"tinkled" poems
Little Birds are dining
Warily and well,
Hid in mossy cell:
Hid, I say, by waiters
Gorgeous in their gaiters -
I've a Tale to tell.
Little Birds are feeding
Justices with jam,
Rich in frizzled ham:
Rich, I say, in oysters
Haunting shady cloisters -
That is what I am.
Little Birds are teaching
Tigresses to smile,
Innocent of guile:
Smile, I say, not smirkle -
Mouth a semicircle,
That's the proper style!
Little Birds are sleeping
All among the pins,
Where the loser wins:
Where, I say, he sneezes
When and how he pleases -
So the Tale begins.
Little Birds are writing
Interesting books,
To be read by cooks:
Read, I say, not roasted -
Letterpress, when toasted,
Loses its good looks.
Little Birds are playing
Bagpipes on the shore,
Where the tourists snore:
"Thanks!" they cry. "'Tis thrilling!
Take, oh take this shilling!
Let us have no more!"
Little Birds are bathing
Crocodiles in cream,
Like a happy dream:
Like, but not so lasting -
Crocodiles, when fasting,
Are not all they seem!
Little Birds are choking
Baronets with bun,
Taught to fire a gun:
Taught, I say, to splinter
Salmon in the winter -
Merely for the fun.
Little Birds are hiding
Crimes in carpet-bags,
Blessed by happy stags:
Blessed, I say, though beaten -
Since our friends are eaten
When the memory flags.
Little Birds are tasting
Gratitude and gold,
Pale with sudden cold:
Pale, I say, and wrinkled -
When the bells have tinkled,
And the Tale is told.
14k
amidst Jeffersonian opulence
the Prez broke bread with his
GOP poker face friends
to solve government gridlock
and sequester predicament trends
citizens of the republic
hopeful for nonsense to cease
sat at the table asking
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
Obama perused the wine list
boldly choosing a luscious Merlot
senators ordered the finest hors d'oeuvres
the guests were all aglow
numerous delectable dishes
were liberally splayed on the table
revelers sipped flowing vintages
wine a surefire icebreaker
sparkling crystal Lennox flutes
tinkled with convivial release
while America’s disenfranchised
voices ask
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
chutney meat, curried hens and
sweet walnut rainbow trout
the table a horn a plenty
the guests gorged on fine cuisine
a blessed nations bounty
the feast consumed
the Senators sated
said it was some
of the finest ever served
but the taxpayers only
got a peak of the banquet
a whiff of senators nerve
and asked
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
the dessert cart was rolled in
with custards, cakes, creme brulee
cordials, cognac and VSOP tastes
rounded out the wholesome feast
when the check was presented
for payment all guests headed
for the door with haste
they told the waiter the bill of fare
was covered
by the guy asking...
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
Music Selection:
Andre Williams:
Pass The Biscuits Please
jbm
Oakland
3/7/13
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
When Mr. Apollinax visited the United States
His laughter tinkled among the teacups.
I thought of Fragilion, that shy figure among the birch-trees,
And of Priapus in the shrubbery
Gaping at the lady in the swing.
In the palace of Mrs. Phlaccus, at Professor Channing-Cheetah’s
He laughed like an irresponsible foetus.
His laughter was submarine and profound
Like the old man of the sea’s
Hidden under coral islands
Where worried bodies of drowned men drift down in the green silence,
Dropping from fingers of surf.
I looked for the head of Mr. Apollinax rolling under a chair
Or grinning over a screen
With seaweed in its hair.
I heard the beat of centaur’s hoofs over the hard turf
As his dry and passionate talk devoured the afternoon.
“He is a charming man”—”But after all what did he mean?”—
“His pointed ears…. He must be unbalanced,”—
“There was something he said that I might have challenged.”
Of dowager Mrs. Phlaccus, and Professor and Mrs. Cheetah
I remember a slice of lemon, and a bitten macaroon.
3.5k
Said darling daughter unto me:
"oh Dad, how funny it would be
If you had gone to Mexico
A score or so of years ago.
Had not some whimsey changed your plan
I might have been a Mexican.
With lissome form and raven hair,
Instead of being fat and fair.
"Or if you'd sailed the Southern Seas
And mated with a Japanese
I might have been a squatty girl
With never golden locks to curl,
Who flirted with a painted fan,
And tinkled on a samisan,
And maybe slept upon a mat -
I'm very glad I don't do that.
"When I consider the romance
Of all your youth of change and chance
I might, I fancy, just as well
Have bloomed a bold Tahitian belle,
Or have been born . . . but there - ah no!
I draw the line - and Esquimeaux.
It scares me stiff to think of what
I might have been - thank God! I'm not."
Said I: "my dear, don't be absurd,
Since everything that has occurred,
Through seeming fickle in your eyes,
Could not a jot be otherwise.
For in this casual cosmic biz
The world can be but what it is;
And nobody can dare deny
Part of this world is you and I.
Or call it fate or destiny
No other issue could there be.
Though half the world I've wandered through
Cause and effect have linked us two.
Aye, all the aeons of the past
Conspired to bring us here at last,
And all I ever chanced to do
Inevitably led to you.
To you, to make you what you are,
A maiden in a Morris car,
IN Harris tweeds, an airedale too,
But Anglo-Saxon through and through.
And all the good and ill I've done
In every land beneath the sun
Magnificently led to this -
A country cottage and - your kiss."
1.8k
It rained on and on.
The fire in the hearth
Had long died out.
Hunger grew,
Frustration raged.
Vultures swooped down
to feed on flesh.
Half willing, half resenting,
Surrendered, rather subdued,
Desires spilled over,
Bristles pricking
From ***** to *****
Thrusting and tearing
Devouring in greedy gulp
Waves surging past the log
Passion spent,
Hunger appeased,
Purse strings loosened,
Silver coins tinkled.
Amply paid,
Her wages of shame……
The toil not wasted!
The reel of Time unwound itself,
And the scenes, constantly replayed.
‘Exploring hands encounter(ed) no defense’.
Each day closed in ****** h(r) ut,
When the h(r) ut turned a ****
She started to rot.
Feeble she grew,
Languid she became,
Body thinned,
Energy waned,
Ailments plagued,
And
Immunity lost!
Now,
She lives an outcast.
A wild flower
wilted by the wind!
A luscious fruit
blighted by the worms!
Oct 20, 2017
Oct 20, 2017 at 12:28 PM UTC
I still smell her hair
coconut, it smelled like coconut
and her little earrings tinkled
when she laughed too hard
and she sang
like it was the last song she'd ever sing
and she ran
like she would leave the world behind
but now I'm alone
with only her memories
to provide me company
they said we couldn't be one
because she joined her palms while praying
and I didn't
because she sang praises of Krishna and Shiva
and I didn't
because I was to read the Quran
and she didn't
because her god and my god
were just not the same.
I wonder if all these gods,
and all these messengers
had an agreement
that one god's people
were not supposed to mingle
with the other's
and one who defied this law
would have only one fate.
if it is so,
then I shun all gods
because I'd rather be defined
by who I am
than by who I bow down to.
-a.g.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 2:16 AM UTC
Shout
When your head's in a funk
if you smell a dead skunk
when goosed by an elephant's trunk
when your money is spent
ate cheeseburgers during lent
don't know where your life went
shout
if your lover has split
left you in a childish fit
you're so mad you could spit
you hear the same song and dance
from politicians there's not much of a chance
changes will come with that stance
just shout
if your skin is getting wrinkled
your hair with gray is getting sprinkled
not sure when's the last time you tinkled
if you forgot where you were headed
those final exams so dam dreaded
St. Pete's approval you've so fretted
you need to shout
maybe someone will hear
before you disappear
your cries so clear
not ready to say goodbye
buy a new bottle of dye
spike your hair up real high
and shout
Morpheus aka Gomer LePoet...
Sep 18, 2011
Sep 18, 2011 at 8:57 AM UTC
it was just past three am
and the engine was running rough
and there was miles and years to go
streetlights goin by so fast they seem to flicker
like an old time picture show
the radio playing loud
some oldies station with an echo
like time was a tunnel of stars and streetlights
that endless perfect night with your girl next to you
shes wearing shorts and a wifebeater
flip-flops and all thouse bracelets
she tinkled when we would bounce in the back seat
she just laughs and says **** tootin'
my soul is three inches from flying pavement
and iv never felt so alive
the whole world comes down to that
floating flying dreamin running laughin freedom
on the wings of the engines secret fires
the road itself takes on a other worldly glow
in thouse hypnotic headlights
there in the tunnel of stars and headlights
a buick and a girl
iv never been so alive
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 5:55 PM UTC
I found a dollar
I picked it up
at lunch
at the Pub
I feed it to the
Pokie Machines
(I never use my own money)
I won another dollar
So I kept pressing
the flashing button
Not understanding
the symbols falling
as it added
more and more
dollars to the ***
After a while
it had reached ten dollars
(to me that's a lot)
Hit Collect
Listen to gold hit tin
scooped them up
cashed them in
Dropped them
into my handbag
Only nine coins tinkled
one had made
it's own escape
Looked back at Goliath
a little old lady
had paused
Bent lower (than ever)
plucked at sticky carpet
came up with one dollar
I smiled
because
it was
the dollar
I picked up
Salute to old Lady
$100 now in her pocket
Both our days made
Better by a dollar ;)
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 2:27 AM UTC
it was raining heavily that day.
we met at an old record store.
the sky turned a peaceful grey,
bells tinkled as i opened the door
and i was hit with the smell
of dusty vinyls that were waiting
to be gently touched and held
by dreamers, lovers of messy
thoughts and burning secrets.
our fates were entwined at the start,
and i do not think i had any regrets
when the music took our hearts.
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 9:23 PM UTC
Spider web lace, a crown
snow stuck to it and tinkled
All the quiet little sounds.
Crouching in the forests cover
I froze my little heart.
He drowned me in the lake
The scene a work of art.
Angels carry swords
And seldom smile or sing
They aren't much for words
They don't wear crowns or rings.
He broke all of my bones
And took all he could take
I froze my little heart
He drowned me in the lake
I screamed and kicked
I tried to flee
He left his dirt
I scrubbed my skin to bleed
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 1:21 AM UTC
Miriam and I
were sitting next
to each other
on the coach
through Paris
she laid her head
on my shoulder
it was night
lit up by the City's lights
have you heard
of Kant's moral argument?
I asked her
who the **** is Kant?
she said looking
up at me through
half-open eyes
German philosopher
I said
he said that that if
moral behaviour is rational
then moral behaviour
can only be rational
if justice will be done
and justice can only be done
if Gods exists
therefore God exists
she sighed
so if God doesn't exist
then moral behaviour
is not rational?
she said
is that what he means?
I guess so
I said
she closed her eyes
and I looked at her
red hair curly and wavy
and planted a kiss
on her head
a Beethoven piano concerto
was playing over
the coach radio speakers
soft slow movement
the keyboard being tinkled
by some one's fingers
I looked down at her
lying there
her tee-shirt gapped
and I saw the crevice
between her small *******
her small hands
in her lap
I lay my head
on her head gently
and closed my eyes too
what else could
a sleepy guy do?
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 9:33 AM UTC
A RADOX LIFE...
Peace at last ,alone in the bath
wondering how long this may last..
water steams so hot I add extra cold, mix with me toe..
Radox stress relief bubbles foaming suds.
I lye within this little peace of heaven,
stretch out in me giant bath,
as you see im a tall lass.
At last..the tension unraveled..
like the bog roll I see beside me,
the kids earlier were playing mummies..
Not me no, the Egyptian kind..
But this bath tomb now cradles me.
Looking down I think greenpeace could becon,
I'd give shamoo a swim for her money I reckon.
peace at last, alone in the bath,
wash away stress of the day.
Christ I'd be scrubbing night and day.
Red circles I inspect on my legs,
was shot earlier by a nerf gun.
Until dead..
Several times..
Again n again.
I can hear my husband downstairs,
playing referee with the girls that I'm blessed.
I'm staying hear as my ears repair,
my girls how I love them dear.
As I'm preening daily tensions away,
not much longer in hear can I stay.
for my toes n fingers wrinkle,
may also have tinkled...
As I pull the plug clean away.
Looking like a super sized rhubarb and custard..
Pink **** n backs of me knees,
I disembark the comforts of the bath.
slightly chilled now feeling at ease.
Aug 3, 2017
Aug 3, 2017 at 4:05 PM UTC
A simple figment
lost in a toolshed
oft times tinkled
with broken appliances.
He manipulated
rusted design
to his fancy,
breathing second life
into misfit *******
The elusive wisp
dressed in split fingernails
and knotty knuckles,
as lore foretold.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 2:50 PM UTC
I am parched,
I am starved,
Cried the little leaf,
Steeped in grief.
The branch swayed it to sleep,
Embracing it in a firm grip.
Suddenly the clouds bellowed,
The skies opened,
The trees woke up with a start,
Silver drops of rain drenched the bark,
To the roots they streamed,
The barren land screamed,
As the downpour on it tapdanced,
Soaking the caked earth ,
Filling it with joy and mirth.
The air was rich with sweet petrichor of rain,
The little leaf chuckled again and again,
The green colour surged in its vein.
The landscape beamed,
As the rain strummed and drummed,
Tinkled and thrummed,
While the wind played heavenly symphony.
Dec 19, 2017
Dec 19, 2017 at 5:53 PM UTC
as the long coated tall man digressed
a spinning coin became her translucent globe
permitting a time stretch until a decision was made
the rhythm of spinning
arched her doubts
to a half smiling one armed body
that could pick it up remotely but promptly
in public space
an alluring method of an actress knowing the stage
unhearing unseeing her spectators
while permeating the act through their matter
this last adorably nonchalant grin
hanging the mouth half up and half down
spilled the words: ‘so this one is for me then!’
when the long coated man loomed
she was already holding it firm in her right palm
extraneous blushing thoughts with a long narrative
of giving it back
raised thousand rehearsals as polluted air
in shorter than a minute of turning the head to fixate
and dissipated
before the trash could handle the reforming flush
I reached out for her help
with my puppetheadedness
come on I said what is 20 cents
preserve it to recycle for my lucky star at least
she, relieved nodded
and placed the coin in a front section of her whistling memory
which finally today tinkled and jingled a street musician’s ultroneous hat!
:)
Oct 24, 2015
Oct 24, 2015 at 5:16 PM UTC
Sometimes I wonder,
If words didn't slip from dry lips onto blank lined paper
And ink didn't fall from my eyes
Swirling into something I could call
Beautiful
For you
Would I write about that boy
Who I thought stole my heart
When I was thirteen
With chocolate boxes that encased my smile
If my heart was something that anyone would ever want to
Steal
Or would I write about another girl
One with freckles and bright eyes
And reddish hair and a laugh that tinkled
In my ears long after she disappeared
The girl that fell apart and fell back together
So many times
I could never count
Only the heartbeats and the broken little sobs
As I held her in the school bathroom,
Twenty minutes into English class,
Whispering, 'God loves you' in her hair
Or another girl, something like a flower
With gentle eyes and gentle smiles and gentle whispers
And gentle little giggles
I should have known better than to
Befriend a flower
I plucked almost all her petals
Before I pricked my fingers on a thorn
Another girl, not a flower
Something of a flame that crackled
Into an inferno whenever my hands
Hit the floor and I couldn't hold it in
Anymore
The burns still hurt from when
Her fire threatened to lick at the
Rain that was long overflowing inside me
That boy though, the one whose digital
Heart I was terrified to hold for too long
Or at all
Would I write about him?
The one who carried rain with him
Toxic rain I would never touch because
The storm was three thousand four hundred and two miles
Away
But maybe I've been splashing on dark, all-consuming
Puddles
Or maybe I dropped my umbrella the minute
I held onto him instead
How can I see the lightning from so far away?
I ran out into the rain just to hold him there
For a second or for a day
Or for the eternity I promised
He was never there.
"Goodbye."
I thought the thunder would be too loud
To hear anything but my heartbeat
I can't write about them
Because weren't you the one
With the most beautiful broken smile
I would ever see
And arms that wrapped around me on
Some godforsaken February day
When my not-so-stolen heart broke itself
Into neat little pieces?
Too bad almost half of those pieces
Lost themselves in you
And I've lost the will
To ever find them again
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 9:17 AM UTC
*1951
Manchester in
The North West Of England
The city was broken after the war.
England had won it was said
But it didn't feel like that we won.
I remember the
old smoke stained bricks
of the inner city school.
I remember it in sepia
It had no colors back then.
Nothing did.
Until she came to teach us.
She was beautiful her silks
flowed from her like clouds.
So many colors reds
and magentas and pink and blues
I looked at her and
I wanted to be with her
She was the brightest thing I had seen
since the war had ended.
She said she was from India.
And her dress was a sari.
She had my heart with the
gentle softness of her voice.
Her windchime bracelets
on her lovely honeyed skin tinkled.
But it was her tranquility
that floored me.
She would ask
what have you learned today?
share it with us.
We spoke in a cacophony.
Hush now children she whispered.
listen and learn from each other.
You will all get a turn.
Then when we were troubled
she would drop an important meeting
with adult teachers.
I have an urgent need to speak
with one of my students
She said.
I remember once
i said to her Mrs. Chowdhury.
Why should we work so hard?
there are no jobs anymore.
She said softly but firmly
I know you all each and every one of you.
Her sari swished even louder
I knew I had said the wrong thing.
There is a teacher,
a doctor,
a nurse,
a poet,
a craftsman,
a soccer player,
just in this clas,
i can see it,
I Know this.
Then she opened
the old classroom window.
and the cool spring air
filtered into the chalky room.
The lilac perfumes drifted into the room.
What is that fragrance class?
It is Lilacs,
Mrs. Chowdhury,
we sang in unison.
Yes, it is lilacs children.
Last year they all died
with the winter storms.
But now they are back
as sweet as ever.
The jobs died with the war.
But they will be back.
You must all learn as much
as you can to take them.
children.
She never lost a single chance
to teach us something.
I get back to the UK
every now and then .
I am a doctor.
perhaps the one she saw
in her class so long ago.
I call in to see her
in her tiny retirement flat
in Manchester.
She pours me a cup of green tea.
Into a delicate china cup.
It is grown in the foothills
of the Himalayas
she whispers
it is picked young.
so fresh so nourishing.
Never losing her chance
to teach me something new.
Now tell me
what new things
have you learned in America .?*
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 6:16 PM UTC
'you’re the greatest love of my life', he said.
age eighteen,
wind in your hair,
going 80 on the motorway,
and you were in free fall
whilst he was laying down roots.
flash forward, and he was crying.
branches swaying in the breeze.
'you’re the greatest heartbreak of my life', he said.
and you felt a pang, a twinge, on your heartstrings
whilst he lay his heart on his sleeve,
your eyes dry,
whilst his were weeping.
flash back, to your hand in his,
swinging in the stagnant air of summer,
a light smile on your face,
a burning intensity in his eyes.
your laugh tinkled in the air,
whilst he gripped your hand tighter.
but it was hot, and your hand was sweaty,
and your grip loosened,
and your hand slipped out of his,
and his smile fell.
'you’re the greatest loss of my life', he said
over the phone, voice low and raw.
and you blinked and felt nothing,
whilst he claimed to feel everything.
didn’t he see, how couldn’t he see,
that you were nothing new?
i guess he never knew you at all.
to the present, to the now,
your eyes catch his across a crowded room,
a glimpse of the past,
a snapshot of before
before he drops his eyes,
and he raises his hand,
intertwined with another’s.
you float over the room like a ghost
and your ears pick up his words,
-'she’s the greatest love of my life', he says,
and he raises their hands,
he kisses the bunched rope of fingers and palms,
and she’s smiling,
she’s beaming,
and his eyes burn intensely,
and he roots his hand in hers,
and his heart shines out of his chest,
and finally you understand his words.
'you are the love of my life.'
it was wishful thinking, an affirmation thrown into the air,
but the wind blew and it struck the wrong person,
an actor who wasn’t up to play the role.
because he was wrong.
never the love of my life,
and the words echo now,
that I wasn’t the love of his,
either.
a breeze blew and hair flew across my eyes,
and his laugh echoed across the space between us,
and i smiled
and my chest ached
and my heart wept
but he smiled back.
Jun 13, 2025
Jun 13, 2025 at 9:44 AM UTC
We hadn’t seen it for a couple years,
The film being a bit difficult to watch
Without dropping a few bucks
To stream it in all its black-and-white glory,
(A prospect which would have brought a grim smile
To a certain white-haired small-town banker)
Our laser disc scratched, our VCR beyond obsolete,
But there have been enough viewings
That certain tableaus
(Flower petals strewn, the glycerin tears)
Remain as familiar as the views out the front door,
And so on a whim we drove up to the quaint burg
Which espouses its claim to be Capra’s inspiration
With a tenacity which belies the season
(Though one look at the bridge which sits astride
A wan offshoot of the Erie Canal
Is sufficient for a startling bit of déjà vu)
Finding ourselves by ourselves in a restaurant
(The times after all, and it a weeknight to boot)
Surprisingly open, even though the town fathers
Had opted hopefully to decorate, as per usual,
The village streets to be as Bedford Falls-esque as possible,
And as we sipped our soup and munched our salads
We mused on how wonder and anxiety
Could walk hand-in-hand
(As we did on the way in and again on the way out)
And though our laughter was a soft, muted thing,
It tinkled in the manner of such things
Which enabled seraphim to gain their wings.
Dec 23, 2020
Dec 23, 2020 at 4:00 PM UTC