Rattled Poems | Examples

Raspberry Leaf Tea

The more spines I swallow.
The more rattled it goes.
Tea leaves behind smells.
Like broken pianos.

Raspberry leaf tea.
And someone giving a bike for free.
The more miles I ride?
The less taste there is cried.

Raspberry leaf tea.
Unreal as…
The musical key of a pencil tapping.
Or clouds being pointless.

Crumpled up.
The rule is you have to eat them.
Steeped and harmless.
A taste.

Raspberry leaf tea.
Is good but might be sour.
Horrible whiffs of steam and indescribable.
A little honey too.

Let It Explode

Every day it seems a battle,
finds a way to leave you rattled,
the nonsense you see on TV,
lots of lies from the legacy,
traffic jams, can’t work from home,
boss demands, tell his where to go,
just goes on, the price we must pay,
comes a time you must get away!

I want to go off,
let this thing blow off,
the stress I’ll throw off,
I want to go off.
I want to go off,
let this thing blow off,
the stress I’ll throw off,
let this thing explode.

Find the time, bleed it off slowly,
clear my mind of the unholy,
make a plan, or maybe wing it,
find something that I can sink in.
Get a drink, maybe a woman,
take a trip, get up and go then,
some chaos, can be balancing,
feel alive, that’s what I’m wanting.

I want to go off,
let this thing blow off,
the stress I’ll throw off,
I want to go off.
I want to go off,
let this thing blow off,
the stress I’ll throw off,
let this thing explode.

Let this thing explode,
let this thing explode,
let this thing explode…
every man must unload.

Mack and Stack

Seed of Fear:  Jack and Jill

Mack and Stacks went up to the trap,
to stash a pail of cash, slick and packed.

The street was quiet, corners still,
sun hung heavy over the window sill.
Mack held the bag, pockets tight with green,
Stacks right behind, eyes sharp, unseen.

A shadow broke, the door rattled loud,
a flash, a bang, the night turned proud.
Mack hit the ground, crown knocked low,
Stacks stumbled next, nowhere to go.

They both fell fast, fear in the air,
the block held its breath, nothing was there.
The pail was gone, the trap left bare,
echoes of warning hung everywhere.

Mack went first, got hit in the dome,
Stacks went next, it hit his neck—neither made it home.

I Plucked The Moon From The Sky

I plucked the moon from the sky last night.
No one else seemed to be using it
So, I thought, “Why not?”

I mistakenly thought it would fit comfortably in my pocket 
But, it bulged, protruded, and made it difficult to sit!

“Stupid moon!
What good are you?” I grumbled.

A TV news anchor rattled on about 
Potential collapsed ecosystems, climate chaos, and mass extinctions.
All around me
Would-be lovers unraveled their arms and parted ways and 
Dreamers no longer looked to the sky.

“The world has gone mad,” I muttered.
“But, at least I have this shiny rock, even if it IS a pain in the rear.”
However, it kept tugging, pulling, and wouldn’t stay still.
Determining it not worth the trouble,
I relinquished the object to the night
And went to dwell in a crazy world.

Neighborhood Blockheads

When a pair of fighter jets
Buzzed over the parapets
They woke up the entire block

Though the pilots had regrets
But still the neighborhood frets
At each ticking of the clock

This deafening sound they battled
Their dishes chipped and rattled
And went crashing to the floor 

With nerves all spent and addled
The block packed up and saddled
No one lives here anymore

Your divorce

With this demand you
 hoped to evoke
in me the fear that
 made even your bones
cold from exposer
 frail and bitter the sound
they made as they 
rattled around at the knees.
But You can not own even
 this for the words
were not yours to speak of
dissolution and disparities.
and still you uttered
 such falsehoods 
an attempt to hurt and mam. 
That even one gasp
made even the busiest 
of turns stop and
take notice of the world
 you painted
with a promiscuous brush. 
I stood naked unafraid, unwitting 
is your portrait of our marriage
beyond the pale is your divorce.

Juno

Juno has dropped her Jupe for Janus—
Moves unforeseen by Nostradamus.
Jupiter's lightning rage
Rattled Juno's last cage,
But Janus is twice as dangerous.

Darrell's Daughter

Written By:  D. Collins 6/4/25


Darrell's daughter has been down since it began.
Showed more heart and courage than any man.
A soldier amongst soldiers who really stands out.
And puts meat on the bone, without a doubt.


Darrell's daughter has some phenomenal skills.
On how to be a true "Lady" while keeping it real.
She doesn't get rattled and rarely says much.
But mess with her father she will "F" you up.


Who on earth wouldn't want something like that?
A "Li'L Woman" of essence who calls you "Dad".
There's nothing 'Mo Betta than her as a daughter.
And lifting a man up by calling him "Father".

The Gate Sprung, Shut

I turned to look back, feeling anxious as I stood
"by the squeaky old gate that tomorrow will find."
Was there someone there watching me?
The gate creaked shut, echoing the taint of guilt
That I hoped no one heard.
Earlier I came through this gate to meet you in the woods.

It was rusty, stuck shut, and needed a heavy shove to open.
It reeked a somber reluctant groan, trying to stop me.
But, I would have nothing of its rattle, grind and snag.
I pushed it aside, and walked into the woods along the winding path.

The gate hung its head, trying not to see what it knew I'd do.
It looked up and sighed and rusty hinges creaked,
as the victim died and cried out, ambushed in the woods.
I turned back to retrace my steps, afraid of being watched.
I could feel it in my bones, though nothing was there to see.

As I approached the open gate it seemed that it had moved
every so slightly, impeding my escape through it.
It groaned, rattled, creaked with a clang of defiance
embellishing a subtle vibrato in the concordance of guilt.
The deed was done, the dirge was sung, the gate sprung, shut.

It Wasn't Amber

It wasn’t amber.
It was light pretending 
to be amber because
the leafless purple branches
said so—
their shadows crosshatched the window,
twenty-four panes of silence.
Distant shoes whispered down a hallway.
I turned my head,
but the glow stayed where it was.

The walls were shadow—
blue, absorbing everything.
A cart rattled past my door,
metal on tile,
a music I didn’t understand.
Somewhere, a voice laughed
and then quieted.
The air smelled clean,
like alcohol and cotton,
and the ghost of a gesture
that had been wiped away.

I had no words for color,
or luminescence, 
or even myself—
or the warm bars of the crib,
the press of the sheet,
and the ache of something missing
I couldn’t name.
I watched the window’s dimming burn
like a promise made to someone else
and already being forgotten.
Outside, a branch moved,
but I didn’t know it meant wind.

AH MUSIC

The music from an award’s show for music
Shatters the peace of a moment’s respite
Words shouted in a rattled cadence
Battle the blaring of the backup screamers
The allegedly soothing refrain chokes the drummer
Freeing the flames of the screeching viola
A lone piano grits its vibrating teeth
The lead singer shivers in a nuanced
Tribute to the Kama Sutra
AH….MUSIC….

THE PERFECT BUFFET

THE BLOODY PERFECT BUFFET..

There should be a perfect buffet
A table for men
A happy gathering for them
The murders.... the killers of souls

There should be a table for us
After the long days battle
When the bombs rattled and pummelled the sands
When the sun settles and the cries echoes....

Lets us call for a celebration
Enjoy, enjoy and let evil reigh
With a table of the kills
With platter of the deads

There on the tables....
A plate of pounds of flesh of the dead paletinians
A cup of blood of the slain childrens
Memories of all the victims of his greed and power

Satan should be at the table, Netanyahu should be on his right
Let him drink and make merry, for the deads gone
Let hell rejoice at his laughters, upon cries of fallen souls
For zionism reigns and Islams demise

Let evil prevail, let Zionism flourish
When they sit at the table, to merry upon the bloods flows.
Dreaming of a perfect world, A peaceful Israel
Where honey and milk flows, besides a perfect buffet.

The Starling

When I was small
the starlings roosted one by one
on grandma’s party line wire
	(like jittery black clothespins)
to bandy their gossip back and forth
until the wire hummed
with their inanities.

By luck my slingshot found its mark.
One toppled from the wire soundlessly
like a clothespin blown loose in the wind.
The others rattled on, oblivious,
no questions asked.

It dropped straight down.
I ran to see where it had fallen
	(headlong into the trash)
expecting it to be stunned only
and I would laugh as it flew off.

There, 
between a flattened can of Campbell soup
and a Brillo pad used up,
and bleeding from one empty eye
the still warm bundle of feathers
looked ready for flight.
	(so fly!)
But when it did not spread its wings
or chatter any more
I cradled death in my hands
	(soft and almost weightless)
and cried 
as I buried both victim and weapon
in the same box.

Old Codger

Get thee hence! Get thee hence!
Away the riffraff from my fence
Ye've rattled window and rattled doors
Till there's no peace upon the moors
The hallowed folk have left their graves
To rid themselves these noisome knaves
The tyrants peal rings through my head
Till any room for thought is dead
I'd rid myself this fearsome bane
If I had not a limp and cane
Yet wield do I that wood in vain
For the blighters to abstain
Their laughter loud begins to boil
Not troubled they at all my toil
Surrender I with naught a choice
For it seems I've lost my voice
I must placate them one and all
Returning to them their playball

Childhood Trauma That Creates a Serial Killer

A bedroom door that never locked,
Footsteps heavy like thunderclocks,
Mother's wine glass, cracked and red,
Words that bruised more than fists ever did.

A closet full of whispered screams,
Apologies lost in fevered dreams,
Father's belt, a sermon preached,
Love, a language never reached.

A dog buried in silence deep,
Secrets traded instead of sleep,
Schoolyard eyes like hunting knives,
Laughter echoing butchered lives.

The smell of ash, of plastic burned,
Lessons no one else had learned,
The joy of breaking dolls in two,
Just to feel a shadow move.

Windows rattled by unseen guilt,
Churches built where lies were spilt,
A hand too firm, a voice too loud,
Praise withheld like poisoned shrouds.

The grin he wore was not his own,
But stitched from pain he’d never shown,
And in the attic of his skull,
He catalogued what makes life dull.

Not born of hell, nor born insane,
But carved by years of steady pain—
And now the world must guess his name.

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