Best Chinking Poems
Observe the bending of tree & flower.
To rages; a gale… in tempestuous hours.!
Rain deep in curtain, makes interplay;
Fresh night skies, await the sun in power.
Morn air stirs, Lady’s chinking; breakfast crocks.
Day-streams 'cross backyards, endless blocks..
Splashes as sound; tables, are scrubbed..
Cars all hues; white thru red, too! radios rock!!
Sprinklers now silent; birdsong calls,
Gardener’s clipping the creeper on walls
Children’s cries are echoes around
Fountains splash in foyers & malls!!
Gundog flushes the dove; white ahead!
Tools are re-sharpened in timber shed,
Lilac buds blossom! Midst threaded verde,
In abundant gardens, Man & Woman wed.."
© Joe Maverick.co.uk
To know more about this poem (well you know)
In the beautiful, quiet morning
I’m disturbing that fog of silence
I’m putting away the dishes
Chinking glass, the shelves closing
Nothing banging
The sticky shelf finally opening
So I’m placing the bowls
Pulling drawers and
The silverware clinking,
The plates clanging; my feet shuffling
My first cup of tea
Is freshly brewing
And now here I am
Just writing
The sounds of the pipes and drums skirled still in my ears. I knew it was the kind of music that brought him to his knees in tears. "Sandwich?" "Sausage Roll?" Oh here we go again, that nosey little woman who lives at number ten.
Swishing by in her twin set and pearls, butter wouldn't melt but I can smell the mixture of sweat and talcum powder. White dust covering the floor of my bathroom a memory I have from many years before.
"Where was he when it happened?" "I didn't know he was ill". Well they know now don't they, my head still in a whirl. Funerals are such a strange occasion where we are all nice to those we've never kept in touch with for years, ok, so maybe that has been my fault, I do keep myself to myself a lot.
I liked him you know, he was that man with the highly polished shoes, back straight, shirt and tie and fond of wearing blues. Mysterious at times he was, he struck me as being deep. Fought in wars he did, well, so I do believe. Not many here for him and him a war hero too. Far too many new people in the street, he was known by very few.
That’s them, drinks out now, forget about the tea. The War Hero’s son is on a spending spree. Whisky, gin and vodka, the bowling club members are here, glasses are chinking and they’ve already had their beer. “He had a good turnout” “He’s at peace now and free” but all I keep thinking is what about me.
What’s this life all about? Ok sometimes it’s sad but then again when I am out with my pals it can be happy a little bit mad. “Swing yer tights” was our catch phrase when dancing on the disco floor. Screaming at the disc jockey to play that Abba song just one time more. Black, it’s black everywhere, is that what it’s going to be, all I can think right now is what about me.
What about me? Who will turn up at the crematorium door? What next for me, you know this funeral tea brings it all out in me. Makes me think, even if I have to put up with Mrs Tanner's stink. I've got it! Yes! Yes! A brilliant idea!
It is, it is. I am going to leave instructions loud and clear. My headstone - it should read:
Been there
Done it
Got the headstone
For I’ve been here before.
Market Scene
multi coloured beans
harvest tools scrap upon stone
a place full of sacks
bright colours leap out
thawed ice under moon lit feet
chinking coins, chit chat
creatures glee with spill
drenched gold leaves with bees honey
market noise withers
© Shane Cogan, 2013
The Grief of Gaziantep.
Hotter than a Dragon’s kiss,
the seas boil under saffron sun.
Tiny thrumming mosquitoes zone on sweating, caramac skin,
Customer entertainment...hanging from shop fronts,
nine carat gold cages lure buyers in,
imprisoned, flush-red faced finches,
wings of pumpkin-orange
hypnotize purring feral cats.
The afternoon air laden with aromas,
Cinnamon, cumin, ginger...
Bluest sky tips to ripe pomegranate.
Anatolian mountain weavers peddle hand-spun carpets,
fine silk, cool cotton, warm wool.
Faded proud portrait of mounted Ataturk accepts toasts
from chinking, inky Turkish and golden-apple tea glasses.
Layered lutes echo the Ciftetelli as lovers entwine... ***
An odd guest delivers a soul-scalding gift.
Blast! Bang! Splatter! Shatters the buzzing streets of Gaziantep.
Poppy-red plasma sprays through ghost-grey gusts...
Whimpering, wailing, screaming, sobbing,
echoes of sadness rupture the sodden earth,
in once jovial corners, now cups of embers smoulder.
Still Mama’s jet hair moves...like Puma’s in slow-motion.
Leapt into an everlasting world of sorrow,
grief beat-beats upon severed hearts.
Ceaseless pain flutters on wings of wind,
as stretchers convey the motionless and the maimed.
A Jasmine flower chain now a poisonous asp.
The apricot horizon flits through boundless violet skies
as the barley half-moon sings with newborn stars.
Bleeding wounds will scab,
hope, the key of freedom, falters.
Swallows weave darkness to night.
Longings for the lost...
as loved ones whisper in their sleep.
*** Ciftetelli..Turkish Folk music often played at Weddings.
Dedicated to the Citizens of Gaziantep Turkey... Where 54 people (including 22 children) were killed and many injured by a suicide bomber on Saturday 20th August 2016. One mother lost four of her five children.
A milk bottle of combustion is a silver tongued spoon. A dragon headed fortress underground. Weaving wavering waving wandering. A teaspoon of cataclysm in giant catacombs. Dominatrix circles and whirlpools. How very stylish Madame de feetoo. While festooned on a chaise long is a long time whilst chatting and chinking is rife. Apples didn't mix with pubic pubescent pineapples as lineage is deemed of the utmost importance. To preserve one's wealth signifies a heraldic crest in a pickle colour glow. But wisest are the tiny heads in jars preserved who whisper their knowledge in scientific chambers. Cloisters closeting closing cloaks. And a large duck head on a man's body lurching lecherously. Leaking. Leaving. Lest no one fault I the time orb of clayon spoke a boulder boisterously. And a dark ridge arriving. Completion is formed from the sipping of secretions from an ancient elderflower. But a bud is neither a woven skirt or a large car. It is found on a very big bus. Busy then? Good. Small boy child weeping. And a silver glasses case watching. And an ornate cane topped with an acre of crystal. Chink then. Great isn't it. When the news explodes the crisis deepens. And waters rise. The hidden submarine planted it's crop paid by coffers. In a sporadic format. Boom then. No idea for the ways. It is left for the duties to a house to perform. And a ministerial magenta. Magna carta is a a little peanut swimming in butter on a plate. And a dust particle is very very versatile so swing in trees then spin over. Good. Grabbing going glooping getting gone gone Gideon gone gone. Powdered like snow or sugar floating. Sap not a silvery spit. And a spotted tie is not very mature is it? Takeaway beans. Fantastic. Very flavoursome. Opinionated officials oversee offices. And a giant bee weighing over 200,000,000.00 kilos. In a fancy dress show. Xo xo xo and done. Xxxx rationalisation xxxxx outnumbered xxxxx testator gator Gatorade xxxx arbitrational Z
Branches of beans wave most predominantly in stormy weather but heavily prevalent are the many climbing chimps whose antics please the spotted cloud and cause a clap in the sky. But half a cup of mildew in a snow covered dome is neither a doorstep nor is it a milked out heifer in a four poster bed. Recline no reaches. Reach no radiuses'. And surely then a bean pole could adequately carry over forty-six washing baskets full to the brim, nineteen plates of roast dinner, ten puddings and a very large crystal chandelier. How rather marvellous. And how talented too. Recreation receiving rather real room radii. And the ratio of a dandelion could be said to be equal to a sponge in orbit. Wow. Mere waste of a tongue to be taking a meal off an iron suitcase. With or without gravy it is quite irrelevant to savour such a lead. But beading on a skirting board can often be very amusing and comical as it tells the best jokes to rugs and doesn't like the carpet as it gets very dirty very quickly. All rise then. Make sure you glide around the floors in the house. Levitate if you can to avoid foot sweat on fabric and wood but mot on marble. Here the sweat is procreating playing poker. Large high belted heavyweights. Piccolo putty in a jellied eel frame talks with great seasoning to a bull via a wireless hookless contraption that cannot be seen by aerial prowlers. Nor cannot it be photographed. But photographers put painted pain plums onto paper. Always see within the tight fitting frying pan for the handle is not to be adjusted at this time. Make way for the herds of pancakes are clamouring together to catch a glimpse of the latest spawned factory product. When hair is not a hare. That is too natural and wild plus it is very clever too. Cleverness is unwelcome in steel framed prison planets and areas of true freedom and safety are yet to be exact and as yet have not been to a zoo. Multifunctional zoo on wheels racing against a circus, a football game, a badminton match and an opera. Produce no pollen from a hypocritical hippo whose hidden house halves then heaves. But ni leaves. For they are only for the waiting skirts and shirts with heels and glasses chinking in a bystanders glance at a freeform rabbit dance. Haha mealworm arriving. Hahah plate of combustible prawns. Xxxxx morphology Z z z z z
From a balcony in Ankara
Exotic birds swoon
Pigeons sit on roof tops
Awaiting on the moon
Traffic noises hum
Children’s voices clash
Banging pots and pans
For the evening dinner rush
Crockery and cutlery
Tapping out a rhythm
Chinking Turkish tea glasses
Adding to the sound
Scraped back chairs
Washing up
Hustle bustle crescendo
Then silence
Full stomachs
contentment
From a balcony in Ankara
There stands my family’s horse-barn,
old logs, chinking, and rustic charm,
here out west it’s too dray to farm,
and mountain winds do small plants harm.
A ranch is what it’s always been,
since days of pioneering men,
this barn was first built was back when,
we still fought the Indians then.
How many people passing through
slept a night under this here roof,
and at least one banditto too
was shot here when the barn was new.
Countless cowboys kept mounts inside,
rose early in the morn to ride,
down the long valley they did fly,
seeking out where the herd did hide.
My grandfather rebuilt this place,
the work he did has proved so great
that even now, at present date,
there’s hardly anything to break.
I played here often, as a kin,
can’t believe half the things we did,
like the time my friend Bobby hid
in the haystacks, heaven forbid.
My first child was conceived here,
on new straw that I had put down that year,
Mel and I had stolen some beer,
two months later, we were in tears.
And now this barn belongs to me,
this ranch stays in the family,
Mel and I now have children, three,
making their own barn-memories.
So proud amidst the valley floor,
will is stand a century more?
Will my grandchildren know the score
of what happened behind these doors?
Damn straight they will.
Within an overplay of paneled oak
and illumination fittingly low,
set upon a table, its style baroque
a lighted candle, its shimmering glow
plays an unopened bottle of Bordeaux
Distant soft murmurs of discrete lovers
a pop of cork, the chinking of a glass
gentle rustling of changed table covers,
the whooshing of a skirt as waitress pass.
Low background music with a mellow bass.
A rich old earthy scent from burning log
is mixed with fragrant kitchen spices, sweet
arouses memories of synagogue.
Pungent aroma from hot sizzling meat;
a whiff of petrol coming from the street.
The napkin soft, bread roll toasty, warm,
dinner plate hot, wine glass suitably chilled
all precisely the acceptable norm.
Granular grating as pepper is milled.
I press on the steak; it's perfectly grilled.
Fantastic flavors burst upon my buds
juicy, velvety, succulent, tender.
The wine my mouth with fruity perfume floods
I finish the last drop, then surrender
"I require another glass, bartender."
Rhinos in a line eating hay often defecate simultaneously and with such a thud it writhes the snakes out of a hibernated slumber. But a single dotted line is neither a breadbasket overloaded and overweight nor is it a queue of paper planes. But zero plus zero on graphed out paper is often a sign of a fork in a skirt and high wellington boots. Signal to an elephant tower and get a wave back. Extremely high towering elephants snore in a two hour period and so intermittent friendliness is quite often a case. Getting stuck in vases is problematic for sheep. But putting cattle grids in zoos is often perceived as hazardous to five fingered sharks whose fins are only developed for smooth grounds. And in the dark of a tapestry park there is no space for a stain upon the ground or on a tree trunk. Trot trot trot is neither a trit trot trit nor is it a fir tree acting as a tuning fork. For to tune is to ting tong says the little fly whose eyes move rapidly across the many atoms in the air. Circulating causing charms cutting creating chins. And the chinking of the clank is the clacking of the clicking clock. Chimmichanger chime with a lime. But not a line dance. Posing and posturing. Hahaha force nine gale smiling in a teapot. Hahaha duck in a hood. Xxxxxx gesticulations Z Z Z Z Z
Chink chink chinking. Never chunky. Such exquisite curvature of a smiling glass. Legs are an undefeated objective of a marrow. And when the spider sings one must hold up a garden rake. Taking a pillar to a nightclub is very enjoyable as one can swing fart and frantically move one's arms for heathen heads can be avoided by stone carvings. Paint then a tree on a hill with ten daisies, an iron, and of course the obligatory pixie pixelated castle. In a bed. In an office. At an interview. Sing sing sing. Bread is a hat basket. And a deity is never a middle backed man eating many plates of bacon and fries. So now rise to the nights of the twelve. Wisdom in the blades shine only in green. Bringing baking bothering booming bookings because beforehand beforetime bedtime xxxx geraniums on a swing. In dresses. *** suits unsuitable undone gone *** capers clapping *** spinning spinners still xxxx woohoo xxxx gestational *** ha ha ha *** woodlands *** rapidisation *** snouts *** cosmological xxxx hahahaha xzx. 93% of an acorn bush. Z.