Long Jingling Poems
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In the economy of social grace
I was losing in the great rat-race.
No wealth could I accumulate
I’d scarcely get a second date.
My Wall Street stock was always down
mere junk bonds of no great renown.
I was not suave, I had no game
the outcome always just the same:
“I know I said that you were hired,
I changed my mind, so now you’re fired.”
The ladies sent me on my way
I was too awkward, so they’d say.
It wasn’t easy on my pride
that I was under-qualified
for every opportunity
of love in my community.
Then one day something in my mind
clicked, and soon I seemed to find
that it was easier than before
to find some ladies who’d adore
me for my sharp, observant wit
and though I tried, I couldn’t quit
taking pleasure as I’d say,
“I like you…but please go away.”
It seemed my stock had turned around
*cha-ching* Oh, how I loved the sound
of social prowess in my pocket
jingling as my bonds would rocket.
And as I climbed up rung by rung,
I felt I had a golden tongue,
and always knew the perfect phrase
to get the job, or get a raise
at every opportunity
of love in my community.
But when I met you, in my mind
something clicked, I seemed to find
my thoughts were just a murky mess,
my stocks went down, and I confess,
I think we just might be soul-mates
brought together by the fates.
You have that sparkle in your eyes
that always takes me by surprise.
I get lost every time you’re near
I stumble and I think it’s clear,
I never know quite what to say;
I’m awkward, when you come my way.
I fidget, fumble and perspire
but if you’re looking for one to hire,
I’ll take this opportunity
for love in my community
to show up at your interview,
‘cause all the wealth I want, is you!
06/20/15
Preston Graham
Submission for Contest: The Interview
Hosted by: Judy Konos
Aroma of warmth, Aha! A cup of tea
Brewing romance, Yes, it's bittersweet.
Cheers of tranquility soak in solace
Darjeeling dreams, in Assam serene.
Ecstasy infused, our senses relaxed
Family and friends, bond captivated.
Golden or black, it's a drink just divine
Have a cup of Tea...and all gets fine!
Induces a mood, adventures unwind
Jingling china cups, in morning time.
Kettle whistles, bubbling with steam
Loose tea leaves in hot water swim
Melting sugar in lemon and honey.
Night jasmine, or chamomile flavour?
Oasis in summer, green tea is amber,
Picnic reverie, A fireside tea in winter.
Quiet thoughts to sedate the beverage
Rainy afternoons, cookies get drenched
Solace of caffeine blend creamy cakes
Taste delicious, evanescent moments
Under crushed cardamom is sober joy,
Valentine kiss: thou tea-cup you're mine
Wrap of the elixir slows our fast mood,
Xanadu magic! the hot and cold allude
Yin and Yang stirring in balanced hold.
Zest of life is Tea Time...layers unfold.
I thought poetry is
-name of Mesopotamia which was the first civilization to emerge in human history
-ancient cave peoples surviving life struggle
I thought poetry is
-an immortal love story of Yousuf- Zulekha, Shirin-Farhad, Laila-Majnu or Romeo-Juliet
-a telephonic or open love conversation of smiling postmodern girls
-drying wet colorful clothes of beloved in the courtyard of the house
-haring of beloved with tuberose garland before a mirror
I thought poetry is
-lizards chirping from the deserted house; cockroach flying
-quarrelsome cats in the black dark or barking dogs
-the struggle of mosquito for human blood
-traveling of the arrogant indecent animals all over the night
I thought poetry is
-thrilling venturous ghostly stories of J. K. Rowling
-self-expression of known-unknown writers
-unspoken tale of a war-wounded soldier
-the regret of the thousands of dead soldiers
-the unwritten fantasy of an isolated poet
-the lonely guitar or ektara of dead singers
I thought poetry is
-without reel tie an independent flying of a kite in the sky
-in the blue sky sovereign flapping of birds
-movement of invisible winds everywhere
-hearing story of fairytale crossing of green forest
I thought poetry is
-handmade airing of newly married girl to a new groom in lunch time
-dyed hands of nubile girls by mehndi,
-captivating sounds of jingling anklet and kamarband of dancing damsels
I thought poetry is
-classic music of Pandit Ravi Shankar
-immortal tune of Ustad Bismillah Khan's shehnai
-compilation of humanitarian lyrics of the legend Bob Marley
-heart touching reciting of the Holy Quran of Qari Abdul Basit
I thought poetry is
-unforgettable philosophical discussion of Socrates with his disciples
-the philosophic lineage of learning such as Socrates-Plato-Aristotle
-immortal scientific creations of Newton, Galileo, Einstein, Nikola Tesla, Hawking
I thought poetry is
-unremitting prayer or worship of any prevailed religion devotee to get heaven
-inhuman history of bombing on the Hiroshima and Nagasaki or brutality of 1st or 2nd World War
These all are just my thinking,
my thinking is free
on my path
but poetry is poetry,
more than any thinking, many more;
on its path
Poetry is independent fully
-June 27, 2019 Chattogram
Mister Joe, would-be muse,
jangles loose change in his pockets.
Each tiny clang sets forgotten cupboards humming.
Forgotten thoughts spring up, without asking.
Memories jog the journey while he's walking.
The kettle whistles before; the teacup understands.
Old riddles wash, rinse, tumble, and spin.
Rhymes peg themselves upon invisible lines.
The breeze flaps fresh ideas, hung out to dry.
"Finished the laundry, Mister Joe?"
The washing hangs bone-dry on the line.
He gathers the clothes, fluffs them loose.
Now the creases know exactly where to hide.
By dusk, his pockets have quietly grown heavier.
Loose change is dressed in freshly laundered clothes.
Every coin now sounds suspiciously like poems.
Next morning, he empties his pockets, onto the page.....
Sorting the jangles, line by line.
He wants to cast jangles and clangs,
into the minds of his readers, if they'll listen.
To show enough, but to leave enough unsaid.
He wants his words to fish where quiet memories sleep.
Each image leaves another mouth half wide open.
So the reader finds footprints before finding feet.
And a mirror quietly longing, to become a window.
The catch is prodded, puzzled - shaken and stirred.
Some readers smile; some simply stop and stare.
Each little clang becomes another hidden key.
Unlocking rooms he never knew were waiting there.
The poem, once written, quietly triggers,
jingles rattling in the readers' pockets.
Coming home with someone else's change.
For a poem is more than the bell a poet rings~
It is the echoes awakening in waiting bells.
The page is turned... the reader keeps on jingling.
The reader keeps on jingling.
The reader keeps on jingling.
Christmas bells, can you hear them ringing?
All night long, carolers singing.
A magical night,
your eyes shut tight,
waiting for Santa's magic sleigh to land!
Penciled out is the last day.
So tonight is the right night.
And sleep seeds dreams,
with sugarplum themes,
waiting for Santa's magic sleigh to land!
In the morning, we can open presents,
sharing smiles as they get passed around.
I'll ask, "is one for me?"
You'll say, "yes, more than one,
waiting for Santa's magic sleigh to land!
So calm down,
dream of things you desire:
hang your socks by the fire.
Leave Santa a snack
then go hit the sack,
waiting for Santa's magic sleigh to land!
In the air, bells are jingling.
Can you hear them?
A magical night,
your eyes shut tight,
waiting for Santa's magic sleigh to land!
drifters we are
walking quietly through the night
the wonders of positivity opens new doors of beauty
what we see is all that is missing
what we discover are parts of life we never knew were glistening
with thumbs of exitement in the air we ready ourselves for what comes next
perhaps the gentle waters
perhaps that tranquil mountains
the element of surprise wows us like the taste cinnamon on our tongues
if we could die here we would, but instead we just wake up and plan
dreams are the art unknown and the stage unseen
behind all veils of the vibes are excursions breathtaking to whatever level eye
wanderers we are
strolling peacefully through the day
the amazement of the uplifting scenes crashing against the padlocks of our minds
as a result, we become optimistic beggars for more
the scent of all the arrows introduces us to gravitational blissfulness
in other words, God is Good....
It’s almost Christmas , still I'm quite annoyed
Visions of North Pole, now crumpled and foiled;
While youngsters for deer bells to ring
My palms tuck ears from voices caroling.
Fireplace adorned with trinkets on Yule rug
Awaiting Ole Claus to sneak by... humbug!
Wishes for red bike never came last year
My card he ignored, did it disappear?
Now, I wonder if you really exist...
My eyes teary, as I’m not on the list
Even Mama dances by the flames so proud,
Repeating your name (Vixen’s too), aloud.
“Dear Santa, I doubt the speed of your ride
How can you bring presents in hours, worldwide? "
Till a note falls,“ Child, you have to believe
In the kindness this season can weave.”
Surprised, my bike turns out... my delight,
Faith jingling , “Merry Christmas; good night!”
Laura Loo's Contest:: Any poem written on your birthday II
Written 1/8/2017( my birthdate)
Submitted 7/12.2017
After Dad's Sunday softball games,
all the kids would run the bases.
Then we'd skip over to the River Inn Tavern.
Players would gather in small sweaty clumps.
Guzzling life
Playing pool
Devouring cold cuts.
Rehashing the scent of the game
The dirt on their uniforms,
was pure, blue-collared art.
I collected bottle caps in those days.
Had a secret agreement with "Chops."
The team coach and tavern owner.
Every time the cash register rang.
The richer he and I became.
Big George was the first baseman.
Power hitter and power drinker.
He was by far the biggest contributor to my collection.
My favorite bottle cap was a Genesse Cream Ale.
It was a pretty pale green.
It reminded me of a quiet mountain lake.
Or the eyes of the little blonde just down the lane.
Many bottle caps later we would leave the River Inn Tavern.
Dad's heart brimming with dirt and diamond.
My pockets jingling with tiny mountain lakes.
Both of us stinking of beer and bargain cigarettes.
That was a million Sundays ago,
Chops, Big George, and my bottle cap collection have left the batter's box.
My dear father is on deck.
Don't know what ever became of the little blonde down the lane.
Autumn reigns in glory but for a season before
winter covers her with a quilt of snow.
~ by poet
au revoir to autumn leaves
tumbling aground in the breeze
leaving their branches disrobed
naked each season of fall
a time for harvests and feasts
pumpkins to carve, pies to bake
for family gatherings
before winter winds blow in
there'll be white blankets of snow
decorations to be hung
jingling bells then will be heard
and voices singing his praise
hearth fire flames become embers
the scent of pine boughs lingers
I am contented with life
in the haven of my home
Venus
Casts a tiny shadow
Upon the ghostly snow
From its candle held by an extended hand
Of a cloaked man
Who trips through the stripped trees
Follows the fresh trail of reindeer
To our second-floor windowsills
Then on to rooftops lined with owls
Comet tails thrashing through the oval
Stars
The kids pretend to sleep
To the faint smell of hay
Their red stockings overflow with candy canes
Earlier in the gray day
As I walked my dog alone in the park
A herd of deer
Found a barren patch of grass
In the backyard of a farmhouse
Laid themselves out
Like real life figurines to a nativity scene
Four does curled up on all fours
Three bucks standing over them
Antlers like crowns
Two more does
Heads bowed
Grazing
Kitchen light
On
In the window
Next to a frozen pond
A swan curtsies and a sandhill crane bows
They nearly kiss
Looking on
In our bed
Between my wife and I
With his furry head laid on our pillow
Our golden retriever jerks from a dream
Whimpers perhaps
For my hand cupping his treat
Both cats stretch
Between our legs
Ears twitching to moles jingling
To the faint guiding light
Outside
It’s five before midnight
The animals will soon begin to talk
Though I’ve heard them
All my life
Hallelujah!