Best Tintinnabulation Poems
Quietude
by Odin Roark
Quietude
Like a tree’s dark shadow
Knows only the absorption of all colors
Rendering the din of senses
A cacophonous silence
How gentle the process
Once resistance abates
The mind’s own deprivation tank
Engendering trust void of fear
Yet
So hesitant are many
To embrace the white light
To wait out nature’s tintinnabulation
The white noise becoming aphonic
To lay oneself down
Afloat atop the water
The grass
The ethereal reality of consciousness
Where leaves of brown
Beneath the awaiting orange of
Red and yellow repeat nature’s cycle
Where jasmine lures the mulch of life
Into purity’s gateway
Patiently biding time’s eternal truth
Preparing one with zero
The hush of peace
The quiet of love
The mutation of hate
Conjoin in harmony’s sublime reward
The circle of quietude
THAW AT CROWSNEST PASS
Huge mountains massed and cliffs sheer. It’s March
And endless blue sky cold is held back by the Chinook arch,
Snowy prairies rolling into their thousand-mile realm -
The landscape is gigantic, majestic, orchestrated to overwhelm.
But I stand and watch the lake-ice thaw,
Surprised by the tiny delicate music -
Descant ice - jingling, jangling, tinkling
In delicate accompaniment to the giant symphony.
Ice chunks tangled in slow waves with the wind
Tiny tintinnabulation before total ablation.
There is silence and harmony around the sound,
The small melody of the ice breaking into spring’s chorus.
Note: Crowsnest Pass is the southernmost way through the Rocky Mountains in Canada
In antediluvian times, so pluviophilian
Red and gold adorned the grandiloquent pavilion.
With circumlocution's mellifluous elocution
Yellow frankincense sparked a yuletide revolution.
Colors of Christmas idiosyncratic and bright
Symptomatic of joy a quintessential sight!
Black's defenestration led to white's sequestration
Blue myrrh, an epiphenomenon of celestial creation.
The floccinaucinihilipilification of green
An obfuscation of nature's loquacious sheen!
Colors of Christmas idiosyncratic and bright
Symptomatic of joy a quintessential sight!
Orange juxtaposition a kakistocracy of hue
Violet and indigo a perspicacious view.
Silver's mellifluous tone, never superfluous
In this chromatic prolegomenon, so wondrous!
Colors of Christmas idiosyncratic and bright
Symptomatic of joy a quintessential sight!
Nonplussed by colors we're rediscussed
This verisimilitude leaves us all nonplussed.
Recalcitrant shades concomitant with glee
A serendipitous fortuitous Christmas spree!
Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia aside.
(Fear not these long words let your aichmophobia subside!)
With tintinnabulation and confabulation
We revel in this spectrum's elucidation!
Colors of Christmas idiosyncratic and bright
Symptomatic of joy a quintessential sight!
From soliloquent red to audacious gold
Our multitude of colors both new and old.
This Christmas palette so efficacious
Renders our celebration truly vivacious.
Yet beyond these hues lies a gift profound
A child is born; in Him true light is found.
For unto us a child is born
Unto us a son is given
And his name shall be called Wonderful Counselor
Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.
(Isaiah 9:6)
Un-Ringing the Bells
To live in the shadow of the steeples
the tintinnabulation of Poe’s bells*
tormenting the sinners as they slumber
wrestling the darkened dreams of childhood hells
following the path that led asunder
“the road less traveled”** challenging the norm
a vagabond in tattered memories
wandering through an endless self-made storm.
Awaken - the bells possess no power -
cold hands that call dead clappers to concuss
tremble at the thought the ropes are fraying
fear’s ancient tones now deadened under rust.
Yet their vibration lingers at days start
within the chest still beats their “Telltale Heart”***.
1/3/2017
With acknowledgement to
*The Bells – Edgar Allen Poe
**The Road Not Taken – Robert Frost
***The Telltale Heart – Edgar Allen Poe
submitted to – Sonnet about where you live – Poetry Contest
Wind chimes
When ten thin tinkling tin things twinkle and tingle in the wind
twinkling and tinkling the ten thin tin things make a tingling tintinnabulation of joy
The grandchildren think I’m off my head....
28 Cracks In The Ceiling
I take my red-inked dagger in hand
And succinctly spew its secrets for all to see.
28 cracks in the ceiling, and I lost count.
There’s a storm moving out of the west.
I can smell the thunder and
The titillating turbulence of tintinnabulation.
An old lady sits cross-legged and knitting,
Waiting for the sweating sun to sink.
“I was just a girl in 1925… and now…”
The endless strained faces out there
Tell stories of death, disease and depravity.
They know the eternal worm is the other one
In this passion triangle.
28 cracks in the ceiling, and I lost count.
Snakes frothing in suburbia.
The megabytes of Zanzibar jettison out naked bone chips.
Later months and trivial dimes.
Smokestack realizations in a tent.
Church buttresses holding up my whining soul.
Green Edsels down in San Pedro.
Michelobs and round sassy broads fingering erect nipples.
With a Susie in each arm
He lights a cigarette in honor of grand appeasement.
Sensuous sinews entwine effervescently.
More loose chicks in short skirts,
Pouting and scamming.
Times are hot in the old town tonight.
Music and misery, wine and wickedness.
Stubborn clocks disarm with water-resistant influx.
I was a princox in petticoats.
We met at a Tastee Freez at twilight.
28 cracks in the ceiling, and I lost count.
Dedicated to 12 innocents killed by a gunshooter in West Cumbria.
A killer vindictive staunch, trivial systallic gush.
Violate grumble wish washy starling a virent push.
A Wheeler dealer syncopated steadfast ware wolf,
Gurgitation gusty thorough fare tripudiate brush.
Tirailleur timorous tintinnabulation whiffle tingle.
The poetry slave, ah that talented slave
she who utters sweet nothings with skill
That intelligent fool, ah that talented knave
the illiterate never have their fill
For her the pen dances, the ballet of the page
a grace that comes without any attention or focus
And though she is locked behind bar, behind cage
she is far to enraptured to notice
Tis a musicless song, a tintinnabulation
she conducts without music, without measure, and score
She gains with her verses such sweet admiration
yet still they insist upon more
The poetry slave, ah that talented slave
Forced to write without her consent
That intelligent fool, ah that talented knave
under lock and key but content
This is PG-13! While googling, I accidentally bumped into something I wrote seven years ago. Only vaguely remember it. No one on the site where I posted it commented. Expect nothing less here. :)
School-Daze Dreaming
From the patio I watched her
Silhouette behind the shade
The allurement of Diana
Quivered in eleventh grade
Through a warm wind I still shivered
From those curves of treachery
While she reveled in my weakness
At her sin's abilities
That she'd beckon one so lonely
Drifting as a single cloud
Her wicked school girl chastity
Like a paragon to proud
As her image was uncovered
When the shades were opened wide
Through my rigidness I pondered
Should libido be my guide
For my own demented ego
Born of promises so pure
Could not wallow any longer
In a place this insecure
So, I harnessed my stiletto
Unrequited for too long
Turned my back on absolution
Let the sheath fulfill the prong
As emotions overwhelmed me
And my hands unleashed her breasts
Squeezing demons from her bosom
Til myself became possessed
And her muzzled screams of horror
Through her separated knees
Where the warm, red blood was oozing
From her now deflowered tease
The tintinnabulation
Signals class is at its end
I awaken from my stupor
With contempt I say, "Dismissed"
Quickly, students flee the doorway
Save one girl of seventeen
And I stare in vexed amazement
At the object of my dream
From her desk, thighs barely parted
First a smile and then a wink
And her steam contorts my vision
To a pedestal of pink
.....
A reluctant sun expresses its last light
As the golden moon becomes a thief once more
Landing on her mound of Venus late that night
Carries us on tides to Aphrodite's shore
The ceaseless beating of a drum,
fast marks our days ‘til we are done.
Our time will come, our time will come.
Listen, listen, can you hear it?
Growing louder as you near it,
as men of courage, cowering, fear it.
A distant, daunting, haunting hum,
vibrations of a tympanum,
of time to come, of time to come.
Strings of the cosmic tympanum,
vibrating ‘branes as they are strum,
keep perfect time ‘til we are done.
Drum beats of infinite duration,
a cosmic tintinnabulation,
God’s multiversal modulation.
In resonance the yogis “OM”
harmonics of the cosmic thrum,
that marks our days ‘til we are done.
The poets and the prophets pray
their words of warning will convey
why we should cherish every day:
Blake wrote with vision, somber, sour,
“Eternity in just one hour.”
Just long enough to smell a flower,
before the beasts of time devour.
Look, to the stars, where we began,
now turn around and you are old.
Go, smell the flowers, while you can,
soon you’ll be buried in the cold.
For the ceaseless beating of a drum,
fast marks our days ‘til we are done.
Our time will come ... my time has come!
For the ceaseless beating of a drum,
fast mar …
Submitted 6-8-2020.
Lolita’s Conceit
Obsession defined
Vladimir Vladimirovich Nabokov
An accursed passion
Love’s true abomination.
Literary allusion
Tintinnabulation
Sounding moral oblivion
God’s sure condemnation.
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
August 18, 2018 (Double Dactyl)
"Siren Sings Poe Home"
Bells are ringing
Can you hear me singing?
Poe absent, finds his feet
6 feet under snow
Soul is free flying
with black feathery things
Sharp knives slicing the cold
Midnight wings
dancing the Passepied
with the tintinnabulation
of swinging titular poets
Murders of Crows
Christmas comes
Christmas goes
(LadyLabyrinth/2018)
Christmas, 2018.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CaGBQeJ6SgM
"Hear the sledges with the bells -
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WnEUC4eZjjA
London, Translation of Paul Verlaine’s poem : Londres
…a serious and well-behaved Englishman, well-attired, handsome clothes (Victor Hugo)
(In this poem, I didn’t feel adhering strictly to the rhyme scheme would have served a higher purpose. T. Wignesan)
One summer Sunday when everything’s bathed in sunshine
London turns into a real feast for délicate souls tuned in :
Trees strong and rotund from frail lawns sprouting
Tender green, an air far from mists and gases grows fine.
So much so they appear to be planted in pastoral country
Limpid sunshine feathery in the fine sky, though blue-ish
Hardly. One feels as if in a bath where wafts
The perfume of a lingering infusion of tea.
Ten-thirty, the hour of interminable services
Divine. Thousands of melodious bells toll through the air
Sonorous and volatile as though seized by strange caprices,
The psalms of David come snorting through clear fog.
Such silvery tintinnabulation that one hears not in France,
The country of intensely tolling bells of bitter bronze
Strike up a concert that’s most sweet, instilling of hope and joyous
Though perhaps a little too sweet, one must there fear Hell.
Tolling bells again greet the afternoon. Men in queues
Well-dressed women and children glide rather
Than walk, hold to their silence in a selfish manner
With their voices reserved instead for exclaiming amen.
All this people look pleased in their stiffening posture
Clasping, even if mistakenly, to their profession of faith
And their Protestantism being alike rough and spineless
Makes some look even set right above the reach of the law.
Hopes of the true christian, Peter’s ever-widening fish-pond,
Fish ready for the Fisher who may count on catching them ;
Holy-Ghost, God Almighty, let pour Thy light on them
So that Jesus’ worth they might at last come to understand.
Six o’clock. The drinkers find their way to the refreshment room,
The family its «home » and the street’s abandoned to God :
And in the dirty-looking sky a few stars look quite lonesome
Foreshadowing rain over homeless beggars out in the cold.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
A closer look at a fantastic word
And no, I’m not talking in bafflegab
To not repeat this speak is just absurd
To absquatulate like a fracas herd
Throw a foofaraw over a little jab
A closer look at a fantastic word
A uni-brow is a glabella furred
And whirligigs hung too slapdash to grab
To not repeat this speak is just absurd
Scuttlebutt schlepped to sassafras by bird
Skedaddle from a skirmish of stone crab
A closer look at a fantastic word
A quibble over razzmatazz occurred
Doohickey from a lummox, easy nab
To not repeat this speak is just absurd
So scrumdiddlyumptious I may have slurred
Like tintinnabulation, it’s not drab
A closer look at a fantastic word
To not repeat this speak is just absurd
The musical band
--O' ladies and gentlemen--
Eardrum *tinnitus!
*Tintinnabulation--ringing or tinkling of bells
*Tinnitus--a ringing in the ears