Best Percussive Poems
Kind of Blue…
Slinking into a still hue of blues
Haunting trumpets dart in and out
Like taxi horns in freeloading traffic
And cling like silk onto full figured rifs
When winsome modal notes wear sleek cobalt
Where soulbeats throb from smoky bars
Blue moods of so what
Sway like humid lovers on rainy nights
To the clink of ice in shot glasses
And afterhours shades of whisky, sweat and old scotch -
Smooth as muted cool
Luxurious tracks of indigo distilled intimacy
Stretch without strict resolutions
Improv exhales unashamed sketches
Of empty barstools and empty arms
As modes of blue undress into serendipity
When newborn sounds wrap limbs around
Old scores of stale melodic staves
Steady bass lines underscore mellow beats
Unperturbed ruminating pulse,
Slow percussive murmurs
Like rhythmic subways of all blues slow walking
With mystic measures of ebb and neap attraction -
A perpetual kiss slides slow into a kind of blue.
Categories:
percussive, blue, music,
Form:
Free verse
In the box with overpowered silence
Dripping with sweaty tension
Wanting glory…fearing three
Those eyes precise measured quarry
Javelin of Ash loaded at the ready
Stilly prepared…ironed gripping
White pale streak of the assailing foe
Red seamed threads spinning unseen
Coursing in…aimed true
A crack that exhales the collective breathe
Eruption within the faceless crowd
Cacophony…movement’s flurry
Charging towards the much sought prize
Just for the chance to be victorious
Guarded…standing strong
Diving headlong toward canvas safety
Outstretched beyond human limit
Colliding wreck…jarring hard
Percussive thump of stitched tooled leather
A thumb shot skyward yelling failure
The cheering…mixed jeering
Screaming sighs…and whistled respect
God I love baseball…
Categories:
percussive, devotion, happiness, introspection, sports,
Form:
Free verse
Reverberations
Moist, heavy air settled upon my skin
tauntingly teasing undulating hair.
Reaching out I clutch at the mocking wind
as its fading coolness flees into cloud
my tongue tasting the torment of the air
inhaling brimstone scented vibration
roiling within a billowing terror
striking in a blinding flash of fury
trembling as reverberations thunder
through the cornerstones of my DNA
heart racing to escape a dormant fear
the percussive aftermath of lightning’s arc.
Stillness becalmed on hope’s sporadic breath
exhaled within the darkness of a cloud.
©2/14/2018
submitted to – Describe a thunder storm without the sense of sound – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Brenda Chiri
Categories:
percussive, silence, storm,
Form:
Blank verse
Xanadu may exude such percussive bliss
Youthful romps and a coy stolen kiss
Lightly tapping in jaunty melifulous splendor
Orpheus muse prances playfully tender
Pounding with swift light jazzy flourishes
Heart and soul the xylophone nourishes
Oblivious to troubles I cannot stop my feet
Notions of love brightly swing to the beat
Each crisply chimed note a gift beyond sweet
Categories:
percussive, music,
Form:
Acrostic
Age is not all decay; it is the ripening, the swelling, of the fresh life within, that withers and bursts the husk. George MacDonald
_____________________________________________________________
In a world where decay is dominant,
Arctic tundra is melting, and envy is prominent.
Friendship withered away with the lapse of time,
Moon gapes at all facts and truths, concomitant.
We jive in death-cool air and chime,
Where dreams and hopes start to climb.
As though molehills faded into the grass,
Rapture rain has turned into melting rime.
In a place where the sky spills tears of brass,
And the howling winds bestow a deafening bass.
We lingered in the natural ephemeral support,
Behind the murky cloud of the ebbing mass
Our bond, however, was not flexible to contort,
Cyclic in the way that orchestral drums distort.
We carried out a solemn pledge on the floor,
In divine draughts, brambles flood the report.
The Meadow Brook gave us richness galore,
Black valleys where floods shred and roar?
We could not deny such a reservoir of devotion,
As with the wilting branches and dwindling door.
Our bonds faded, plagued by wide demotion,
Secrets below the land, a flurry of blades of notion.
In a world where deterioration prevails supreme,
Time and distance cast a curtain on our emotions.
But even amid such decay, there is a dream,
Darkening and drooping, we creep and esteem.
With the truth that humanity may split and slope,
Crows chirp as they drop twigs and scream.
While passing across acrid rings of mope,
Our ties are fraying. Teach me how to hope.
It shines brightly behind the gloomy overlay,
A dazzling beacon in the depths to grope.
In this universe of inexorable decay,
We acquire courage with each raw day.
With percussive pulses of love and delight,
Our ties will last for a span we cannot deny.
In a world where decay holds its might,
We defy its grasp, shining with an inner light.
Through the drills and tribulations we face,
Whatever embers burn our ego and sight.
Categories:
percussive, analogy, angst, bereavement, care,
Form:
Rubaiyat
A hush of gray descends, the world outside a blur
Of weeping glass and dancing leaves, a gentle stir.
The scent of wet earth and cooled pavement climbs the air,
As warmth from a steaming cup soothes away all care.
In her hands, a porcelain hug, the tea's floral grace,
Sweet steam whispers against the skin of her face.
The book on her knees, a weight of stories untold,
Its paper scent, a comfort, a history to hold.
The rhythmic drum of rain against the pane,
A soft, percussive melody to wash away the pain.
Each drop a tiny echo of a memory long past,
A life unfolding, too beautiful to ever last.
A sip of warmth, a bitter-sweet and soothing brew,
A taste of all the moments she has ever been through.
The cool ceramic on her palms, a solid, gentle feel,
The world outside is fading, but this moment is so real.
She closes her eyes and listens to the low hum,
The quiet symphony of the world she's come from.
The taste of tea, the smell of rain, the warmth within her soul,
The past and future merge to make her present whole.
Categories:
percussive, appreciation, books, i am,
Form:
Free verse
"Marching Band"
Dapper dilettantes take over one hundred yards
Showing their feathers like a cockatoo on pointy shakos
Displaying their talents on grass they are anything but green
Ready to give resplendent resonance through beasts of golden brass
Popping percussive drumming getting drilled into them by a sergeant
Time and time again by so many rehearsals they know formations by heart
The time for sweat and tears is over, they are here to perform
Atten hut!
Impressing the crowd with baton twirling
Majorettes turn into marionettes as the sergeant pulls their strings
Compact formation now, the crowd will wait for hot dogs
Watching a half time special while they stand alert in place
About face!
Witnessing scintillating choreography with a one, two turn
The symbols get their chance to be rim shot participators
And the Grand Marshall leads the baton twirlers aside
For the color guard and their blinding high definition radiance
No one is out of phase and the scene is picture perfect
Then they dive into the scatter drill
Show their true talents with life, love and liberty to move where they want
Individual inspiration takes over each one to the ensemble
This is the real reason they are here, for happiness
They make way for the gymnasts while maintaining play
Who express their own interest in the spectacle of somatic arts
Triangles and fantastic figures on three people straddled high
Build in the crowd a new love for geometry
They have to give way though in good measure
To guns of glory and so many shots sent high in the air
Puffs of smoke are burst sky high, evaporating a salutary good bye
Thanks for watching
Categories:
percussive, social, time, love, time,
Form:
Free verse
Confidence,a radiant aura that defines him
Even whilst holding dear Jes playing a tune on a whim
It exudes and transcends his playing flaws until-
All you can hear turns symphonic like Beethoven
And his candidness,with each string,becomes proven
Laudable,is his love and passion for music
A true love of a jealous kind covering up like a tunic
Rare as a four leaf clover,a gift from God that makes-
The sound of his voice melt any frozen heart
And bring harmony and laughter to a world torn apart
Illustrious,like the great Achilles born to Thetis and Peleus
His percussive skills reflect the nature of his muse
Bringing unique blends of sound to greats like Hamilton-
Even Lira and Victor can testify to his idiosyncrasy
That which makes his sound distinguished and classy
Fastidious,a trait that echoes in his work and mannerism
'By the blood' is evidently a show of this perfectionism
Though he carries his talent in a humble manner-
He expresses himself with great felicity
Not forgetting that grand touch of simplicity
Fearless,he valiantly navigates his gift in a foreign land
Grabbing opportunities whilst gaining the upper hand
Though fearsome he may be when faced with commitment-
Love abides in him,he strives to achieve the dream
Knowing within that he is music,and music is him...
Categories:
percussive, dedication, music, sound, love,
Form:
Cinquain
I went to heaven before my time,
In dentist’s chair through sky did climb,
And in his goodness, verve and youth
The dentist took dull pain from tooth
And when the empty clot in gum,
Said write your name and date on bum,
He must have felt my life a poem, or
Orchestra with Barenboim?
Then seven times and seven more, I
Saw St Peter at heaven’s door, he
Handed me a fresh-rolled spliff,
Then in came Hendrix with a riff
The wind cried scary, not sublime,
And all along the watchtower’s shine
Came Ginger Baker’s rasping whine,
With riffs and drums, percussive beat
Took up the rhythm with his feet,
And Jaqueline Dupre with legs apart,
Jumped on the heavy metal cart, but
Weight of Jim and Ginger too and Dan
And me pushed axle through
Then crew looked hard for help from me,
He who only made the tea; I said now look…
I am not known, my name’s not Baker
Or Shamone, here in this place we’re
All the same, the dental gas…it’s plain
To blame, sugary sweets, not eat again
So listen here and worry not, about hot hell
Or heaven’s plot… neither’s there!… it’s in
Our heads, when in our youth we outran feds;
So open book and pull chilled beer, take
Hand of loved one…heaven’s here!
Peter Lewis Holmes 29/11/15
Categories:
percussive, humor, spiritual,
Form:
Rhyme
Already the leaves are staining red,
Blood, too thin, seeps through taut skin,
Capillaries weak walled and weeping;
Dying Summer bows proud head,
Emptied of green glory;
Filled, fiery cauldrons blaze red-orange,
Golden flamed tongues glowing.
How harsh that she must fly
Into the great beyond,
Jettisoned like a human soul
Killed before its time.
Letting go, whether fast or slow,
Makes no variance in the pain;
Numbingly, it strikes the heart
Over and over again.
Passionate, she would linger,
Queenly in her floral gown,
Regaled for stunning splendor;
Sympathy never his approach,
Time beats a strong percussive stroke
Unstoppable, dispensed in quick cadence.
Valiantly she struggles, clinging,
While wild winds hew each leaf down;
Xylogenous lichen sparsely veils
Yearning limbs laid vulnerable and bare:
Zephyrus and Chloris frolic there no more.
Note: Zephyrus, the gentle god and personification
of the west wind, the bringer of light spring and
summer breezes in Greek mythology; he abducted
and fathered children with the goddess Chloris and
gave her the domain of flowers.
Xylogenous - living on or in wood
Copyright, August 15, 2014
Faye Lanham Gibson
Categories:
percussive, beauty, bereavement, death, summer,
Form:
Abecedarian
No Exit
musicians hide behind scarring sounds
beyond madness
beyond folly
beyond Somewhere Everywhere
dance with delirious determination
through fragments of melodious folly
dissonant dulcimers declare
repetitive chords
within punctuated digital drones
repetitive beyond vibration
vibrating beyond repetition
percussive rituals vibrate
beyond inflated vaudevillians
mutating into
mad cacophonous comedic collisions
rituals beyond vibrating cacophony
rituals behind chaotic vibrations
deranged vibraphones
denounce
fragments of repetitive visions
mindful of mindless
Exits
Categories:
percussive, dark, humorous, music, surreal,
Form:
Free verse
Young generation ardor from sculpted hero borrows
Older generation, torpor to graft peaceful tomorrows
Can young eyes through steely sheath glimpse marrow
O'er from dried paint, the blood stains that do burrow
From pursed lips, do the painful strains bellow
O'er from silent gun, percussive waves billow
Youthful glint on glimmering memorial glows
From aged lens, vicarious tears solemnly flow
Lad's fawning beams on chivalric statue strew
Elder's sorrowful squints the mediated surface furrow
Young mind each, savory fold does swallow
Aged intellect each corroded line does follow
On gilded bust, youth's prating eyes wallow
Gaunt septuagenarian mourns core now hollow
Around girth, innocent lids embrace time's fleeting shadow
Experienced hearts scorn clones strung from future gallows
New hopes, dreams cover the base now fallow
New doubts, fears sweep sodded ground, now sallow
Categories:
percussive, age, angst, career, ,
Form:
Rhyme
I close my eyes to all the despair and worldly strife...
I sit and rock in my little rocking chair; ear buds tightly inserted like a life saving prosthetic...
I let the world rush by as I immerse myself into my last refuge...
The bass and treble... The mids and highs... The soft variances, to the percussive booms...
The timeless lyrics jet me back to where my days were longer, and things made more sense...
It was a time when my entire identity was the music... My entire being... My reason for living...
With the passing of that infernal notion we know as time, priorities have changed.
Life got very serious and stoic, but the music remained... A constant in an ever evolving world...
It is not merely an escape... It is a vehicle of transportation; transcending time and beauty...
Dismissing the harshness of reality, and launching you into a sublime world of cosmic vibrations...
What else can evoke such emotion as a lonely cello? The strings cry as they touch your very essence.
A happy melody of your youth instantly forces a smile; and you can ride the notes of a symphony like a galloping horse through endless, summer plains...
You may remove my eyes... You may cripple me, and take away everything I hold dear...
The music will always remain; if only an echo in my vacant mind...
Categories:
percussive, music, time,
Form:
Free verse
Black diamond, fools gold,
overpriced and undersold.
Falling vices, rising prices,
and all the things that we are told.
Percussive concussion, concussive percussion,
endless discussion.
A round of applause for revealing your flaws,
your sin serves to feed them their spin.
If you had our fears, if we gave you our hopes,
we'd devour ourselves from within.
Categories:
percussive, power,
Form:
After dark, the prosaic comes alive
morphed by a klieg lit stage—
at once, both peaceful and kinetic.
A neon world of predator and prey,
through my viewfinder
garish greens and vivid reds
play with the afterglow of twilight sky.
I try to capture saccharin sweetness
and the promise of forbidden fruit.
I thrill when a percussive din
shatters the vesper stillness.
I’ve learned this murky realm
of mixed lighting and chiaroscuro charm
is best rendered without filters
and the patience of a saint.
For twenty years I’ve meandered through great cities
camera in tow, prowling the grittiest parts of town.
Working quickly to record a vanishing scene
and to keep out of harm’s way,
after dark, it’s scary and electric.
Categories:
percussive, life, urban
Form:
Free verse