Best Clanking Poems
lately, i have been in this female mood
for some kind of abandon, that
which exhales the tigress fire
out of my lungs digging the veins
from a week's' routine movements
pruned to the barest of a payroll’s droll…
antiseptic cubicles dictate the rags of
chlorine-infected lunch where rooms
i strut around have nothing except
robotic people, same rye snacks, basins
of expired coffee and files of schizoid
folio..
just outside, the sky coughs
of gas masks rendering a paper bag
of humanity to suffocate on clanking bones
along claustrophobic subways: such a
hemorrhaging day waiting for 5pm
to hiss, halt ,and heave…
i need to dance with the arms of a
jazzy moon fondling my back and
whistling the tunes of recklesness
when all but the spirit lusts for is just a slice
of raw breaths spiraling into tangy
punches of rockstar blues... spare me the cranky
claws of a friday so sore; i alight like
a feline dressed in black lace with cabaret wings,
feathers splattered on glitzy cobblestones...
voluptuous legs hot and wild sniffing sultry
lavender scent of friday night’s parade;
and the band notes howl, free like me.
Carol Eastman's Your Favorite Poem
by nette onclaud
When the night wind changes course
sending breezes from the north,
when farmer's fields lie brown and fallow
and empty ropes swing from the gallows,
when children's faces are drawn and gaunt
and earth-bound spirits wail and haunt,
when eagles scan the barren snow
and field mice shiver deep below,
The dragon stirs deep in his lair,
the townfolk sense him with despair,
the mountain rumbles as he wakes,
he spreads his wings, the valley quakes.
He snorts and breathes a sulphur fire
and eyes his cache with dark desire,
gold and gemstones line his cave,
a sea of diamonds with emerald waves.
The trees are black against the snow,
one warrior stands to face his foe,
chain mail clanking, his sword is honed,
he goes to face his fate alone.
Fire breathing, wing-spread vast,
the warrior is at first aghast,
the dragon's chest and stomach, too,
shine with gems of multi-hues.
He'd slept so long upon his loot,
he wore a jewel-encrusted suit.
He saw the warrior's weapon glint
and chuckled at this innocent.
The dragon swooped and breathed his breath,
the warrior smelled the scent of death.
Many times the dragon dove
and set aflame the fields and groves.
Lost in this game, he gave no thought
to the warrior who mattered naught,
and as the dragon flew by low
the warrior drew his mighty bow.
The bow and arrows were Elfen-hewn,
inscribed with words in ancient runes.
The warrior held his breath and aimed
and steeled himself against the flames.
The dragon saw the arrow cocked
and turned his head, their eyes were locked.
The arrow's flight was straight and true,
into the dragon's eye it flew.
The warrior was elected king,
he wore fine jewels and heavy rings,
but though he tried, he found no peace,
he'd formed some strange bond with the beast.
The corpse was plucked clean of its jewels
and all the people danced like fools,
though he was king of hill and glen,
they never saw him smile again.
My coffee, my house,
cinnamon and hint of clove
in a full bodied french roast...
acrid, bitter, pungent deliciousness
wafts thought the air
before even the eyes are open
the buzz of conversation over
the tinkling of spoons stirring
the clanking of cup on saucer
the shooshing of steamy cream
into cappuccino
a lush, rich aroma,
with the feeling of rightness
around the edges
like a cozy blanket of comfort
wrapping around your shoulders
Sipping in silence,
watching the sunrise,
simple serenity to start the day.
©6/18/12
He rides towards the setting sun
Further and further from his special one
The sound of his armor clanking with each hoof beat
Perspiration horse and rider oppressive desert heat
He rides through the desert to find the Prince.
Commissioned by the King to bring him home.
All others afraid he rides alone.
He will not stop until he fulfills this pact.
His spirit is strong he chooses to act.
The King makes a promise,
"Brave Knight, bring my son home,
you can have anything,
a castle of stone."
Knight responds, " I will do what you ask.
I will not stop
Until I complete the task.
Allow me to make
but one request,
to marry your daughter Jessica
when I pass this test."
She with the face of an Angel,
stunning blue eyes.
Heart so beautiful,
his mighty soul cries.
No man would stand,
in the Knight's way.
Yet there are things,
much deeper at play.
Days and nights in the desert,
plays tricks on the mind.
Time has no meaning,
as it begins to unwind.
He heads into the valley,
the valley of death.
Gods willing,
he won't breathe his last breath
Witches enchantresses,
orbs of blue light.
Naked nymphs dancing,
in the glowing moonlight.
He dismounts,
calls out the Prince's name
The Prince is engaged
In a deadly game
The prince responds,
"please leave me be.
I am being pleasured,
by the beauty you see."
The creatures of the night,
seek his seed,
In exchange they promise,
to satisfy every need.
The Knight,
strong and true.
He sees beyond,
nimble bodies of blue.
The voice of his Jessica,
whispers in his heart.
With his sword,
he tears the illusion apart.
Bodies of the demons
in a pile they lay
He fights through the evening
Until light of day
The Prince freed,
from a prison of lies.
Fooled by illusion,
he didn't realize.
A Knight strong and brave,
loyal and wise.
Evil banished,
he claims his prize.
Home to his Princess the Kingdom saved.
Triumphant return the banners are waved.
A Heros welcome a true loves kiss.
Endings don't come much happier than this.
Medieval Idealism, contest
Written July 30th 2013.
Cold Hard Steel
My mouth wide open, gasping for breath, splashing, gurgling
Hopelessly going nowhere, treading, losing the fight
I can’t hear the clanking or yelling anymore, today is the day I have succumbed to his cruelness, numb, no thoughts, no feelings just sinking, floating, slowly being dragged down below
His lack of love and affection has surrounded me like a cold hard steel chain bound around me.
The black oval links is evidence that evil is not part of the circle of life
I’m drowning. He’s not listening. Why won’t he help me? Doesn’t he care?
How did I let it go this far?
A light from above, an angel reaches out a hand, follow me
Bursting through the crashing waves I rise above the depth of darkness
To find that God will always love me
All my tears have faded. Joyful smiles every day.
He is still part of my life but the chain has been broken, I have been set free because God will always
love me.
Even on the days when he doesn’t show me love and kindness
I know I am not alone in this big old house. I kneel and take it to the throne.
And tell God about my day.
Inspirational song Chain Breaker by Zac Williams
Original poem 7/22/17
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.
The Clanking Chain of Wild Geese
I was watching the September sky every day,
With a hope to once again get a glance,
Of the clanking chains of those lovely wild geese,
That suddenly appears with their music melodies,
But quietly they disappear every year,
Like a Rainbow that comes and gets lost gradually.
No one knows when like a rainbow,
The wild geese would appear suddenly,
While changing their forms like clouds in the sky,
Mesmerizing our eyes for few seconds or more, and then,
Disappearing in the sky, like the dim vanishing evening.
The wild geese often appear in the sky,
Forming a shape like the garland of God,
And quickly changing shapes, like our emotions,
While moving in the sky like an arrow,
They sing the joyous songs of today, not tomorrow.
Forgetting the past and the future like an arrow,
Which keeps running, until it reaches its marrow,
The destination to pierce a heart,
They create either a joy or sorrow,
While singing a song of today, not tomorrow.
Oh, September sky I watch,wonder with ,
And hope to see them once again,
My childhood friends wild Geese,
Coming from north and vanishing in south,
Like my thoughts which arise and fall.
But this year, I did not see the winged necklaces of God,
Neither could I see a rainbow being formed,
Nor even hear their chorus like songs,
No clanking of wings, No music of their joys,
No rise and fall of images like thoughts,
No sounds and music touching my heart.
One day, I was stunned to hear,
The species of goose are in great danger,
Man has stolen many of even God’s necklaces,
The rainbow of birds and the grandeur of sky,
A great heritage of Nature is vanishing before our eyes.
Oh, my sweet friend,
Will I ever be able to see and hear you again?
When you would clank your wings, in the windless sky,
Creating a dance and music, on such lofty heights,
Where no musician can ever fly,
With a hope till I am here on this earth my friend,
I would keep waiting and watching
For you O wild Geese in the September sky.
Ravindra
Kanpur India. 1st Oct. 2010
Dedicated to my loving wife Dr. Shashi Kapoor, as a birthday gift for her
Birthday on 2nd Oct. who loves animals and birds more than any thing
Else.
The clanking sound of spurs, the sun’s glare
off the shiny doppelganger derringers.
Her hat tipped onto her sweating brow.
“Contests! We don’t need no stinking contests!”
Her cowhide boots kick up the prairie dust.
She’s not your quintessential grandmother.
Her torrential windpipe words ready for a fight.
“I will be number one! Like it or not!”
She spits tobacco into the air, daring a challenge,
and it drops at the feet of the biggest contest.
“Chew on that one...for a while!”
A patch over one green eye, the jealous one. She wears it
as a badge of honor. No one messes with Lady Cogburn.
Like showing off pictures of her family, she lets a scroll roll loose.
Her adjectives and verbs, nouns and sounds.
“I dare anyone to steal my verse! Who's brave enough
to roll out one of their own!”
She spits and stares them down, as one courageous chick
steps forward and just as quick she lays her low.
“Contests! We don’t need no stinking contests! Now the rest of you scram!”
Dodge City, the ghost town, has one occupant. She lights her Virginia Slims, lets her poetic smoke circle the air — like vultures.
7/20/2018
Contests! We don’t need no stinking contests! Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: John Lawless
Sun shines from bark on the trees
Just the right position to please
The unsettled mind or mixed thoughts
Knocking around like clanking pots
Peace settles with tinted twilight
While the ground is all painted white
Frozen snow, but warmth in the heart
Ends the day, that once was a start
Heidi Sands
1/31/22
She is in the kitchen making cheerios pie he is in the music room clanking at the keys
a Maestro prodigy yet to potty train airing out little notes and driving her insane;
With motherly sopranic voice she climbs the sweet n' low vibrations of love's keep
as her piano babe goes off to lala land, fast asleep on ebon keys of century ivory gold ;
A slight soupcon of happy dreams begin to take effect upon his tiny peeked smile,
while traces of thoughts arise like air balloons, "cheerios, and mother's lullabye"
The sleepy boy begins to toddle towards heaven's veil to that magical place where
daintel angels fly about and make easy music to the sound of water falls in spring;
He is a sapor vessel of beauty
a cherub child
that belongs to the flowers
of the field
Up there in the netherland of mystery and grace is a pianist who died young and
went with a song left unsung. She watches the piano babe and decides to play
for him. The name of the song is "Reflets" her name is Lili Boulanger....
She created the music and lyrics in 1911. Today the music can be heard but
the lyrics are in her own vouch safe world of creativity.
Lost in a perfume of the past the present comes to life again
he is gonna wake up to the arts, some day, but when ?
Contest Name: Tell me a story 2 (chose Image 1)
Sponsor: Brenda Chiri
11/01/2018
The Season is changing
Like every thing of life, the season is changing,
The water laden clouds are vanishing gradually,
Leaving space for the scattered yellow pink and white,
The birds are chattering on green branches of trees,
Before the leaves turn purple or gold or get pale to leave.
The season of summer heat and tiring humidity,
Is gradually transforming into cool blowing breeze,
The Sun is spreading its golden treasure so lavishly,
Spreading its wealth of gold dust, on the wondering clouds,
And throwing rest of its treasures, on fields, forests and hills.
Hey, look the Koyal* is lost in its melodious singing,
To celebrate the joy and mirth that fascinates it a lot,
Without thinking for a moment, about the by gone past,
Or pondering in worry for a future, which is not,
Singing and singing only one day it would get lost.
From the North West, the new birds have started showing,
Their appearances, while clanking their wings in the sky,
And forming shapes of alluring elegance and beauty,
As a lovely guest they come, in the bunch of sky necklaces,
To make us realize that the season and the life too is changing.
Ravindra
Kanpur India 5th Sept. 2010
* Koyal. A singing bird of India like nightingale.
It gets kind of crazy living with 3 young boys, there’s always a mess and there’s constant noise.
Their mouths constantly running, their little legs too; they rough-house like tiny wrestlers, off the couch they just flew.
They never get old, those silly fart jokes; and the noise and clanking of those bicycle spokes.
They change costumes every minute from football to Batman; next it’s baseball then it’s on to Spider-Man.
You better watch where you step when you come through our door, there’s legos and Nerf bullets covering the floor.
They’re covered in mud, they’re covered in dirt; there’s ketchup and Cheetos all over their shirts.
They argue, they fight, they cry and pout; then they giggle and laugh after they hug it out.
Living with boys you never know what’s next, you better watch what you say, they’ll change the context.
Their imagination totally rocks; they can make anything out of a box.
Just give them some scissors and a glue stick; that box transforms into a Batmobile real quick.
They’re wearing their breakfast, there’s mud in their hair; it’s an act of congress to get them to share.
Their diet is subpar, all they want to eat is junk; and with three sweaty boys, you can imagine the funk.
We’ve turned into detectives, constantly looking for lost toys; we’re also mechanics trying to fix whatever they’ve destroyed.
Although these boys can cause us some undue stress; I wouldn’t change a thing to prevent their mess.
The house can be clean when they’re grown and they’ve moved out; so for now I’ll sit back and see what life’s all about.
I’ll enjoy all the noise and the mess on the floor; I’ll pray my feet are protected from the legos galore.
I’ll wash their clothes and clean them up; and be thankful I can fill all our cups.
Thank you God for my three sons, we’re thankful and blessed, and we love them tons.
To The North Pole Of Course (Part Two)
The farmlands, bridges and countrysides woosh by in a rush
then vanish before my eyes at a hundred and twenty six miles per hour.
My mind is traveling at the speed of Donner and Blitzen. It goes through a magical hourglass only to nestle inside a cinnamon scented wagon that is infused with the clanking of fine china cups. A peppery scent of hot chocolate perfumes the air and lands on my palate, sweetly.
While I am being ushered forth into Christmas, I sift through time, backpedaling swifter than Santa's mistletoe kiss.
I hear his rippling laughter and melt like butter.
My extra sensory perception picks up the echoes through the halls of my memory
and I say to myself, " I think I'm going home, to the North Pole of course."
Filled up with quips like a clanking balloon
blown up with coins not with air
Clittering, clatter on golden paved streets
his winsome words, plenty to share
Brilliant performance, he's taking his bow
on a bed of burnt peacock feathers
The skycap he wears filled with holes and with tears
has protected him well from the weather
The crowd gangly gathers with popcorn and fruit
with the wish and the will just to laugh
He juggles emotions with unending devotion
and doubles his jokes up by half
By the end of the night the whole room is alight
with marshmallow bellies still shaking
From the butt of all jokes to a friend of all folks
he's a super star right in the making...
He finds himself among the dead,
the moving parts
of armored columns,
His hands are guns
his eyes are guns
His mind a weapon he points.
Drink raw vodka,
laugh and joke with the dead,
for they all saw the beast,
the clanking grinding machine
they marched away to war inside it
they know it, it speaks to them
behind their closed eyes.
Courage comrades, steady,
we are the harvesting of death.
We have weaponized the dead,
hammered swords from shears,
for the Motherland.
He staggers away from himself,
smoke still fuming from the muzzle
of his hot mouth
while other’s step carefully over
his broken cadaver.