"dings" poems
I'M MAKING nachos in your toaster oven. The chips fall in the pan without a problem. Beans, evenly distributed (if I do say so myself.) Salsa- good to go. Then the cheese. Generic brand shredded cheese blend. I dangle my (washed) fingers into the zip-lock bag, grab a generous pinch and rain mild cheddar down on my gourmet meal. And I feel the tears building. "No," my conscious scolds, "you will not cry over shredded cheese." I add another pinch for flavor, then another to assert dominance. I slide the pan into the tiny oven- triumphant! But the next task breaks me. I freeze when I try to adjust the heat setting. I hear your voice so clearly, like you're still calling from the next room: "you have to press the TOAST button, it cooks much faster." The tears start to roll. I think about how excited you were when cheese bubbled perfectly- "just a little brown, ever so slightly crispy." We would joke about your persnickety preferences, likely a product of your superior taste. Of course, you would have appreciated anything I made for you, but it was always better when the dish matched the idea in your head...when I made it like you would have made it (if you were only well enough to cook for yourself again.) In the present, I poke the TOAST button and flee the kitchen as to not cry in front of the smothered chips. I sit on the sofa and break down, gasping in childish sobs. "I miss her," I wail to an empty house. Warm tears coat my cheeks in the air-conditioned room. I feel so small. I feel so foolish for crying over stupid, little things. I feel so... so... A bell dings in the kitchen. I wipe my sleeve across my face and traipse back to the toaster. Hand into oven mitt, mitt onto pan, pan onto table. I grab the plastic tubs of sour cream and guacamole from the fridge and a spoon from the drawer that sticks a little when you try to open it. I pick the non-wilted bits off the head of lettuce and rinse them under the faucet. I finish the recipe. I pull out a chair. I sit down to nachos for one.
Jun 4, 2018
Jun 4, 2018 at 9:57 PM UTC
Nonstop, all day.
You are aware a gamer's dark side,
not when they play,
but when they've died.
Can't stop, no way.
They do curse and yell,
not at what the other team say,
but when their own team fell.
I tank, you heal.
Noobs **** and everyone knows,
no need to make a big deal,
even if some player blows.
You **** stealed me!
How dare you take my guy!
He hacks I see!
How else could he fly!?
All I want to hear are 'dings!'
but not with this team.
These are the many things,
A gamer may scream.
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 5:14 AM UTC
I am nature
I am open and wild and free
I am the wind rushing down canyons and the hollering in banyans
I am a bird that sings
I am molecules upon cells upon bones against things
I am civilization.
The trapped, fluorescent lighting in a library basement.
The cake walks and small talks and forced conversation.
I am the beeps and hums and dirt on bums.
I’m the faraway cell phone that rings.
I am molecules upon cells upon bones against things.
I am exuberance
A child giggling loud sounds of joy
Puzzle completers and Christmas toys
Smiles and laughs and leaves of grass
The casino machine that dings
I am molecules upon cells upon bones against things
I am anger.
Tears, scares, and not fighting fair.
I am the red in your eyes as you cry.
I am a ghoul that comes out in the night.
I am the cut that won’t cease to sting.
I am molecules upon cells upon bones against things.
I am ideas
Originality through and through
Creations of my own evolve in my mind
Great sinewy thoughts searching for actions to bind
Mister Cleans and Daedalus wings
I am molecules upon cells upon bones against things
I am silence.
Quiet. Tight. Composure.
Open. Weary. Closure.
I am the stillness of being.
I am molecules upon cells upon bones against things.*
I am alive
I set Rube Goldberg machines into action
I contemplate, gravitate, and try not to hate
I breathe and I heave and I believe
I use my eyes to see
I am molecules upon cells upon bones against things
I am dead.
I’m a sideshow reflection of the man I could be.
I am lazy cold and clammy.
Hopefully I can get my heart beating again.
Then I could be me, molecules upon cells upon bones against things
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 12:05 AM UTC
Cream puffs, cannoli’s and Saint Joseph’s pastries
I can’t decide which, cause they all look so tasty
Chocolate eclairs and Cheese Danish rings
These are a few of my favorite things
Creamy napoleons and crisp apple strudels
chocolate truffles, oh yes!, give me oodles!
Black and white cookies and chocolate ring dings
These are a few of my favorite things
Girls in the pastry shop stifle their laughter
they know that their cheesecake must be what I’m after
miniature pastries, boxed, tied up with string
These are a few of my favorite things
When my belt’s tight
When my pants split
When I'm feeling sad
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don't feel so bad
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 7:39 PM UTC
Humanity is at the ****** of connection
Connection is plastered to our bones
It’s on our wrists dinging reminding us to take our steps that will apparently make us one with nature, it’s latched to our arms so while we are so spent attaching ourselves to nature that we don’t have to attach our phones to our hands, it’s our sun rise, it’s our evening prayer, heck it’s the only thing reminding us to wake up in the morning and connect with these people that we can only reach through these dull technological connections. Facebook says we’re here to help you connect! The Bible app dings remindign you, “keep in check!” You’re surrounded by connection, it immerses you and embraces you with its WiFi streamed arms and blue tinted light
But shouldn’t you be embracing the connection? Shouldn’t you be the one to swallow connection? Shouldn’t you be the one to amplify connection?
Humanity is at the ****** of connection but we are disconnected.. Shouldn’t the rate of depression fall not rise with every purchase of an iPhone. We are disconnected
From ourselves from nature from the spiritual realm and from each other because we connect our souls to these arguable objects of connection. Seems like we need an intervention from connection. Shouldn’t connection flow within our bones and not simply be plastered to it? Connection is around us, but we’re not making the connection
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 9:26 PM UTC
dings and whistles from the slot alert him escape -
sit before my image enter its wild wolf canyon escape
winding road in lofty forest landscape
beckon her - leave him for my green escape
triple x signs promise writhing bodies
heavy breathing and dark dank escape
the flute lay still of the silent table sparkling
sweet melodic memories of fingered escape
the frothy surging surf traces the seam of the sea -
bathe in my ***** wrap your self in my fluid escape
locked door soft light from below no sounds
inside creative energy sparks a poetic escape
on the placid lake he casts his hopes
awaits the tug - he and his prey escape
she stands eyes closed, smiling face turned upward
feels the breeze in her hair thanks God for this sweet escape
he runs in the field of goldenrod tears stream
and he screams a desperate entreaty for escape
the sylvan spirits flown from the mountain trees
into the green glen whisper as angels - escape!
May 27, 2019
May 27, 2019 at 7:18 PM UTC
As I close my laptop
and it snaps shut
my dog sits up
ears perked,
chest puffed, and
at the ready for
me to stand up
and grab a leash
and a plastic bag
for his ****
And he knows this routine
because it has been seared
into his brain with the white-hot
branding iron
of repetition.
A force of nature.
A category-five hurricane.
We laugh at them
for chasing their tails
when the microwave dings,
for salivating at bells,
but
I am no better than they are.
The same routines
are seared into my brain, too—
stimulus, response
stimulus, response
eat, sleep, **** walk, ****
love, reproduce, etc.
and I will continue to do so
aimlessly
just like Ivan Pavlov said I would.
One day I’ll find myself
like he’ll find himself—
lying on a cold slab
in a sterile room
only half alive
aghast at how quickly youth slipped away
but otherwise numb
as loved ones circle around,
hands over their mouths,
horrified
to press the button.
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 2:38 AM UTC
The evil demon haunts the night
Giving the world one heck of a fright
They slay they slaughter
They cause big fires
They destroy the soul with words left unspoken
The holy angel praises and sings
It's beautiful voice makes rings and dings
They nurture they heal
They are a big deal
They save the lives with words left unspoken
The fallen angels are confused
They feel hopeless and used
They **** and they save
They set free and they slave
They love and hate with words left
unspoken
(k.b)
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 12:41 AM UTC
She shuffles and scuttles quickly along
beating her way,
through the Christmas throng
The north wind cutting her mottled face
But shes not part of the Christmas race
For things not needed, luxurious, unwise
Her mind fixed on the price and size
Of a winter coat in that Oxfam place,
she prays its still there, she quickens her pace.
The bell dings-a-ling as she opens the door
Not feeling her legs so tird and sore
Like a long lost friend it waits on the rail
she thanks her god its still for sale.
Her hurry finished, her purchase complete
She focuses now on something to eat
To the corner shop she makes to go
happier now , her step is slow
bread and milk ,this and that
two tins of food for her little cat
Home at last her mission complete
She models her coat and warms her feet
She cuddles her cat and locks her door
She makes their tea and she cuddles him more
She dims the light her prayers are said
She thanks her god for her winter coat
that doubles as a duvet for her bed.
Jun 28, 2010
Jun 28, 2010 at 4:08 PM UTC
My feet straighten out as I walk up the road
A typha in my left palm and a worn warm stone
Sentimental?
Or just the dust of petals in my mind?
I just passed a great big pine
What is mine? Is that mine?
A great fine diner is up ahead;
entrance of town and once my homestead with
a paint chipped door schedule written in lead
Peering through the window
There's no breeze though
but the lights glow
but the plants grow
How can I know?
What do I know
The small bell dings and I crash back
The legs walk in let the door smack
I grab my chest and eyes wet my chin
When did the shudder begin?
Felt
Felt a soft red cloth wipe my cheek
Is it her or is it what they think?
a memory
it can be
and certainly hurts
like a memory
A sip from a coffee
she blows on it softly
a snapping blink in the glass
whispering with moments that pass
as much as I want to try to be
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 6:45 AM UTC
**Dear Nat,
When I grow up,
I think that my
Wonder Woman cape,
that flys behind
so gracefully,
as I wrestle villains,
intent upon
World Destruction
will morph into a
***** dish rag
that hangs limply
from my shoulder,
as I tend too,
mountains of
folding and training of
hysterical toddlers
to be stable products
in society
Is what shape,
this cape, marking me
"all-grown-up'?
Signed,
Helen
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**
Dear Wonder Woman,
(Borrowing from and with apologies to
Arthur Herzog Jr. and Billie Holiday...)
This ball you tossed,
Arrived early morn,
Forcing me tocontemplate
the choice between
Shaving, and /or poetically,
dispelling your
Grand Confusion.
Fancy that, as I pondered
How to best express,
The obvious reply,
the BS&T; sang the answer
Obviatin' the need,
To discuss your heroics,
The care, the feed,
Those you care for,
Attend their needs.
*God bless the child
that's got his own,
God bless' the child
who can stand up and say
I've got my own
Ev'ry child's, got to have his own,
His very own.*
I could be more explicit,
That when I was a child,
A red dish cloth was a
Perfectly good ASAP cape,
That defeating bad guys
Hungry work that needed
Ring Dings + milk, to soothe a
Superhero's Superman
And both arrived courtesy of
Wonder Mom.
So rather than ramble,
Let this preamble
suffice:
*God bless the child
that's got his own,
Wonder Woman*
N.B. This message has been approved by the
Justice League of America, Australia Branch.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 12:20 PM UTC
She fell from the skies
Couldn't keep floating on the lies
Pretending to be
What everyone wanted to see
An angel with papier-mâché wings
She was a Lamborghini riddled with dings
But to all she was a hottie
Driving around in a stolen Bugatti
Saying all the right things in your ear
If she couldn't have her way shed a tear
All those around her wanted
To give her all she desired undaunted
None the wiser
The next burst from this geyser
Could obliterate them all
It seemed she would never fall
From the clouds she rode
Even as her halo no longer glowed
Because all were blind
None the secret could find
But all this caught up to her
Only so much could be hidden
Behind the sheer gossamer
Of their eyes a veil eaten away by lichen
Truth be told she was still a breath taker
But the joy ride was over for this faker...
© okpoet
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 2:04 AM UTC
I am on Mackinac Island,
Lying down on a big white lawn chair
In front of the Grand Hotel.
The faint scent of fudge
Lingers on the air so I can almost taste it,
And my hair is getting constantly blown
By the wind that flows among the
Chairs, grass, and music.
The music comes from the direction of the water,
Where an old style jazz band has
Temporarily set up shop,
Creating gorgeous silhouettes
Against the orange and pink sunset sky.
The purring of the clarinet
Bounces off of me like the waves are
Bouncing on shore,
But even lighter than that,
Even lighter than the
Wings of the seagull trailing overhead.
The clarinet drops in and out of sync
With the waves as the silhouettes start to
Bounce to the music.
A distant bike bell dings,
But it matches so harmoniously
With the music that I don't notice it.
Waves, bike, clarinet.
Waves, bike, clarinet.
A constant cycle interrupted only by
The saxophone and drums occasionally.
Waves, bike, clarinet.
The sun is set.
Silhouettes turn to shadows.
Waves, bike, clarinet.
Waves, bike.
Waves.
May 20, 2020
May 20, 2020 at 2:44 PM UTC
'Tis heartbreaking to see you marvel so at children's play.
Do you not remember that you were once a child?
Have you lost the sweet ring-a-ding-dings of fairytale teachings?
Each day you fall further into The Man
And away from Peter Pan, Sara Crewe, Alice, and The Great Baron Munchausen himself.
I have not forgotten the road to where they go.
Begin where you are,
Sitting mundane, in your realm of logic and laws, tasteless office cubicle.
Now close your eyes and count to ten!
One Mississippi, two Mississippi...
When your eyes creak open you'll have to think fast!
You've no weapon against that smelly pirate with his dagger to your throat!
Give a good kick and a hard shove and you'll see the blade has changed hands, AVAST!
One good ****** and you slice through his thieving guts like butter!
Abandon ship! And SPLASH! into a garden surrounded by stone.
All you've to do is turn your head to see the peonies, the morning glories, the honeysuckle dripping in dew.
Now straighten up and grab hold of your bearings; that's it!
What was that?!
It blew by you, fast as lightning and just as bright.
A fairy! It must have been!
You run off after it but your foot catches a mangled root and you
SLAM! Face first into...WHAT IS THAT?!
Bones?! Now scramble to your feet and dash to the opening of the damp cave,
Round the corner and AH! crash into a giant gray ogre! GRRAAAGGHGHH!
Quick! Pick up that femur at your feet and pitch it into his eye! Ha! You big brute!
Duck between his great tree trunk legs and RRRRRIIIINNNNGGGG!
There goes the office phone.
But you're still out of breath and desperate for more.
Silly, don't you know? It's not something I can teach you.
You just have to REMEMBER.
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 12:15 AM UTC
I woke to a morning that called out in crystals,where mistletoe ice wands would grant me three wishes and wise men were wrapped up in kaftans and turbans.
The clock stuck at five,so the **** came alive and told time from cracked egg shells and church bells were snowed in,no dings and no dongs,the rights and the wrongs of it seem to fit in quite nicely,when at six the wind whips through the streets where I walk,it's like treading in chalk leaving footprints to read,with my toes feeling the way,so glad I wore two pairs of socks and my wellingtons today.
Then at eight there's hot chocolate and a muffin with jam and the work day begins.
No djinns and no genie,just the boss who's a skinflint and a tightfisted meanie
but it all ends at four when home seems to beckon,
I reckon I'll go and make more prints in the snow and maybe call in to see Andy for a pipe and a brandy,then off to feed Joe,(he's my cat dontya know) and then bed with my nightcap,take the bolt off the catflap and dive into a book I was saving for the time before I nap.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 12:59 AM UTC
Seoul boy
nice kid, eighteen, from the East
took on the east side
and the west side
story goes,
his mother knew
"much dings"
and his father knew politics, so
"less dings"
his mother was a woman of
words,
spoke of feminists,
spoke of progress,
read many books and
spoke goot engeulish,
"and your job?"
"No, that is your father question."
huh?
his father was a man that
WAS,
ran for a lot and
stood for a lot and
looked far ahead and
above of his head but
never really
seem to
stop? Seoul boy thought,
of Times Square. Times Square.
TIMES SQUARE
everyday, out there
selling shirts that say
"wo-I-NY"
and umbrellas
when it rained.
(and yes, it rained
in the city of dreams)
soft-lookin' kid
hard cash,
best friends with the
homeless "trash", so-called.
"urban campers,"
"friendly locals!"
"fairly loco?"
"lotsa cOcO."
huh.
Seoul boy, working at a
Greenwich pharmacy
first-time paycheck
first-time real job
first-time AC
first-time man ask me
out
there, somewhere
out there.
what?
your home.
my home? yeah.
no. wait what?
this is home
even gay man knew.
even homeless knew.
even Seoul boy knew.
"best place I am live,
'till die."
he said
"best place is
the New York City."
he said
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 10:52 PM UTC
~For Pradip~
*who reminded me:
We are all God’s Trial & Errors*
tender is the tendency,
so finitely human,
infinitely foolish,
to overlook the
obvious,
let us not delve into our
particular peculiar idiosyncratic knots
in our hair and personalities,
all natural,
inherited or ill begotten
in voyages to far away,
like our childhood
***Thus,
we are all mistakes of a sort***
with natural fault lines,
accumulated dings, scapes, bruises,
furrowed crinkles that took us
years to perfect
We are flawed like diamonds,
valued by these natural flaws
by graders with loups who uncover
our flaunts, our clear air bubbles,
the more flaws the better,
because these attributes make us
most interesting!
you may be blonde,
you may be exotic
perhaps a lovely shade of
iridescence,
but lucky you whose scars speak
out and others wonder why,
they are so interesting
let us design a large animal,
seemingly ungainly, yet keystone to
their environment, so others may
profit thereby,
yet insanely quick on lumbering feet,
no hands, fingers, but a long snakey thinge
that multiple functions for
breathing, drinking, feeding grabbing, smelling and
trumpeting their presence
to foolish beings in their neighborhood
let’s us not debate
whose design is
an efficacy par excellence
so we be
ungainly, too tall, too
this or that,
even too flawless,
a specialized curse of sorts,
we are the product of
a sophisticated design laboratory
that makes many models,
each variegated, always different
so get down on your knees *********
and praise the design engineers
who created you to be
full of
& by elephantine trials and elephantine errors,
thereby making
us each,
a special pronoun,
an I
blessed
by definition:
though not in any dictionary:
unique,
flawless!
**
**^you are the most
flawless poem
you have ever written
and will ever ever
write***
Dec 7, 2024
Dec 7, 2024 at 3:59 PM UTC
You realize, as you’re sitting on your bed, holding the phone you begged your mommy to buy just months ago, that 18 is so far from 17. 17 was so beautiful; with youth in all its glory and the future just seemed so out of grasp. And yet, you grow and while growing, you make friends that you share your secrets to when dawn peeks, you make decisions that could change your life unknowingly and you fall in love, a love that’s raw and free, a love you can only have at 17. But somehow at 18, you lose the friends through petty fights and those shared secrets were now secrets for strangers, you make the wrong decisions because they were different from the decisions you once made at 17, and you fall out of love, a love you thought would last forever because of empty promises you made when everything seemed possible. 18 is beautiful too, you realize, because you can do all the things you did at 17, but not the way you did at 17. At 18, you make friends and you don’t share your secrets at the wee hours of the night but you share your goals, your passions and funky music you heard on the radio that plays during the late afternoon drives. At 18, you make decisions you never did at 17. It’s scary at first, but you’re no longer 17 and at 18, things are different, you’re more mature and you hold yourself with confidence and you stand up for the decisions you make. At 18, you fall in love again, but not with a boy that reeks of mud and barely has ****** hair, instead, you fall in love with yourself. You fall in love with your stomach that’s not flat, you fall in love with your dainty fingers and you fall in love with the life you created that you never really loved at 17. The phone in your hand dings, it’s a message from a friend you thought you lost at 17: ‘happy birthday.’ The screen blackens because you know you can reply later because when you’re 18, 19 seems so far away.
Aug 18, 2021
Aug 18, 2021 at 1:22 PM UTC
the house is making,
noisy demands, this morning
that i feel i am, unable to meet
the microwave,
is bleating about the coffee steaming, standing, waiting,
on it's spinning table
the washing machine,
is singing a smug little jingle.
job complete. washing done,
are'nt i neat!
the dryer,
whirring, sighing, thumping,
slumping,
to a rythmn all its own.
the roomba,
is doing,
the
rhumba,
all the way
down the
hall.
the computer,
dings and sings
you have new mail.
and worst of all
the alarmclock,
has told me.
i have,
met my quota,
of snooze recalls.
so,
now,
i have to,
get up and face it all.
how i wish,
for the days,
when the
house mechanics,
went about their work,
in quiet and dutiful ways.
requiring no praise at all.
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 7:13 PM UTC
Cream puffs, cannoli’s and Saint Joseph’s pastries
I can’t decide which, cause they all look tasty
Chocolate éclairs and Cheese Danish rings
These are a few of my favorite things
Creamy napoleons and crisp apple strudels
chocolate truffles, oh yes!, give me oodles!
Black and white cookies and chocolate ring dings
These are a few of my favorite things
Girls in the pastry shop stifle their laughter
they know that their cheesecake must be what I’m after
miniature pastries, boxed, tied up with string
These are a few of my favorite things
When my belt’s tight
When my pants split
When I'm feeling sad
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don't feel so bad
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 8:38 AM UTC
Ross was good,
Part-Choctaw, Part-Saskatchewan,
he'd sniff the air for his direction,
could spot a pebble out of place,
understand broken twigs.
He loved to work at night,
backtracking was a skill,
garroting his specialty,
he had fourteen dings.
Part-Celt, Part-Heinz-57
I understood similar things,
my notches stand
at just under ten.
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 5:56 PM UTC
A little bit of sugar
a tiny pinch of salt
A couple of spoonfuls of cinnamon.
I single chocolate drop
throw it in some flour
and add a cup of milk
That is how you bake something
I hope that it did help.
Now mix the ingredients, until they blend so well
and you'll have a mixture
that looks as delicious as it smells.
Then put it in the oven
set it to bake
take it out when the timer dings
and you'll have yourself a cake.
Nov 22, 2019
Nov 22, 2019 at 10:22 AM UTC
"Dave?"
My stomach was shaking, almost churning to every single beat. Dumf. Dumf.
I remembered that day clearly, the 21st of January 1995.
My heart kept racing on but I still didn't know why it was so unsettling.
Most mornings, I had awoken to the sight of the ever so handsome boy-toy of mine, 'Dave'. This morning it wasn't the same, when I say it wasn't the same, it was like I was in a parallel universe kind of shit...'not the same'.
Most times we were attached, not in a 'meet you at the middle of the slice of pizza' kind but the literal kind. I haven't gone a night without sitting on the other side of the toilet door or as Dave liked to call it "Dear I'm just painting the porcelain because white is just way too plain", it was cute the first forty times but it still grew old quick.
The clock had turned its short hand to 9 and that was all that mattered to me in that moment. It was 9am: breakfast time. I didn't smell Dave's pancakes, I didn't hear the sizzling of frying pans or the clanging of things... I don't cook much, if not at all; so I wasn't really sure what Dave was doing but I knew it had a lot of clangs and dings.
My day was invaded by a little bit of rain, the rain pattering against the windows used to be what Dave and I loved. When it rained, it meant we could just stay inside and enjoy each others company.
Time passed differently
It always passed differently...
I decided to sleep most of the day away until Dave came back the next day because he always did.
_________________________________________________________________________________
25th June 2075
"Dave?" My stomach was churning to every single beat. Two women enter both dressed in some ridiculous halloween costume. "I just woke up"
"Yes you did", the blonde hair woman said to me.
"Dave?" I called out again.
This time the other one decided to open their mouth, "Ms Louise, there hasn't been a Dave for a long time. You haven't been taking your medication have you ma'am?"
_________________________________________________________________________________
26th June 2075
"Dave?"...
Time passed differently.It had always passed differently...
Oct 12, 2016
Oct 12, 2016 at 11:56 PM UTC