Best Lyricists Poems
As I
Soak in hummingbird’s exhale
I feel tragic sonatas
Trying to chain
Trying to crucify
My sedentary grip on instability
I smell the repugnant commoner
Blasting scattered shots
Against yesterday’s decent
I became the handsome error again.
The godfather of uplifting idle minds
Sedated within the bosoms of complacency
Because, indirectly, I was the inebriated screw-up
Immunized with community pride
As 420’d lyricists
Puff corrugated burns
To keep their spine
Fused in relatable,
Flaccid significance
They dodge flagrant accountability
Like an intentional cripple
And I
Slow dance with agnostic prayer
There would be no commandments
To remind me
That I am still beautiful inside
Beautifully flawed.
Beautifully demonized.
Beautifully improper.
Ugly.
Yet, Gaia’s sun empowers this stanza
To breathe better breaths
To see what refuses to be seen
And no longer accept what cannot be changed
I carve milestones upon gravestones
In friends’ memoriam, nevermore
It felt peacefully redundant to be important,
Chiseling away the vowels of animosity
Attempts to hold my hands
Within this ambidextrous nightmare
Right hand, red
Left hand, chained
Courteous disdain
For developing minds,
Their figure of speech
Meant no blissful harm
With their 40 lashes
Conjured by judgmental testaments
Oh, how they preach for better tomorrows
While stirring yesterday’s pot
Becoming the “end” in “friend”...
©D.J.E.
When tongue is silent, but muse is chanting - that's poetry.
When we write what the heart has been asking - that's poetry.
As dawn's hues glisten golden rays, in blue, bronze, orange skies,
musings mirror daydreams, so enchanting - that's poetry.
Butterflies smooch cosmos, as bees sip on dahlias nectar.
Scents of deep red roses start enhancing - that's poetry.
Clement air pleasantly overwhelms with pleasures of love,
muse becomes a bard lost in romancing - that's poetry.
Mentality turns dark when clouds spread densely like ash smoke.
Scarlet ink screams tears to stop storms advancing - that's poetry.
In shades of loneliness, thoughts reach out to our loyal moon,
beneath her moonlight we sojourn, standing - that's poetry.
A heart is healed by spoken words composed with compassion.
Poets smile when they see sad lips laughing - that's poetry.
As sands of sorrow pause, soul glows like a million fireflies.
Nature's metaphors leave our pens dancing - that's poetry.
Stale ink dehydrates and thoughts become segments of cement,
mind is a machine, where words keep jamming - that's poetry.
Daylight or night, bed, bath or driving, lyricists inspired
by sunshine, snow or when rain is lashing - that's poetry.
Word weavers scribbling sonnets, free verse and poetic prose,
forming imagery instead of ranting - that's poetry
Silent One, writes to honour Rumi, Shakespeare and Wordsworth,
In hope my words will be everlasting - that's poetry.
The Silent One
29 August 2020
An example for the Ghazal contest.
This Ghazal has a two worded refrain. Slightly different in format to previous ghazal, I posted, called 'Only the moon understands.'
This one has 14 syllables each line.
There are different definitions for a Ghazal, and different interpretations of the from.
Ghazal poetry is poetry of longing. Traditionally, the ghazal tended to focus on unattainable love, often illicit, or sometimes on metaphysical questions. But, today, the ghazal has broadened to touch many types of longing and loss.
The ghazal is a form poem that uses the art of rhyme and repetition. As it is originally a Persian form and the Indian subcontinent, the refrain and rhyme can be lost when translated to English, as is the meter.
Behold the splendor of another magnificent fall!
Every tree is adorned with a resplendent shawl!
All the trees have shed their abundant foliage of jade;
Umber leaves now - they once provided welcome shade.
The ancient Harvest Moon flaunts its ever mellow glow,
Inviting intimate tete-a-tetes for romantic souls below!
Frantic squirrels scurry about hiding their winters' fare,
Unrelenting in their quest since winter frosts are in the air!
(Lawns are carpeted with gold and crimson leaves to be raked!)
Flocks of geese wing their way south by the multitudes,
As they seek friendlier climes in the southern latitudes!
Limbs bereft of leaves lift arms beseechingly as if in prayer.
Lyricists, tho' gifted you may be - describe the beauty of fall if you dare!
Entry for John Hamilton's " Beautiful Fall Poetry" Contest
(11 September 2018)
Kudos to Eagles for their wonderful pastiche that renders a polyphonic message to all,
Ranging from LaVey's Church (of Satan) through marijuana to clandestine corporate world,
Which – to think of it in retrospect – forced a war for oil with an add-on motive of double profit,
Seeing that the warheads used were American makes all!
The lyricists employed a contemporary idiom, echoing Blake, Browning, Eliot, et al
And composed, for subliminal appeal, a haunting melody plus a distractor-solo,
So that the lilt would easily sink into the subconscious, for the message(s) to follow:
Thus this pastiche serves a purpose, which a parable or parody possibly cannot.
To deconstruct, a lyric meant to deconstruct commodification
Came to be commodified—ironically!
— Ram, R. V.
Winner (III place) of the Iconic Song contest, sponsored by SO, September 4, 2017.
Play you noted Lyricists!
Let not your lyrics be missed!
Your silence is the frequency,
Enticed by a laced melody
Condemned in a rhythmic spell
Only time will really tell
Your lyrical harmony
Etched in life's symphony
Oh, Hail! Or Hale! Kings of speech!
May your words reign or rain on minds inpeach
Let knowledge rule as you teach
You are to blame for the popular fiction
And the lost hip hop depiction
Your vowel movement is the mission
As they are turning to wrong station
So arise oh sons of scribes!
Let not fame be your weakening bribes
The mystery is your story is still empty
But the words to be written are plenty
I plant thee in the soil of possibility
Growing history in eternity
Let the acclaimed awaiting your spark, put page to flame,
Illuminating the shame where fiction is no longer fame
Arise masters of word!
The creators of a new world.
Your potency is cryptic avalanche in dormant
To awaken minds with your content
With an earth shattering rumble you move earth with your stumble
Tripping all over yourself to cause a rampage and turn a page marked in history
That leads to the bread crumbs of destiny, displaying your self-mastery
Oh again rise blood line of prophets!
Be not sold out by profits.
Your words intertwine the future with the past
As ignorance over knowledge shall never be surpassed
So your prophecies can be for the youth’s benefits
And lost in the realm of the elder’s forfeit
While bleeding your ink work, flooding the stage
Flowing ears steadily from age to age
I say rage warrior of the Pens!
This is the age when ignorance ends.
As wielders of the pen die by the pen are heard
Cutting and stabbing the paper in furry blurred
Let those pens bleed till society flood
Cleansing it with its righteous blood
To awaken other giants from their slumber
Killing silence's winter into summer
Where ignorance is not left to its own device
Only your golden silence should be an adequate price
PARALLEL ARE THE RAILS
(PRE-VERSE 1)
Feeling all alone
Cast away like a stone
Few friends what I got
True friends can’t be bought.
(VERSE 1)
Living is a joke
Think I’m about to choke.
Lookin’ at you
Lookin’ at me
Mirror is true (but the reflection is cracked)
False truths won’t set you free.
(Pre-Chorus)
I got my time
I got my rhyme
Beggin’ for a dime
Beggin’ for your time
(Chorus)
Bittersweet is the love (Sweeter than the lime)
Smellin’ like a clove
Burnt up in a stove
Rotting in a grove
Shrapnel of hardened nails
Pouring down like the rain
Storing away the parlayed pain
Parallel are the rails
Parallel are the rails
Parallel are the rails
Parallel are the rails
Parallel are the rails
(PRE-VERSE 2)
Heavy is the stone
When you’re all alone
Many friends were not what I thought
False friends are easily bought
(VERSE 2)
Drowning in the smoke
Deception is no joke
Reflection of you
Reflection of me
Mirror is true (but the reflection is cracked)
False truths won’t set you free.
(BRIDGE)
Dreaded are my locs
Dreadful are my thoughts
Locked away in my cerebral box
Cast away like abandoned lots
Got dreadlocks down below my needs
Beatles in the sound
Help me get around
Got hair like my ancestral Swedes
Brain damaged by Floyd
Brain examined by Freud
(PRE-VERSE 3)
Can I get a fix
Feelin’ a little sick
Like when I was six
Trippin’ over a stick
People like to stare
Like I’m some disease
But, I don’t care
I do as I please
(VERSE 3)
Ridin’ on a train
Lookin’ for a change
Freedom from the chain
Leaves me feeling strange
Lookin’ a little strange
Beaten by the chain
No time for change
Ridin’ on a train
(Pre-Chorus)
I got my time
I got my rhyme
Beggin’ for a dime
Beggin’ for your time
(Chorus)
Bittersweet is the love (Sweeter than the lime)
Smellin’ like a clove
Burnt up in a stove
Rotting in a grove
Shrapnel of hardened nails
Pouring down like the rain
Storing away the parlayed pain
Parallel are the rails
Parallel are the rails
Parallel are the rails
Parallel are the rails
Parallel are the rails
Lyricists Inc.
D.A.P. / Digital Analog Productions.
David A. Porter 3/??/18
I saw the top twirl
As he whispered over again to the crowd,
“You must be the change you wish to see in the world”
I breathed in his air as he did the same to me.
I could feel his presence,
His pressure
And yet he had no name.
He was homeless, he was free.
His speech ran through my bones
As he injected me with,
“Where do we belong in this world?
What are our hopes and dreams?
Are we glad to be alive?
Have we seen this world?
Have we explored it inside and out?
Have we discovered something we know nothing about?
Have we made a difference?
Have we made a change?
See this world spins around like this top in my hand
And I am surrounded by hims and hers.
The lights that make this world glow,
brightens our knowledge
And decides what we know.
This world is made up of scientists poets and theorists,
Writers, musicians,
Engineers and lyricists.
That is not a dream,
This is a part of reality.
The King had a dream, he wrote his own speech.
And Mrs. Parks was a black women and didn’t move from her seat.
Margaret Thatcher First woman Prime Minister in Britain.
Obama First black Leader in U.S.A.
They all made the change that effects us today.
But is it enough?
Like this top that twirls,
“You must be the change you wish to see in the world”
Take in this pressure,
It’s the world you’re after.
The decisions,
The chances you take,
Makes you…
Or causes disaster.
Like a hurricane or a typhoon
Maybe a tornado or a monsoon.
Punishment is natural and the effects are crucial
But what can you do to contribute to
To change…
The child that cries at night with no mother.
The prostitute that runs the street with every other brother.
The girls.. Date Rape.
The homosexual beat on because he’s not straight.
HIV and sexually transmitted diseases.
Things happening because of our reasons.
We blame it on each other and who’s pointing at me
We put the blame on everyone else except the person we see.
So this world is just like this top the twirls
“You must be the change you wish to see in the world”.
As I walked off I recaptured my thoughts
And loosened my brain.
I felt a change go through my mind
And my body was sore
I knew I must be the change I wish to see in the world.
Eight authors were killed today,
some of them, somewhat prominent,
and an unknown number were injured,
when a very large crowd of words
came rushing toward them, and
crushed them under the throng
Hundreds of onlooking readers were aghast
at the sight of surprised writers,
running from the tens of thousands
of words, phrases, and stanzas shouting
loud rhyming, some carrying sharpened prose
A bloody mass of heaping humanity
was cast over the civil edge into
a brownish-reddish swaled blog beside as
poets, slammers, and lyricists fled
Many widows and orphans sat beside the ruck,
weeping softly near the edges of their pages,
stunned, stupefied, even utterly dumbfounded
as multi-syllabic words flashed their anger,
and chased the writers to a gruesome end
Diphthongs and anagrams on the scene said
that they'd never seen such a riot of language
or a plethora of grammatical constituents
rise up against their mortal masters
The literary community is expressing
their deepened sorrow and angst with
a spontaneous outpouring of pens, pencils
steno pads, and small digital tablets
left at the scene of the rampage
Editors, secretaries, and linguists unified
to say that the guilty will be found, caught,
and expunged from the lexicography of
modern civil discourse and authorship
"Words cannot express our feelings" they said
© Goode Guy 2013-02-12
A pointless expulsion;
an explosion of utterances,
synchronized not.
Words thrown about,
like sardines
in a surge.
Not cohesive,
but senselessly hurled.
Honey to the ears
and music to the taste buds.
The ignorant tricked;
praise busted
foolish lips
and slapped the masters’ faces.
Speak life,
the bizarre,
with substance.
Those immortal words,
the deity
the spirits summoned,
witnessed the ages passed.
Let hearts
reminisce
the moments spent.
Breathe life into freedom and things,
exhausted.
Let the legends live;
shout death to
senseless arts,
occupying spaces,
echoing no graphic tale.
The rhetorics,
the lyricists piped,
float free;
forged thoughts
in open gaps.
The circle
equations of linguistics
lyrical misfits
misinformed lyricists
papering plastifying
blasted through
pronuciation of tempation
fundamental precipitation
recollection
mass integral concentration
reaching the world within
through inoprim
the land of the singer
Pentium meaning
believing in the constellation
major frustration
astral projection
oh let me go to my audition
thank you very much for listening
Written tonuhalan/5/4/06/wed
In days old, oral poetry existed
(When most people, including
the authors of poems,and stories, lyricists,
artists,....couldn't read and write.)
as a part of oral literature
which had no titles,nor were the authors known.
Yet, these are from the heart
captivating the listeners.
It flaws like a river ,
with streams falling into it along the way.
It is circulated from mouth to mouth,
from generation to generation,
from the past to the present .
By the way, the contents
of these oral poems have been added to,
and some modifications might have done.
They wove oral poetry while gazing at lush nature
or remembering a loved one.
The lines were tender,
and delivered emotional feelings to the listeners.
Besides,the basis of oral poetry
may also be a love story,an event of patriotism.
or any other event the poet knew.
These oral poems and folk songs
influenced written poetry and literature.
Written epic poems are also based
on oral poetry,literature, and folk songs.
These oral traditions are of high standard
and have laid the foundation
of our rich literature,art, and culture.
This is dedicated to the
walking conversation pieces
to the crazy geniuses waiting until tomorrow to
procrastinate
this is for the night writers and red bull fighters
to the strange and the brave
the dedicated and sleepless
this is for all of us
the ear hustlers and track runners
prodigious polemicists built for this struggle
we rhyme slick and shine sick
glibly Iridescent lyricists typically dissonant
and weird
and fierce
and beautiful
This is for you
The impetus to dismember your worthless fears
The inner strength to live within your purpose here
Your oddity is a commodity
You weren’t meant to blend in
It is beneath you to dibble or dabble in the typical
ascend into your infinite potential
and glow from the highest apex
become the incarnate gods and goddesses
you’ve been set aside to be
humble yet subsequent to none
this is for us
we are the people movers
spiritually fit individuals mentally equipped to lift the densest
ideas
we are the Ummah
the conduit
creations mimicking the creator
plugged in to the one
Summum Bonum understanding
understated over comers
lovingly cutting the puppet master’s strings
upsetting the imbalance
disquieting the comfortable silence
and freeing the people
with a song
I am cutting ties
that I knotted to a faraway soil.
Exiled no longer at the tiller
of a long beached fishing boat
that bobs only on the legends
of ancient waves.
Those fluent in soul-breathing,
the Celtic poets,
those wind-chiming lyricists,
are pulling me
to the bottom of Lake Erie
where drowned sea-captains still quote
what the Irish once wrote.
And here’s me, even today
caught by the mouth
from their linguistic fishhooks
yet cutting myself away.
I am a handmade citizen of a land
that is my own meat and gristle,
a subsoil am I
and my father and mother
the grubbing worm and the turtle dove.
Still Irish, but rootless
with no anchor in Galway Bay.
I have cut the trap lines
become a jobbing teller
of tall tales,
not a keeper of any traditions
planted by hands not of my own.
And if once in a while
I lapse into the sod and bog-speak
of my unlearned brethren
it is no literary affectation
of a better education,
for I remain this common creature
determined to be tied to a smaller rock
of my own choosing.
I am a person who writes poems
I am a person who posesses a specialty with writing poems
I am a person, a poet , troubador who loves poems
I am a person a lyricists who writes poems
I am a person who rhymes with ease that leads to poems
I am a person, more of a poet with a gift and want to share my poems
I sang melodies and choruses for the choir
Written and composed by maestros
The harmonies soared for earth’s life time hour
Even those that proclaimed the holy cross
I sang Handel’s Alleluia Chorus
As I did the songs of us
Singing ‘Stand and Sing...’
To respond “Proud and free”
Mozart’s Ave verum corpus
Charmed me into the love of sound
That would fill the Church’s campus
And the fragile heart all round
In the sounds of the maestros budded
The sound deserving no apology
The voice clear; all rounded
The humming and bursts like a eulogy
Then I sang not to entertain
I sang to express
The truth I humbly contain
Oh! To be true, I do not need the press
I though may not forget
The words of life’s wisdom
From the lyricists of old
That ‘to thyself be true’
Copyright ©April.2012. Moonga Nsamu. All rights Reserved.