Best Tone Poems
Lived it
Like a daydream
Sunlit!
Faintly
Floated - Befell
Quaintly.
A note
Scented in love
She wrote.
Maurice Yvonne
11~28~2014
Sponsor: nette onclaud
Contest Name: WHISPERS OF A MUSE
Once you filled the room which hollow for a moment
Couples of days before new year eve we indirectly met
Hilarious to remember how we know and admire each other that day
Without knowing it won't last forever
One song... One song keep chanting me back to the memory of you
The song of blue sky collapse
Year goes by, first, second and more
Each of my story buried you without trace
Until today you seek me through the mailbox
Simple words as "happy birthday" and more words as "still think about you"
Surprised, touched, even mine still one more day to go
You missed the day, but you caught my yearn
Thousands words would I type to reply
But the fact my hands stoned
I missed you even more, sealed beyond these words
But don't know how to say nor expressed it through the blank page
Once you filled this hollow room
Once I ever loved you
But I found my better way... better life...
And decide not to look back
January 7, 2013
Dedicated to the person who ever dwell within the past of my sweet memory...
Author's Note:
If you want this poem to be perfect to be read, I suggest you to open this link; https://soundcloud.com/adhitiasofyan/blue-sky-collapse
"Blue Sky Collapse - Adhitia Sofyan" and hear it along while you read this poem, this is my favorite song and I drown already :)
Tone down the intensity
Is like telling the sun
Not to reach its zenith
Of blazing, scorching heat
Or telling the waterfall
Just as it is ready to gush
Down in a tumult of
Freshness to hold back
At the edge
Or telling the volcano
Seconds away from erupting
Hot molten lava
To reingest the heat
And lie dormant
Or telling the tsunami
That is rushing headlong
To the shoreline
To recede back into
Nothingness and let go
Of its momentum of power
Or the shooting star
To not leave a sparkling trail
As the friction with air
Causes it to burn in brilliance
But to remain motionless
A pale light
On a dotted black sky
Tone down the intensity
For a person who embodies it
Is like telling nature to stand still
With bated breath
When all it wants to do
Is burst into a song of celebration.
Tone down the intensity?
Not a chance…
Tone UP the capacity
To live life!
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Shirt says runs with scissors
Hat says shut up woman
First day of kindergarten
Parents have already set the tone
Child knows swear words
Uses them proudly
Anticipating loud laughter
Crestfallen and confused
When it does not happen
Sad lonely eight-year-old
No birthday party invites
No children allowed to play with him
Set up for failure before he learned his letters
Parents angry
School did not fix him
We tried to let him know he was not broken,
But he already believed he was
P oets are a special breed
O bsessed with how each line reads
E ver seeking the perfect rhyme
T aking oodles and oodles of time
S o the finished product peals and chimes
There things education should give
Pain and despair, and
The other the spirit of quit.
I'm afraid of my cell phone I confess
"Someone" changed the ring tone to cause me stress
While I took a nap
He switched it to rap
Now when my phone rings I'm really a mess
"Someone" being my grandson Jordan..
I finally got him to change it back...lol
For the Techno-Limerick contest
The tone in her voice told me I had gone to far,
the tear down her cheek another scar
inflicted upon an already bruised loving heart.
The look in her eyes cause me to shudder,
the clench of her jaw arouses a twitch of her lip,
to quell and dissipate words she would love to spew,
but will not,
instead, scream into deep recesses of her brain.
The stoop of her shoulders, hands balled into fists drilled into her waist
with legs spread taunt,
all positive signs to find an escape route.
As I turn and crawl away I hear her say,
if you were not a baby, there would be the devil to pay.
There was not anything I could say,
at nine months,
language was scheduled for another day,
so I just went about my way,
next time I see mom, she will give me a hug, everything again okay.
Until the next time.
Time does our earth presence sever
But the post office is clever
And offers for sale
For its eternal mail
A stamp that is good forever
Author's note: The idea that anything associated with this planet will be consumed "forever" is peculiar and laughable. It is also destructive in that business holds the truth in shadows.
I chug upward
as the air
thins, the sky
blues the stars.
Then it, at the peak,
stops. Music
is not like life.
Envisioning the rhythm of time,
when the now point arrives
there is no view.
I have to tumble
slide down
letting out
the melody
of my breath.
Stillbirth neither won
Gullible becomes the pun…
Cell phone cries to stun
Oboe
don't step on toes
in a way people knows.
No, no. Oboe semi-wails, moans,
alto reality, beauty, sometimes
scarce sense of order but deep sense
of vibe. Oboe don't step
on toes. Toes need
oboe.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nancy Jones
5/31/12 or therabouts
"Sound of Emotion"
Morning sky woke up
Golden and Indigo frames
After Super Moon
leaden bows scour quavering cellos – lithely lilting violins
28 Dec 2017
Species sundry sentential
Line the lost lowered loft
Whose weary wayward-ceiled
Roof raises itself over the lot:
The diverse specimen bottles of pharmaceutic potations,
Mortared and mixed as by the Hawthornean sawbones
And apothecary, yclept, poetically rendered: "The Quack Haunted."
(Aye,) Haunted and hunted he was, by that vile old crone,
Whose life he did not decrease one iota nor span,
With the ingested application of one of his odious elixirs,
By the harridan so quaffed.
Yet, the obstreperous host of the soldierly soldiery of dozens of nations,
Yclept herein by the appellation, "Plagiarism," they fairly encroach upon
The tableau naught but ominously.
And thus ominous be also the tone of this,
Which 'tis my most perfervid and prayerful hope that
'Tis utterly unclassifiable, unidentified and unidentifiable.
I do not care for the onerousness of being pinned down,
For living up to the hoary and draconian standards of the vast
Collect of poetry-of poetries.
This I will not brook.
(But before I end this ebullient and elliptical encomium,
I must turn once again to that species of alliterativeness that
Provided the nutriment for it and me: the "grist for my mill,"
As the archaic idiom has it: )
Therefore, these things
Have henceforth
Come casually
To their
End.