Best Tinny Poems
Remember Me
Cold wet coastal today
I escaped
Sat myself behind a sanctuary
The rain beating rhythms
On window panes
Hot coffee and brandy
Warm inside The Athena Café
Radio spends its missed tuning
Hissing tinny tunes
Love songs
Of losing
Love songs of having
Love sings
Of wanting
Blank the grey sky
Flattering dreaming thoughts meander
On emotions wandering
Focus themselves
With photographic memories
I see
The smile
White satin dressed
Curls of auburn red
All I fell for
All I lived for
My Princess
Her crown tilted
The mischievous angels
Of her
I sigh
As my fingers remember
They once ran themselves
Through your hair
As my lips in accord
Re-taste the peach
Of kisses
I once knew
Sometime so long ago
I can hear your voice
Silent echo
A touch in my soul
Sentient it is
Hieroglyphic speaks
Reverberating something
Deep and known
My eyes replay moments
Of vague tactile loving
These trespasses
And these memories wishing
Batter at some-where’s
Deeping
Inside of me
Aching
Longing
Word forms swirl
In printed pages of you
And send messages of distance
So far from me
So far
From you
To a horizon which is
Part of me
Out into grey meridians
My heart travels
While my seconds record
The splitter and splatter
Of rain on the window pane
Looking back at me
With your reflection
Another cigarette
My coffee cold
And nothing but froth
The heat of my brandy
Matches the twists of floating smoke
Sends my thoughts out riding point
To the cavalry of clouds
With the banner of love
Rides wing-ed horses
With fire on their hooves
Lifts all this nescient knowing
Rushes headlong
To you
Tiny rippled pools
Drop on the sheen
Dark colours anew
Of rain fall continues
One more coffee
No more brandy
Time to leave slowly
And some how find an end
For this poetry
Find a way to Morse code my heart
Out into expansive skies
And wrap my arms
Around you
I remember the home
Of holding you
The rain has stopped
He sat there in his fav'rite chair, a blanket 'cross his lap
And covering his snow white hair was his old fishing cap.
I knew he could not talk to me since suffering the stroke,
But still I sensed he could relate to ev'ry word I spoke.
"I went and wet a line today ... down where you caught that cod.
The biggest one you'd landed yet and though it was my rod
I reckon he was yours all right ... but cod are far and few.
They don't bite like they used to dad. They don't bite like they used to."
"The algae's building up again and stuffing up the creeks,
Though at long last we had a fresh, the first in flam’in weeks.
Pulled twenty stinking euros in, along with one old dew,
But they had sores all over them, though still that's nothing new.
The cotton farmers cry, "Absurd! It can’t be from our spray."
Perhaps the fish have just got aids from turning flam'in gay.
Its getting pretty sad all right, but what can one bloke do.
They don't bite like they used to dad. They don't bite like they used to."
"McDonalds seems to be the go and good old KFC
And eating yellow-belly is a flam'in rarity.
Your grandson won't go fishing as he says it's just for nerds
And when I take the missus we just end up having words.
I really miss our fishing trips, your company was swell
And by the mist there in your eyes you miss them dad as well.
I heard you sold your tinny mate, your outboard motor too.
They don't bite like they used to dad. They don't bite like they used to."
They're introducing fingerlings and giving that a shot,
But duckweed takes the oxygen which kills the flam'in lot.
The droughts have had their toll as well and one thing that's for sure;
I can't see in the future dad a remedy or cure.
So mum's ducked down to Salty's mate and I would dare a punt
She'll come back with a feed of fish before you say Rex Hunt.
I guess we'll have to wash it down with some of your home brew.
They don't bite like they used to dad. They don't bite like they used to."
The old upright piano sits flush against the wall,
has been hushed into silence, out on the sun porch
Ignored, neglected, but standing erect
I can imagine it was treasured in its prime,..polished, stylish, and new
But age has turned the varnish yellow
The veneer a bit buckled, the bench has been repaired
with clamps, screws, and Elmer’s wood glue
A relic from another time.
Songbooks are still cradled, but pedals are disabled.
We can almost hear its breath exhale, with tinny-rhythmic sighs
Two white keys might stick,...and three or four are chipped...
And tears, chopsticks, hearts and souls were spilled on ivory seas
If only clocks could turn back time
Mother sitting next to me, side by side, ... our worlds aligned
Keeping the rhythm, over and over, measure by measure,
... playing together the “The Blue Danube”.
___
With her hands over mine, pointing out the key of C
And what I can still see,...so clear in my mind..,
are the blue veins of her hands enveloping mine,
leaning into the waltz, a bit off key
(It needed tuning…It always did. Never mattered. Never will)
I was small. My fingers couldn’t reach them all,
those pock-marked, scarred, and magic keys
But the measure of Johann Strauss would bounce off the walls…
She would hum into my ear…
Her soft brown hair would mix with mine
I could smell Breck shampoo, and feel her breath upon my cheek
And feel the music, soft and sweet, classic light…from that old Upright...
A simple tune…the waltz of time
that has played on and on... long beyond her life
and will play on long beyond my own
__________________________________________________________
I was four when I partied like it was 1999.
Didn’t know what Y2K meant—
thought it was a new kind of Ribena.
Mom said the world might end,
so we had fish fingers and Angel Delight
like it was our last supper.
She danced in the kitchen—
hip in one hand, remote in the other—
Prince on the telly,
sky outside grey as school uniform.
She said,
“If the world’s going to blow, we might as well boogie.”
So I did—
in jelly sandals,
on sticky lino,
thinking bombs were just what happened in cartoons.
The grown-ups were worried about computers—
I was worried about monsters under the bed.
Same thing, really.
I built bunkers from sofa cushions.
Told my teddies we’d be safe.
Asked Mom if I could stay up ‘til midnight
to see the sky explode.
She let me—
even though it didn’t.
Instead, we counted down
with paper hats, party poppers,
and a bowl of Wotsits big enough
to survive the apocalypse.
Prince said life was a party.
Mom made it gospel—
taught me the sacredness of silliness.
She sang with her eyes closed,
as if she could out-sing war.
As if dancing could un-plug the world’s doom switch.
And maybe it could.
There was a lion in her pocket too—
fierce in her softness,
roaring through a tinny tape deck.
She had a knowing in her sway,
like she understood what purple skies meant
long before I did.
Now I’m older,
and every headline feels like a countdown.
Still, I keep Ribena in the fridge
for emergencies.
Still, I dance—
barefoot on carpet,
arms full of invisible glitter,
like I’m four again
and nothing bad can touch me
while the music plays.
If the world ends again,
I’ll dance.
I’ll think of Mom.
I’ll play that song—
loud enough to shake the windows
and remind the sky
that we were here,
dancing,
as if forever still mattered.
It is raining leafs'
They are pouring down
If you half listen
Then,
They barely make a sound..
--------
The birds' they do sing,
They doth' fly south
The tinny tinkling
Taste of morning dew
Is so prevalent...
I can taste it in my mouth
Poet/Author
Gary Fields
And so it came to pass
as I raised a bourbon glass
and tossed a bolt of fire down my throat;
the ash from cigarettes
glowed as dying suffragettes,
chained to wrists of every weeping, wailing ghost.
A thirst I could not slake
was just icing on the cake,
as the closing bells resounded in the night;
every thought was dank and weary,
every eye was red and bleary,
every virgin born again without a blight.
Transistors crackled sound
from a cavern in the ground,
satisfaction blaring tinny and distorted;
time expanded then it shrank
with every mouthful that I drank
and the womb of reason shrivelled and aborted.
How transmissions swelled and swam
through the downing of each dram,
until the floor lay as a most inviting bed;
how I loved her very bones
and how I loved the rolling stones,
how I loved the old gods who were almost dead.
Sat here in the Gwesty Bach
with rock and roll and Mrs Plath
wielding firebrands of culture round my head,
how I loved her I admit,
every semblance, every bit,
how I loved the old gods who were almost dead.
Boxes and cupboards, closets and drawers
I am retrieving everything from my past
And freeing them to a world of usage
Even old wine will be opened
And that set of china too expensive to use
Except on special occasions will be used again
Because today is my special occasion
Just as will be everyday in my new beginning
Those rose-shaped candles will become
Puddles of wax and the silverware
Brought out only to laboriously clean
Will be used on hotcakes and omelets
I will resurrect all the things that were preserved
Bottles of cologne and after shave
From Christmases long past will find the bathroom shelf
Where they will be used until exhausted
What has passed the fashion or current vogue
Will be given to the poor and photos
Once too painful to see will find walls to live upon
And jigsaw puzzles will be joined into their rightful image
And old records played with a tinny remembrance
As I bring life again to my somber world of aloneness
Where memories thrive without validation
And need the reference of old things long forgotten
The turf is wet.
Tinny rap splashes out, booming and the players are bouncing
Like boxers, ready for the air-balls
That they cleanly tap and set on the ground
With the surfaces of their cleats.
The rap is crashing.
The rain is dripping
From a sky done raining,
Just feeling sorry for itself.
Number 21 runs on the field
With a ball between her feet.
Meeting a teammate she fakes,
Jumps over the ball
Landing, sliding, beside it.
She does this twice,
Bent with elevation,
Her ponytail swinging.
Halftime.
21 has seen every white line on the field up close by now.
If not for the clean turf
Her jersey would be dirty and covered in mud.
Still fighting,
Number 5 scores.
We scream for her.
21 goes down again.
Up again.
She is half-crouched,
So close to her defender she is almost leaning on her as the ball flies
21 jumps incredibly, legs bent, and viciously snaps her head
Sending the ball at a different angle.
And 5 scores again.
21 goes for the goal in the next minute,
One of many runs.
"One rule: Don't hold",
I hear in my mind.
She bolts, bent to it,
Jumping over legs.
Lightning.
Sticky defense,
No go.
And again,
She takes it and runs,
Maradonna,
Spinning, tapping.
So close to a wrong-colored leg,
Split second evasion.
The shot flies down the middle.
Her toe rips a spray of black rubber
From the turf.
Too high.
In exasperation
She bends over,
Head by knees.
And straightens up,
Watching the keeper punt the prize.
She explodes out of the crowded center again,
Leaping but watching
For options.
The ball is sent,
Is slid back to her,
And nothing has taken any heart out of her.
End of the stride,
Slide,
Shot!
Deflected.
Volleyed hopefully.
In.
Top of the net.
I am sent in, full of excitement.
I start to congratulate the replaced player,
But she's singing,
Teasing me encouragingly.
"Yeah 28,
It's your birthday..."
21 is leaving the field also.
High-fives.
(Always high-fives...)
"Hey. Hey. Go score a goal,
Okay?"
Just that simple.
Slide-out Coke machines
Superman/Batman comics
10 cent hot dogs
AM radio
Black & white TV
Rabbit-ear antennae
Bubblegum baseball cards
Tinny speakers at drive-in
Drive-in diners
Vacation bible school
Barefoot summers
Homemade playgrounds
A quarter made you rich...
though we should go mad, we
mad ones spilling ink, all
words, all tinny words, echoed
valley of our minds, instead
we fade with dreadful prattle, teeth
in beds of powdered bone, lost
to ragged children, wept
mothers stumble cast, out
far from humble hearth, new
kings but different kin, roar
a battle surge in ears, as
death's dirge rattles, kith to none, and
we search for some, hope
is one, not as thought, in mist and sun
would even wisest think we’d won, for
only in denuded land, stripped bare, if
to reach out, touched and be the one, dusted
travel stain and done, yet now this night, this
sleep, as if knowing half of earth awakes, keeps
tap tap tapping, rattle key’d and paper worn, to
laugh in the face of heuristic plans, while
dancing mad in midnight’s moon, but
as mortals, alas will do, hope
in vain for sweet Erato’s swoon, the
flesh wins now in sleep’s cocoon.
Drawn to his whistling we’d skip along that path,
Locked onto the shed’s old wireless; tinny and taught with his tune,
Dust waiting for our arrival by the door, yet
Now you wouldn’t even know it was there.
The path, long ago an entry point of dreams, no longer leads, but
Follows memories gathering dust with neglect now
Overgrown with the passage of time.
As children we would follow that path
Holding our pop’s crooked hand, a sticky bun in the other
Trying to count the countless bricks, to the end
To the start of grandpa’s ole wooden shed, the door ajar,
Allowing memories; old and new, to come and go as they please.
For amongst the wooden toys and tools and junk that clung to shelves,
Amidst the scent of thinners and birch shavings and oldness
There lived here once in our childhood – these happier simpler times.
Now I stand near the end of adulthood, peering in the window
My reflection recoiling at its image, flinching at the emptiness, the
Dusty hollowness that hangs there, - though
I imagine the laughter, and see our useful little hands
Hammering in time with the wireless, our
Hair and clothes powdered with the dust
Gathered on the filaments of tales past and present.
Those memories now lay in the dust, like
Echoes clinging to a voice, all
The shelves so full of everything, yet they are nothing now
- Gathering dust
Like his stories; buried amongst the particles, that
I now tread upon softly, not wanting the moment to dissolve
Into melancholic motes, as I close my eyes in search of a child,
Hidden in the dusty recesses of my mind.
John Lawless’s poetry contest – ‘Gathering Dust’
28 Feb. 15
I reckon I've seen about everything in my nigh four-score years.
Obnoxious teens, obnoxious elders and unpleasant Wall-Mart cashiers,
And those baggy pants with the crotch nearly reaching to the knees,
But folks with a cell phone in their ear compare to none of these!
Some people sport spiked hair dyed orange, red or green.
Others with rings piercing their lips - a weird sight to be seen!
Gorgeous ladies flaunt tacky tattoos that seem mighty *****.
Plus all of that, they have a cell phone glued to the ear!
Vexatious ringtones on some cellular phones cause me to cringe,
'Specially if in a fine bistro or church my serenity they impinge!
The "William Tell Overture" in a concert is mighty fine to hear,
But please spare me that tinny tune from the cell phone in your ear!
Some use their cell phones while driving - to all others oblivious,
Never minding that such inattention could be very injurious!
Seems to me 'twould be tricky trying to concentrate and steer,
With that consarned cellular phone sticking in the ear!
Cell phones are an improvement in communications, I suppose,
With their music, cameras, computers and a dial that glows.
But, alas, for future generations I often wonder and fear:
Will babes be born with a cell phone protruding from the ear?
Entry for Simon Rogerson's "Let's Explore Digital Technology" Contest
(13 Feb 22)
Self-Consciousness
White noise surrounds us each day. We do not even hear it over the din of living. Life is noisy, a constant barrage of sounds from all different directions, in all different pitch. A phone, music, loud heated discussions. The very moment I get an answer wrong, one can hear a pin drop.
“A pin can be heard”---
Dropping tinny to the floor
Why is it so quiet?
Sunshine Williams
Every day just this time
I wait for you with full zeal
From my window to look you,
To watch you.
Because your presence
Helps to make a radical change
Within a few minutes in our
Sultry environment,
The fair beauty.
I became impatient to look you
And you came.
You came like a tuber rose,
Just unfolding her petals.
Your dazzling white teeth
Helps to make much attractive
Your famous bit of smile.
The vernal breeze often
Try to remove the scurf skilfully
From your prominent bosom
And you often try to fix it.
A premature tinny boy
Trying to attract your attention,
See your reddish eyes, seems
You want to stroke his head-quarters.
Uncle John has a peculiar habit
Embrace an young girl.
Your quick depart proves
He is near-by.
A Violent Storm
It starts with dying leaves that litter lawns
All tumbled over in remorseless wind
Until at last, defeated, they collect
Behind the garden wall in tattered piles,
Discarded on a bleak deserted street
An empty cola can goes rattling past
Entrapped and powerless it bowls along
Its tinny clatter masked by mounting gale.
The clouds, as dark and grey as battleships
Amassed in fury, scud across the sky
Unleashing hail like bullets pounding earth
As scornful weather reaches boiling point
And branches, ripped asunder, turn and toss
Upon the lake that churns and boils with wrath
The hardy waterbirds, they hide in reeds
But where will tiny humming birds be safe?
As nature, wields her power, strength and might.
The storm, a deluge o’er the land has spread
To soak the fields so long deprived of rain
Endowing thirsty soil with healing wealth
Iambic pentameter