Best Clapper Poems
By invitation from a trusted friend,
a medium intervention took place and I went.
The building set in the thick forest by a shimmering lake,
some broken sheds looking sad and strange to take.
Weeded and worn the manor house thatch,
a frail welcome and the oil lamp in my face, opens the latch.
Guided into a stony room, a roaring fire giving light to others,
all wearing coats to darkness trance of matter.
Musky sandalwood and smoke heavy on the eye,
cold winds slapping windows nearby.
Tattered curtains reveal a stone cast from the wall,
a female priestess turns into a fragile light, while some stones just fall.
The purple silver dress enriching her timeless gestation,
taken centre stage and a bow of appreciation.
‘Weary dreary, the lot of You’,
the soft velvet voice seeking attention, of what to do.
“I roaming with a hungry heart,
and I invite you to my noble sphere”.
‘And all I see are empty cloaks everywhere’.
You charlatans and prosperous healer,
you happy clapper and commercial dealer.
‘When will you lot start to provide genuine visions,
which are not based on commissions’.
‘This labor by slow prudence not to fail,
needs the wind of compassion to sail.’
‘Some work of noble note is still to be done’,
Deep moans round with many voices,
some shriek from there own detected choices.
‘We need to be one equal temper with heroic hearts,
to strive, to seek, to find the virtue of healing art’.
The doctrine is simple, ancient and true,
Life’s trial that you only love what is worth your love,
has little consequence by the miracle above.
The fire crashes to a flicker and darkness takes the hand,
The faint voice of the priestess so clear, “Wake and understand”.
Feeling lost in the solemn and strange,
wondering about the elements it takes to change.
Categories:
clapper, imagination, inspiration, nostalgia, parody,
Form:
Ballade
Continued from Part 1
The City’s blur? A sepulcher for Christians, Muslims, Jews –
Cathedrals, Temples, vacant now, enshrine their residues,
for churches, mosques and synagogues abide without a bruise.
No cantillation, belfry bells, monastic chants inspire
and Minarets, though standing yet, host neither voice nor crier -
abodes and buildings silhouette a muted spectral choir.
A church’s Gothic ceilings guard the empty pews below
and, all alone amongst the stones, a maiden’s blue jabot.
The Saints, in crypts, though nondescript, grace halos now aglow.
Stray footsteps swarm through church no more (apostates that profane)
though echoes in the nave still din and chalice cups retain
an altar wine that tastes of brine decaying in the rain.
Coiled candle sticks, with twisted wicks, no longer 'lume the cracks -
their dying flames revealed the shame, mid pendant pearls of wax,
when deference to innocence dissolved in molten tracks.
Six steeple towers, steel though now drab daggers in the sky!
Their hallowed halls no longer call when breezes wander by –
for, filled with dread to wake the dead, they've ceased to sough or sigh.
The chapel chimes? Their clapper rope (that tongue-tied confidante)
won’t writhe to ring the carillon, alone and lean and gaunt –
its flocks of jute, now fallen mute, adorn the holy font.
No saints will come with jagged tongues to sing a silent psalm
nor bless pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor pray for mercy, grace deferred, nor beg lethean balm.
Continued in Part 3
Categories:
clapper, angst, life, night, silver,
Form:
Rhyme
My bells, are shared with you,
At the ringing in of the taut day
And the ringing out of the mayfly
The bells, brazen, lucid, warm,
Silence the chatter of the clouds,
Bring solace to a weary ear
And the peeling bellow of the rim,
The clatter of the clapper, urged on by
Yolk, the busy carillon two octaves tall
Falls quiet the nightfall comes, tied the
Ringers’ rope on wooden stop; cadence,
Hum, now spins the air in hollow cup
Written for Bells contest 3/8/15
Categories:
clapper, beauty, music, peace,
Form:
Verse
Grandma's Pets
My granda went away to sea
For many months on end
He'd travel on a fishing boat
With his brother and a friend
He used to write home regularly
And tell some quite tall tales
About being in a far-away place
When he was actually in Wales
Once they actually went to Africa
He wrote he was bringing Gran a pet
When he came home with a small cage
He'd brought her a marmoset
He opened up the cage
And up the curtains it did run
The curtains tore, granda laughed,
Grandma didn't think it fun
She said it had to go
So to the pet shop Granda went
He returned without the Monkey
And to ‘Coventry’ he was sent
Granda apologised and said
that he would compensate
Next day he bought Gran Tip,a cat
Bimbo, the budgie, feared its fate
He'd run up and down his ladder
And his cuttlefish he would gnaw
He took one look at Tip and thought
'I've not seen you before'
One day he pecked his bell so hard
The clapper fell out onto the floor
No matter how much he pecked it
That bell would ring no more
Bimbo, I’d known since a little girl
He lived to a good age
I still remember that fateful day
I found him lifeless in his cage
Tip lived till he was seven
Many kittens he would father
Mrs Thomas would bang on the door
And get in a right lather
“Your Tip's been paying visits
To my precious tabby Pip.
If you don't keep him in
I'll see to it he has ‘the snip'”
After Tip came Ruff the dog
A cairn terrier with his papers
We would laugh so many times
At his little doggie capers
There were two unbuttered teacakes
Sitting on a plate
Mum went to fetch the butter
She came back to an empty plate
Ruff was looking sheepish
Crumbs all around his chin
The cute expression on his furry face
I could swear it was a grin
We lost Ruff when he was eight
Poison in his canned dog food
If that had happened now
The manufacturer we'd have sued
Grandma put her foot down
And told Granda “No more pets”
She missed them all
Well most of them
But not the marmoset
Categories:
clapper, grandparents, pets, , cute,
Form:
Rhyme
Pen over paper
Over your body is a caper
Exhibits a clapper
Twists like a rapper
Rendition of a writer
Your style peps and ponder
Soup that heals not wither
Outshining like a saber
Unleash your power
Power of poetry... in you!
Categories:
clapper, poetry, poets,
Form:
Acrostic
Eyes like fantastic moons that shiver in some stagnant lake
folded like a white rose-leaf
hair was golden as tints of sunrise
tongue is like a scarlet snake.
It took on deep roar as of a cloven world
running to and fro like frightened sheep
face as imperturbable as fate.
It began to roar with that sibilant sound which resembles the hiss of a serpent
and turned on me like a thunder-cloud.
Frightened like a child in the dark
anxiety hung like a dark impenetrable cloud.
My face collapsed as if it were a pricked balloon
And my hair was as harsh as tropical grass and gray as ashes.
My impulse came and went like fireflies in the dusk.
Life stretched before me alluring and various as the open road
like serpents struggling in a vulture's grasp
my body broken as a turning wheel.
My breath travel to Heaven like vapor goes
And my head was like a great bronze bell with one thought for the clapper.
My lungs began to crow like chanticleer
my mind swayed idly like a water-lily in a lake.
My spirit seemed to beat the void, like the bird from out the ark
My thoughts came yapping and growling round me like a pack of curs
fled like a spirit from the room.
I vanished like the shapes that float upon a summers dream.
Categories:
clapper, anger, anxiety, blessing, character,
Form:
ABC
Victims claim the well must be capped
Zapped off by their hands two times clapped
But oil will still leak
While their talking heads speak
Logic tapped from minds that have snapped
Author's note: Are the people on this site too high class to know about the clapper? I thought this was funny????
Categories:
clapper, philosophy
Form:
Limerick
Ages ago bygone childhood delighted
especially Florida (sunkist) grandpa
Harris (Aaron) indulged jais nais sais quois
kibitizing lovingly, mirthfully
naturally offering pleasing qualities,
rendering slender tanned
under venerated wristwatch (analog),
x2c yielded zealousness.
thee paternal grandfather
oft times visited our rural abode
at that time one sturdy estate
(originally called Glen Elm) wildlife crowed
within the plush wooded tract (slated, parceled,
and mapped) to explode
with cookie cutter lookalike slap dashed,
shoddy tinderboxes (vinyl city) growed
on formerly untamed, uber virgin woods,
perhaps early boondocks getaway hoed
and plowed, but indomitable (once abandoned)
nature relished reversed grape seeded tracery igloed
yet 'pon reflection, I ponder how early occupation knowed
no habitat foresaw wreckage
when decision via wealthy Leipers,
(wealthy owners of The Bell and Clapper)
unanimously crafted mode
das operandi to build stately sturdily summer country villa,
(circa early 1900's)
which residence whittled down to 324 Level Road -
demesne comprising about a half dozen acres
eventually acquired by Boyce Harris
February 28th 1968 - mort aged toad
a near singlehanded undertaking to create thee abode
whence majority of thine lviii years spent,
now crafted in poetic code
Categories:
clapper, fun, grandson, introspection, nostalgia,
Form:
Elegiac Lyric
Before it’s too late
Distant bells clatter on cloud fed weathered skies where
darkness creeps past low light vestibules, faded beams flicker
Short skirts wave in a winter wind, breezy attributes
revealing fishnet thighs calling to the next hidden passenger,
batting lashes and blowing bubbles of stale gum placed under
crushed velvet seats worn in places, stained deliberately
for bragging rights and handkerchief blotting
A ghostly mist lingers as lips are touched up, bright red, crimson,
shades of desire, occupational decisions, advertisements leaking
into sewers and hopscotch squares spread along the avenue
Silhouettes in porch lanterns, whistling…so unladylike, ducking
constables with nightsticks swinging like the clapper in those damn bells
waking the unsuspecting and spooking the transients offering
a few coins for a ten dollar dream
Swine wallows in last week’s gossip, slimy little beings
fat on sausage and biscuits, cursing the rats pushing their way in
below curtains and kitchen windows framing inquisitive eyes,
watching cash change hands and satisfied smirks
on the faces of those wiping feet on mats,
greeting the family in disguise, shirt un-tucked,
long day rewards and dinner on the table
Yesterday’s newspaper tumbles down the walk,
clinging to sign posts, featuring headlines of death, a warning in bold print,
still at large, a menace to society in a grey overcoat,
double breasted and fancy shoeprints in the fresh mud
No further traces except the body, contorted and frozen, smeared faces
littering cobblestone gutters, frightening children and pets,
as passersby look to second floor balconies, oblivious
Midnight calls, staggering drunkards exit Chauncey’s,
hard up and spent, slurred laughter, boisterous to hide worries
and tomorrow’s jobs, time clock lies and penciled in wishes
Iron fence posts rust at the gateway as they glance to the headstones
of friends long past and recent memories, sensing the urge,
seeing the painted nails and low cut blouses, thinking…
before it’s too late
While from a secluded archway…
Categories:
clapper, dark,
Form:
Free verse
marsh
hear the rattle of the clapper rail
buffer of strong seas
grassy refuge of the great egret
wetlands
Categories:
clapper, adventure, animals, nature, on
Form:
Free verse
The walls resonate
like the inside of a brass bell.
Footfalls act as the clapper bouncing sound
like a ping pong ball from wall to wall.
The antique oriental rug with its dragon vase
had long left, the black enameled troche
no longer lit the floor in puddles of orange light.
Hollowed out, the place was….
scooped like a cantaloupe free of the seeds
of man, of childish laughter and parental spats.
Dust bunnies scurry in the late afternoon
through the sunlight from dirty window panes.
Spiders weave webs in the corners of long
forgotten dreams…
Soon, all too soon,
this will be the case, the leaving will come
footfalls will lead to the last closing,
the brass doorknob will no longer reflect my face
and the emptiness will fill with the dreams
of a new family...
Categories:
clapper, depression, family, introspection, life,
Form:
Free verse
Revived to pop out as an empty nester
To accompany a newfangled life
Maneuvered all the way for a change of state
I dropped my bags and willed at country’s metropolis.
The heirloom edifices occupying moiety of acreage
Glossy crisscross roads and extended overpass
Spic-and-span subway and the rushy blue line coaches
Voguish three wheeled fares and snuggled DDA flats
Yet an open blue sky and extreme deuce climate.
The forenoon snarl – up and the crowded massed bus
The traffic and the driver’s clapper claw
The border red signal and the busy CP
College bunkers to gates of malls
Unitedly a fussy horologe.
Where educatees hitting lectures and employes cogitating
Schemers contriving at the parliament
Few couples could be sighted antithetic though
And rest chewing the fat.
Republic march at the red fort
And the day break Jama Masjid prayer,
Incised India Gate boswell and
The eventide light show at akshardham.
Elementses unidentified at Qutub Minar
And the muteness dwelled at the lotus temple,
Savaged kingdom at Tuglakabad
And exquisite ambiance of Humayun tomb,
Concisely a grand metropolis
Envied world-wide.
Revived to pop out as an empty nester
To accompany this newfangled life
Maneuvered all the way for a change of state
I dropped my bags and willed at country’s metropolis.
Categories:
clapper, places, social, urbanblue, change,
Form:
Imagism
I thought it was punishment and a job so un-cool
To have to clean erasers in the back of the school
Until I found out that it was a job meant for two
And the other eraser clapper was gonna be you.
I watched you take an eraser in your left hand and your right
Then clap them together with all of your might
Through that cloud of chalk I saw you smiling so bright
And wanted to clean erasers for the rest of my life.
First we clapped by ourselves then we clapped with each other
Didn’t bother us that in a cloud of chalk we smothered
When the clapping was done and the erasers all clean
We stayed in the back of the school house and learned some other things.
Categories:
clapper, childhood, love
Form:
Rhyme
I think of my ancestors building you,
Tying and placing tree-trunks, like girders, in queue;
They constructed you, then, with stones,
Twisted, turned, criss-crossed, hung, dangled in zones;
Road bridge, railway bridge, gate bridge, bay bridge,
You resembled longest and tallest mountain ridge;
Clapper, beam, truss, arch… you became suspension,
Cantilever, cable-stay, movable, floating, and high-tension;
How fond designs you are in, today, like miracles,
Magic of marvelous magicians waiting for oracles...
Travelling from place to place, and meeting people,
You build up relationships from valleys to hill steeple;
Though, through you, communication is continually created,
Has communion betwixt hearts clemently elated?
Connecting, interacting, do you construct relations?
Beyond hills and cliffs and national foundation…
Socialization, cultural extension, and environs easy,
You’re sometimes breezy and other sleazy and queasy...
Cognition, senses, sensation, and sensitivity,
Once broken impulsively, aren’t you in vainly pity...???
15 March 202
Categories:
clapper, relationship,
Form:
Free verse
The iciness of his smile
seeped like osmosis through the crevices
left on my face by the squint rooted
on fires of a loud and angry sun.
A tempest stormed across the dusty, red sky
following the wake of his Packard of no color.
His eyes with their misted askant look
found us like the rain
and the dark clouds took cover.
Unowned feathers fled the frightened fields
like tumbleweeds amid superior dusts of sleep
wielding easily the pale club of the wind
and swirling the soul of a flower strike.
- an utter-able chill -
Where lurched the deeds of green thrilling light
with thinned new fragile yellows?
Spoiled and stale like the scant and stunted ears of corn
not able to sprinkle the acres
that had fallen into battlefields.
Picket's Charge in woods that stuttered and clapper-clawed
songs that stirred the few scrawny birds that stayed on.
Sharecroppers in the Dust Bowl
walked on loose strands of primitive tightropes.
One could hear the blast across the Great Plains
all the way to Boise City.
Blood oozed from the side of my palate,
decadal fertilizer at long last leaching the dry ground.
As I lay dying -
he reached toward the heavens – swanking the deed
and cackling like a hexed slime eel.
Categories:
clapper, allegory, angst, history, life,
Form:
Free verse