Pinging Poems

Waking on a Rainy Morning

I was not awakened by the drip dripping of a faucet tap
as I lay abed, stifling a yawn trying to return to sleep.
It was the soft ping pinging sound of rain drops, rap rap,
redundant chirps like a newly hatched chick's peep peep.

I heard the distant crash and boom in peals of thunder
trying to roar louder than the tick tock of the alarm clock.
I rolled over, groaning need of sleep, feeling torn asunder.
That's when I heard the unmistakable click of the door lock.

There was the swoosh from a pair of little, socked feet,
pitter pattering tiny toes on hardwood floors that creaked.
A warm breath murmured "Mommy," in a voice so sweet.
Drizzle splish splashed the windowpane, leaving it streaked.

My sleepy child snuggled in my arms, both of us drifting in dreams
when the shrill ring ring of my cell phone started to chime.
The vibrating mmm mmm refused my dance with moonbeams.
Kitty sashayed into the room, "Meow meow. It's feeding time."

Whispers of Autumn with Winter Looming

A leaf dried to brown maraca, rustles.
Moon-beam driven breeze, curls in ears, whispers.
Subtle call of summer's passing, puzzles.
As green summer grass fades to grey, whiskers.

You can hear the patter of dew, pinging.
The limbs of trees squeezed, tight and shrunk, crackling.
Bells toll the end of summer's reign, ringing,
As the cool winds shake the eaves loose, rattling.

Geese V's migrate south, honking and hinking.
Squirrels chattering, alert owls hooting.
Pebbles in streams bang together, clinking.
Brash summer sounds are quelled quiet, muting.

Autumn whispers winter's advent, looming.
Lilting a soulful bluesy song, crooning.

Silent Thunder

one hand clapping
bliss beats pinging
shaping our soul

29-January-2023

Unplug the Machines and Let Death Come Naturally

When and if the time should ever
come when all is said and that can
be has been done

And the only signs or form of life
that remains is being kept alive
via electronic machines

Believing he could no longer or would
wish to fight on otherwise he surely
would have 

Then gather round all that loved this
poor soul whilst still alive for 1 last
final remaining time

Unplug the tubes that aid them breathe
switch off the whaling pinging machines 
signaling heartbeat arithmetics

Disconnect the saline solution glucose
drip colostomy bag and statistics patches
covering them from head to toe 

Release them from their comatose state
and living nightmare 

For this is life in name only alive but
not alive to the world 

And rather let all their dreams come true
forevermore and after that day too as
well

And in so doing so let also the living move
on to not join them in their daily grief and
pain as well

To celebrate life not just only death

An Elephant Summer Night

an elephant summer night

the thunder roars
the lightening sneaks
quick peeks
through the darkness…

staccato cosmic tears
gently fall
in a beautiful rhythmic
splashing…

the piercing pain pinging
the spirit
takes its leave…slowly
fading away…

swollen aged feet
reflect Hannibal-like
courage
ready for heated sunshine
challenges tomorrow
will bring
to a primed soul
still sojourning struggle…

silence slowly settles:
in the distant
cosmos of the night…
fading thunder
rumbles and echo…

the cool moist feeling
of the wet night
soothes the old soul
with walking
elephant-like calmness...

oh, fall will be coming
and all will soon become
as the fading color leaves
save nature's ivory-like ones..

God Misplaces the Dead

They were accounted for,
they were officially dead,
but the alarming fact was
that large numbers of the dead
had gone missing.

Occasionally, still pinging cellphones
were found in Hades, Purgatory, and
other Bardo states.
Olympus was drunkenly silent,
as were almost all of the seven heavens.

In nirvana,
the footwear of some of the deceased,
had been left in a pile awaiting a divine fire,
footprints were seen
as if waiting for a cooling wash 
in the fountain of everlasting life.

The missing had presumably
transported themselves
to some less boneheaded ideas
of the life after, one not yet imagined
by any dogmatic priesthood.

God was accused of not packaging 
the deceased properly.
However the missing  were never found
having discovered their own way out 
of all that doctrinal,
inconsequential madness.

Aspiring Love Blossoms

Smiling mirthfully, relishing amber twilit theme,
Bedazzled in musings, reveling memories agleam,
Oh! how you charm, gazing eve’s blushing arc,
Where scarlet hues delight, igniting love spark
When impulses, moonlit, passions playful cajole
As we stroll daydreaming trekking verdant knoll,
Ambling in romance, two sensuous souls extol;

Just after the setting sun merges with the sea
And sky above stages a concert of stellar glee
When seductive vibes on wings of zest spree
Questing for, stealthily, doting hearts’ consent
Chasing exaltation, love-struck hints augment,
Exuding scent amatory from emboldened heart
Intoxicating affection smitten feelings impart;

Clasping amorous moment together we found,
Where tick of blazing hearts is the only sound
But for the clues tiptoeing, arousing carnal bliss,
Pinging fervent longings yearning endearing kiss,
Enchanting intentions of eager, flirtatious night
Courting your approval, ecstatic reveries ignite,
Sowing dreams euphoric to bloom in fertile dawn
Aspiring love evermore, blossoming on and on.

July 30, 2022
Placed 1st: Rhyme Rumi Quote Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Sotto Poet
(151 words)

Lets Do Character Studies

Let’s do character studies she said. 
I had no idea what she meant.
Her mouth was thin and mean-looking when she suggested it.
I feel she is wound so tight; her springs might break.
I imagine them pinging around the room like bullets.

She is the oddest writing teacher I have ever had.
She gives us total freedom.
Some of us cannot deal with this.
We run up to her desk to demand more direction.
She smells like old fruit juicy toilet water and she has a turkey neck.
What is a character study? I ask her. I do not understand.

She refuses to answer.
The worst teacher in the entire world.
I am slipping from annoyed with her to hating her.
I look up and she catches me with her snake-like eyes.
She is my kryptonite.

God Misplaces the Dead

They were accounted for,
officially dead at least,
but the sickening fact was
that large numbers of the dead
had gone missing.

Occasionally, still pinging cellphones
were found in Hades, Purgatory, and
other Bardo states.
Olympus was drunkenly silent,
as were almost all of the seven heavens.
In nirvana,
the footwear of some of the deceased,
had been left in a discarded pile.

The missing had presumably
transported themselves
to some less boneheaded ideas
of the afterlife.

Eventually, God gave up looking.
The missing dead never returned,
having found their own way
out of all that craziness.

We Call It Earth

The flapper from Sky World entered the new galaxy slowly
Feeling the reflections pinging off the surface,
Not fully understanding her mission, waiting instructions
We sent her to the wrong planet! Space control beamed up.

Is it too late to bring her back?822VC, the engineer asked.
She had found her reflection in the Great Lakes and was smitten.
Quickly! Before she finds the rivers, or she will get stuck on herself.
Because that is what happens down there on that self-absorbed planet.

The name of it is?
Not sure but we have lost many.
They never return the same.
Earth! An alien yelled. “We call it Earth!”

What Are You Typing

I have to deliberate an idea for about a month he said.
I began to type.
It forms slowly, sometimes in a painful way, he whines.
I am half listening.
Words are pinging onto the page with rapid precision.
I do not understand how anyone can write a worthwhile poem
in less than three weeks, he tells me.
Bam.
Poem number one is finished.
Sometimes I have to edit it nineteen times, he laments.
Whap!
Poem number two is done.
What are you typing? He asks me.
Anything my muse likes, I tell him. I just follow her lead.
Whack! Wham! Whim!
Poems 4, 5 and 6 are happily completed
while he gives me advice on how to write poetry.

F-O-M-O

This morning while an officer 
  tickets me for speeding
My smartphone pleads and pleads with me
  or at least it keeps on pinging

I cannot pick it up, of course
  though it nearly drives me crazy
Pretty soon I've a bad headache
  thoughts morph from clear to hazy

I admit that I am terrified
  by fear of 'missing out'
So now in the car I think 'F-O-M-O'
  And make sure that I drive slow

Snow Day

snow day has now dawned
time for my boots hats and gloves
inner child smiles wide

energy revived
gift of an entire day
mouth cracks from grinning

shrieking at tv
doing kitchen cartwheels
call up all my friends

texts on high alert
wild emojis everywhere
pinging and dinging

running to the hill
screaming with crazy laughter 
slipping and sliding

all my friends are here
even those who call in sick
other school days

go home with pink cheeks
shivering inside mittens 
dragging sled behind 

hoping tomorrow
will be a chain of snow days
happy exhausted

What the Owl Sees

Across the night the silence of travelling lights,
the shimmering molt of the stars, 
the moon sweeping snow
over the black drenched cars, and all unwinding
into cisterns of darkness.

The chill windowpane
captures them all as they creep from casement 
to casement snow-chained together 
in one freeze-frame.

Logs crack and chirp as if the fire where birthing birds.
There are ghost trees in the air, limbs creak
as the cabin adjusts to wind thrown spears.
The room chirrs like a camp fiddle, a mood music
for the tips of my warming fingers.

My aspect in the wall-mirror is itself glass,
I feel its features cracking,
the window pinging as heat and cold
scratch random runes across its glass.

The cabin rolls on invisible stalks.
its foundations are structured hollows of hope,
tonight it is travelling also
there are high seas
for these unanchored times, and home is 
beyond these dark mountains, 

beyond the reach
of this log-raft nailed together in a kinder season
when nights did not block all paths
with their felled and fractured blinders.

Cold Reflections In Glass

Across the night the silence of travelling lights,
the shimmering molt of the stars, 
the moon sweeping snow
over the black drenched cars, and all unwinding
into cisterns of darkness.

The chill windowpane
captures them all as they creep from casement 
to casement snow-chained together 
in one freeze-frame.

Logs crack and chirp as if the fire where birthing birds.
There are ghost trees in the air, limbs creak
as the cabin adjusts to wind thrown spears.
The room chirrs like a camp fiddle, a mood music
for the tips of my warming fingers.

My aspect in the wall-mirror is itself glass,
I feel its features cracking,
the window pinging as heat and cold
scratch random runes across its glass.

The cabin rolls on invisible stalks.
its foundations are structured hollows of hope,
tonight it is travelling also
there are high seas
for these unanchored times, and home is 
beyond these dark mountains, 

beyond the reach
of this log-raft nailed together in a kinder season
when nights did not block all paths
with their felled and fractured blinders.

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