Best Clinking Poems
ALONE AT THE HOLOCAUST MUSEUM
rose early in the morning,
indulged in a lovely quiche lorraine,
ventured out
alone.
silence has a sound of its own.
yes, there was the film, my first exposure -
Kristallnacht – the night of broken glass
S
H
A
T
T
E
R
S
the sterile space…
alone, i enter the “gas chamber” -
no one’s there, no screaming naked bodies.
the only fear is in my mind – i
must get out, feeling claustrophobic.
exiting and to my right, a setup -
a dummy behind a machine gun
my pulse quickens, throat is dry.
then to my left: hair cuttings, glasses, teeth, clothing -
my eyes hurt as i read – many children were thrown
into the ovens A L I V E.
the horror constricts my brain. horrible to imagine
one crazed serial murderer and this was an entire country.
cruelty has sharp claws, hidden behind breath and flesh
gifted by God. monsters have lovely hair, straight teeth,
families preparing dinner, friends cheering with
CLINKING CRYSTAL.
going home, they smile, swing loved ones around,
kiss their merry cheeks,
and they R E E K with death.
10/14/2016
the beach’ll be a blast
of sand and surf
relax,
of surf and sun
enhance.
the ebb and flow,
a slow
down swish
of flow and romance.
the embrace
of salty air,
that we share,
and seaside beat
of gulls and feet.
a splash
of feet and hands
forming castles
that retreat,
with each push and pull
of the seashell
adorning,
ocean core.
a retreat,
seaside beat,
hot in sun,
a breezy-beachy blast
of romance,
complete with clinking
hurricane glass.
paradise of piña coladas
and sunny smiles
under attentive palms.
back in the sea,
the swish of waterfalls -
plenteous and frothing.
marvelous
enchantment
of vertiginous
waves pulling
me away
from the shore…
5/2/2022
Dumplings
As I walk into the kitchen, for a snack,
my mother, her apron, night black hair, and jade bracelet,
makes me dumplings.
She combines the mixture of monotonous ingredients
into something extraordinary.
The water, like a youthful spring, rejuvenated the frozen, faltering fruits of nature,
Mixing the Yangtzee, Hei Long Jiang, and Chang Jiang into a savory paste of veal and kiwi green scallions and chives.
The distinct sound of chopping drowned my thoughts, easing my stress, and bringing a unique rhythm into my mind.
The dough, seeping under her fingers, was firm yet malleable
as if she was molding
the future.
The clicking of the gas stove, rumbling of the pot, flattening of the dumpling skins, the clinking of bowls and chopsticks, the scrubbing noises in the sink.
A rousing prelude to an intoxicating fugue…
Dinner
"Golden Tapestry"
One day, that San Francisco way
My, oh my, like a rushing waterfall
This hopeless heart did fall.
Tinkling chimes, clinking glasses, music from the East,
Like rushing romantic stanzas swept me off my dreamtime feet.
Some are impressed by great authors or thinkers.
Me...one minute glimpse of your eyes, mesmerizing, godlike winkers!
Will I ever be able to go just one day without thee?
You, the creator of our lives golden tapestry!
Nay, we live in a fragrant field of fairy dreams.
You, forever, my king divine, in our eternal, castle of rainbow schemes.
Play on, instruments of limitless love and light.
An honor to be so bound by love's delight.
Forever your~ Panagiota
April 18. 2020
2pm PST
To celebrate his new glasses,
home a nearsighted dragon, did fly.
the doctor had truly, helped his sight.
A party he’d throw, full of savories;
on many delicacies, his friends would feed.
All night they’d party, till morning’s light.
His patio torches, he’d blow on to light;
water spots, he’d removed, from every glass.
He decided a menu, for his friends, to feed.
Off to the grocery, with his bags, he did fly;
oh, how he did savor,
his brand new, eyesight.
Dragon, in flight, was a curious sight;
with bags full of food, he did alight.
Dragon truly savored,
his shiny new eyeglasses.
but as turbulence hit, off they did fly;
causing him to drop his many bags of feed.
With no food, for his friends, upon which, to feed;
he dove, in an attempt, to restore his sight;
that nearsighted dragon in half-blind flight.
He looked drunk as the dickens, in broad daylight.
Though he recovered his glasses;
his sight, again, to savor.
Now he could see, to recover, his savory
menu and headed home, for his friends, to feed.
First he tied on his glasses,
as to not, lose his sight.
The coals on his grill, he simply blew, to light,
as his guests all arrived, in true dragon flight.
Hungry dragons in flight,
arrived, dined and savored,
the meal, he’d prepared by torch light.
On mushrooms and steak and potatoes they did feed;
oh, it was such a bright, festive sight
and they toasted him, with a great clinking of glasses.
Twenty dragons, still too full, to fly;
bedded down, in his cavern, by the morning light.
In dreams, they’d re-savor,
the spread; what a sight!
Dragon’s friends, just as planned, he truly did feed;
all thanks to his shiny new eyeglasses.
Nestled in a mountain town,
Enclosed in downs of clouds,
Flows a dancing stream
Spiraling, bouncing,
Swaying along with the mountain breeze
Winding through trees, rocks and bushes,
Supporting vibrant foliage,
She voyages through forest
Jabbering, hopping
Swaying along with the mountain breeze
Dazzling in the sun
Shining thousands of sparkling diamonds
She springs over rocks and pebbles
Bubbling, splashing,
Swaying along with the mountain breeze
Attending to the whispers of the sky
And wheezing winds
She travels catching pearls of raindrops
Clinking, twirling
Swaying along with the mountain breeze
Entertaining and providing to peoples
And friends from the wild
She drifts ceaselessly with vitality
Spiraling, bouncing,
Swaying along with the mountain breeze
HUNGARIAN RHAPSODY
Her hand’s swan-like dance,
ivory shadow puppets
romance. Hungarian rhapsody.
The musician sans existence
as emotive fingers move
imaginary marionettes
with splendiferous precision.
Drama drops onto piano keys
occasionally taking a gentle stroll
then in sensuous sway, sashaying
like an exotic dancer. The musician
plucks and plinks as if
with chameleonic charm, like an
angel playing a harp.
Her fingers fast walk the keyboard
then resound tremulous keys.
(The audience swoons, spooned
by a rapturous torrent that enters
the heart, strokes and kisses
the yearning flesh, like the taste
and feel of brandy, burning and
tantalizing in breathlessness)
The musician’s slender fingers
now strum along in gaiety, like
paramours on the streets of Paris,
Springtime in the air. Palms nearly
rest upon silent keys as if two lovers
lay back upon a bed with puffs of smoke.
Dawn’s crescendo, with peaks of happiness
reside upon streets of ebony and ivory.
Life’s serendipitous monologue begins
once more with foreboding or adventure
or both. Is there loneliness upon this crest
for what has happenstance brought,
are they star-crossed? Do we see the sun
and the moon racing through their pulse —
days of birth and mourning?
(The blond marionette in concert black
seems to be mesmerized or hypnotized
by the muse of music. She’s like a dream
on a performance stage. Practiced in
illumination of flame. She releases the arrow
and the audience brightens up like a chandelier
with clinking and brilliant crystal pieces)
Happiness once again but with ferocious fervor
sends the keys to a heavenly place - to ears,
to mind, to soul...a cheer of a great parade,
and then the shivering of climatic peak,
followed by a lullaby of dreams - we imagine
a newborn wrapped up in a life well-lived.
The darling gal still doesn’t give up the ghost
but plays and plays...can you hear the needle
stuck at the vinyl’s end...spending all love gives?
Only the Creator Himself can lift the arm and
carry the musician still incubating all her charm.
3/19/2018
As I hear clinks of your cups
I can listen to orange sounds in your ample eyes
I can hear your obvious highs as if nearing a sea
Morning in a humming bee
You are busy at the mild harsh and tasty sound
The butter knife spreading butter on the dark dense toast
For the person you love the most
Eloquent silence all around
Soft munching sound from inside our mouth
Mingles with the wind from south
The door bell chimes its beautiful tune
Like the monsoon
Then comes the rustling of newspaper pages
The train crossing so many bridges
Combines with the rhythmic drumming of the woodpecker
The sound of your stirring sugar
Bubbling of boiled water in the kettle
They settle
In a silent sound of a loud red lily in bloom at the window
As rain falls in a crescendo
The flip flop of your sandals
Passing into your bangles clinking together
Culminating in the slurp as we sip tea
Real moments of pure glee
A great strength
Against the various wavelengths
Of the bang bark bray
Throughout the day
_______________________________________________________________
June 19, 2016
January’s snow flows stealthfully through my fifth-floor apartment window, flung wide open to welcome in the new year. The half-drawn curtains bellow with brisk salt air blowing in from the North Sea. A distant foghorn groans in a resigned, forlorn resonance, guiding ships braving the churning, ice-slushy waters as church bells strike twelve stately brassy tones.
This night I stand alone and content, a rich cup of espresso in my hand. Eschewing nostalgia and perhaps too sober of thought, I prefer my pleasures to be of the vicarious variety. Beneath me I take in the muted ambers and oranges spread out from the four cafes, out past the cobblestone road, glistening as snowflakes alite. Young couples drinking, glasses clinking, hug, kiss and revel, strolling out from the cafes. Some indulge in a traditional waltz, before the speaker blares more modern fare. Waves of laughter and singing ebb and flow as I turn and head toward my bed and blessed sleep.
Again the foghorn blares mournfully, like a tuba vainly pleading to be united with a long-lost orchestra.
I beckon nature to play her Symphony of Spring
when everything comes alive, revived once more.
When resident avian will have a chorus as backup,
perched along limbs and branches of aged oaks,
arrayed in dresses the hue of sage leaf green.
All keen to witness the budding and blooming,
the heavenly scented perfuming of the season
and the reason sweet nectar is temptingly teasin'
to the biggest hive of honeybees I've ever seen.
Willows will soon be sweeping nearer the flowing river,
the giver of life into which their tears fall as they weep.
Their slim limbs will quiver as they touch the ground.
In the distance I'll hear the sound of baby lambs baahing
and the la la laing of children's laughter as they run around
enjoying warmer weather; their cries of joy... unbound.
I'm ready to listen for the wind's soft melodies to play
in the evening as twilight falls at the end of the day.
Some say its then, night critters call in search of a mate
for the fate of their existence depends on the songs
they use to serenade the silvery moon all night long.
They will boldly sing when they take to wing,
always at the command of Nature. At her behest,
never in jest...an idle request when cicada awake
and do their best cricket knee mime to sound like
chimes clinking in rapid rhythm upon magnolia trees.
I'll focus with ears alert and constantly listening
as I sit on my back porch swing, sipping sweet tea.
Gentle rain will have my flower garden glistening.
Frogs will ribbit in sync and fireflies will quickly blink
their taillights like stars hovering near the ground.
I'll love the sound of a loon calling to be romanced,
her seductive chant will be enhanced by the scent
of sweet jasmine blossoms. It's a time when everything
will become a part of the nuance; the beauty of Spring.
Saving a memory
because laughter splatters
across the room
rolling, clinking,
splashed smiles savored
like wine-mellow
with bursts of flavors
rolled along the tongue
Learning takes place
better when there is
laughter and smiles
invite learners
Giggles, gurgling
eyes and teeth participating
who what questions
answers accents, soliloquies, duets
trios and groupwork
Sets of co-operative
silly making
blessing the room
where we learn
Asking neither names, nor historical periods, Clio draws wide circles of popular masses around square lonelinesses. What's all this noise about? A rich man’s circumference is longer than a pauper’s one! Down with circumference! Fortunately, the nasturtium-clad fence is high enough. The noise is getting louder. Is it just me, or do they want again to take away and to split everything they have already taken and split once? Hydrocarbons, how sweet the smell! Oh, heavenly music of coins clinking! Perhaps, but I’ve chosen the planets motion instead of the people's movement. Violent Paris isn’t worth a mass: having fenced my paradise garden, I admire the swarthiness of girl’s skin and the whiteness of English play. Neither the close lightnings of revolution, nor the accusative case of proclamations, nor uprising, nor mutiny
nor bloody revolt
shall disturb your honey sleep
my dear nasturtiums
Beer Head
Can't drive my brain into gear
my thinking right now is not truly clear,
a headache may come is what I do fear
I should not of drank all that beer.
My body and eyes all a blear
to many I drank to toast a cheer,
clinking my booze to whoever was near
to each and everyone - an equal peer.
Dance moves controlled by my beer puppeteer,
my feet stomps the floor like a ready charged deer,
shout singing the songs - not a cool look they sneer,
wrong words song sung sang, heard in the jeer.
My voice is hoarse an a ringing left ear
only to realise in my right I cannot hear,
panic sets in falling awkwardly on my rear
only to flatten my new expensive headgear.
Broken remains took me to save for a year,
self-pity pours in - I even shed a tear,
sober I stay and will do adhere
if not, beer just may ruin my career.
31.08.20
Plain brick walls
Wait for clinking cans of spray paint
To color in streetwise notions
Beyond the naked eye
Quiet strings of violins
Wait for hands to draw across bows
Or play pizzicato melodies
Beyond the well-trained ear
Blank pages
Wait for clever pens
To write stories and verses
Beyond the bare mind
Sparks of star light
Wait for a ready lifeforce
To ignite a hellmouth fire
Beyond the ordinary self
"Look around and see how birds and animals disclose the secrets of self survival and display how their bodies are streamlined to excel in their art"- By Poet
In the twisting tangle of the mangrove
Where eye can’t see beyond leaves
Sits a kingfisher, very alert,
Without the smallest quirk or quiver.
Its wings are bluer than the blue skies,
And body brighter than the brightest gold.
It sits surveying intently the water,
Flowing down the river.
With its sharp polaroid eyes
It spies the shoal of fish,
Darting up and down.
Measuring the distance
It makes a sudden move,
Diving into the water.
All we see is a flash of amber and blue,
And the water suddenly splashing up,
With a harsh clinking sound.
Sweeping down, the bird comes up,
With a sloshing silver fish,
Dangling from its beak like an ornate pendant
And landing down on a dry twig.
The fish shuddering in its beak
Is gulped down in no time,
Then it wheels away
To its accustomed cover in the mangrove
To preen its feathers and resume
Its hunting game once again!
It sits there, this skilled angler,
Till the hilltops turn auburn,
And the far -flung sky, stygian.
Then it flies back seeking its far away nest
In some sandy burrow or cavern.