Tines Poems | Examples

Music Box Pops

Baby blue balloon,
     looks like a globe,
          topped
with a girly, pink bow.
       It’s floating up
   with pop music;
          with key tines,
     our hearts dropped.
The dulcet drum spins;
     the lyrics heat up.

I got

I got to have a shoulder to rest
My head when
I am tired
I got to grieve
The loss of my sister
That past away
I got to say thanks
To my friends for
Supporting me all through the
Years
I got to cry some tines alone
I go to understand
That heaven waits for us
And that there is a
Place for us in heaven
I got to help those in need
Now
They helped me before
I got to understand that God
Will answer my prayers
When I pray to him
I got to have some sunshine
Warming my skin
I like to feel the heat on my skin
It is Summer anyway

Ear-Splitting, Liver-Bellied Bullying

plink, plink, water in the sink
sinks slowly into budding suds
torturing the pans and fork tines
who want cascade - show on the road
plink, plop, hands over ears, now stop
but slowly the spatter of drops
like the slow go of a rain storm
keep habitating, repeating
their ear-splitting, liver-bellied
bullying of the spoons and cups
the apron-covered giant turned
off the faucet, threw in the rag,
then the sponge, ew…her hands with gloves
now each piece, that is us, is scrubbed
and ah, true running water-rush
each of us towel dried, put ‘way
from nightmarish brutality
we rest…we rest..until lipstick
lands on the side of grinds in cup
and pan slams onto surface heat
in other words, we get beaten
then comes water in sink, awaken
the bully who sleeps eight hours
look forward to vacation, hers!

Kalimba Notes Drift Out

Kalimba notes drift out
To my delighted ear
As if the Matobo plains
Were conveyed from afar.
The tines - reverberating -
Complete an ethereal bar.
Each bar - artfully plucked -
Speaks kindly to my heart.

Why Raindrops Drip and Drop in Time

Why raindrops drip and drop in time,
not timorous; divine.
A splash, playful
in a pond of koi brass.
Tines of Sankyo, priceless precipitation;
A plink and plunk, Chopin;
“Till the End of Time,”
that is why raindrops
hold their gravity,
until the fruit
of their musicality
must be mined,
be longed
by great golden fish
with open lips
excited by the weather
without human palms
to catch, a catch
that croaks and grunts,
that fills the pond.

The Gun Shop

The gun seems gun-shy in this space;
where deer hides hang on rustic walls
and granddad-tick-tocks beat, instead
of hearts in hollowed skins. The gun

 a “trophy-bagger” in its rack, 
 a loud-mouth predator at rest,
 this motherless, brother-less thug
 perceives no pity-pangs... the gun

now quiet, buckshot empty, cold. 
Above the stove’s phoenix soul hangs
an antlered head with prideful tines
the man, with bear-paw hands, had won.

A fox in freeze-frame-trot, a stiff 
with cat glass eyes, attests his prize. 
Indeed, like litterfall they fell, 
unseen his haunt in hunter gear, his gun

a junkyard dog of steel. I say
they're beautiful in life. He says
they’re beautiful in death. Between
our words — a stand of pine — the shot!

that brought the shock of ammo air
that rib-cage-ripped and broke the breath,
that hurled the crows against the sky —
the blast that felled the 10-point buck that failed to sense your goddamn gun!

Yeah... blame the buck his reckless pose
and buckled throes. You felt the king!
Behind tight trees you sat with dawn
in sniper-silhouette. The gun 

felt nothing; no remorse, no joy
—it, too, hangs upon the wall.

Loved By You

'His Love'.....is a Love we can Depend upon, it feels good to know this, Amen.



Feels so good to be Loved by You…

faith’s mirror reflects ‘us’ in its view.

 

Awesome You! …whereby before my birth…

I was prepared for days of sharpened tines

Ere, now in the midst of storms unfold…

You...use..the gale to ring hope chimes

Even the tides that will surely rise

are duly subject to Your command…

Yea, as they surge and break upon me…

because of You…somehow, I’ll stand

There’s pleasure in reading Your letters…

ardent with yearned warmth and fare

Through Your Word…I am taught…

You are Greater than onslaught’s jeer

More than I ever imagined I could

I cling to the promise of seeing Your face…

When in that hour of Destined Glory

You escort me…to that Eternal Place

 

As partaker of Calvary’s Redeeming Stew…

O God, feels 'so' good to be…Loved by You!

 

Galatians 2:20, Jhn 3:16, Jer 31:3

 

 

 


copyright; jmsbell-7/15/21

The Proper Utensils

The Fork said to the Spoon,
I want you for my wife.
The Spoon said to the Fork,
I just got married to the Knife.

The Knife said to the Fork,
Best keep your tines to yourself.
The Fork said to the Knife,
Don't try to put me on the shelf.

The Spoon said to them both,
Can't we all just get along.
So they all laid side-by-side,
And together made a Tong.

A Rakish Tale

Once the “go to guy”
I linger, ever hopeful
Of a need to fill.
Long for the
Tickle
Of long grass
Crackle
of fallen leaves
Scent
of the garden.
I am older
my handle
slightly splintered
my tines
bent
several missing.
Mocked
by motored newcomers
I wait
knowing 
there are still times
that situations
will call for
The “go to guy”

John G. Lawless
©1/8/2023

Ancient River Passing Song

Ancient river, passing song
always here forever gone
rippled by flirtatious winds
disappearing round its bends.

Crooked fingers drawing lines
tributaries, twisted tines
counting coup on drum roll stones
ancient rivers heading home.

John G. Lawless
©7/6/2022

Fork and Rose

Fork fell in love on a tablecloth in the middle of winter
Beef and noodles were being served, but he barely noticed
A gorgeous newcomer was on the table, pink and fabulous.
That cannot be a rose! He whispered to spoon, who ignored him.

Spoon and he had been an item once upon a time, rainbows ago.
Is that a rose? He queried knife. Knife slapped hard against his tines
As they pushed vast quantities of beef down a grotesque man’s gullet
The man was corpulent and gassy; he certainly needed no more beef.

Rose winked at him, catching him off guard. He was gob smacked.
I love you he mouthed to the pink rose. She giggled, a flirt she was.
We never saw either of them again, they were renegades and daring.
Fork and rose ran off that night, never to grace a dinner table again

The Christmas Stag

I am the stag of seven tines
The yule stag
a roebuck in the thicket 
I am the ever hunted messenger of life
5 days during the years end I run
5 days the fey door stands open
5 days pursued by grim death and his hounds
Hard upon my heels
Hasten ready the sun calls 
Quicken, race, a son is born
Bringing the yuletide season great cheer 
With bells on my antlers, they ring
Flying on Windsong delighting the little king
Flying cross the sunrise
Past a winter sea, I sail
Seeing the ship to see his nativity
Far behind us weep the willows still
Bent with ice as frozen tear,
And branches frail.
Passed the cottage bright with candle
Yellow flame against the night, nearby in a manger
lovely mother Jesus cradling
Joyful tears hitting ground
Prayers answered in holy child 
Angel guard against pale moonlight
Closer to the little king I stumble 
and bow my head to Mary's little baby,
Death stops, hounds halt their baying
All is quiet, grim death himself bows and turns. 
I bow again to the lord of all life 
Precious king of all peace and light
Crowned by a star, gold, frankincense, and myrrh,
All this moonlit night.

Strangers In a City

I want to walk with you
on the hills of tomorrow
drag fingers like tines
in the dark dirt
prepared by centuries
of anticipation
nothing but a few shoots
of grass there
waiting perfectly
for growth, some
human attendance, some
ones to roll
and plant deeply
sending roots
to the aquifer.

I want the honey-sweet sun
to make your skin quartz
glimmering like a thousand mirrors
and every living thing,
every dewdrop-living microbe
and sharp-eyed circling hawk
and waving photosynthetic wand
to take notice--
                      Strangers from a city
are peaceful now,
love bound and harmonious
and mean everything to you,
are here
infinite one minute
and the gone the next
in combustion of what you created.

Raking Leaves

The tines of the rake
comb through a dispersing tumble.
Ocher clumps form random hillocks,
most slip through the iron teeth
dancing drunkenly away.

I was called into the rushing air.
Physical work with the dead and dying
is a ‘calling’ isn’t it?

The newly deceased keep falling.
Maple leaf bones crackle underfoot.
I scoop their remains,
brush an autumnal cerecloth,
shake the dead into swirls of afterlife.

Gobble the Breast

Gobble the breast if you can get it off the leg.
What is going on? Asked Pirate Captain Sleg.
Honey Butter dressing will be great on the finger.
Thigh drippings will make you want to linger.

The platter looks dirty. It needs a dry rub.
Where is the desert for the delicate club?
Here is a bit of sauce. Please cover the stuff.
If you swallow the turkey, we will show you a buff.

I was running naked, not understanding any of the lines.
I dressed rather fast, and picked up my fork tines.
Gobble the breast, what exactly did it mean?
Why was it on the leg? Was the conversation keen?

Come here and cover the deserts, while I do the turkey baste.
Caress Aunt Martha’s arm, so she can make the banana paste.
I will swallow some of the chocolates for there are way too many.
If you want some cake and cookies, there simply are not any…

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