Cadences Poems | Examples

Bamboo

Grant me rest under your lissome stems
Let me hide from the raindrops — shiny globules
That drip with tropical hauteur,
Rain that harms the ribs with cold rebukes.
Welcome me within your greenish lair, from
Your cane roots to your starry leaves —I insist on visiting
In your prime, so fresh with dew and so green, like
The envy in the gritty eyes of singed composts,
When waving rays of the shifting sun
Bathe the narrow venues formed by adjoining stems
Up, up and up the stairs and dome of the jungle.
I pray to shoot up with you and befriend the skies.
Oh, such elevation!
Fill my gourd with green wine;
Make me drunk with the spewing colours of life.
My heart is open to receive light —from misty dawn to
Dusk crowned with your blessing.
Let it rain on, I pray.
My palms are spread out like your leaves — I borrow the
Innocence of your frondescence.
Carve me flutes from your nodes, and, from them
Raise the cadences for summons, to be accompanied by
Drums fashioned by hands greased by the gifts of
The forests. . . .
Raise the joy, the frenzy, the tone of the ceremony
Raise, raise . . . upheave them
To royal heights — such as yours.

Dream-Drunk Love

You’ve lived through loss—
you’ve battled unuttered shame—
yet you hold onto Love like it is more 
than a Delusion—it is Honor—precious 
and rainbow-like—shimmery and 
shadowy all in one. 

You speak to her with Soul, 
truths that seem simple—
truths that survive in warm hands,
in melodies, 
in cadences, 
in overtones, 
in steady Voice.

You are creased at the edges
like a letter read too many times,
but your words—
your words are both 
soft lanterns and sunlight—
lit from somewhere deeper than breath.

Some people are put here
to hold others when they cry,
to remind them that they are still real—
still seen, still envisioned, still worth
writhing, weaving weights of 
Dream-drunk Love. 





3.3.25

I could hear any music, their sensual lyrics rhyming with the beats

I could hear any music, their sensual lyrics rhyming with the beats,
Cadences rising and falling, calling my steps to sway gently,
I wonder if I will ever find a symphony that feels like it belongs to me,
To immerse myself in its rhythm, to let its harmonies lull my thoughts to sleep.
I seek that dreamy softness to bloom amidst this noise,
Its distinct melody making me aware of the heart I ignore by day,
Which I push aside in the daily tumult, lost in the rush of time,
A sound to awaken me to myself, to remind me who I am.
I hear songs at every turn I make, foreign echoes surrounding me,
But I seek that slow and gentle symphony I can call home,
A sonic refuge where silence intertwines with harmony, and my soul dances,
A place of my own, where the rhythm of life becomes a warm and eternal embrace.

The Undying

Unbound Verse**

Words flow free, like water's gentle sway,
Unchained by rhyme or meter's strict decree.
A river of thought, meandering with ease,
Expressing depths, unfettered and at ease.

No measured beats restrict its rhythmic stride,
No forced cadences mar its natural stride.
It dances with the soul, a graceful flight,
Unburdened by the confines of the night.

Like whispers carried on the wind's soft breath,
Free verse weaves tales of joy, despair, and death.
It paints emotions in vibrant hues untold,
A tapestry of feelings, raw and bold.

In its unbound freedom, truth takes flight,
Unveiling secrets hidden from the light.
It speaks of dreams and hopes, both grand and small,
And echoes voices that reverberate through all.

So let the words flow unrestrained and wild,
In free verse's embrace, untamed and mild.
For in its boundless realms, the soul finds grace,
A sanctuary where thoughts find their rightful place.

The Night Sedans

Lumbar ladies stroll by as the night sedans plunder the ho-dad hostels.
Looking to find nothing except another dozing cigarette beyond the cadenzas.
Another hot afternoon in suburbia with the repeated barkings of a distant dog.
Billy boy in his red asphalt-eating machine turns the dial to San Bernardino. 
There is cool music bobbing in the hot accepting winds, south of Dragons Head.
In smoggy Corona, the dizzy Volkswagens travel in circles like demented dogs. 
Billy boy guns the engine as he and the Mexican chick cruise in a ’67 beetle.
They pass the Chuck Wagon, as Slim Harpo melts the sun with Little Liza Jane.
Traffic signals, and the elderberry trees, pretend to dance to the muted cadences. 
The hot afternoon winds play their own love-games as Billy boy comes to a stop.
Brown-eyed señorita with long hair flowing tells Billy boy to turn up the sound.
‘Music is life,’ she says, as the red asphalt-eating machine turns left at 6th Street.
Lumbar ladies stroll by now as the night sedans receive the night’s embrace.
At City Park, Billy and his latin lady sleep soundly in the cottonwood darkness.

Poetic Diversion For Violin And No Orchestra

Poetic Diversion For Violin And No Orchestra 

planet shoes tiptoeing 
in cadences known to the mourning cloaks
their soft landings on spread petals
teach infinite lessons with splendid hot swishes
fan-tailing silently the unseen cricket kisses 
rising and soaring like pepper tree phantoms 
saying life is a slow dance in the moonlight
tall earring girl with perfume music blaring 
penetrates the soft garden with red fantail kisses
turning the world around with splendid hot swishes 
desperately embracing the pepper tree phantoms
planet shoes tiptoeing

ORGANIC verbal - sketch

words
emerge organically
as blossom
from
inspiration
&
 embrace
a
natural
placement
to
visually
   evolve
into
verse
in
a harmonious
dance
twixt content
& form

unfurling
  as a flower
in the sun
on
the emotional landscape
 of  symbiotic
         thought

becoming
a
rich tapestry
perceivable
    wordplay
indentation
spacing &
line break
 woven cadences
  of expressive
effect

Autumn Is Here

Autumn, the present season
Changes of cadences and colors
It's a very charming time
Which only lies in errors.

The leaves are no longer green
Except those of the everlasting firs
A large number of sentinel birds
Leave, because they are less alert.

Fall is a beautiful and dark season
Which is between the cool and the cold
It's time to decorate the homes
For the feasts of the believers, and for the loas.

Autumn is here; the leaves are falling
On the damp lawns and on the graves
Winter will be more severe this year
And the buds will be absent on the glaciers.

Autumn is picturesque and melancholic
The ladies start to hide their bodies
Bit by bit. The smiles become dramatic
As we celebrate the living and the dead.

Copyright © October 2020, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poetry.

This is a translation of the poem: 'L'Automne Est Là' by Hebert Logerie

Athwart

Athwart

Child:
Look! My dear mother, the serene summit of those high hills.
Hark! My dear mother, the cadences of the handsome halcyon.
Sway! My dear mother, along with the debonair daffodils.
Dance! My dear mother, along with the proud plumes that the peacocks adorn.

Mother:
Come, sweet child of mine.
High hills, handsome halcyons, and proud plumes of the peacock are all fine,
but I must step out to earn.
Nature is divine, and from it, there is so much to learn.
Come, sweet child of mine, I will share some secrets of nature you cannot see.
I will make you discover this nature, athwart nature’s glint and glee.
The serene summit of those high hills is lashed by wind and scorched by the sun.
The handsome halcyon makes many furtive fervent flaps before it gets its prize.
The doting debonair daffodils hold acids to make the rodents run.
The peacock's proud plumes make it look large, to keep it safe from its predator's eyes.
Learn to endure like the high hills.
Learn to keep trying like the handsome Halcyon.
Learn to stay strong like the debonair daffodils.
Learn to make beauty your strength like the plumes the peacocks don.

Just Write

my muse -

departed …

sometimes reality squeezes you dry,

and breathes you away with the dust …

words, beings, cadences,

the gists of the gloaming -

gone …

so …

just write.









Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, April 12, 2023

Nossos Coracoes

*HEART OF STONE
would never split open 
and melt,
even if we cried 
the bloody tears.
     Oh thy lonely heart,
     listen to these
     unheard pleas !
We both were stuck 
in between untold cadences,
when there were only shattered pieces
     " OF US ".

  *HEART OF GOLD
had ever been 
dealt with that welt,
       even it was spelt 
       by the svelte proviso.
Oh my lovely heart,
We were driven by this frisson of emotion.
Nearby the ablaze hearth,
we found our peace.

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@aamir khan
@patricia maria
28-11-2022

The Fall Season Is Here

Autumn, the present season
Changes of cadences and colors
It's a very charming time
Which only lies in errors.

The leaves are no longer green
Except those of the everlasting firs
A large number of sentinel birds
Leave, because they are less alert.

Autumn is a beautiful and dark season
Which is between the cool and the cold
It's time to decorate the homes
For the feasts of the believers, and for the loas.

Autumn is here; the leaves are falling
On the damp lawns and on the graves
Winter will be more severe this year
And the buds will be absent on the glaciers.

Autumn is picturesque and melancholic
The ladies start to hide their bodies
Bit by bit. The smiles become dramatic
As we celebrate the living and the dead.

Copyright © October 2020, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poetry.

My Son

Far away in the West,
Far far away from my cuddles and caresses,

Lives my son, 

Where rapid is the rise of the sun, where the sun is remiss to rest.
Where he is surmounting over all tides and tempest, searing snares and savoring success.
Where the winds herald his coming, where friends and foes at his behest.

Far away in the West, 
Far far away from my cadences and caprices, 

Lives my son,
In the land of dazzle, land of dare, 
Land of fortune, land of absolute air, 
Land of inventions, land of brewing beer.

Far away in the West, 
Far far away from my dirge and distress, 

Lives my son, 
His dreams- a swift sturdy stallion,
Now smother him and saddle him towards shallow success.
The land where he once spent debonair doting days with me, is now a bygone ghostly galleon.

Far away in the West, 
Far far away from my tears and trinkets,

My son , let me live in your heart’s undefiled chamber and let me glide in your soul’s virgin glade.

Saptarshi Mukherjee

The Keepers of Stars

A name, by itself, is nothing...

Some of us appearing to love hate... 

Some seeming to find beauty in Gore... 

while others, more astute, understand
that behavior is its own proper
definition – 

                  though stories are
the mothers of words...they die
on their pages, if only read and not
taken to heart.... 
                        
Let us start this flight together – 
with our sounds and images, soaring far above the 
texts of common sky, seeking rhymes and cadences
nearer those brighter lights of poetry, finding such muses 
cohabiting with the keepers of stars....

Music

There in the wastes comes music, singing

Such contrast, a backing track to real life

Like some Hollywood film, unreal, constructed

Gathered souls in green clothes passing through streets

Boots treading soil of foreign lands

It courses through, in another context you would maybe dance

Lead by the rhythm, cadences, but for now you must decline

Retain a vigilance, sternness, resolve, distance

Such a shame not to partake, to enjoy, to enjoin

If only for a moment to forget, to wish peace, serenity

These simple two words we often take for granted

So, forged by another’s play we ignore this gift and tread on

Doing our thing, while they do theirs

Like ships in the night we slip past each other, lives, cultures

Worlds apart our sails furled different winds but with perhaps a grateful
moment of collision

I so wanted to forgo these trappings, to embrace, to enfold

But never to be, never meant, never done

This golden chance lost in time, in life

But I still to this day I have the music in my head

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