Best Cadences Poems
Night fell,
Summer’s heat abating,
I sat leaning against a tall magnolia,
Its fragrance spreading everywhere
Like echoes of whispering breezes.
Despite all I could not rest and sleep.
The moon and stars were invisible now,
But darkness could not cover the glade.
Fireflies flittered here and there, glowing.
I was mesmerised by the fireworks of the night.
Suddenly I heard a delicate delicious melody.
Was it the fireflies orchestrating their symphony?
Soft enchanting tunes enticed the whole glen.
Could this be a dream descended from the hidden stars?
The melody changed, cadences tuned up and down,
The fragrance of the magnolia increased,
The moon appeared and all was bright.
Butterflies flew all around. Or were they fairies?
I could not tell for suddenly my eyes became heavy
And blissfully I slept as joyfully I dreamt.
As words escaped constricted passage
of time from eons of layered myths,
legends of demi-gods thus linked,
in glowing rendition, with whisk on hand
the Orator with staff, sang the Eel to slumber.
As words from parched lips of orchids, flowed
dispersing sweet juices germinating dense spheres
of time in which history was packed in roots,
armed with psalms in measured cadences,
the Orator soothed kings and chiefs.
As words of our ancestors oiled and pampered
by prophesies of aging oracles, songs of lovers
and monotonous chants of old men...slithered
into hiding while physical wars waged, succinctly
the Orator proclaimed the heroic pursuits of warriors.
As words, precision in recitation of kinship ties
craftily sewn by political machinations of unions
vital for survival of race waltzing in purity of blue
when blood flowed thru veins of aging rocks as
the Orator cemented pacts chanting tribal honorifics.
As words, imageries of sky bursting, moon phasing sunsets pertaining to legends of my village heroes,
sweet nectars that put rhythm in his art of tongues
inspired by fruits from my garden, mine own words
the Orator in action, was he infringing my copyright?
As words, our heritage orally passed down in poetry,
set imageries prohibiting meddling with sources,
set quotations where time absolved breaches of patent,
plagiarism, for traditions dictated that the word be
secured in a cocoon of oratory ferried down the ages
by the dynamics of cultural rites and rituals.
the Orator, blessed not only as the spiritual Vessel
...but now deemed as the Spoken Word incarnate.
(for The Beloved and in honor of Arthur Rimbaud)
… the magnolias are far away – still, I sing, begging
them for bridges to
brood with stanzas of butterflies
in the suffocation around and
heat mocking the sea where once we walked the shore
beneath the cruel commas of hawks
showering seraphimic curses,
pink roses upon storms
flung upward from spotted, inverted baskets, northern Iranian
mountains
aching
praying
wandering
the cavern between the olive-minuet of your eyes and
mine absconding their color from above and knitted by
anguished waves stumbling, floundering
into lunar mercury,
the slant of scouring rain
throwing blue into our faces
in cadences
dribbling from
lemons and leaves of tea, strong with riots
of black peppers hurting our tongues
along the central street
of our knowing, speaking
silence
without riddles
yet wrapped about our shoulders
with brazen mysteries hovering above
the staring magnolias
which now have crowded in...
… though I still sing
and always will...
… of you...
light penetrated dark, sound birthed
the Word ~ p o e t r y
a superlative emitting that which changes
emerging when ripened as verse
speaking to people faraway
unlocking alphabets from minds
to glide, fast fly, jump or slowly crawl, landing
at destined places, swords or aces
I am Poetry ~ weep or whimper not for me
existentially dancing, enthralling, glancing at
blank paper to be embroidered in ink
ruby red, black or olive green
free flow I from fingers fragile, artistic or sturdy
regulate me only for joy or exploring expansion
perhaps for judicious judgement
I, P o e t r y ~ sequins of Love convoluted or rayed, in service
purifying emotive sentiments conditioned, romantic, missioned
Heart is my home where rest my letters, forms
cadences, couplets, epics
in non-bewildered intelligence visioning dreamscapes
divine, liberated from bandages, buckles, bondages
alive is my Supersoul breath giving voice to electrons
protons, neutrons which fleetingly capture
essenced life through observed elixirs
as Poetry, I witness action followed by pure
stillness ~ transcendental whirlpools in orbits
my limbs reach language lyrical or plain
burnished and wise
cherishing recitals in sacred spaces
I activate thoughts and visions remaining
supremely unattached attuning words
for Grace ~
undulate imagination in perfect waves
misty, clear or intricate, intriguing, unblemished
gratifying, swivelling, sizzling in my own
fire or ice
I, Poetry, consummated
voice the W o r d
For Fiona Meyrick, poet and musician; a Petrarchan sonnet
Fiona, in the silence of the night
Sings songs of sorrow soft in minor key
That sigh above all formal melody
In cadences that dance like birds in flight
She rests within the dark, composing light
In subtle shades of sweet philosophy
Transposing on the stave a mystery
In spills of sound like ink on paper bright
Fiona; at the stroke of midnight blessed
Plays pianissimo the ocean’s rage
Transforming all the sins of man confessed
In gentle rhythms traced upon the page
A modern muse, an ancient truth expressed
In lullabies to sooth our restless age
© Gail Foster 2016
Villanelle: Whose voice does the non-native English poet verily hear
Whose voice does the non-native English poet verily hear
Words which sound to native English speakers as gibberish
Does received pronunciation yoke the borrowed voices’ ear
The poet hears a voice probably his own loud and clear
As he scribbles words English dictionaries list and cherish
Whose voice does the non-native English poet verily hear
Can the fine feel of a language’s rhythms and cadences cohere
In the non-native speaker’s bookish learning albeit feverish
Does received pronunciation yoke the borrowed voices’ ear
When a Malaysian-Chinese poet whispers into his dear’s ear
Lines he has learned for exams from native speakers of English
Whose voice does the non-native English poet verily hear
Post-colonial poets simulate voices buried in psyche’s rear
Words they utter in tutored voices under authority of the English
Does received pronunciation yoke the borrowed voices’ ear
To whom does this poem belong if it stirs not far from here
The voices that bred these words all swirling around dervish
Whose voice does the non-native English poet verily hear
Does received pronunciation yoke the borrowed voices’ ear
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
Far away in the West,
Far far away from my cuddles and caresses,
Lives my son,
Where rapid is the rise of the sun, where the sun is remiss to rest.
Where he is surmounting over all tides and tempest, searing snares and savoring success.
Where the winds herald his coming, where friends and foes at his behest.
Far away in the West,
Far far away from my cadences and caprices,
Lives my son,
In the land of dazzle, land of dare,
Land of fortune, land of absolute air,
Land of inventions, land of brewing beer.
Far away in the West,
Far far away from my dirge and distress,
Lives my son,
His dreams- a swift sturdy stallion,
Now smother him and saddle him towards shallow success.
The land where he once spent debonair doting days with me, is now a bygone ghostly galleon.
Far away in the West,
Far far away from my tears and trinkets,
My son , let me live in your heart’s undefiled chamber and let me glide in your soul’s virgin glade.
Saptarshi Mukherjee
In the first grey light of dawn, a young woman begins the morning song.
The simple cadences of her song are as tranquil and liquid as the monsoon rain,
Trickling down the broad leaves in her mother’s garden.
The steady drumming on the veranda roof echoes her rhythms.
She sings of joys, of sorrows, and of love … always of love …
This morning song is as familiar and comforting as a lullaby.
Her mother brought it with her from the South,
And sang it every morning for her father.
Now, she sings for them both, as they begin the day.
Today will be special for her.
She is to meet her future husband for the first time.
She has never seen him, but she trusts her parents’ judgement …
After all, they love her, don’t they?
She hopes he will be kind, and maybe a little bit handsome …
Like the boy she’s seen in town.
But she must try to forget him …
On another veranda, a young man sits silent, listening.
He sits here at every dawn to hear the morning raga,
Entranced by the voice of a girl he cannot see.
He, too, is to meet his betrothed today.
He wishes she might be a singer, or at least enjoy the morning song,
When she comes to live at his mother’s house.
He remembers a lovely girl he saw … sly glances, shy smiles …
If his new wife is half as pretty, he will be well content.
Yes! He will …
He believes his secret is safe, but mothers see everything …
And his mother loves him. So she whispered to a friend,
And her friend whispered to another, and, well …
A good husband is not hard to persuade …
The sun has risen above the clouds.
There is much to do today – and if the young people agree,
There will be a lucky Monsoon wedding to arrange.
But first, the song.
Entered in Elaine's "Tell me a story" contest
Good Christmases never come with chipped teacups.
Good Christmases don't kick,
bite,
suck,
tease,
wheeze,
pain,
complain,
but pack woolies for chilly bodies, familiar carols tickle hearts.
Good Christmases present gifts under a tree, lit and tinseled and capped.
~
Better Christmases have prized porcelain.
Better Christmases are toasted by chalices porting posh pink wines.
Better Christmases, jumbo stockings fill so carelessly, each could be a single Santa sack.
~
Best Christmases require us two for steaming chocolate.
Best Christmases outlast seasonal cadences - when Spring fires back and snows arrest, you and I’ll be swaying in Summer, fiddling leaves around Fall.
Best Christmases, we share like flirty diplomats talking in turns,
between laughter,
through gazes;
in narrow words,
immense phrases,
sincerely hopeful,
all together.
In his book, "Out of my life and thought" Albert Schweitzer recalls
the afternoon in a boat at Lambarene, where he first conceived
his guiding philosophy, "Reverence for Life". The staggering
implications of such a seemingly innocuous generality still
confront us today...and perhaps more than ever with recent
discoveries at the sub-atomic level in quantum physics. But when
I buried my dad, it came to me that all the contempt I have for
anything military was compromised somewhat. I thought that day of
Arlington, when the historic burial rites of the US Army had
such a profound effect upon me.
Schweitzer's Creed
The doctor would have smiled, I think,
in reverie off Lambarene's shores,
to field a posthumous dream--
to learn dry atoms' call to other worlds
can reach and penetrate those alien shells
with marching cadences.
How so like Blake!...who found his universe
within a grain of sand,
for science stops in awe where life begins--
for it begins forever.
Small boats and yes, quixotic ideologies
will never let us be; old lives give way
as sandbars to the river; the old doctor
takes his bow, steps into history
and smiling still, bequeaths
a still more monstrous God of life
where even Alpha and Omega yield
to immortality!
~
Since the rain graced our little creek,
Running whooshing liquid fills crevices
Of rocks, pebbles then babbles squeak.
Racing surging constantly balances
Cadences of rhythm causes gurlging.
The poetic quality calms relaxes.
Lapping kisses caress stones~no pounding.
Calming tranquil scene heart rhythm fixes.
Ameliorate health; opens wide heart
To nature_ and wonder of soothing
Sounds~creek's gushing words of art
Relaxing mind__accommodating
Mom's back a crack to caulk
can't knock it in, until it's knocked
them dogs on down the sidewalk
keep on goin', no time for thought
there's rhymes to run
there's cadences to call
there's favors to sun
there's lawns to sprawl
Molly cries aloud the rules
jump a crack 'n' chalk a skip
sneakered hot dogs leap to cool
verses to holler 'n' cracks to trip
ya gotcha hopscotch, ya gotcha 'hood
sidewalk's gotcha a playin' mood good
© Goode Guy 2013-04-29
Chest on bosoms tightly pressed,
As waists meet in dance of heat
To flare lust of evening’s touch---
Silhouettes cast dizzy frames
Burning pores from tango’s whip;
And quivers of motion rise
With abandoned cadences.
RHOMA EM
nette onclaud---Silhouette Of A Heptagonet
9 Nov 2014
In slumbering slope they lay,
their gaiety snores in rhythmic peaks of cadences,
The lily livered japes
Kings from central castings,
Heroes of one hour,
jostling for President with mere words
Resigned to bed now, save one.
Cowards, afraid of prison walls
seeking fame by fraud.
Oh Fame, how Disinterested
oh time, how revealing
motives concealed but not to all,
they were boys all along
impressing us by publicity
with drama for the surface
But the sternest stood alone
though jeered and calumniated, yet undeterred
taunted by the guns of the oppressors
marooned in their prison
confined to Abuja
denied of dignity
Yet his passion soars with coruscation of brilliancy
The quest for freedom stems from the heart
the cause for which he dared a tyrant
who sought a cause by a fraudulent jurist
to make him bend or make him bow.
unlike the cowards he never stooped,
he stirred the oppressed from their slumber,
and made some men by delayed revolution.
where are all the orators who came to bury Caesar by campaign?
They snore in the bedroom unaffected by the groaning of the people
some seeking publicity by suing twitter,
others purloining at the tables of business felons.
In the struggle for emancipation,
the boys are separated from the men.
Dedicated to Omoyele Sowore
The Nigerian Born Activist
who stood alone when other younger candidates resigned to fate after the fraudulent election that imposed Buhari
I fell this morning-
Stumbled over fear, surrender my bitter dressings
Kissing the distance of sanity
Defying gravity
Levitating toward the inevitable
Plunging into the comfort of solace fed into my spirit as joy becomes mine
Shoulders lightened
Released the burdens.
Unclogged empty spaces looking to fill lonesome nights with conversations
Extended one time moments to last
Lapsing into the disease of love
Nestle this heart in loyalty.
Faithful to the thought
I fell this morning-
Hit the snooze button to return to the passion jump starting my heart.
Misstepped through the possibility that a frozen heart could melt for carmel skin tones and baritones cadences.
Opening the potential of waking up to you til death due us bonded together forever.
I fell this afternoon-
Watched my tears stain satin pillowcases as you become my questioned tomorrow.
I slipped And stumbled over the misunderstanding right into love's possibilities.
What if I told you I fell in love with you this morning.
@ANUthepoet