Best Blares Poems
He can turn the crank, to tunes of happy song,
One that his crowd has cherished for long,
But something has so terribly gone wrong
For someone has declared: you don’t belong,
O, you don’t belong; no, you do not belong,
As organ music on streets is forever banned
Dismantling livelihood, so long he planned.
So today he turns the crank to words forlorn
As emotions torn, in wistful rhythms mourn,
This miserable morning of a beauteous day,
Oh, the heavens know why the sky is gray,
And the organ blares missives that betray:
Nothing can unsay ~today is that final day.
They watch him grooving as if in festive dance
Feigning happiness, hiding dolorous glance,
Decrying audacity of fate, eerily gone awry,
As he accepts reality, uttering a silent sigh,
Watching the crowd clap, as spirits amplify
His reason for being, reluctant to bid goodbye.
From street to street, he will endeavor to go
Visiting every place familiar, despite angst of woe,
For one last act of songs and music they know,
Collect what he can, past goodwill will bestow;
Turning the crank, to tunes of happy song,
One that his crowd has cherished for long,
Though something has so terribly gone wrong
For someone has declared: you don’t belong,
O, you don’t belong; no, you do not belong.
Categories:
blares, emotions, farewell, music,
Form:
Rhyme
The warm temperature drops outdoors,
And first drops of fresh rain sprinkle.
The thunder claps right above me,
As lightening is striking afar.
Dust is blowing in the wind,
Trees are bending fiercely,
A train horn blares,
As the core nears me.
Then sudden silence,
A calm reappears.
Electrical fires start,
For a moment one
Thinks it’s over,
Then it starts
Again quickly.
Passing by my
Home taking
My neighbors,
Tin flying by,
The tornado
Fades, look
At all the
Damage.
And I
Am
Uns
c
a
t
h
e
d.
My poem is about Tornadic weather and evokes
Water in, 'first drops of fresh rain sprinkle'
Wind in, 'Trees are bending fiercely'
Earth in 'Dust is blowing in the wind'
Metal in 'Tin flying by'
Fire in, 'Electrical fires start'
Feeling in 'The warm temperature drops outdoors'
Smell in 'First drops of fresh rain sprinkle'
Taste in 'Dust is blowing in the wind'
Sight in, Lightening is striking afar'
Hearing in 'A train horn blares'
_____________________________
Inspired by Deborah Guzzi's
Five Senses / Five Elements contest.
Categories:
blares, natural disastersrain, flying, rain,
Form:
Concrete
Furious wind from the north hisses louder,
banging against the gaped mouth of a sky, drenched…
Haggard, the night wheezes with quack
of birds waylaid; a time of unruly rainfall
crashing once more: and the moon grows bald,
groaning a jumble of cracked acoustics:
On and on, the roar of sleet
pierces through lush trees
in a noise that grates far into the dark horizon,
an energy fierce like a woman scorned.
How she blares a war amidst a company of men,
flowers, and all in one driven ride
that her wild thrill rasps zooms ---
until on ninth hour
a slow-motion of rhythm flows,
while she pauses to croon a mellow tune
as if... in final taps of a wail,
nothing ever happened.
For Shadow Hamilton:The Noise Contest
Written 3/9/2017
Categories:
blares, howl, sound, wind,
Form:
Verse
An endearing dialogue silence imparts
Gushing to confer but reluctant to talk,
Much is said by the unspoken glance~
A loud message of quiescent hearts;
Awareness resounds from unaware,
Void blares~ something lives there,
Feelings inhabit space of emptiness
As spirits shape form of nothingness
And passion conveys sans language.
Love is a prompt, love is a response,
Tender and bashful, daring and bold,
Hazy fog of dawn, exuberance of lark,
Blind to a fault, yet it sees romance.
Love is delicate and love is almighty,
Love breaks-up and love so unites,
Goodbye of sunset, hello of sunrise,
Dusk of eventide and a moonlit night,
It’s a rainy day, it’s a ray of sunshine,
Love strums joy, yet, love sadly cries.
It’s waning autumn, it’s waxing spring,
It’s frost of snow, it’s summer’s breeze,
It’s rose blooming, parched falling leaf,
Love is blissfulness in anguish of grief,
A spent nightmare, a cherished dream;
Hugs when arrives, hugs when departs,
And even when it parts, it still holds on,
It’s the sound of now, echo of the past,
And it’s always close-by, even when afar.
February 24, 2022
Placed 1st: This or That, Vol 10 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Title chosen: Irreconcilable Paradox
Categories:
blares, love,
Form:
Verse
A warring god of wind storms and lightening,
Rudra, rough looking, well built, braided hair
Golden in color, of firm limbs widening
With streaks of lightening and fearful blares
Making nervous with fear all the beings.
But caters medicines to the world with care
The wind God is the breath bringer to all
Perfumes, caresses and senses at his call.
Rudra sired his wife Deeti with a son
Deeti vowed to keep him in her womb for more years
Letting the child be more and more brawny one.
Indra, the chief deity of heaven, out of fear,
Entered her womb and chopped him with passion
But pieces so strong reformed into numbers.
They were named as Maruts, varied Gods of wind
Who lash the world from end to end with great dins.
They are progeny of Rudra, the bulls of heaven,
Radiant in serried rank free from spots and stains
Who drench the earth with heavy rains uneven.
No one know from where they take shape and rain
Spreading forth darkness during the day time even.
Bring health and wealth in noisy way, but veterans.
*"The winds of God’s grace are always blowing
It is left to us how to set the sails flowing."
+++
*Rudra, Maruts and Deeti are characters in Hindu Mythology*
* Inspired by a quote
December 21, 2014
Third Place win
Form: Ottava Rima - Rhyme Scheme abababcc, dededeff, ghghghii
Sources : Wikipedia - hinduwebsites
Categories:
blares, god, mythology, wind,
Form:
Ottava rima
Welcome KMart shoppers blares through the air as a mosh pit of greedy Holiday buggers hurl themselves through the glass and aluminum doors—Obese bodies press (children jammed between white-bread). Trolls in strollers screech in pain and howls of Christ mask laughter. The shopper's feet bombard the glossy, line-oh-lea-ummm floors as the overwrought, over-privileged, truffle sniffers, poke through the hundred and fifty percent marked-up—mark-downs, for things they already own in triplicate.
canned music
jiggle bells the room:
torn wrapping paper
Categories:
blares, holiday,
Form:
Haibun
Afloat I am,
The blind horizon spreads to no end.
O river of rivers,
The queen river,
Flow as you wish,
Gather silt forever
That on your shores
Men may harrow, then sow
The seeds of happiness
And sorrow to grow.
Afloat I am,
The blind horizon spreads to no end.
Hilsa leaps at the moon,
How wondrously they blend!
Hilsa leaps at the moon,
How wondrously they blend!
O river of rivers,
The starry river,
Your blinking waves drum
Of Behula's shiver.
I too am lost,
The tattered merchant fool,
My peacock barge rides
Fate's whirlpool.
Hilsa leaps at the moon,
How wondrously they blend!
When the whistling wind wakes
All courage is pretend.
When the whistling wind wakes
All courage is pretend,
O river of rivers,
The wise river.
Who would speak for us?
If not you, may be never.
Yet the mountains rise
From the hearths' ash,
You are silent, while
The history is brash.
When the whistling wind wakes
All courage is pretend.
Heaven's horn blares slender silver
For whom to comprehend?
Heaven's horn blares slender silver
For whom to comprehend?
O river of rivers,
The hungry river,
The consort of Ruin.
An arrow in Falguni's quiver.
The infinite wasteland beckons
Hold onto heart's dream,
One more sun above
Anguish and scream.
Heaven's horn blares slender silver
For whom to comprehend?
Afloat I am,
The blind horizon spreads to no end.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Form: Bhatiali
Date: 19 / 11 / 2016
Bhatiali is a form of folk music native to Bangladesh and Bengal. There is no place for Taal (a term used in Indian classical music for the rhythmic pattern) in pure bhatiali. Even rhyme is not that important. Generally, these songs are sung by the cattle herders on the fields or the fisherfolks living off a river. Among the several subjects of folk music in all of Bengal, that includes Deha-tatva (about the body) and Murshid-tatva (about the guru), Bhatiali deals with Prakriti-tatva (about nature). Probably the most renowned poet of this form is Jasimuddin. Some of Rabindranath Tagore's songs can also be categorised as typical bhatiali.
Categories:
blares, allegory, beauty, fishing, mythology,
Form:
Pastoral
(Shakespearean Sonnet)
The blue-grass music blares from speaker's face
as guys and gals entwine moon-round the floor,
she sits alone, ignores the dancers' pace
although her ears record the rhythm score.
He begged her love; he painted instant fame.
She nursed her song in dreams alive to wit,
she trusted him to give the verse her name,
and reasoned out they spun a perfect fit.
With traitor's greed intense, he stepped aside,
and claimed her song as his with no remorse.
He left her raw, his chest out-puffed with pride.
Disgraced, abased, her anger reinforced,
she writes another song, recounts the tale,
assured his star will now commence to pale.
Categories:
blares, betrayal, love hurts, music,
Form:
Sonnet
In the land of Oz, we're all fair dinkum,
Every bloke, Sheila and Healer too.
By crikey mate, if you get us started,
You'll regret the day I guarantee you.
In bonza days some may call hard yakka,
With an esky chockers and a barbie that blares.
Strewth! I tell you even our bogans are grouse,
Where else can you find platypodes and Koala Bears?
So spend an arvo or two and don't be a bludger,
Smoke a durry and blow the froth off a few.
You'll be saying "Man, that was a bloody ripper",
So get off your dunny and tell a furphy or two!
If you're thinkin' of comin' over, but not too sure,
Just have a go, ya mug, you may just find.
The best place to go walkabout and make new friends,
But don't be a goose and leave your goon bag behind.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We're as Aussie as "You Beaut",
We're as Aussie as the Holden ute.
We're as Aussie as a kangaroo,
We're as Aussie as we're "True Blue".
Categories:
blares, fun, tribute,
Form:
Rhyme
Dancing with Joan Jett
Dancing close with Joan Jett is so wild, it’s 1989 and we go head to head. I’m the teen kid by the juke box and she is my wet dream in black leather, one foot in front of me. Pure bloody ecstasy. Garage music blares out of the speakers and we spin around, my arm catching her waist. Closer we draw; a kiss. First of many.
Joan and Nick. Who would have thought it? Rock n roll music heroine meets a Lancashire lad in an intimate spit and sawdust gig venue in a nameless town. It happened, was happening now. 25 July 1989. A day before I was eighteen.
By chance I got her gig ticket, last minute rush. Left my crap job and mental northern town and took the train to see Her, Joan Jett. My teen rock goddess singing live. How many guys wanted a piece of her? And a few gals too. Black leather, boots and an awfully short skirt...
And that black hair. Joan looked like a Goth. Her music wasn’t as dark and was more accessible. Darkness would come later, lots of it.
For now, I danced close with Joan Jett. My head in her hair, eyes shut. Holding her like there was no tomorrow. Another kiss and I was smitten. No one would ever believe me, if I told them: ‘Hey, I danced close with Joan Jett. And we kissed...’
Never mind what happened later... that’s our secret. Yes I still do love her, am in love...
...with Joan Jett.
Categories:
blares, dance, love, music, romance,
Form:
Free verse
The captain’s eyes glow ruby red
Atop the steamer’s deck –
A rusted tin can set adrift
By rough Atlantic crests
A crimson emblem sanctions
This whaler’s floating tomb –
A battered vessel bearing
Insignias of doom
Red ember sparks illuminate
The old man’s hickory pipe,
As he begins to scour the sea
For subtle signs of life
The radar soon shines fiery red,
And deckhands race to find
Their harpoons pointed straight ahead
At monsters in mid-dive
'There she blows!' the captain blares,
His face now beating red;
The hunt is on for him again,
And victory’s ahead
But as the scarlet sun moves west,
Black storm clouds open wide,
And though the weary crew protests,
He keeps the men in line
One well aimed shot is all he needs
To stain the ocean red,
But angry winds and beating rain
Show no signs of an end
The crimson hull begins to quake
As waves come crashing down,
And though the crew is mad with fright,
The captain only frowns
Then finally a sound rings sharp
Amid the roaring surf –
The red harpoon has found its mark:
A whale of massive girth
'We got her now!' the captain chimes,
His new prize bleeding red,
But with his words a rogue wave climbs
Ten feet above their heads
As they stare up with fear and awe,
They realize their fate –
Atop the blood-red steamer bow,
They know that it's too late
And though the crew and captain pray
For rescue from the squall,
The phantom wave of burgundy
Descends to drown them all.
Categories:
blares, adventure, death, fantasy, sea,
Form:
Rhyme
January’s snow flows stealthfully through my fifth-floor apartment window, flung wide open to welcome in the new year. The half-drawn curtains bellow with brisk salt air blowing in from the North Sea. A distant foghorn groans in a resigned, forlorn resonance, guiding ships braving the churning, ice-slushy waters as church bells strike twelve stately brassy tones.
This night I stand alone and content, a rich cup of espresso in my hand. Eschewing nostalgia and perhaps too sober of thought, I prefer my pleasures to be of the vicarious variety. Beneath me I take in the muted ambers and oranges spread out from the four cafes, out past the cobblestone road, glistening as snowflakes alite. Young couples drinking, glasses clinking, hug, kiss and revel, strolling out from the cafes. Some indulge in a traditional waltz, before the speaker blares more modern fare. Waves of laughter and singing ebb and flow as I turn and head toward my bed and blessed sleep.
Again the foghorn blares mournfully, like a tuba vainly pleading to be united with a long-lost orchestra.
Categories:
blares, character, perspective,
Form:
Prose
T errific and terrible, loud and unrelenting, I am suddenly
H ammered by a head splitting, grating screech, as the
E mergency Broadcast Signal blatantly blares from my TV.
N early every glass rattles and shatters, because the
O N button is stuck on its highest setting possible!
I try in vain to find the clicker to lower the volume
S o the earsplitting nightmare of noise will lower, but it keeps on
E scalating, out of control, while I cover my poor ears in agony.
Written on 3/7/2017
Categories:
blares, angst, anxiety, senses,
Form:
Acrostic
I flip the history of Bojangles
On a cool Sunday evening
Los Angeles coming down
A flow of oboes breathing
Through the lung of the street
The hobo not stopping for air
Fingers moving in a dance
Across the strings of consciousness
Milking the music of his brain
Onto a breast
Of dilated ears.
Mr. Lopez, unsettled from his comfortable chair
Searching for something to tell
Against the neon of despair
Heard the dulcimer quelling hell
And saw himself standing bare
To the sheetless eyes
Of a man serenading Beethoven
Deaf as a statue
In the city's superfluous air.
Here is where humanity
Sings hope amidst the garden
Of hopelessness
That make direlict dreams
Tugging our divinity
Down to rags of nothingness.
Mr. Ayers, a quaver away
Juliard school in love aspiring
Suddenly there fallen
Amidst the glitter and glamor
Of non-existence
Peace, a basoon
Seducing a Los Angeles moon
Coy as a lover
In the tangle of wine memory
He plays against
The unkown sorrow of the world.
And here dedication
Drives us to distraction
Soon or late
Decomposing our minds
Into shards of glistening memories.
Discovery, today beholding yesterday
A bride for the first time
Amidst the silence of flowers
Cradling weeds and seeds of tomorrow.
Love without purpose
Can change the course
Of splintering history.
He plays, harmony
In where the traffic blares
Yellow light onto his gray matter
Splitting airs with sharp sounds
They echo
Not the common pit, nor
To a single Maestro blending
The mind's kaleidoscope
Before the other's saner wit
Along highways and wind tunnels
He brings to a sombre note
To ode all joys
Strugling repressed under
Human ambition
Ayers is my minstrel
Jarred by a nerve
Not wired for sleep.
Fortune smiles
From the frontier of friendhsips
Fondled by the music
Of love unfranchised
Awakes the lyre
To sing in the resurrection of desire.
Friendship is a sheltering tree
From life's base tragedies.
Categories:
blares, friendshiplove,
Form:
Free verse
Fields of stars blanket warm summer skies
Songs of crickets and cicadas overwhelm the senses
In reply, fireflies dot the lawn
Full of dandelions and buttercups waiting for dawn
Far away flashes of summer heat strike with no sound
Showing distant lands and tops of massive thunderclouds
Soft shadows decorate the walls
upon silent ears quiet murmurings fall
a transistor radio blares its tiny sound
of ballgames in concrete stadiums ,
bright lights and a pitchers mound
Overhead fans stir dark sleepy rooms
Screened in porches give way to fleeting cool breezes
Heavy lids with dreams in flight
Soften those warm summer nights
Categories:
blares, nature,
Form: