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Below are the all-time best Sound poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of sound poems written by PoetrySoup members

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The Best Sound Poems

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Charm like harp strings - 128 words

Your mind's in knots, as stress plagues thoughts. On hope you cling, to bloom like Spring. Its fine my dear, nerves can cause fear. Don't be so scared, gifts must be shared. Your smile is cute, when you are mute. No need to hide. I'm by your side. Let the world hear, your tone so clear. Your will is strong, burst out your song. Sweet sounds you make our breaths they take. Look how eyes beam, your name they scream. Go to that length, love is your strength. Your voice brings peace, helps fears to cease. Like sad trapped birds, tongue holds back words. Free them from cage, take to the stage. When your heart sings, charms like harp strings. Look how they dance, as your tunes trance.
Silent One 31 January 2018 Another example for 128 words contest. Rhyme poem. Four words per line all one syllable each. 32 lines: 128 words.

Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2018

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I decorate a grotto for you, Mama where orchids and holy images embellish this special place and day, that saintly icons guard you there as if they beg me to be released from years of guilty devotion… Yet I polish their laced clothes; then end the night waiting for wind chimes to knell,’ Magnificat.’ Scenes from younger days resound, while you, Mama, gift me with love and hate flickering through my confused mind : And sharpened bells ring in my ears; the gong of your voice banging across the hall... yet I still recall, mouth so tender, droning lullabies in the soft of window sills, ‘Magnificat’… How can I reconcile quietude and boom, when the little girl in me longs for your timber here beside this special place-- till holy statues listen to my own chimes and finally, understand this adoration. I Cannot Believe I Wrote That Poetry For Nina Parmenter Written 8/1/2015 Re-post 12/5/2018

Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2015

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The Color of Silence

If you could paint a picture of silence
What color would it be?

Would you use the brush of fog to hush all sound 
A shade of gray, with touch of brown,
where eaves are dripping to the ground
and windows weep their quiet tears
Where solitude obscures the view
In a slate of lonely winterlude?

Or would it be a shade of green
A forest deep, of muted breeze
No sound to scatter birds from trees
No broken branches, swaying grasses
Missteps that crackle the fallen leaves
Untouched by clatter, harsh and rude?

Would silence be as black as night
A cave too deep for shards of light
A void within a famished core
A well of dark and empty shores?

Or would silence be of many hues?
A rainbow shade of morning dew
A soft pastel of sun declining?
No bedlam, blast or blare of noise
Could break the spell, a silent voice 
As if the soul could slip away....

A hush, sweet and keen, 
Like ghosts unseen, or angels soft as air...
A silent sea, ....where mountains lend an ear
As clouds pile high, ....and wait to hear...
Only for this:  such peace....such bliss
A sound so small, ... as welcome as a sigh

Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2010

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Her Stilettos

.    The sound of
   Stilettos         coming   home. 
  The echo                            reverberates
 In the empty hall,
My heart
And my soul
Is at pure    ease
To know             that 
Its soul                   mate 
Has come                    home. 
In the                              morning
 Stilettos                                 make
  Deep                                         sounds
   Of their                                            lone
    Departured                                         echoes.
      My                                                         mind
        Yearns                                                     and
         Waits                                                         for
           The                                                           sound to                    return.
            The                                                            satisfying sound  of   resounding
              Steps                                                         from the one I love                to satisfy
                Step                                                           their way down the             long corridor. 
                  The                                                            countdown  begins  after  the evening news 
                    I                                                                like    to  wait  and  listen  to  the  beauty  of
                     The                                                            last 10  steps reciting     their poems in taps
                      In                                                               a rhythmic sequence      of  poetic bliss.
                      10                                                                      -9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1...I’m home.

Copyright © Raul Moreno | Year Posted 2010

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My Fragile Friends

Please speak to me my lovely friend
With leaves stirred softly by the wind

Under enchanted autumn sky
Where your susurrate sounds drift by.

Sing soft melodies in choir
As leaves glow as if on fire.

I feel your abject dying pain 
When wet and cold from chilling rain.

I remember spring at your birth,
How you brightened verdant earth.

And then in summer your soft shade
Where under your cool leaves I laid.

You always spoke or sang to me
While holding close your mother tree.

But now in autumn's silver sky
Soft spoken leaves whisper goodbye.

© Connie Marcum Wong

September 17, 2016 Poem of the Day

Leaves talking - Poetry Contest N/A
Sponsor John Lawless 

Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2016

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Sound, Hues and Juice

   a gentle breeze
   tinkling wind chimes
   her voice

   within her eyes
   the sky

   sunlight gleams 
   upon the stream 
   her flowing hair

   rose petals
   cheeks and lips

   down her neck
   peach juice and kisses

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 			

POTD ~ 5th December 2016

Copyright © Paul Callus | Year Posted 2016

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Soul Music

This river of melody plays in my soul, When I awake, I feel emerged in it whole. In the calm of night, when I'm all alone, It raises me with every euphoric tone. But lately my song I have failed to hear, No longer its sweetness caressing my ear. I plead to the gods in the heavens up high, Not to abandon me also and my quest deny. For what shall be without the beating of a drum? Or the flutter of a flute, what will become? The sounds of my soul take not from me, A soundless soul I shall never learn to be. Instead, carve a single note with my awkward tongue, One that shall carry the tune I once sung. And if I'm not able I'll start over again, Because the harder I try my strength will sustain.

Copyright © White Wolf | Year Posted 2017

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Furious wind from the north hisses louder, banging against the gaped mouth of a sky, drenched… Haggard, the night wheezes with quack of birds waylaid; a time of unruly rainfall crashing once more: and the moon grows bald, groaning a jumble of cracked acoustics: On and on, the roar of sleet pierces through lush trees in a noise that grates far into the dark horizon, an energy fierce like a woman scorned. How she blares a war amidst a company of men, flowers, and all in one driven ride that her wild thrill rasps zooms --- until on ninth hour a slow-motion of rhythm flows, while she pauses to croon a mellow tune as if... in final taps of a wail, nothing ever happened. For Shadow Hamilton:The Noise Contest Written 3/9/2017

Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2017

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A Forest

The night like clouded charcoal scorched,
A sea of trees with starlight torched.
A night where laws are sound asleep,
Anarchic prayers running deep.

Alone I hear the wretched screams
Of screeching trees... or so it seems.
The cries protract into the air,
Without a sound they disappear.

The shrieks have bartered now anew
With sounds of meat and boney chew
Discharging from the faithless trees
And snarling with my memories.

But creatures' gruesome growlings drown.
I smell the gunpowder and frown.
The waging sounds of war advance
In battle stance with gun and lance.

The sounds of bleeding men enhanced,
The sounds of fate and time and chance,
No sooner do they cross the trees
Than fade as all their voices freeze.

But worse than bombshell sounds occur;
The storms, the winds, the thunder stirs.
The roars that shake the forest's roots,
The flowers, soil, and passion fruits

A rainy resonance restocks
The grass the air the woods the rocks
And washes with its dancing tingle
All the sounds that intermingle:

A dreaming forest in the night,
And trapped within its fanfare fright,
It chokes me in its thunder thrill
And hangs me in the silence still,
And hangs me in the silence still.

Copyright © Gael Attal | Year Posted 2009

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Nature Sounds

The wind against the trees make a rustling A sound unlike any other around The rubbing of the limbs craft a bustling It’s a subtle music which brings this sound Even the lake near land has a ripple The wind against the trees make a rustling And the grass nearby swishes and baffles And the wind seems to give a great panting The water has another sound, bubbling Sounds permeate all throughout this calm place The wind against the trees make a rustling Mountain sits mighty with sounds on its face Even the light seems to speak of high marks The scene enlightens higher than heartstrings Sound is the number one part that embarks The wind against the trees make a rustling…
Russell Sivey Contest: 'SOUNDS' Sponsor: FRANK H. 5/11/2013

Copyright © Russell Sivey | Year Posted 2013

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A Magic Adventure Of Peter The Pan

A Magic Adventure of Peter The Pan/AKA Peta The Fwying Pan

Peter was a fine young pan with blue eyes
Like all the other pans his age, except,
Peter could not yet pronounce 'R's'--he tried...
And 'L's' hard he tried. He even wept.

School had been especially hard today
Peter had been poked, teased, and made fun of
More this day than any other school day...
And the ride home took so long on the bus.

When he came through the door, his mama knew
"Why the long face? Are you hurt? Are you sick?"
"No ma'am," said Peter, "Just tiwad fwom schoow".
"Some cookies and milk may just be the trick!"

Mama said, as Peter sat down to eat.
By now, everyone was gathered around
To hear of his day--and sneak a treat.
So he told them his story...and they frowned.

"How can someone be so cruel! Makes no sense!
You are the smartest and brightest of pans!"
Said Debbie Dishwasher-- then cycle rinsed.
The rest agreed and came up with a plan.

"Okay! It's agreed!" said Bob the blender.
"You need magic!--THAT--we can render!

Charles Chalice and Gail Goblet--my dear
Bring what you have, for this magic milk shake.
Michael Magic go get us some beer
And also get Peter a great big steak!"

Then everyone sang together with cheer:
"A parr-ty! A parr-ty! It's a parr-ty!
We are all...having...a magic--parr-ty!"

Everyone was busy, hust'ling around.
Tams the Golden Toaster was making toast.
Tex Texas Tea Pot hummed a whist'ling sound.
David Dish and Sara Spoon danced the most,
Except for Marlon Mop--he could 'get down'!

Carol Crock Pot was fixing up the Soup.
Russell Rolling Pin had rolled out a crust
For a magic pie with love from the coop.
Joann Juicer made fresh smoothies--a must!
Suddenly...a sound was heard on the stoop...

"Who could that be? It's nearly midnight!"
Said Cyndi Chandlier all bright with light.
Christopher Cutting-board called, "I'll go see!"
Vienna Vaccume said, "Not without me!"

"Wait!" Debbie Dishwasher cried from the sink.
"Let's look at more options. We need to think.
It could be someone in need of a meal...
Or, it's a burglar--come here to steal!"

"Everyone else! Quickly! Hide inside me
Until we find out who that sound might be!"

deborah burch©

*****end part I...conclusion in part II

Copyright © Deborah Burch | Year Posted 2012

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Cry the Beloved Country

There was a brave,
A sage of his age,
And there was rhythm.
Men United in the hunt,
Women united in the spiritual sounds of songs of the Shaman,
And ships from the east,
Came with the Glory of God,
And between gunsmoke and gangrene,
Destroyed scenes of queens and kings,
And reaped heaps of unfulfilled dreams,
Busting at seems of disaster,
Cry the Beloved Country,
My master, is it truly that my father Ham,
Saw Noah Naked,
Cause my great, great, great, grandfather fought off dreams of death to endure.
And ensure that I would spend my life in this struggle.
There was a brave,
A sage of his age,
And there was rhythm,
And ships came to the horn of riches adorned,
And raped a land of many a man,
And built liberty on the shackles of freedom,
Cry the beloved country,
There was a brave,
A sage of his age,
And there was rhythm,
And ships came to the horn of riches adorned,
And raped a land of many a man,
And built liberty on the shackles of freedom,
Cry the Beloved Country,
But there was rhythm,
Among mothers’, mothers’ , sisters and brothers,
There was rhythm I tell you, 
And they prayed for my daughter to know a better day,
Every day in this struggle, I pray for my daughter to know a better day,
Where her soul is free, and she can be a light unto the nations,
Perspiration surrounds me, on this gethsemene mountain,
Where day after day, I watch my manhood muffled by the sound of bitterness,
Cry the Beloved Country,
But I tell you, there is Rhythm,
And so I say cry, my beloved country,
For the day of judgment is upon us,
And renaissance awaits,
I don’t care what mountain tries to destroy my sight,
My daughter will know a better day,
White supremacy, mental illness, multiple sclerosis,
Myopic minions of monstrous greed driven savages,
Ravaging urban centers and fatherless widows,
Like Caleb, spoke to the sun, I will not run,
God gave me this mountain,
And my daughter will know a better day,
Cry my beloved country,
Cry not tears of sorrow,
Cry not tears of lament, 
But cry the sound of triumph,
For we will not stop,
Until every thought has become captive to the sound of liberation,
 And all nations, bow to righteous sensations,
Celebrations’ elations, and dancing to the rhythm of the Savanna,
And I will not stop,
We will not stop, 
We must not stop,
There are braves,
Sages of this age,
And there is rhythm.

Copyright © Woodrow Lucas | Year Posted 2008

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Sounds in Silence

Enjoy the silence, the deep of night.
Not true silence for the word itself is illusion.
Still yourself enough to hear.
Listen for the sounds invoked in the darkness.
Quiet yourself from the inside-out
to perceive more.
The insights revealed during such muted moments
slow us, granting peace and serenity.

Night is a living entity brimming
with sound and industry.
Work, machine, wheel and gear.
A train's low grumbling engine. Its doleful
horn carried mournfully on humid summer air.
The machinery of life resonates. Those working
graveyard hours commute, clock-in, labor.
The stark trumpeting of a siren carries
over the numbed ears of a slumbering city.
A harsh, grating street sweeper toils
joined by the ghosts of twilight
on hushed, shadow-laden avenues.

Voices, song, and music in the night.
Crickets saw a faux-string melody.
Leaves rustle, sweep, and dance
a quiescent refrain on puffs of easy air.
There are drums on the silence as 
approaching clouds roll with thunder.
Rains follow.
The timbre of water bubbling upon earth,
rooftop, and walkway.
A great horned owl takes flight.
Its wings "whip, whip, whip," as it directs
the late night aria. 
Savor this appealing chorus of sounds
as an all familiar nocturne.

The sounds of silence enrich and help 
make tranquil the human heart.
Being part of its lyric, we are calmed
by nature's chorus. 
Even the weighty rumble and earsplitting
rasp of thunder can soothe the heart at night.
We are a part of the sound and silence always,
and in all ways.

                                     Sounds in Silence
                                     Free Verse

Copyright © Brian Baumgarn | Year Posted 2015

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A Music Box and Memories

On a cobblestone street,
cracked and ill-repaired, 
I rifle antique shops 
  for a jeweled music box 
     to cradle my empty locket. 
I wish to drop it 
     in a velvet corner 
       one tear at a time. 
If I find an heirloom 
with a bittersweet story, 
      its own tragic history, 
my sorrow may lighten 
     within the confines     of its space. 

If I were rich, I would live 
            curled up 
on the satin lining of a music box
   coupled with my locket,
and with every tender lift of its lid,
              I would rise in graceful dance. 

My restless nights shall one day sleep 
                               in rhythmic breath. 
My flailing heart shall tether 
                                      itself to heaven.

I found a music box today,
but alas, it would not play.
Without the song, 
the story       dies. 
Perhaps, today’s fruitless search 
will guide me to my hope, my treasure. 

If I were rich, I would live
in a Viennese music box, 
 a timeless ballerina twirling 
          for you alone, my love.
At a local pub, I sit alone 
                        in a corner
sipping seltzer and trying to ignore
your husky voice rising 
from a half-empty glass. 
Festive bubbles burst, 
     sounding off before 
               the tap tap tap 
                     of the conductor's baton. 

 I close my eyes to find you laughing
     as you sing and dance in the corners of my mind. 

You are the part of me set free.
     I am frozen in hushed memories. 
I twirl my hair to distract me from all
     the darkness I see, fingers determined
                                    to soothe my daydreams.
My spirit has weakened 
fake smiles and faded time. 
I pry thoughts from a swirling head, 
   quench my angst, 
     ignore faces of strangers. 
It’s easier to whitewash 
the world in my despair, 
than to see its     colors. 
I wear my grief like a turtleneck sweater. 
I let it keep me warm when 
        winter lingers to bullet
                     spring with sleet.

When did I fall into a dark corner?

I tripped on a crack 
in the cobblestone today,
skinned my knee, looked up to see 
you smiling down at me. 

If I were rich, I'd fly to Vienna, 
      live in a ballet slipper 
        at Konzerthaus forever. 
I hear your voice, 
it's smashing glass,
    a cacophony of howls, 
metal on metal, 
    a melodic chaos 
of heroics and blood. 
It fills my corners.
I wonder -
did you scream
in your last moments or 
slip beneath the drop cloth 
you carefully lay
with less than a thud? 
In a hush 
   of onlookers, do-gooders,
      did your eyes widen or fall? 
If only 
      I could live in the corner 
         of a jeweled music box,
a ballerina dancing for you,  
   the world might spin in a hush.
                      If only I were rich,
                            I would escape.    

Written 11/14/15, 
revised 3/19/17 for In the Corner Contest

Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Year Posted 2015

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The Sound Of Silence

The Sound Of Silence

The sound of silence...writing on the wall...
   do not disturb their sound of silence song.
They turn their backs against the ugly brawl;
   it's not our problem...license for their wrong.

They know, and without looking, close their eyes;
   it's not our problem, so they shut their ears.
The sound of silence rings throughout his cries...
   the victim now abandoned with his fears.

The writing on the wall...the message sent;
   the victim stands alone this hour of death.
Their eyes and ears are shut to his torment;
   the sound of silence heard in his last breath.

It's not our problem, 'sound of silence' screams.
   Their backs are turned, alone the victim lies;
the writing on the wall negates his dreams
   of strangers who could stop his sad demise.

So like a cancer silence soon surrounds...
   much harder to react than walk away;
creates a barrier to sights and sounds.
   It's not our problem...sounds of silence say.

Sandra M. Haight

~1st Place~
Contest: Lyrics Cliche Image
Sponsor: Silent One
Judged: 05/14/2016

Inspired by: 
   Song: 'Sound of Silence', by Disturbed
   Cliche:"The writing on the wall"
   Photo: 5

Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2016

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A blessing or a curse

Facebook I wonder if you are a blessing or a curse?
People Sharing their pictures and videos of their best and worst.

Clever sayings, obscenities, prays and vulgarity.
Show up on your pages with some form of regularity.

You will find people you have seen or haven’t seen for years.
 Laughing one minute and then shedding a river of tears.

Selfies of woman showing what God has given them to cherish
Proudly displaying themselves when they should be embarrassed.

Religion and Politics is a good way to stir the emotional pot.
Both thinking their right when you know for sure they’re not.

You can share your likes, dislikes and give a comment or two
 But be careful not to be too honest or you might just be removed.

Games of every kind you will find here for your pleasures delight
Sending requests to people even when they don’t want your invite.

Facebook is a place people display their everyday life with others
Making statements that could hurt or showing love for your mother.

 Facebook is not the one I should blame for what it shows on its feed
It’s just an empty space to fill with life’s true nature for others to read.

So before you post your thoughts and feelings in this open space
Ask yourself would this be something I would be willing to share face to face?

Copyright © Erin Soares-Anselmi | Year Posted 2014

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Canticle of merriment rings out the silver of bells a tingle, a jingle chiming wispy notes across frosty mist, as hands clasp with a pealed language warbling the same holiday bliss: ‘let there be peace on this earth’ while ornamental dingers trill on pines, and around fireplaces. Seasons cannot duplicate the joy of Yuletide’s awakening, for tassels of glorious cheer spill to herald a reign of winter’s Light, dressed in tinseled varnish... until the silver of evening bells tolls when heaven greets mankind, and mankind greets Emmanuel’s heaven! ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, Kelly Deschler’s Contest: Christmas Carols 12/13/2015

Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2015

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The Pain

A true poet knows
What is the pain of another poet!

Poem-writers don't understand the gravity.

They make a noise.


(The poem is dedicated to the honorable administrators of Poetry Soup)

Copyright © Sandip Goswami | Year Posted 2015

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Journey to Eternity

Even the gulls have ceased their squawking
     V-formations over eerie, calm seas
Is it you?  The ferryboat man?
     Making your way across waters without breeze

No lapping waves, sand fine as silt
     Makes no sound as I leave footprints
A misty morning, no shells crack ‘neath my feet
     The red orb rises, causes me to squint

Alone with my thoughts by the River Styx
     I sense the passage from this world to the next
My mind on heaven seems transfixed
     I stand and stare by quietude perplexed

The ferryboat man reaches shore
     A wave of his hand beckons me
Without a word I board his craft
     Before me lays the journey to eternity

Serenity comes as we cross the river
     A world without sound surrounds me
A world that I willingly choose to leave
     All senses drained now, as death I foresee

*For Paula’s “Breathe in the Silence” Contest

Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2010

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Mysterious Echo

Echoes can hide in places far and wide:
in valleys, wells, near walls, in empty rooms;
in hills and canyons and in ancient tombs.

In Chichen Itza, Mexico there stands
a Mayan pyramid, now known and named
New Wonder of the World. One mystery:
this temple built for snake god, Kukulkan,
their eminent and feathered deity, 
echoes a sound, much like a chirping bird.
A bird that represents the Mayan soul;
their spirits spoke in echoes, they believed.

The visitors can stand at bottom, clap
their hands and hear the echo of a chirp.
Sound waves create distorted callings of
their native Quetzal bird as claps reflect
upon the lengthy set of stairs above.
No puzzle that this spirit chirping from
the Pyramid of Kukulkan would speak 
in echo-voice of their most sacred bird.

Unknown if Mayans engineered this feat...
Unknown if spirits of their bird speak out...
Unknown if this is nature's sound-wave play.

In Chichen Itza, Mexico is found
a Mayan pyramid, enigma-bound.

Sandra M. Haight

~3rd Place~
Contest: Urban Legend
Sponsor: Nayda Ivette Negron
Judged: 04/30/2017

~3rd Place~
Contest: Screwed VII
Sponsor: Rob Carmack
Judged: 03/21/2016

~Honorable Mention~
Contest: A Tomb of Ancient Bloom
Sponsor: Justin Bordner
Judged: 03/13/2016
Sandra M. Haight

Written in Blank Verse which is Iambic Pentameter with no set rhyme scheme but has 10 syllables and 5 feet per line.

Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2015

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Unfortunate Singer

My friend Quigley likes to sing
Really almost any thing.
Till once a high note
Caused a blackbird to float,
Down to earth less one wing.

Copyright © Richard Breese | Year Posted 2014

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In the Shallows

           I bent over to touch my toes
               and the ground tore open like a backbone.

I tried to feed myself the sky;
to splice my tearducts into the universe 
so that, when the pavement cried, it would mean something to me.
My fingernails punctured that slimy membrane
congealed with stars, 
and I brought a slice of it to my lips,
hot and slippery like a jellyfish.
Peach juice, chalky-sweet, flowed,
fleshy particles snagged in my teeth,
and the colors erupted within my mouth.

Synthesia took over my lungs.
The hollows between my knuckles flooded with synovia
and all the ectoplasm threatened to separate from my cells
with a sound like thunder.
Diphthong tasted rusty like leukoplakia as it tiptoed across my tongue.
Tomorrow rose like the skeletons of trees, 
groping for a feeling similar to catharsis
[catharsis tender as the broken wings of doves,
crunching underfoot like shattered glass.]

The clouds opened their thunderous maws
- teeth snicker-snacking, lamplight-eyes flaming the color of E#'s -
and consumed me.
I felt my skin turn to something other than skin:
thick and rough with scales,
my fingerprints melting into something waxen, smooth and opaque,
like pomegranate kisses on coffee mugs.
A feeling ignited deep in my structure;
cedillas blossoming like lilies from my lips,
fragmented sentences stretching taut as guitar strings
between my thumb and forefingers.  
A flutter gentle and demonic as Calcifer erupted from my system
- splattering hot and frothing into my hand -
and fluid rushed in.

   I dared to taste oblivion,
       and the sky swallowed me. 

My lungs failed to be lungs.
They flooded with caustic matter,
and I coughed up reflections sharp as fiberglass;
fighting with organs phthisical and sore.
I struggled to find a way to describe it:
the feeling of consuming something greater than yourself,
of opening your eyes and tasting the sound of rain.
It was like swimming, 
but inside out.

            I bent over to touch my toes,
              and my spine tore open;
            the loose laces unraveling, veterbrae poking out
          like the tines of forks.
            I tried to contort myself into the beginning,
              but I only found where I end.

Copyright © Elizabeth Nathaniel | Year Posted 2012

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Play It

Play It

You were afraid in the beginning.
You were excited and filled with anticipation. 
But, afraid.
Just holding her in your hands was a strange experience.
Awkward, like a first kiss.
Unsure of where and how to touch.
Just how should your lips
Meet her cold and unfamiliar mouth piece?
Remember those first few notes
Screeching through space inside the band hall?
A sacred place where rhythm and note
Have coursed the air and touched 
The smallest bones of the human body
With the softest and most pleasant caress.

Become familiar with the way she feels.
Close your eyes and feel the softness of her curves.
Treat her like a lady of royal blood.
Her father has given you her hand.
There is no leaving her at the altar.
You will decide your life together.
Love her. Caress her. Kiss her softly.
Learn to move your fingers and listen to her reply.
The early sound of surprise becomes the sound of love.
Soon, you breathe as one, and the voice you hear,
The voice we hear.
Is not hers. Is not yours. But, the union of both.
And what we hear is the birth of something
Grand and glorious and beautiful!

Play it!   

Copyright © Ray Dillard | Year Posted 2010

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Spring's Commotion

that crackle

the ripple

that stir

the rustling

the patter

O Jehovah
that wonderful sound

Your beautiful noise
Your fantastic gift


Copyright © James Peranteau | Year Posted 2015

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Let the birds be silent
Let the air be poisoned
Let every sound be tormenting
Let the light be dark.

Let my flower not bloom
And my days be gloom.

Let my dream be a nightmare
And my thoughts become 
Let my pages be empty
And  my colors be dry.

Let my words sound confusing
And the sky fall to the ground.

Let my night sky be moonless
let there be no stars, Let the 
rivers run dry.

Let the sweet taste of honey be 
just memory and no bees and 
no hives.

Let me forget  life as I know it
Let me just fantasize.

My home land Lebanon was once a beautiful place to live. Now instead it's unbearable! It is consumed by noise pollution, dirt pollution, politics pollution.... our green mountains are been stripped down hardly any forest left. Only 3 % of our forests exist. Our Cities are over crowded with cars not to mention motor bikes of all kind and sizes, they appear from nowhere ready to crush you, strip you or both. Generators noisy and smelly it gets to you inside and out. Our politicians are too busy filling their pockets with green paper, fighting among each other who should get the lion's share. Sorry to say! Lebanon was known the Switzerland of the Middle East. Today we are among the most corrupted nations!

Copyright © ali hammoud | Year Posted 2012