Long Tinkling Poems
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"Seijaku reminds us that solitude isn't loneliness; it's a sacred space
about calm, tranquility, stillness and acceptance of the imperfect."
Quote by - Constance
I let my mind wander~
and listen to the pulse of the earth
within nature hearing with my mind the sounds of life
I embrace my native way and the Japanese way
of Seijaku with tranquility and calmness
stillness and solitude amidst activity
finding Zen in the emptiness of a busy life
creating a calm home and the acceptance of a tranquil mind
I find an energized relaxation in the chaos of life
I have created a garden to visit many times a day ~
finding serenity among the flowers, butterflies and bees
the vines twisting and the hued greens
the bird songs my wind chimes tinkling in the breeze
and a fountain of trickling water
and there I can let go of pointless distractions
to focus on the depth and richness of silence
I savor moments to embrace my story and truths ~
finding beauty in simplicity
in the serenity of Zen's greens and blues and flickering candles
finding beauty in decay a withered leaf a broken thing
imperfect things for I am imperfect
I wish to be simple, natural, to keep some things revealed
to find my creativity and inspiration accidently
and be still in my meditation
for me combining the Japanese Seijaka way ~
and the way of my native teachings
(actually much the same)
makes me mindful of keeping only
what is necessary allowing space to breathe
slowing down and doing more by doing less
and by being just imperfect me . . .
There is a softening current
In which we all strive to reside
Spoken from the ecstatic pop of firecrackers,
A tinkling of wine glasses with eyes and a sudden warm touch,
The elevator rising with the waiting love of two silent bodies,
The mental act of dissent,
Choking the speed of trains to a halt,
The rushing logic of the world’s chorus
As you pry your way to the center,
With the box, your heart’s recorder,
Your fingers--greased from the machine’s buttons,
Give way to the watering eyes steeped in the passion
Of the hordes that filled every square and ran down each lane…
Hands grappled the sun-marooned bars
Anchoring your feet onto the soapbox
From there the world worked like great torrents over your body.
Wails and vociferations marbled the land into an absurd painting
Hollowed and homogenized, still in its actions.
Grotesque and beautiful.
Pressing record, the machine breaks into giant pieces,
Falling like great heaves of sadness,
Like chunks of baby furniture,
Rolling and sputtering to a stop on the cobbles below.
BEAUTIFUL SADNESS
“The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods and meadows
brown and sear.” William C. Bryant
Does she hear the tinkling bell in her sweltering state? No breath seems to touch her face nor move her hair out of place. The wan dove seems beautiful ~ he says, “she’s mine,” in disbelief. He says this on a loop but she never embraces his hook.
She clings to dust and nothing more. The x-ray mirror probes her bony exterior, where her lips neither pout nor grin, barely touch in chagrin. He sees they’re slightly pink and his heart pounds in his chest. This melancholic queen’s all his.
In wintermoon she moans, though she walks amidst the lilies of Spring. The leaves fall all around her, though they cling to majestic oaks. Pine needles fall from her fingers - though for her love, he sees Christmas trees rainbow bright, sashaying with silver and golden garland, “mine,” like a starling he chirps and the bluebird of happiness galls her though she’ll never let him go.
melancholy deep
dark and beautiful - naked
void with shutter-eyes
custodian sculpts goddess
so lofty he can’t reach her
7/19/2019
Writing Challenge 2, July 2019- Melancholy- Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Dear Heart
Mashed potatoes, Mom’s heavenly creation.
Such a gourmet creation, was an alpine white.
Green beans, like a Christmas decoration.
Candles were benevolently, not bright.
I can still inbreahe steaks, sizzling in a pan.
Hot Croissants were nestled on the table
Tinkling glassware in my young girl’s hands.
Angelic youth, ever, tender, soft and stable
Prayers were recited.
Then, our dinner began.
3/27/2023
Dedicated in memory of the the loss of the three children and
adults murdered in Nashville this morning in a Christian school.
The wheels turn,
the road stretching in to the distance.
I hear the hum of the engine
buzzing like a thousand honey bees.
The broken white lines flash past in my rear view mirror
on their never ending race to the horizon.
I feel as if I'm standing still.
Is it me that's moving,
or is it the world around me?
Since you left I just don't know.
Each day is but an image of the day before,
each moment I live again and again,
as if the same instant has been set to loop,
over and over and over.
I wish I could see you,
but you are lost to me.
I wish I could call you,
but If I do and you don't answer...
The fear is just too great.
My poor heart wouldn't last a moment.
I miss you so.
Who would have thought it would end like this.
I guess you knew.
The road is now turning and I see mountains before me,
just another obstacle ahead.
I've jumped life's hurdles on more occasions than I care to count.
It's nothing new,
but now I grow weary.
Is it truly worth the pain?
The rains have come and gone,
and left everything wet.
The road is slippery.
I should mind my way, but my thoughts are of you,
always you.
I know I will never again hear the soft whisper of your gentle words,
the tinkling bells in the joy that is your laughter,
the illuminating gaze of the light from your caring eyes.
As well it should end this way,
our road diverging into separate paths,
yours running straight and true,
mine meandering to no specific destination.
I once had no fear of the road.
As long as the stars gazed down upon me
the journey was always my companion
and I was where I should be.
Lost is just a word people use
when they think they know where they are going.
I have never been lost,
not until you.
Now home seems so very, very far away.
I'm not sure I have enough fuel to make it.
I see a road sign not far ahead of me
but all of the paint has been scraped away.
So I'll just keep traveling on
until this beat up old car can't run anymore,
and perhaps that's where I'll stay.
Better yet, I see fresh pavement veering from my path,
Perhaps I'll find a new road to travel.
08/07/2018
DARK DROPS TINKLING,
SOME SHADOW FIGURES HAUNTING.
ONE LAUGHING AT LOUD VOICE,
OTHER ONE HOLD THE BLACK ROD,
NEXT ONE ENCHANTING IN CYPHER LANGUAGE.
SUDDENLY THE SOIL DIG TRENCH,
THE TRENCH FILLED WITH HUMAN BLOOD,
FIGURES SIPPING WITH HOLLOW BONES.
HORRIFIED LAUGH ECHO TO TARTARUS,
BAD BLOOD BAD BLOOD FILTHY,
WE ARE SIPPING, HO! HO! SIPPING COLD.
EYES BLINK IN THE BOTTOM OF TRENCH,
PRIDE EYES STONED, DESIRE EYES BLIND,
THEY ARE PLAYING EYES AS BALLS.
THROUGH NERVE STRING GUITAR ONE TUNED,
ONE SING, FOUL LUST NERVE, FOUL TEMPT FIBROUS,
BURNT AWAY! BURNT AWAY!
WIZARDS CELEBRATED IN STEREOTYPED FEST,
BLUE SPIRITS BEMOAN ON THE DUST.
Form:
I hear them... their sweet lullaby
strummed by a gentle breeze.
How lovely, this fine summer day,
wind blowing through my hair,
listening to restful wind chimes
play their gentle, mystic tunes
as if singing to the mountains,
and answering the birds,
sending secret messages to all...
please enjoy this perfect day.
Their soft tinkling, ringing echoes
the beauty in the meadow, and
the clarity of sky, as the slow ballet
of tree limbs sway and bow
to the fine music that they play.
The wind chimes give me joy
as soft breezes set them free;
they play and sing and dance...
conducting joy within my heart
and peace inside my soul.
She slipped into the single’s club,
where an assortment
of horny guys and lonely hearts had assembled.
Some were there hoping to find that "special" someone
and some had come to chase away the blues,
tinkling ice in cocktail glasses soon to be refilled.
Others, who might be labeled commitment phobic,
had simply come to case the place for an easy lay.
Swinging svelte, mini-skirted hips lasciviously,
she strutted over to the counter
on legs that looked their longest and most shapely
from being hoisted on high red heels.
Every pair of eyes was trained on her.
Some in the club gawked
with eyes that hid beneath mascara-painted lashes, flitting envy.
Others leered with pupils dilating lust
from ogling the two soft protrusions in her tight white turtleneck.
Then with pink champagne in hand,
the goddess turned and surveyed her audience,
most of whom by now had looked away.
One remained, mesmerized, with eyes riveted on her.
He quivered when she caught his gaze
and strolled over to where he sat.
As she approached, he marveled at her face -
the chiseled cheekbones strong and high,
the dark eyes, luminescent and immense,
and curiously, an upturned nose so delicate
it seemed almost too perfect,
like one acquired from a sculptor’s hands.
He gulped when she asked him for a dance,
and as he asked this intriguing lady’s name,
he wondered at the timbre of her voice,
so provocative and low as she tossed dark brown locks
and said seductively,
“My name is Lola. L-O-L-A , Lola.”
Inspired by an old song from the 70's and
used now for Skat's the Premiere Contest number 10 Poetry Contest
Louis Watson loved well made, toy ships, and had a fine collection,
Since father was a sailor himself. Like aged wind's novel directions.
Louis loved sailing toy ships on Crystal Pond, like gaiety filled youth.
He'd pretend they sailed on open seas, laden with candies and fruit!
His family lived on the edge of town, beneath pink-beige starlight,
Looming as evening warblers began singing, to scarlet Mars' delight.
Louis had fun with best friend, Fred. They had boat races, ofttimes.
Ships flew to the pond's far side and back, overseen by green pines.
Rain's tinkling footsteps had faded, into gold sunset's famed flames;
When family, of heart's familiarity came, like blossoms uncontained!
Louis lived in the house of endless motion, like eternal, teal waves,
Full of plans, murmurs, creeping and dashes, in butterscotch days.
Scandalous thunder left scarlet skies appalled, amidst fragrant dusk;
Over their street of songbird sonatas, and of lemon breezes, brusque.
Nights nuanced by northern lights, had neighbors arriving for visits;
Bypassing bittersweet nightshade, or scents riding gusts, like spirits!
'Silver vases' held their own flowers. The thirsty poured 'snake gourds.'
'Elephant apples' fed large appetites, as 'cannonball' blooms, warred.
'Zinderella' lilac got dressed for the ball, but 'Billy Button' was ready;
When 'starflowers lit up nights, and 'voyage champange,' felt heady.
Louis dreamt of owning a unique ship, for his birthday was coming;
Like colorful birds dream of nectar, when they are sweetly humming.
As his birthday dawned, pink and golden, his hopes were surpassed,
When he saw his dream ship, and its rhyme written by Father, at last!
Father had entered a toy shop, after seeing a rare ship in a faux pond;
And soon bought that pretty ship, like many marvels, du vaste monde!
I saw a ship a-sailing,
A-sailing on the sea.
And, oh, but it was laden
With pretty things for thee!
There were comfits in the cabin,
And apples in the hold,
The sails were made of silk,
And the masts were all of gold.
The four-and-twenty sailors,
That stood between the decks,
Were four-and-twenty white mice,
With chains about their necks.
The captain was a duck,
With a packet on his back,
And when the ship began to move,
The captain said, "Quack! Quack!"
Hear the wind calling your name.
He and I are just the same
Holding you in our arms – a frame,
Maybe “Memory” is its true name.
Do not despair, I am a spellcaster,
Runes in black written on alabaster -
Little stars tinkling faster and faster,
The night shifts, with the spellcaster
The wind does not have a just mind
He loves when love is by his side,
Coming and returning with the sea’s tide
But I, I do not have an blank mind
Watch when your love is not in your arms,
Sway when she is hiding her charms -
Do not wait for kisses flying in swarms -
Do you love when cupid naps in your arms?
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