Best Rat Tat Poems
The silence...
The stillness
Akin to shadows, long fingers reach
Warriors and I
Lie here in the hallow
Fear…beside us, beseech!
Where is the enemy?
Whispers seem to ring out
Lips from my fingers, keeps head from arise
To quell eager peering about
I am a boy
But, this night, man become I
I and my buddies…
Too young, aren’t prepared to die
Onto their arms I do grab
Keeping their lives from growing all too short
Then, echoes…echoes. ..Breaking the silence of the still
A loud shot! Reports….
The one…
Then two!
A hail of missiles, I bring up my gun
Dirt spraying from every direction, which way do I shoot?
What I do not have…is…
Time! Time to think
I throw up my machine gun, blindly, not looking…
Squeezing the trigger, RAT TAT TAT… in frenzy, RAT TAT TAT…spitting instinct
Adrenaline rushing, surging!
Beads of sweat freefall to roll
Fingers tighten, muscles tauten
Madness besieging to depths of soul
Then my redden swelling ears take heed
From behind comes most frantic, deafening scream
Victory, exhilaration, hopes of my enemies all relieved!
It’s Johnny who’s been hit! Red river flows his crimson streams
I’m sobbing; I’m cradling him and shouting “YOU CANNOT DIE!”
Then I whisper…come back to life “Johnny, please, Johnny please"
Unnoticed to me, the stillness returns once more and then a paper…a letter… silently
floats to the floor
It’s the words like bullets that hit me, penned from his wife…
“I love you so much, the war will be over in just a short time; make sure you come back to me…
Come back to me alive”
fair day
tinkers came this morning
out of the melting sun
like a rainbow in a cloud of dust
their caravans noisily come
music swirled about them
and women's ribbons flew
in their coal black hair red roses
still wet with the morning's dew
rat tat tat on the pots and pans
rat tat tat on their women too
the village men stood stiffly 'round
their faces glum mouths turned down
when the tinkers came to town
the village men burn with lusty fire
for tinker girls are sweet
but never closer could they come
to the swiftly dancing feet
'round and 'round like Christmas tops
skirts high above their waist
willow withy women danced
while their men they robbed the place
rat tat tat on the pots and pans
rat tat tat on their women too
the village men stood stiffly 'round
their faces glum mouths turned down
when the tinkers came to town
anxious to be off again
fairy vaner ponies stamped
flowing mane and tails held high
they pranced around the camp
now at dusk and shadows creep
too the music all must yield
not a blade has been disturbed
across that empty field
If you hear the sound of rat-tat-a-tat
It's not a woodpecker or a chattering cat
Tis George F. Latulence an aristocrat
Playing ping pong with his gold crested bat.
A competitor and show-off he deems to be
Dresses each day in his noble finery
Pantaloons his normal fancy day wear
His ancestry, finery, regalia, style flair.
He never shares glory or plays with a partner
Winning trophies for himself, what he is after
Agile and swift, rarely points he would miss
The downside came, when you did get that whiff.
To gain advantage, a parp he would do
Clenching bum cheeks, in case he followed through
High class energy foods for his body to sustain
But his parping was every one else's nose bane.
George on first serve, parped, as he hit the ball hard
Swiftly attacking, George butt did bombard
In that spilt second threw off his opponent
Point gain to George, aided by his flatulent moment.
Silent and deadly they all came out fast
Odourous gas from George nuclear fueled ar$e
If one made a noise he'd give a loud grunt
That was his bum burping cover up stunt.
Knew there was trouble when audiences pulled faces
Some even fainted, brave stayed in their seat places
George didn't care, just wanted top podium status
His methods and thinking obnoxiously atrocious.
Audience faces were different shades of green
People were swaying, some even vomiting.
He called it his ping pong, parp-crafty-art farts
Next point to win, final round about to start.
The ball went to and fro like a speeding fast bullet
George, with match point, he was about to secure it
Hitting an ace, made a spark, that caused a boom blast
Left the audience with mix feelings of relief and aghast.
Breaking news of his death headlines did broadcast
Even able to download from what's called a podcast
George F. Latulence died from a blast from his ar$e,
He blew up one too many, too dense and not sparse.
May The Gas Be With You Farts Part 2 Poetry Contest
Sponsor Chantelle Anne Cooke
Written 07.10.21
ONOMATOPOEIA
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
all live onomatopoeia of the night
howling, mewing, twit twooing, screeching, onomatopoeia
all live onomatopoeia of war
banging, booming, rat tat tat tating, screaming, onomatopoeia
all live onomatopoeia of woodland
tapping, flapping, singing, rustling, cawing, onomatopoeia
all live onomatopoeia of farmland
bleating, mooing, barking, honking, nighing, onomatopoeia
all live onomatopoeia of love making
sighing, sighing, sighing, sighing, Y E S, onomatopoeia!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For the Sandy Hook Newtown
children and their mentors
Rondelet: Rat-a-tat-'tat
Rat-a-tat-'tat
Rattle staccato riddle tumble
Rat-a-tat-'tat
Toppled children scatter rat-tat
Innocent voices all tremble
Rifled trillions sure-fire treble
Rat-a-tat-'tat
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, 2012
Back to the beat
Even as the strumming sweat
Can’t wait to investigate
What we deem we procrastinate
Melody fine, blowing my mind
What beat is time
Time to watch the beat
Ever sweet
Tha’ rat a rat rat tat come on man off of that
Gimmie some sugar sweet and flow, flour do, ra, mi fa so la de
Wing tips on the wool danceN wit mine babe with stilettoes
Ever sweet
Time to watch the beat
Melody fine, blowing my mind
What beat is time
Brother break it off, break it down
Come on swept the floor play that bass and guitar
Back to the beat
Even as the strumming sweat
Can’t wait to investigate
What we deem we procrastinate
Melody fine, blowing my mind
What beat is time
Time to watch the beat
Ever sweet
Tha’ rat a rat rat tat come on man off of that
Gimmie some sugar sweet and flow, flour do, ra, mi fa so la de
Wing tips on the wool danceN wit mine babe with stilettoes
Ragtime drummer come on and hear
Ever sweet
Tha’ rat a rat rat tat come on man off of that
Gimmie some sugar sweet and flow, flour do, ra, mi fa so la de
Ragtime drummer come on and hear
Come on and serenade and dance wit me
Come here
Ragtime drummer come on and hear
9/17/24
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2024©
They were young then, now they would be old men looking across an empty beach, the sun at their back; for many this would be their last day to grow old; dead in the water; dying on the sand of Omaha Beach.
Memories.
Three long hours smashing through the pounding white capped waves; cold and hard as the water washed over the sides, mumbled prayers mouthed through cracked lips saturated with a salty brine taste.
Bodies were pressed together, brother to brother, clammy breath on your neck, an anvil hammering your chest and hoping the body against you would not taste your fear.
Scorching white flashes of light slashed across the plodding boats, tracers burst bright in the early morning light, twisting a body around, then another crumble, finally the Higgins boat stops......
And the gates of hell open wide to the heavens, making room for the newly departed as bodies stumble over the metal ramp, falling down in a slow-motion dance into the water and drift away, for eternity.
Terrible Memories.
A fifty-pound stone strapped on your back, when suddenly the guy standing next to you is not there, vaporized in a conflagration of redness and matter, an empty vessel flung to the heavens in pieces.
The screams of the wounded horrific, as bullets drive you across a sprawling field of fire. The sand was pockmarked by craters on what should be an early June summer day for frolicking at the beach.
The dead bob in the cherry colored water, and the torn apart want to be any place but here, at this hour, at this time, on this day, praying to heaven to make this hell of exploding shells a dream.
Haunted Memories.
Your name doesn’t matter when you are already dead. The dying dissolve in a burst of machine gun fire before kissing the coarse sand, washed away by the relentlessness of tide and the hour, MIA forever.
The unbroken rat-tat-tat sound as bullets slam into bodies and the boys of summer scream for their Mother and the God of morphine. Bursting landmines scatter a leg fifty yards away and the sand bleeds out red.
Memorials
The Ghosts behind the graves, brothers in arms, rest in the American Cemetery in Colleville-sur-Mer in the quiet French countryside, not far from a place with the All-American sounding name: Omaha Beach.
Rat rat tat rat of archangel
wings
Puffed grey streaks buzz masts
of anchored boats
Being gently rocked to sleep by
a rising tide.
An island rises wrapped in a
cummerbund cloud
Shoulder high above a soft
dissolving mist
Raises its head to bask in a
warming kiss
A high speed ferry slips
through the mouth of the
harbor
With a cargo of fresh dreams
waking the days of famine
A solemn nod to a flag
drenched in sacrificial blood.
Stop talking at me like you know my deepest fears… ^^???^^
You know nothing. ^^&&&^^
You give orders,
strange
twisted
orders… ^^___^^
and expect
my full
complicity…
You want me to do what???? Why???? ^^()()*****()()^^
Under whose authority? ^^??^^
This is some kind of sick joke isn’t it???
Answer me!!...... ^^!!!@@$$$%$# @@!!!^^
These wary friends, my head they crowd.
This constant noise, they get so loud…
Torment, anguish, the wish to die.
The voices sound so shrill, so dry.
Rat tat tat on my skull they go
The lights have dimmed, LET'S START THE SHOW!!!
#$&%*$$$$##* @))@ @))@ @))@ @))@ …………………………..
What’s wrong with me? Where have I been?
What have I done? Why have I sinned?
What happened here?
This blood amiss.
This stranger’s fear.
This lover’s kiss?
This smoking gun.
This sickly fun.
Excited hearts go
Thump… Thump… Thump…….
Now I’m calm, I wish to rest.
Their will is done, I tried my best
Prisoner’s dilemma, these bars so thick
This pain that shoots up from the wrists.
He awoke to the sounds of his alarm
Tedious sounds he heard bearing arms
Though gunshots blazing through his spine
The sounds of his are now yours and mine
His dead weighted arm hit the clock
The sounds disarmed for now it stopped
Back to war with his own prudence
Back to spar with the sounds of sense
Again the rat tat tat of the alarm
Played as though the taps of the army's song
The noise of never love to end the charm
Of escape from his cave beyond his own wrong
The alarm grew louder and more vicious than before
It spoke to him as if the Raven were in lore'
He could see Mr.Poe writing wills of the torn
As the ring of his lover fell from high above Heavens door
Rat tat tat, there is goes one more time
Rat tat tat, in its constant devil chime
Revealing my true wit as I laugh at the mourned
For now is the time the Raven is re-born
The alarm clock from my bed side table of sleep
Lay screaming a poetic ring in a forbidden beep
What once was a crow perched high on my door
Is now is never time as I sleep through Lenore
The black and white images of the lonely mans bird
Lay now in a rainbow as the dust wore down the third
For dimensions tell the tale of my dreams own lure
For dimensions tell the crow to die now in her slur
As she speaks to me again in the rat tat tat form
What was once perched high in her time now is in scorn
As she lays down low next to me in my bed
And her name is not Lenore but Mary Jane instead
I wish i had been a child fifty years ago
They had such wonderful games to play
Which their siblings used to know
But not played much in my day.
First with a skipping rope
Besides the normal skip
You could use it as a high jump
Jumping with a high backflip
Then comes spinning top and whip
Would chalk it with colours anew
As the top spun around
A pretty picture you could view
How about marbles
In the gutter you would play
Couldn't do that in my day
So many cars in the way.
Then there is mob,
What a strange name
For hiding til your found
Such a silly game
Then we get the naughty ones
Rat tat ginger is for sure
Cos you would knock and run away
Making some person answer the door
The list is endless
Bet some of you could name a few
How about card games
Stamp collecting too
But the best part were the streets
They were relatively secure
Children could go out to play
Parents didn't have continual fear.
Off to the park no adult in tow
Kids could be kids, use the swings
Slides, see saws and roundabouts,
Play rounders, football and other things.
Now they have playstations
Wii and X box too
What they lose is being in fresh air
With their pals, and being you.
Oh dear
She's here
Way out
In doubt
Knock knock
Take stock
Good day
Aunt May
Come through
Please do
More tea?
(Brew three)
Drones on
Day's gone
Ears sore
(NO MORE!!!)
Can't stay?
(Hooray!)
Bye bye!
(Deep sigh!)
Rat tat
Who's that?
Good Lord!
Aunt Maude!!!
.........
12.09.21
MONSOON RIDE
Monsoon brings Ahhh, rain and cool and shade to me
In Desert heat.
Smiling, I await the treat
Lights flashing, thunder crashing
Dog cowers by my side.
I love the beat of thunder with
rat-tat-tat of rain.
I run outside with my arms flung wide
gathering cool raindrops on my hide.
Every year when weary of sun
blasting and searing,
it starts my yearning
for blessed monsoon
That lets my emotions Ride
wildly on Natures Tide. Lydia Brescia...2012
Leaves rustling beneath my feet as my eyes are captivated by the
setting of the sun. Many shades of pink dance upon the earth with
brilliant light. Emotions of the breathtaking view overwhelm me
as a smile decorates my face. My ears are tuned to the rat tat tat
of the woodpecker in a magnificent oak. Immediately I see this
loud and persistant creature. Quickly stopping I set my rifle
and rabbits down and remove the thick insulated gloves. Searching the
duffle bag I locate my old phone at the bottom. Taking many
pictures in hopes that I will turn out with a darkening canvas.
I begin to ponder how most things are miniscule in the grand
scheme of life. It's only when moments of loneliness touch our
hearts that we are truly awaken to the richness of the world.
The quaint little cabin beckons me home. After replacing
the warm gloves I sling the gun over my shoulder and pick up the
rabbits.
Thoughts of returning to the peace, tranquility and warmth of a
fire fills me with delight.
Making my way through the thick woods the angry river echoes in the distance.
Remembering why I chose this Heavenly spot to call home amongst God's creatures and
breathtaking nature during the deepest darkest time I've known.
Shiloh awaits my return with curiosity as he sniffs
the sweet scent of the day. A treat followed by a scratch on the head
for guarding the homestead. Followed by a delicious dinner
slipping into an oversized chair I drift off to sleep and lost amongst visions
of hope for a new day.
I’m sitting in a dark, nothing but a T.V. on.
I’m watching horror movies, or am I watching paint dry.
I see people, I see faces, but I still can’t shake the feeling I’m being watched.
A scream I hear, I chalk it up to the T.V.
A rat-tat-tat, on the door, only to see no one,
I’m not sure I even moved.
I’ve been sleep deprived for days, but today, on the most holy of holy days,
I cannot sleep.
Today is a day of celebration.
For once, the evil, the dark, the macabre, it’s celebrated.
My interest aren’t looked down on, they are praised.
I think to myself, maybe I should makes something, to commemorate
the occasion.
I step to the kitchen, pull out a knife, and begin carving the first thing in sight.
Tonight, it was a pig.
I think last year it was like a bumble-bee or something, I don’t know, it was making a lot of noise and I just wanted some peace.
Either way, after trimming the fat, I had to clean up a bit.
The phrase, bleeding like a stuck pig, totally true.
Blood got everywhere, this is gonna take so much bleach to clean.
So I shove it in the oven, mouth watering at the thought of the sandwich I’m gonna make when it comes out.
I knew animals fought,
But this one fought like it really didn’t wanna be dinner.
I just hit it with the pumpkin it carried.
A few hours pass, and the pig is done.
I trim off the hair, and then the skin.
I can’t stand the skin, so stretchy and not tasty.
It’s like eating elastic, or a shirt or something stupid like that.
Either way, I peel back the skin-and I indulge myself.
Normally I go for the entrails first, but tonight is special.
I go straight for the brains.
So tasty, with just a tinge or copper, or was it iron, I’m not sure
Either way, it was salty, and metallic, and delicious.
I only treat myself to this kind of meal on the special days of the year,
You know the days I’m talking about
Easter, July 4th, tonight
Those days, they are wonderful
So yeah, the screams were annoying, but they stopped now
All that I hear is some laughing, and my own noise
Tap-tap-tap-squish
Tap-tap-squish-tap
It felt divine.
Then it all ended, someone said my time was up.
That pig’s blood went everywhere
Everywhere. It was intense
After all of that, I’m back in front of the T.V.
I’m really not sure if it was a T.V. or a wall.
The first thing I remember other than that night,
Was asking the guards if I could watch Silence of the Lambs on Halloween.