Best Jingling Poems
With a fresh cup of coffee, I stepped outside to have a peek.
It was another peaceful morning, in the valley around Soup Creek.
I caught the glint of a Winchester, a model ninety-four.
It was across the lap of Jenna, just outside the saloon door.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Jan sneaking to the loo.
I could hear her spurs were jingling as she went to take a poo.
In the saloon I heard some laughter, it was Milt just having fun.
At a table dealing stud, a gamblers game is never done.
At the other end of the street, there stood Tania with watchful eyes.
With a pistol on each hip, she was ready for any surprise.
Down by the livery stable was a Texas ranger by the name of Dave.
He was looking for our mayor, who he thought was digging a grave.
There was a rumor of riders coming, and the Creek might be in a bind.
He searched both high and low, but sir Tom he could not find.
Ten miles south of town, with graves dug all around.
Tom had stopped these riders and saved our hallowed ground.
Start Sleuthing Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Natasha L Scragg
8/21/22
Categories:
jingling, community,
Form:
Rhyme
Music is an undying
art of soul ~
an abstract eden, where,
euphonious unicorns
glide in strawberry sonatas,
amplifying rhapsody in
ballads of flight,
when fuchsia feathers
tease those
jingling breezes,
infusing breaths
in every lifeless aroma;
where I can soar
beyond the
brushstrokes
of symphonies that
planktons sing to me,
in the requiems of
forsaken pearls,
crooning with
silenced shimmers
beneath wavy blues.
Maybe,
I'm a songwriter
without words,
and my electric fingers
trace the tunes
of serene strings,
when guitars weave
a sonorous guilt
midst ruby runes
of regrets.
I wish to keep
swinging in a
cosmic cadence,
where celestial notes
choreograph
themselves in the
moonwalking
mellifluence of
lunar legacies.
I gossip with
neon nightingales,
laced with neutrinos
and compel them
to chant those
healing incantations
of love and glory,
like the forlorn
princess - Rapunzel,
desiring to feel
the glow of
familiar lanterns,
winged with
hazy syncs of
unsung yesteryears.
I wonder if,
I'm not meant
to compose
crystal canticles
in a Disney duet,
for, I believe,
I'm a soul searcher
in the flesh of
a soloist, concocting
an elixir of my
existence through
cinnamon anthems
of mystical
moonrises, as
they softly unfold,
a million
unheard tempos,
within tranquil
memoirs.
I'm the 'maiden of music'
resting as a floret on
every sepal,
yearning to become
a unique acapella
of nature,
where empathy
has an ethereal
dialect of
nurturing spirits
and tinkles
of magical waterfalls
whisper in
gentle lachrymose lulls
of our ambrosial Mother.
When the harmony
of my voice,
kisses those
ivory keys of
the heart-shaped
piano, they
echo a tipsy secret
in my sunset skin,
making me
believe ~
"I'm everywhere
in the essence,
yet nowhere
to be found...",
like the sweet
scents of
hummingbirds,
smiling behind
that first dusky star.
"In each husky hallelujah
of ribboned halts and replays,
life is a song ~
where every lyric,
phrases an ember of end,
and when passionate heartbeats
shall knit sombre medleys,
I will hum in the last 'chef-d'oeuvre'... "
Categories:
jingling, art, deep, life, meaningful,
Form:
Free verse
'Twas the twilight of the year
a twinkling tiara.
December 31st, digits dancing dunes
in the Sahara.
One, two, three, one, two, three,
it's a prance.
A numerical Irish step dance
given a whimsical chance.
In the calendar's corners,
a magical mystery unfurls.
As the date spins and swirls
like a jester's jingling twirls.
One, two, three, one, two, three,
in a line.
A date so divine,
it deserves its own shrine
so fine!
But wait, what's this? A satirical twist!
The date's just a number
it doesn't exist!
One, two, three, one, two, three,
what's the fuss?
Wait… all dates are human-
created
YES, by us!
The numbers are shocked
feeling quite superfluous.
In the grand scheme of things
oh so ridiculous!
So here's to the New Year
let's raise a toast.
To the date that we've come
to boast the most.
With champagne that sparkles
and tastes like the sun.
2023 is yet undone
run from the old
to the new one,
run, run, run!
In the canon of the digits
a lesson we see.
Time is a construct
as fluid as the sea.
So let's celebrate the moments
both big and small.
For, in the end
they're the most
precious of all.
Categories:
jingling, celebration, hilarious, holiday, humor,
Form:
Lyric
Joy of Christmas tolls hooray, buoying elation of Santa’s sleigh
As celebrating the birth of almighty sacred church bells ring
Reverberating in melodic music ~ chiming, jingling merry way
Halls of happiness aptly display, glittering décor of golden inlay
Where in rhythms of pious hymns carolers gaily dance and sing
Joy of Christmas tolls hooray, buoying elation of Santa’s sleigh
Around tree’s ornamental arrays children sway, pry, and play
While echoing from heartbeats of glory pulses of prayers ding
Reverberating in melodic music ~ chiming, jingling merry way
Moonlit stars scintillate glaze of silent night’s cheerful-- yay!
Streaming themes of angelic euphony, praising heavenly king
Joy of Christmas tolls hooray, buoying elation of Santa’s sleigh
Boughs of green holly, donning red berries, venerate holy day
Conferring glee in blessings of divinity, as spiritual rhythms swing
Reverberating in melodic music ~ chiming, jingling merry way
Invoking eternity in wreaths of flowers devotees earnestly pray
As faithful cling to missives of peace the beloved angels bring
Joy of Christmas tolls hooray, buoying elation of Santa’s sleigh
Reverberating in melodic music ~ chiming, jingling merry way
December 26, 2020
Poem of the day on December 27, 2020
Placed 1st: Deck the halls poetry contest by Joseph May
Categories:
jingling, celebration, christmas,
Form:
Villanelle
(Inspired by dance steps from a belly dancing class I once took!)
She rolls her pretty head from side to side
while, raised above her face, are slim curved arms.
Brief pose. . . . She’s readied to expose her charms.
Wrists twist, and serpentine, arms downward glide.
Her undulating silk-draped hips move round.
She churns them slowly, flashing bright green eyes;
then minces “Camel Walk” to tantalize
as ankle bracelets make a tinkling sound.
With bills in hand, men beckon with a glance.
She shimmies, jingling toward them in dim light;
then spins and thrusts her pelvis right, left, right.
Seduction of delight - her belly dance.
For Barbara Gorelick's "May I Have This Dance?" Contest
Categories:
jingling, art
Form:
Enclosed Rhyme
Mister Joe, poet, jangles loose change in his pocket,
Jogging memories and garnering thoughts as he walks.
For Mr. Joe's brain washes, tumbles and dries,
his gems of thoughts in hourly cycles, with riddles, jingles and rhymes.
Each wash-up, extracted, pegged, and hung up to dry,
To taunt and flap jangles for him, his readers and strangers near by.
Mister Joe's charm icons are processed, mulled over, distilled and wrung out for meaning within.
His jangles find meaning in bumps on smooth paper, read as Braille.
His jangles arise from stones skipped over calm smooth waters,
yielding meaning in the creases and ripples created.
His jangles rattle his sleep awake each night, with sky rockets of images and flashes bursting.
His jangles are a empowering, rewarding, revealing, enlightening,
and sometimes troubling and haunting, but can't be undone.
His jangles are his rhyme and reason, his friend and confidant, his mater and aether
His jangles are really what he's all about as a poet,
as a miner and peddler of ideas, and as a prophet and revealer.
Mister Joe's charms jangles the minds of his readers
His words cast nets to trawl up memories and concepts,
lured within the reader's mind with word play and twists.
Seas of dreams and memories are netted, prodded and poked
To yield twinkles, sparkles, hums, grunts, and nods of appreciation and delight.
His jangles finding meaning and echoes with links and associations, never before conceived nor considered.
Mister Joe's catch of memories once jangled, are returned to reader with care
Embellished and enthralled by meaning, relevance, word play and twists.
The reader now has new jangles to add to charm bracelet on wrist, or to jingle with loose change in pocket.
Mister Joe, the poet, and his reader, now walk and dance with jangles, jingling echoes within.
Categories:
jingling, poetry, poets,
Form:
Free verse
Chandelier earrings dangling
Golden bangles jingling
Thick long raven hair
Twisted and pinned in swirls
With ornate gold embellishment
Luxuriously wrapped
In silk and brocade
Lavish lengths
Of rich flamboyant colors
Parading effortlessly
Their exotic saris
Swaying in graceful rhythm
Gliding by on air
In exquisite hues
And charms of opulence
Published in my 24-page photo/anthology ~NAMASTE~ 2020
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on June 17, 2019 for contest YOUR CHOICE (10) IMAGIST STYLE sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 3RD
Originally posted on May 7, 2019
Categories:
jingling, beautiful, color, women,
Form:
Free verse
In times gone by, in a land of dreams,
Where childhood thrived with laughter and gleams,
A story unfolded, enchanting and true,
Of mirthful times and dreams that grew.
In a quaint little town, where joy ran rife,
There stood an ice cream truck, full of life.
With its jingling tune and colorful display,
It brought smiles and laughter every day.
Children flocked to its magical sight,
Their dreams bear flight, day and night.
With sticky fingers and faces beaming,
They tasted flavors, delicious and gleaming.
Vanilla, chocolate, strawberry delight,
Each scoop is a memory, pure and bright.
In that little town, under the summer sun,
The ice cream truck was where the fun had begun
From morning till dusk, they would gather around,
In eager anticipation of the sweetest sound.
The tinkling melody that filled the air,
Drawing them closer, without a care.
The children would form a queue, their eyes wide,
As the ice cream truck parked by the roadside.
They'd count their coins, their pockets emptied,
Hoping to indulge in the flavors they craved.
The ice cream man, with a smile so bright,
Served up scoops with all his might.
He knew each child's favorite treat,
And made sure their dreams were complete
With laughter and giggles, they'd savor each bite,
Their taste buds danced in sheer delight.
The ice cream truck became their halcyon place,
A sanctuary of joy, a sweet space.
And as the years passed, and childhood flew by,
A symbol of innocence and a carefree day,
Ice cream truck remained a cherished reminiscence
Where dreams were nurtured in the sweet existence.
Story Poem
Categories:
jingling, analogy, childhood,
Form:
Narrative
When you vowed your love, like a fairy, forever,
And fluttered about, like, possessed by new heaven,
I rolled my loneliness like a quilt in cover.
And got fermented by you like flour by leaven...
Your smile was as though the constellation twinkling,
For your love, I thought, I will take many a birth,
Your gestures went beyond all poetic jingling;
To make you immortal I'd kill the very death...
Why darling, soon, your bejeweled image got changed?
Where had your smile-beams found their hidden hiding place?
Your milky mind like an ocean of poison churned!
Slowly, forever, gloom shadowed your lovely face!
Does the sea, yet, stop the wavered wave coming home?
I'll wait for you, though you love, like a swift, long roam.
10 August 2021
Categories:
jingling, life, longing, love,
Form:
Sonnet
Allow altruistic artistry among ailing american adversaries.
Bartering begins before begging beasts break brothers.
Capture calamity controlling catastrophe calming castration.
Dedicate decisions directed down dreary deaf disillusionment.
Eradicate equality earning efficient energetic epiphany.
Follow fallen foreigners forgetting faithful flight from fluid folly.
Gasping greatness growing grapes given golden goodness.
Halt hollow hearts hearing helpless happiness.
Imagine impurity imitating indestructible ice inflicting impotent illness.
Justify jolly jerusalem jingling janitors joining january’s jewelry.
Kill kindergarten kings kicking kindly kindred kilts.
Lament likeable links lingering lowly light like lavender letters.
Mount monetary moments melting motherly marshal monuments.
Negate nightly notions noticing nurtured naughty nakedness.
Open oblivious obligation of odd operative oceans.
Propagate proposed premonitions producing proud pirate papas.
Quiet quilted questions quickly quoting quaint qualm quandary.
Remember righteous royalty returning rotten remnant rage.
Skip silent sulking surrounding super salty sounds squeezing sanity.
Teach talented tearful tyrants total trivial topics training treason.
Utter utopian universality upon united unitarian usurpers.
Violate vermin validity valuing victorious vomiting virgin volunteers.
Wash wandering women wondering whether western whiteness welcomes war.
X-ray xeric xenophobic xylem-made xebec.
Yearn yellow yearlings yelling yonder yuletide yachtsmen.
Zebra.
Categories:
jingling, parody, people, social, kindergarten,
Form:
ABC
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:
jingling, childhood, funny,
Form:
Sonnet
I stood on the balcony one night,
The land was bathed in luminous light,
The air was filled with winter's chill,
Frost had covered the window sill.
I stared into the sky above,
My heart had swelled full of love,
The galaxy glowed with bright stars,
Lights so heavenly, from afar.
The night shone bright on every hill,
Yet, everything was quiet and still,
Through the valley no wind did blow,
The little village blanketed in snow.
What joy the Yule is going to bring,
At the break of dawn, the town will sing,
Making this, one eve to remember,
On one magical night of December.
But, in this fantasy land it is late,
And this seasonable panorama is great,
I want to take this long walk alone,
Through unchanging scenery, I wander from home.
I'll take a candle to light my way,
Upon the ice, I could walk until day,
I made it up a deep, glittering bank,
In the glistening snowflakes, my feet sank.
A million diamonds now covered the land,
I pulled my mittens on, over my hands,
The snow could never melt in this cold,
The Northern degrees of stories once told.
I will enjoy the winter as in days of old,
The still photographs of the past unfold,
A thermometer shows the drop of degrees,
The thaw of the snow I hope not to see.
Mirrored is my reflection along the river,
Quartz crystals of ice, makes me shiver,
Icicles hang from a cabin, near the woods,
Silently, wolves and elk in the forest, stood.
Reindeer and rabbits run through the snow,
A memorable sight in the lovely moon's glow,
An owl calls out from high in a tree,
Imagine all this, as a keepsake to see.
Tomorrow the snow will make the children sing,
To the hills, a toboggan they will bring,
Soon, we will hear his sleigh bells ring,
And, all the Christmas bells will be jingling!
Written by : Kelly Deschler
For Leonora Galinta's contest - Christmas Epic
Categories:
jingling, beauty, christmas, night, snow,
Form:
Epic
Hell breaks loose through the trusting door
Whining its splintering, wooden hinges
Claws wrapping onto the arches beyond
Gnarled feet pressed on the threshold
Lower limbs jingling with sparky anklets
Ready to catapult and kick with spitting mouth
To shove its shine like a worthy prick
It was time for her daily purges
Peace is slapped about in her fickle hands and made ragged
Turmoil in her pedicured toes erodes the smoothed surfaces
Of the fashions’ must, into dusty rust of sick disgust
Her coral lips curve in delight
At the sight of confused and crazy creatures
Staring numbly at her hell-bent sight
She is always laughing, snarling or lying low
Waiting for the climatic blow
Bottom dwelling, blush smearer
Eyeliner runner, nail-biting binger
Her lies tease and her eyes see a perfect she will never be
As her large, curved nails glimmer
She scuttles her way like a crab in a salty delirium
She hides her hiss like a snake ready to miss for a chase
Challenging practicality,
“Dear Prudence,
Won’t you come out to play?”
But we are silent to the accursed
The wise are wary and rehearsed
We all slip right through as she intrudes an empty room
Waiting for a reaction, screwing with the lights to assert a distraction
She wreaks havoc in the dark,
“Dear Prudence!”
She screams,
As we softly walk down the path, nomads against the crabs
She doesn’t realize she is her worst fear—alone
Her mask melting and her anklets snapping
Collapsing, the tears she squeezed for her high
Were emptied, vindicated and dried
Angrily she must realize
In her twisted, stubborn way
It’s a beautiful day…
A crazy collab with my brother David Breidenthal [J.W Earnings]
Categories:
jingling, angst, dark, judgement, life,
Form:
Free verse
I dig into the open wounds of self preservation,
and hear
...from way over there,
my love jingling in your pocket
as if it were the loose change
in your wet dreams.
You were always numb to the mirror,
taking comfort in the blind eyed
discontent you've reigned in
with hard strokes of denial,
making your makeup seem
a little more made up in the dim lighting
of reflection.
Don't you think?
It was never about making love,
it was about forgetting.
My hips were a glowing red exit sign,
on the route of
....screwing life away.
Each moan, a promise that
even though you were dead inside,
you could still make a piece of the
world shake.
Maybe even make something break.
And that made everything seem
a bit more tolerable...
until I started thanking you
for the damage inflicted.
The pain I felt, assurance
that I was alive.
I'm not sure why that
took the fun out of it
for you..
I still screamed bloody murder
when you sunk your teeth into
newly adjusted nerve endings..
The pain, more real than ever before.
I guess you never meant to
take a ride with someone just as
damaged as you.
You were hoping to be the only
ghost in this city, still bound
to a carnal playhouse.
But baby..
I was a corpse long before I had any change to spare.
-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.
Categories:
jingling, break up, imagery, life,
Form:
Free verse
I thought poetry is
-name of Mesopotamia which was the first civilization to emerge in human history
-ancient cave peoples surviving life struggle
I thought poetry is
-an immortal love story of Yousuf- Zulekha, Shirin-Farhad, Laila-Majnu or Romeo-Juliet
-a telephonic or open love conversation of smiling postmodern girls
-drying wet colorful clothes of beloved in the courtyard of the house
-haring of beloved with tuberose garland before a mirror
I thought poetry is
-lizards chirping from the deserted house; cockroach flying
-quarrelsome cats in the black dark or barking dogs
-the struggle of mosquito for human blood
-traveling of the arrogant indecent animals all over the night
I thought poetry is
-thrilling venturous ghostly stories of J. K. Rowling
-self-expression of known-unknown writers
-unspoken tale of a war-wounded soldier
-the regret of the thousands of dead soldiers
-the unwritten fantasy of an isolated poet
-the lonely guitar or ektara of dead singers
I thought poetry is
-without reel tie an independent flying of a kite in the sky
-in the blue sky sovereign flapping of birds
-movement of invisible winds everywhere
-hearing story of fairytale crossing of green forest
I thought poetry is
-handmade airing of newly married girl to a new groom in lunch time
-dyed hands of nubile girls by mehndi,
-captivating sounds of jingling anklet and kamarband of dancing damsels
I thought poetry is
-classic music of Pandit Ravi Shankar
-immortal tune of Ustad Bismillah Khan's shehnai
-compilation of humanitarian lyrics of the legend Bob Marley
-heart touching reciting of the Holy Quran of Qari Abdul Basit
I thought poetry is
-unforgettable philosophical discussion of Socrates with his disciples
-the philosophic lineage of learning such as Socrates-Plato-Aristotle
-immortal scientific creations of Newton, Galileo, Einstein, Nikola Tesla, Hawking
I thought poetry is
-unremitting prayer or worship of any prevailed religion devotee to get heaven
-inhuman history of bombing on the Hiroshima and Nagasaki or brutality of 1st or 2nd World War
These all are just my thinking,
my thinking is free
on my path
but poetry is poetry,
more than any thinking, many more;
on its path
Poetry is independent fully
-June 27, 2019 Chattogram
Categories:
jingling, feelings, poetry,
Form:
Free verse