Long Cacophony Poems
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In a space that should hum with focus,
Where thoughts flow like ink on paper,
I walk the halls, and what do I hear?
The clatter of egos—loud, brash,
A symphony of insecurity,
Each voice a drum pounding louder,
Drowning out the quiet rhythm of real productivity.
Oh, the harshness of noise!
Your chatter like chainsaws,
Hacking away the sweet silence,
The sanctuary where ideas bloom.
Conversations compete like wild animals,
Roaring for attention,
But who’s listening?
Who's doing it?
I can’t hear my thoughts,
Lost beneath the weight of your bravado,
Your anecdotes, your grand proclamations,
About deadlines, met and spreadsheets conquered,
But all I see is the façade,
The show of work,
Not the act of working.
It’s an orchestra of distraction,
A cacophony of competition,
Where silence is a crime,
And whispers are for the weak.
But listen!
True strength speaks softly,
In the space between breaths,
In the echo of contemplation.
But here you are,
Standing tall, voice raised,
As if volume equates to value
As if the loudest in the room
It is the most productive.
It’s a mask you wear,
But I see behind it—
Just shadows, just noise,
Just the harshness of insecurities masked as power.
We chase the clock,
Tapping away, thinking,
We’re winning some races,
But it's not a marathon,
It’s a serenade,
A melody of purpose,
And you’re just playing the wrong tune.
So, let’s pause.
Lower the volume,
Tune down the tumult,
And Let the silence reign
In this kingdom of commerce.
Let whispers be the wings of ideas,
Let the quiet be our battle cry,
For in the stillness, we create,
In the calm, we conquer—
Let’s reclaim the space
From the harshness of noise.
Let’s work with purpose,
Let’s make a change—
Because the loudest voice
It doesn't always win,
Sometimes it’s the softest,
The most profound,
That ignites the fire
Of true creation.
She notes how the days
have grown shorter.
A cacophony of grackles
near a cornfield fills the air.
A farmer across the road
walks along his field
checking his corn before harvest.
Leaves rustling
in the wind sing.
The construction crew
has passed her driveway.
She asks the flagger to
help her daughter across.
The school bus arrives
late afternoon. Lights flash
She rushes onto the porch
and hugs her daughter
who wears a backpack.
The mother notices
the sky is gold
as she looks out the window
and cooks supper on the stove.
Her daughter sits in a chair
hands folded on her lap.
So good to see her daughter
she thinks after letting go
in the morning and waiting
for a late afternoon embrace.
Ephemeral Recollections of the Passage of Time
Ephemeral recollections of the passage of time
General inspections of a population in decline
Congenital directions of a genealogy in scientific refine
Perennial distortions of a perspective in pure mime
Elegant notions of a theory on entropy
Pertinent commotions of what the third eye can truly see
Innocent devotions about what it’s like to live in poverty
Malcontent emotions over what it means to be truly free
Singular visions for the indiscriminately proud
Angular decisions as you power through the crowd
Rectangular incisions on the throats of the politically loud
Perpendicular divisions as the dead are placed into their shrouds
A cacophony forming at the base of a mountain range
The topography calling out the wierd and indiscriminately strange
The cartography of the wicked and the fundamentally derranged
The anthropology of society and what it means to be defamed
Litigious corporate lawyers claiming their money on the side
Ambitious politicians out for what they cannot hide
Pernicious inhibitions of a man enslaved by pride
The vicious extraditions of those who just jumped on for the ride
Enlightening notions of the concepts of spiritual awakening & transcendence
Frightening potions of imposition and rememberance
Lightening bolts of intuition and incendiary elegance
Siphoning jolts of inhibition as we see through the embellishments
Contaminated water and superficial elements of decay
The celebrated quarter of what it means to have your say
The inundated distorter of truth among the games that we play
The contentious border of Ukranian land on international display
We walk this earth in discontent and observation of the crimes
And give a wide girth to the consequence of the symbol of the times
But what we have learned in the enlightened abstinence has created pure refine
And what we’ve earned in the brightened elegance, as we proudly step out of line
LONELY AT THE TOP
Amidst the cheers, a lonesome sound,
A throne of solitude, I have found.
The top is where victory flames brightly burn.
After the wars, I'm still sticking to my gun.
Though my victories swim in melancholy,
Even the laurels didn't bring good jolly.
My eye weep sore in a lamboginny,
the search for serenity births cacophony.
OML!!! How have I gotten here,
Constructing this barren atmosphere?
I've been writing songs from my eyelids,
My voice behind stereos are mere reeds
And my tears are the ink from a ball pen.
Drowning but they never understood back then.
How am I here?
Staring at starry stars with stained stare,
celebrating a fraction in intoxicated cheer,
whereas those victories are mere two-thirds.
I spent an hour writing just four words:
"Lonely At The Top."
Fame offers material love built on tin ropes,
But don't allow adulation to raise your hopes,
Though I see the acme & peak of glory,
a lofty height, where the world views my story.
The top's lonesome throne of solitude,
Still vulnerable despite the fortitude.
My happiness is simply collateral.
My expensive protection isn't even eternal.
Yet my shadow dances in golden light,
Ephemiral ambience is my co delight.
Rubbies are the least I could offer,
Dollars & pounds scattered on my sofa
But a voice keeps telling me it's over
when I was trying to have a ball,
Shopping carelessly in nature's mall.
"You won't be top forever," the voice whispers.
"You'll answer the clarion's call in death fitters."
It's lonely at the top.
VICK MANUEL POETRY
{VMP}
FORM: Rhymes
Copyright ©? October 2023.
Old tree
Weathered well;
Final glory
~~~~~~~~~
Temple bells
Wind moans mantra;
Summery day
~~~~~~~~~
Jerky knees struggle
Old limping lady;
Sheer tenacity
~~~~~~~~~
By old walkway
Lonely man contemplates;
Meaning of life
~~~~~~~~~
New venture
Prospering well;
Hard times echo
~~~~~~~~~
Ancestors await
Temple offerings;
Succinct conversations
~~~~~~~~~
Another milestone
Lots more here;
Savvy timeout
~~~~~~~~~
Fierce competition
Buzz and adjust;
Last mile beckons
~~~~~~~~~
Morning ritual
Birdsong hymn;
Gratitude journal
~~~~~~~~~
Lost now found
Too much cacophony;
Morning Glory florals
~~~~~~~~~
Grassy verge
Beauty awaits;
Do you see?
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
17 January 2017
Singapore
Amidst the cacophony of raging emotions
In a nexus of conflicting passions
Lies a beguiled soul
He is embedded in a labyrinth of racing thoughts
And interlocking fears
He investigates his surroundings
While a sinking sensation grips him
Immobile in feeling
He plots his course
Frozen in indecision
Trying out different personas
He reaches invisibility
As he grasps to others for direction
Becoming as lost as ever
When will the conflict end?
When will stability be attained?
He thrashes around in the cage of his existence
Finding a spot to land on
Arriving nowhere
He cradles himself in a bubble
Peering out from the chains he’s strapped in
Hoping for a beam of sunshine to pierce through
One day the solution will come
And things will regain their meaning
Until then, he’ll remain with the entanglement that is now referred to as existence…
Embedded beneath the subconscious layer,
when the nascent eyes open to the first light
as mortal journey begins with nothing in sight,
the call waits with ordained words, ‘come here’.
The call lies dormant and unheard deep within,
as the murmuring stream of life flows slowly by,
the cacophony of time mounts on the pitch high,
the words lurk behind the music of mind serene.
The inescapable echo of the call would articulate,
when at timed appointment with destiny fearsome
the clock is coded to stop, would finally come
with the call ‘come’ that would silently resonate.
When all sounds would dissolve in silence at sunset,
the toiled eyes would close on the seraphic light,
turning into the lighthouse beacon shining bright,
the caller would finally beckon at the end of wait.
Another ethereal journey would then begin forlorn
for the soul to merge with the entity, the ultimate,
to be transformed into the eternal blissful state
in the sublime realm of euphoria, yet unknown.
Written : August 17, 2019
May 25, 2020
Contest : Brian's Choice T
Sponsor : Brian Strand
"We don't see things as they are, we see them as we are." - Anaïs Nin
a world of mine - the world of me
it's all the world i'll ever see
the only world that's spinning free
one world i'll ever have and be
but oh how grand could i but flee
this frame of dirge cacophony
to wend a song or two (or three)
a softer strain - another key
of life where sharp and flat agree
where they and i and you ...
are we ...
well i can dream, yes i can dream
if i but shut my eyes ...
~
Impulse, enter
Senses and sensation
Stirred with an indexed intent
All one dark, filtered aberration
A distorted lens of chaos and care
Carnal portions, meant holy
Divine, meant irreverent
I sit upon the marble, blue ... twirl
Views change, but perspective is a cold mute
Blinded by my vatic eyes alone
Cursed to but one sill ...
Shattered.
~ 9th Place ~ in the "She Inspires Series - AN" Poetry Contest, Maureen McGreavy, Judge & Sponsor.
She wails over the clasped corpse,
the sound ricocheting across the classroom
entwining with other morose voices,
baking the atmosphere in melancholy,
and immersing the cacophony of wails and squealing.
into shouts and screams of aghast lads and lasses.
Mothers, brought in haste by news of woe
and Witnessing Barbarity in first ordeal;
for such was the scene on that campus,
and astir was the town.
Rocking to and fro was the nation
With breathes, held in fright and trepidation.
The left wing said 'Nay".
The right wing said "Nay."
Speculations clashed on streets
as who could be this bloody
For the Kids in neutrality
now repose in butchery.
From the town, some took to their heels
just to alight back months later
and be mocked by same wordings:
"welcome to Kumba".
Hitherto, a mystery it remains,
but the pains still lingers
and all what remains
is the mounds of Earth,
that separates they, from us.
© Temajung Michael T.
In the noisy raucous milieu of perpetual commotion,
sense of frenzy tried to discard the touch of affliction.
The splintered sentiments sank subdued and confined
within the unreachable profundity of the mutated mind.
From the enclave of cacophony I found a pathway out,
searched for a sanctuary suffused with silence devout.
Entered within the serene sanctum of the soul in abyss,
where I heard the engrossing tunes of the flute of bliss.
Rising from the debris of turmoil after desert storm of strife,
I gathered in the vase of quietude the strewn shards of life.
These turned to posy of flowers, I perceived their essence
in the oasis I made for myself in the still depth of silence.
August 19, 2020
For Brian Strand's Contest A Brian Strand July 20