Best Jingled Poems
‘Twas the night before Christmas
Mrs. Claus demanded a divorce.
Santa was being promiscuous
with older naughty girls, of course.
All those ho ho ho’s liked his package,
for he always enjoyed being on top.
He used his stamina to his advantage,
and his jingle bells just wouldn’t stop!
Mrs. Claus was fed up with his lust
for other women he was desiring.
No more could Santa ever trust
those tattle tale elves he was hiring!
*
It was time to leave on his sleigh, /\
Rudolph’s nose was red with glee- / o \
For Christmas was really on its way, / O \
though Mrs. Claus didn’t agree. / O o \
/o O o \
She wanted him to pay for his sins, / o O \
maybe get stuck in a chimney flue- / O o O \
Making fun of his belly she grins, /_o___o__O\
hoping he lands in Timbuktu! |||
|||
The night ended and Santa was tired, |||
it was rough being in Atlanta.
That was the year that he retired…
three ho's were enough for Santa!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Date - 12.5.19
'Twas the Night Before Christmas Contest
Sponsor - Joseph May
2nd Place
Categories:
jingled, christmas, humor,
Form:
Rhyme
Oh, how I loved my little teddy bear
although I don’t recall from whom he came
or when I first laid eyes on him or where;
I only know I chose for him his name.
Yes, Pinky Winky’s name was like my own,
a playful silly nickname “Andy Pandy,”
and also in his ear a bell was sewn;
I jingled him and thought he was quite dandy.
Everywhere with me went Pinky Winky
until he met sad fate with one cruel splash.
He fell into the toilet and got stinky.
I wailed when Mother threw him in the trash.
Alas! The pink imposter in his place
no jingling made nor had dear “Winky’s” face.
Categories:
jingled, childhood, funny,
Form:
Sonnet
From Wisdom Born, Decades Fighting Fate's Cursed Hand
In youth, a young lad roars for much needed applause
in old age, wisely remains silent with just cause,
seeing the end near, some shed bitterest of tears
thinking such splashing supplications, angels hear;
whereas this old, callous world neither sees nor cares
what sorrow one displays or how much heart one shares
for savage the measure world uses to reward
dying lover or a talented, humble bard.
On pages offering up their softest virgin whites
are invisible castles beyond mortal sights,
each one begging for its wailing walls to withstand
massive cannon shots or a victor's crushing hand!
Poets, be they young or old, should a full pen hold true
to life, as spilling of ink- its treasures accrues!
Robert J. Lindley, 1-01-2020
Sonnet, ( Why All We Think We See, May Be An Illusion )
( So Spoke The Raven, After Master Poe Demanded Silence )
Syllables Per Line:0 12 12 12 12 12 12 12 12 0 12 12 12 12 0 12 12
Total # Syllables::168
Total # Words:::::120
Note:
Muse demanded I write this second poem on this first day
and it be dark. Raven agreed and Master Poe abstained.
Paper sang a blackened tune and pen danced a raging jig
as evil clouds rumbled while gathering in the far west
echoes drifted through broken window, and Hades jingled
a billion unbreakable chains. A older and wiser poet yielded
to avoid the usual headaches and aching pains!
Categories:
jingled, art, creation, dark, poetry,
Form:
Sonnet
Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde
Jovial Dr Jekyll played for juvenile Justice
a just jaspered journey
jokingly jumped a joyride
to juicy jukebox jabbering
in jackal jackboots
from nearby jungle
Dr Jekyll clasped a jackknife eating
jambalaya to justify a
juggled juxtapositional
jurisdiction jamming
as jugular vein jingled jewels
joyfully jauntily jaywalking
to a jay named Jim Jolly !
Onward he jumped to a
Jungian junction
Jupiter jocund watching his
journeying joints
journalese seemed a jibe jig
but neither Jewess, Jesuit
or jeweller jiggled this job
So he jerked his jess
like a jape for Japan
Jejuning onto January for the
next jangle of jasmine
No jellyfish was Dr Jekyll in Jordanian jerkin
though sometimes Mr Hyde
with jeroboam swirling alongside !
Categories:
jingled, 12th grade, extended metaphor,
Form:
Alliteration
The sun receded quietly on a relaxing siesta, as
Calm clouds of the mid-afternoon smiled henced,
The beat of the drums provideth dancing rhythm
As she moved in pure elegance with harmony, to
A style of danced buoyantly bouncing in melody.
Crafted beadworks accented her warmth charm,
Under her delicately brown-jeweled moccasins
The grass provideth such a natural cushion,
As Angular unique flexings of her gentle knees
Resonated like an eagle’s stealthy landing
Quietly in its nests with an eye on a nice prize.
She tingled as the sound of bells jingled
Sending pure melodic rhythm to ears—many!
Whilst she turned in an elegantly slow motion
Fringes from her shawl swayed air of warmth.
The balls of her feet moved in slight degrees as
Her heels touched Mother Earth softly in harmony,
She smiled as the judges watched intently. Like
A graceful dove she floated with precision—uniquely!
Her buckskin regalia trimmings—so singed softly!
As she danced in the sunset evening's twilight;
She created an energetic circle of life’s fire
Yet, never raised her ceremonial feathered fan,
Whilst in clear focus emerged from the dance
Regal styles of proud cultural Native heritage
A contrastingly exquisite fine female figure
Arousing sights in the soft evening’s twilight,
Dispelling the uncertainly to even look twice,
Elegantly noble and much marvelously nice:
She was naturally—First Woman!
~~~~~~~~~**********~~*~~~~~~~~~
Written During Oneida Nation Annual 2010
Independence Weekend Pow-wow Celebration
Host Drummers – Bear Creek
Oneida, Wisconsin, Bordering Green Bay
~~~~~~~~~**~~*********~~~~~~~~~
Won Honorable Mentioned Prize
Images Contest
Sponsored by Frank Herrera
7/15/10
~~~~~~~~~**~~*********~~~~~~~~~
Categories:
jingled, imagination, inspirational, life, music,
Form:
Lyric
GRANDDAD’S Homemade BEAN SOUP
Bean soup was served ‘cause Granddad was in town.
Yes, every grown up in the neighborhood.
Was glad when Granddad’s boat was homeward bound.
His homecoming was grand, for he was good.
If bells on grandma’s door knob jingled sound,
Or someone made the knocker tap on wood.
He quickly would wake up though sleep he should.
Bean soup was served ‘cause Granddad was in town.
The neighbor folks came calling, gathered ‘round,
And when they did, my granddad understood.
That every ear would hear his tales, spellbound—
Yes, every grown up in the neighborhood.
His stories, games and tricks blessed my childhood.
Fun memories within my heart abound.
And every one that on his shared path stood,
Was glad when Granddad’s boat was homeward bound.
When he was near, I wore an invisible crown.
That he loved me, I clearly understood.
Such love cannot be measured by the pound,
His homecoming was grand, for he was good.
I dream that he, with heaven’s love is bound.
Walking with God, talking…life, understood.
Smiling God says I’m glad you’re back in town.
The angels now understand why, as they should
Bean soup was served.
Dedicated to My Granddad, David Elliott ("Ellie") Brandt Sr.
Who made my life magical even from a distance!
© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
March 13, 2010
Poetic form: Rondeau Redouble’
Categories:
jingled, family, food, loveboat, love,
Form:
Rondeau Redouble
When Father Christmas called
By Stanley Russell Harris
The new mad author
Christmas day was so such fun, especially when I was young.
I tried to stay awake all night, the one called Christmas Eve that’s right.
My eyes grew heavy, finally they closed, and I fell asleep, and off did doze.
Did I dream Father Christmas called, I saw no one as not awake of course.
When I woke well, what did I see? Father Christmas left gift books to read.
And toys with which to play, what fun I had on Christmas day.
As I grew up and had a daughter of my own. I said, if she did not sleep.
Father Christmas might miss our home, would she sleep one year? Oh, no, no.
I went outside and jingled a bell, then went back in and did tell.
If she had heard Rudolph’s bell, she said yes, so I did tell.
Quickly now pretend to sleep as soon Father Christmas will at you peep.
His magic dust will hide him from you and if you are awake, he will not leave presents it’s true.
Quickly she closed both her eyes, and soon was really fast asleep.
I’m telling no lies and I finally went to bed to rest my head.
Soon I was also fast asleep, in the morning I heard a scream.
Daddy, Mummy, Father Christmas has been, it was only 4 AM. what a joyous scene!
So Christmas morning started early, it still does, you know.
But I must not be very good, as Father Christmas here does not show.
One year soon I will be good, Father Christmas will call as he should.
I mean, I’m only seventy-three, so why oh why does he forget me.
I leave him milk and a mince pie, carrots for his reindeer too do I.
And in the morning, they’re still there, and stocking I hang is oh so bare.
So that's all my Christmas days are now and really it is not fair.
I never asked for anything special, as we were poor you know.
So what ever Father Christmas left, we wrote a thank you note did so.
Now I am old and still poor you know.
Perhaps that why Father Christmas passes by.
As others have less than me and are younger too I cannot lie.
I will still leave him a drink and Rudolf a carrot too.
Just in case one year he calls on me once more its true.
Categories:
jingled, christmas,
Form:
Exracted from Gerald Nforche's Epic, The Slave's Tale
-Duala, RIOS DOS CAMEROES, 1787-
One fine morning, when love birds flew and sang
And the valleys with every gaiety rang,
The sun just setting from a misty east
We had visitors from the waters’ midst.
Our fishermen were out spreading their nets
Though broken, could entangle fish’s legs
When they saw at the horizon, approaching
A large house, like none ever seen, smoking.
Smoke exited from large horizontal
Mouths, like some fire within wood and metal.
Very huge flapping leaves hung on large ropes
Made us shiver, staggered with every lope.
And as the large house ebesse approached
Our fine archers were ready for the broach:-
Scouts scanned from the nearest hill and informed
The djanewa for any quick reform.
Village criers had announced the fall ’f war
Within which those who could lift arms no more,
Women and children wide-eyed with fear
Were evacuated to our secret lair.
And in the waters deep ebesse stopped
Emitting a loud cry: come watch us hop
Our blood about to clot from our within:-
Wood and metal kicking, crying in the wind.
Many canoes splashed into the waters
And creatures with sacks fell in from ladders
And rowed towards us, towards our very shores.
We kept the watch, canoes following a course.
Minutes soon, at the very shores they came
We watching baffled, belligerent lame.
Fifteen they were, hairy, brown and long nosed
Not unlike pale pigs in the valleys noosed.
Large brown bowls perched on their massive heads,
Noted by us as they poured out in herds
From their dancing canoes. Pipes hung from mouths
As tobacco was devoured and feet jingled loud.
And we understood they were some traders:-
We had heard their chilling news from gossipers
Who’d spoken of the magic of these men
Who had come by wind, traded and returned.
And from the gossip that ran a-wild,
We‘d gathered the name made for them from sight:
They looked burnt, like they were once like us
We called them mokala for we were at a loss.
With the prodigious group were our brothers:
We shared the same skin, they were no rioters
Save they spoke with mokala like mutineers:-
We watching, bemused straining with all ears.
A troop marched forward expressing might
Mokala watching unsettled, wide-eyed
Befuddlement on their very black lips:
Pity spelled in their eyes, daggers on their hips.
Categories:
jingled, abuse, africa, anger, betrayal,
Form:
Narrative
A long-standing landmark that I often visited as a tyke,
Was Bert's Country Store just a ways up Dalton Pike.
Dalton could be missed if your eyes you'd briefly close.
The population at that crossroads "town" was thirty or so, I suppose.
The inviting porch had some benches where loafers hung around.
To enter the store you stepped over Bert's snoozing hound.
Winter days you'd find the rabble huddled 'round the stove,
Where discussions of crops, good whiskey and women throve!
An old cowbell jingled upon opening the sagging screen door.
Once inside you trod upon a squeaky, bare, wooden floor.
'Twas a wonder that Bert could find anything 'midst all the clutter,
But in a trice he'd find anything for which you would utter!
Bert had no tolerance for frills or the latest fancy decor.
You'd risk tripping over barrels and rope coiled upon the floor.
The sagging shelves were stocked with canned goods and lanterns,
Wheels of cheese, muskrat traps and the latest sewing patterns.
He sometimes sold hot dogs and sodas under the counter,
As long as the county health officials he didn't encounter!
The Hoosier "town" of Dalton ain't listed on the maps as heretofore,
And, alas, Bert nor his old country store exist there anymore.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Categories:
jingled, nostalgiaold, old,
Form:
Rhyme
Tonight every man was quiet
As they watched her cross the floor
No man spoke a word
As she tossed her hat beside the door
Her silver handles shined
Strapped to the legs of her faded jeans
Her shiny spurs jingled
As she stepped to the bar to down a whiskey
Tonight every pain and heartbreak
Was showing there in her eyes
They all watched her fingers
As they tapped the iron strapped to her side
Tonight they feared their lives
As they watched this broken hearted cowgirl
And every man jumped
When she slammed her glass down on the bar
She was a Texas cowgirl
A lady with a broken heart
Tonight she was out to get
Every man that broke her heart
Abused and used by cowboys
With no love inside their hearts
She was a Texas cowgirl
A lady with a broken heart
She wiped a tear from her eye
As she yelled Jed I'm calling you out
Every man watched
As Jed jumped to his feet then hit the floor
She took a bullet from Billy
As she fell back against the bar
Then Billy's life came to an end
As a bullet went deep into his chest
She was a Texas cowgirl
A lady with a broken heart
Tonight she was out to get
Every man that broke her heart
Abused and used by cowboys
With no love inside their hearts
She was a Texas cowgirl
A lady with a broken heart
Categories:
jingled, cowboy-western, song-love,
Form:
Lyric
well, something
happen
that evening
on the
back porch
along the
Mississippi River
the cherry wood
chimes jingled
in unison
playing an
on old
spiritual Tune
called,
"Wade In the Water"
the cherry wood
keep singing
along
Categories:
jingled, imagination,
Form:
Free verse
Our countryside road was
Festooned with orange heaps
Escorting us to be the grand orange fair
The gypsy dancers in orange flares
Jingled tambourines with orange ribbons
The bloated sun like an optimised orange
Spread its golden tissued canopy
Lighting up the already lit hearts
I let the frozen orange bar ice stick
Drip on my parched lips
Tasting of the rich orange juice
The mandarin jams and marmalades
Tasted of the love of rich harvested homes
The seasonal fair trebled my fair mood
As I stocked the orange flavoured
Cakes and soufflés for the arrival
Of my children for their spring holidays
With a fluffed heart I feasted on the bucketed orange blossoms
Brandishing the citrine air plumaged with orange balloons
( Posted On March 5, 2016 )
July 2, 2016
For Broken Wings
Contest- Any Poem You Ever Wrote NOT For A Contest
Categories:
jingled, beauty, dance, farm, flower,
Form:
Free verse
It’s some place that used to be
Where all things would fall twixt—
A beat, battered, broken shell
Off old Route 66.
He rode a Silverado
That was a dusty gold,
His clothes were worn and ragged—
Their style was odd and old.
They watched him as he walked in
To Wally’s Waffle Place—
With silver spurs that jingled,
A hat that hid his face.
He strolled up to the counter
And placed two gold coins there—
“I’ll take a big heap,” he said,
“Of yer fine dinin’ fare.”
Well, he sat down on a stool—
Pulled makin’s from his vest—
“No smokin’!” growled the waitress,
“This here ain’t the Old West!”
Well, the stranger tipped back what
Looked like a cowboy hat
And then slowly rolled his smoke
And grinned just like a cat.
“I don’t mean no disrespect,
But this here’s open range—
Though I must of wandered off,
‘Cause you folks sure is strange.
“See, I had to leave my hawse
When he done pulled up lame—
Then found that hawseless carriage—
Got me here all the same.”
It’s some place that used to be
Where all things would fall twixt—
A beat, battered, broken shell
Off old Route 66.
“Seems some things has changed ‘round here—
They caught the James Gang, yet?
And how ‘bout Wild Bill Hickok?
He’s still real fast, I bet!
“And what ya hear of Custer
And all of his good friends?
Heard he’s clearin’ our country
Of all the Indians!
“Reckon I’m out of touch some—
Been ridin’ ‘round so long—
It feels like forever
And that now I don’t belong.”
The waitress stared – told the cook
To dial up 911—
She knew something was not right
With this old cowboy son.
“Now, we don’t want no trouble,”
She stated in soft words—
“But all I want is my grub,
‘Fore I rides to the herd.”
“Say, mister – you all right?” that
Waitress asked all concerned,
But then she saw his six gun—
“Well, now I’ll be goll-derned!”
Then that cowboy disappeared—
The Silverado gone—
With tire tracks toward the desert,
Lost in the purple dawn.
And so all the legends go—
But these are just the facts:
They say they found that old truck,
Then just a horse’s tracks.
So when you go to Wally’s—
If that’s what you must do—
You’ll find a deserted shack
Closed in 1992.
It’s some place that used to be
Where all things would fall twixt—
A beat, battered, broken shell
Off old Route 66.
Categories:
jingled, confusion, cowboy-western, history, imagination,
Form:
Cowboy Poetry
Springtime, you always arrive so gently,
as high school proms bring tears of friends
who know they must soon part.
I will try not to weep of fifty-six years ago,
as I see the vision of my siblings,
and I leap through sprinklers bright
with rainbows,
I promise, Spring,
I won't cry.
Spring sonata of the bird's songs,
as I recall the natural wall of hydrangea
blossoms of mint and powder blue in
our backyard.
Royal young roses so blushed on
the white trellis.
The Good Humor truck jingled down
the street.
Neighbor's children waved large wands
with giant iridescent bubbles floating
aloft to the envy of the cumulus clouds.
Oh, springtide, you're our lively maiden
with a honeysuckle crown.
The presence of your rising moon monarch
in the eve casting her silver cherish on
weeping willows.
You sail through the ages,
but remain a debutante emerging from
the gray of winter's waning.
I promised springtime, I wouldn't cry,
but my tears are healing.
I dreamily walk by the modest little
home on the sidewalk,
the beloved place,
the streets of my youth,
spring sonata of my heart's song.
I'm in no need of my walker-
as I'm a child again. ~
Categories:
jingled, 7th grade, 8th grade,
Form:
Free verse
Last cuddling, she tired to besiege the intense in vain,
Caged parrot still repeating his hobby-horse of eternal matrimony,
Sealed paper, journey of no timing, oh! King you bereaved and unleashed acrimony,
Prickled his sword, stared beyond her eye balls, full of anxious veins exhibiting pain.
Boundary end, where wind sweep sand, she bade farewell,
Simmered, he turned and smiled, I will be back,
Fate unravelled itself, the gods must be on the wrong tack,
Wait I must, as far aging left reasonable days as well.
Years past, the wind whizzed west without echoes of victory or loss,
Lonely, the porch knows, as a wilful face came buzzing around,
Tempting, she must flee, but pale skin no friend of her, his return she toss,
Went away raptured, few days, the church bell jingled a merry sound.
Captured in war and released, surfaced he on the wedding day,
Patience must not be obsess with time, on her finger another ring lay.
Categories:
jingled, adventure, hope, time, visionary,
Form:
Sonnet