"chinking" poems
.
Ͼ Dragonite, Dragonite,Ͽ
>< >< ><
Chinking at your heartstrings,
can you hear
it
շfreezing?շ
>< >< ><
A blush to
your snowy skin
and so you
stop
⇷breathing⇸
>< >< ><
A eyelash brushes away
a century,
a blink knocks out
two more.
>< >< ><
Fetching back a inked paw,
hear me rapping (oh so knocking)
on
your
selladore? (cellar door.)
>< >< ><
Ͼ Dragonite, Dragonite Ͽ
brush the stars from your hair.
Ͼ Dragonite, Dragonite Ͽ
Words and blotches are unfair.
But then again,
scatter your inkheart, dragon boy.
.
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 10:09 PM UTC
Another copycat,don't do that it's all been done before and one more pretender shown the door,
swing out
swing in and another cat comes ring a ding, ding.
I need uniqueness
I want to feed on the sweetness of novelty,there seems to be less and less of that deliciousness and not much of that newness I can claim for my own,
I think I'm fading into the woodwork,full of knots and gnarlings and look at me darlings as I disappear.
No copycat here,
this is a first time,straight from the bread line into a basket case and how can I possibly face that which is new?
New is getting fewer and the few who do new don't know and never knew what few could be in this land of lots and plenty for me.
I was told that old is the new folding currency and that doesn't suit me,too many wrinkles,too many nooks and nannies with crooks,like little Bo-Peep,I wish they'd all sleep,
there is time for the sheep to try on for size,oh my dear Lion what gigantic eyes,
is that a bit new or just me cooking stew?
A copycat like folding currency folds flat and I'm having none of that,I like the chinking and clinking of real gold and that don't fold.
So beware if you share and don't credit the writer,who with meagreness in his pockets pulls his belt a bit tighter,one more notch he can't feel,,one more meal never felt in his gut,but
copycat see,copycat do,copycat never think anything new.
What are you?
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 5:13 AM UTC
Boudicca, long hair tangled and bunched; fiery flame red hair.
Warrior queen of the Iceni, daughter of these isles of tin.
Defender of freedom, leader of men, slayer of legions.
Through the mist the Britons, Celtic in origin; saw the legions.
Row upon row of tightly packed troops, shields locked together!
Flanked on either side by cavalry. Above the silence orders could
Be heard echoing across the field, the leather harness’s creaked
Metal chinking, horses stomping and snorting, in the stillness.
Through the mist came the first rays of sunlight glinting on sharpened
Swords and spearheads; horns began to blow as the steady
Stomp of the legions moved forward in formation.
Boudicca’s eyes peered out from a face of blue woe. Bow strings
In turn began to creak death, as archers pulled back on their bows.
A slow chant from the Iceni, slow at first, began to build into a crescendo
Of noise, as the boom, boom of sword and axe rapped against wood shields.
Boudicca flame haired warrior queen stood proud and fearless on her chariot;
Daughters on each side of her, defiant against Gaius Suetonius Pauline’s
And the might of Rome.
Oh what a sight it must have been!
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 10:51 AM UTC
do you ever start chinking away
breaking, cracking the stone, hard mineral, steel cold
barrier of your heart
so it'd be impossible for someone else
to do it for you?
white wine pungent, soft
clinking glass against an empty chasm
sunlight
hard wood draped in sleeping veneer.
cascading drapes against
violet
dark
stagnant bruised skin left alone and slowly freezing over.
smoke leaking through whispering
dry lips chapped with desert words
lack of moisture creating canyons
hidden inside desperate mouths.
it's breaking like a frozen over
ashy, navy, drowning lake.
my own fault,
i always start breaking my own heart.
my own form of life insurance.
it's fogged over like a magnifying glass,
cracking across the two foot surface because
the strangled fish can't breathe under all
the permafrost and ice.
i'm waiting impatiently for summer;
i hate this cold.
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 1:39 AM UTC
The stars aren't as tasteful
as I'd hoped they'd be,
*You fickle moon,
You eclipse of a lover.*
Vinegar. That's what
those cosmic light bulbs we
call stars taste like. Raw
and savoring, bold & eccentric.
*Kissing summer on winter's lips
The cheek of spring still stings from autumn's hand*
And I'm marooned in this fine
red wine hour,
nostalgic in the art of reading
The hum of dragons pulse~
The whisper of the wolven breath,
This time around your blood
was thinner than ice.
Twisting the tendrils of our thistled love
across my snowy throat,
***Crimson is so ******* beautiful***
It was your job to swallow sunsets and it
was mine to throw up sunrises. We
followed the commandments branded on
my cheeks.
*It was the only bible we had,
Because my scars were worth
"something"*
When the roof of the sky meets the jaw of
the sun, the teeth are the clouds & constellations.
I fed the world my spine because it was starving.
chinking off marrow, and mouthfuls of my flesh,
Devour me.
*And in my wake you shifted the lapis void,
forcing my eyes open as gold tears spilt*
Streetlamps groaning at midnight,
will you watch the ravens with me at 3 a.m?
I'm not one for fate but,
destiny is mine for the taking.
Bones wish they're bending,
yet promise they're not breaking.
I bargained my soul and sins with Lupus,
and now I am his poet.
A daughter of aurora borealis,
buckets full of silver sloshing admist
my eyes.
When I no longer love you,
it will be silent,
and tragic.
.
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 11:29 PM UTC
Transactions have redundant residuals
The remnants of commerce and trade
In pockets the small dust of currency
The left over cash of price paid
The clinking froth of things purchased
The metal remains of exchange
the leavings of costs and desire
the chinking bulk of loose change
It fits in you grasp like genitals
Warm, round with a vague sense of sin
What used to be golden and silver
Is now mainly nickel and tin
We are tired of the weight in our pockets
We are shamed by the drag of its need
For if it should fall from our fingers
We forsake our grace for our greed
For there is something quite reassuring
When you empty your pockets at night
You glimpse a glance of old memories
The sixpence of childhood’s delight
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 1:48 AM UTC
The merry world did on a day
With his train-bands and mates agree
To meet together where I lay,
And all in sport to jeer at me.
First, Beauty crept into a rose,
Which when I plucked not, “Sir,” said she,
“Tell me, I pray, whose hands are those?”
But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.
Then Money came, and chinking still,
“What tune is this, poor man?” said he,
“I heard in music you had skill.”
But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.
Then came brave Glory puffing by
In silks that whistled—who but he?
He scarce allowed me half an eye.
But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.
Then came quick Wit and Conversation,
And he would needs a comfort be,
And, to be short, make an oration.
But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.
Yet when the hour of thy design
To answer these fine things shall come,
Speak not at large: say, I am thine;
And then they have their answer home.
1.8k
Maybe those afternoons,
were meant for,
that simple meeting,
amidst the quiet,
breviloquent chatter,
raw, uncompromising,
blissful uninhibited emotion.
Resounding cups,
mismatched china,
jasmine, rose, lavender tea,
celestial gardens,
plants; leaf-bearing
chinking lipped tea cups,
saucers pooling.
Immaculately intricate,
of Hadrian Denaruis silver,
an eighteenth century delight,
for ladies; un salon de thé,
sound waves wander as tea diffusers,
ritual & routine,
friendship & freedom.
© Sia Jane
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 7:02 PM UTC
All the humid nights in summer, the ones that keep you up at night. Crickets chirping, fan whirring, heat rolling off my skin, as I close my eyes and listen. The end of my insomnia, creating comfort in my suffering soul. The tall glass of sickly sweet southern ice tea is all the twinkling stars above my head and the chinking of glasses of celebration. All the red in my veins and when my heart pumps it whispers his name like a well kept secret, but everybody knows. Salvation like an arrow to the heart, so much pain but so much saved.
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 8:52 PM UTC
To hold a pen, all trembling nib and leaking tip,
At your mercy, supple in your hands,
Over the skin of soon-to-be words, people and places:
Gently exploding ink bombs of which I cherish total control –
Until I have to let them go -
until they are released and left to their own free will.
They bend and curl
And I bend and curl with them – through a place of rubble and debris,
Of clear water on emeralds and grey, creamy smoke.
A wasteland – but far from empty – a silvery mire filled with all the things of this earth.
Something both post and pre-apocalyptic that smells of old wood and heady incense,
Nostalgia and new memories.
Accidentally, messily, flawlessly crafted.
I wait for more sporadic dark poolings,
And they happen within quick succession of one another;
Splaying,
Isolated limbs and drops of a purple chemical
Spreading, bleeding, dissolving
Over the grainy paper.
The page is torn and frayed at the edges
Where almost fabric-like fibres
Were unable to withstand the impact of a knife’s blade,
Ripping all the tiny seams which bind them together,
Coming apart,
Undone,
Strand by dusty strand.
What is finished, what is done –
Is what has been given kindness,
And settled to rest.
As if drunk, sleepy, disorientated but somehow acutely aware of exactly where you are.
The feeling of dizziness where everything is hazy, fuzzy, blurry –
Inducing a comfortable, ***** slumber
In an old *** and vanilla shop.
Aureate, bronze pearls slide over each other, silky and luke-warm,
As you peer through glass and lace,
The spheres chinking together, a thousand times over.
A pen held above the paper, now still and impassive.
It is mine and I am its,
And we stand alone on the corner of a pavement,
A streetlamp
Rendering the scene golden in the rain.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 2:58 PM UTC
I had died
my friends had me buried
nine feet underground
in Australia
and they drank to my memory under the Sun.
Nigel was a hired hand
he dug my grave carefully
he talks with an accent and a cigarette
he toils under the Sun for three long days
silver tools chinking away at the hard desert rock.
I took a long ride on the Flying Spoon
up and around the lover's moon
and finally I've come to rest
in this spot under the Sun
nine feet underground
in Australia.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 7:13 AM UTC
in the emptiness
of all these lonely nights
i drift slowly to the planet in my heart
and its knock
knock
knocking
still mock
mock
mocking
and stop
stop
stopping
my every line
heels clicking
glasses chinking
the whisper of a forgotten light
flickers on and off
an endless chime
I just let the ringing echo
and in my mind
the sounds of my planet are the only peace I can find
so fluttering heart
un-still and unrefined
crack open and splutter onto the duvet
and let me listen to the sounds of the planet inside
May 23, 2023
May 23, 2023 at 2:23 PM UTC
Taken on a trip through the why don't I slip through the net?
set back from the light in the shadow that might be the shadow of me and
who is free is he who can see the night shift its shape,
landscapes on canvas and seascapes in galleries, it's no wonder to me why Valerie went over to the other side.
Positive thinking in the tin where yesterday is chinking its chains does my brains in,
Weary,
eyes bleary and nobody hears me,
it's that kind if say you get lost on the way, but I'm used to it.
On the tube.
I stand can't sit and these people just look and don't give a **** about me which all sounds like Valerie.
If this is the day and I am who I am, who's got the script
where is the man that I used to be
' why don't you come on over Valerie'
At the point where the afterburner turns into the foreground I look around me,
there is no Valerie and
only what's left if the dream wasn't right,
the night shifting shape
the rim on a wheel,
sometimes I feel
unreal.
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 2:20 AM UTC
smoking and drinking
anything but thinking
to this world, I am dumb
hoping is shrinking
my armor is chinking
my mind is now numb
toking and syncing
my mind has no inkling
empty out my head
the eyes of no blinking
they are set on linking
this life with the dead
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 8:04 PM UTC
So we get needled,
nickle and dimed
all of the time,
people chinking away
at our armor.
Wanting to scream
at the top of our longs
to **** off,
but instead acting
prim and proper,
a residual of the Vanderbilt
school of etiquette,
******** political correctness
ruining the spirit.
Can you hear it,
see the blight,
the lack of courage
all over this land?
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 5:00 PM UTC
Christmas is a time for children
Of Santa, sleighs and snow
Of scented pines, hot mulled wines,
Icy cold noses, cheeks aglow.
Christmas is a time for family
For news throughout the year
Chinking toasts, sumptuous roasts
Well wishes and good cheer.
Christmas is a time for Baby Jesus
Of Wise Kings, angels and stars
An exhilarating night, the glorious sight
Long before computers and cars.
Christmas is a time for presents
Of bright wrappings, ribbons and bows
Of twinkling lights, breathless sights
Candlelight, carols and pantomime shows.
Christmas is a time for giving
To spare a thought for the lonely and old
A letter or gift, spirits that lift
To be remembered, not left out in the cold.
Christmas is a time for excitement
Of waiting for Santa to show
Milk and mince pies, delighted cries
From the biggest kid I know!
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 2:03 PM UTC
Dear mue
I cant trust myself
Or anyone else
Really its
All because of
You
Your dedication to
This lie was great but
Once the
Fabrication slipped
It was just chaos
We burned bright
Together
Or maybe this was
All in ny own mind
Were you just
Using me
Putting on a show
Til you
Found someone better
Like im just the
Punchline to some
Sick twisted joke
Dear muse
I trusted you to
Protect my heart
Now you're another
Scar chinking my armor
Mar 11, 2017
Mar 11, 2017 at 10:50 AM UTC
Aliens know
From observation
The majority
From every nation
Live their lives
In fear
For a life not here,
Not now.
We keep our lives
In control
By old beliefs,
Not what we know,
But numbers
Shrink and grow.
That's how we're held
In law and order,
To keep our souls
From hellish horror.
We keep the Alien
In the sky,
Or party on
At Mt. Sinai,
Worship a
Triangled eye,
Hold a dance
For Salome.
We wear chinking vestments,
We wear them
For the rest of us:
The gates are quickly closing,
A foggy wind is blowing
Across an Alien sky.
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC
I cannot boast about worldly wealth
Nor can I boast about physical health
But what I have none can take away
I prefer my freedom any day.
I am no King with a worldly crown
With both my feet firmly on the ground
I know that life is an illusion
So nought over me has dominion.
Around me people fight for riches
The chinking sound of gold bewitches
Content does not come from worldly gain
It comes when no desires remain.
I want nothing, so my heart is free
Unattached and just content to be
Very gently with nature I blend
All is my brother, sister and friend.
Together everything makes a whole
We are units of a single soul
We have all been made blind by the “fall”
There is but one god and god is all.
Open our inner eye…we will see
Our past, present and future to be
God is not an outside entity
It is the spark within you and me.
When every ego its job has done
Then the universal prize is won
Like a picture the artist has drawn
The ultimate masterpiece is born.
All the things the world has ever known
As a child into the adult grown
Lives need to be lived and then depart
All is made perfect and becomes art.
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 11:41 AM UTC
*There’s a storm Mama.
I cannot see through the rain.
Just human shapes walking.
Like people in a hall of mirrors
I have the blues Mama
But worse the blues are dark grey.
I know she’s out there
Walking with people we don’t know.
I can hear her laughter
The chinking of her wine glass.
But I can’t see her Mama.
The rain falls too hard.
I am too used
to her being there Mama.
Warming the house the gardens.
I became accustomed to
the green forest
and snow capped mountain’s.
Happiness was a habit
of my heart Mama.
But now the rain
This endless rain.*
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 10:49 PM UTC