Long Tinkles Poems
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The revelations of winter pass now,
the captured moments of vertical strife,
the stanchion of paper white birch forests
rigid on the black scratch board of rocky hillock
soon, these markers of winter will be hidden.
The milky froth of frozen ground water with its
watery tresses falling in a downward slashes
passing over grey granite cliffs will disappear.
Brave bits green will spring,
rising succulent and sucking, hungry
as the red tipped maples tonguing the foggy air.
Winter weaned from the austerity of fast.
The still white tombstones marking the hill
will be hidden behind verdant forests of poplar,
beech, maple and rampant evergreen.
Each structural element, each under pinning
pining for the cloak of spring,
craving an end to the cracked and chapped existence,
longing for the robin’s song, and the worm’s rise.
Dreaming of golden dandelions
as the rain tinkles down.
Its a shame how less and less
My dream is in total distress
For staying youthful and not growing
old--but each day it is showing
More and more-it will not end
There's no cure--I'm at the end
Of keeping myself free of age
Each day brings another stage
There are wrinkles on my wrinkles
Its hard to hold in my tinkles
Walking one step takes forever
My smart brain's no longer clever
I creek with every little move
Tryna find my happy groove
I could be toy silly putty
From skin sagging on my body
My eyesight's blurry and double
Making frightful mirror trouble
Aches and pains in joints and bones
Causing monstrous loud groans
Nap time is now a routine
Sleeping "granny's" a funny scene
I think there's reason for complaining
To a certain someone I'm blaming
Father time please hear my "booing"
For the things you have been doing
SONG OF WIND
Wind chime hanging from tree in my garden
swings, sways, cheers on murmur of leaves,
joyfully jingles, rings, sings song of wind
raising resonance in rustle.
As if flute to play by breeze
blowing through cylindrical holes.
Classy brassy golden wind chime
with glittering glass crystals
hitting one another in intermittent rhythm
on thrust of whimsy gust
shines, sparkles, sends soft sound
trembles in stormy rain, gets sodden in luster,
rollicks, tinkles in sweet tone,
My precious treasure bringing blessing and pleasure:
Gift from my beloved father.
My muse gets mingled with music of wind chime.
Melody floating flaunting rendering rhapsody.
08/20/18
End August 2018 Standard Contest by Brian Strand
First Place
[To the tune of Ghost Riders In The Sky (loosely)]
*
Heaven’s almost everywhere but mainly upon high
Santa Claus delivers there cos he’s that kind of guy
The lack of any lavatory almost made him cry
He tried to keep his legs crossed but he dribbled from the sky
He needs to go
He needs to pray
No toilets in the sky
The holy choir tinkles as they travel on their way
Sprinkling golden showers ’cross the moonlit sky today
They have no private place to pee which fills them with dismay
For there’s no public toilets... in the Milky Way
Gabriel is struggling cos he’s been out on the beer
His guts are throwing tantrums and he tries to plug his rear
He knows he’s gonna poop his pants that fact is fairly clear
For there’s no public toilets... in the upper atmosphere
He needs to go
He needs to pray
No toilets in the sky
Saint Peter has some turbulence and says a little prayer
He needs to poop and piddle but there’s nowhere private there
He’s sure he gonna throw up and become a vomit sprayer
For there’s no public toilets... in the ozone layer
Satan’s uncle pooped himself, how will he show his face
Public humiliation, he’s in permanent disgrace
He couldn’t hold it in although he found no private place
For there’s no public toilets... on the edge of space
He needs to go
He needs to pray
No toilets in the sky
Grim, the reaper belched and burped, his tummy grumbled loud
His fart was wet but silent, he was glad because he’s proud
Grim is really trying not to throw up over crowds
For there’s no public toilets... high above the clouds
The angel doubled up and squirted out a putrid spray
Santa Claus got splattered as the reindeer pulled away
All kinds of hell will rain upon a Yuletide Earth this year
For there’s no public toilets... in the stratosphere
He needs to go
He needs to pray
No toilets in the sky
7 October 2021
Contest: The Throne In Heaven
Sponsor: Jack Webster
And
Contest: Change The Record
Sponsor: Natasha L Scragg
Another meeting for the important elected procedure,
attainment and its necessity for the believer.
Those trivial suggestions by all means to please,
to the sympathy of the dutiful ear, like the chill of a morning breeze.
Controlling manipulation changing direction,
arty serenade with confusing conception.
Smitten confessions as tangible bribe,
like tinkles of repeated mono chords that have something to hide.
Cannot change the fallible structure regardless its loss,
the hammered maze charmingly with strokes of fate to toss.
So many ‘ifs’ that must do thunder,
sparking the ideal of burden to take under.
Questioning liberation with more questions chiming the gasp and moan,
while superior compassion providing the free buffet as tone.
The imprisoned alternative cries in many hearts,
the orator voice still conducting his inspiring sacrificing arts.
Those marches of the all experienced brave,
the nerving monotone at the edge, by the martyrs cave.
The caffeinated beverage becomes the inner hug with little release,
leaving conceptions so pale in forethought to please.
Countless compartments of wasted attentions looking for the door,
when the same same mounts to the erected surprise on this floor.
The hypocritical day with dreams to sell,
while the conscious metaphor rings another bell.
Are those wisdom pearls from life’s ocean the crown?
or is the slave of the never meeting ends holding down.
O convenient comfort and loss of love thereby as melody,
the ends of being and ideal grace the ultimate remedy.
The living game of chess, where figures cannot be at same place,
the protection of the king are the square schemes of the trace.
"Bonjour, in the cocktail woods"
I see the waffled leaves of teal trees painting pink moon,
With diamond dahlia arcs, flowering an orchid boon
Sprinkling love of french perfumed spells and cocoa mystique,
Flickering in neon scented star seeds of rose-glossed antique
For, I'm the fragrant fluorescence of pure peace lilies,
Floating amidst dancing dove's glowing daisies
In a redolent riverbank, loving life like the sweet butter-sun,
Wandering in black forests, enveloping magic in red ribbons
Defrosting my white chocolate heart peeking through tinkles,
Singing beyond the glass petals of peony and snowdrop marvels;
Perhaps, plush strawberries too have starry scars,
On their silken ganache skin, bleached with calendula and mars
And my luscious butterscotch lips tremble at the blurry squeaks,
Ruffled by minty chills in my cherry-blushed cheeks
I search for addictive caffeine in gold-glazed dawns that bask,
Pouring nectarine reveries in lavender litchi hearts
Life's a bittersweet syrupy sea, coated with tangy rainbow hues,
Forlorn, this forbidden folklore is shaded with sycamore's adieus
They say, mocha pupils and vanilla haze of iris,
Can carve a melon hued watercolor portrait alive,
But I believe that the purest is never a sweet dessert survived,
In this delusional donut-shaped globe and tangerine beehive;
So, I shove my identity in Van Gogh's abstractly bejeweled canvas,
And let my caramel brown hair, gleam in golden hymns of aqua
Waving walnut "goodbyes" to velvet ochre sands and sapphire skies,
Forevermore, fluttering hummingbird's dreams in oscillating flamingo galaxies.
Santa’s doing Tinkles as he travels on his way
Sprinkling golden showers ’cross the moonlit sky today
He has no private place to pee which fills him with dismay
For there’s no public toilets... in the Milky Way
Santa’s got his legs crossed cos he’s been out on the beer
His guts are throwing tantrums and he wishes home was near
He knows he’s gonna poop his pants that fact is fairly clear
For there’s no public toilets... in the upper atmosphere
He needs to go
He needs to pray
No toilets in… the sky
Santa hits some turbulence and says a little prayer
He needs to poop and piddle but there’s nowhere private there
He’s sure he’s gonna throw up and become a vomit sprayer
For there’s no public toilets... in the ozone layer
Santa’s gonna poop himself, how will he show his face
Public humiliation, and permanent disgrace
He can’t hold on much longer, though he needs a private place
For there’s no public toilets... on the edge of space
He needs to go
He needs to pray
No toilets in… the sky
Santa belched and burped and then his tummy grumbled loud
His fart was wet but silent, he was glad because he’s proud
Santa’s really trying not to throw up over crowds
For there’s no public toilets... high above the clouds
Santa can’t believe his butt just played a squeaky tune
He’s been holding it in but now his gut’s a gas balloon
There’s gonna be an awful mess if he don’t get home soon
For there’s no public toilets… far beyond the moon
He needs to go
He needs to pray
No toilets in… the sky
Santa’s doubled up, good job the reindeer know the way
He’s squirting out of every orifice a putrid spray
All kinds of hell are raining down on Earth this Christmas Day
For there’s no public toilets... in the Milky Way
Down on Earth a seagull pooped upon a lady’s head
“They say it’s meant to bring good luck,” her boyfriend almost said
But what came down upon him from above had killed him DEAD
Santa cried, “I’M SORRY SON… WHY WEREN’T YOU HOME IN BED?”
He needs to go
He needs to pray
No toilets in… the sky
No toilets in…the sky
No… toilets… in…… the sky
Music is an undying
art of soul ~
an abstract eden, where,
euphonious unicorns
glide in strawberry sonatas,
amplifying rhapsody in
ballads of flight,
when fuchsia feathers
tease those
jingling breezes,
infusing breaths
in every lifeless aroma;
where I can soar
beyond the
brushstrokes
of symphonies that
planktons sing to me,
in the requiems of
forsaken pearls,
crooning with
silenced shimmers
beneath wavy blues.
Maybe,
I'm a songwriter
without words,
and my electric fingers
trace the tunes
of serene strings,
when guitars weave
a sonorous guilt
midst ruby runes
of regrets.
I wish to keep
swinging in a
cosmic cadence,
where celestial notes
choreograph
themselves in the
moonwalking
mellifluence of
lunar legacies.
I gossip with
neon nightingales,
laced with neutrinos
and compel them
to chant those
healing incantations
of love and glory,
like the forlorn
princess - Rapunzel,
desiring to feel
the glow of
familiar lanterns,
winged with
hazy syncs of
unsung yesteryears.
I wonder if,
I'm not meant
to compose
crystal canticles
in a Disney duet,
for, I believe,
I'm a soul searcher
in the flesh of
a soloist, concocting
an elixir of my
existence through
cinnamon anthems
of mystical
moonrises, as
they softly unfold,
a million
unheard tempos,
within tranquil
memoirs.
I'm the 'maiden of music'
resting as a floret on
every sepal,
yearning to become
a unique acapella
of nature,
where empathy
has an ethereal
dialect of
nurturing spirits
and tinkles
of magical waterfalls
whisper in
gentle lachrymose lulls
of our ambrosial Mother.
When the harmony
of my voice,
kisses those
ivory keys of
the heart-shaped
piano, they
echo a tipsy secret
in my sunset skin,
making me
believe ~
"I'm everywhere
in the essence,
yet nowhere
to be found...",
like the sweet
scents of
hummingbirds,
smiling behind
that first dusky star.
"In each husky hallelujah
of ribboned halts and replays,
life is a song ~
where every lyric,
phrases an ember of end,
and when passionate heartbeats
shall knit sombre medleys,
I will hum in the last 'chef-d'oeuvre'... "
My old gran had an ice cream van
And a bright green cape and a madcap plan
She’s out to save her fellow man
And with her walking frame, she can
Each night she prowls the felon’s range
Disturbing owls and foxes
She takes the van so she can change
For there are no phone boxes
She parks up at the end of night
And hobbles home by day’s first light
Today she caught a mugger’s sight
Who mocked my Gran’s heroic fight
‘Fighting crime is not a game
You’re just some soppy, daft old, dame
You’re leaning on that walking frame
To get some place or other.
‘Without your cape you’ve no disguise
Without your mask over your eyes
It might be wise to realise
You’re just some kid’s grandmother.’
Grandma raised her walking frame
Toward from where the voice had came
She asked the thug, ‘Have you no shame?’
And with her walking frame, took aim
One leg sprayed out chocolate sauce
Another leg sprayed sprinkles
Then Grandma pressed a button
And her van played tuneful tinkles
She gave the thug a wily grin
‘You’ll get the slammer some day
But today I’ve turned you in…
to an ice cream sundae.’
"In silence, the wind shares it's most intimate secrets"--quote by poet.
Standing at the edge of a sandy shore
Looking out to sea as I listen to
Incessant cries of " Come to me, come to me;"
I watch the ebbing tide obey the beach wind.
Oh, I listen attentively to the wind!
In the wintertime, it roars to me..."Stay in!"
I hear it whisper it's tightly-held secrets
To trees; secrets it rather I keep to myself.
The autumn wind is music to my ears;
It ever so gently tinkles the wind chimes
Hanging above my head in the balcony.
My spirit dances with abandon to its song!
Knowing the fiercely blowing wind carries
Their wondrous songs far, nightingales and robins
Cheerfully tweet out their best at daybreak.
Birds do listen to the voices of the wind.
Pelicans migrating south at summer's end
Hear the whirling wind whisper..."Bon Voyage"
Out in nature, I love listening to the wind.