"clapper" poems
the rat ******* has been re-purposed
(conscripted in a somewhat fodder task)
brandishing irons
and quarter lines
coiled and unwavering
insidious and cunning
pent up and fired
in his dripping shoes
and peel back skin
wheel bug and hookworm
are stolid in his wake
(all bursting grossly at the buckle!)
the heel on task;
slithering and rogue
merciless and coy
resolute and contemptuous
with his cotton mat
and quick ready quill
pungi and clapper
raise the clever snake
(croker sacks and wicker backs
dot the gasoline rainbow)
carnival barkers and kraken
(lewd in the distance)
taunting and vile
with their red beakers
and deep purple hearts
cicada and louse
high on alert
(ready to wreak havoc in the hog wallows)
the perverse cornered rat
snapping and soiled
foaming and inflamed
lurking and primed
inside his carefully crafted plan
easels and cover alls
suit this jackal well
(keefer’s little helper or so they'd say)
pickers running rough shod
all stirring up the stench
***** and conkeys
poised
and ready
to lime this cornered slug
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 10:57 PM UTC
Bell of flesh.
Clapper of bone.
My joints sing pain.
10W
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 1:12 PM UTC
Through tight slits in wooden slats
I catch the three-legged wind chime
Which hangs by a thread from
An overhung roof, by the gutter.
The owl - whom keeps watch,
Double sided, double gazing
At the goings on in the garden and
Mirrored happenings on the wall -
Sits quietly at the centre of his universe
With knotted thoughts so intertwined
For years he has neglected
Or perhaps forgotten how to
Play the jingle resting on the breeze.
The legs which dangle from the
Moon with noisy knees have
Lost their tone or dulled to make
Their silent stand against my wanting ears -
A fitting punishment.
The only steps to stifle my regret are
Toward the watching eyes to
Shake the clapper;
Summoning a tempest to end an age
Of silence from the much too long
Forsaken keeper of the chime.
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 5:03 PM UTC
I want to stumble into you
Like the locked door at the end of the hallway
The one with the sign that doesn’t say
DO NOT ENTER
As much as it says
I ****** DARE YOU
And I dare
I dare to devour your deviance
Like a grungy punk rocker on a microphone
Head shake tongue wag cartoon coyote horn howl
What?
I have no discretion
Leave the lights on
I want us both to see why we taste so bad
I mean
Let’s pound like pistons
Until the oil dries up
And our engines seize
I have nowhere to go
I do not want to go home tonight
I want to sloppy seconds myself
Before passing out
With my head in the crook of your neck
Even drenched in sweat
You smell so sweet
I want to kiss you
I want to taste your body’s attempt
To cool what I do to you
I want to heat you up again
I bought the clapper and unplugged everything else
Just so you could tell me to **** you like a strobe light
Well
Gorgeous
Now I can
Come place your lips on my throat
And I will sing for you
You are so much more beautiful than I could ever be
Let me know what that feels like
By wanting me back
This gentle ache
Of dancing
And drying joints
I wonder if you’ll still be this **** when you’re old
I ask because I have lost any desire for grace
I have fallen from it
And want to stumble into you like a locked door
Fumble for the house keys
Might actually make it inside
If you took your hands off me
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 3:36 AM UTC
He was the worst **** star in the world
his thinking ability had the pace of a snail
and in the first movie he ever made
someone had to show the man how
You could not even say action on the set
for it would ensure a nervous twitch
and if a clapper clapped, he'd need a number two
he was one awkward son of a b*tch
You may say hey why employ a man like that
are you and your production team crazy
and in a breath of nonchalant's they'd whisper back
hell no my dear friend, just additionally lazy
Well the bill boards say
The C**ck That Got Away
and the money is pouring in good and swell
for the worst **** star in the world
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 5:32 PM UTC
Must you go to the New World
forbidden fruit, thrilling
nerve-racking, dreaded exam
Looming where the sun goes
a spell you need to break
trailer-trash meets the Long Carabine
Making love to Laura Inglis Wilder
Shock and Awe meets John Muir
Martin Luther and Chicken George
All clapper board and Hopper-esque
while James Taylor sings Mockingbird
with Carly Simon
Your fingers trace that coastline
those place-names where perhaps
you will stand and wonder
At what people can do
because it is all there
in the New World
A new world to replace
the one you already have
should you ever finish with it
Feb 24, 2011
Feb 24, 2011 at 1:02 PM UTC
So When It Comes To Poetry...
What Really Can Be Deemed...
To Be A... " MASTERPIECE "... ?!?
A Really COOL HAIKU...
Where Words Number A FEW... !?!
Or A Poetic... Stanza...
With IMPERVIOUS Data...
That HITS Like A Gun Clapper... !!!
Or Verses That SHATTER...
A Readers BRAIN MATTER... !!!
Because Of Wordplay...
That’s TRUTHFUL And BRAVE...
On Subjects That Make...
Most Writers AFRAID... !?!
Or Masterpieces Releasing.....
The PLAINEST of Speaking...
And TRUE DEPTH of MEANING... ?!?
Or... Poetry Seeking... ?
To BREAK Through Glass Ceilings... !!!
Where Judgements Are Made...
About... What Is Claimed...
To Be A... " Masterpiece "...
Are Judges Like THESE...
Those... TRULY WORTHY...
of KNOWLEDGE And WISDOM...
About... ALL Words Written... ?!?
Are They REALLY Objective...
About Words That They Credit....
As Being … IMPRESSIVE... ?!?
Is A Masterpiece Short...
Or... Can It Be LONG... ???
Can A Poem Be Thought...
To Have Masterpiece Form... ?!?
Like That of A Painting...
Because of Its CADENCE...
And POETIC Statements... ???
AND.............
Whose Mind Can Decide... ?!?
What It Is That DEFINES..
A... MASTERFUL Piece...
of Verse And Poetry... ???
And What About WRITERS... ?
Do We REALLY ASPIRE...
To Have Our Written Works...
Be Seen As GREAT VERSE... ?!?
Or As A MASTERPIECE...
of A... Poetic Breed... ?!?
Sounds Like EGO To Me... !!!
I’d Rather Inspire Young People To READ...
And Write REALITY Within Their Poetry... !!!
That ENSURES LEGACIES...
of Words With... Qualities...
That Breed MORE UNITY...
That Have POSITIVE Impacts...
On... HUMANITY... !!!
Because THAT HONESTLY...
Would Be The Kind of FEAT...
That I TRULY Would See...
As Something That Could Be...
A POETIC Piece of GREAT Artistry... !!!
That Indeed Could Be Deemed...
As A REAL...
..... “ MASTERPIECE “..... !!!
Oct 1, 2020
Oct 1, 2020 at 1:40 AM UTC
And for your love
and the romance
of our lives
I've decided to
attempt dancing
and all the glories
that come along.
For, this romance isn't
the aroma of accordion music
filling the Paris streets at nighttime,
while a couple dances
under the streetlights,
as rain begins to fall.
It's a romance about humanity
and desire and its heartache
that tries to tango in the suburbs
and tap in the slums,
whose clumsy movements cause
embarrassment for any party involved.
This love has a rhythm unlike
a big band hit or a bluegrass hand-clapper.
It has a rhythm all of its own.
Closest to, maybe, jazz.
The real jazz. The Harlem jazz.
Sparatic and unpredictable.
Upbeat, swinging cymbals and trumpets.
Then a slow sax,
with bluesy vocals crying out in pain.
Because you can't two step
or foxtrot
or tango
to that.
You must step carefully.
For this romance is fragile.
You cannot choreograph in advance
or synchronize moves
with your lovers'.
You simply must listen, feel, and move.
This dance of love
must cause you to cry
and smile
and melt
and ache
and desire to make love
all in the same motion.
Or it's not love.
It's an imitation
aimed at the beautiful and elegant.
And we aren't that.
We're humans with souls and flaws
who desire these false
motions and harmonies
of love,
but who need to still understand
love's true tender
and heartbreaking steps
that have no
recognizable rhythm,
but that promise
a lifetime of love.
So, I will not learn
love's romantic moves
for they are unteachable,
but I will attempt,
for your love
and romance,
my dear,
to sway to the music
and stay beside you
and follow your lead
as we wait for the
drums and the horns-
and the music to begin.
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 6:27 PM UTC
The Bell tolled and death did
Look upon the masses below
"Deeming all unworthy"
He did reach in
Ashes,
Dust,
Relics,
Of a age before, like seeds he sewed
Those below, The bell chimed
And the Clapper greeted the sides
Of the bell, and below coughs
Brought forth, the
Seeds,
Sowed,
Maturing,
Now in to growth, as death perches
Up above, With each stroke
Time
Is now counting down,
Coughs,
Blood,
Temperature,
Chimes were heard though no longer
there, And the seeds flowered
With the final ringing of the
Bell,
So death had claimed many in one go,
And in a final exhale
Each did spew forth
Ash
Pestilence
Death
Had his opening, with each breath
Which was their last
Did they spread the seeds
That like dominos
Claiming more for the
River sticks,
And with each one seeded
Chimes were heard as they counted down.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
Her hands lay gently joined,
her breathing breaching the fortress of a bedroom’s silence
clasped as one, in the very early morn,
her fingers move in motion, wavering, *********
recalling a violin instrument, an unseen youthful memory,
her internality rumbles with a quiet litany,
an indecipherable host of jumbled mumbles,
a cacophony accompaniment to her quietude of steady breathing
I,
study her, as I have done so many mornings prior,
once more, capriciously slipping back inside/beside our bed,
to restart My Sunday morning quiet-like, for as is my wont,
have awoken with the morning dark, treading room to room,
filling my Winslow Homer’s Macintosh mug, with 19.7 fluid oz. of Jamaican beans freshly ground, an instigating odor, a fragrancy
most contradictory, soothing, nonetheless, a steadying, yet a
blaring wake-up call
She, clad my in-her new festive plaid pajama top,
a creamy fabric that begs for my I-dare-not stroke,
is easy prone and that,
pleases me, for I wish to bed beside her, letting her rest
till her mind texts her body, no more! or the mumbles grow
grow nagging onerous and stirring and when her disposition is
well-disposed, she stirs too,
after her fashion
with a dancer’s grace, her arm slowly rises, resting airborne,
fingers arrayed, splayed and Balanchine arranged, (1)
pointing upwards,
lingering until
the arm falls impromptu, sudden,
as a crescendo striking an apex,
her risen hip-mound,
imitating a bell’s clapper woke reverb,
and she sleeps no more…
<>
Sun Jan 15 2022
in the wee daylight hours
Jan 28, 2023
Jan 28, 2023 at 10:35 PM UTC
" From The Picture Taker "
Shadeless
Shameless
My hat is off
With my smiley
Ready to take off
and launch for anybody!
Earphones on my near shoulder
Acting like a sthetoscope
Just to hear my beating heart;
Not only twice but thrice
Nakedly seen on my left chest part!
Chapter recorded by a clapper...
Says--- our story start from now.
Days seemed to be an hour of vow
So share the wisdom feeling you and me
Originally from the picture taker
Even if the captured photo was taken as a selfie!
And we can made within ourselves an artistic soldier.
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 10:59 AM UTC
The Church Belfry at Catherine Cross
Was known for its ancient bells,
They’d peal on out before Sunday Mass
And wake the monks in their cells,
The bellringers were a hardy crew
And their timing was superb,
But Joe and John, they didn’t get on,
And nor did the Bellman, Herb.
For Herb worked up in the belfry, with
The bells that he thought were his,
He’d tend the stock and the clapper stays
So the clapper wouldn’t miss,
He’d set each rope to the ringer’s height
To a fraction of an inch,
And woe betide if a ringer died,
Or another called in sick.
He’d call on down to the bellringers,
‘Go easy on those ropes,
You wouldn’t want to be stretching them,
They’re after all, the Pope’s!’
But John would glare at his form up there
And call up, between spells,
‘Don’t interfere with our work down here,
It’s we who ring the bells!’
He’d do his best to unsettle Herb
Would leave him in the lurch,
Then try, by ringing the tenor bell
To knock him off his perch,
The bell weighed upwards of three long tons
Would leave John out of breath,
But over time with its endless chime
Herb was going deaf.
Then Herb would leap from the belfry stair
And knock John to the ground,
The bells would ring out of sequence then
And make a terrible sound,
And while they struggled and punched and swore
The villagers would smirk,
‘That’s Herb and John got a punch-up on,
That Herb is a piece of work!’
So John had gone to the Synod, asked
That the Bellman should be sacked,
‘There’s nothing he needs to do up there,
I’m sick of being attacked.’
And so the word was carried to Herb
That their need of him was done,
Gave him a week to collect his things
And then, he must be gone.
His final Mass at Catherine Cross
Herb clambered up in the tower,
He’d show them all in his hour of loss
He’d have John in his power,
He loosened the nut that held the bell
To the headstock, up above,
And as it rang with a mighty clang
He gave it a final shove.
Then John strode into the centre, cursing
Looking up at the bell,
But what he saw would forever haunt him
Like some scene from Hell,
The bell was hurtling down towards him
Herb astride the crown,
His eyes a-gleam with revenge, it seemed
As the mighty bell came down.
Herb is buried at Catherine Cross
Not far from the place he fell,
While John was trapped for three long days
Under the dome of the bell,
It took the arm of a crane to lift
And set John free from his pain,
But from then on it was ‘Crazy John’
For he clambered out insane!
David Lewis Paget
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 6:06 AM UTC
her head is like a bell;
tongue like a clapper;
silent through the night
& ringing throughout
the countryside by day
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 8:02 AM UTC
Replaying what their saying praying they bring light to this white uptight insightful wannabe rapper
Cracking the code attacking the slackers taking wack swings trying to use the Clapper dressed dapper
Like Versace shoestrings singing like ODB making sure my breaths clean, it’s my upbringing two parent
Household got no gold but I make you mind blown rocking rhymes about frog and toad I’m road worn
And born weary love oregon’s rain, dreary love to read Beverly Cleary like Ramona wasn’t cheerleading
A future bare back ******* posing as a children’s reader more like a chicken head feeder yet sweeter
Cold toes in the morning gotta find a slipper pull up my cargo pants, can’t find the zipper feeling like
Jack Tripper …. its slipperier the slope to attacking Iraq with most black troops a whole new set of roots
The truth is uncouth like jerking off in a telephone booth *** shooting on yellow pages gobs coating
Everyones names strangers in cages with rage faces and misplaced hate…fucking ingrates –
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 4:06 PM UTC
I often feel frac/
tured
As though I’ve
f
a
l
l
e
n
Between
The
Cracks
Of
Memory-
Like a broken bottle
Left
Forlornly in a wood,
Or
A faded,
Sun-bleached
Photograph;
Decaying
In an empty house-
When you’ve withdrawn
Upon,
within,
around
Yourself, so much
That even the dust stagnates-
How can you expect
Anyone
To intrude
Into that self-imposed solitude?
Especially,
If you,
Yourself,
Have no clue how to break it?
The bell has lost it’s clapper,
A mallet without a gong,
Tongueless mouth gaping wide-
Emitting only a feeble moan,
Easily dismissed as the wind,
Whipping around the eaves,
and through the trees.
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 3:46 AM UTC
May be as
soft and delicate
like a flower.
But my thoughts
are as loud as church bells
like the clapper
pounding over and over
again against the bell
like if it's trying to get out.
-DB
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 9:44 PM UTC
You think a movie camera follows you,
a film crew watching everything you do and so you play that lifetime role,
rolling down the blinds at number fifty one
you think the film is rolling on,
each scene a scene where you have been, each whisper that you hear is taped, replayed,
play it by ear you could be on an earner,
turn a page or two, do you think the audience is watching what you do?
do you undress behind the silver mirrored made in Hong Kong screen and have you seen the rushes yet?
I bet the editor has made the final cut, but you think they'll watch the film in which you star
if a movie camera really follows you.
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 4:02 AM UTC
For they said on the final
"Bell"
My life would like the final
"Ring"
Stop, still, silent would I be
"Motionless"
But fate is in my hands, so I stole the
"Clapper"
Lets see them end me, my end is only on my own terms.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 5:47 AM UTC
i didn't understand
how my back was curved like a spoon all the time
how my breath stops at the eyes upon me
how my voice stops to be heard at their stares
my cowardice
i was jealous
their stance, the way they held their chins up high
their never-ending smiles and laughs and talks
their wits, never stopping to think, always ready
their courage
i am stuck in my own world
not because they told me to
because i have to
someone has to yield
someone has to be the clapper
someone has to watch
someone has to be inferior
i am—
that's my role in this world
i will never be—
never be the.
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 11:30 AM UTC
Living in a gong of hide
The stricken pulses
Beat inside.
Leather bell.
The clapper's pain.
Kingdoms bow
Within its reign.
Leather bell.
Oh, how it tolls.
Telling you you're getting old.
Leather bell.
The clapper's pain.
It WILL toll...
... again...
... AGAIN.
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 4:35 AM UTC
Trump thinks that his phones were tapped
During the campaign season.
If that had been the case, there had to
Have been a very good reason.
If intelligence agencies
Did indeed suspect
Questionable activity
Worthy of being checked,
Maybe they did tap his phones.
But James Clapper° denies it.
Another example of Trump crying "Wolf!"?
We know how often he tries it.
Or is it just one more distraction
To steer us away from how
Trump and certain Republican friends
Are ******** us over right now
By talking of vouchers; talking of limiting
Freedom of expression;
And making a mess of health care, which
Has been their constant obsession;
And letting people discriminate
Based on religious convictions--
An insult to equal rights and they
Can see no contradictions.
Trump's team and Russians have had
Frequent conversations.
Whatever the topics, we know they weren't
Mere congratulations.
Perhaps it's just Trump's paranoia
Coming to the fore.
What started out as a joke isn't
Funny anymore.
- by Bob B (3-5-17)
°Former Director of National Intelligence
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 5:49 PM UTC