Best Tambourine Poems

Oh, merry tambourine, shake-shake your beat.
Entice our gypsy lady from her seat.
Swirl her body. Make her show each bangle
round her ankles. In your pulse entangle
all of us with magic mirth replete!

Turn and thrust and twist her hips petite.
Let staccato move her tiny feet.
Make her shimmy-shimmy...

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No sonnet to hold the magic of feeling,
A trembling tenderness in my soul delights –
A shadowing sonnet to reflect the lights,
The beauty, the beauty, of ever believing.
No sadness to spoil the depth of compassion,
A freedom so simple, though love lives still – 
A flyaway sonnet...

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Lovely
Mystical one
Hearing what we cannot
Flowing with your tambourine dance
Gypsy...

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Tambourine tears fall with such grace
They actually make music on my face
A festival of salt on blackened skin
Pickled smile teasing the audience again
Bitterness is an acquired fruit
After fasting, it is at least something…to eat
A means of consuming protein…the meat
Of getting back to business and reconstructing
Changes...

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Tom played the tambourine
It was a spectacular scene
He danced as he played
The dreadful noise that he made
Caused the people that passed him to scream...

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She twirled in like falling autumn leaves of gold.
The ultimate heroine of fabricated stories of men of old.
Her castanets clicked in a gleeful, happy friendly way.
Tambourine Woman had entered the fall fest fray.

She brought in dragonflies, they flew at her command.
She is here! Someone said....

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Room to shake my tambourine
That’s all I ask, and a space to dance 
And twirl my scarves and entice you to pay
A corner to read your palm and collect silver
A tiny nook to park tarot and runes
Most of all a place to shake my bracelets...

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Blond light
Falling through 
The clouds
Traveling down
For miles and miles
Striking beneath her
Tambourine smile...

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Mr tambourine man played a song for me 
Why does Mr musician play a song for you ?
I'm crazy 
Crazy people need a tamboriner .

I bet every one in the world is crazy it only matters 
The degree of craziness 

I will not go to...

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Along the road where moonbeams spill,
the gypsy wagons wander still.
Their lanterns swing like fireflies caught,
each wheel a whisper, each song a thought.

The fiddler hums a ghostly tune,
that weaves beneath the weeping moon.
A tambourine keeps time with dreams,
and horses wade through silver streams.

No map can mark...

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