Best Gongs Poems
Multitudinous bells secern the tones
as may resound sharp bamboo xylophones.
Pulchritudinous bells have rhythmic ding,
others that linger with tedious ring.
Some little bells can echo a jingle
that surely bestow a Christmas tingle.
Quite many bells ting melodious chime
prompting our schedule's punctilious time.
A carillons' unique, harmonized bells
swing from gentleness to overtone swells.
Suspended bronze discs reach resonant gongs,
characterized by gregarious songs.
A bittersweet bell that distantly tolls
announces angelic release of souls.
I am the Garden
in me all things live
in me nothing is forgotten
here we enter
after being done with the Serpent
flamed or in darkness
when the Cross enters from below
we die, never to be reborn
Over naked breasts and belly
shadows dissolve in milk and manna
transmuted to rainbows of gold
in the body of the Magdalena
droplets dance fiery ice
where Power is gained through
entry into the Garden of the Heart
another way then becomes the forgotten
Nothing more entices, no fleshly desire lingers
wisdom is my key to the
Gate of Chrysanthemum Purity
where Patience is enthroned at the
fulcrum of two spheres
after we’ve climbed ladders of courage
listened to mournful entreaties, tolling gongs
shook hands with Keepers of Freedom
Our giving becomes our taking
Separation, the Union
the going, a returning
returning, our resting where the
Centre of Silvery Strands is Stillness
born of angels and white doves
as Truth cloaks, after paying
in sweat and tight purple silences
Few know how the Garden imbues
or how matrix minds dissolved or
what a tiny imprint is hidden in the
Palm of God-Goddess where the
Palm of Blood and Thorns
washed us from the shores of
ancient lands into the
moistness of I N F I N I T Y
The candle dance is fascinating with lighted candles on dishes
held in hands with bodies moving and curving to the musical wishes
Silat is another dance with martial art movements to the beat
of drums and gongs causing the dancer to feel the heat
Then the dance Datun Julud is telling a story as you elegantly glide
The most famous dance of all which is renowned worldwide
is the Lion Dance danced at the time of the Chinese New Year
bringing good fortune and resistance to evil is perfectly clear
Sun
is rising
as the gongs are struck;
birds
whistling for
the few that listen.
But trees are still filled with sap,
as the clouds are still billowy white;
skies
still delight,
as the bees still buzz.
From black, to purple, to blue -
the sun still shining like molten gold,
the trees still standing high above the creatures,
the creatures still lurking upon the earth; God's glory.
In the still of morning
life is still happening.
NOTE: In this shape poem, it's supposed to resemble a Japanese pagoda. There are 17 lines, with the syllable count going like this: 1, 3, 5, 1, 3, 5, 7, 9, 1, 3, 5, 7, 9, 11, 13, 6, 6 - with the last two lines requiring a rhyme. Come try it out and let me know - I'm curious to see what others can come up with.
Continued from Part 2
Some kid is spraying Clearasil,
He wants to make his pimples nil;
He paints his breath with chlorophyll;
I’m in the dream of someone ill
I’m fleeing but I feel a goose,
Behind me grins a guy named Bruce,
His velvet miniskirt is puce
Why can’t I even call a truce?
There’s Billy Graham on a binge
His holy words do make me cringe;
If nonsense were a door with fringe
Then Billy Graham would be the hinge
I hear some Wallace words unkind
How has our race so soon declined?
His thoughts should be in sheit enshrined;
Thank god my eyes are color blind
The Beverly Hillbillys pace the street
The crowds are lying at their feet
While Petticoat Junction joins the fleet
And Green Acres makes it complete
I guess I know that something’s wrong
I haven’t yet met old King Kong,
They say ‘he went back to Hong Kong
For that is where he do belong’
Now I’m pausing in the gloom
And watch the reruns they exhume
They still do stink, I smell the fume;
To run away I must resume
Here comes Mitch, he’s singing songs
While Lawrence Welk, he beats the gongs;
I need to buy some racing thongs,
Instead they sell me three Ding Dongs
Behind me now there grows a tree
While Howdy Doody bends his knee;
I haven’t lost my sanity,
I’m merely tuned to Channel Three
End
While midnight bats are gnawing gnats and feasting free unseen,
a toddler’s fed from garbage sheds an elegant cuisine.
Along the trails in distant dales a lonesome wolverine
feigns appetite on fogy nights and days of crystalline.
The circus gongs excite the throngs in nighttime Never Land –
they swarm to see the destiny of Freaks at their command,
while Acrobats step pitapat across the shifting sands
and Lady Fat adores her cat and oozes charm unplanned.
The Dwarfs in suits, so small and cute when marching with the band,
ask crimson Clowns with painted frowns, to lend a mutant hand,
while Tamers’ whips with withered tips, throughout the winter land,
lure minds entranced through hoops enhanced with flames of fires fanned.
White Elephants in big-top tents sell black tusk contraband
to Sycophants in regiments who overflow the stands,
but No One sees anomalies, and No One understands.
At night’s demise, the dither dies, the lonely Crowd disbands,
down dead-end streets the Horde retreats, their threadbare rags in strands,
and Janes and Joes reweave their woes, for thoughts of change are banned.
Continued
For me
and thee
Your peace
my piece
Play pong
not wrong
Just ask
not bask
When I
tell why
Love sows
and grows
Even
not then
Noise rocks
and sucks
Round gongs
ding dongs
So now
somehow
Live now
not gnaw
Pray once
and dance
Minstrel
swing well
Up north
set forth
Sleigh ride
not hide
Come back
with stack
And share
with care
Like dove
with love
Then sleep
so deep
Dream great
not hate
Again
no pain
When you
sinew
So go
let go
Love all
not small
Think twice
All nice.
Dear Home:
Please forgive my departure, silent and without warning, like the simmering
warmth of mountain springs that bubble, unexpected, in the pale tropic light of
morning. I am now straddling the equator, my toes naked against the earth,
tasting the sweetness of Indonesian soil, volcanic, fertile, undisturbed, and to my
soul delivering rebirth.
The air before dawn tastes of sweet-vanilla and dry nuts, at noon of ripe fruit with
caramelized sugar, and at dusk an exotic thickness of fresh leaves, moonlit
seas, and a richness of rare orchids all kiss in a soothing breeze.
By day I explore sculpted canyons and wet rice fields, secret Hindu temples, the
Mahayana Buddhist Borobudur, deserted for centuries; I discover a myriad of
mysteries the Island Mountains conceal.
At night Gamelan music is a spice that saturates the mind and your body exalts
the rhythm of double- headed lace drums, beating, beating, beating, beating
dramatic time. Gongs and bamboo flutes resonate, echo in the heart, the
passion of a culture preserving colour, tradition, sung poetry, and ancestral art.
My diet has been that of rice, fish, and lots of fresh fruit: berries, sprouts, sharp
tasting roots, similar to that of the Sun Sumatran Bear, stout, with sleek black fur,
resting in the trees eating the young tips of palm which he peels with care.
The sun is a golden disk that sits atop the Java mountains, painting light brown
skin, pearls of perspiration, with dirt and pollen burning in and out of yellow rays,
bringing dry heat to the excitement in the streets, where people infuse Life into
Life in extraordinary ways.
Finally in sleep, memories, spirits, emotion are lifted to the moon, cleansing the
temple of my soul with a delicate touch of porcelain white, beams like a melody
transforming the night, a surreal dream tangible to my skin, Indonesia swirls
around me – my desire strong to feel the strength of its pulse from within.
Ood
Is this sound
From not too far afield
Like mist
Between late dusk and early moonrise
Past quarter of six.
You might not know
It is something unforeseen:
Even as I collect the bad habits
I bear not to keep
Through my sobs, it is that screams.
Strange this is,
Of what I cannot name in the things I hear:
Noise of metals against metals, oft-rhymed sighs
And battle cries, each false note of guns and gongs I overheard: these be not
It.
Is it your footsteps
Of where seek?
Or the reek of its absence
Onto this shore of a bloodbath,
That, set my pulse to skip
Abeat?
Could it be my sweatdrops
Like hoofbeats
Pattering this tin shield
Time of the same?
Or, is it just my heart
Thumps against my ribcage
Which is almost,
But not quite, sharp enough to hurt
Whose beats howl
Nothing but your name?
Author's Note:
*gong - a large bronze disk, of Asian origin, having an upturned rim, that produces a
vibrant, hollow tone when struck, usually with a stick or hammer that has a padded head.
P.S The poem is inspired by the Battle of Maktan in 1521
between the Spanish conqueror: Ferdinand Magellan and the fierce Datu of Maktan:
Lapu Lapu.
I enter my primeval room lit with candles
from an ethnic sanctuary, and revisit
the mural of ancestral stories
where horses and men flock to graze
the oracles of generational chants
along a temple of ceremonies fed by rituals
now slowly molding in my mind…
the old folk confessions and communion
of decades cycled and recycled
by a rare history: parables marching back
to fables of peace -gongs and Asian warlike drums
claimed by time, claimed by my elder's rice wine,
that marrow against marrow
my flesh entwines among brave natives --
brothers of protection...mothers who nourish homes
as this ancestry cascades unto next heirs
of heirs of children like myself
bequeathing ruins and triumphs from
wise old souls, from our men’s legends…
and as the candle drifts,
my origin's history floods
these veins: I climb into life’s inner roots
and there my great forefather dwells
inside my blood... feisty, gentle, life-giving:
that somehow, I carry his heritage today,
I am his blood.
John Hamilton's Ancestral Roots
Submitted 6/10/2017
-
Montezuma Golden on earth he lived upon his land
Cortes his rival metalled horse and soldier Spanish grand
Aztec warrior a noble race to them a god should come
From far beyond their skeleton homes and on beyond their drum
Arrived with thirteen horses led, ship- wrights cooks and priests
Conversion of the savage race for gold to calm the beast
Convert or die a mottoes cry or fall before the sword
For Spain to bow for Phillip now and seek out your reward
They marched and welled volcanoes tell their horses bayed the throngs
Allies deide a growing tide a force with banging gongs
To Mexico go a causeway row an empire of the sun
Dream of gold and rape be told a new utopian
Hostage held Montezuma tell your treasures of the peaks
Deliver now a golden brow or life will leave your cheeks
More and more arrival gold in plaza decked festooned
But leave they say won’t go away disease takes over soon
A battle shout of wooden clouts by causeway boats do meet
Eventually send new boats amend an Aztec mass retreat
To citadel retreat to hell burn out each temple top
The fallen crown for Phillip down complete and burn the lot
A sorrow say a race away today their pride does seep
Christian bell before to tell a loss of millions weep
Cortes rebels and changes shell a death mask soon will show
Response a plea a shame you see as god meets him below
The clock strikes twelve
and it is time for her to go now,
I hold her for another hour;
she tells me she really has to be going,
then I say, "My love, don't leave me."
I am afraid of the dark
and I need your love
I need you;
both you and I need each other.
"I really must be going," she says.
I hear it in her voice,
she doesn't want to go either,
as a blooming rose says to wintertime,
I hold her hand and I kiss her soft lips.
She is tense,
but she loves, and she loves good.
My dear, one more hour that is all I ask;
do that for me, if you truly love me.
(Times ticks and tocks, as the old grandfather clock gongs-
-My love another hour please,
leave with me,
go with me,
to the garden of beauty and love with me-
Come now my love, another hour we spend together,
I cannot help myself, but hold you closer and closer to my heart,
one more hour,
let me crawl in your heart and warm your soul,
and watch a movie in your mind,
a sweet romantic movie- no popcorn or soda- for I wouldn't want to dirty your mind,
and we shall go together,
and love together simultaneously, to the ticking of the old grandfather clock.
Only an hour more my dear- my love an hour more is all I need.
.2.16.2014.
MOST BEAUTIFUL LOVE
Barren rice fields, hungry heart; heels cracking dry ¬ thirsty soul part.
Face awaiting, every season, knotted aching old ~ new reasons...
Love! Oh Love! Written by God, crawl on us strengthen our grit.
Clanging cymbals, sounding gongs; monotone symbols, forgotten songs.
Magnetic face, probing the depths, soft gem breadth glorious grace.
Love, darling, you make me sing, awaking warm jolly spring!
Painter's brush ~ poetess deep crush; sight to blind ¬ mind to share... care?
I'll try to hop, heights of the hills, conquering fears as melting chill...
Nights are sunny, its love my sweet, 'cause of you always anew!
Diamonds flair, light on wrong; purity fair err, patience miles long.
old gnarled skin, weakening bones, brittle gray hair failing youthful tone. . .
Dear honey, you did atone, staying with me until the end.
Cinderella shoe¬ oceanic blue; dreams do come true, I love you.
Ice and fire, heaven and hell, collapsing match try to fight well...
Baby love, innocence smell, must I hasten or calmly hold?
(c) Olive Eloisa
4:04pm
July 08, 2014
CONTEST NAME: THE MOST BEAUTIFUL
SPONSOR: DEBBIE GUZZI
4th place, to God be the greatest glory..:)
Inspired by the Biblical Verse: I Corinthians 13
As soon as Odey arrived,
The villagers greeted in roar
Like the verdicts of Lions.
He was lifted high and
Gongs gave their salutations,
For Odey, the great salt
Discoverer has arrived.
Wrestlers pay allegiance
By displaying black skills,
He walked shoulder high
And his praises were lifted high.
Women swung their backyards,
Making the men's mouth water,
For the great hunter has arrived.
Jubilation is sure, all anger cured.
Gun powder entered the air to
Inform the sky of the black discoverer,
The seed of Yala*.
Children orchestrating black rhythm
And rhyme, happy to see the salts.
Welcome Odey, welcome black hero,
For thou art a true meaning of an African sunset....
===========================
Yala* is my mother's tribal dialect.
Menaced by a triumphant chanting of lament
Entrancing the soul of Hades’ kin
Missed eruptions of the sensory nerves
Onomatopoeic of hollow gongs
Resonating, maimed through the indescribable facets of
Your forgotten youth.
Adjudged 3rd Place in Black Eyed Susan's Acrostic Contest
© 07-31-2012