"peal" poems
HEAR YE HEAR YE:
It's a wedding bell for bedding well cause' we're crushin' the illusion of Russian collusion! CNN wets on Russian bedding but Trump bets on Russian wedding, and you're invited to the bridal shower. Punking the monkery, dig the debunkery; from Rasputin to Putin it's time for some straight shootin'. Hillary looks old and glowers at Donald's rumored golden showers. Our media owes US an explanation for streams of steaming urination, but we are willing to forgive and use their wet diapers as debt wipers. My poem's appeal may take a toll, but let its little peal now roll:
****** ****** rings the bell
A Fake News warning; time to spell
out what was wet with Moscow girls.
Putin's putas ? Wisdom's pearls
were pried from Truth's reluctant shell,
banishing Hillary straight to hell.
None. It's what we want left over
from this hag. We now discover
beds were dry; it all amounted
(all those golden tricks recounted)
to less than a tepid bowl of kasha. . .
Russia laughed from her summer dacha.
InfoWars was on it first
while Dems spun lies from false to worst,
awarding cash for faked dossiers
embellished with the CIA's
well-trained performing circus-seal.
The FBI endorsed the deal
as RINOS horned in on the action:
Washingtonian distraction;
a democrat-concocted fuss—
. . . but we ALL paid Hillary to **** on us.
Oct 26, 2017
Oct 26, 2017 at 4:47 PM UTC
*I Was Hoping Today It Would Be Fine,
That The Mayan Prophesy Was Divine,
That We Would Be Saved By A Glowing Light,
I Was Stirring In My Blankets All Night,
For Curiosity Bubbled Inside,
To Bathe The Spirit In Which I Confide,
Yet The Road To Redemption Is Still Coarse,
Screaming For Wanted Change; My Voice Is Hoarse,
We Still Hold The Bottle To Our Stained Lips,
Holding On To Hope But Losing My Grip,
Today I Wish Humanity Is Healed,
But The Atmosphere Is Starting To Peal,
Why Should I Hate When All I Feel Is Love,
Yet All The Owls Are Killing My Doves*
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 8:35 AM UTC
I see polka dots around my head
now I want a lolly pop to sweetened up my day
I slipped on a banana peal
when I was coming back
after following the rainbow
I wanted the *** of gold
when I reached the end the leprechaun ran away
and the *** of gold was empty
now my head hurts, I'm lost, my pockets are empty,
and I DON'T HAVE A LOLLY POP!
Apr 16, 2010
Apr 16, 2010 at 9:01 AM UTC
Singing of children
in the night silence:
Light of the stream, and
calm of the fountain!
THE CHILDREN
What does you heard hold,
divine in its gladness?
MYSELF
A peal from the belltower,
lost in the dimness.
THE CHILDREN
You leave us singing
in the small plaza.
Light of the steram,
and calm of the fountain!
What do you hold in
your hands of sprintime?
MYSELF
A rose of blood, and
a lily of whiteness.
THE CHILDREN
Dip them in water
of the song of the ages.
Light of the stream,
and calm of the fountain!
What does your tongue feel,
scarlet and thirsting?
MYSELF
A taste of the bones
of my giant forehead.
THE CHILDREN
Drink the still water
of the song of the ages.
Light of the stream,
and calm of the fountain!
Why do you roam far
from the small plaza?
MYSELF
I go to find Mages
and find princesses.
THE CHILDREN
Who showed you the road there,
the road of the poets?
MYSELF
The fount and the stream of
the song of the ages.
THE CHILDREN
Do you go far from
the aerth and the ocean?
MYSELF
It's filled with light, is
my heart of silk, and
with bells that are lost,
with bees and with liles,
and I will go far off,
behind those hills there,
close to the starlight,
to ask of the Christ there
Lord, to return me
my child's oul, ancient,
ripened with legends,
with a cap of feathers,
and a sword of wood.
THE CHILDREN
You leave us singing
in the small plaza.
Light of the stream, and
calm of the fountain!
Enormous pupils
of the parched palm fronds
hurt by the wind, they
weep their dead leaves.
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Those evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells,
Of youth and home and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime.
Those joyous hours are passed away;
And many a heart that then was gay,
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.
And so 'twill be when I am gone;
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells!
~Thomas Moore: 1779--1852~
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 10:46 PM UTC
An indifferent ache swirls in the silence
throbbing like a dancing candle flame;
no one understands the heart of silence
moving the darkness with its ancient dance
Its voice is only felt but never heard
the way it whispers the reality it bears;
disrobing the nakedness of a fragile heart
exposing inherent truth deep in disguise
retouching the chaos passing of love laid bare
Unspoken emotions that nobody hears
float around a muted tongue benumbed by fear
doubt is a bitter taste that knows not love
searching for a labyrinth to begin to wend a better way
trying to feel the unfelt warmth of love in an endless cold
waiting on a frozen emptiness that never thaws
No one understands the haunting fear,
... surly it couldn't happen again ― and surly it will,
a heart stifled silent, silence doth loudly peal
poignant dreaded words:
***"It's not you ― it's me ,.......
I love you but I'm not in love with you"***
and like winter dreaming for the sun to reappear,
to come back again and dry the memory of fallen tears,
a hushed heart falls off the earth lost in ether shadows lay
mooning in the lonely silence within moonlit dapple
When you pull love too close ― it will push you away
some silence heals ― a dissonant silence cuts to the bone
Only the lonely feel a silent voice sigh
Only one hears a silenced heart die ...
harlon rivers ... March 2018
Mar 22, 2018
Mar 22, 2018 at 3:00 PM UTC
Two friends sit on a train.
One has a bunch of bananas.
He sits, peals each banana,
throws the peal out the window,
sprinkles salt on the remaining
firm but ripe banana and
throws that out the window too!
His confused buddy
wonders why he's wasting such
good bananas.
He asks him,
"why are you throwing all your bananas
out the window without eating them?!"
His friend replies,
...
"I don't like bananas with salt."
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 12:22 PM UTC
Orange
is a fruit we all
know this well. We peal
it's skin off and eat the fruit within.
Some times bitter, some times sweet.
Smells well of orange. Coats our
fingers and skin then drifts
into the air, illusive
but we know
it is there.
But i have a
question about
the orange.
What *** is it?
Answers please in poem form!
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 3:27 PM UTC
I love the quick ***** of china cutlery when I close the plastic dishwasher
And the comforting sizzle
of the butter, which sun bursts
in the pan, as you are frying our dinner.
I love the way you say 'Nah'
and the way
my heart's pace
Increases at your sight.
I love the way the steamy light
makes shapes and shadows
on your face
as we lie together on grass.
I love the slam
of the front door after a rain day
and the lock
of our eyes
in the hall way.
I love mundane high croak
of the curtains
when I peal
them back as if I am
opening my eyes
for the first time.
Opening to see you;
China cutlery,
butter,
my steamy light,
and rain.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 2:55 AM UTC
So many years ago, I packed away my childhood, each year was placed neatly in a box, labeled and sealed shut with packing tape. And I took those boxes full of memories; memories full of pain, fear, sadness, abuse…and I placed them in the far back corner of the attic of my mind. I made the boxes diminutive and negligible, they were nothing special and I tried to forget they were there. I did this so I could get through each day without the painful reminder of who I used to be, what I used to be, what he did to me. I did this so I could live.
I knew the boxes were there, and I would go into the attic and check on the boxes…just to make sure the packing tape that held all the contents, all the filth and the same, was still secure, that nothing I was unable to face could escape. At times the tape would peal back, allowing the contents of the boxes to peak through the cracks, and I could see things so horrible I would be physically sick. The contents in the boxes would taunt me, beg me to look inside, to admit that they existed, and I would have to hurry and close the door to resist them. I resisted the temptation so I could live. So I could protect myself, and those I loved, from who I used to be, what I used to be, what he did to me.
I knew that eventually I would have to unpack those boxes, and put them away, where they belonged. And at times I tried to do it – but the contents were so rotten, so ***** and shameful, I couldn’t put them out for anyone to see. And I denied that they belonged to me. I denied them so I could live. So I could protect myself, and those I loved, from who I used to be, what I used to be, what he did to me.
Panic grew inside of me as the pain leaked out of the aged boxes, pain that was always there, but like the sound of my own heart beating, I no longer noticed it. It just was. And then the pain became overwhelming, loud and intrusive, I could hear screaming and crying, and noises that did not sound human , an animal in pain, I thought. I closed my eyes and put my hands over my ears but the screaming didn’t stop. It would not stop. I could no longer deny them. I could no longer protect myself. I could no longer deny who I used to be, what I used to be, what he did to me.
Now, today, all these years later…these boxes that represent ME. And as I look around me, at the pain, and the shame, and the sadness, I not only see what these boxes held, I feel it…I hear it…I taste it…I breathe it. My vision is blurred from my tears…spilling over, some streaming down cheeks; others poised on the edges of my eyelashes, awaiting their turn to fall...right into the content of those boxes filled with my pain. Her pain. The pain of a little girl, abused and broken, unloved and unheard…
I can hear her screaming and crying. I can feel her pain…it is real. And I can feel it, and I can hear it, and I can taste it…I breathe it.
And I can no longer deny who I used to be, what I used to be, what he did to me.
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 10:57 PM UTC
The time draws near the birth of Christ;
The moon is hid, the night is still;
A single church below the hill
Is pealing, folded in the mist.
A single peal of bells below,
That wakens at this hour of rest
A single murmur in the breast,
That these are not the bells I know.
Like strangers' voices here they sound,
In lands where not a memory strays,
Nor landmark breathes of other days,
But all is new unhallow'd ground.
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Oh won't you butter my squash?
Clean my seeds
Like the sins of my past
The baked passion inside
The oven racks
Racks
Racks
Stack the inner radiance
And peal me
The smooth orange paste
Will feel really zesty
Stay here on my cutting board
Send knives of kisses
Be merciless inside the sink
Blinking boiling stink
And watch as I eat your intestines
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 10:41 AM UTC
*" It ought to be solemnized with Pomp and Parade, with Shews,
Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and
Illuminations from one End of this Continent
to the other from this Time forward forever more.”
John Adams – July 3, 1776.*
Webster Groves - 2016
The Townhall fountain dances
cheerily in the morning sun.
The red-white-blue shirted crowd
rises as one for the colors.
Laughing children scramble for
tootsie rolls and sweet tarts
tossed by a strolling clown.
Philadelphia, July 3, 1776
Carriages sped toward Philadelphia
where resolute patriots
would turn the pages of history
and tell an unsuspecting world
that a new nation had given birth to itself.*
Sousa strains peal from the marching Statesmen,
Girl Scouts guide their well-groomed mounts -
hooves echoing through concrete caverns.
Vintage firetrucks and autos
sound their horns and sirens
as candidates work the crowd, pressing the flesh.
*Each crass insult from the British crown
had tightened the noose on the colonial neck.
The middle ground was soaked with patriot blood
and revolution was the only course left.*
Barbecue clouds drift over Pat and Lee’s farm
Horseshoes spin and clang and frisbees fly.
A pot-luck feast with beans and franks
interrupts the pop and glare of bottle rockets.
*One by one, each patriot quilled the parchment
resolved to endure the costs of liberty -
knowing to the marrow that defeat
would spell certain ******* and death.*
We reach the lakeshore at dusk -
unfolding chairs - spreading out blankets -
strains of Americana drift over the lake.
then a pyro-technic extravaganza
blazes across the summer sky.
*Washingon’s tattered and bloodied men
cornered Cornwallis at Yorktown.
Then surrender - all British claims
to American soil banished to the tomes of history.*
The grand finale pummels the darkened sky
raising cheers and whistles from the crowd
Toddlers collapse in parental arms,
car doors slam, engines ignite
and head-lighted caravans, turn for home,
spiraling off in every compass degree.
“Happy birthday,” America and endless happy returns
"from this time forward forever more!”
Robert Charles Howard
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 2:07 PM UTC
In the marshy North Country there lived a lovely maiden fair,
Red was the colour of her hair,
Her eyes, they did like merry diamonds sparkle and shine,
She was innocent, pleasant and kind.
*Catherine was her name,
Her father wanted for her riches and fame.*
One day the Black Knight came riding up to her father’s gate,
He rode upon a white mare looking great,
He saw Catherine blush and her heart did fearfully flutter,
To him she was cream, honey and butter.
*Catherine was her name,
Her father wanted for her riches and fame.*
Said the Knight, “I have come to court your daughter of the auburn hair,
I have silver, I have gold, I have fabrics rare,
I have lands and servants and riches beyond compare,
I will buy lots of delightful dresses for her to wear.”
*Catherine was her name,
Her father wanted for her riches and fame.*
Said the girl, “Sir, thou art most kind but I care not for your divine riches,
Nor do I hunger for your clothes golden stitched,
For I have pledged my hand and heart to a Poet whose ink is red,
To him only will I happily wed.”
*Catherine was her name,
Her father wanted for her riches and fame.*
Catherine’s scheming father did sharply speak,
His nose curled like an eagle’s beak,
“On Sunday you will to church go and wear the Knight’s ring of gold,
Young lady, you’ll do as you’re told!”
*Catherine was her name,
Her father wanted for her riches and fame.*
In a misty village of the North Country there is a weeping river vast and deep,
They found Catherine and her Poet drowned in love’s sleep,
The church bells peal and weep out across the valley in the evening twilight,
Merry music floats and stains the tragic sight.
*Catherine was her name,
Her father now cries and hangs his head in shame.*
©Rangzeb Hussain
Apr 2, 2010
Apr 2, 2010 at 11:30 AM UTC
Bredon Hill
by A. E. Houseman
In summertime on Bredon
The bells they sound so clear;
Round both the shires they ring them
In steeples far and near,
A happy noise to hear.
Here of a Sunday morning
My love and I would lie,
And see the coloured counties,
And here the larks so high
About us in the sky.
The bells would ring to call her
In valleys miles away;
'Come all to church, good people;
Good people come and pray.'
But here my love would stay.
And I would turn and answer
Among the springing thyme,
'Oh peal upon our wedding,
And we will hear the chime,
And come to church on time.'
But when the snows at Christmas
On Bredon top were strown,
My love rose up so early
And stole out unbeknown
And went to church alone.
They tolled the one bell only,
Groom there was none to see,
The mourners followed after,
And so to church went she,
And would not wait for me.
The bells they sound on Bredon,
And still the steeples hum,
'Come all to church, good people'--
Oh, noisy bells be dumb;
I hear you, I will come.
2k
both magnesium and iron
are plentiful in the crust
of the earth.
magnesium in abundance in the sea.
and then it hits me
rationally speaking,
plants were birthed from the ocean
and we from the land,
literally.
the Earth gives birth
to her infinite babes.
life on other planets?
oh most definitely.
planets give birth
as all Mother's do.
Her babes peal away from her
being. Plants from the ocean
with magnesium in their blood.
and we from the dust.
walk the Earth. Plants prepared
the air
so we could walk the Earth.
The Earth and its babes
look the way they do
because of her
presence in the system
she revolves in.
She, we call Mars, her babes
must represent her place in space.
life on other planets will
always look like their
Mother too.
this one is heavy for me too…
and yet it has to be true.
our Mother is no different
than her sisters. Her Mother
a creator. The Heat Source
for her children. Her *****
circling around her as
my children do me.
rotating endlessly.
until its time has passed too.
all things have a time
and then they explode!
I had to fold before I could break out
but I'm broken now…
no turning back.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 8:34 PM UTC
She looks up
Blinking at the ringlets that suddenly flop into her curious gaze
Gazing down at the strange cracks in the bench in which one’s toes invariably find themselves wedged
Reaching out at the twitching nostril of my stunned ten year old brother
Pointing at the strange piece of white cheese in the sky whose name seems to imitate a cow
Knocking off the hat that seems to magically appear on one’s head and frowning at the peal of laughter following it
Calling out to her father and chewing on the hem of his trousers when he seems to find guests more interesting than his one year old daughter
My cousin is in her own little world
Jul 13, 2019
Jul 13, 2019 at 8:53 PM UTC
If I decided to peal paint off the upside-down radiator
for eternity,
I wonder if you would sit beside me
reading Wallace Stevens.
If I decided to nurse the convent garden bursts of peonies
for eternity,
I wonder if you would smuggle me some
David Bowie tracks.
If I decided to eat only fudge brownies and cherry Starbursts
for eternity,
I wonder if you would google gourmet
recipes for me.
If I decided to paint my own Walden in the Washington wild
for eternity,
I wonder if you would build a nightclub
next to my cabin.
If I decided to leap out airplane hatches and steal rodeo saddles and read my poetry out-loud
for eternity,
I wonder if you would be happily
married in Norway.
Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 6:52 PM UTC
Drifting away from the stars
I watch my decisions sway
Look at all this decay
I cannot make my mind
Drifting away from the suns
I am confined and resigned
My fate is designed
When the stars aligned
I am just so blind
Drifting behind
I want to be reassigned from mankind
Maybe one day I’ll find my mind
Maybe it will be refined, defined
But today I’m drifting
Shifting in this world
A peal in an underworld
Drifting away from the cosmos
Maybe one day it will be clear
But right now it’s foggy and dark
I just want to disembark
I may be quitting but right now I’m just
drifting
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 7:21 PM UTC
Strike the bells wantonly,
Tinkle ****** well;
Bring me wine, bring me flowers,
Ring the silver bell.
All my lamps burn scented oil,
Hung on laden orange-trees,
Whose shadowed foliage is the foil
To golden lamps and oranges.
Heap my golden plates with fruit,
Golden fruit, fresh-plucked and ripe;
Strike the bells and breathe the pipe;
Shut out showers from summer hours;
Silence that complaining lute;
Shut out thinking, shut out pain,
From hours that cannot come again.
Strike the bells solemnly,
Ding **** deep:
My friend is passing to his bed,
Fast asleep;
There's plaited linen round his head,
While foremost go his feet,--
His feet that cannot carry him.
My feast's a show, my lights are dim;
Be still, your music is not sweet,--
There is no music more for him:
His lights are out, his feast is done;
His bowl that sparkled to the brim
Is drained, is broken, cannot hold;
My blood is chill, his blood is cold;
His death is full, and mine begun.
1.7k
Travelling through the dark,
a sudden peal of light
dressing the east in red and gold
and, just as sudden, the hills
bright with her hair.
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 6:35 AM UTC
Where are your pieces?
A touch will fix it
Your stillness turns me
Violent with anticipation
Direct me towards you
I won't mind the way
A gesture to peal my skin
Spread my emotions
Draw in the atmosphere
Bring the art of love
Straight in to you
Sign the masterpiece
Inside you
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 10:06 AM UTC
*Cossack Cowboys
Riding Llamas
That they dress
In pink pajamas
Teeny boppers
Blowing bubbles
Biker chicks
Causing trouble
Nuns in Habits
Punks in chains
One or two
Of the deranged
Rubbing Buddha belly
Cravers
And the band
Harvey Danger
David Bowie
Elton John
Both of them
With Spacesuits on
Vegetarians
Eating chicken
Love it fried
Finger licking
In a line to
Meet and greet Obama
Now I wish
I'd brought my Mama
On the T.V.
Slicing, Dicing
Infomercials
Are enlightening
Lindsey Lohan
There's more trouble
Send the Police
On the double
Michael Jackson
With his monkey
Chandelier
Swinging junkies
Bottle Rocket
Ridding crickets
Dolly Parton
Doing dishes
Tubs of Crisco
Set for wrestling
Bee Gees do be
Disco dancing
With Bruce Jenner
Wearing makeup
Dolly's kitchen
Filled with soap suds
Rubber band
Bumper babies
Call me odd
Don't call me crazy
Shooting stars
Carry Uzis
Washed up stars
Drink beer in Koozies
Donnie Osmond
Singing show tunes
As Marie blows
Animal balloons
Circus Barkers
And their Minions
Waylon left us
Shooter Jennings
Heidi Klum
Without makeup
To say the least
She looks a bit rough
American flags
As rainbow banners
Peal, scratch, and sniff
Talking bananas
Hookha smoking
Manatees
Oh yea...
and then there's me
These are just a few of the things that lean
On the lamp post of my dreams*
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 1:50 PM UTC