Best Gangling Poems
oh, my precious child!
let me kiss away your weep -
do not be troubled, the moon but bids good night
(stars whispering their ancient lullaby)
swallowing not, the western reach
but merely giving pause to the day, waking
so that the grateful star of morn
should adorn its burgeoning bosom
let not the salty seep of your cheek yet trill
such certain and elegant inequity there be
should a stain darken that pinafore, pressed
a scandal be my name with thy mother
should those eyes dampen your Sunday best
and surely not for the sake of Luna's languor -
oh, such dire dalliance, that!
I adore thee, my wee lass
Boundless are the ways -
Echoed in your mother's smile
There, so deep your gaze
'tis true, his aged face did blush, fleeting
dipping his dusty chin to the sea
but it was for Sol's regard only
(their goodnight kiss - pressed tender, a-cheek)
and no misfortune was spun
we shall return, my child, sooner than soon
and you will bear witness their recurrence
your old man moon will beg company again
with his patient aspect beaming
shimmering bright for your veneration -
soft, soft, so daubs the moon
soft as bluebells blooming -
wan on skin to softly swoon
e'er a dream's consuming
yes, I vow this to you, my daughter -
you shall dance again on this shore
bound and prance, my tiny ballerina
you will twirl in the breath of evening, I am sure
lit by the gangling glow, star-ward
and tonight's lament will seem a silly song
you shall see and be heartened, my little one
and should I yet kiss that weep away, too?
ah, but joyous, those tears...
and as the heavens themselves
(and the best born of a father's heart)
how immeasurable their number …
oh, my darling, precious child!
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Your Choice (4), Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "2019 Poetry Marathon Mile 18" Poetry Contest, Mark Toney, Judge & Sponsor.
Eyes still closed ...
Our sated mouths slowly parted,
And what was once cold and unyielding in my palm,
Now stood, blooming as the softness of warm lips ...
Exquisite bows of pink, supple sublimity.
Our eyes opened, and met, knowing ...
Where to first? I asked her ...
She crimped a tiny smile with her lip edges -
The rain, she answered, eyes giggling ...
Where else, silly boy?!?
A hesitation and backward glance,
(To make sure I would follow), then ...
She leapt out into the weeping eventide ...
A brief rest in the wedge of light under a streetlamp,
Then she raised her arms and twirled on one foot -
Flawlessly en retire' ...
No longer gangling and squat, but elegant and shapely -
A swan, caught in a sultry summer shower ...
Birthed of one true and faithful kiss,
Now ... my princess.
~ 3rd Place ~ in the "Fairy Tale" Poetry Contest, Alexis Y., Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Late May 2018 Standard Any Form" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
oh, my precious child,
let me kiss away your weep -
do not be troubled, the moon but bids good night,
stars whispering their ancient lullaby,
swallowing not, the western reach,
but merely giving pause to the day, waking
so that the grateful star of morn
should adorn its burgeoning bosom.
let not the salty seep of your cheek yet trill
such certain and elegant inequity there be,
should a stain darken that pinafore, pressed.
a scandal be my name with thy mother,
should those eyes dampen your Sunday best,
and surely not for the sake of Luna's languor -
oh, such dire dalliance, that!
I adore thee, my wee lass
boundless are the ways -
echoed in your mother's smile
there, so deep your gaze.
'tis true, his aged face did blush, fleeting,
dipping his dusty chin to the sea,
but it was for Sol's regard only,
their goodnight kiss - pressed tender, a-cheek
and no misfortune was spun.
we shall return, my child, sooner than soon,
and you will bear witness their recurrence!
your old man moon will beg company again,
with his patient aspect beaming -
shimmering bright for your veneration -
soft, soft, so daubs the moon
soft as bluebells blooming -
wan on skin to softly swoon
e'er a dream's consuming.
oh, I vow this to you, my daughter!
you shall dance again on this shore,
bound and prance, my tiny ballerina!
you will twirl in the breath of evening, I am sure,
lit by the gangling glow, star-ward,
and tonight's lament will seem a silly song,
you shall see and be heartened, my little one!
and should I yet kiss that weep away, too?
ah, but joyous, those tears...
and as the heavens themselves,
and the best born of a father's heart,
how immeasurable their number!
oh, my darling, precious child!
The sun-bleached exoskeletons
of old dead trees stand like sentries
along the towpath riverfront
exfoliated and gangling.
In a former age they stood tall,
grandiose to all passerby’s
but they too are dead to recall
their once impressive colossi.
Eventually these remains
will meet their final destinies:
to fall-never to rise again-
among forgotten progenies;
yet many springs have passed since then
each sprouted trees, time and again.
brush in hand, he breathes life to paper ...
columns ... bejeweled and sparkling
like blades of shimmering grass
piercing the night as star-flecked stalagmites
fingers of phosphorescent proficiency
flickering with the finest of human accomplishment
and twirling through the ether like fairies
darting and dancing to the throb of frantic grids below
glowing girders and gangling spires, agleam
trembling with the concerns of life
and dressed in the temperate weight of wonder
a thousand stories born each elegant instant
countless dramas and conundrums
spinning to their inexorable ends
numberless breaths gasped and giggled
heart-upon-heart pumping ire and exasperation
thrumming with passions, proved and pondered
or the typic pulse of the prosaic
a glistening garden of "la condition humaine"
a beast born of concrete and light ...
its urbane and provocative heart, beating ...
the canvas has come ... to LIFE!
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Something Bigger Than Myself" Poetry Contest,
Line Gauthier, Judge & Sponsor.
N/A'd in the "Cityscape" Poetry Contest.
Meandering memories
move through my mind
like a river flowing
to the salty sea.
Limbs stretch lazily
reaching skywards
like the gangling
branches of an ancient tree.
Standing still in
the solitude of
suspended time;
lazily picking flowers,
the hours melt away
as I daydream in
the field of fantasy.
Flicking fancy fecklessly.
The rasping of the siren
in the run of the mill
over the hill startles me
and I am roughly returned
to normality, garishly.
The harsh light of day
refracts its neon rays;
stinging rays destroying
delicious serenity.
Daydream done I am returned
to Hurly Burly Street,
and the hurrying feet
running the relentless human race.
Individuality lost
without a trace in the
salty sea of faces;
fixed expressions as they
cling on to the roof strap
in the hurtling underground
mundane. Multitasking.
Lost in the murky flow
of commuter traffic
which has become their life.
Set me free again to daydream.
Release from the race of rats
we unintentionally run.
I find some fun discarded
in an overflowing bin
and sneak it into my pocket.
Around my neck a locket
containing happiness
and daydreams .....
Down on the pier, the midmorning bright,
Thronged wives, husbands, lovers,
And sons, friends, young daughters,
All eyes perusing the grand and gray ship
In long-simmered hope of glimpsing one face,
One much-beloved grin, among antsy sailors
Arrayed in white jumpers along the tall deck,
‘Til, filing like ants, crew at last disembarked:
A long, gangling line descended the gangway,
Dispersed and filtered, absorbed by the crowd,
One young and trim yeoman elbowing through,
Enfolding his wife—petite, trembling gal—
Into long, lanky arms, her buxom breast pressing,
Squeezing tight to his chest
And stoking, thereby, his half-a-year’s yearning
To hold and be kissed,
To kiss once again this doll from high school—
And the assemblage transformed
By thinning and ebbing away from the pier,
While that sailor still kissed, hugged his wife tight,
Past months dissolving, by love overwhelmed,
‘Til, still holding close, they silently strolled
Relieved he’d returned—
He’d come home to his wife.
CLOWN
Hard day at the office – circus in town.
I hear the Sousas yellow, or dark Pagliacci brown
All in all I hate this one here clown,
Striding right into my space,
Hiding the other side of his face –
The hurries, the gestures,
Paint so thick it cracks when he smiles
Paint that don’t run, and this here gangling style.
He trips, goes down, frightens a child,
But the freaking holiday crowd rises, croaks, goes wild!
You think of this here kind, usually, as stubby, or fat,
But this one’s long and slim,
A phallic maypole, that damn well describes him.
I hate the cheering, all the rah, rah, rah,
Hate the noisy wildness of this insane Mardi Gras.
I gotta leave, but then I spot this tiny, little girl,
Fall in love with her four-year-old, golden curls.
She laughs, she gurgles, gasps – doll face so fragile
In spite of flatulence, headache, in spite of myself,
I smile.
They could be heard across valleys with their screeching echo
Flailing above tree height they’d flock in their thousands - the Black Cockatoo
Like nature’s eclipse, they would descend in clouds; all great gangling wings
Flapping madly at each other, swaying this way and the other
A perch full of hysterics - oh ravishingly black
Black raucous baffling broils of beak n feathers and
Snapped off sticks and nuts that crack and pop from
Ancient giants tall
All crowded in crowns hanging and swinging and larking about
A jest from the nest, others cuddling n kissing
Fanning tail feathers – pretty
But now they fall, their numbers appal
Thrown out of their homes, death by starvation, another species lost
But who gives a toss…
A red tail feather once so common on the forest track
As we yearn for their call, the lone screeching echo
That haunts the valley floor
We no longer hear the vanquished
It’s only when they’ve vanished
Will we truly pray for these ebony eccentrics?
Of the Australian bush
28 August 2014
RISE ...
breathless, calm ...
I face the morn ... possibility
mists crawl 'neath gangling willows
dew drawn from the keening hem of twilight
spattered on green and growth like atomized sachet
patient for the sun and its timid truths
as I listen for the silent cry
a new day's glory ...
soft-born.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Brian's Choice Y, Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
I stand here 'neath these vines of old
Wrapped by the arms of stories told
The lads and lasses, bright and bold
A dancing brown-eyed blond
Of whom I'd been quite fond
I'd found her here, below this green
Those chestnut eyes, all of fourteen
Brought I, a senior, still quite green
Thru metaphor, to my knees
Her fain pawn, if you please
Then shared in all that love imparts
We gangling fools, in fits and starts
Too zealous for our bleeding hearts
To care where passions led
Found reckless in its stead
Now I'm back here, gone the years
Yet stirs my soul, amidst the fears
Her sweet voice still avails my ears
From all the memories lost
How much our loves can cost ...
How much, our loves ...
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Late February 2019 Any Form Or None" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
Last winter on the village pond, but three
Geese. Brilliant white with yellow beaks, come see,
With pride they sit and guard the village green,
Such anserine confidence must be seen.
Spring spawns new life right here, remarkably,
Nine gangling goslings waddling awkwardly.
Maturing fast, they shed their yellow fluff.
Clad now in snow-white feathers, smooth not rough.
They sail around the pond with dignity,
Their orange paddles working regally.
Watch carefully, you think you have their measure,
But at the slightest cause they honk displeasure !
Traffic halts. Across the road they straggle,
Haughty heads held high and tails a-waggle.
Slate clouds stretch low
over urban rooftops,
sun’s hopeful warmth
vanquished:
man with a limp
pauses.
his weary eyes,
wary,
survey that sky,
grimy gangling
fingers
fidget
buttons,
wind biting through
plaid jacket’s
worn fabric;
on, he hobbles
behind
shopping cart,
cluttered and dull,
left front wheel
shimmying,
sere, dun leaves
and discarded wrappers
tumble, rustle
alongside
in the gutter.
From a boy to a man
Just a wee lad, pants begining to wear,
His Mum used a basin to cut his hair.
His Mum worked hard, no Dad you see,
Burnt herself out feeding her family.
School to him was both good and bad,
Always bullied because he had no Dad.
It was also good,he loved to learn.
Sad it stopped early, he had to earn.
A job he soon got, to learn a trade,
He'd do anything as long as it paid.
It didn't take long for it to sink in,
It would take years for trade to begin.
Walked out of one job into another quick,
Chopping and changing, didn't do the trick.
He needed to settle, not somewhere near,
So he chose the Army to get a career.
Boy Soldier/Apprentice he had become,
With regular money to send home to Mum.
The basin cut was now a short back and sides,
Army clothes were itchy, never quite his size.
At least they were new and his shoes now fit,
He looked halfway decent in his army outfit.
A scrawny and gangling lad of fifteen at the start,
Never had so much gear of his own to look smart.
Good food in his belly, regular three times a day,
Started filling out nicely in a muscular way.
He'd always been fit,no flab had he gained,
He got leaner and stronger, each day he trained.
Days of schooling and running soon became his life.
Still bullied by some who thought they were right,
He was biding his time while being taught to fight.
The day came when the bully came to attack,
But trouble was waiting, the wimp could fight back.
A fight ensued, the bully soon found he was tried,
By the scrawny kid who had cowered and cried.
The defensive moves the lad had practiced well,
Soon all could see the bully was beaten to hell.
The kid from the back streets in days gone past,
Had now grown and become a man at last.
© Dave Timperley June 2016
Deep within the decrepit graveyard
Alight by a circular moon
Concrete creaks
Gravestones crack
Grotesque bodies rise
in ghastly fashion.
khaki grass crunches
beneath gangling feet
mechanical movements
macabre murmurs
and creaking bones
march forward, famished.
Crunch....
.....
Crunch...
Crunch.
filling
darkened streets,
crowding alleys,
stalking backyards...
Creak..
...Crunch..
flesh, falls to the floor...
Exposing...
the
gruesome grey,
skeletal,
Dearly departed,
undead.
Flocks of odious creatures
Litter streets
Masticating and munching
unsuspecting society
sheltered in the shadows
you watch,
blood drip from toothless grins
As they siphon the essence
of humanity
A cadaverous finger
slides slyly on your shoulder
hair spiked on edge
goosebumps grip your skin
chills caress your spine
Pins and needles nettle your flesh
Slowly you swivel around
turning,
to
face..........
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