Best Resonances Poems
I AM DEAD BECAUSE I FEEL SO!
I lay wrinkled and knotted, trying to iron my crumpled self...
Vibrating with those ugly, gruesome resonances, I relive those horrors each day.
I AM DEAD BECAUSE I FEEL SO!
I walk yet I feel crippled...................
I can see my inner self but why do I feel blind.............
I can hear my internal sobs, but deafness seems like myself...................
I am not dumb but where my laughter is lost, I am not sure.................
I AM DEAD BECAUSE I FEEL SO!
What was it that caused this ABUSE, I try to reason out?
Perhaps my silly heart or my funny face..............
Maybe my ugly hand or my miserable mind..................
I AM DEAD BECAUSE I FEEL SO!
It was the depth of that ABUSE that set my soul to choke into breathlessness!
I AM DEAD BECAUSE I FEEL SO!
the s e a
remembers the taste
of cinnamon sunsets~
the essence of
emerald embers
and resonances of petrichor
when the tides tremble
in turquoise delight,
amidst the marine snakes
slithering through
oceanic echoes,
mirroring Medusa melodies
in envious tones.
and as the morning
stars nestle in the
wildflower warmth
of the honeyed sun,
wine-red ink
flows within midnight
vines in vain,
aching to be heard,
while the jealous jasmines
jinx the sanguine spirit
of January garnets
I wear in
grace and gratitude.
yet if my sky knows
not the colors of darkness,
would the moon still
be my poetic savior?
silently sewing sequins of solace
to the fabric of love,
floating like cosmic candles,
elegantly emanating
perfumed perseverance
for I am the silhouette
of the horizon
wrapped in a plethora of
p e a c e lilies,
sprouting in the
glistening garden
of gossamer verses,
finding roseate reasons to rhyme,
when eclipsed
is the luna-light
and monsoon monsters
are the cynical spectators,
knocking on my canvas
with needles and nails
sharpened with
paper-thin confetti
of resentful remorse.
but I ponder,
will the blind still feel
the storms I breathe
and the strength I wear
to waltz through wicked weeds,
eager to chain unspoken needs?
this is me running from the toxic rain,
pushing me back into
the twilight zone,
where I surf
through nothingness,
engrossed in timeless trust,
tied to written tranquility,
manifesting magnetic waves
of inner truce and magic
as the sea remembers
the serenade of serenity
and the sky knows
the metaphors to merge
winds of love and
waves of kindness.
Memory
I am my memory.
This piece of the world, this brief sprouting
Amongst many thinking radishes,
Exists only as resonances within
Lacy neurons; Flanders’ delicate patterns
Sustained by glial skeletons,
Beyond the spider’s web or silent
Snowflake in elegant complexity.
I am memory:
Identity, selfness, the compass of my person,
Shaped by the universe’s unknowingness
Of my reedlike form; yet I know I exist,
And know of my fate,
And of the fate of the universe,
Which is the power of my memory
And humankind’s collective memory.
I am:
And therefore recreated endlessly by my memories which,
Shallow-like, bow to my insecurities
Played out in my mind; ironically,
Feeding my own undermining,
Poignant recall of joy and bittersweet sorrow,
Given force by visceral emotion, shaping “I”
Anew, through endless rehearsal.
I:
Who is: only in relation to you, another,
My child, parent, brother, sister, a lover,
Bosom friend; like me, the sum
Of memories, which we share
And are thus part of each other,
All one, yet separate, connected
Through memory.
The memories of you fade,
Yet do not disappear, and
Give truth to my thoughts
On memory, and my identity;
Me, whom you pursued until
I caught you, and gave
Me memories happy and sad,
That shape me still..
with acknowledgements to
Blaise Pascal, William Shakespeare, Rene Descartes, Eric Kandel, John Locke, the Lace makers of Belgium....and Georgia
They say one cannot embrace pure silence,
But can they feel the silence embracing them?
Our minds in pausing and transitions,
Could it be…that
Within our souls is an air pocket or two?
Is there a space that should be filled?—can be filled?
The composer was aware by the traffic
That music is merely sounds
And he accepts those sounds and loves them!
Many have said if this was so,
How meaningless music would be!
But there is a certain truth to his words
That one can find buried inside
Nothing is quiet
Everything is so loud
Silence is naught but fought
And mechanical resonances bring peace to the heart
Like sounds to music
Is like words to poetry
There is possibly no rhythm to it at all
But there is a mental tempo as hard as iron in this shackled mind
Poems are all but words
I accept what they are
Simple, wonderful words
And they are embraceable
Even in our view of silence
-inspired by the composer John Cage on the “experience of silence and sound”-
“Beware the ides of March”.
Thus the Soothsayer portends Calpurnia’s dreams
Made real, blood staining Roman streets.
“Stay in touch”.
Parting words, soft spoken with questioning
Gaze. What portent is this? Are my dreams
To shape my corporeal present?
Are my emotions again to stain my waking hours,
Opening wounds barely closed, tears washing
Clean the blood of grief?
“Stay in touch”.
I like those words, they bring the inner fizz of
Anxiety, nagging at me, disturbing my sleep.
“It’s been a long time” and “Stay in touch”:
The alpha and omega of our meeting.
There is a palpable difference in you; a change,
Do you now see a different future, free of history?
Have you taken the deep breath and sought the
Intimacy of your space? Your own space,
Where you confront the demons of the past,
And the fears of days to come?
I like those words.
There is a future in those words; not the
Finality of never seeing you, never knowing
You again. “Stay in touch”: portent of a conversation,
That, maybe, perhaps, might lead to a place where
Happiness colours the world, bleaching bright clean
The stained steps of the past.
“Beware the ideas of March”: there is no envy, I think,
Nor ambition, nor the hubris of power in you;
Only the resonances of the past, that can be healed.
And I? I am no Emperor, falling at the scent of the
Adoring vulgates, desperate for the crown of your love.
No. I am the romantic hope-aholic, who listens
To your song and stills his eager mind and
Fluttering heart. “Stay in touch”:
I like those words.
Words. Have you ever wondered
where they come from?
No, I don't mean their etymology,
rather where in the brain do they spring from?
Thoughts come, and then go, leaving no traces of their passing;
but then words, shapes writ
on walls as in Belshazzar's feast,
they come and stamp their presence on the mind.
Whence do they come? Is there some bubbling spring,
beneath the conscious mind,
from which the flood of words wells forth, unstoppable?
This word presents itself, to be
admired for its shape and meaning, elegant, interesting,
worthy of contemplation;
then followed by that one, dark and brooding,
yet somehow in appropriate apposition
to that which went before.
Words...interesting characters....
full of portent and hidden meanings.
“Beware the ides of March”.
Thus the Soothsayer portends Calpurnia’s dreams
Made real, blood staining Roman streets.
“Stay in touch”.
Parting words, soft spoken with questioning
Gaze. What portent is this? Are my dreams
To shape my corporeal present?
Are my emotions again to stain my waking hours,
Opening wounds barely closed, tears washing
Clean the blood of grief?
“Stay in touch”.
I like those words, they bring the inner fizz of
Anxiety, nagging at me, disturbing my sleep.
“It’s been a long time” and “Stay in touch”:
The alpha and omega of our meeting.
There is a palpable difference in you; a change,
Do you now see a different future, free of history?
Have you taken the deep breath and sought the
Intimacy of your space? Your own space,
Where you confront the demons of the past,
And the fears of days to come?
I like those words.
There is a future in those words; not the
Finality of never seeing you, never knowing
You again. “Stay in touch”: portent of a conversation,
That, maybe, perhaps, might lead to a place where
Happiness colours the world, bleaching bright clean
The stained steps of the past.
“Beware the ideas of March”: there is no envy, I think,
Nor ambition, nor the hubris of power in you;
Only the resonances of the past, that can be healed.
And I? I am no Emperor, falling at the scent of the
Adoring vulgates, desperate for the crown of your love.
No. I am the romantic hope-aholic, who listens
To your song and stills his eager mind and
Fluttering heart. “Stay in touch”:
I like those words.
When it pains very hard
And when eyes can no more cry
The poet in my mind whispers
The words that I write
When I am happy and gay
And when my soul wants to rejoice
The poet in my mind hums
The words that I write
When I feeling discouraged
And my spirit is very low
The poet in my mind croons
The words that I write
When I am serene and animated
And when the child in me is boogie
The poet in my mind sings
The words that I write
The poet befriends my heart
And listens to very thing he say
Resonances of my heart are
The words that I write
Some are sparks
Some are the sparks from a Parliament bonfire,
That fly ever upwards to spin and whirl
amongst the stars and then are extinguished,
falling as a fleck of ash to lie amongst many
in a grey layer, undistinguished one from the other.
And there are a few, so very few, whose spark
Reaches the dark sky and lives amongst the
Heavenly stars that shine over centuries,
Remaining undimmed, lighting our way through
Life and love, and damnation of our souls.
So the Bard of Avon shines above, even four centuries
beyond his bones mouldering in some riverside grave,
Honoured in the exhilaration of performance,
In the strut and fret of hours upon a million stages,
In the warmth that spreads in the breast with his words.
Words. His gift to humankind. Resonances in the
Fabric of minds, harmonies with our daily conversations,
He speaks to our souls, to the innermost being,
Our core, our culture, our language, and to the
World, to all of humanity, in every place.
He speaks to me and I lay myself at his feet,
In awe at his facility and originality, magician
Of words; and I strive to create as he
Might have done, knowing that I am but a
Nervous acolyte to his command.
There is this insistent command from within
To speak as he did, to create the elegant structure
Of rhythm and word; to see the world through
Eyes that comprehend the human condition,
And reflect it to those uncomprehending.
I strive to follow his path, but am not dismayed
When my words do not follow his lead.
I am not so vain as to imagine I am his heir,
Yet I would wish his ghost visit me, and lay
Upon his hands, that I may speak with his voice.
Vanquishing Fear
by
Odin Roark
Her unwritten diary
Read of descriptions
glittering private
Her hourglass of
diamonds
Where forever truly
destined forever
Her beauty made
artists shy
Their palettes’
ablaze with
unfettered colors
Her trail of
fragrance brought
flowers about face
Her presence in
crowds like a warm
tropical breeze
Suitors rifled their
pockets of tricks
Bent on conquest of
the untamable
For beneath her
silk-like curls
Dwelled the
inexplicable
The enigmatic
defense
Protecting the lost
Never to be found
Lips not yet ready
to part
So grew the nymphet
of patience
Often confining
herself to shoreline
treasures
Where shamans
fathoms deep
Shared sonnets of
passion
From sea shells to
auricle passage
Personal imaginings
to echoing without
end
And then…
A man did appear
Heretofore merely
another serial lover
Leaving traceable
imprints
Evidence for
confirming
He did exist
Her first glance
fostered nightmares
Burning fear of
losing that
Which she knew not
of
So virginal her
experience
Yet rarities do
happen
Pen and paper gave
birth
To offspring of word
and symbol
The poetry of two
reflected many
Where shamans and
sea shells
Imprints and
nightmares
Poetry’s family tree
of shared resonances
Became transcendence
together
Is this all?
Life is a country, spread before us at birth, its
Vistas stretching beyond the horizon, full of
Mystery and anticipation.
In the distance lie mountain ranges,
Tall peaks of passion; this one the mother
Of one’s children, that one the pinnacle
Of a career, there the first marathon,
Beyond wearing the green and gold.
And between are valleys, and deep gorges of
Despair, counterpoint, giving meaning to each
Peak, for what is altitude but the opposite of
Depression?
All is not a rollercoaster of existence: plains
Stretch in fertile sameness, each year growth
And rich harvest; ears of wheat are as one’s
Children that ripen and take on new life.
In time, the country is explored, the borders
Reached and new vistas beyond glimpsed.
And one looks back at distant ranges and
Sweeping plains, and wonders “Is this all?”.
Out of the shimmering heat she appears,
Riding on a bay brown horse. Almond eyes,
Arabesque lips, and high cheekbones;
Telling their story, generation on generation.
And life takes on new meaning, resonances
With the past command me, compel me in
Response: in adolescence there was a she,
Who chased me, but then I was not caught.
“Love sought is good, Love given unsought
Is better” so the saying goes; and she chased
Me, until I caught her, and she became my all.
Life is a country, spread before us.
Now hushed bleak sterile corridors
recall the cries, laughter and tears
of those once termed insane;
all is still now.
Rooms behind forbidding windows,
shutters slam-dance lazily in the breeze;
all is empty.
No actual cells, no straw on cruel stone floors
or padded walls,
reality is cracked linoleum and Formica;
all is quiet.
The local Bedlam towers black,
decaying dead slumber,
etched against a red-tinged horizon.
No movement now within the confines
of her walls,
other than upon the evenings of the
Autumnal moon, when perhaps
resonances of the past send strange
drifting spectres to walk the balconies
and pace the grey great hall,
acting out the bygone dramas of this home,
this refuge, Asylum.
Those who would dare to
venture here
on such tragi-comic nights would see;
but no one comes here and no one sees
and all too few care or understand,
for all that is past are now dead memories,
and all that is to follow
is the truest madness...
Melody Maker
The music in my mind plays softly.
It is quiet today.
I can write and enjoy
each stroke of the pen
as it touches the paper...
like a lover for the first time
with their dearest one.
Gentle, soft, and methodical
the sounds interlace the moment,
with memory, to create remembrances
for later, when the resonances have lessoned
or stopped altogether. .
In the distance
I can see the white clouds,
they are rising slowly,
and gaining power, and physical strength.
My heart beats slightly faster, at the sight,
and the music responds.
Somewhere nearby
harps were joined by lutes,
and flutes.
Not dancing and prancing,
but bouncing against the unseen
droplets that will fall with the coming storm.
It has not happened,
but I know that it will... still.
I rush to finish the equation,
of love and forever,
the answer clearly presented.
The tune changed,
and rearranged...
the water touched the paper,
and caressed it anew,
the secret was then lost.
Science is such bad faith.
Are we to believe that the cosmos, the earth, our very bodies
Consist of particles as insentient and cold as the glacial mass of Jupiter?
That ordinary thoughts and strokes of genius emerge equally
From random firings of neural synapses?
That the origins of noble ideals, or loyalty, or commitment
Reside in arbitrary molecular motions?
That friendship, love, or hate appear ex nihilo, the products
Of unfeeling chains of subatomic collusions?
Science is such bad faith.
The seemingly senseless swirlings of unseen particles are but
Corporeal manifestations of a higher calling,
Material resonances of the spirit,
Soul of the cosmos, the earth, the body.
Does not a glance between lovers set in motion
The symphony of a trillion trillion molecules?
Does not the seeing of the pulchritudinous palette of a sunset
Ignite synchronous activities in remote regions of the brain?
Do not joy, sadness, or pleasure govern a host
Of chemical permutations?
Science is such bad faith.
Who knows?
Perhaps molecules are communities of beings wrapped
In passionate embrace.
Perhaps even electrons sing and weep
And make love.
My muse is standing by the window
With his beck to me
Ignoring all my questions
His eyes filled with “empty”
I have started to think
That my muse has abandoned me
He is not taking me to enchanted lands
No words he has spoken to me not even in gasps
The deadly silence is devastating me
I can’t even hear him breathe
His glossy eyes reflecting seventy two nations grief
Streams of blood drooping from his beliefs
My exhausted muse is stuck
With his wings hanging from his shoulders
He seems to be looking out of the window
Indulging in the memory of soaring the skies
I scream and hear the resonances from the walls
I punch him on his chest sobbing for response
He looks out the window, a tear rolling down his face
I lay down at his feet, awaiting his return
I have started to think
That my muse has abandoned me!
Nov 27, 2015
Calming, glistening, crystal liquid
Falling down, so easily predicted
Amid lush emerald green bushes
Whispers of sweet, fanciful wishes
Dreams come true on these banks
The panorama forces me to give thanks
It is a vista for lovers to share a promise
The pleasures abound there in the forest
The soothing spray sings to my spirit
With a yearning for more joy I listen
To the gentle waters teasing my ear
Replacing every worry, there is no fear
The only sounds are of natural blisses
Reminding me of all that love eclipses
Resonances of beauties so glorious
That only a heart can know such euphoria
Faith and hope fill me to the fullest
Moments spent within this purest
Vision of truth that God is alive
Awakening joys that fully satisfy
A touch of genuine inspiration
Fills up my thoughts that awaken
With compassion, acceptance
And all that might be a blessing.
This scene gives me all that is dear
Optimism that my muse is on this shore
A place where I can find my lost reveries
Thriving amidst this charming discovery
September 10, 2019
Picturesque Rhyme Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Eve Roper