I roared,..."That bird belongs to me!!"
All I could see was a tailwind, as the hobo decided to flee!
I chased him down the alley, perhaps a quarter mile
Acting a fool in public, was never quite my style!
We dashed across the freeway, dodging every car
All I want is my turkey, can't stop, I've come too far!
The chase led to a corner, right past a city cop
He stood there like a scarecrow, talk about a useless flop!
Suddenly, it ended, the bum tripped over his laces
He broke his leg quite viciously, in fact, several places!
I woke up the next morning, thank God it was just a dream
With a hangover and an achin' skull, "OUCH!!" is what I screamed!
I looked over at the table, what do you think I'd see?
That same ol' basted turkey, lying there peacefully!
I stumbled to the table, laid that bird in a box
Packed two sides with a bisquit, then staggered on down the block!
I came upon that alley, peeked behind a garbage can
And there, sleeping like a baby, was a ragged ol' homeless man!
I placed the box beside him, never did I say a word
I penned a note which kindly read,..."Hope you like the bird."
Amidst reality of my life two single things remain
inflection of your voice and glow of your tender eyes
held safe by this memory we become transparent rain
wild as the tidal waves of Bristol souls of no disguise
fluid as the ocean we are open inlets, giving rise
sepia moments of a little cottage hidden in the cove
the scent of sweet cinnamon and the taste of your clove
the cackle sound of unseasoned wood against the brick
we sucked the flavors of our passion, and called it love,
holding on to each other, like flames on a candle wick
molten wax and liquid centers with all I hold so dear
when the moon comes into view the stars turn into glass
willful moments arching as tender reeds adhere
we spiral down the staircase, of God's Mandir
we find the miracle of us, and know that it will last
caught between two soft spots we are cloaked in silk
like two lovers in heaven or two lonesome sacred elks
amidst the reality of my life, two single things remain
the taste of a kiss and the place from whence we came
you my first love, were always right as rain.
August 27, 2021
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
Contest Name: Vagabond Dreams
I penned a couplet for you today.
Rather, a quill manipulated
my hand and scrawled mendacity.
The misanthrope's who read the ode
applauded with flippers on.
Such insight. Such depth.
Mussolini meets Monet and
the Mephistopheles Mambo mounts.
Call me a scribe and I murder myself.
Call me a liar and I impregnate your charm.
I purposely dislocated my arm today.
Rather, your tongue severed bone
and flesh was torn from my shoulder;
a needed braised boomerang
to stimulate my poetic prowess.
Such clarity. Such wisdom.
Lenin leads Lichtenstein and
the Lucifer Lindy is launched.
Call me a poet and I gnarl my fingers.
Call me a fabulist and I bow to a crooked smile.
A jellyfish swam through my veins today.
Rather, the tentacles of a tyrant
triggered a fabricated Tanka.
Maudlin stumbles when I laugh alone -
more comedic when we cackle together.
Such simplicity. Such compassion.
Bundy befriends Berchtold and
the Beelzebub Bossa Nova begins.
Call me a dramatist and I gag upon reflection.
Call me a simpleton and your wishes are granted.
I solemnly yearn to expire today.
Rather, a fool fires in a fury
and a mannequin lies in his casket.
The curse you've driven towards me -
a combination menu
when a lone Woolf inconspicously
devours a battered Browning.
Such diversity. Such nothingness.
Stalin seduces Seurat and
the Satanic Samba softly swoons.
Call me a parodist and I choke upon perfection.
Call me a realist when I'm sleeping on nails.
A battlefront benefactress,
She has her fortress, a fortified Princess, inside the dungeon of distress,
Tiled with the bone chips of ingratitude colored in pigments of black bright & rugid red,
An arrowhead chandelier illuminated by wicked tears, wet with woe,
Everybody saw her wedding dress, they all knew the warfield wardrobe,
But how many cared to touch her sorrow gown, how it hung on those exhausted shoulders,
The lilac one piece she wore for private pain,
Gain gauged by perseverence of self defense, vengence on Victory's tombstone,
How many visit that ceremony, where love is isolated amidst jealousy's cackle,
Do any of them frown with sympathy for the debt of her crown,
For every jewel in the tierra there exists a bruise upon her beautiful body,
An assault levied by the 'learned', the rape of a writer wrought by the wretchedly wanton,
Honors earned ransomed by pitiful rivalry, kindness taken in the grip of disingenuous delight,
Some say her very name is a curse, an anethema from some God foresaken moon,
Poet Destroyer, 'Too much nerve, too much passion' they exclaim,
Its only natural for her ingrown throne to be a thorn
In the fingertip of the editorial 'elite',
They know we will bleed for her grace like the children of wild sport,
The Poet Destroyer shall not hurt us as educators of deformity do,
She will not impose false limits on our brows,
She will not strike our eyes with rotten ink,
And look now you vultures of vice, we are Legion,
We are Brothers and Sisters of the Quill, raise your sight and behold our Worshipful Queen,
She rests not long in the sanctuary of her inner star, here we are,
Leading the war march towards you with captured & dried quills
Of imposter poets lashed to her sheild of cauterized parchment
Imprinted with the blessings of all literary Titans who have warred before,
We step forward While chanting in crazed concentration,
Oh woe to you,
Victors of vanity, victims of sanity!!!
This composition has been made in honor of the Poet Destroyer, aka. Linda,
A beautiful woman, a guiding Light, a warrior of liberated and Divine Art.
J.A.B.
Soul Essence
Release comes with death.
The mortal host is no more.
A faint and sad cackle is heard,
As all illusions come to an end.
The bare body lies in a stiff repose.
What once was, is now no more.
Tears are shed in a mortal milieu,
As the soul begins its ascension.
The flowers in decoration serve
As a human memory of the past.
Tender emotions now permeate the air,
As the flowers’ sweet smell is realized.
The moon shines bright in the dark sky,
As the soul now meets its cosmic destiny.
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
March 30, 2018 (Lyric)
The phantoms collide
with your seeds of sobriety...
Their cackle intensifies
(barometer of your successes).
The golden brook is within your reach
at your denim fingertips.
So, reach dear one reach.
Like a star searching for its sweet burning heart.
Full of life and the living sweetness.
Fight on and fight hard
swing your roses at the sword
You're not alone, you never were.
That bird in the clearing sings your victory song.
Reach for it through the briar
I'll meet you in the center.
In the bowel of the storm
and kiss away the blood of your battles.
the ocean's my play ground
and pretty days there I be found
I come from the land of pirates and drug runners
but now days I thinks fishin is funner
6 days off shore, my vision a tunnel
while all me mates puke on the gunnel
I cackle and gives the boyz a nod
and holdz tightly to me'z fishin rod
I'z drinkin me'z rum and tea
but then I reel-I'z I need'z to pee
I move a boy'z head, and puts da rod on the gunnel
and unzipps me center pocket for the bladder funnel
so while I was holdin the dong
I see'z "I got a fish on!"
oh how it gave me'z the joys
I caught that fish while pissin on dim boys
by Capt. Mike
ps I glad that fish didn't bite me other pole!
On sleepless nights I am led
To creep and kneel by your bed
To pray for your mother and me
But grief comes calling you see
Gurgling from its endless base
It explodes out of my face
I shower your pillow with tears
Gagging on primal fears
Barking and spitting his rage
The monster howls from its cage
Backing me out to the edge
Of insanity's slippery ledge
The cord is severed I think
That unseen biological link
Has ripped loose down at the loins
And the wound bleeds from my groin
Like frayed rope snapping on a boat
The mangled end quivers and floats
Out in an endless abyss
Where my demons cackle and hiss
I rant, I plead and I pray
Still you keep drifting away
Hold on, I am with you my son
So tired, let go, it is done
Warriors of austere adventures,
soldiers for suffering and tribe survival,
children,peasents,women & men,the penny poor & candid criminals,
proud peoples,honest heros,
we marched on all the flesh of earth,
no terrain was forbidden for the fantastic forbearence of the foriegn fighters,
campaigns on the cold clay of Europe's mountain valleys,
the smeltering sands of arid Arabia where the sanctuaries are shadows,
mundane manuevors upon the hot hills of the mutinational Meditterrain,
marching in spread points across Russia's frozen waters,
mildly marching single file through soft dirt along the massive Mississippi,
going above and beyond the shattered rock the Hindu Kush does pile,
forging fanaticaly in columns of two against angry winds that whirl and wail
amid the plateus of Peru where pain is pink and mercy mute,
motives for marching can be exquisitely egregious,or simple and sanctified
like the beating of a boy in order to make a man rather than a brute,
Hannibal climbed the hellish heights of the Alps,
Caeser acquired apotheosis by the grinding of Gaul,
the Khan of Asia killed for culture,
irreproachable rebels like Moses and Boudica fought for posterity,for legends,
Joseph Brant and Alaric broke yokes of the Imperial vulture,
Cincinatus pushed forward the march to ensure the peace with plough,
Tom Paine for freedom of expression,Joan of Arce burned for rapture,
simplicity brings relief,and sometimes joy while on the move,
oddities like bluejays & baccon,
wonders such as hawks & large wildlife,
good things like clean water & a commrades cackle,
mysterious events of improvised spiritual ritual,omens deciphered
unique to each are rife,
in the snow & in the beach,through the mud,grass & crisp leaves we traverse
to bring the battle to the enemy,
to deliver the war with might,
we march so to bring the conflict to ourselves,
we march to meet,compete,and to defeat ourselves,
we march to meet our Maker's light -
J.A.B. %
I fervently pray I shall never see
Another like the incumbent Vee Pee
I cringe hearing her cackle
Such a useless debacle
Two peas in a pod are JoJo and she
“Nobody likes a clown at midnight.” Stephen King
CLOWN AT THE ABYSS
Darkroom abscessed
with neon blush and black-blood —
sunken eyes look surprised
to find oneself in a dank dungeon.
Fecal stench, not humorous,
screams on each bold painted-on face.
“Are we dead?”
“When did I die?”
“I didn’t want to take along this honking nose! It never quits!”
“These humongous shoes, like flippers, so cold they grip!”
The clowns, their smiles and frowns,
continue to gripe in the big tent abyss.
The epic fail of their lives an applause
from the demons who have them in grip.
Like fools, they suppose, they can feel their way out.
They march in one straight line with clanging chains,
chortling, “Heigh Ho! Heigh Ho! It’s off to work I go!”*
You see, they can’t help being funny - never could.
So on they march clinging to claustrophobic walls.
Yet they, one by one, begin to notice no floor exists.
Squalid birds, their chains rattle and roll,
with cheap jokes that never cease.
“Take my wife…please.”
Rings through the air. The demons cackle and boo
their despair, occasionally deflating the roof of the tent
on their heads - it sticks to their gooey faces, causing
them to run out of hot air, go limp, confine their space
even more - no audience to exploit. When the roof rises
each one finds water caterwauled at their faces, then
strapped to a chair as sufferable makeup - acidophil -
leaks behind their eyes, into their pores, maliciously.
Clown at the abyss digs his nails into the soil, climbing
a mountain of ill will, always failing...falling, and then
the jokes hammer again...over and over, head over heels.
...head over heels,
with no end…
2/27/2020
Clown at the Abyss Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
*Disney’s Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
When panthers prowl and lions stalk,
the lone wolves howl and parrots talk.
The bee hives hum and wild boars snort;
the grouses drum; the deer cavort.
And as geese cackle, small hares peek.
They see a jackal, squeal and squeak!
Near streams are snipes where hoot owls hoot.
A nightingale pipes sound of flute.
Frogs croak and play as pigeons moan,
and rhinos bray through beetles’ drone.
Snakes hiss, and apes start gibbering;
no beast escapes this daily fling!
In this clatter, swallows twitter,
magpies chatter; every critter
can join in. Hyenas laugh
while in the din, each tall giraffe
begin to bleat. What reverie
of primal beat - this jamboree!
July 2, 2020 for Brian Strand's
Strand Completely New(4)Any Theme Any Form Poetry Contest
As The Crow Flies
Staring past the curtain,
At the vigilant crow upon the mast,
The creature unaware of a presence,
In a moment forever lost.
Unflappable in its endeavour,
A breather from its hunt,
A distorted view of the world,
Its cackle alerting its murder..... of its next tenacious stunt!
Unperturbed by darkness,
Its itinerary meticulous, movement, stealth like,
As day gives way to darkness,
A sky drifting magenta decline
Copyright
S Rose