Bike riding,
hair flying.
Ball hitting,
bases getting.
Puppy wrangling,
treats jangling.
Tree climbing,
perfect timing.
It's my world—
an American girl!
I thought it was the right thing to do
On reflection, it wasn't
As they played to us seven people
In a barn in North Wales
Candles and hay
Beards and denim
As they wrapped up and we met them
I saw it there
Polished and gleaming in the light
Crimson and jingling jangling
I picked it up and took it with me in the taxi
At our own band rehearsal
Our singer turned to me and said,
"Where's Jarcrew's tambourine?"
I regret what I did
It was a mistake of rock and roll judgment
Nowadays, my composure has become my superpower
That, and my handlebar moustache
I woke in a cheer toned embrace.
Enthused by the bubbly hold,
I wished to spread its hugging sound.
Joyful feel emotively
played jolly, jingling, jangling notes
on a gleeful tambourine.
I thought of you stranded on that shelf,
your plastic hands curled around empty air.
I woke dad; he didn’t say just a doll.
put boots over bare feet, keys jangling.
truck's headlights cut through frozen dark~
yellow eyes leading us to silent school.
dad lifted me on his shoulders. I’m here!
he wrenched window open; cold rushed in;
you awoke; we brought you home!
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
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
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….
'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?
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 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
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.
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
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 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)
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.
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