Best Sound Out Poems
*** COME POETRY ***
Belle Poetry! Be kind!
I am already exhausted
From long passed hours
Taking dictation from you — I am
But human and sometimes fragile,
While you often come divine.
Sister Poetry! Even as I listen
To music by composer Andre Rieu, to help
Waltz words across these pages,
I plead with you, seeking
To grip, grasp, hunt, hold, seize, and
Assign apt words to their deft places…
Be kind! Impart the sequence of syllables
Clearly to my tired mind, so they will
Play well in their penned flow,
To turn Poetry’s wish to written wine —
Felt imagery; being true in wisdom;
Creative in expression; vibrant.
With a similar kind of invitation,
Ravel takes us away in imaginings, while
Traveling the rise in his Bolero,
Captive to the mounting repetition —
Music to motion. Expression to power.
Inspirations…A ready harvest in the heart.
Desiring Poetry, send here your printed score
To sound out as easily as does a pluck of
A violin’s string to begin a concerto;
Or humming a hymn may bring peace to a room.
Speak on in dreams! My pen awaits,
Listening even when near a nod to needed sleep.
Eager Poetry, life’s “Alleluia”
First coarses through you
In the displays of wonder; in all the consequences
Of emphatic things done; and of your intuited
Knowing in progress and process with the All
Collective unconscious — from clouds to clarity
As God with first thought made
The first word.
——Dedicated to the souls who hold the address of poetry within them, with all its bliss and pain, my sisters and brothers living in perception. ———-—————————————————————————————————————
(c) sally young eslinger 10/3/22
Thanks be to God
If my meter were sweeter could I be the star of the show
I struggle with getting it right – I know I’ve a long way to go
I sound out the syllables but where is the stress
Apart from in my brain - oh I make such a mess
'Foot’ or ‘feet’ aren’t the limbs that I see
Iambic pentameter – its French and Greek to me!
Da DAH Da Da DAH ... it’s ringing in my head
Oh I’ve had enough so I’m going back to bed
10th April 2015
when autumn’s last but long exhale
left mists of winter in its trail
her thoughts turned to the past to look
at greenway and the paths she took
where reading signs inside her skies
she'd dream up deaths and alibis
along the short cuts through the wood
with thoughts of stabbings and of blood
while hemlock often made her think
of slipping coniine inside drink
then with the breathless views behind
a choking often came to mind
though with the river dart in view
her thoughts would turn to drowning too
and passing by the greenway bell
she'd sound out bludgeoning as well
then muse once at the greenway gates
of ordeals, follies, pigs and fêtes
before she'd vanish through her door
to ‘kill’ some time and write some more.
At times I've filled in a 200 page pad in a day
Yet I still had more to say
I've always liked rhyming I just find it fun
My mind is always thinking so there isn't a time when my rhymes are done
Even when I'm writing simple rhymes
You'd lose your mind by some of the things my pencil finds
I like being lyrical so sometimes I'm Bending words
I won't always rhyme with the ending word
You couldn't keep count of the pieces of paper that my pen gets through
I make a beautiful story out of the ugliness that men step through
Sometimes I like to switch it up and use rhymes that are multi syllable
I've still not yet gone fully lyrical
I grew up listening to the thoughts of Nas and the rhymes of Rakim
So you can't compete with the lines I'm jotting
Blasting Wu Tang and Big Pun to sound out the screams and sadness
Constantly trying to come up with new ideas, rhyme schemes and patterns
Loving Hip-Hop got me to start writing double rhymes
I picked up a pen and rhyming saved my troubled mind
I've always liked rhyming I just find it fun
Time to start my next poem so my rhymes aren't done
Amadioha the great god of Thunder and Justice
We have gathered at the shrine of Alusi’gwe
To pour libations to you
Even as I do my folk song
Bring me the ogene, to awaken the spirit of my
Forbearers to witness the doomsday they foretold
Give me the udu, to sound out a warning to the futureman
Give me the oja, the special voice of oganigwe the dreaded masquerade
Give the shekere, so that the women of owu can shake their enchanted waist
In love and tranquillity we lived with our neighbours, doing our folk song
Buddha called out to Lord Brahman
Set aside a room for me in the inner chamber
Decorated with beautiful ornaments, to depict love and care
Flanked with candles and incense burner and the beautiful statue of the wise man
To help me escape from the corruption of this world
As I attempt to wake from hatred of neighbours
Focusing on love and purity of heart
Allow me do my folk song living in tranquillity with nature and neighbours
Christed you said you are, servant of the son of God sent from above
Your brother claimed that you are a messenger from Allah
What is this confusion I see, contradicting even your folk song
You came with a sweet tongue of love, yet all I see is terrorism and
A holy war fought by crusaders crushing the bones of the unbelievers
Those who worship idols yet lived a life akin to nature – a life of love
You have created a polarised world of Christed men with less shame for evil
Of religious women without morals
Of Ulamas who feed on the sweat of Almagiris
Oh Christ! is this the gospel you preached on the street of Nazareth?
O! Mohamed is this the Rasuul you preached in Mecca
O! God what we do in your Name, we should be afraid of doing even in the dark
Allow me to return home
To my folk song
In African theism, to the shrines of Alusi’gwe,
To do my folk song with Oganigwe the beautiful masquerade
To solicit corn and groundnuts from old women with sagging breasts
Chasing the kids with a whip in my hand as I wear the mask of the spirit
A spirit of sportsmanship, of equity and love, of fair play and brotherhood.
Allow me do my folk song
I have a lover too
Thousand or maybe millions of people
Out there
But my heart only longs for this lover
This lover's love has come to me
Even before my tiny feet touch the ground
Starting from inside the womb
Hearing the rhythm
Lup dub lup dub lup dub
I have fell in love with this lover
The fear in you may stop you from falling in love with anything
But no one have been missed out from his eyes
Nothing can't hold you back from falling for him
You are not an exceptional either
Always, whispers seem to sound out from my lips
Together with this lover who sticks in my head all day long
Singing a song
Every day I'm with him
Every second his voice should hit my both eardrums
Every single word that stucked
Somewhere in the midway of my throat
He speaks them all out
Sometimes he brings out the most brightest lamp
Which shines on my gloomy face
And sometimes streams of river out of my eyes
He forces them which is a like a big well
Been built in me ages ago
A pair of wings he gives me
To fly high out of my circle to reach out
Beautiful people, beautiful stories
Beautiful places
I got to see them all from here
Time to be alone awaits me most of time
With ear plugs fixed on my ears
My lover , he is my partner
Just because of him, another name born
I'm a melomaniac.
My lover is everywhere
Every breath
Every heart beat
Every cell
Every vessels
Every nerves
Every moment
He is in there all of mine
From birth till death.
The BELLS * * *
Resonating
Along that weaving of our days
Past the encroaching darkness
And its wishes to spoil, to wilt
Whatever good it touches; and
How it recedes
With the ringing of the bells
Of Faith: music declaring
Our most Holy Lord’s power;
Calling out his children, loyal
In the fight for Good.
The bells call God’s warriors
To prayer, in the tapestries
Of our days; to raise devotions
To his omnipotent glory; and to
Praise the name of Jesus Christ,
Son and savior, creator of light.
Bells, to sound out his dominion,
In majestic ringing; to gather
His church, to hear our calling
In our gifted souls; to ever choose
Paths in obedience to his purpose,
Not our own desiring wants.
For we are created to edify and
Enhance. Each of us, according to
Our endowed talents, is —
By the weaving of our choices —
Here to color in some mark
Of beauty
Into the tapestry of our being
With God...God Alone...
———————————————————————
(c) sally young Eslinger 5/23/21
Thanks be to God
Soft, sweet words lay dormant
Awaiting that special moment
When I can pull them out of their closet
Press them with the heated iron
And lie them in a row, like pearls
Connected only by a chain of sterling
Silver, organizing each sacred dream
Whispers of nouns, verbs and adjectives
There amid sentences quite sensible
And some that long to be finished with
Some bright, vivid, colorful verses
Filled with phenomenal expressions
While others seem more like questions
With short, pleasing answers there, too
Limericks sing from the rhythms found here
Amid some of the better choruses I hint at
Surviving the editor’s pen when it’s winning
Erasing saccharine visions of fancies and fantasy
Feelings that would never become realities
Even though they buzz through my history
Like a bumble bee searching for nectar in me
Sonnets sound out from the depths of my pen
Sweating with beads of salt that actually reveals
The truth of their imagination and foresight
Admissions of genuine devotion alive within
Sharing a promise of what should be coming
If the world will only open its eyes and awaken
The joy found inside a silky, burning poem
Odes cry out to be written down and read
By someone who knows what is going on in my head
Perhaps a sensitive soul who can see the blushes
Happening when I spew out romantic verses
Or paint a beautiful sunset across the mountains
So tender and sensual, alive to my poetry in ways
That open up the doors to the backstreets of my mind
September 23, 2019
In the backstreets of my mind Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
He taunted me with hope
When there was no hope for us.
We were past, the past
Gone from today and tomorrow,
Boldy planted in the memories who haunted
Me like summer haunts the autumn
Or sunshine haunts the rain’s relentless falling
He taunted me with the chance
When there wasn’t a chance in this world.
We were the dearly departed, without
Being morbid, - we were the dead, the emptiness
Drove its soundless nail into our coffin,
A coffin of hopes and dreams and prayers –
And, oh yes – more memories than I could pronounce,
Memories that were devoted to making me sound out
The P A S T - the passing of the PAST
He taunted me with blood bought and blood sought
Feelings, those that crave the attention of light,
Soft and gentle, feeding the hopes with faith, even though
There is no chance… the betrayal is complete, it’s over
He taunted me with life but I could not breathe!
It was torturous… the fading of light in the eyes,
The familiar hope, unsatisfied… forever words meeting
With forever doubt, forever gone, forever numb
Emptied of the past, I fell beneath the surface of a ending
Where I could only remember the beginning…
Mocking the dead, I lie stiff in my casket of pain
Worried without worrying, remembering without remembering
Shedding all my dreams into faded colors of ebony,
Everything changed to gray and I finally could see the truth
In him, there in his eyes, I could only see a glimpse of me,
The me who had believed and the me who could now see…
In the past, that is where we would forever agree to disagree
Acoustic Shadows 4-8-26 Craig Cornish
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Acoustic Shadows
As screen doors slam an audible footprint of sound
Echoes in phonics of ice in glasses
And tinkling bells of ice cream trucks.
The solstice ripens
Growing large in the splash of rainbirds
And telltale whirr of hummingbirds at feeders
As humidity buzzes, the breath of summer’s envoys
Sound out a boneless resonance
With chords that tease and tantalize
Alluring in fleeting notes hatching hazy inklings.
Haunting memories of a solstice oratorio renewed,
Veiled in the caress of a mirage,
Reverberate in noisy shimmers of Luna’s fullness.
Ripples of ghostly illusions speak in clues
Like bards of déjà vu
When sounds trickle down furrows of skin and soil
Leaving hints that foreshadow dusky shades
Recalling the hum of warmth in cold bones
And cues that foretell of the season of crickets.
Walk the wooden deck
of the boat I was tied and shackled to.
Feel the sun as it reaches down to
the cotton fields I have picked, burns the ground and singes
the skin dark as the night that
calls for us all to find our freedom.
Hold the chains that weigh on my soul
and bind me to the man we are forced to call master.
Trace the scars on my back that tell
the story of how my will was broken,
stepped on and left to die in a place
only my ancestors can call their home, which I
can only describe as a long story
forgotten, and the tellers too far
gone for their words to be heard.
Look through my tired weary eyes that have
seen too many scenes of red tears, last breaths
and grave diggers to last one too many generations.
Come sit, turn on the oil lamp who is
too weak to even give off the illusion of something bright
squint your eyes and sound out the letters
connect each word, form each sentence
that read out the directions to finding our freedom.
Abstraction is an old story with the philosophers, but it has been like a new toy in the hands of the artists of our day. Why can't we have any one quality of poetry we choose by itself? We can have in thought. Then it will go hard if we can't in practice. Our lives for it.
Granted no one but a humanist much cares how sound a poem is if it is only a sound. The sound is the gold in the ore. Then we will have the sound out alone and dispense with the inessential. We do till we make the discovery that the object in writing poetry is to make all poems sound as different as possible from each other, and the resources for that of vowels, consonants, punctuation, syntax, words, sentences, metre are not enough. We need the help of context- meaning-subject matter. That is the greatest help towards variety. All that can be done with words is soon told. So also with metres-particularly in our language where there are virtually but two, strict iambic and loose iambic. The ancients with many were still poor if they depended on metres for all tune. It is painful to watch our sprung-rhythmists straining at the point of omitting one short from a foot for relief from monotony. The possibilities for tune from the dramatic tones of meaning struck across the rigidity of a limited metre are endless. And we are back in poetry as merely one more art of having something to say, sound or unsound. Probably better if sound, because deeper and from wider experience.
Then there is this wildness whereof it is spoken. Granted again that it has an equal claim with sound to being a poem's better half. If it is a wild tune, it is a Poem. Our problem then is, as modern abstractionists, to have the wildness pure; to be wild with nothing to be wild about. We bring up as aberrationists, giving way to undirected associations and kicking ourselves from one chance suggestion to another in all directions as of a hot afternoon in the life of a grasshopper. Theme alone can steady us down. just as the first mystery was how a poem could have a tune in such a straightness as metre, so the second mystery is how a poem can have wildness and at the same time a subject that shall be fulfilled.
To sing out the Star Spangled Banner
In the most appropriate manner
You must have four
To sound out more
And highlight that new fangled scanner
Jellied eels and pie n mash.
East London Fair, and that’s a fact.
The Dockers hands, and the pearly kings.
Their romance gone, the truth it stings.
The Bow Bells ring, they sound out loud.
Cockney chests, they puff out proud.
Not much left of old world London town.
Inside office blocks our city drowns.
The rhyming slang, used to confound.
It hid the truth, of lies abound.
The gifted few, they understood.
They kept those coppers under hood.
Up the Apples and pears, mind your plates of meat.
Meant up the stairs and watch your feet.
The law never knew, they couldn’t make it out.
We watched their faces and saw their doubt.
The slang we used was not just for fun.
It kept us on our toes, not on the run.
Old London's gone it has changed its face.
For better or worse it's now a different place.
We've had the rough. We've had the smooth.
This place has changed, with times it's moved.
Like or not this is London Town.
The times have changed, but she'll not let you down.
She'll take you in, she'll hold you tight.
Embrace her heart, enjoy the light.
We'll start from the beginning
A little bit of Ah and Awe
Sound out the consequential consonants
Speak low? Speak up!
Don't forget to roll your R's!
First verbs in present tension
Know your diphthongs and declensions
Vocabulary, adjectives, et, ad nauseam
That doesn't sound right
Did you forget to roll your R's?
Soon we practice in the forum
Painting words with such decorum
Past to present, transitive to direct objects
I object to this torture
Now don't forget to roll your R's..
Are we fluent yet? What?
No you can't give up on the Ovid just yet!
This is ridiculous, why not take Spanish instead of her mother
Good thing you can roll your R's
------------
This might not fall under Didactic...but I wasn't entirely sure. I'm not an expert.
This is kinda how I feel while taking Latin lessons.