"gong" poems
Its just a fantasy the only regret is permanence,
The life of a modern day gypsy, an unknown destination.
I wake up to new faces from past day's bruises,
A long journey into some town, exploring the unknown.
Green sanctum reflecting the temple top,
Woken up by the gong of the ancient metals.
Treated like a royal guest, offered a lot of the harvest,
Walking down the symmetric coconut grooves.
I see vessels carrying newest of the goods,
But here they still stick to their roots.
True its a gods own country, abundant beauty,
I'm lost amidst the hills sipping the Malabar coffee.
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 11:14 AM UTC
the world sits on the wing of a dove
being swallowed whole by a fiery goddess
descended from heaven on a chariot of ivy
i am incarcerated by shaking flesh and itching cloth
the road before me is giant and knows no bounds
the graveyard is warm and wet with spirits and dew
and red clouds are born from fire in the dawn
there is an intelligent horse being ridden by a snarling insect
and this man has come to claim our souls
our sunset blood burns boils blisters until a million animals wounded
i'm still alive, transfigure me into a creator
choke up my nostrils with the scent of your ***
invade my lungs with the burn of your god
caress my toungue with the infinite promise
enter my brain from above, and regurgitate your anxiety on me
slimy worms devour a psychadelic tomato laughing
into transendency, an eyeless eel has dissappeared into a pocket
i speak from balconies, from terrible heights, from hastened windowsills
in a million desperate quarrelling cities
this is where i **** up illusion, i give up to despondency
i ring the great iron bell that resounds with corruption, with hatred, with hideous *** and admiration,
i scream and cavort on rooftops alone with a black & blue midnight
covered in electric lights and gunpowder tongues
here comes the disintegration of my mind
disgraced by the eye of the earth and spat into
a realm of salivating light
i am swimming through digested heartbreak and melancholy livers
sickened by madness and homemade bombs and ******
the rainclouds carry a truckload of babies' hearts
and it's raining eyes over the city now
the cry of the mind escapes from waving mouths in impotence
as millions of bacteria invade the brain
may these lines be answered by the bird of the sun
by the worm at my ear
by the sight of my skeleton
by the stench of ***** in the air
by the dead gong shivering through midnight
by the bleeding eye of abandoned dreams
by the prophets in proclamation
by the god of all my sorrows
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 9:55 PM UTC
Being lonely
He beats the gong again
The guard of kabiya.
* kabiya: cabin in which kabi (fire to frighten noxious animals like stags and wild boars) is made in autumn.
6.2k
Why do you sit there on the floor so quiet and silent, tell me,
mother dear?
The rain is coming in through the open window, making you all
wet, and you don't mind it.
Do you hear the gong striking four? It is time for my brother
to come home from school.
What has happened to you that you look so strange?
Haven't you got a letter from father today?
I saw the postman bringing letters in his bag for almost
everybody in the town.
Only father's letters he keeps to read himself. I am sure the
postman is a wicked man.
But don't be unhappy about that, mother dear.
Tomorrow is market day in the next village. You ask your maid
to buy some pens and papers.
I myself will write all father's letters; you will not find
a single mistake.
I shall write from A right up to K.
But, mother, why do you smile?
You don't believe that I can write as nicely as father does!
But I shall rule my paper carefully, and write all the letters
beautifully big.
When I finish my writing do you think I shall be so foolish
as father and drop it into the horrid postman's bag?
I shall bring it to you myself without waiting, and letter by
letter help you to read my writing.
I know the postman does not like to give you the really nice
letters
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 2:29 AM UTC
Cola and Crown
Cola and Crown
Burns coming up
But, smooth going down
Cola and Crown
Cola and Crown
Burns coming up
But, smooth gong down
Sitting at the tavern
Needed courage
Drank four shots
Downed them in six seconds
Now, I didn't feel so hot
Stumbled to the dance floor
Room was spinning
So was I
Four shots in just six seconds
Felt like I was gonna die
Waitress pushed on by me
Saw that I had paid my dues
Four shots in just six seconds
I threw up on her new shoes
Cola and Crown
Cola and Crown
Burns coming up
But, smooth going down
Cola and Crown
Cola and Crown
Burns coming up
But, smooth gong down
She screamed and i just wobbled
Then she socked me with her tray
She gave me four shots in six seconds
Now, on the floor I lay
From now on when I'm drinking
I'm drinking beer, no matter what
I've got two black eyes to show me
Four in six ain't that hot
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 1:19 PM UTC
Ask the Channel to his Promised Heart's Best
And Glad you shared his Spirit with your Song
Closer, then keep your Cherries fresh with Zest
So both can Savour each Flavours for long
How Fair you took his Living Supplement
Where these Vitamins need your Fresh Support
But Remind him; Of Minerals and Nourishment
Are what is Needed for his Best Report
Then the Grandfather whose Wise Hands will tell,
Strike the Gong to when their Wrapped Hands hold fast
But knowing his Flute which charms your Bell,
His Pickfold Numbers win your Lots at last.
Tally him Softly; And he makes you Proud
To harvest Best Fruits whilst singing out loud.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 11:35 PM UTC
As he stepped into the ring,
Everyone his name did sing.
They wanted him to win
The title, for the commoners.
The title in his last fight.
He was out of practice,
His reflexes had slacked.
Gloves, boxers, guard, did him justice
There was something which he lacked.
Lacked in his last fight.
Before he could hear his favorite song,
Followed by the nerve-racking gong.
He had a look around
To catch a familiar sight,
Have a look at her before his last fight.
He checked the stands,
Then glanced around the ropes
And before he had given all hopes
He heard a familiar sound
Right before the first round.
Go hubby go! Punch him left and right!
She screamed with all her might.
Putting a smile on his face,
And then he boxed like an ace.
Winning the title, just for her.
The title in his last fight.
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 10:51 PM UTC
Grandmother Willow said
listen to your heart, you will understand
but when it pounds all I want to do is run
my heart says so many things
one minute it's telling me to climb a tree as high as the branches let me
the next it says hook line and sinker
and when I'm with someone beautiful, it says
nothing, it just
flutters and pitter patters
Mulan was always my favourite because
she had her heart broken and still
She Saved China
all on her own
my heart breaks like twigs and crumbles like dry
stiff leaves
in Autumn
and my heart is also a rubber ball that bounces from
one place to the next
too rapidly,
I forget where I am
and where I just was a moment before I ended up
wherever I ended up
my heart is like ice and sometimes if you are the right temperature,
it will melt for you
my heart is aware of fallacy and sometimes if you try to coax it,
everything I ever felt for you
won't exist anymore
a few months ago I was sitting at the back of
a midnight bus
in my hometown,
with a hippie headband on, accompanied with braids,
a long dress and moccasins of black suede
when a drunk teenager pointed and hollered directly at my face,
"you look like Pocahontas, how many John Smiths love you?"
I don't get angry anymore
I just get tired
my heart goes to sleep for days and wakes up at
the sudden gong of recognition
in eye contact
that lasts longer than just a few seconds;
my heart awakens at sunsets,
when I am sitting in a tree alone
and it awakens each time I successfully skip a stone
I've always thought highly of the two
disney cartoons
and it's not just because they can fire a harpoon
it's something like embodying the female
self-assurance,
strength of the soul,
embracing solitude like wind on a stroll
heart strong from a softening,
heart loved from singing just for singing
heart open like eye contact
that lasts longer than
just a few seconds
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
four letter word challenge
beat that gong
toll that bell
bent into song
sent to hell
hips have push
sigh over hour
lips live lush
lies gone sour
hand over fist
**** your eyes
cold hard cash
**** your lies
girl into gold
gold into rust
girl, once sold
turn into dust
soulsurvivor
8/12/2014
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 12:58 AM UTC
What was it exactly about this rasta.
He seemed so to be out of time an oddity then.
He stroked the gong that resonates still
Nothing can dim his light
His message still reverberates
With all who hear his call.
A natural mystic sinking tap roots from far out.
Kaya budz meets Buffalo soldier and they journey to Transendentia.
Dread lion with Dread locks . Earth shoes and soccer socks.
Ras Nesta walking through di concrete jungle.
Nevah know what sweet rest is in disya concrete jungle.
When you think it's peace and safety.A sudden destruction
Collective security, for surety.
From the Tenement yard to a Pimpers paradise .
Lining up to run in the rat race.
Live if you wanna live .
Glazed over Duppy conqueror. Seeing past all limitations
Rastaman vibration. Positive.
Oct 20, 2012
Oct 20, 2012 at 12:47 PM UTC
Your skin is softer than silk
Your hair shines like the midday sun
And gazing into your periwinkle eyes
I know that you are the one
One night you finally invite me
Into the place you call home
I shiver with anticipation
As I brush and scrub and comb
But there are bones shoved under the doormat
And blood dripping down from the stair
What horrors I find that night
As I venture into your lair
There are legs hung in your kitchen
Fingers on the dining table
Forever watching eyes on the fireplace
Like some grisly fable
But that is not the worst
Of the torment I endure tonight
As I turn to run from you
You take away my light
There's a knife in my side
As you drag me, so strong
You rip and tear and consume my hide
Until my life is ended like a crash of a gong
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 11:23 AM UTC
There were once men, playing a lying game.
They had no heart, they knew no shame.
Like Sirens, what their songs told,
were stories of flesh on beds of gold.
Merely this, is what their songs were about,
for wine and flesh they lusted sparing doubt.
For all their bubbles, fizzle, show and gleam,
true love for them was but a funny little dream.
Some, it is true, had the voices of blue suede kings.
Yet, danced on rubble, coughing smoke, 'n' kissing rings.
Thankfully, their lyrics were quite naturally cold,
faintly sparkling true hearts, despite their gold.
No songs can, in the spirit, ever remain,
or one's path meaningfully ingrain,
unless dotted by a hearty blood stain.
Still, some blind and sleepy were enticed,
those who dropped their heart, who'd lost their *****
Much like a robber, who rests his gun in a heist.
Others, scrambled to plug their ears
wishing to avoid both song 'n' tears.
They knew not, that when fighting fear,
'tis not enough to keep it from getting near.
Simply stuffing their ears with wax,
failed to fade the hottest new tracks,
cause tanks groove on these tracks.
As tanks, they pop 'n' roll till you die.
Therefore... relax, pick your time, and lie,
not to your conscience, but on the ground,
so they pass over you, leaving you safe 'n' sound.
"You cannot fear what you haven't tried."
Remember, Odysseus wasn't deaf, only tied.
He, chose to fight and listen to the Sirens' songs,
using threads of logic, to keep from snapping their thongs.
Tightroping on wrong, he but fell to the song.
He wailed and spat, yet, somehow grabbed the gong.
And after a short but needed rest, after this soul defining test,
he did not lament the virgins lost, but carried on with his quest.
He, knew the lying men and their calls were real,
but to forms he didn't kneel, nor aimed to cut a deal.
He, stuck to his dreams doing his best to warn and tell the rest,
that though Sirens charm, they harm. "'Tis Ithaca who gives zest.'"
So, next time you see the chanting men of lies,
and their enchanting plastic bunnies in bow ties,
know that rhyme and shine may polish coal,
but listening to your heart should be the goal.
*"With a twist of logic to correct your steer,
you will run through fear, and forever, keep it rear."*
Dec 7, 2011
Dec 7, 2011 at 4:27 PM UTC
You think you are someone of great strength in mind,
as you belittle all the people around you,
for the sake of not appearing kind,
because it was the only thing you knew.
Taught to be tough and a big boy,
you can go and use a gun as a toy,
become accustomed to the ability to destroy.
As you see nothing wrong from stealing the light in one's eyes,
being the artist of their demise,
as you ruin their families lies.
BANG, BANG, BANG,
goes the gun in your hand,
over a dead body you stand,
just as you planned.
Put that hit on that sonofabitch,
it went off without a hitch,
now you a man who put someone in a ditch.
The only sacrifice is morality,
but you are so young, you don't see the brutality,
only the gangster mentality,
so you can live in the violent normality,
not realizing that you have lost touch with reality.
But that is a life that no longer belongs,
replaced by coke, *** and bongs,
you will never know that what you do is wrong,
until you hear the bell's gong,
and it is you who is gone.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 5:25 AM UTC
Gauging the time on my ever ready
Timepiece, I would be vacant without it
Guessing the minutes that miss out
As the second hand moves smoothly
Locking onto with its demonstration powers
How to mark time successfully, second by
Second, a prelude to the minute minder
Merging in with the big guns, the 'On
The hour Brigade' of salutes and silences
Schedules and deadlines.
The.....gong
The chime
The clang
The beep
The moment to be woken from our sleep
It's a curse at 'times' (excuse the pun)
The engagements starting point and
Finale. I wonder what time it is right now?
Would we lose ourselves scurrying to find
Our 'timepiece'. Do we pick up our redundancy
In favour of technological time and motion?
Even though the 'Wonder World' has not dreamt of....
And cannot conceivably equate.....powerful potent
Possibilities of fake time in an unknown spatial
Rhombus, conspiring recklessly to promote individual
Unreality; time spinning out the hour, through
The minutes, towards the last seconds.....
of our unreal lives
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 1:43 PM UTC
i.
In the shower under cold water, I scrubbed and scrubbed
I wanted to rid myself of my own skin
Escape into a mine so I could live among the coal
A fuel almost as ***** as I felt.
ii.
As he pulled away from me
As he broke me into pieces
Shattered glass lay upon the seat of his car
I know what it's like to escape into a stranger's hot breath
The weight of a warm wash cloth upon my back
Pressing down again.
iii.
I prayed my wings would grow back in time
For me to fly to places I could never see
Before, my vision was black in white
Suddenly, I could see in color
His memory continues to pluck the feathers
But once again, I see the value of bone.
iv.
I tried to move on
Forget the thrashing of your memory
Like a gong, clanging symbol
Leave my mind alone
Leave me be
v.
Free me of broken pieces of the years I lost
Minutes, I lost bleeding from the inside out, razor eloquently in hand
Hours, I lost to purging myself of your uncleanliness
Days, I lost dredging my soul in therapy, hoping to dig up something that would do me some good
Years, I lost to the talons of PTSD
Depression
Anxiety.
vi.
Finally, some hope
I taste it on my tongue like raindrops after the drought
Sunlight after the storm
I find myself
And lose the taint of you, heavy laden upon my skin
You are a cavity
Filled by love and support.
And finally, there's beauty in the struggle
It's anything but brief
Because the fight goes on
Forever.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 2:59 PM UTC
We watched the lightning making
paper lanterns of the clouds,
frail globes amidst the Indian peninsulas of the storm.
The thunder sounded a gong hung
amidst that veritably heavy anvil of heaven.
Now that's what I call heaven,
your heart beat-beating off tempo with mine
in the heart of prairie Chinatown.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 11:34 PM UTC
play either gong's flying teapot,
or greenskespers' pleetch at a party,
esp. the song lotion from the latter's
a night prior to your assassination,
and you'll freak people out, for sure.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 7:09 PM UTC
we're aboard the bus
me and Gus
me and Gus
we're aboard the bus
we're going to West Avenue
to throw a few punches
in the gym with Stu
we're going to West Avenue
to throw a few punches
in the gym with Stu
Stu is a great puncher
his punches are accurate
his left hook
knocks other dudes
really flat
Stu has them dudes
well ironed out on the mat
Stu has them dudes
well ironed out on the mat
us guys on the rough side of town
have to know how to solidly punch
to knock those gang members down
those gang members
are tough and mean
they are the toughest and meanest
gang members
on the rough side of town
Gus and I
are going to take
those gang members on
take them on
take them on
they aren't going to give
Gus and I
no knock out gong
no knock out gong
Gus and I
will have a retinue of punches
to plant on their noses
they'll be redder
than a bunch of roses
Gus and I
get aboard the bus
to go Stu's gym
we're learning
punching skills
off him
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
He floated like a butterfly,
Stang like a bee –
The one and only
Muhammad Ali.
“I’m The Greatest”, he always said,
20th Century Sports Personality,
Put his rivals to bed.
Yes, he WAS the Greatest, that’s for sure.
Above the rest by a massive score.
Faster than a hummingbird,
Slicker than a snake,
Those quick hands of his
They made opponents quake.
He’d get into bed
Before the light went out.
Rarely a whisper,
Usually a shout.
Like a long-distance runner
Ali had the endurance.
Anyone who fought him
Needed lots of insurance.
Ali was great and didn’t he know it.
A witty speaker and amusing poet.
Some of his lines I’ve used right here:
They had his rivals shaking with fear.
No way would Ali fight the Viet Cong.
For that he merits a Nobel Gong.
He was the champion of the oppressed,
A hero with whom we all were blessed.
He had charisma, way beyond sport.
Ali influenced our every thought.
He’ll call into Hell on the way to Heaven,
To knock out Satan, in round seven.
Paul Butters
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 6:57 AM UTC
*"If you wake up this morning believing that saying
a few Latin words over your pancakes will turn them
into the body of Elvis Presley, you have lost your mind."*
He has often asserted that the thing is absurd:
that someone who does not (whether out of hatred, indifference,
lack of conviction, or frankly whatever)
accept traditional dogmas
is still, for some reason, capable of wishing that they could.
I think he is right; I’ve heard a staunch atheist say “If only
I could, but I cannot.” So, this is why he aligns himself
as an anti-theist: he simply
was never properly convinced.
This position seems (at least to me) well-supported,
for anyone can quite readily (and easily)
accept what their father or their clergyman has said
(especially as a child, not knowing any better).
Thus, to be an atheist
one must have first acknowledged supernatural power
and then later, after a bit of thought, dismissed it. In light
of this, I propose a toast to the Real Skeptic,
the one who was never really convinced;
of it. The one who, when celebrating the Eucharist,
wondered why God wanted to be eaten,
who , when receiving Christ,
thought of the extreme certainty by which other faiths'
devotees (Islam, Heaven's Gate,
Mormonism, Bon,
Cargo Cults, Shinto, Falun Gong)
live and preach – some even delighted to die.
Thoughts like these always made me feel uneasy as a child
because how could I hope to keep my little mind
from accidentally discovering fallacy after fallacy? So, here is a toast
to the Unconvinced, who can’t possibly help but not believe.
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 3:47 PM UTC
*The last firebird flied
over her as she stood
on the last crumbling
mountain.
Prickley pine trees
shivering above the dew,
the first breath of the
winter in her soul was
icing through the flowers.
She fleed the Golden-emerald
city, heart broken by the
gong of war.
Sinking her nails deep into
the ground.
Sheding tears of a dragon
from the crystal eyes
of the universe.
Falling down
her porcelain face.
A work of art.
Her lips red,to seem like
cherries in the spring.
Casting a glance at the pale moon
while the wild wind was
howling to the north.
Ruler of the skies
as the morning stars sang together,
looking different today.
In the shadows of her lace fan,
the silky blossom on the
kimono dress.
Embroided with the silver thread
of moonlight, encrusted with
the diamonds of night.
The great ocean waves can't destroy
her purple throne.
Although left all alone, she will
never surrendor.
The obediance will suffocate
from her light, rising like the sun
after the dusk once again.
Because she is... the Empress*
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 2:24 PM UTC
I.
A louse in a house
or a mouse on a blouse.
A bell that goes ****
or a gong that goes ****
A gap on a map
or a cap on your lap.
A drink in the sink
or an ink that stinks.
A spleen on a screen
or a queen who is green.
A bow in the snow
or a crow that glows.
II.
A wash or a whip,
a lip or a lop,
a top or a tip,
a car or afar,
a bar or a war,
a door or a snore,
a bore or a nail,
a flail or a whale,
a run or a bun,
a sun or a moon,
a spoon or a bus,
a fuss or a sigh,
a cry or a cheer,
a fear or a smile,
a while or a pen,
a den or a cat,
a mat or a hat,
a bat or a glass,
a vase or a weight,
a mate or a fork,
a cork or a mop,
a cop or a stop.
III.
Apples and artichokes, ants and antelopes,
bees and beers, books and brains,
cucumbers and chimneys, ***** and coats,
dogs and drains, dots and dominoes,
ears and eejits, elephants and exams,
flies and flutes, files and friends,
grasses and guts, giants and gyms,
horrors and hiccups, horses and hills,
igloos and irons, irises and idiots,
jumpers and jackets, jodhpurs and jellies,
kings and kettles, kites and kittens,
lions and lamps, lemons and lunches,
mums and monsters, mosses and moths,
noses and notes, nightmares and needles,
oblongs and orang-utans, organs and oranges,
paintings and pennies, ponds and pants,
quiches and quizzes, questions and queues,
rainbows and rings, rascals and rabbits,
snakes and sprouts, sweets and salts,
trumpets and trains, tables and toasters,
umpires and ukuleles, umbrellas and uniforms,
violets and vests, violins and vials,
wheels and wings, windows and weeds,
xylems and x-rays, xylophones and xysters,
yachts and yoghurts, yards and yaks,
zigzags and zephyrs, ziggurats and zombies.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 5:03 PM UTC
Yes that's right--I am not full of *****
Yes that's right--I write words with a bite.
Yes that's right--I contemplate during the night.
Yes that's right--I revel in being untight.
Yes that's right--I can bring you delight.
Yes that's right--I can cause you fright.
Yes that's right--I look such a sight.
No that's wrong-I sing only the Isness of the Universe's Song.
No that's wrong-I am where I belong.
No that's wrong--I have a medium sized *******
No that's wrong--I am very mixed among.
No that's wrong--I could be the next poet along.
No thats wrong--I only smoke in a ****
No that's wrong--I can beat the gong.
Maybe I could be your baby.
Maybe I would like my hair wavy.
Maybe I like my Pork Chops with gravy.
Maybe I should be nearby.
Maybe I want my horizons hazy.
Maybe I will float away with the navy.
Maybe you can call me crazy.
I once had a friend called Wavey Gravey
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 4:03 AM UTC