Long Gongs Poems
Long Gongs Poems. Below are the most popular long Gongs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gongs poems by poem length and keyword.
I am the Garden
in me all things live
in me nothing is forgotten
here we enter
after being done with the Serpent
flamed or in darkness
when the Cross enters from below
we die, never to be reborn
Over naked breasts and belly
shadows dissolve in milk and manna
transmuted to rainbows of gold
in the body of the Magdalena
droplets dance fiery ice
where Power is gained through
entry into the Garden of the Heart
another way then becomes the forgotten
Nothing more entices, no fleshly desire lingers
wisdom is my key to the
Gate of Chrysanthemum Purity
where Patience is enthroned at the
fulcrum of two spheres
after we’ve climbed ladders of courage
listened to mournful entreaties, tolling gongs
shook hands with Keepers of Freedom
Our giving becomes our taking
Separation, the Union
the going, a returning
returning, our resting where the
Centre of Silvery Strands is Stillness
born of angels and white doves
as Truth cloaks, after paying
in sweat and tight purple silences
Few know how the Garden imbues
or how matrix minds dissolved or
what a tiny imprint is hidden in the
Palm of God-Goddess where the
Palm of Blood and Thorns
washed us from the shores of
ancient lands into the
moistness of I N F I N I T Y
Continued from Part 2
Some kid is spraying Clearasil,
He wants to make his pimples nil;
He paints his breath with chlorophyll;
I’m in the dream of someone ill
I’m fleeing but I feel a goose,
Behind me grins a guy named Bruce,
His velvet miniskirt is puce
Why can’t I even call a truce?
There’s Billy Graham on a binge
His holy words do make me cringe;
If nonsense were a door with fringe
Then Billy Graham would be the hinge
I hear some Wallace words unkind
How has our race so soon declined?
His thoughts should be in sheit enshrined;
Thank god my eyes are color blind
The Beverly Hillbillys pace the street
The crowds are lying at their feet
While Petticoat Junction joins the fleet
And Green Acres makes it complete
I guess I know that something’s wrong
I haven’t yet met old King Kong,
They say ‘he went back to Hong Kong
For that is where he do belong’
Now I’m pausing in the gloom
And watch the reruns they exhume
They still do stink, I smell the fume;
To run away I must resume
Here comes Mitch, he’s singing songs
While Lawrence Welk, he beats the gongs;
I need to buy some racing thongs,
Instead they sell me three Ding Dongs
Behind me now there grows a tree
While Howdy Doody bends his knee;
I haven’t lost my sanity,
I’m merely tuned to Channel Three
End
Contest betwixt us friends had been common,
Who is who? Who, here, is a true lawman?
When two palms trees though compete to grow high,
They do not crush the common plants nearby...!
Don't, yet, serpents raise their hoods in anger?
Don't their pique sounds, like gongs, often, clangor?
Ladder and snake, a game we used to play,
We win, or, lose none ever nothing say...!
It's when we started our major business,
Within us arose, like froze ice, stiffness;
When he grew I fainted and vice versa,
Body ached; heart bound; veins stood like bursa...!
When I won he lost; when he won I lost;
In our functions, yet, both had been one host;
Like beet-root when I shoot he maintains mum,
Like onions, I too empty at his numb...!
20 November 2022
THE CRAP SHOOT #2 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: John lawless
The Celestial NAAFI
Well there sits old Buck like he always did,
Waving his pipe and tilting his lid.
There’s Johnny and Ronny and Shep and old Taffy,
And Soapy still doing his impression of Daffy.
Flapper all quiet at the side with McGraw.
Knocker and Geordie, and old Billy Shore.
And over there’s Banjo, spinning his yarns,
And Bod with his girlfriends, trying to dance.
There’s Baggins and Pusser, Slinger and Freddy,
There’s Millie with Googie – they look like they’re ready.
With Annie and Jo-Jo, it looks like old Hutch
Is making sure he hasn’t lost his light touch.
While Jeffers and Benjy are dealing the cards,
Doc still complains that that the games are too hard.
The faces familiar, the uniforms right,
All fitting perfect, none loose and none tight.
Everyone’s happy and looking their best,
From bulled-up toe-caps to the gongs on their chests.
Back by the bar are the older lads too,
Who went long before, whom none of us knew.
Blue suits and red coats, khaki and green,
All badges and headgear that ever were seen.
Ancient or modern, by sea, land or air,
Be sure of a welcome when it’s time to be there.
Raise a hand and smile, shout a cheery Hello!
To the Celestial NAAFI, where Service Folk go.
The final kismet of three hundred sixty five days
Which charmed me in time’s remembering jaunts ,
As radiant eyes winked ,
and lacy veils blew
Beyond late dusk as old tower gongs pealed,
When hymn of joy was one blessed song
That cuddled me back
where I came from:
And now, a freshly ripe morn inscribes my dream
Inviting my heart to raise,
to adorn new curtains on the hall .
Emerald leaves sprout birthing moments in bold flight
First pages of excitement
revel through evening, gold--
Like new chapters’ written intents quite spirited
Buoying lithesome aspirations still to be done…
How childlike thrill
awaits more literary adventures,
My travel pursuits that may need a heady romp...
Undaunted, I would scribble
mementos on December’s path
Hoping the coming year, Twenty Twenty, would take me there
--------------------
8/1/2019
One Hundred and Thirty Six Words Contest
Sponsor: John Lawless
Checked via wordcounter.net
--------------------------
~ In our country, the informal yet jovial mood of
Christmas and New Year commences on September 1.
Holiday songs ring on the radio; women begin to order gifts.
Last night, my family and friends discussed freely our
wishes for next year. This is our Asian- Christian tradition.
I enter my primeval room lit with candles
from an ethnic sanctuary, and revisit
the mural of ancestral stories
where horses and men flock to graze
the oracles of generational chants
along a temple of ceremonies fed by rituals
now slowly molding in my mind…
the old folk confessions and communion
of decades cycled and recycled
by a rare history: parables marching back
to fables of peace -gongs and Asian warlike drums
claimed by time, claimed by my elder's rice wine,
that marrow against marrow
my flesh entwines among brave natives --
brothers of protection...mothers who nourish homes
as this ancestry cascades unto next heirs
of heirs of children like myself
bequeathing ruins and triumphs from
wise old souls, from our men’s legends…
and as the candle drifts,
my origin's history floods
these veins: I climb into life’s inner roots
and there my great forefather dwells
inside my blood... feisty, gentle, life-giving:
that somehow, I carry his heritage today,
I am his blood.
John Hamilton's Ancestral Roots
Submitted 6/10/2017
Across the globe, music ascends—a universal zephyr,
Bridging cultures in harmonious yearning;
Chords converge from Andes to the Zangezur, xenharmonic,
Dulcet tones of a duduk—in the air, they whisper.
Every note—an echo of humanity's vibration,
From flamenco's fire to the finesse of a cello's undulation;
Gamelan's gongs—a gamut of sounds' timbre,
Harmonium's hum—hearts and spirits, it serenades.
In India where the sitar intricately resonates
Juxtaposed with jazz as New Orleans quavers;
Kora's strings kiss the breeze as Africa pulses.
Lyrics leap across lands—in mosaic form, it oscillates.
Marimba's mallets are on wooden keys lightly narrate
Ney's notes always navigate in a trance-like murmur;
Oud's ornate voice offers a limericking lyric
Perhaps to partake in profound kinetic kinesis.
Qanun quietly queries—a quivering jumping jubilation
Rhythms resonate—a restorative impressive intonation;
Samba's syncopation—a spirited harking harmony
Tabla's tempo—a testament of gripping grandiloquence.
Uilleann pipes uplift with urgent a fever for fervor
Violins voice the vibrancy of the endless echo;
Whistles and winds—the world's diverse diapason
Xylophone's xylography—a cross-cultural cadence.
Yodeling yonder in the Alps' billowing bellow
Zither's zephyrs—a zenith we accentuate and attune.
Oh how I do love cats.
Not rats or bats,
Spats or hats;
(although I do own a chapeau or two).
I love cats of all sizes, colors and shapes;
even though they get in a lot of scrapes.
I love calicos, tabbies, marbled too;
I really love a Persian Blue.
I love them whether they have boots or socks;
I adore all their furry frocks.
Short-haired, long-haired, cats are great;
With cats, I love to celebrate.
They bring such joy and elation;
but, when they get in an altercation,
I calm them with my guitar strings;
cats do love to hear folks sing.
They stop to listen to my songs,
but they definitely don’t like drums or gongs.
So I sing and they calm down;
quite tranquil then’s, my kitty-crowd.
The hall echoes with the drone of
ecstatic chants and gongs,
‘midst a jungle of jasmine and red lilies.
Steep stairs of tread worn,
silica-laced granite and
indigenous red brick meander.
Yellow-jackets buzz,
and red-robed women with bound hair
and tightly laced hearts
jump rope like children.
Ornate caterpillars crawl fearlessly
among humanities most beautiful hearts;
waterfalls thrash in ecstasy.
Acolytes place the earthly remains
of florescent black and turquoise butterflies on alters;
in tribute to the Osho's garden.
wikipedia.org/wiki/Osho_(Bhagwan_Shree_Rajneesh)
"Timbales" are kettledrums from France and Spain; "Pauken" in Germany and "timpani" in other countries.
Greece, Middle East and ancient Egypt have kettledrums long time ago. Medieval crusaders in the 13th century brought nakers or small kettle drums in Europe for military purposes, specifically for signalling.
During the 15th century, Turks and Mongols used larger kettle drums for military processions.
Kettledrums are widely known as musical instruments in the 16th, 17th and 19th centuries.
When Greeks used the word "tympanon" for kettledrums as percussion instruments, Hebrews and modern Egyptians used similar drums for solemn rites, family gatherings and other special occasions.
Down the line after many centuries from its earliest roots, "timpani" (in plural form) is the commonly used word for kettledrums in both music and cultural entertainment. Kettledrums are made of copper or fiberglass in the form of bowls.
Kettledrums are lifeless objects, but the fairies and good elementals on earth give life to all other motionless entities. Material things around us may appear abstract, weird or odd, but it's only the human mind that can create life out of nothing.
If you play the accordion, harmonica, violin, bajo, piano, guitar, sitar, banduria, banjo, harp, Japanese Koto, Brazilian Tagima, African Kora, cymbals, gongs or any other instrument, playing the kettledrums can also be fun and worth the time. Don't forget to share your smiles and laughter with others! Life is an everlasting cycle of good and kindness. Stay good, grateful and beautiful!