"tinkling" poems
,***how do you know when
(a human is too broken?)***
<•>
human too broken?
like the light bulb, removal from its fixture, a simple shaking revelation of the tinkling filament spent, something that cannot be repaired, the only option is replacement and that makes
you cry
the empty box of oatmeal raisin cookies, you find secret’d,
hid by you, not to be found by you
at the bottom of the kitchen garbage,
but box betrayal, by the chartreuse tipped box lid sided
peeking upwards, asking, silencing screaming,
what did I do to deserve
this degrading
like the blouse now too tight that it brings stares as the buttons strain, unwelcome attention unintended,
you know it but still pretend not to see,
for you both once loved that silky guise that so
heightened the high tender, the match of your pink rose skin letting, no! making
your eyes glisten, like broken filament glass, on the sidewalk,
recalling the pleasured admiration,
rain remembered from the
prior priority of a life consisting of only
perfect gifts
so mean revert to the poseur question; this is how...
remove the human from a fixed place, whimpering-threatened,
you may hear clear the crackle cackling of the innard shards against the misperception of a body intact,
even if you do,
no repair service you want, can be found, see it nowhere,
is it even
anywhere advertised?
the body presumed intact is secret’d under a tactile coverlet,
holey scupperrd holy cuttered
so that the cells and bicuspids, the threads
no longer function in a tandem,
you keep it in the closet closed,
in the back, deep hid, where,
when it screams why,
it can be safe ignored,
because ‘betrayed’ is no longer a word,
in your globe's dictionary,
the parental controls activated by you to
save your own inner child’s unconstrained confusion,
it has been removed
so the broken glass, the clothes you dressed each other,
if not weep-well,
well enough hid,
the fit is off,
the fit is off,
the coverlet ripped so bad and neither cares
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 11:17 AM UTC
Her skin is pale
A wash of gentle light
Her hair silver
Glittering with starlight
The girl born of moon and star
Her eyes piercing blue
As the blanket of sky
Her face upturned
All the relaxed beauty of night
The girl shimmering with light and dust
The moonlight drapes over her
Clothing her in shimmering silver light
She dances with glittering grace
As the the dust of stars trails behind
The moonlight girl born for night
When god created this creature
He used his most precious gifts
Glittering stars, shimmering moonlight
And all the dreams of a sleeping world
Bring forth the daughter of night
Nyx herself would envy this girl
God saw the hearts of men break
Just her sight shattered them
Sympathy moved the mighty God
The silvery girl of the stars
God talked to his daughter of night
She agreed to leave this world
Some nights tinkling laughter echoes
From the distant world in the sky
The world of Moonlight Girl.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 12:14 AM UTC
I see the soft, charming ringlets bounce up, down, and around
As my little cousin opens her gift.
I hear the tinkling sound of her excited voice,
but feel sick to my stomach when she tells Mommy and Daddy what it is.
She squeals "Barbie!"
And I want to scoop her up and run,
Far, far, away from the little plastic doll,
On, on, onward toward a safe view of beauty.
Her ignorance is bliss, but I know better,
And I pray with a heavy heart
For that beautiful, creative mind underneath the ringlets.
I desperately ask some higher power
How we can protect her from that little doll.
What were you thinking,
I want to yell at the grown ups.
Didn't you learn from us?
Don't you know that Barbie cut open our hearts and sewed in her plastic ideal
Before they had beaten long enough for us to walk?
That she shoved sharp words in our head
Before we could string together full sentences?
That we never stood a chance,
From the moment we tore open the shiny paper
Dotted with cartoon Christmas trees?
That the "must-have" gift for a little girl
Would enslave our bodies and minds to a "must-have" torture for the rest of our lives,
And teach our brothers and classmates to look for the woman
With not enough calories in her body to sustain a simple memory,
With not enough room in her waist to hold a kidney?
Maybe it's not all your fault, you grown-ups.
Maybe you've been chained to the unattainable images for so long
That you've forgotten the shackles were even there.
But does that not scare you?
Maybe you'll remember the strain
When you see a beautiful young woman's scars,
When you hear a breaking voice speak about her friend's final breaths
At her own fragile hands filled with little pills.
But most of all, I pray to God that you won't have to remember too late,
I hope you don't have to remember when you're chained to her hospital bed
Because the insufficiency you gifted her in a shiny plastic box
Started a cycle of sinister self-hate and destructive delusion
That she cannot outrun.
I won't let you forget, because you cannot remember that way.
I won't let you forget, because she can't end up that way, like we did.
You think you gave her a pretty little toy in a shiny little package.
Didn't you learn from us?
You gave her Pandora's box.
You look at me funny,
When I replace the impossibly-sized plastic "woman" in her hands
With a toddler-sized plastic piano.
You may not remember, but I always will,
And I will dedicate my life to making sure
These beautiful ringlets will never have to.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 1:43 PM UTC
My Haseena
late night
pillow fights
watching stars
airplane flights
Wow’ babe, come see the morning clouds
With peaceful doves
Flying above
Wet kisses
Like a washed dishes
Sweat on yo breast
Di* grew stronger
Felt the touch of your hand on my hair
And the other hand romancing my back
just me and you
After waiting for so long
Oh my gosh,
Yo high heels tinkling my legs
Night gown wet
I’m ready and set
***** shaved clean, nuh hair.
My dear queen can I come in ?
No! Not what you think
I mean can I **** it ?
Let me give you the legendary of me
Dearie
Feb 8, 2019
Feb 8, 2019 at 6:47 PM UTC
I.
Hear the sledges with the bells—
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they ****** ****** ******
In their icy air of night!
While the stars, that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
II.
Hear the mellow wedding bells,
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten golden-notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
III.
Hear the loud alarum bells—
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now—now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the ***** of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling,
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells—
Of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
IV.
Hear the tolling of the bells—
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people—ah, the people—
They that dwell up in the steeple.
All alone,
And who toiling, toiling, toiling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone—
They are neither man nor woman—
They are neither brute nor human—
They are Ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A paean from the bells!
And his merry ***** swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells—
Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells—
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells—
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
10.5k
Sweeter than the song of a nightingale
Gentler than the whisper of a spring wind
Quieter than the murmur of summer grass
Softer than the symphony of hyacinths
Hypnotic like the splash of blue seas
Tinkling like a stream that flows
Mesmerizing like the cadence of rain
Enchanting like the hush of snow
Like the faint breath of a scarlet dawn
The rustle of clouds on a turquoise high
A duet of night and an ivory moon
A Capella of stars in the sky
A hymn, a chant, a choir of angels
Singing on a rainbow of time
Celestial is the serenade of love
A tune and a note divine.
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 11:14 AM UTC
-Hello Love-
Perhaps it’s been a thousand years,
the rivers have shifted so,
the lakes I swam in, have gone dry
the waterfalls though, overflow.
And so it is, that I have wandered back
tugged furiously throughout days
by this rugged tinkling thread
back to this ancient maze.
Most surely it’s been several weeks
the leaves are rough to touch,
the grass withers where I step
but trees don’t ask for much.
And so it is, that I have rambled on
pulled strangely through the haze,
at last I fall under the rays of morn,
My love, I’m home again.
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 8:47 AM UTC
Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn ****** our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.
8k
Does that lamp still burn in my Father's house,
Which he kindled the night I went away?
I turned once beneath the cedar boughs,
And marked it gleam with a golden ray;
Did he think to light me home some day?
Hungry here with the crunching swine,
Hungry harvest have I to reap;
In a dream I count my Father's kine,
I hear the tinkling bells of his sheep,
I watch his lambs that browse and leap.
There is plenty of bread at home,
His servants have bread enough and to spare;
The purple wine-fat froths with foam,
Oil and spices make sweet the air,
While I perish hungry and bare.
Rich and blessed those servants, rather
Than I who see not my Father's face!
I will arise and go to my Father:--
"Fallen from sonship, beggared of grace,
Grant me. Father, a servant's place."
8.1k
Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.
In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cozy parlor, the tinkling piano our guide.
So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamor
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamor
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past
7.2k
I slip my tender toes into your familiar bind,
your pink laces twist up my legs
and animate me.
En pointe, my toes are perched upon their boxes,
and your silken arms embrace my ankles
as if I walk on nothing.
Fuetes swing you around and I am a circus ride,
turned into painted porcelain,
a spinning doll.
I spend months with you, scuffing your soles, tearing your cloth,
burning your laces, stretching your lips.
We become old.
One day they will put us both in a tiny fabric box,
only to spin when it opens, only to dance
at the soft tinkling of a bell.
Mar 27, 2011
Mar 27, 2011 at 3:49 PM UTC
Hear the gentle summer breeze
Whisking through gulmohar leaves
In the music of wind chimes
Tinkling songs of summer time
Feel her quiet on the skin
Filling hearts imaginings
See her as the blossoms dance
In the cusp of dawn's romance
In saplings that take a bow
In wind blown hair tousled now
Petals touched by her stir
Silken soft in gossamer
Light and dark shadows play
On shrubs of green bunched bouquet
While butterflies and bees sup
Drink nectar from sun's molten cup
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 10:08 AM UTC
A part of me smoulders within..
When the world is serene
And the eye resists a lonely tear..
The loneliness embraces my conscience,
and the lullaby of memories lures me to the lane..
Where the mothers's lap complemented a nap..
Where the Dad's jokes evoked pathos..
The friend's smirk,
The brother's ****
The bickering girls,
The lustering guys,
The barbie attire,
The teacher's satire,
And the useless tinkling laughter..
And when I drag myself to the prevailing adolescence,
All I think for,
All I lust for..
Is the sweet lullaby of memories..!
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 5:46 AM UTC
I see you shining there a translucent water drop
Suspended in animation
From the garden where I lay
I watch your silver glow, in total fascination
Moving to and fro
As within my heart, you play
I hear your tinkling laughter, rise above the trees
Softly lilting in my mind
Find myself within a soulful breeze
Your joyous laughter brings
As your joy and mine
Are combined
A quiet calm is set in motion, as you begin to fall
Enchantment ending in a silver splash
Yet, such joy you have brought into this thrall
Into the garden where I lay
Even though you fell
In a flash
Now I see you shining there upon my yearning soil
Suspended in animation
In the garden where I toil
I watch your silver glow, in total fascination
Moving to and fro
Quenching thirst, in adoration
Oct 21, 2010
Oct 21, 2010 at 6:37 PM UTC
writing songs sans artifice,
that grow better different,
different better,
the lyrics of a man growing older,
insides out, featuring his slips, all showing,
eyes squinting from hard lifestyle experience,
taking on wearied shades of beige yellowing,
a tanned blackness, time edits them, so now,
they sound the same but holier,
from the hazing of hazards
one builds for and by himself,
drilling & extracting the spit-shine of
all that all is fine,
but liquor & cat's paw black shoe polish
just can't quite cover 'em up (2),
the stabbing itch each of the every time
one quests and questions
his ego,
always another test…
why would I ever want that?
his fingers create tinkling at rapido pace,
tinkling an arrhythmia of rhymes
previously perviously (1) unseen,
self exploration, that we all realize
is an unforgiving, never ending,
source of melodic crying out loud;
and when the sensual, arrayed pleasures,
begin to bore
holes of no important consequence,
the querys~to~self get even harder
to explicate what they intimate,
who they implicate,
which parts of you,
failed to answer satisfactorily…
why would I want want that
forever?
Aug 2, 2025
Aug 2, 2025 at 2:11 PM UTC
Puffs of thistledown
floating in the air.
Lovely lady
dark blue plums
and the tracery of lace.
'Toot' says a trumpet
to the cry from a clarinet.
Tinkling piano notes
flowing
lilting, rippling, fleeting
fleeing.
Bows, strings and violins.
Echoes of yesterday
fading into grey.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 4:40 AM UTC
That whistling Milkman so long ago
With tunes so happy and gay,
So very little did he know
How well he started my day,
The tinkling bottles
Of milk and cream,
Awoke me each morning
From my dreams,
With happy tunes
From this whistling man,
Brightening the day
Before it began.
5.2k
Innocent words of wonder
Burn the purest of souls to ash
The Goddess of love,
She spews her lyrics in tinkling sighs
Completed by the one whose light burns brightest
He lights the path of others
Consuming their shadows as they pass
A dragon of fire to fight the darkness
And she sings in sweet daffodils
Satin petals and the Heavens open wide
She sings of pain and the dragon feeds
She sings of joy and he watches
As the words are once again absorbed into her essence
The Goddess welcomes this guardian of light
Never knowing that her words
Pilot the fire that eats the shadows that surround him
Bitter pangs of abrasive truth
Wrapped in delightful ditties of eternal enamoration
He fights her darkness
She fuels his fire
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 9:32 AM UTC
ghagras twirling
veils swirling
anklets tinkling
silver at her neck
how she adorns herself!
regal as a queen
but cannot conceal
her banjara soul
gypsy blood flows in her veins
a thousand stars alight upon her veil
fuchsia and orange set fire to the dusk
twilight is thick with her magic
she sways with the grace of a peacock
bends like a willow to the breeze
dances in celebration of her soul
her smile a universal knowing
none can slow her pace
beauty this wild leaves only a trace
slips airily past eyes
drunk with desire
to beguile the moon in his heaven
she answers the call of the wanderer within
casts only laughter on the restless wind
this desert rose
this woman child
this gypsy queen
this banjara
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC
I am the zombie of Tinkerbell
Her living corpse
Dress sparkles all faded
Tinkling like a broken bell
My fairy dust no longer brings children the gift of flight
But endows my prey with the curse of second life
That I may twice devour their
Squirming, wriggling,
Writhing, scriggiling
Flesh
Just the way I like it
With a wide dark grin across my face
Teeth stained with blood and broken into points
Eyes dim, dull, and hallowed
Skin sallow and torn by the fighters,
Who battle for their death
Combatting the loss of their dignity
I lure them in with stale illusions and sickly sweet snares
Torn wings are no match for swift feet, but I manage
Pushed onwards, pulled forwards by a need, urge
To devour, consume, and engorge myself
Again with tender meat
And imbibe upon the sharp lifeblood
Of faerie.
For I, am the zombie Tinkerbell, and I hunger.
It's dinner time...
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 9:08 PM UTC
Gentle winds had blown
A wind chime tinkling a song
For ears that can hear
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 4:15 AM UTC
The copper bells glisten
Swaying in the sunshine
I pause as I listen
To the tinkling
Of the wind chimes
In the distance, they ring
A gentle melody -
I hear their songs
The unsaid words they sing
How sweet is their music
Sweet the joy they bring
Such is the wonder -
The magic of little things
Mar 13, 2025
Mar 13, 2025 at 11:45 AM UTC
“*who
would cry
being loved,
when even such tinkling
comes of the loving?*”
“Grasses” by Alfred Kreymborg
<•>
we all make lots of love
in the same way as billions of others
grunting huffing noises of neural tissues torn and reborn
but the notes and noises we make, keep, unique no one else’s
the bored and the low thinkers saying “honey, you just wrong,”
the tinkling sounds are the silent mitosis of cells splitting
and then rejoicing rejoining, definable only as unique
so we both weeping, side by side, only we together can
hear the sounds of our life becoming and being,
no one else quite can be so specific
you could be there and still not hear the heat of our love making
who
would cry
being loved,
by the creative silences we have just written?
we would. we do. we are the noisiest lovers ever. tinkling laughter. creating.
____________________________________
http://academyofamericanpoets.cmail19.com/t/ViewEmail/y/8D7DB5963FD3CE00/98E58011B0AFF2EF20B193FBA00ED1DB
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 2:38 PM UTC
The clouds above are rumbling,
As if sleeping giants are snoring.
Rain drops are tinkling on the tin,
Just winking amidst all of the din.
The early December chill is sweet,
Soon there will not be a thing to eat.
All will freeze in the chilly breeze,
Ice age just has so much to please,
Recall it all what I told if you can.
Juxtaposed by mother nature is it,
Her most wicked chilly plan it is.
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 10:57 PM UTC