Best Dinging Poems
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The keys are still—no clacking, no dinging~
now only dust lies in the grooves
where fingers once belonged.
Once it knew the weight of wars,
of Hemingway’s cigars and wine,
of love letters dipped in kerosene shine.
Now spiders draft their webs between
the metal bones of the obsolete machine.
A museum piece.
A fossil.
A ghost.
Waiting for words that matter the most.
But the writer’s hands?
Oh, they’re somewhere else~
tapping glass,
begging the sky
to inspire a story
worth its own ink.
Tapping to "The End"
The tap, tap, tapping of the keys
with the carriage thrown
in rhythmic dings to the letters
appearing on the page.
Each letter becoming a word
then turning into a sentences
that flows into paragraphs
of the story living in his head.
Zzzzzzip !!! Another page finished!!
Followed by the click, click clicking
of new paper being fed to address the
quick flow of his words.
He was at his work and had found
his muse, singing in rhythmic chorus,
through the quiet of the early hours
while others down below try to drift
asleep to the clicking,
dinging and tapping of his keys.
Better still, we all knew, than the pacing
and shuffling of steps round and round
the room--- The attic floor revealing
the circles of worried creative thinking.
The storyline falls into place
as the characters breathe on the page
and new life appears in chapter after chapter.
He pecks on with his typing with writers
ferociously till his story reaches “The End”
5/16/13
For: “The Typewriter” contest hosted by Craig
The world has turned angry.
Families have been replaced with technology.
Swiping and dinging has replaced listening and learning.
Drivers are enraged; impatient, unkind.
They plow over each other, like angry puppies
Because they must wait their turn.
Instant gratification has become the go-to now.
We want it immediately – information, food, attention.
The world has turned angry. The families are gone.
Technology has replaced love and kindness.
People spend more time in cars driving frantically
Than they spend in homes.
No one is listening to our children.
They sit in front of a tablet poking buttons
Wishing someone cared.
The world is sad.
What is it about seatbelts,
That cowboys find so bad,
And the worst offender of them all,
Would have to be my dad;
He leaves his belt unbuckled,
And it makes an awful ding,
What is so dang hard about,
Buckling the up the thing;
It dings and dings the whole dang drive,
Music can’t drown it out,
If you’ve heard that annoying buzz,
You’ll know what I’m talking about;
All it takes is a second,
Just buckle it and it’s through,
So pray that horrible annoyance,
Never happens to you!
I’m a witch of the modern times,
Nay my caldron is not round but square,
It has four sides square, and it’s called a microwave.
No bubble, bubble toil or trouble, with this new
Modern age tool, I just add these mystical
Prepackaged ingredients, then sit there on my
Broom stick and drool.
Forget the bat wings, and the eye of nout,
I prefer the minute bag of hot popcorn instead,
Wouldant you.
I’m the wiz of a wiz with this squared box of
Miracles, from the mid-night munchies, to the
Commercial button pause freeze zone, on the
Talley blue screen.
There is no more a sacred sound ever heard
On this earth, then that dinging bell going off,
Then ever buddy scrambling to check out, what
Homemade goodies mom has cooked up?
Now the crook top is dandy, and the stove
Maybe handy for more flavor, or special
Occasions of the holiday persuasion,
But I prefer the minute satisfaction,
And gratification of this microwave
Magician.
My personal idea of home style cooking,
Is pierce the bags plastic top, and stir,
Then serve, boy that broke this fevers
Sweat, are you ready to eat my young ones.
Now in my spell books of cooking perfection,
There’s just no place to plug in this modern
Tools connection.
So these massive volumes are just dust
Collectors, but I have a dust buster for
This readies problem, I just have to pop
Dinner in the magic box first, before I can
Solve them.
So what will it be tonight my friend,
Pizza or Pasta surprise, with an Abracadabra’s
Ding, and a POP, I can feed a whole troop of soldiers,
Or a hungry family of five.
Just call me a modern wizard with technical
Support, the best invention of all times
My microwave caldron, with its four
Squared sides, excuse me please,
The bell just went off!!!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
DEDICATED TO MY DAUGHTERS AMANDA AND ASHLEY
And also to the inpatient animals of the world, thanks mom!
There's a dinging in the kitchen,
There's a ringing in my head,
Someone's singing in my closet,
But, I fear the tenor's dead.
There's a clatter in my cupboard,
There's a matter unresolved,
There's a tiny pitter patter
Which is screaming up my hall.
There's a titillating teeter—totter
Slamming up and down.
And the bumpiness alone,
Just slid my grin into a frown.
Someone call the proper people,
Shut the silence off and then
Call the plumber, what a bummer,
I am dripping wet again.
All this screaming and complexity.
This damned insipid stain,
Is deplorable, abhor able
And driving me insane.
And the sum of all this madness
Has my tongue and guts in knots.
So you do all the talking...
Because I forgot the plot.
I would be so excited, standing there on the railroad platform, holding my mothers hand. I had waited for this day. A chance to ride the train to Boston. Impatiently, from time to time, I would lean forward to peer down the track, as if willing the train to arrive.
I heard it before I saw it. First the dinging as the crossing gates lowered, signaling it's approach. Then the scream of the steam whistle and the vibration in the rails. Finally, the choo-chooing as the black behemoth slowed, and the engineer rung the bell, signaling their arrival. Often he would wave and I would wave back. Finally, with steam hissing from the brakes, they would stop, and the smell of coal smoke would fill the air.
We would wait for the conductor in his black suit and hat to step down and place a stool at the foot of the stairs to the passenger car. Even then, it was a big step and he would usually lift me under my arms and place me on the landing, then turn to assist my mothers assent. Once aboard, I would choose our seat. If possible, I always chose one with an unoccupied seat next to it. By so doing, I was able to switch the seat back so that I could ride facing my mother, but more importantly, backward. For some reason, that was part of the thrill of the trip.
Soon, we would hear the “All aboard” called out by the conductor and feel the initial jolt as the train began to move, the chugging growing faster. I would listen to the measured click of the wheels as they moved over the breaks in the rails. Once up to speed, that sound, like the cadence of a metronome, was almost mesmerizing, as the car swayed gently as if keeping time.
That was a magic time. An adventure to be savored. However, sometime in the ensuing years, those times disappeared and assumed the role of memories. Today, I see mothers, holding their child’s hands as they wait to board the Amtrak. Perhaps there is still an excitement there, but it is not the same. And I suspect the engineer doesn't wave anymore.
The fact is you rhyme
like a flatulent behind
and that’s me kind
you’re a waste of time
and time isn’t indication you climb
stuck same place is basically decline
So it’s something you got in to
but it’s not what all do
many have a little clue
others listen to you
cus unlike you they ain’t ignorant
don't believe they know every stunt
like you do in an instant
furthest back far from front
I think this your only way too shine
but you over complicate the rhymes
with the image of a fake fool
singing songs unrelatable
about experience you aint been through
speak of ways that ain’t in you
Talk of being true
who you
acting red when mister blue
smoking on the green zoot
hello delude a yellow belly you
for years a career no one hears
a know-it-all without a clue
couldn't find a flow looking at water in the ocean
face it you're hopeless you're no one
dopey desperate and groping
a legless antelope anti-sloping
a deadweight wearing jokes thin
Ha ha as the years go by
other settle for a normal life
they had more talent and are more wise
but of course the size of the competition demise
so you think you’re one of the better guys
though not heard by ears or seen by eyes
sending out signals don't reach satellites
your albums and singles never satisfy
your gift was a throw away couldn’t sell
maybe you should go into your shell
and go away
cus the telephone ain’t gonna ring
you won’t live the dream and know what it bring
you can try from every angle
but you are up against guitars dinging a triangle
It’s time to unplug the mic and abandon the band
cus you a man they don’t demand
quit the hobby you call a job
get a job and shut up your gob
You might not remember; it was so long ago.
Our memories devise tricks to flush away pain.
But I walk here in the alleys of remorse
During the darkening final days of the year.
I seek to atone for my neglect, all my plunder.
Our life was torn asunder; all my hollow thunder.
I hunger now for any light; it is true.
But I taste your ghostly wounds in the night stew.
Some of my stages of shame perpetually replay.
No amends, no expression of regret relieves them.
Hedonism never realized its promise of pleasure,
A sugarcoated cereal deadening life’s flavor.
Roaming alone through twisting backstreets.
Survival crawled by irritable, temperamental, impersonal,
My sharp edges and dim wit drove me out of bounds.
I was a delinquent turned out at all the sanctuaries.
I lay in exhaustion, my head in my arms.
Something pealed, yes, some sort of carillon
Again, again, chiming, crystal tones climbing.
Notre Dame, Westminster Abby,
A chorus of cathedral bells tolling, extolling
Clear harmonies rolling, springing, showering,
Towering, overpowering, a new belonging,
A new donging, a new righting of wrongs.
Here, spontaneous essence self-assembles,
Deepest being chiming, dinging in time,
The flood and flurry of bells rain down on me.
I can never repair my failed fragments
Returning like a tiresome uncle.
But perhaps I can thrive, fully alive.
Ringing and pinging, singing of my new self.
For all I have failed to be,
I celebrate my outpouring of love,
my season of rapture.
The Valley Of Love And Delight':
An anniversary feting mine birth (date),
a plan we almost didst ditch
nonetheless the general game plan
soared like an Eagle,
and went off swimmingly (into a dive)
hence we chose Wegman's with doll finned porpoise
minus a sue per stevedore tailored hitch
cuz the China Jade restaurant
near Collegeville Redner's
nearly felt cold as ice dining niche
as if we accidentally
got highjacked to Siberia
where heat took precedence
verses restaurateur eatery reputable pitch
thus despite praise worthy Yelp reviewers,
whether they be named Poe or Rich
hard, earning their keep whose fingers
hut till lee diploid across
warp and weft to stitch
together disparate threads
weaving a webbed whirled Magnum Opus
where thoughts analogous
to this aspiring paperback writer exerts,
(whose muscles twitch)
in an attempt for phalanges
tortured as going every which
way with to craft a non ode us paean
from deep within thy bowel
applying me magical diving rod –
essentially a computerized dowel
which makes a dinging sound,
or emitting an odor most fetid and fowl
unintentionally inducing creatures
large and small to howl
at the abominable cursing and swearing
using languages that lack a vowel
sound - clouding ability to communicate
to remain steadfast
with intent thwarted by (third eye blind)
minor detour of fate
three doors down and celebrate modestly,
NEVER thought to "FAKE"
forgo wing NOR deferring
time to be spent with
a gluten and MSG free
NON GMO endearing sibling
NO whey iz she dee snide dour twisted sister
hood moost likely become irate
invested in marriage to a loving mate.
Bells ringing, children singing
Sounds of the season’s joys
Cash registers are dinging
Bells ringing, children singing.
Lovers are blinging; Santa’s bringing
Presents for little girls and boys
Bells ringing, children singing
Sounds of the season’s joys.
Written December 1, 2022
Twas the night before
'Twas the night before Christmas and all around soup
Not a poet was writing, no words from the group
And I, with my paper and pencil in hand
Had just settled down at my new writing stand
I wrote out a poem, but waited to post
To hope for one poet, well two at the most
Then turned off the site as nobody was stirring
It was getting late and my eyes they were blurring
I thought that tomorrow would be a good time
Or maybe the next day to send out my rhyme
I closed my computer, it shut with a snap
Decided to go take that long winters nap
When all of the sudden my phone started dinging
Like church bells on Sunday, just constantly ringing
With messages falling like snow from the sky
One after the other, they did multiply
I opened my laptop and clicked on the site
And waited until it was glowing so bright
When what to my wondering eyes should appear
So many soup poets were spreading good cheer
I reached for my words and then typing so quick
My poem a gift and I felt like Saint Nick
When I had to pause and just think for a while
Because all I wanted was to bring a smile
They don’t need a poem that’s written by me
Just nice happy thoughts that each poet could see
So I paced and I thought and I thought and I paced
Then wrote down some words that I quickly erased
I had a few cookies, a nice glass of milk
Put on my pajamas, they were made of silk
I glanced out the window, the street was aglow
With bright colored lights, such a beautiful show
Tossed some more tinsel atop of the tree
Straightened the star so the neighbors could see
Wrapped some more presents with ribbons and bows
Not very good and each package it shows
Sat down again every thought it was whirling
Like red and white sugar on candy canes swirling
When suddenly something came clear to my mind
Such wonderful words that were happy and kind
So I typed out this message to post on the site
“Merry Christmas dear Soupers, to all a good write”
11/26/18
Written for: The Night Before Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May
This time of the year
when the cannas sadly droop,
Ma is saving kitchen scraps
from recent repasts
for a hearty winter soup,
and decorations go up.
Too early I think
with the Christmas ornaments
for commercial purposes
slighting Halloween
and Thanksgiving gatherings.
I shall complain bitterly.
No one will listen!
Some say I am Mister Scrooge
I can stand only so much
happiness and joy,
cash registers dinging loud
facing the mad shopping crowds.
Each year it gets worse
when the cannas sadly droop,
and Ma saves scraps for the soup
decorating starts,
and I complain bitterly
but no one listens or cares.
Written September 12, 2022
It’s a glistening snow fall year,
As the coldness talks,
Eyes watch over the peer,
Through the park take walks,
It’s a glistening snow fall year.
The cities beauty lurks,
Outcome: scarfs, boots, and gloves,
The wind comes cold and jerks,
But the people buy gifts for loves,
The cities beauty lurks.
Every streets lights beaming,
As the people start singing,
The snows bright and gleaming,
The carolers share warmth by dinging,
Every street lights beaming.
Trees go up with power,
The little ones; each with smiles,
And the parents open up like a flower,
As Santa turns his dials,
Trees go up with power.
Mr. Clause uses his magic,
Going around the world through night,
Giving the strength for the tragic,
Flying fast out of sight,
Mr. Clause uses his magic.
For seasons come and go,
So cherish each and every one,
Get out seeing the houses glow,
Relax and enjoy the Christmas fun,
For seasons come and go.
My phone dings for no reason.
I am not playing video games.
I am not trying to speak to a friend.
I am sitting in the living room
And I hear my phone dinging in the kitchen.
I pick it up and stare at it.
There are no alerts.
No messages.
No indicators at all.
I leave it in the kitchen
And it happens again and again
No rhyme or reason to it.
The new phones
have their own personality
their own mood, and their own secretive magical ways.