Best Chorused Poems
My mind is a puzzle of cryptic metaphors.
whilst searching for my sanity,
I've become my own worst enemy.
In this cauldron of despair,
time is like sand in my hand -
an oxymoron poetic
paradox of cruel compassion.
Sadistic green eyes bring my demise,
as my sighs are captured by the wind,
slowly morphed into madness and travesty.
I sit alone on the throne of midnight illusions,
cursed by dark imaginations
lingering like mouldy air,
as vivid flashing images
engrave inkstained imprints.
Dripping lament from a
palette of black and white,
colouring in the emptiness of my sensitive soul.
In echoing whispers of weeping violins,
whimsical vibratos from wooden wind-chimes,
steadily orchestrate instrumental sonatas,
ringing through my strained metallic heart,
whilst I try to strum strangled strings,
harmonizing an inconsistent symphony of a tragedy.
Fate has me stranded within a monotonous loop of uncertainties,
for when twilight’s last breath piercingly eclipsed over
lyrical edges of my insomniac shadow,
it awoke restless beasts of nocturnal nights -
in nightmares I wondered does no one hear my screams?
i can see dazzling dusts of black diamonds,
drizzle manuscripts of maniac irony
translating dialects hidden behind unshed tears
that gleam like shooting stars,
as i sing mystical moonbeams,
sewn with silver sequins of euphonious memories on refrain,
chorused from nameless tunes of timeless tomorrows,
as the magic of the maestro,
residing in the highest bridge of sanguine skies,
guides these electric fears, trapped between
synchronized layers of my unsettled skin.
I'm tired from intangible tears in the mirror,
slowly sinking me in swirls of sorrow,
like a bruised creature
seeking shelter in a silk cocoon,
so this aurora's smile is no longer a masquerade.
I hunger for rays of sunlight to paint my skin
in a plethora of pastels,
so this golden bronze queen,
can once again glitter
in a crown of illuminating heartbeats.
We loved to traverse the dense forest,
Where birds continued as they chorused,
Admiring on one side the tall pines,
Breathing their best fragrance from their vines.
On the other side of the pathway,
A thousand of maples made my day.
Gold leaves fluttered slowly to the ground,
A whiff of breeze, the path would be drowned.
At the edge of the wood was our friend,
Where with his food we had to contend.
Sausages, bacon, eggs and coffee,
Heard his lovely repeated story.
He lent us his barn where we could sleep.
Outside a river so wide and deep,
Winded its weary way through vast plains,
It would fill more with October rains.
Clouds gathered above the horizon.
What pleased us was a rainbow rising.
We went inside the warm cosy shed
Where all was clean, and straw which we spread.
We slept like angels on that sweet bed.
"Like the silence that screams cursing solitude . . .
whispers of faith sing patiently with prayers."
Quote by: Regina McIntosh
When the world seems to be asleep at dawn's blush
and sweet silence lends me an attentive ear
I pray in undertones of a whispered hush
Doves in chorused unity; their trills I hear
In splendid harmony they sing as day breaks
Deep within my heart, I know that God is near
As though in sunrise stillness, His presence makes
my faith strong enough to touch my trenchant soul
In those solemn moments, my piety wakes
I feel His blessing to comfort and console
At morning's spill, I'm with my Father, my Friend
instead of floundering in a shallow shoal
All the troubles in my harried heart transcend
I take delight in humming a calm refrain
envisioning life in Eden, without end
For that I'm thankful to the One who was slain
Jesus Christ, the Day Star, risen to the skies
Son of God Almighty, who'll forever reign
Hope descends to me; on Angel's wings it flies
sent to enhance my faith in the Lord above
I greet it each morning with exultant cries
Grateful for the mercy I'm unworthy of
and honored to offer Him my steadfast love
January 22nd, 2021
Heart Universes~Terza Rima
Contest sponsored by Regina McIntosh
The sounds of the surf
From their fluid dynamics
Wind generated waves
Worldwide panoramic
Capillary waves
Chorused and light
Charming all shores
Touching delight
Swells of the seas
In cacophony of crash
Waves in watery meet
Like a guitar solo by Slash
Every so often
The rogue wave hits home
Tsunami, the wall
In kettle drum drone
The breaking wave
As two waters meet
The sound of their notes in collision
Like Neil Peart's drum beat
Shallow water waves
Boussinesq equations
Frequency dispersions
Like Rock's best creations
As the waves hit our shores
Wave shoaling, refraction
The applause as they meet
The Rolling Stone's satisfaction
The sound of the surf's rock
It's just like music to me
They achieve various notes
Like the Kink's " Set me Free "
I enjoyed Sara Kendrick's poem " Sounds of the Surf "
So i took up her challenge. My poem has Rock and Scientific tones.
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/nature.php
She will rise from the water, in the midday afternoon
Lightly vaulting from darkness and a bright diamond throne
Splashing forth as a fountain, spilling colors of gold
Wearing combs made of seashells, from deep in the cold
She has no tongue, she has no tears
She had no clothes, will mystically appear
No need for air, her hair is fair
Her eyes are clear of unfound love
She is a siren, she is an angel, she is a myth, for many seasons
Is she real, or apparition…, do we see her for a reason?
A stretched out long tail, on bed of kelp-strewn sand
Soaking up the sun rays, to dry golden strands
She bewitches with amusement
While the darting fish play games
She is not just illusion, has no given name
She's a vision from the past, speaks the language of forgetting
Her repertoire of movement, and exquisite, agile form
A creature bathed in mystery, wears pearls of wet adorn
Ever mindful of the music, human splashing rage of oars
And the chorused voice, and shouting force gale winds that blow from shore
She shuts her dimming eyes, where sun will never be...
And dives back to the purple twilight,
And the freedom of the sea
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(Transit Lounge, Dubai International Airport, circa 2007)
He answered
that he was from far Kazakhstan,
“Exotic place,” he added,
which I know but could not pinpoint
on my mental map.
She smiled
and said, “I am from India somewhere
farther to the northeast bordering China.”
“Hence her fairer skin,” I thought.
And she piped in,
“From Ethiopia,” and I could not
but think of just how much she paid
to have her curly hair straightened.
From the counter
of their air-conditioned, compact
caravanserai, they all chorused
the suggestion that I opt
for king prawn salad
which, indeed, was so delicious
to the hungry eyes but just so rich
for my already travel-thinned billfold.
Thus I settled
for some salmon sandwich
and a bowl of curly noodles
that the Chinese had perfected
long ago in those steaming kitchens
of their fabled silk road inns.
“Fragrant tea
from out the hot and humid hills
of southern India,” the Ethiopian
said with flourish, bringing me
my mug to wash away
the fishy taste still lingering
along the silk roads
of my taste buds, as I vainly tried
to pinpoint far Kazakhstan
on my travel-weary mental map
while waiting, sleepy, for the call
to put me, once more,
on my way.
Ebony and ivory, noted for sound,
Digital playback, sleight of hand.
Songsters echo, vibrant pound,
Upright, organ, cottage, grand.
Strings attached, taut with suspense,
The Master Key hammers home
Letters of note; chords of tense,
Past and present; timed metronome.
Naturally played with flat and sharp
Sweeping the board. Ayre of nonchalance.
Orchestral manoeuvres performed with harp
Brass and wind; counter balance.
Peddled depression, ayer lingers on
Distant wave; caressed...pianissimo.
Emotive conductor, under the baton
Chorused voice harks, keyed to the piano.
Honking geese and loud barking dogs
An impolite disturbance just before dawn
There should be no morning traffic, or so I thought
Until a flock of Ansers declared, this is our spot
Escaped from their wetland, to my courtyard lush green
Tropical vapors set the scene, the overcast sky composed
The script, collaborting with the Northwestern spring
Golden retrievers barked again, the geese blared loud
Spreading tuxedo-ed wings an array of feathers cream and brown
Positioned in stances exposing thier pure white down
Honking vocals chorused by a few, who brazenly announced
We’re just passing through, their unscheduled performance
On a cool misty morning, turned the mundane into quite interesting
Glorious voices in praises
From the oral of beautiful faces.
Angels flew to and fro
In a delight void of sorrow.
The God seated upon the throne
In a mysterious glory shone.
Pondering a rise to the man
Who fell at the flat flaws of the woman.
A divine friendship project
An heavenly submitted subject.
And there was the need to send
So for an ending enmity end.
The sacrifice for the closed gap
For men to draw and grace tap.
The Son had such great love
For His abode is love above.
For He chose to be made
And lower than the angels was he made.
In a virgin grace He was breathed
And in the manger at birth held.
Joy broke loose at His arrival
In the streets of men for the come revival.
In heaven was gladness
Such that angels chorused in a depth of goodness
The mother's eyes lighted with an unscathed glittering
And father's hands patted the divine offspring.
Grew and waxed strong
And to fulfil He held not too long.
For yet in flesh yet compassionate
Loved still though flanked by hate.
Of suffering He brought comfort
And to sinners He stretched come forth.
A servant to all yet led
For man His blood shed.
Bruised, spitted upon and beaten
As it was written.
The valley of skulls erected His hanged
After the bitter cries of each nail banged.
A silence broke into heaven
And a heat arose as of the oven.
The sins were melted
And the gap was mended.
He rose to ascend into glory
For the change of our wretched story.
The pathway of the saving grace
To draw and see the Father's face.
And man was made friend with
At a reconciliation sincerely lent.
The reason for this season
His birth, death and risen.
Deck The Halls
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On
Christmas
carols echoed in the hall
Merriment and celebratory mood
put us all in swinging gaiety with the singers
We sang with the choristers at the midnight mass with
clanging cymbals
Past sorrows were shut out
Our neighbourers exuberant faces
warmed our blood by forgiving and forgetting
the spears and barbs of the dead days as bygone stories
Zealously we were
spreading happiness of sharing
in the lonely world of the less fortunate
by becoming the forerunners of our benevolent Santa Claus
making a toy land of the homeless and joy land of our parched souls
We at sixteen each
held lit candles
decking our lives
with unfortunate
Carols and candles
chorused unknown
into the unknown
Contest : Christmas Carols- Deck The Hall
Sponsor: Kelly Deschler
December 15, 2015
The sun smiles down to send it's greeting.
The wind sighs as it runs through the trees.
Birds long since have chorused their welcome
And in the gardens flowers are tended by bees.
The people now their day are pursuing
Just mundane or perhaps over too soon.
The earth is singing the song of creation
While all of life dances in time to it's tune.
Comes evening ,the moon is on watch now.
The wind's whispering at last come to cease.
Tiny heads dropping on breasts gently beating
While bees and flowers are in their own little peace.
The people now sleeping,spent bodies resting
With unfulfilled dreams,memories tucked away.
The song of creation has once again ended,
Yet life makes ready for the dance of another day.
Six magpies brought their mourning squawk,
soon joined by several others,
disturbing all their neighbour's talk
and waking sleepy lovers.
Some hopped and did their swaggered strut
between a felted flat roof top
and a guttered water but.
Some preferred a higher perch
and troubled nearby taller tops of green leylandii.
All the while their squawk increased
and shattered suburb's morning peace.
Two black crows flew overhead and settled,
one on gable top, the other found his place to stop
and watch from nearby psychamore.
Upright, silent, silhouettes,
not bearers of the magpie pall
but undertaking nonetheless
to show crow's dignified respects.
They joined this congregation
to recognise corvid's connect.
They joined this chorused agitation
while magpies mourned their murdered son,
crumpled feathers low on grassy ground,
til course of squawk and strut had run,
and one by one they flew, without a sound,
and all was done, and all was done.
With bent torso, fenced horse Corso,
Tows corpulent gent Morse into a Kent forest.
This portly source torments tense Corso to such a contentious extent
That he sends them off course with vehement force to show his discontent.
“Whoa”, vents the incensed Morse
With voice tense and hoarse from onerous discourse.
“Endorse a gentle course,
And dissent from one so dense and coarse.”
With sore torso resentment, Corso forewent his horse-sense and sent
Enormous Morse into a torrential watercourse from Trent.
“You senseless, offensive, violent horse,”
Chorused the tortured, drenched Morse.
Yet, Morse lamented and swore to descent his portly content,
As soon as Corso implements his chores back in Kent.
And to mend his sores
From his hell-bent horse,
Reinvented Morse reinforced his orders
By tensing the cords toward extensive fence borders.
With a consenting snort for repented gent Morse,
The contented horse, relented pretenses and wended a short decent course.
For Sheri's couplet contest
Sojourner to far-flung climes;
When you return,
Will you remember the evening songs
Chorused by chirping under the baobab tree?
Will you still remember the fame of the great hunter
Whose courage put the forest sprite to flight?
Earning him the most beautiful virgin in the land
When you return,
Will you remember the fable of the wraith
That forced our forefathers away from the farm at dusk?
Will you still dip your hands in “Aro” to make “Adire” for our dear mother?
Will you?
The market still a beehive of activities
Every market day is as rustic as you left it,
Our women the same, untainted by the new ways
Our men have not also faired any better,
Still suspicious of the innovations of the town people
Our children are not ashamed of showing off their beauty for the world to see,
The harrowing cries of our virgins still pierce the night,
As they fall under the mutilators knives
Will you still remember how to savor “Iyan”
Pounded with the sweats of the maidens and
Molded with “Egusi” from earthenware?
When you return,
Will you not now be repulsed with “Ila”
That soup which you handled with such mastery with “Amala”
The leaves from the forest still keep us strong and virile,
Their medicines have not offered any hope to all our ailments,
When you return,
Teach us not new things about our Land
O sojourner,
When you return from the distant land of subjugation
That dungeon that robbed us of our cultures and creeds
– Aro:- A local dye
– Adere:- A fabric made with “Aro” it is popular among Yoruba people of western Nigeria,
– Iyan :- A paste for food made from Yam
– Egusi :-A soup made from the melon seed
– Ila :-A gelatinous soup made from Okra
– Amala :-A paste for food made from Yam flower
My genealogical family tree
was traced by a relative distant,
thus uncovering ancestral names for me,
of some who had seemed nonexistent.
The past came alive in my fantasy world
with visions of settings dramatic,
as I felt myself in scenario hurled
that verged on a theme operatic.
Some fancies akin rose from imagery mix
of five different wavelengths and hues
in Wide Field, of NGC one eight six six,
with orange-red old stars, young in blues.
It’s a globular cluster considered strange
in Dorado constellation found,
with sidereal periods of wide range,
hence a stelliferous bunch renowned.
One hundred sixty thousand light-years away
from Earth, at Large Magellanic’s brink
(a galaxy cloud turning round Milky’s sway),
this massive multitude seems to sync
youthful stars with others from former ages,
through metallicity analyzed,
dissimilar in stellar saga stages,
which left astronomers quite surprised,
because it appeared unexpectedly young.
James Dunlop, credited with the act
of discovery, still has his praises sung
for listing a host of stars in fact.
Indeed, it was in eighteen twenty-six that
the Scottish stargazer spied the group
noteworthy, and catalogued where it was at,
assigning a label to the troop.
In the case of this cluster Hubble captured
with varied residents in the crowd,
perhaps a new star batch was manufactured
in rendezvous with a huge gas cloud,
as in a cosmic orchestral creation
with melodies that interrelate,
scored by composer of stellar vocation
for astronomical concert great.
An opus like Handel’s, supernally grand,
might sound and resound in the cluster,
with symphonic reach universally spanned,
in radiant star-studded luster,
while music mellifluous echoes in spheres,
or so my reveries rhapsodize,
to harmonies chorused by stellary peers
that resonate through celestial skies.
Generations of humankind here on Earth,
measured in cadenced metrical bars,
could be likened to fugue theming death and birth…
Might we be analogous to stars?
~ Harley White
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Inspiration, image and info ~ Some of the Stars in this Cluster are Almost as Old as the Universe Itself While Others Formed in a Second Generation. It Looks Young and Old at the Same Time…