Cacophonies Poems

hermit

ascetic
monk cloistered in isle
searching light
through prayer
freed from world’s cacophonies
for his inner peace


Contest Title: Spin A Shadorma Contest
Sponsor: Nette Onclaud
Date: June 5, 2025    6.29am

Through The Eyes Of Babes

Filtering through the empty broken balconies along the rivieras
are the waning cacophonies echoing monotonous songs, 
“Merciless they are to us at the breaking of dawn”
Where life once thrived, we arrived in the city called the strip, 
an open-air prison, an amphitheater without any spectators                 
insight, although the world is watching 
We trudge onto yet another camp
The sun brings nothing, not anything more than light 
that shines upon a smokey sky
I see more of nothingness, space, void, rubble 
Everything is foreign and everyone has changed
All are cold, scared, and hungry, we walk aimlessly
In the hands of anyone unknowing if he or she's sane 
There is so much fear, I am no longer safe
A new reality has come upon me
To the smell of death should I adapt?
A new day has dawned, morning has broken
Echoes pick up murmurs of others tears long spent
sifting through these ruins where I hide 
Unattended unattached, no time for a sigh,
cry, or yawn, I am zombie like
The unrest of the last night has begun again
The recent blood red scenes now past
Yesterday's echoes filter one more reality
Will it be me today?

Until Then

An orison to hope
Shattered into smithereens
Its keened tongues and teeth gnash and lament
A despairful cry of a cutthroat womb.

Cacophonies cry out
Cellos and violins bow, inexorable and unforgiving
Until then, of their finale the southern bells will ring;
A testimony that God has returned.

Savior of humanity,
Entwine us with arms that bleed 
For those arms' warmth and nurture
Extricates us from a demise with a lamenting dissonance.

Ready to be Swallowed

A giant road is emerging. My sandy path 
is ready to be swallowed. Gambol, amble, 

ramble, saunter, stride… My way knows
a variety of my gaits. This is a stamped 

path in my gene as an elephant corridor. 
It’s open for the rat snakes, mongooses,

cats, and men. When I lose my way, no 
one will come to me. The machine claws 

won’t shiver when they pluck my black 
plum tree on the wayside. My silence 

will be deluged by the motor cacophonies.
The hullabaloos will petrify the birds and  

my poetry. The tortoise lying on the grass 
with its head inside serenity is unaware of

the imminent doom. Already molded 
in loss, I can keep up my sangfroid.



First published in The Literary Hatchet (issue 30).
The first prize winning poem in the Poetry Nook Weekly Contest.

Daily Concert

Along cacophonies of front bands, I’ll play harps for all my apples.

The hand

Lo the hand from heaven descends among the cacophonies of the puppers

All at once, all is silence. The scritches from the divine hand marking the movement of the horrid itch

On Catching the Flu - Ifl

A thousand drummers playing drums
within my head, 
like firecrackers bursting, 
Rivers of (whatever) oozing out, 
Trickling eyes, prickling nose, 
Snee..achoo!..zing...and sneezing...and sneezing! 
Every muscle aches, 
Feeling fatigued and flushed, 
Puffy eyes, stuffy nose, 
Bouts of throaty cacophonies come out uninvoked , 
Body sore, mood sourer.. 
Even the bed seems uncomfortable, 
Pain deludes, sleep eludes (snuffle!) 
Inflamed glands fight ill-famed flu, 
Tasteless food, faceless foe, endless distress, 
Don't come near! This is contagious! 
Life is drear, this is outrageous! 
Eyes flowing, nose-blowing! 
And I feel like... 
Chasing this flu away. 


9th Feb 2023


For Charles Messina's "I felt like" contest

Poe In Perpetuity

deck is stacked with black cats
   hungry and forlorn
      pressing in

   bolts of thunder -
blinded with cacophonies

   the ace of spades -
fear, bad luck, hatred, war
worry lines, frowns, battle torn 

     coal, night, pitch -
the starry night, disoriented
         lost in oblivion 

newgate’s knocker -
prison bars, color drained
from countenance, no kiss
   in the abyss

midnight, a dog’s guts -
no clouds, moonless, open
   to the elements

the iron cast - seasoned
   to death

   ebonic plague -
a poet’s drowning in ink
              &
someone’s lighting a fire
      under 
the chimney sweep

8/3/2022

Poetry Is Powerful

"Poetry” is a most powerful instrument 
like a flute that is to be played.
Also, it is a pungent possibility 
like a newly created perfume put on.
Yet, free to all, and for all to wear.
This is to be adorned, and is
one of the most of the highest of solemn calls.
Words that are spoken and then engraved,
never to be forgotten or ignored.

It can reshape the world 
that is in pieces and so, so torn.
A restorative medicine 
to a life that is very, very worn.
An elixir of life and 
a healer of lives beset by strife.
A lifter of our inner thoughts 
and our buried emotions.

A fire-works of explosions 
raising us up to a newer dimension.
A reversal of cacophonies, 
man-made devastations.
Words of pretty portraits and musical orchestras 
of artistical words:
Seamed stitched and woven and fashionably embroidered.
Also, made into a steely shining sword.

Together Still

Far away from our little village
In the middle of green paddy field
On the small mound the banyan tree was
Beneath calm and sweet shadow of green leaves
On the lap of this old giant tree
You and I were only there for our twin loving soul
Strangler figs were spreading all around of us
Flock of sparrows and tailor-birds were came to play with figs
Through the chirping and far loving speech of flute
My head was on your lovely lap
You cared my black silky hair by your soft finger
You drew fingers line on my face
Your lips penned best graph on my lips
My nose smelled fragrance of jasmine, tuberose, gardenia from you

And now 
In this house you and I are alone
Balcony touches the green leaves of coconut tree
No parrots, no nightingales, no sparrows are around of us
Cacophonies of crows make us tired
My bald head is on your lovely lap
Now your old loving fingers care my white beard 
Although no hair of juvenescent 
The head and shrunk face still get your love
Kiss comes with tears of old age
As if we live as cast away dove


-October 22, 2018 Chattogram



////
written on the sense of my old grandparents

Thoughts Unlimited

confusion, memory, poets, mind, thoughts, man, writing

THOUGHTS UNLIMITED© +
	
My mind is unlimited I am told
Forever craving a thought to hold
Even has an over active drive-way
For all thoughts shuffled my way

Stream-lined mind-tools are ‘drilled’ to mold a mirror image
Lost memories lead to question one-minded traveler's ‘mental’ range 
Headaches set to ‘blow a mind’ far into deep cavern insanity
And all given minds do seek answers to human mortality
My evolving mind has playhouse T.V’s. ‘set’ to multi-power drive 
And shows in (all sizes) up to one big screen high-definition ‘live’
Minds sweep with rhythmic pictures at smells, tastes and sightings
Set down into slowed ‘cacophonies’ of thought match-booked writings!

Winter

A skein of Canadian Geese
fly above snow laden treetops;
Wave after wave crossing the sun
impelled by internal instincts.
Their discordant cacophonies
impel eyes on the ground upward:
young children pause their snowball fights;
Adults halt shoveling their sidewalks;
Motorists at intersections
crane their heads through open windows
straining to see their journey south.
Inharmonious honks fade away
Leaving anserine memories
and winter’s crystalline silence.

A Seagull's Plight

a resilient soul
hoists his drooping wings
dreary but dreamy
soars far
so high
he keeps on searching for his illusive dreams
regardless of the storm and height of mountains
goes through miles away
in his equanimity
straight with vision of sunrays
on  plight are failures
not too bad
tries again
the mighty swords in his heart
so much patience and love help him to survive
in every  vicissitude and kinks of his life
oftentimes
we  can get the melody of what we want
if we  allow the cacophonies to come



Dec. 5, 2012

Form: Suzette Prime

First Place
Contest: Suzette Prime: Prime Numbers and Philosophy
Judged: 12/14/2012
Poet Sponsor: Suzette Crous

August Jazz

August were the moments we partook
During the preceding night
My eyes dissolved into cacophonies
Of everlasting rivulets
Fate never before
Had glistened so vividly
The beauteous exchange
‘twas the spate of arias betwixt us
Gradually the nexus continued to cleave

Breath Away

Visual cacophonies: I witness
     Them, blithe and impaired-smouldering like a 
 Cigarette. Phoenix, to rise from ashes
     Is irrelevance; flame is far from a
Necessity to warmth, though I am no
     Prometheus with bruises of the mind.
It has wavered too long, taken too slow
     To only find it has been wasted time
(And the time peices are all unfriendly here).
     They, unreliable and tepid, take
The breath away from me-it idles there,
     Steaming from exposure, cursed and fake.
There lacks a subtle hinting waif to speak
Of all unglories of a Heart that's weak.




"Breath Away"
Jenna-Nichole Conrad
Wordsmith

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