Best Syncopation Poems
Life is a song,
incomplete, yet soothing—
lullabies lulling the world to sleep
with its balladic lilt, gently swaying
to the depths of its nomadic
syncopation.
Where I can subdue archaic
hieroglyphics in hues of
rose gold notes, invading my
tentative aura, glistening upon
tragic horizons,
for the wandering seekers,
freely waltzing to arias of the moon,
escaping unsung passages to
desolate wastelands,
where fiends roam in spite;
surviving the clusters of
rain drenched clouds,
draining the life out of
sunken nocturnes,
lost in cataclysmic paradoxes
overshadowed by waves of
monotonous soliloquy.
Yet I crave the aphotic harmonies of
its flesh and bones,
cocooned in the stillness of
shadows that align,
stonewalling the
world so bent on exposing me—
finding my true element,
inhabiting where life meets its end credits,
resuscitating sentiments long forgotten,
enabling me to breathe.
An Echo Through Time
An echo through time follows all now in kind;
It’s the moment when poets find their rhyme!
Past-Present events give us a mirror to see from,
Of what Present Perfect events have now become.
Poets must write to truth what surely they mean;
With such wondrous verses the reader shall glean!
Writing with tone, tenor and syncopation is grand,
Giving poets that mellifluous effect desired by plan.
The echo quality of a great poem bespeaks its passion,
Whilst its literary panache shall always be in fashion!
An echo reflects a poem’s true resonance by intention;
Ensuring one’s mind shifts to an intellectual dimension.
Poets’ rendezvous with this echo through time is divine;
It helps us enshrine our thoughts now in continuous time!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
November 27, 2015 (Rhymed Couplet)
I got arrhythmia
With no biz here
Still got my heart
Who could ask for anything more!
This old heart beat
Got new smart beat
Slow then fast beat
Who could ask for anything more!
My Oxidation
Has a syncopation
No resuscitation
Hangin’ round my door
With a thrum beat
Not a dumb beat
Long as some beat
Who could ask for anything more!
Who could ask for anything more!
Tear drops fall
between silent lines
carrying the tune
of this weeping melody
written on my heart’s
faded sheet music
Scales cry in sharpened flats
twisting treble clef sorrows
Candelabras drip pain
on withered fingers
roaming ivory slivers bleeding
out of tune syncopation
Unheard choruses
in three quarter sadness
wasted on black and white keys
played long after
the lid was closed
on our love
Where is that sustain pedal
when you need it?
Revolution, evolution,
Destitution, distribution,
Everything is seeking for attention
From the world at large;
Restitution, institution, possibly a
Contribution to the human race,
Seeking some kind of place
To hide from the face staring at me
From the mirror in the restoration room;
Consideration, constipation,
Does anyone want to dance the syncopation?
Embarkation to any destination
Revelation leading to salvation
Whenever the attention is found
The world goes to ground and no one is found
Looking for the resurrection not condemnation
Waiting to see the embarkation to the last port of call;
Is it easy to sail with the wind
When the wind is a hurricane and your sails are paper thin?
Did you dance with the devil when you thought you could win?
Were you seeing the dark thinking light would come in?
Modification, classification, did anyone see
The daily action that took place as a reaction
To your desecration of the institution of a leading man?
Are you looking for inspiration to continue
The stroll through your libation
While stumbling around in the dark of your mind,
Then tripping aloud in the confusion of your kind
Hearing the call to follow the true path
When salvation calls again, and the precipitation
Of the rainfall for the nation rises as you see the light
And dark fades into light as radiation filters
Toward the heart and the destination board changes
For your restitution and resurrection rises again.
Jingle-jangle bells
Sing-song syncopation
Ambulances hurtle down streets
of post-war Europe
Eerie bells; haunting bells
ghosts of round-ups, of Auschwitz
of Buchenwald, and Bergen-Belsen
sounds of death and doom
Shades drawn suddenly
blinds sealed tight
Breath held; pin-drop silence
'Till the peril passes
Bells tear at tortured souls
Dragnet's tentacles probing
Reaching for fresh corpses to feed
Insatiable crematoria ovens
Decades later, survivors flinch
hearing jingle-jangle bells
So, too, sons and daughters
living victims of inherited terror
June 02, 2019
Entry in 'What Makes You Flinch' contest
Sponsor: Julie Leigh Rodeheaver
Dawn greets the horizon, the moon lights up the sky
Magic rains nurture grasses and herbs far below
Stars twinkle in Heaven, clouds billow so high
The cosmos' stark beauty, created eons ago
Snow falls softly in Winter, flowers blossom in Spring
Fish fill the creek, deer throng the woods
Birds flock to my window, so sweetly they sing
I'd savor these scenes always, if only I could
Your fair hair and soft skin, the thrill of your touch
Your voice smoothly flowing, melodic supplication
The graceful way that you move, like angels and such
Your gifts, Nature's blessings in exact syncopation
Creation's miracles glow brightly below and above
Enshrined in your temple, their pure vessels of Love
~ The Universe Spins Round ~
Joy and Light
Shining Bright
Waves of Tranquility
Ocean to Sea
Galaxies, Suns
Combine as One
Illumine Mankind
His Cosmic Mind
Woods and Forests
Nuance and Gradation
While Winds and Rain
Bring forth Vegetation
O! The Universe spins Round
In Timeless Syncopation
While Poets scribble Madly
In Verbose Adoration
July 16, 2020
Strand Completely New (21) Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Quiet! Quiet!
No distraction or reaction
to the situation
of creation
unfolding syncopation ...
a blues distillation.
As the sax-o-phone
does groan into a tirade
the parade of ticks and tocks
licks and knocks
reverberate from the drummer,
bass strummer and pi-an-o
to congeal into real
high fueled blues.
Up and down the scales
the moan wails
a lascivious groan
lusty riffs thrown
by metal and ivory
into the ether to
sway with a sashay
under a blue moon.
LUST IS AS ILL-CONSIDERED A WEED
AS EVER STOLE SCENT
Rejected in the main as superstition -
A gadfly, I’m alone upon the weed:
A hot cinquefoil brooding on position,
Declared intent of being in need of screed -
Now the subject of each idle bee
Gorged already, needing a restful stop
What if his gyrations bring to me
No true syncopation of a honeyed hop?
Beauty – not recognised as such – I wonder
Why man and woman excavate a flower garden
Tear my fertility, so they may squander
Wild possibility, and the earth around me harden.
Can the joy I have before I’m torn asunder
Be worth it when they never ask my pardon?
(C) Rosemarie Rowley
Mysterious brain jewel radiation chamber
Prismatic refraction blue sapphire ruby emerald amber
Electromagnetic spectrum distribution
Tubular nerve net staccato syncopation
Chameleon shape blender shifter
Kaleidoscopic genetic mutation sifter
Polychromatic vector generator
Infinite recombination stimulator
Reboot jack gray matter rejuvenation
Press automatic driver repeat backbeat
Feedback reverb downbeat slack beat
Routine maintenance check
Dream sleep mode
Shut down
========================================================
Crepuscle beamed, descried at the telluric cyan orb
Dusk devoured auric daystar as lambency was absorbed
Sun's verve, twinkle immersed by the lil' murk
Permeate the newfangled burst of wavering lights in the skylark
Stupefied by the wondrous jaw-dropping milieu
Quadrilateral lunar satellite came into being ... it's true
Moonlight in turquoise, then cerulean radiance come forth
Sometimes vermilion, xanthous, amethyst in hue, real ravishing in worth
Nightfall turned into a deluxe, grandiose discotheque
Music of pyrotechnics, symphonized in grotesque
Four-sided night star trip the light fantastic
Made every cyclicity, rhythm, syncopation exotic
What a comely, ecstatic, striking, mind-glued augury
A tour in the out of this world planet, where there's no existing adversary
I am the sculptor, architect and painter of my own exquisite sunset
Twilight's ikon in my mind still in set
Written in words, penned with the mind's eye
Done through the " LIMITLESS " dye.
========================================================
A few nights before Christmas
all was quiet in the apartment
except for a few ghosts milling about in it
Before I went to bed
to rest my head
I thought of the words of a friend
who once said
You are not out of your mind
dreaming you are wide awake
not in your body but another fourth dimension
to your self please be kind
In the middle of the night
came a demanding knock
like Ebenezer Scrooge I was in a fright
Could it be just the wind
or a piece of undigested fruitcake
Could it be just my imagination
or could it be my very end
Not knowing what to do in the situation
I find myself walking in my living room
furniture was missing and the feeling was ghostly white
dead Aunt singing like Ella Fitzgerald in syncopation
The dead are here
The dead are real
Do not be afraid
The dead are on the other side-there
To the front door I went
with much anticipation
to the front portal I went
with much exasperation
But next an orange- red morning sky
the sun has risen to my surprise
in the same living room now bathe in light adorn
like a Christmas greeting card
was left on the floor a picture of me
which was not there the night before
A cat sniffs the crooked brown dough of the sullen moon;
The tempting smell of warm bread seems held by a glass sky
Old age, carefully steps on the glass, always ready to cry
Like they`d learn again to walk,holding an invisible balloon.
With glassy eyes looking at the strange baked moon,
The large dynasty of the unemployed and ex-miners,
Ecologists and readers of Bible, embarrassed beginners
Cannot "hear at a little distance", in the brown afternoon;
But a short-sighted misanthropist, observed while acting
As a conductor of the strike`s syncopation turned in syncope:
“Even the doctor with infinite awkwardness used his stethoscope;
I think, -because, no one can communicate only through feelings”
The brown cat in the street, shining eyes round about;
All cars seem gathered in the same frozen town;
The only birch tree from the hill was cut down;
Mourning neighbors live in their permanent doubt
To protest against solitude, and so many noisy cars;
And obviously, too many accidents in the town;
“Wait on the zebra…Don`t cross Mr. Brown!”
Lonely crowds, picture of still life with cellulars…
Seasons buried the face in tired brown fountains,
Long dirty brown drifts of snow and brown sensations
Step with ugly brown clay, and let traces for generations,
Because, cyanide used to pull gold from Red Mountains;
Everybody is in such a brown hurry towards nowhere.
Halt!Mr. Brown looks for his cat; the firemen help him to sit.
The cat climbed the moon, ready in a hurry to taste it;
Winter and cat stay with claws out;silence and the brown vault.
FOR A FRACTION OF FOREVER
Do you ever feel through forever and remember me?
A vibrant me who vowed the Vienna we would visit on vacation
And share the space of one stool set aside serendipity
When your wishes would be the only legal tender
While tenderness tamed torment
Do you recall the message our souls united once sent?
Anyone who saw us knew
Anyone who saw us saw only you
For you commanded one’s stare
With golden hair woven of wonder
And eyes that call to mind a sky you soared when you were only ten
With a sun that wished you ever back to when
When fickle snowflakes flicked themselves off a forest’s foliage
And love arrived in a slay pulled by two dreams and one reality
Everything else
In actuality
Becomes a triviality
For triumph becomes trivial when it tries to outshine the aura of an angel
Be that angel you
Be that angel true
That I might flight to take with you
And make with you a home formed from the fantasy of forever
And the beating heart of a flower plucked from the prettiest part of perpetuity
And granted its grace unto you
A lady whose eyes birthed blue
And whose gaze grows by the phase of the moon
That syncopation and a sultry song might swoon
But songs fade
Music becomes mistiness
And the band bows to the bewilderment of twilight
When, as surely as night falls
A question calls
Do you ever find me in the center of forever?
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