Best Metronomic Poems
I cannot stand poetic forms
I like them less than winter storms
they force me into ancient norms
of rhyming words in angry swarms
for I was frightened by Haiku
in darkened rooms -- I cried --- boo hoo.
Then came the metronomic tick
sez I: “what is this evil trick?”
now I must measure every rhyme
with tapping stick of metered time
I cannot…. will not, …..won’t ….I say
be forced inside the lines…..to stay.
For I shall dance….the poet’s dance
of shaggy hair….. of tattered pants
dance with those….. in tie and tails
rap with those….. released from jails
free demon words from fear’s cold cell
sing hymns resounding angels bell.
My crayons stray outside the lines
my words creation redefines
I am free to choose my words
soothing balm or cutting swords
to calm the hearts of troubled souls
as shovels digging dying’s holes.
And yet the verse is never Free
for it remains a part of me
wandering a poets hell
secrets it has yet to tell.
5/12/2016
submitted to – Get Your Dr. Seuss On – Poetry Contest
sponsor – The Seeker
When her presence trod the oak-hewn boards,
barefoot on the bees wax, lyrical on the shine,
the cypress calm coughed ruffle of her dress,
soaking slapped applause, her heart raged saturnine.
Thus before the altar of the grand,
when silence fell the expectation soared,
precisely correlated to the bated through,
cut musical astrology with every silver chord.
Carved of the detailed crystal shards of sound,
with fingers dipped in symmetry and fire,
each avalanche crescendo stilling breath,
perfection wrought from ivory and wire.
And as she mourns of marrowbone and men,
coitus with the discipline’s demands,
her metronomic thought has cause to dwell
on what possession haunts her phantom hands.
As Autumn idles
A laziness caresses the moon
Resting on a soft cloud bed
Her shadow taunting the night
In a nocturnal game of hide and seek
A soft aroma rises
From freshly trodden leaf beds
A chatter of empty branches
Counts a metronomic rhythm
A feathered dance troupe performs
Taking a final bow
Beckoned by a distant sun
Urged on by a chill wind
Take flight my children
Heed well the scents of nature
Follow the wisdom of your soul
above the metronomic constant dripping of a tap
and the deep and heavy ticking of an old grandfather clock
sounds seeped through a window where the night air found a gap:
a cough!
- then silence.
..then a key inside a lock.
Enter the emerald tunnel at dawn
Before a sultry blanket of tell-uric air descends,
Follow the metronomic drip
On which the symphonic faunal orchestra depends
World Heritage renowned
Immersing in uniquely tantalizing scenery
Diminishing beyond repair
Emerge then from entangled greenery
Beside a crystal cascade
Rest a while, meditate
Plunge into the icy pool
Let nature's beauty rejuvenate.
Metropolis…
a cackling cacophony of confusion
energizing some and enrages others.
Concrete and steel giants,
loom forebodingly over the masses;
blocking out gifts of the sun.
The maze that tires me from constant searching;
why am I here in this overcrowded and hopeless abyss?
The bang-clang trucks and trolleys,
beat out their metronomic, one…two...beat
and the drone of engines,
sings a tired ballad of the modern world.
Cities are the lairs of bad-tempered dragons;
harboring too many precious trinkets.
Vulnerable souls are the noonday snacks,
devoured by cold-blooded sharks.
Thirty years on, across our globe, my daily ritual.
Alone, surrounded, marching silently forward,
the vast weight of humanity moving back and forth,
in an awkward dance, street theater for the masses.
A piano and a flute, emoting to this interlude,
the analog broadcast, my chosen soundtrack, together
with the metronomic pulse of my worn out wipers,
as they collaborate with the falling snow. Half asleep,
I contemplate the sweetness of this etude, on the radio.
Two instruments, a man and his car, a piano and a flute
building a theme and gathering speed, captivate me
as I am drawn in, the audience applauding in gratitude.
In this exalted state of grace, the light changed a little too fast,
and I was caught by the flash that soon will be a demand for cash.
stroke, roll,
stroke, roll,
breath
climbing along the water's surface,
body turning on a skewer,
breathing bubbles,
exhaling fully,
metronomic to a viewer
stroke, roll,
stroke, roll,
breath
fingertips, wrist and elbow angled
each below the other in turn
break the surface
then pushing forward
spinning the torso in return
stroke, roll,
stroke, roll,
breath
catch before the full arm extension
pulling along the "railway track"
feel the water
hard on the forearm
and spinning the body right back
stroke, roll,
stroke, roll,
breath
continue the stroke under the 'pit
pulling the elbow high and clear
uncock the wrist
pull with the triceps
whilst pushing the hand to the rear
stroke, roll,
stroke, roll,
breath
lips breaking the top of the water
eye spying the rope of the lane
one sharp breath in
the wrist leads the way
to start it it all over again
stroke, roll,
stroke, roll,
breath
once our world had younger eyes,
time then moving slow;
now this present burning past,
as saplings, children grow;
what has been, was and
what would end,
small slices, measured time;
speak now ghosts of love and friends,
seeds of kindness sown in lonely wind;
but light moves dawn to dusk's beginning,
what men build all crumbles down;
oft a someday never comes,
brass shows through a gilded crown;
to live per diem on check'd off lists,
too fleeting, now it's gone;
blood turned ink and pulp for bone,
paper moments squander dawn,
while years drip out of clenching fists;
small troubles, smaller joys,
to know is not to hold;
now is all, this all is now,
kairos burnt the ancient wold;
in shining faces bloom elysian fields,
as seconds build to fade away;
hearts beat metronomic pace,
like exiled steps of men that cannot stay,
as tears rend wombs that never heal;
so gazing out to future's fright,
held clung to memory soon passed;
to hold, so close, in kodachromic reels,
while fading much too fast;
but soon to see unfettered love would stay,
when letting go is gaining all;
as authentic lives soon thrived in summer's warmth,
so too were shining carried into fall,
these human hearts were built to break away.
i hate a night as this
minutes turning as the fan
slow and back again
metronomic
lives slipped past each other
spotlights on dark water
arc light dimming
tenebrous
murmured civilities
faucalized voices
whispers in a wine glass
monosyllabic
days years months
rusting like old coins
forgotten in a sewer grate
mineralized
calendar of moments
flying backward and away
burnt years like autumn's leaves
cold smouldered
tannic blood alkali veined
sublimated heart
simmering on a soul's backburner
as I roll back over
to this polar night
Studying the studying
staring back - heavy shiney black
on the coffin road - I stood in the gods
an imposing carrion crow perched
Johnny Cash of fauna
Studying the studying
piercing dark inquisitive eyes
scanning for a body - to beak hack
Leaving - his panoramic but dead
observation tree, higher than me
the white thickly splattered
heavy branch reverberates -
a silent metronomic
Catching thermals or up draughts
vulturing round and rising
his energy conservation guarantee
Pin point eyesight for miles
cleaning catchment of two valleys
funeral bell caw caw caw fades
into feathered undertaker silence
Smelly mutton, frogs, afterbirth
and cold lamb, traditional tallies
contemporary road fill habit
rat hedgehog squirrel - rabbit
When listening to her heart beat
I can hear the metronomic murmurs of string
and wind instruments blending
into a susurrous symphony
(expunging note upon note through my soul)
that goes from quiver to calm while pressed
against rhythms of her undulating breasts
the chorus harmonizes in whispered
reverberations “I love you” wrapping
each softly plucked chord around
my name that is parenthesized
in soothingly shaded tones of “mine”
I live for vacant white nights:
devoid of stars and ocean hues,
a loose-leaf tainted ivory sky
that's just a whisper short of true.
Life's metronomic father points
his stale batons toward my mind,
though only to be broken down;
alone, I left him ticking blind.
The homeless shadows beg of me
for concrete shells to live within,
though I would never hesitate
to fill my inner evening den.
I am the author of my dreams;
I am the paper and the pen!
I sleep for chronic impulse:
the resonance of ceaseless bliss,
a feeling wrapped in brittle dust
and formless like a will-o-wisp.
Life's bittersweet horizon peers
into my deep nocturnal space,
though only to be torn apart;
I had no need for such a face.
The boundary linking earth and sky
does not exist for chainless hawks,
so like a bird, I'll take command
and pave the path I want to walk.
I am the proctor of my dreams;
I am the blackboard and the chalk!
I muse for vibrant futures:
the pliant maps of mental jumps,
a polychromic destiny
that topples every other trump.
Life's bland reiterations ring
around my silken paradise,
though only to be cast aside;
I needn't play with faulty dice.
The mirror to my distant past
is calling me with whispers faint:
"you must retain your future's seed
and tend to it without complaint."
I am the artist of my dreams;
I am the canvas and the paint!
No reality can keep its grip
on the cryptic force of my dream-tip!
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
That sound, metronomic beating
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
Is that the sound of my breath, my breath leaving my lungs…
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
Or the sound of my voice bouncing off my echoing mind
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
Do I even have a mind
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
I don’t mind, I don’t really care
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
Even though it’s my job to care, my job to feel, to love, to bleed severely
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
It explains so much, why all I see is a combination of blue and red
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
The product, royal purple; my life essence or just another substance to sustain
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
A craving, sadly, it’s what it boils down to
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
“broken hearted”, “broken hearted fury”
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
Or is it really just another broken hearted run
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
What’s the difference if broken heart is all in the name?
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
It sinks me down a little lower every time I try
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
When it lingers, keeping it’s claws in me for days
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
Oh well, this is called growing up
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
At least, it’s what the brain passes down here
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
Do I believe? Eh, not really; I follow my own decisions
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
It’s kept me alive so far since I’m still kicking
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
I have a goal to carry out, ten jobs I need to sort out
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
Once I get out of this personal hospital, personal slump
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
Maybe my pulse can beat peacefully
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
Instead of missing a few steps like I’ve been kept in a freezer
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
Instead of feeling like I’ve been crying
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
Instead of feeling like the saddest metronome, metronomic beating
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
The sound of my voice speaking, no my voice is quite silent
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
It’s just the sound of me breathing
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
A poem old has verses wrapped in gold
As rhythmic beauty pours from every line;
A magic gift with music to behold.
Sophisticated language ripe and bold
Applied with master crafted strokes sublime;
A poem old has verses wrapped in gold.
A reservoir of riches there we mold
Inside a tapestry spread over time;
A magic gift with music to behold.
As summer heat turns into winter cold,
These songbird troubadours sing out their rhyme;
A poem old has verses wrapped in gold.
Perfection flows from words these poets told
In metronomic splendor like a chime;
A magic gift with music to behold.
The modern poet cannot lift their load
While writing pablum far removed from prime;
A poem old has verses wrapped in gold,
A magic gift with music to behold.