Jangling Poems | Examples

In Stars Above

In stars above our secrets hang—
Our naked past unspoken of
Veiled words that the talking drums bang
In stars above

Silent choirs delight our chain gang
Even sun yolks; friendly folks shove
And shout below, still mercies sang

Contentment rests as a sweet dove
On shoulders shattered so, they rang
Minced bones jangling, but God does love
In stars above

By The Squeaky Gate

Swish of  ripples weave
 along a ledge...my hands pretending 
to rap beneath inked  stars ;
while soft winds chime a lonely chorus
filling the shoreline 
with empty rhythm and blues;
the ones which lightly twitch my heart--

Every note jangling, crawling
 in this stained night...
for the love I know best 
gushes out, unnoticed and aloof,
still I pray " by the squeaky old gate
that tomorrow will find" him...as mine:

seasons pass like long processions 
 that in final screams of angst, 
I learn to dance alone...


First Place

Still wandering

For Dylon Song Tribute contest
Sponsor: Oliver Mckeithan
Written on: 05/22/2025

Inspired by Mr. Tambourine Man

The roads yawn in their speech, 
on this uncharted path tonight.
Clocks hang on walls like ghosts,
their hands spinning aimlessly.
Somewhere, 
beyond the velvet murmur of the lamp’s glow,
my feet shuffle like old leaves,
sashaying to an illusory jingle.
Its carefree melody swirling with the wind,
jangling the bones of my memory.
I follow not because need summons me,
but because idleness has become a deafening sound,
since I am a stranger to sleep, 
and the restless heartbeat keeps asking.
Guide me to the edge of oblivion,
where the horizon unstitches,
and the future pours into the present.
Transport me beyond reason,
where untethered thoughts can float,
mid the whispers of the tide.
I want to be in the in-between of music notes,
on the cusp before the sound,
at the pause before the waves break.
And then,
when the day begins to rust,
and the tide teases apart my shape
Let me wade behind you,
ankle deep in a strange joy
still wandering….

The Prismatic Self

'I think, therefore I am!'
I write to bang and clang,
to play with words, cast spells.

Wrangle and entangle readers,
with thoughts dredged from memories,
resonating, reverberating within selves,
aligned on shelves, waiting to join in.

An audience of thinkers shaken not stirred,
by the clang and jar of poetic,
rhythms, rhymes, images and ideas.

Rendered with razzmatazz and syncopation,
in the written words rendered,
improvised, and concocted in a group session.

On a stage, on a page,
of prismatic selves, 
jamming and jarring,
banging and clanging,
jangling with Mr Joe,
in worn out shoes.

Afraid, 
that no one is listening, or 
that no one,
really, truly, bluesy cares?

Union Correctional Institution

the heat presses down like a drunk cop’s boot,
metal fences shiver in the sticky Florida sun,
concrete walls spit their old secrets at you,
black mildew crawls across everything,
like it's alive and goddamn winning.

men with broken teeth laugh in corners,
playing cards with cigarette ashes and dreams,
the guards walk slow, like they own death,
keys jangling like a bad symphony,
boots scuffing, breaking the silence open.

sweat pools in the cracks of your skin,
rats wiser than the wardens,
paint peels in long strips, like shedding snakes,
you hear screams, sometimes,
but mostly you hear the waiting.

somewhere far off, a dog barks—
but not for you, not for you.

The Name's Illness, Mental Illness

The faceless name of stigma
with more eyes than not
go side steps and looks
there, media begot

Whose singing and slur
with stick and with stone
the backhanded harm
confiding to home

With strength that’s locked up
minds reeling to shout
the jangling of keys
to let that strength out

It’s a tentative stride
walking into the frame
those keys are our tools
to win back our name

Last Organ Grinder

You can always hear the jangling sound,
Of the organ grinder as he makes his way around.

He's out there in the rain or sun,
And everyone looks and seems to have fun.

He is a funny looking man with an old battered hat,
Which he holds out for people to put their pennies in, but sometimes there are buttons and other bits of this and that.

He seems very old and is stooped and bent,
Pulling that old organ around just to get enough to pay his rent.

He hasn't been around lately, perhaps he is to old to turn the stiff organ winder,
It's been a long time now, so it seems we have seen the last of that old organ grinder.

It Is May

the wind howls and whirls
eastward of the pier's fence
anchor chains jangling

May has come around
the thick, surrounding drizzle
continues to rain 

under blazing sun
yesterday's raindrops dried up
the cracks look larger

Written: May 13, 2023

Greenery Wraps

In the shade, I shrivel
in flowering cactus
crafting sloppy verse

below the scraggly
exhausted moon

warm reverberations of love
originating in the Jade Garden
nerves jangling in my true being

the magnificent encounter 
of how to melt 
this iron reluctance

dreams can feel 
most real than actual life
every day as I unseal my eyes.

Written: May 12, 2023

That Dark Place

"That Dark Place"

that place 

where hope waits torturously in vain 
and strength is found cloaked in the kinder darkness 
it waits patiently in that remote singular quiet 
a neat corner of solitude back-of-house 
where sonnets call to mind jangling contemplation
of under promises and over zealous outcomes 
romancing poésies pressed between 
the seconds and the hours, the days and years missed 
the metronome tick-ticks luring forth integrity 
from phantoms outside of imagination 
such a rare well-hidden jewel dangling
on the end of a long chain of events 
to find courage sorely missing front-of-house 
on its card table of tricks that dark place its truth well lit 
and the light once switched, changes the shade 

of everything

(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)

Lotto and Gambling Compared

I find little wrong with lotto.
They don’t play it in a grotto:
Hotels and parks lovers go to;
Camera free with its photo,
On some scene of play priest’s motor.
He knew where the rivers flow to...
 
Or should we fault the lotto:
It make a thing to say “No” to?
An airplane to stop its rotor?
Then, it is igneous-hard: your motto!
The lotto not like marked gambling,
For which you dropped not keys jangling,
Later on some walls fists banging;
For evening up of scores angling.

Hopes of gain rule the mind in both 
But gamblers lots of feared laws quote:
Risk consciousness less in lotto,
Gambling: frequent site in ghetto.

Afford lotto guys could child’s smile
While few things gamblers stretch a mile: 
You love gambling, you love some gun;
Mad gambler takes along his son...
So, what little wrong has lotto?
There are holier games to cling to.

A Baby Is a Bundle

A baby is a bundle of jangling receptors
    a limb-wiggling curiosity machine
  Equipped to record and retain every sensation
    with nodes and neurons labyrinthine

  We watch her nap and feed
    pray she gets the sleep she needs
  While deep inside her, a learning explosion
    moves mighty mountains, fills vast oceans

Bells and Whistles

Jingle jangle went her wrists,
jangle jingle rang the rings that swung from bell-roped ears.
Unless she shook like a tambourine, she could hardly be seen.

When in motion Bodhrán drums and pursed wind-blown pipes
marched upright, legs as stiff as Irish dancers.

Maybe fairies danced in her eyes, or maybe drunken dodgem cars?
Something was turning and bumping,
something was walking and talking, jangling, and jingling
upon a nervy trampoline of being.

Though fascinatingly thrumming with the sonics
of a madcap Calle band she failed to transmit, nor fit,

as if she had shaken free of the crowd to be this
jiggling skeleton key seeking any keyhole of attention.

Self Evidence

SELF EVIDENCE
a mania
recognised
 open&esablished
provocations
erupt
  in its wake
a harmony of
   the melodic
jangling

this anguish
  rekindled
with an intimate
reverance

so immediate
  a transformed insight
summoned
  &visible
so lifelike

THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived

House of Horror

Twisted and broken my bones be a jangling. 

Crying and screaming for my body be a hanging 

 Cheers and a chuckling as the klan be a sanging

Music to his ears as the echoes be a ranging

 So deep was the South

So cozy was the house

Im cold in the grave

Just a boy for me to save

He was buried and drowned in that cave 

Animal on his back ,is what they engraved 

If grownups could only behave

I never whistled at her mister but I told you I waved.

• Short Jangling Poems
• Famous Jangling Poems
• Best Jangling Poems
• Read Jangling Poems
• Long Jangling Poems
• Jangling Quotes