Long Tinny Poems
Long Tinny Poems. Below are the most popular long Tinny by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tinny poems by poem length and keyword.
On Spring, the apple trees
Enveloped by bright green leaves
In a month, turn into white flowers
Attract the yellow-black bees
The small pink flower-nubs
Change in tinny green beads
The fruits bit by bit grew up
Turn into lime green, dark green
And finally, in the red apples.
In a few weeks, the green leaves
Transform in yellow, then carroty
Wait for the wind take down
To cover the lawn in brown
The branches once again
Expect the burden of snow.
The seasons give to the apple trees
The distinctive attractions
Amend new views, refresh feelings
The lovely and beautiful ladies
Impress men’s mind
Defined by men’s eyes.
What if awake, asleep, does it really matter?
The walls ache, the pipes creak.
A tinny sound, hollow and empty
as my womb, all the plumpness gone.
Shriveled petal dreaming of past blooms.
Weeping in sleep for remembered kisses
from a child grown who no longer misses me.
Electronic screens proceed with two dimensional images
playing at the brain pan of three,
mining the fertile memories of black and white.
Awake, asleep what does it matter?
Carpets cushion foot falls, dust dances
in stray beams of sunlight, circuits hum.
If life is not soon inserted into this scenario
Death will wed Mrs. Haversham.
Pile drivers have replaced gandy dancers
And Mayflower trucks the circus, open-cage parades
Horse drawn down Main Street U.S.A.,
But overnight canvas bosses still command
Roust abouts to raise big top sails,
Over decks of prairie dogs and tumbleweeds.
There are gaudily painted juggernaut ride machines.
Smells of grease, heated white from oozing knuckle joints,
Calliopian music and rounds of happy screams.
A carney operator offers two a Scrambler car,
Teases riders with the tip of his bitten off cigar
A flick on your nose and ash that crashes to the circus grounds.
Jukebox music by Wurlitzer gets tinny with distance
On both sides of musty tented, kid show exhibitions
Mushrooming quiet translucent, sideshow shadow lands.
One sign says:
A WOMAN’S LIVING HEAD!
And inside there is a severed head up on a tabletop.
She answers questions easily, smiles and winks.
A kid shill says she’s doubled up
Inside a box affixed with mirrors.
Our cheeks redden more for her
Than the fact that we are led astray ourselves.
We leave to let more unenlightened in.
That day, I left forever past free throws
To win erstwhile girlfriends
By shooting hoops too narrow to be made. (4/4/21)
All music, however beautiful,
Must needs come to an end,
Leaving a thread of music etched
Into the inner reaches of the mind,
Often recalled without warning
At unexpected moments.
The acrid smoke of leaves burning
On a brisk October evening
Stabs the consciousness
With a breathless moment -
A kiss on another October night,
When love was young and new
A wreath of pipe smoke nearby,
And my father’s face appears,
Young, as he was in my youth,
Arms open to welcome me home,
As real to me now as then.
A child on roller skates passes -
I see myself clamping on tinny
Skates with a key and joining
My friends in a mad dash,
A race to the corner store.
A lighted theatre marquee –
An eight-year old, I’m at
My first movie at night with
A favorite aunt and uncle -
Tom Sawyer - it’s scary,
And I feel very grown up.
The music of my life plays on
As I grow into old age,
More often than not, it brings
Back only the magical moments,
While other, sadder memories
Fade and slip away in the distance
The cobalt mind of ancient mariner of the seven seas,
the surfing sailor tosses on the waves of youthful life,
rolls on the curled crests with the splintered moon,
drawn into dark agony troughs of the drowned stars,
spread pearls of joy on shore embroidering exuberance.
Crushed sands sculpt the trail of the seaward footprints,
designed by the crumbled contours of transient decay.
Time arrow points to the turquoise terrain ethereal,
away from the wistful wilderness abandoned,
where the chasm stratifies the collapsed hopes undying.
The weed-webbed wasteland defined deep within,
piles up the shipwrecked splinters of life unlived.
Withering garden garners tinny bleakness, yet shining,
as the path paved outside the obscure familiarity fence
waits to be walked by the mesmerized wanderer
to the marvelous meadow of tantalizing tomorrow.
The invented alchemic aptitude of the mystic memory
makes glittering gold on the rusted crust of the ruins.
Marigold blooms on scrap heap with steadfast sanguinity
in Midas touched shipwreck junkyard of the metallic mind.
The old upright piano sits flush against the wall,
has been hushed into silence, out on the sun porch
Ignored, neglected, but standing erect
I can imagine it was treasured in its prime,..polished, stylish, and new
But age has turned the varnish yellow
The veneer a bit buckled, the bench has been repaired
with clamps, screws, and Elmer’s wood glue
A relic from another time.
Songbooks are still cradled, but pedals are disabled.
We can almost hear its breath exhale, with tinny-rhythmic sighs
Two white keys might stick,...and three or four are chipped...
And tears, chopsticks, hearts and souls were spilled on ivory seas
If only clocks could turn back time
Mother sitting next to me, side by side, ... our worlds aligned
Keeping the rhythm, over and over, measure by measure,
... playing together the “The Blue Danube”.
___
With her hands over mine, pointing out the key of C
And what I can still see,...so clear in my mind..,
are the blue veins of her hands enveloping mine,
leaning into the waltz, a bit off key
(It needed tuning…It always did. Never mattered. Never will)
I was small. My fingers couldn’t reach them all,
those pock-marked, scarred, and magic keys
But the measure of Johann Strauss would bounce off the walls…
She would hum into my ear…
Her soft brown hair would mix with mine
I could smell Breck shampoo, and feel her breath upon my cheek
And feel the music, soft and sweet, classic light…from that old Upright...
A simple tune…the waltz of time
that has played on and on... long beyond her life
and will play on long beyond my own
__________________________________________________________
When I was young and a child
growing up in Discovery , Florida
South Africa
1 of the few limited thing's we actually
had or could do was go the Drive-Inn
There was Veldskoen , Hilfox , 5-Star
and Top-Star
But that's besides the point it's the
memory of the experience that keeps
coming back to me
Of the magic on a summer's night from
start to finish how it was to go
Driving up in a car passing through the
entrance buying a ticket for whatever
2 movie's we're on show
Then driving in and finding and choosing
the best place to park up
Position the car open the window turn
the volume up and hang the speaker on it
Down the front there was a Kiosk where
you could buy snacks like popcorn hotdogs
burgers and sweet's
Then it was back to the car get as comfy
as possible and wait for the 1st movie
to begin
Not just the mere fact of watching a
movie but a total fantastical experience
Unfortunately now like so many other
thing's in life from when I was young
have gone
They only sadly exist as fading memories
inside my head
I can only tell you 1 thing boy it was great
and I could try to explain as best I could
But it would never come close to the
real thing actually being there and
experiencing it for yourself
Matter's not what the actual movie was
the tinny barely audible sound or visual
quality
Fades into total insignificance whilst
sat outside on a balmy summer night
Having the very best time of your life
at that very moment
You natively never thought could possibly
come to an end
But it did and is now a shopping mall where
the only thing that is left
Is the Drive-Inn Screen as a parting reminder
ordinary average witch spells usually backfired on Winny Woo
She loaded her cauldron like other witches always do
But if anything can go wrong, it does for poor Winny
Then she’s out of ingredients, said her cousin Tinny
Tinny delights in Winny’s sorry escapades and mishaps
She is not a great relative, these mistakes she even graphs
The rest of the relatives love it when Winny messes up
gives them fodder to laugh about when they get together to sup
today Winny was trying to get a ghoul to come forth from her pot
Tinny will soon be delighted to tell us that a highland bull is what she got
Winny’s frustrations delight her mean cousin, Tinny, who is not so nice.
It gets better said Tinny; Winny got a highland bull twice!
I was four when I partied like it was 1999.
Didn’t know what Y2K meant—
thought it was a new kind of Ribena.
Mom said the world might end,
so we had fish fingers and Angel Delight
like it was our last supper.
She danced in the kitchen—
hip in one hand, remote in the other—
Prince on the telly,
sky outside grey as school uniform.
She said,
“If the world’s going to blow, we might as well boogie.”
So I did—
in jelly sandals,
on sticky lino,
thinking bombs were just what happened in cartoons.
The grown-ups were worried about computers—
I was worried about monsters under the bed.
Same thing, really.
I built bunkers from sofa cushions.
Told my teddies we’d be safe.
Asked Mom if I could stay up ‘til midnight
to see the sky explode.
She let me—
even though it didn’t.
Instead, we counted down
with paper hats, party poppers,
and a bowl of Wotsits big enough
to survive the apocalypse.
Prince said life was a party.
Mom made it gospel—
taught me the sacredness of silliness.
She sang with her eyes closed,
as if she could out-sing war.
As if dancing could un-plug the world’s doom switch.
And maybe it could.
There was a lion in her pocket too—
fierce in her softness,
roaring through a tinny tape deck.
She had a knowing in her sway,
like she understood what purple skies meant
long before I did.
Now I’m older,
and every headline feels like a countdown.
Still, I keep Ribena in the fridge
for emergencies.
Still, I dance—
barefoot on carpet,
arms full of invisible glitter,
like I’m four again
and nothing bad can touch me
while the music plays.
If the world ends again,
I’ll dance.
I’ll think of Mom.
I’ll play that song—
loud enough to shake the windows
and remind the sky
that we were here,
dancing,
as if forever still mattered.
fatty deposit usurped
my washboard physique
I can no longer lay claim
as pencil necked geek
mute tinny utterances futile
to write and/or speak
as recourse to cope with
displeasing body morphology
tis good n plenti humor I seek
to offset feeling morose, and
regular exercise regime to tweak
objectionable physiognomy,
would offend classic Greek
aesthetically lean body mass index
even lions, tigers, or bears,
would consider yours truly a freak
actually never in mein kampf,
as lovely bones creak
acceptance of physical,
(nor mental) self e'en as pipsqueak
wrought intimations just short
re: abominable mortal kombat total hate
me snow kidding man plus
loathing mine anatomical trait
invariably pitched mental
health in dire strait
I haint shy stating greater part
of life (mine) where fate
found me beset with feeling morose
inner dialogue tête-à-tête
attributed to more'n
one countless reason
sunk teeth into anorexia
as pit iff full adolescent date
even now chief among
reasons with rhyme, aye lowly rate
being adipose fatty deposit usurped
washboard physique long ancient history
no surprise competency not great
passive withdrawn demeanor set precedent
concomitantly plagued with
submucous cleft palate being risk averse,
in tandem being diminutive height meant
easy scapegoat target leant
convenience and regularly meant
chased, mocked, taunted...
by bullies helped rent
psyche asunder during impressionable years
nonetheless acutely cogent
whatever that might be worth, this gent
laments good n plenti
centsless opportunities got misspent
finding empowerment thru writing only recent
endeavor to cope with
empty nest syndrome event.