"plinking" poems
wondrous words,
shades of colorations,
this pain,
artfully slow, steady stalking,
finale staking into
my hardened heart
with tireless twinges
of loss and constant regret,
painstakingly plinking away,
leaving pockmarks of bullets shot
at the concrete ring-fencing,
failing to protect me from just another,
**oh god not again,
have no mo' time**
for jes one mo' time
love's aftermath regret,
bitter acid wash,
that cleanses nothing,
for you are already nothing
when love loss wrenches/rents your
soul's garments with knotholes of
unfashionable distressed
distress
**better not to have loved,
better, better, better,**
than this battering silent hurricane
invisible thunderstorm internally,
than respects no seasonality,
for which the meteorologists
can predict neither its path or its
final cessation
painstakingly,
did I build my walled shelter,
only to fail-fall to the siege machines
of beauty and desire,
and
once conquered,
with fire and heat,
*they burnt me
from the outward edges inward,
and I am not a
Phoenix*
see the stooped slow white walker
more than dead, yet alive enough
existing to be witness to
his own devouring,
his hands wrapped round
the stake in his chest stuck,
painstakingly
protecting it,
lest its removal
be one more undoing of the
painstaking man
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 7:00 PM UTC
Press your ear close.
Sometimes you can hear the breath
rattling in my chest like a bone shrugged
its moorings and ought to be tied back down.
It’s the sound of a canyon
trying to expel a marsh:
hear the stones tumble down,
clatter and splash,
the stiff reeds scouring the walls.
Stuck bristles. Sticks.
The marsh is dauntless.
It can’t be pushed out through
the canyon’s narrow mouth.
It’s the sound of a cave-in.
Press your ear close and
listen to picks and shovels
plinking on the rock.
Soon the oxygen gives out
and all the miners go to sleep,
or they punch a hole through
to the sky and breathe,
mouths pressed to the breach,
gasping a little at a time.
It’s the sound of a brier patch
growing in your lungs.
It’s the sound of a brier patch
set on fire.
Oct 18, 2011
Oct 18, 2011 at 10:26 PM UTC
She didn't care much
about the ruined stuffing
of the dead animal
Just the music box
exposed at its heart
like a cypher
of brass-colored keys
plinking away at itself
--a player piano* in someone's basement
to impress, entertain
less affluent
cocktail friends
Never took much
to sweep her away--
like the insides
of a music
box
resisting
curious fingers
to speed it up
or slow it down
learning how
to force
its secret
into her hand
Marveled when it skipped
at the broken pins
a minute glitch
finds holes in tune
as roll uncoils
to spring the ditty
“This girl has mechanic's ability”
Forcing mechanisms
noticing holes that catch at music
slowing
slowing to sadden the song
Winding it up to hear
again--
happy
Tears when it stopped
--the question
of why?
of its own accord
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 12:28 PM UTC
There's a broken banjo in my birthright,
It was tied to were I wonder
Hidden between John Henry's Hammer,
and the hobbling post on Humble Hill.
I've walked this far on the blame in my grit,
pushed to by tailwind sunsets,
So kick me a mea culpa kneejerk
hardball, and sandstone my stonewall.
Forget storms in the cradle,
I found dustbowls in my waiting room,
Chasing rabbits in a wordwind,
plinking at the vermin as
they rolled into town with the rest of us,
***** but soaring, Carrion pigeon in the clouds
not getting caught up in admiring the reflections
in all the silver linings,
Just... Flying.
narcissus couldn't manage
the glory of wax work wings.
But Icarus knew real beauty.
He felt it.
When he hit the ground
The heat of floating zeroes
blasting his broken bones
into the obsidian of desert floors...
See, angels can be as jealous as God.
Anywhere can be as lonley as the long plains
of Kansas,
Empty canvas trampled by dog and pony shows
as cowboys rode mules muddy miles
through ****** brambles
to drive herds of bulldogs and lions
from the hunting grounds of dragons
to the safety of home
from High, High, Horses.
Under the shadows of eagles.
But the devil never waits at the crossroads, people.
He lays in lies.
And six shooters,
Under Dog Collars,
with the blood and scars
of everyday life,
and the beaten bodies of
seraphim, fallen to **** the well,
with their phoenix ash.
Sheep and shepherds are never friends,
Ones happiness is the other's hunger.
Dont get me wrong, wolves get hungry too,
But at least their honest about the arrangement.
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 8:15 AM UTC
a hammerhead percussion box:
an inert crystalline cymbalist’s gong.
a confession of tined tuning forks
of perhaps a familiar keyboard?
the siren sphere rings of a chime—
brittle yet consciously polite,
composed by nature’s ragged pen:
plinking injections; stymied to tin.
! let it all reduce the klang to mere cacaophony !
a descent of bells, i am in plume,
a riddle delivered in aged runes—
evenheaded shots of ******
cut by the lotto wanderlust:
fractal prism, stormy rhythm,
thunder’s din to rainy hymn.
up those tulip-eared scales, so brisk,
the glugs and gurgles of cosmopolis.
! let it all reduce the tolling to glorious symphony !
a vagabond melody, no metronome,
a metallurgist’s claustrophobe,
an orchestral performance at home,
where i am absolved in the entrancing drone...
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 12:26 AM UTC
I want to be delicate
Like sewing needles
On stilts
Held together
By baby pink yarn
I want my clothes
To graze my bones
Like a new couple holding hands
At the end of freshman year
I want my shoes to look big
On my bamboo ankles
Hollow like a flute
Pretty and silver
Clinking and plinking along
My footsteps will leave glitter in their wake
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 1:43 PM UTC
I'm from sawdust and spackle,
Nails and hammers and wood stain.
I am from watching my dad
Building
And creating.
I'm from Legos, building
Alongside my dad.
I'm from reading,
Harry Potter and Eragon
And Goosebumps.
I'm from books,
Piles,
Covering the TV.
I am from music,
Practicing and rehearsing and dancing.
I am from the sing-song of strings
And the plinking of the keys.
I am from the rhythms in my veins.
From following in
My sister's
Footsteps.
I am from me.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 7:30 PM UTC
Rain is dripping
Down...
Down...
Down...
Rolling to the frosty ground.
Rain is dripping, freezing there,
Falling through the frigid air.
Rain is plopping on my nose.
Plinking, plonking, down it goes.
Freezing to my window pane.
Little moments in the rain...
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 11:38 AM UTC
10 words
calming effects, i'm replacing your steady breathing, with rain tonight
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 11:09 AM UTC
Falling pink petals
Plinking my head
A saxophone serenade
Kind of kind of blue
A solitary birch among many hundreds
Of deciduous trees, its paper
Bark scored with age
White among shadows
And the endless breeze takes me up
Into Tiffany-blue sky
Pollen clumps litter the edges of lawn
Calliope streaming from a mared and seahorsed
Carousel dances in my head
Disobedient canine in exodus
Defiant against the silhouette
Of a circled dog
Line diagonally cutting across
Wah wah wah as the ducks in the pond
Are chased away.
Endless verdant day criss-crossed with
Walking paths and robin’s-egg sky punctuated
With drifting cotton shapes.
Brazen squirrels accustomed to the pleasant
Bustle and hustle
Bat City, unopened, in my lap
Mothers feeding children
Hungry mouths to breast.
Seeking out a lemonade stand
Near Winter Street in spring
A yellow burst of sour notes sing
On my palate
A bargain at a fiver on a day as this
Soundtrack peppered by buskers and
An ***** grinder turning the crank on his street ***** and
Birds and
The woo of occasional sirens.
A mother wheeling her child along
In a stroller
Mohawked, tattooed, pierced lip and
She smiles on by.
Ivied brownstones and balconies railed
With wrought iron
End our stay
On this idyllic day
In month of May.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 3:13 PM UTC
Music hits the pavement, shattering the silence
Making clean what has been poisoned by man
Pounding a precious beat that makes us dance
Only those that truly listen, hear it
I sit with huge ears and a guarded heart
I just wanted to feel the dance in me
To feel the rhythm play throughout my bones
And watch the notes splash to form a light song
This song, will soon end passing too quickly
The music itself won’t come to a stop
It will slow, causing our bodies to freeze
If it did not stop, we would surely drown
The music becames soft for a moment
Changing from the drums we feel inside us
To a piano that tickles our skin
My hair stands on end as the plinking stops
A sudden rush of sound hits, like trumpets
Starting to play a new beat to finish
The trumpets die out as the violins trill
Symbols crash following a tremendous flash
Leading us to the end of this small phrase.
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 1:35 AM UTC
you,
breaking open hollow fragments
of the truths I trusted you with.
I can hear the plinking
of broken glass and promises,
pattering as if the rain
has become some sort of
fractured heartbeat.
they are small,
but they crack me upon impact
and you laugh when each echo
shatters my insides.
how can you not see
that I am trying to hide my face
for a reason?
I do not want to admit that these
are tears,
and I do not want to pretend
that they aren't.
I just want you to notice,
to stop destroying everything
I gave to you
just long enough for me to breathe.
I need to breathe.
I need air, even if I don't want it.
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 8:59 PM UTC
he said
"that's what i want...a good hard rain"
and the next day it rained.
watching the heavy drops bombard
the small broken house i hide in. i wait
waiting for a leak to spring.
waiting for buckets filling up with rain water
making that uneven
plinking,
plopping,
plonking,
dripping,
dropping,
music that drives me mad and puts the dogs to sleep.
waiting for the rivers to creep in under the doors
and dampen furniture so it wont dry till june.
waiting for the cold wind that blows right through the windows
and the power to fail
like it does,
every time it rains.
he wanted a good hard rain
and it's here.
he will walk in,
all smiles and dripping drops and muddy foot prints
"isn't it wonderful? isn't it perfect?!"
and i
wrapped in yards of blankets and layers of ripped clothing
will agree and try to ignore his laughter
at my misery.
Oct 5, 2011
Oct 5, 2011 at 2:02 PM UTC
Inspirational sounds
Words or sounds placed perfectly plinking away lightly then reaching down deep to mold my soul
Grand day! YES it was when "Songs" was first heard, like adding lotion to raw emotion too tone and soften
Distantly aware what effects have taken over like musical magicians each word or note plays a different role
Humble as my hearing is, connected to a mind that was put into timeless bliss, change my mind instantly from loathsome to AWESOME
Painter of words blending hues with many expanded views help to set my mind in motion, giving freedom to my head and new control
My Heart not Fragile nor thrown Roundabout more as a welcome sedation feeding inner elation, setting a Mood for A Day at the Heart of the Sunrise an expanded spirit no longer an option
Going on a venture with a Star-ship Trooper brought Perpetual Change to All Good People who were ready to listen, a new school for our senses to enroll
Mindset of placidity falling backwards needs a JOLT not some lovesick potion a mental message to my Neurons, brain released from pain like a prisoner without a warden
Not looking for forgiveness or to be forsaken but to give the Love that can be taken, pleasing memoir painted upon our soul
They say NO I say YES, I need visionary friction to feed my addiction, the release will appease, mentally tease shift a rift excite and encourage, elation shows as a gift my mind has a new watchman
R.C.
Jun 5, 2022
Jun 5, 2022 at 7:03 AM UTC
Plinking ivory keys
of a black lacquer piano
on the burnt and amber
swirled rug
smack in the middle
of economy class
roasted nuts
in a pewter mug
drinks in a cold glass
cloth napkins
and cash was king
we tend to overwrite
what we intend
to overbook
and sell
Feb 19, 2023
Feb 19, 2023 at 7:49 PM UTC
Note to self: I have plan for tomorrow. Be scared if you're planning on participating.
Forget everyone. Really.
People are going gorgeous and being lovely, but forget them.
Let them vibrate my mind makings.
Said they shredded and stood unencumbered,
lumbering backpacks of beholden abstract knots.
Thick snot aught to be plinking into wax boiled ww1 army cots.
Gut shot free based hard thoughts.
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 3:54 PM UTC