Best Cymbal Poems
Though dormant, your strengths are still present...
within the silky staircase of God-woven DNA.
Just peel away layers of perceived weakness
climb through the fiery muck and mire...
through acidic jive-devil-clawed lies.
Climb with a pickaxe of love and faith.
Shed decades of doubters and layers of deceivers.
Buoy the desperate dreamers, along the way.
Climb until ogres cannot reach your lowest high.
Until jealousy no longer bangs a cymbal against your mind.
An enriched life awaits those with fair intentions.
Climb as if every step uplifted the heavens.
Climb until you smack your face against the stars.
Just climb.
Flutes, ahead laying the routes
Oboes they off to Villalobos
Harps, dusting off vessel tarps
Violin silenced by engine din
Cello, matching the revving bellow
Piano sad in the canoe
Clarinets are taking private jets
Horns, fasten seatbelts the Captain warns
Cymbal off checking the gimbal
Saxophone, sorry plane now flown
Bassoon missed flight in June
Trumpets in London loving crumpets
Timpanis tanning in Florida Keys
Tambourine, ouch you forgot sunscreen
Drum in Jamaica sipping on rum
Trombones still crossing time zones
Tuba, where else but Cuba!!
You certainly need to watch what you do. But be what you are in whatever it is you are doing
first, for those things you find yourself doing of the mind only, not connected to the love
source which is the real you, will only become a sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal.
Therefore, be found being what you are in everything you do, and that is love! ©, I Cor. Ch,
13. Kjv. Just an act of love from the mind apart from the heart, is as nothing, as Paul said!
Love, true riches of love, must begin in the heart where your love is stored, the real
substance, of the self of soul, that God gave us to be!
God is love,
From above,
And blew that into man,
Twas his plan,
For humanity to be love!
God is perfect,
And he is love,
All things being from above,
And what God blew into the man,
Which was perfect in his plan,
was love!
In God’s image, and likeness too,
I certainly think, love’s perfection in man, will do,
How about you?
But a house divided, will not stand,
For in the land which is man,
The mind, the goat of gloat,
Took a stand,
Against love’s real man!
[email protected]
Voices ringing throughout my ear
Some far, and surely some near
But this distinguished sound is what I can’t s.
top seeming to hear.
So I seek to know, vision of the seer
And I peek
Through opportunities window
From where does the sound appear
Distinct it is.
And it’s calling me
It keeps drawing me
Amongst other sounds.
Like a resounding gong or a clinging cymbal
An irritation to my ears as they all resemble.
Hearing these tunes time and time again
Luring sounds of sin.
And I think, there’s one distinct
For it comes in the night and it whistles
And in light, it draws me nigh, sweet whispers
Saying come out from amongst them
And the pitch grows louder.
The false alarms began to perish
I cherish the ring throughout my ear
Persuaded by the pursuing and its gentle wooing
I am choosing to be still
Amongst the multitude of clanging bells
Not ringing true.
But this one is real.
Caught In between wonder and expectations thrill
It’s beckoning at my soul
That it may become my hearts seal
My hearts seal.
For it, I have adored and longed
Becoming day to day pierced by the sound of it’s song
Distinct it is
Not only to listen I must respond
Fading out the rest, for it is beyond
So I look closer through the windows screen
I let what I hear intervene
As I open my window.
Heaven’s sound.
The love I found
As I answered the call.
THE ATHEIST
Some misguided man named Darwin
Gained notariety with his theory of evolution
The world foolishly agreed with him
Thinkin he had found the solution
To the existence of man on earth
And as humans how we evolved
His theory soon gave birth
And the mystery of man was resolved
But Darwin and all his followers
Are oh so sadly wrong
And one day they will discover
Darwin's theory was a cymbal gong
God, the Creator of all that is
Made the heavens and the earth
He, and only He, made man out of dust
Adam was the beginning of man's birth
Belief that God is a myth
Will cause the believer great pain
The flames in the pit of hellfire
Will be their final gain
So I say to the atheist
Set Darwin's theory aside
Put your belief in God's Only Son
Because Charles Darwin lied
24 November 2018
For the contest sponsored by Anthony Slausen
Written: February 3rd, 2024
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Existence for him,
should be the shivering,
a fantastic cymbal beat,
beaten with a firm stick,
then, at the time of closing,
all the lights are turned off,
there is no soundtrack at all,
and destiny struck,
vacuous vaudeville
eternity is a halted horn,
and yesterday, a tumbler of spirit,
drunken long ago.
I sit tree-side every night,
anger, grief, and key loss
I wait, hoping someone cares,
I realize nobody will ever come
I sat by the weeping willow,
Its lushness and gloom calm me,
tears fuel my restless dreams
still, my aloofness is illusory
I didn't grasp when it started
I had no friends or affection,
my heart broke and rotted
my echt days are gone,
I'm weary of crying and aching,
smiling, they toss me a chair and cord,
they feign to care for a while
and shut the doors to lie by the bay
their dismay while I live,
how do they pardon my curse?
their love scenes are fake.
Why must I suffer?
why is finding my tears a chore?
have I merited this?
what can I do to delight you?
allow this to conclude,
love me or befriend me
let this misery cease soon,
nights I weep, days I feign,
I bestow joy with my words
why can't I relax and relish?
why do you often depress me?
you don't care as much as others
You're teasing me from above,
I recognize I'll never improve,
I have no love or paradise,
let's hope for the best,
Isolation is a long path to hell,
my life isn't awful, but no one calls,
I may stay as hate sweeps the earth,
stay with my weeping willow.
Hosea 6:3
God is talking to me
I hear it in the raindrops
As they flow to the sea
The rushing water gives
A soft cymbal sound
Praising God as he lives
What about you and me
Do our voices join them
In their loving sound, agree
Do our voices give
Off an angry round
Every day as we live
The pitter pat of raindrops
Quiets my soul today
Can I quiet my speech
To a loving way
So, my soul will say
Thank you, God, for the quiet day
Needed: unsung heroes, with no need for fame.
Be a piccolo or cymbal in the symphony of rain.
—by poet
Single Drop
jumping into single drop
landing with a belly flop
dancing with all, dousing land
Spring’s crush inside portioned crop
i dont mean to be pathetic
wishing my phone would sound
the little things the biggest
my ear lay to the ground
waiting for that signal
reception just a symbol
i tried to keep it simple
heart crashing like a cymbal
every thing i see kindly a reminder
where I want to be out of place
stealing the covers id like to find her
lately my bed is having too much empy space
i guess never say never
sometimes i know better
since I ever met her
my heart wouldnt forget her
quest for my questionin to be quenched
matters of this nature puts people in a pinch
my best for blessings stuck by a wrench
disaster while riding despite tightening a cinch
i made my bed now rest assured
manifest destiny my only cure
my arms not as long like I preferred
let it go, watch, help it grow, I concur
If I were a ballerina,
as graceful as a swimming swan,
I would joyously pirouette before You,
my God, my audience of one.
But I am not a ballerina,
I am clumsy and inept,
but You, my God, still bid me dance,
and You applaud my every step.
If I had the voice of an angel,
if I could sing with purest tone,
I would sing a song of worship,
while kneeling at your throne.
But I am but a clanging cymbal,
my voice harsh, not fit to sing,
but You, my God, still bid me come,
and sing my song, an offering.
If I were the greatest poet,
with words of golden rhyme,
I would write the perfect sonnet,
to honor You for all time.
But I am not a famous wordsmith,
my poems simple and mundane,
but, You, my God, are my inspiration,
let the words I write, Your praise contain.
Let everything I do be for Your glory.
May my life not be a sham.
I can be all You want me to be,
'cause You accept me as I am.
7/3/15
Though I may speak with the
tongues of angels and men…
Without God’s love, I am empty within.
I’d become as sounding brass
and a tinkling cymbal.
In God’s kingdom, I would not be instrumental.
Though I may have the gift of prophecy
and mysteries untold…
Without God’s love, I am just
simply growing old.
Though I may have the faith to move
a mighty mountain…
Without God’s love, I am simply
an “empty fountain.”
Though I may attempt to do
good and feed the poor…
Without God’s love, there’s nothing
worth living for!
His love suffers long, and is very patient and kind.
It is everlasting and will endure the test of time.
His love is not rude nor is easily provoked…
It doesn’t seek evil, nor is unequally yoked.
His love bears, hopes and endures all things.
It rejoices in whatever a good report brings.
It never fails, where prophecies and
knowledge shall pass away.
His love will encourage you in
what you do and say.
There remains faith, hope and a special
gift from above.
This is an eternal gift that we call his love.
Won’t you accept his gift and start believing?
This special gift… YOU too can be receiving!
By Jim Pemberton
Read 1 Cor. 13 1-8 and 13
5th Ave. was shoulder to shoulder with
hungry lunch-seeking business men
and women. Ricardo unpacked
his horn nervously and a foot cymbal.
Spring, early street season, too cold
for most musicians but he needed money.
His lips kissed the cold metal mouthpiece.
Carrying the saw and the pulaski.
Cutting brush for a fire line high up,
where raptors and ravens fly. No sound
but wind if you could subtract the crew
working and dirty, joking during lunch.
A good year it had been sitting in the soil
feeling Ricardo's body on the mountainside.
Mountains moving as good a feeling.
Alone in his town, most neighbors at work,
housecleaning done, Ricardo settled down
with pen to write and ate lunch.
People = chickadees.
Clutch size, substrate, territory, gestation period.
Mating rituals. Use of alcohol and hallucinogens.
Forms of cancer, heart disease. Burial rites, memories.
Creation myths, beliefs for which there is no evidence.
Range: tundra to tropics.
I feel him there all day and night.
In my dreams, he speaks to me and makes my burden light.
His voice is like a soft and beautiful cymbal.
His turn of phrase makes my heart quick and my mind nimble.
His righteous utterance of confidence during the day,(sigh) shows me the way.
In retrospect, he was always there during my jejunity.
My father left me and my mother was not caring enough to love me.
He laid his finger on my heart and I felt his love.
His sweet and indomitable breath guided me to rise above.
I was abused by many antagonists and callous people over the years.
He fed me the fruit of his righteousness and chased away my fears.
He has made my life bountiful.
He has rectified my inefficient life so that I can become skillful.
In my winter solstice, I feel that time is nearing the fall of my withering and fermenting flesh to the earth.
My prayer is that my soul will bloom into immortal mirth.
Marchl 12, 2023
For the faithful be encouraged by John chapter 14 verse 18
The distant toll of the temple bells
As clock strikes, thou tread upon the sacred temple
Lifting up hands with the Holy Assembly
“Father I thank you am not a sinner like her
I fast and pray like the Apostle Paul
And I pray in tongues more than all”
“ba ba la ba ta la la la
ba ba ka ba la ta ya
mana talla ta ta ya”
Empty babblings! Meaningless verbosities!
Why all these pretensions and ostentatious prayers friend?
Why can’t all these noise and hypocrisy end?
One who drinks iniquity like water
A noisy gong scooped of all her fruits
Never able to shod thy feet with the ‘Golden boots’
You seem to please the demons, hear their unceasing echoes
You clanging cymbal! You noisy gong!!
You clanging cymbal! You noisy gong!!
I rather you plea for mercy
And pray thy demons away
Before they prey thee away
These spiritual gymnastics can be deceiving
You clanging cymbal! You noisy gong!
For thou knoweth not the Masters ‘Love Song’
If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. [1Corinthians 13:1-ESV]
People sing in praise of a lead performer;
And the person playing the second fiddle
Often goes unsung and unhonoured.
That is the fate of all such auxiliary artistes, say,
A guitarist strumming the chords—
To keep up the rhythm
Or, as typically in India,
The tambura player,
providing the continuous harmonic drone,
Which no electronic substitute
Can possibly offer—
Not to the entire satisfaction of the audience,
As it would be lacking in timbre and temper.
Yet, comparatively speaking,
There may not be much money in it.
Percussion artistes, on the drums,
The Mrudangam or Tabala,
Are all worse off,
Though they often perform multiple tasks.
Now striking, for instance, a cymbal,
Now a triangle or a xylaphone.
Even the famous Sivamani has got to do it.
They all, however, go about their tasks on the stage
With as much zest as the lead performer—
Yet a Sivamani or a Zakir Hussein
Hitting the headlines, is very rare.
Their presence is hardly noticed,
Though their absence may surely be felt.
Their role is comparable
To that of the squirrel—in the Ramayana,
Which helped Rama,
In its own humble way,
To put up the bridge
(preparatory to his encounter with Ravana)
Across the Palk Strait to Sri Lanka,
And yet did its best.
Such artistes do exemplify team spirit.
They also serve who stand (or sit)
On the stage and do auxiliary work!
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