"jingly" poems
I
On the Coast of Coromandel
Where the early pumpkins blow,
In the middle of the woods
Lived the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
Two old chairs, and half a candle,--
One old jug without a handle,--
These were all his worldly goods:
In the middle of the woods,
These were all the worldly goods,
Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
II
Once, among the Bong-trees walking
Where the early pumpkins blow,
To a little heap of stones
Came the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
There he heard a Lady talking,
To some milk-white Hens of Dorking,--
''Tis the lady Jingly Jones!
'On that little heap of stones
'Sits the Lady Jingly Jones!'
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
III
'Lady Jingly! Lady Jingly!
'Sitting where the pumpkins blow,
'Will you come and be my wife?'
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
'I am tired of living singly,--
'On this coast so wild and shingly,--
'I'm a-weary of my life:
'If you'll come and be my wife,
'Quite serene would be my life!'--
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
IV
'On this Coast of Coromandel,
'Shrimps and watercresses grow,
'Prawns are plentiful and cheap,'
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
'You shall have my chairs and candle,
'And my jug without a handle!--
'Gaze upon the rolling deep
('Fish is plentiful and cheap)
'As the sea, my love is deep!'
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
V
Lady Jingly answered sadly,
And her tears began to flow,--
'Your proposal comes too late,
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
'I would be your wife most gladly!'
(Here she twirled her fingers madly,)
'But in England I've a mate!
'Yes! you've asked me far too late,
'For in England I've a mate,
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!'
VI
'Mr. Jones--(his name is Handel,--
'Handel Jones, Esquire, & Co.)
'Dorking fowls delights to send,
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
'Keep, oh! keep your chairs and candle,
'And your jug without a handle,--
'I can merely be your friend!
'--Should my Jones more Dorkings send,
'I will give you three, my friend!
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!'
VII
'Though you've such a tiny body,
'And your head so large doth grow,--
'Though your hat may blow away,
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
'Though you're such a Hoddy Doddy--
'Yet a wish that I could modi-
'fy the words I needs must say!
'Will you please to go away?
'That is all I have to say--
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!'.
VIII
Down the slippery slopes of Myrtle,
Where the early pumpkins blow,
To the calm and silent sea
Fled the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
There, beyond the Bay of Gurtle,
Lay a large and lively Turtle,--
'You're the Cove,' he said, 'for me
'On your back beyond the sea,
'Turtle, you shall carry me!'
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
IX
Through the silent-roaring ocean
Did the Turtle swiftly go;
Holding fast upon his shell
Rode the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
With a sad primaeval motion
Towards the sunset isles of Boshen
Still the Turtle bore him well.
Holding fast upon his shell,
'Lady Jingly Jones, farewell!'
Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
X
From the Coast of Coromandel,
Did that Lady never go;
On that heap of stones she mourns
For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
On that Coast of Coromandel,
In his jug without a handle
Still she weeps, and daily moans;
On that little hep of stones
To her Dorking Hens she moans,
For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
4.2k
I keep collecting books I know
I'll never, never read;
My wife and daughter tell me so,
And yet I never head.
"Please make me," says some wistful tome,
"A wee bit of yourself."
And so I take my treasure home,
And tuck it in a shelf.
And now my very shelves complain;
They jam and over-spill.
They say: "Why don't you ease our strain?"
"some day," I say, "I will."
So book by book they plead and sigh;
I pick and dip and scan;
Then put them back, distrest that I
Am such a busy man.
Now, there's my Boswell and my Sterne,
my Gibbon and Defoe;
To savour Swift I'll never learn,
Montaigne I may not know.
On Bacon I will never sup,
For Shakespeare I've no time;
Because I'm busy making up
These jingly bits of rhyme.
Chekov is caviare to me,
While Stendhal makes me snore;
Poor Proust is not my cup of tea,
And Balzac is a bore.
I have their books, I love their names,
And yet alas! they head,
With Lawrence, Joyce and Henry James,
My Roster of Unread.
I think it would be very well
If I commit a crime,
And get put in a prison cell
And not allowed to rhyme;
Yet given all these worthy books
According to my need,
I now caress with loving looks,
But never, never read.
3k
if you give me a few minutes i'll trick you into thinking that i enjoy your company
like a jester i'll flop around in my jingly hat
contorting to the contours of your personality.
i'll convince you we're best friends
i'll come see if you're ok when you're sitting alone
i'll feed the insecure monster in your ribcage lipstick and
"my god, that shirt is way too big for you".
it's not even that i don't like you or something
i do
it's just that i have no time but i pretend that i
do
and i like to help other people instead of myself
and
i know i'm about due for a relapse
and
i know that i won't tell anyone
and
i know i'll keep helping you
even though you'd never dream of doing the same for me
and
i know that this ******* *****
but i have decided to be a charismatic jester
this is where my home is
and i don't have enough money to jump ship
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 12:35 PM UTC
Writhing, the screeching leviathan demands
And I cave to save the aching from tricky time slopes
Pained craving
Wavering but
Hit and
It’s all loosey goosey goodness
Sensing silent magma pulse, whoosh the tummy tingles
Droopy ears gape-face giggle no more nowadays
A stern turn in old age the silly phase of
Too bright, neon common numb tongue rambles
Secedes into introspective
Crowded walks, broken talks strung into threats clustered and
Flung like monkey **** at many-stabbed ego, Brutus?
Strangers will eat you
The professor thinks I’m funny because
I know the answers in class
The other day Dingus
And Whoseewhatsee tried to alley mug and hurt and end
And money!
No, rocked nose ran dude! Fine
Trying not to fear the outdoors, though
The arthropods and phantoms tell me ***** jokes
And not to eat my candy
Books melt into soupy mercurial elixir
I slurp them and belch
Educating myself in a barn ******* knowledge
On loud faces; empty meat
Where you can hear the jingly metal
Thing when you shake it, it’s dead no flower
They don’t always like me
But
I’ve got the jeepers creepers behind my peepers
And a million lightyears to burn
Truth is worth dying
Four **** sow
Izzeny thing these daze
Maybe it was a bust from the start but there’s
Always art
Quieting the plague that revealed
Not so good after all
Tiny thorns and all-consuming
Waves of red-get-out wrenching, gutted like a fish
Overcome, that never went away or found
A place to sit
Memories arthritic grind a grim gray whetting stone
Reduce with juice-cloud, grape teeth cough will never find a home
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 4:51 PM UTC
My tinkling clattering bracelets
You provide such interesting theme music for my
For my daily wanderings through life
Chiming as small bells do
Clinking together as I shift my hands
Subtle movements and quiet sounds
A flow of water over you
Merely adds to the harmony
A quick **** of my arm
A jolt from being pushed
And the music adjusts accordingly
The same movement gives rise
To the same chords
Yet the meaning changes for
Every single moment of life
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 10:04 PM UTC
Spider web crick-cracks on eggshell skin
Raggedy Ann rag doll made of porcelain
Second-hand bruises, scratches, scuffs, and knicks
In the healing shields of my hands, quick enough to fix
Super glue and elbow grease I knew would save the day
So full of good intentions, I carried her away
The best laid plans of mice and men, all buggered by my feet
The jingly song of transience played out on cold concrete
A mindless second's trip-up, the crystal princess killed
Her splintered features looked up, haunt my memory still
Lips forever frozen, screaming "Please, no more!"
In kaleidoscopic pieces scattered on the floor
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 7:15 PM UTC
In the beginning, her sadness was plunging into a December lake, and the forest was the one she spent her childhood in--jumping off the tall rock so much there's a hole in the ground, and trailing behind the baby deer and her mother. She never forgot her green mittens but her mom would call out and tell her,“Mina, don’t forget your hat!”
And she would flutter back down the hill, grab the jingly hat and hug her mom just because, and her mom would kiss her forehead, then go back inside to set the chicken in the oven, thinking about her little bird.
Today is no different than the rest, she just wanted to ice skate today. This forest is her home. This lake is her fireplace. Her hearth. She just wanted to ice skate today. But, here she is, staring up at the tendrils of steam rising above chunks of broken ice, and she kicks her legs and she thinks, "you too? All along?"
She thrashes. She’s an animal. She is getting weaker and she calls for help (any animal's instinct.) But the chicken is burned and the house is burned down and the oven is still on and she can hear it ticking and the knobs turning as flames shoot out the burners, but her mother is gone.
Eventually, she becomes numb to it all--this hot black smoke that wears her like a plague, this biting white thrum. She sinks under the water, a separate peace from the world. She’s safe and she's warm and she’s numb.
[Strong arms]
[Everyone stay back]
[Keep her warm]
Sadness is a blanket,
happiness is a warm gun.
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 6:34 PM UTC
*My hegira, the sweet parasol of which wind takes hold
it walks me in a gingham pattern skirt and
I have enough pills stashed to swallow for months:
a jingly bottle beneath my cleavage
the cups of my bra overflow, is like a Christmas meal.
******* have enough bounce to make me seem happy.
Content, at the least, beginning this journey
to rinse away as a paint stain or something worse
use a sponge to separate and sort all the fragments.
He does not mind: he does not see.
And I still have a piece, one cloudless psalm needs us –
“Of all the things you **** I’m the most empty,”
I say, my body is but a slave for a bundle of nerves.
Turning head left skipping right speak cry **********
to the thought of anything full, even wine jars.
The human form sure can deceive, I am a pink corpse
and corpulence is all my ***** will ever be –
but! I shall discover a new life with chiseled wings
when the breeze comes along to grab my umbrella so.
My hegira gives this hollow spine a tug, a tug.*
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 1:39 AM UTC
I have a tiny teddy bear, with a tartan collar.
It has a bell attached, just so I can hear it playing.
It sits silently on my pillow during daylight hours.
I gave it a name.
"Edward Surprisingly."
Someone bought it a rain hat.
Can't remember who.
I swear, that I heard the ringing it's jingly jangly bell the other night.
The darkness seemed to echo through the atmosphere of night.
Today I went to work.
I got in rather late.
Went into my bedroom.
Just to change my clothes.
I parked my posterior on my bed.
Expected to find him.
Smiling at me in a bear sort of way.
On my bed, right next to my pillow.
Nothing's there.
Not hide nor heel of Edward.
My ever faithful loving bear.
Heard a strange ringing running through my head.
Went off to investigate.
Edward, my lovely diminunitive friend, was curled up in my grandsons bed.
Maybe,
Just maybe Edward, had realised that the baby loves a teddy bear.
Rather more than me.
He felt that I'd neglected him.
He thought I didn't care.
I did.
Edward was my confidante.
He knows all things good and true.
A few bad things too.
Hoping in my heart of hearts,
that he doesn't tell you.
If he did I'm lucky, as baby, he so cannot speak.
My secret's safe with him as well.
(C) Livvi
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 3:57 PM UTC
Take it away, Mr. Jingly Change Man
I can’t take it anymore.
It’s something I cannot stand.
Is it when I look into those milky, cataract-filled eyes on Thursday afternoon?
Or is it the blood shot eyes and beer-battered breath of a sticky Sunday dusk?
I was always there.
From the point of your high noon ‘til your low midnight.
The acceptance of your self-destruction has left a blank and voided stare,
And I am done fighting the good fight.
So take it away, Mr. Jingly Change Man.
Not only have you taken the spirit and fortitude out of your life,
But you have just taken away the love and respect of someone who has always been there.
Your Son.
Jul 31, 2011
Jul 31, 2011 at 7:04 PM UTC
I am leveling out on the plateau of doubt and
I doubt you can see me.
I arrived in disguise to dispel any rumours or lies but
I doubt that you care.
I am where I belong,neither the high or the low note,
more like the in between off key and yes,
even then I doubt that I'm me.
There are others up here, laying flat out, that
cheers me
I doubt that being alone would bring me closer
to home and
I doubt that they see me
their eyes are sewn tight to what might be the facts,
if the light of truth frees me and somebody sees me
then I will descend.
It depends on the wind or the sun or the rain
I doubt, as I lay on the floor of the plateau,
it depends on anything more.
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 1:50 PM UTC
I've moved so many times
But that house stayed constant
All the years of staying late
Thinking it was haunted.
That house was like a home to me
Where I'd sit with dogs in dim light
And dance around the kitchen
Bake cookies and try to take flight.
We walked around the neighbourhood
And ate our weight in doughnuts
Listened to pop songs and sang along to Snow
And tried to get boys to phone us.
The place where we would rescue Peach
And let our piano skills loose
With Juicy Couture jingly bags
And never ending apple juice.
All the teddy bears we won
And sneaking into sister's parties
To curry sauce and French plait fails
Marked my height from when I was thirteen.
The Halloweens full of sweets on the floor
And crying at sad parts in cartoons
With all the 'road friends' drawing near
In my best friend's little box room.
The house is like a museum
A house of memory for me
One thought and I am half my age
With Guinea Pigs and our hopes for babies.
Goodbye old house, Goodbye old friend
This is the end, I know
You're up for sale and then you'll be
Somebody else's home.
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 7:42 PM UTC
That soft jingly music
of snow hitting water—
my birthday
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 12:32 PM UTC