Best Tambourines Poems
~
Here on the night before yesterday’s dream,
twilight composers retreat
Laughing at whispers a’ flow on the stream,
happily taking a seat
Practicing meadowlark lyrics to sing,
strumming a toadstool in tune
Awaiting the light that the fireflies bring,
blinking a wink at the moon
Tulips with tambourines gather around,
spider web chandeliers glow
Shade tree sonatas, a wonderful sound,
echoing up from below
Pine cone recitals and blueberry sighs,
star dust ovations in rhyme
Choruses sung beneath velveteen skies,
harmonic three quarter time
Orchestral canopies glisten above,
melodic rainbows the view
Performing songs written solely of love,
played on this evening for you
~
I reposted this one because.....I really liked this one. : )
Where does the
selfless sun hide
when heavens
r a i n bloodstones?
Burned and inscribed,
from monsoon monsters,
gnawing at our bones,
the shimmering
darkness imbibed,
If only drifting shades of gray,
where the tempests
of hell sway,
would hear the hymns I sleep to
when the clouds steal on cue
the soul of illuminating skies.
I listen to the echoing symphony
of s i l e n t sighs,
convincing soothingly,
pulling me back to soar
new h i g h s
amongst electric choirs,
as angels swiftly swing,
on saffron strings,
to the bass of cellos rising,
above tuscan tambourines.
Yet, I keep drowning in needless tears,
from pearlized ponds of fears,
seeing life as how it
has always been forged,
a disappointment
fed through
filthy forks, who’ve gorged
on the first
of every scintillating ray of light.
But, what if the sun, too, needs a savior?
Like an eternal gem that beams
upon dreary dawns set upon her
draining every heavy lampshade
of stars within spheres
of novae, lest the opulence give
way to bruise and decay.
Perhaps, grim gales gusting in
wrathful bursts
shall finally be the
serenity I need
for I’ve tilled every field
of hurts like raspberry
from the scent
of rose water,
For sometimes, that’s all it takes,
heeding to freeze through
malevolent thorns in icy lakes.
Oh captcha squares, oh captcha squares
What are these objects in your frames?
Oh captcha squares, oh captcha squares
Why must they gotta be the same?
Cars and busses, traffic lights
Bicycles and motor bikes
Crosswalks, signs, and steps and stairs
Fire hydrants everywhere
Boats, planes and parking meters
Tickets, fines, misdemeanors
Why are you so fond of these?
Why are palms the only trees?
Oh captcha squares, oh captcha squares
The pictures trapped inside of there
Oh captcha squares, oh captcha squares
Depict a world so bleak and bare
Arid, bland, unaesthetic
Barren, drab, unpoetic
Sterile, cold, antiseptic
Unconcerned, apathetic
Somber, sad, and desolate
Woeful, bland, pedestrian
Weary, grim, dreary, hopeless
Grainy, gray, out of focus
It doesn’t need to be this way…
Many things could fill your squares
Why not fill these things in there?
Tambourines and castanets
Bass trombones and clarinets
English horns and piccolos
Harpsichords and xylophones
Fiddles high and Irish whistles
Jingle bells and finger cymbals
5-string banjos, mandolins
Saxophones, accordions
Desmond Tutu and Mandela
Cassius Clay, Cinderella
Charlemagne and Genghis Kahn
George and Ringo, Paul, and John
Twain and Edgar Allan Poe
Wayne and Brando and Monroe
Ida Wells, Frida Kahlo
Steinem, Parks, and Ferraro
River Thames and stormy seas
Winter wrens and bumble bees
Cyprus, ash, oak, fir, and pine
Sassafras, willow, and lime
Daffodils and magnolias
Marigolds and begonias
Cabbage, beets, and potatoes
Carrots, beans, and tomatoes
Oh Captcha Squares, Oh Captcha Squares
If your pictures must remain
Oh Captcha Squares, Oh Captcha Squares
How aboutcha change the frames?
Captcha circles, captcha suns
All the captcha olygons
Wiggly captcha twiggly lines
Twisty captcha twiny vines
Captcha diamonds, captcha hearts
Captcha clovers, moons, and stars
Captcha ribbons, Captcha lace
Captcha colored string bouquets
Oh Captcha Squares, Oh Captcha Squares
We understand you're here to stay.
Oh Captcha Squares, Oh Captcha Squares
Just be more creative, OK?
A pregnant lass with eyes of glass had never learned to cope;
once set adrift her fall was swift, she slid a slipp’ry slope.
She fled the curse of worlds perverse by shooting shots of dope,
and stalked discreet’ Asylum Street her daily horoscope.
The stray was struck by passing truck which was her only hope.
Well, Banjo Boy, with little joy, he strums her life entire:
“The wayward waif was never safe; her stars were dark and dire
(born midst the rues and avenues where lack and want aspire)
for no one heeds the childish needs that little ones require;
though faith survives in tempest lives, a swirl within the briar,
infinity grinds as time unwinds, until the winds expire.
Her last caprice? The final peace that no one could deny her -
whipped by the flood, stray beads of blood are spattered on the spire;
though beads of sweat are cool and wet, cold clotted blood is dryer.”
Though broken there, she’s fled the snare with dying thoughts serene.
And now she’s dead, the rumours spread: her age? a sweet 16,
with child, unwed, her soul stained red, her body so unclean.
A place is sought where she can rot, avoiding churchyard scenes,
in limey pits, as well befits, behind forbidding screens;
and all the while a dirge is styled on tattered tambourines
which echo through the human zoo in valleys of the Queens.
Without rejoice, in hissing voice, near soil that’s seldom trod
“In pious role, God bless my soul”, was mouthed with mitred nod,
(the twisted grin seemed dark and thin behind the robed façade).
“She’ll burn in hell with sulphur smell”, spat Priest and man of god.
Well, angels sweet with cloven feet, they sing in girl’s attire,
but Banjo Boy, he’s playing coy while chanting in the choir:
“The clueless search within the church to find what they desire,
but near the nave or gravelled grave, there is no Rectifier.”
And when he’s through, without ado, he stacks some stones nearby her.
Oh beautiful Gypsy,
I see you there, in amber campfire mist.
On the banks of a crystalline pool, a bronze skinned lovely moving with intoxicating rhythm to the strum of guitars.
Sable eyes, gleaming with wanderlust, transfixed on distant dreams. Raven hair sheens cobalt blue, in glow of a pale full moon.
The tethered babushka and brilliant layered skirt, your banners of freedom. Knee high boots clad dancing feet, in a feverish itch to perform on new stages. Your opulence, jingle jangling from dainty wrists and pierced lobes, echoes the hypnotic song of rattling tambourines.
A blissful celebration in your enchanted home of nebulous walls forged of the four winds.
Oh beautiful Gypsy;
Last of the true migrants, paying homage only to purity of your clan. The devout mystic, whose babes suckle the nectar of white magic.
Your larder bulges fat, having labored a deconstructed nine to five.
A harmonious oneness with nature, your forte, honed to perfection in compassionate artistic crafts. With gentleness, you bring calm obedience to the untamed steed. In thoughtful consideration, parleying the fate and fortune of the gadjo, eager to lay down their silver and gold for charms and spells.
You trade in good faith only to be slandered in whispers of vagabond and theif. Your colorful lifestyle, jaded to a monotone hue of envious green.
A hopeless romantic smothered in Judas kisses.
Oh beautiful Gypsy,
Even as you celebrate in this newly discovered place, it's freshness grows stale to your delicate senses.
A bohemian lineage begs you go before the next cock crows.
The insatiable hunger to feast your eyes on unfamiliar lands pangs your very essence.
It has proven to be far too great for you to abstain; for it is the morrow.
A radiant sunrise reveals an abandoned starry eyed reflection lingering on a lonesome pond.
The scent of pungent garlic, rich brew and sweet tobacco hovers, as a perfumed phantom, in the desolate air.
Tracks of your wagon wheels flow through emerald meadows like a lazy river, avoiding stagnation.
Conformity lies choking in the dust of your painted caravan.
A nomadic soul in dreamy persuit of the horizon that looms forever in the distance.
Till we never meet again,
Oh beautiful Gypsy
Most local folk lore is intended to unnerve but
I think there's validity to the Haunted horse shoe curve.
The building of our nations rails took a terrible toll
on the Irish, the Chinese, and many other souls..
This was once a very thriving railroad town,
now the population dwindles yet some ghosts
still stick around..
Three years ago I bought my condo in a bit of haste.
I never asked my realtor for a ghost reading of the place..
It's a building designed for seniors so obviously some passed on.
Apparently there's one who is not completely gone,
it's small like a child, might be a leprechaun?
This is factual and not some kind of joke,
in our non-smoking building there's a faint cigar smoke.
Drawers and doors will open where there's no other folks.
Some times out of the corner of one eye, a shorter fleeting
person quickly passes by..
Similar experiences have been reported from coast to coast but are
they actually signs of a visiting ghost?
Initially I read up on ghosts and did a bit of learning,
promptly I bought some sage and had my first burning..
Now I just play tambourines and ring a loud bells to chase
away any stuck energy that dwells.
Living with this ghost has not been a big deal.
Some times I just interrupt it's energy field..
If per chance I should get stuck before I'm safe and heavenly.
I pray that some one out there will do the same for me..
to proclaim your love
in the morning
and your faithfulness
at night
to the music of
the ten-stringed lyre
and the melody
of the harp
— Psalm 92:2 NIV
Light of lights
O Sunday morning,
steeped in faithful light,
we’ve sprung out of bed
to delight
to soak
in the melody of birds,
their harmonious call
to all who’d sacrifice sleep
and bathe,
and get in cars —
fellowship in adoration
of our Lord.
the music men
have faithfully practiced
on ready,
on time
for this sprung ahead lark —
like the breathing of Adam,
Hallelujahs in plenipotentiary seed.
last night and tonight,
will disperse the Spirit’s wind,
but for me
tis but morning,
the glory of dayspring song.
the dawn
the dawn
that lights the vigilant candle.
music, melody,
lyre & harp,
tambourines —
like the ringing of a bell.
the alarm alerts
my feet to go,
not too solemn slow
but in passionate procession.
we, the candles flicker
as we move in and out
of a building, not the church,
for that is us
that is us.
and as we love, because He loved us first,
the golden flames touch
hearts — may
it be deep to those who sleep.
awaken the body
and trust Him to lead
follow the Light of lights.
“Good Sunday Morning”
3/8/2020
"BLACK CAT"
SILENCE
prowls on soft paws
with sharp claws
Cutting up the
Middle Road
Dark shadow moves
SILIENCE
In absentia
Empty Absynthe
Puncture wounds
Cold wind blows
Over tracks
Skids softly
like warm
gants de Suède
on
Poets’ Row
Rat goes
Rat goes
Red scream
scarlet ribbons
LIFE
flows
Le Mort
blushes colour
a trite persuade
different streets
different gutters
Torn canvas sheets
contained between
prison bar margins
Drafts on the floor
crumpled
Blue fountain
Heart bursting
Love and Hate
Grows
Save Our Souls
Save Our Souls
Sins
Sisters of Mercy
and
Salvation Army Sargents'
Tambourines
Communion
Nibs lying next to
Garbage Bin
Finally Ash Felt
Rain on her
Bitumen face
Black Minx
Fur Pelt
Unfurls lazy stretch
Glass eyed
Minx
Back Alley Dreaming
Bad Luck
Bad Luck
Rolling loaded dice
blood boiling steaming
Brush strokes
Like glyph a glitch
Like glyph a glitch
Familiar mirror
Walks through Witch
Yesterday
Screams
Like glyph a glitch
Repeat curse
Repeat curse
Black Cat purring
Never lose
Hold tight
Pearls in Purse
7 Devils Dreaming
Sleepwalking
Graffiti Warning
Black Cat
Witch
Glebe
Last Stop Station
Rehearse a
Hearse
LIFE
Glyph a glitch
Reverse
(Lovejoy-Burton/May 2018)
1. Hanged Man
https://www.biddytarot.com/tarot-card-meanings/major-arcana/hanged-man/
2. Death
https://www.biddytarot.com/tarot-card-meanings/major-arcana/death/
3. Temperence
https://www.biddytarot.com/tarot-card-meanings/major-arcana/temperance/
4a. Glyph
noun
a pictograph or hieroglyph.
a sculptured figure or relief carving.
Architecture. an ornamental channel or groove
4b. Glyph
https://www.thoughtco.com/what-is-a-glyph-2086584
5. "Black Cat"/Ladytron (Translation)
http://songmeanings.com/songs/view/3530822107858716200/
6. Silience
http://www.dictionaryofobscuresorrows.com/post/49792543182/silience
7. Seven Devils
- Is a Solitaire card game.
- Seven Deadly Sins
- The Seven Devils of Mary Magdeline
- Florence and the Machine, Seven Devils
8. La Morte, Le Mort, La Mort
Le mort = dead man = un mort, a dead man
La morte (with the e on the end) = dead woman, une morte = a dead woman
La mort (no 'e' on the end) - death; as in the concept of death
Continued from Part 1
The Beggars ’neath the balustrades,
and broken Children, Chambermaids,
are running wild from wraiths, afraid
of dreams where death redoubles.
They fritter time with tattered threads
(from ragged clothes they’ve left in shreds),
crocheting hoods to hide their heads
and faces, full of rubble.
But many things will not remain
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
when goblets filled with cool champagne
evaporate in bubbles.
The White-Robed Maid adorns the trash
with charnel urns awash in ash,
then fumbles with an untied sash
while pacing in the Palace.
Her hopes congeal in coffee spoons
with memories adrift in dunes;
yet, still she smiles with teeth like prunes
and lips of painted callus.
And long before the midnight drains,
the Saviour wakes, the Loser gains,
the waters of the Hurricanes
will fill her empty chalice.
The storm (behind the clarinets,
the silver flutes, the castanets,
the foghorns belching in quartets,
the bagpipes, puffed and swollen)
is keeping time to tambourines
while Tom Thumb and the Four-Inch Queen,
pick up the shards and smithereens
of moments lost or stolen.
They’re trekking through the Dim Domains
(where fountains weep, the mountain wanes),
yet can’t escape the Hurricanes
with trundling eyes patrollin’.
The Crowds (arrayed in jewels) in jails,
stoop, peering through a fence of nails
while light behind their eyeballs pales
with plastic flame that sputters.
They huddle there because they must
(with eyelids hung like peeling rust,
their tears, palled pellets in the dust),
behind the bolted shutters.
They’ll reawake without their pains
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
without their sores, without their stains,
their agonies will fill the drains
and overflow the gutters.
End
As darkness gives way to light and day dawns,
the symphony of sweet sounds begins.
First a single chirp from a lone bird,
next a response from a mate in reply.
Then as if on cue from a conductor,
other birds join in the antiphony.
And the entire feathered orchestra
breaks forth in a chorus of praise to God.
Next, it is time for the sun to serenade,
with sounds of praise quite different from the birds.
In its bowels, acoustic waves vibrate
and cause its surface to jiggle.
Though silent, the sun plays its melody
in super deep bass notes like a tuba.
It also provides the lighting effects
for the symphonic sounds that surround us.
The forests of human caricatures,
dressed in their flowing robes of varied green,
need the wind to make them play their music.
As the wind vibrates their stems and leaves
it produces music so soothing and sweet.
At times, the notes are like those of violins,
or mellow like those of the cello.
A change of wind can make them sound like bass.
Sometimes the conductor pulls out the stops,
and nature explodes with loud sounds that pop.
The wind howls, branches snap and the trees sway,
and then the rain joins in the refrain,
turning leaves into tambourines and shakers.
A loud thunderclap and lightning flash,
create a wild symphony that most surely rocks.
As creatures of the Creator’s hand,
we too must add our songs sublime,
through living for his glory now,
we join with birds, sun, wind, and trees,
and stars and mighty oceans wild,
to daily raise our voices loud,
In thanks to God, for life and Son,
as part of nature’s symphony of praise.
Now, Railroad Bob has lost his job, he’s got no place for working,
His wife, she cries with desperate eyes, their baby’s head’s a’ jerking.
The union man don’t give a damn, Big Brother lies a’ lurking,
the boss’ in cabs are picking scabs, they count their money, smirking.
A pregnant lass with eyes of glass has never learned to cope.
Once set adrift her fall was swift, she slid a slipp’ry slope -
she casts the Curse, the Holy Verse, and shoots a shot of dope,
and stalks discreet Asylum Street her daily horoscope -
the stray was struck by random truck which was her only hope.
Well, Banjo Boy, with little joy, he strums her life entire:
“The wayward waif was never safe; her stars were dark and dire.
Born midst the rues and avenues where lack and want aspire
where no one heeds the childish needs that little ones require;
where faith survives in tempest lives, a swirl within the briar,
Infinity grinds as time unwinds, until the winds expire.
Her last caprice? The final peace that no one could deny her -
whipped by the flood, stray beads of blood are spattered on the spire;
though beads of sweat are cool and wet, cold clotted blood is dryer.”
Though broken there, she’s fled the snare with dying thoughts serene.
And now she’s dead, the rumours spread: her age? a sweet 16,
with child, unwed, her soul dyed red, her body so unclean.
A place is sought where she can rot, avoiding churchyard scenes,
in limey pits, as well befits, behind forbidding screens;
and all the while a dirge is styled on tattered tambourines
which echo through the human zoo in valleys of the Queens.
Without rejoice, in hissing voice, near soil that’s seldom trod
“In pious role, God bless my soul”, was mouthed with mitred nod,
neath scarlet trim with black, and grim, behind a robed facade -
“She’ll burn in hell and sulphur smell”, spat Priest and man of god.
Well, angels sweet with cloven feet, they sing in girl’s attire,
but Banjo Boy, he’s playing coy while chanting in the choir:
“The clueless search within the church to find what they desire,
but near the nave or gravelled grave, there is no Rectifier.”
And when he’s through, without ado, he stacks some stones nearby her.
Continued
Tonight a Buffalo Hunt dance is being performed with the utmost gravitas,
its February and food supplies are grievously low,
inside the massive hide lodge a fire more intense than a woman's fury
is burning like a waterfall pouring into the wound of heaven itself,
we've all smoked ourselves into stardom and have eaten of the sacred root,
the most precious maidens of the tribe stand against the circular walls
feathers and ritual paint on their naked treasures,
rattles begin the shake of spirit nerves, slowly, regularly, hissingly,
a child of 6 years starts to skip around the fire
left arm out towards the flames, laughing at the danger,
round he goes 12 times, tossing a raven's feather into the fire as he exits,
tambourines and drums thump and chime to the strenuous yet agile dance
of the most decorated warrior who has cut off all his hair
throwing it into the agitated flames
while seatd warriors throw pine cones into the fire,
the music beats up and down the spine, I feel it in my stomach,
now the maidens, one after another go round the hungry fire
one time each, they spill birthing blood onto the perimeter of the fire
as an offering and proceed to give themselves, completely, to a tribal Elder,
the buffalo must come near now,
J.A.B.
In late October the reddest moon didn't change its phase,
it remained in the same spot to watch the witches' ballet;
the loud music matched the mood of the mystical night: tambourines
and flutes frantically played; sneers, jeers, giggles of the wildest witches
mixed with the goblins' roars while they danced around a huge, hot fire.
I smelled a foul odor, the wild dogs feasted on a bloody oar,
" Leave some for us, or we'll turn you into bats! "
the hunched witch snarled with menacing eyes,
but they roared and threatened her with sharp teeth,
then Olga began to speak Latin words to cast
a spell on them and before it worked, they fled.
Glad that they had left, she dragged the dead animal
and hung it on a long rod to roast on the sparking fire;
hungry witches continued to dance with forks and knives
in their hands, anxiously waiting for their Halloween treat.
Her true instinct's voice is soft-wave heart
yet, bohemian flame sparks zodiac's chart,
wandering through journey's enchanting years
caravan dressed in sunrise , dusk and rain...
I feel her passion stirring once again.
~
A soulful gypsy rustling skirts of fresh dreams
tambourines beat her free-spirit,agleam
and she flame's life dances on moonlit rites
brazen at night then dashing warmth so kind...
her flair exudes an energy aligned.
~
Tiptoeing on fields, sensient like airtrips
in firelight's steps of jazzy, jazzy dips
Oh woman, daring trails never yet glazed
a bohemian in earthy kind of jive
mystic...she feeds on love's tarot, alive.
~
Not to be overtaken by things bland
incense of newness rises at her command;
yet childlike strains are innocence's hues
as romance and virtue send her afire ,
that’s me, a gypsy wrapped by earth-sky's lyre!
Contest: Gautami's Portrait of A Poet
Written by: nette onclaud...7/22/2011
Tambourines in the air;
Whistles and bustles in a
rhyme.
In the house of Khloe,
Melodies of the heart;
A reenactment in the farm house
of old rhythms.
Grand mother's tongue in cheek,
but she is gone;
Gone home to be with the lasses
Free from the pains of the masses.
The house of Chloe will never be the
same again.
Mirth and laughter gone through the
back door.
Enter the dragon, my mama with sternness
and a rod.
Not to be spared for our scrawny behinds
my mama.
The house of Khloe has changed course
never the same again.