Long Decibels Poems
Long Decibels Poems. Below are the most popular long Decibels by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Decibels poems by poem length and keyword.
RITES OF PASSAGE
Each Christmas we all gathered there,
‘Aunt Clare, has more room ,after all’ with
her trestled tables and chair.
Grown-ups swigging their brown bottled ale,
young-uns, lemonade with paper straw,
VE style parties, once more.
Lunch over, the voice decibels rose,
raucus laughter oiled by the beer
brought forth more plates of festive cheer.
Cards slid noiselessly over the American
cloth, copper coins switching from pot to pot,
enthralled children watching on, ‘til
banished with a special treat, to the cold
stairs, or now bare front room, or to play
out in the deserted twilight street.
Every year the ritual was much the same,
a family ‘bring and share’ , long before
such gatherings were given this name.
FACES&PLACES
Alongside a Chiltern chalkstream
I lay me down to dream,
of country paths,stiles and steep slopes,
those days,long ago,filled with hope;
I dreamed of days of summer sun
when my life had just begun,
climbing trees,cricket on the green,
the first time I made the school team;
Football with coats and tennis ball,
bonfire night fireworks in the Fall,
carol singing through silent streets,
paper chains and Christmas treats.
Crystal clear,vision's backward gaze
brought forth from nostalgia's haze.
THE HACK
Out of the yard,my daughter and me,on a hot
summer day of Eighty-three.Hastoe to Cadsden,
there and back,eight hours in the saddle,for our
first all-day hack.Onto the canter path,down to
Paines End,through Fox Lane the route did wend.
Into a copse ,keeping the pace to an even flow.
Up to Dunsmore,past the Black Horse, we followed
the course.Chequers, Pondswood,down hill to the pub.
Horses tethered for a rest,we ate our ploughmans with
a pint of the landlord's best.Back in the into the saddle,
at the canter to retrace our steps and in Hastoe as the
clock struck four,to stack the tack on the stable door.
Listen to me read these poems on youtube under name ichthyschiro
Pristine & white papyrus reams,
No more cradle words of my wanting dreams.
Recalled moments penned have been left at distance behind,
The dog eared papyrus now conceals folded words that spilled out of my mind.
Sad my sorrow dipped nib, that writes these rhymes,
Words flow and my feelings melt and are sublime.
Images of you blur in my mind,
But my love for you is mad and blind.
Agonies brimming ache festoon my heart a whole,
To be with you my, heart’s lone goal.
Yells and shrieks erupt within me and my love it screams,
On its vibrating decibels I try to cradle my dreams.
Nostalgic remembrance
Waiting &Seeking a second chance…………………………
#THIS DEDICATION SPEAKS TO A PARTICULAR INDICATION...
IT SPEAKS TOO...
SPECIFICALLY WHO???
ANYONE WHO STAYS...
UNDERNEATH
COVERS/SHIELDINGS AND YIELDINGS.
SIRENS IN HIGHEST DECIBELS GOING OFF, CONSTANTLY INSIDE, CAN'T TURN IT OFF YET!
WON'T TURN IT OFF YET???
DON'T FRET...IF YOU TRULY WANT TO, YOU CAN!
BRING IT DOWN TO ITS PROPER BALANCE!
PRIOR, THE VOLUME WAS DEAFENING,
WHAT A NEEDLESS SUFFERING!!!
"EVEN THE COVERS" COULDN'T PROVIDE BUFFERING!
"GLAD YOU CLIMBED FROM BENEATH THAT COVER!"
NOW, WHAT ABOUT THOSE SHIELDINGS...
ARE THEY COMFORTABLE,
ARE THEY COZY PERCEIVINGS?
LIKE CERTAIN FEELINGS, ARE THEY FLEETING?
LIKE A FLASH OR A MAD DASH, SHIELD'S OFF...
I'D REALLY LIKE TO KNOW...
WHAT'S BEING SAID, FED, TO YOUR HEAD?
DOES THIS SHIELDING PROVIDE ANY PROPER STRENGTH? WHAT'S YOUR INNER VOICE EXPRESSING TO YOU...
AT LENGTH?
I BET IT'S LOUDER THAN THUNDER!!!
"IT" IS YOUR GIFT!!! WHY SHIELD IT???
LET IT "ROAR! ROAR! ROAR!" AS YOUR REMINDER NOT TO SETTLE OR SHIELD IN SILENCE. SPEAK AT PEAK: NEVER MEEK!!!
DON'T "HUSH" YOUR OWN LIFE, AND SHIELD NOT...
ELEVATED INSIGHT! ALRIGHT :-)
AHH, SOFT AS A WHISPER'S WHISPER...
THIS IS THE VOICE THAT YOU HEAR AND YOU CAN'T TUNE IT OUT! YOUR SPIRITUAL TONE NEVER HAS TO SHOUT :-) THAT'S WHY IT HOLDS TRUE GLORIOUS CLOUT, AS WELL, CLARITY. IT ONLY BECOMES A RARITY TO TUNE IN...IF YOU OR I ARE "OUT OF TUNE"
ALLOWING "IT" NOT TO RESUME...
WITH IT'S URGENCE AND PRECIOUS RESURGENCE,
HOW ELSE IS ONE TO EMERGE & SURGE VICTORIOUSLY...DEFEATING THE "NOISE"
THAT MAY TAMPER/HAMPER FROM OUR OWN INNATE {SOLACE} "INTERFERENCE" OF SOUND SENSIBILITIES.
DAMN DISTRACTIONS WE LOOK FOR,
IN PLACE OF THE ACTIONS AND TRACTION
WE INSTEAD YEARN FOR...
CORE WHISPER'S WHISPER, "IS N E V E R ON MUTE..."
NO A.I. CAN COMPETE WITH T H I S COMPUTE!
THROUGHOUT LIFE...
WE'LL HAVE TO KICK THOSE COVERS!
STOP SHIELDING, "OURSELVES!"
CEASE YIELDING, BY CHOICE...
BECAUSE YOU'RE A L W A Y S BEING* "SPOKEN TO"
YOU CAN ADJUST YOUR LEVELS AND DECIBELS TO HIGH OR LOW...FAST OR SLOW.
BUT, YOUR {INNER SETTING} HAS ITS OWN LEVERAGING AND TRUST ME....
IF YOU'RE RECEPTIVE, PARTICULARLY PERCEPTIVE...
IT WILL B A L A N C E
YOU & I ACCORDINGLY...
{PERFECT PITCH}
~~~~~~~DIVINELY & ZERO GLITCH~~~~~~~
Renee D. Gross {GHPPR} SEPTEMBER 23, 2023#
No rocket surgeon,
nor brain scientist called upon
but only Rudolf the red nose reindeer
solicited as psychological mentor
yes...undoubtedly countless
decades removed since *****
(not very gay at all!)
bodily changing phenomena
from thine angst riddled
biological metamorphosis allows me to peer
with greater theft of mine precious youth stolen,
via piercing overbear
ring mailer daemons,
when mine tender age did near
cusp whence onset of puberty
clapped development tight as if by
a doppelganger mutineer
warp and weft of mine lifetime tapestry
mine acute perception doth lear
as threads got tightly woven
into mine casual knitwear
though pubescent phase
wrought with oppressive foresight
interwoven with jeer
ring bullying hmm...maybe thine ability
to distill self actualization
extant among interlinear
teenage stage viewable
during my youthful days, but clouded over asper
mine more vivid perspective here
from this present moment
ha...amusing insight from present perch
devoid of adolescent glare
sire re: brill grade
do lobes gleam freer,
now with insight aye ear
rate at such pitch 'ere
perfect hindsight aye declare,
yet as a much younger self
when I hapt to be a boy, acuity seemed oblivious
to perceive via sight and sound
what social cues visceral, (visual,
and audiological) seems crystal clear
revisiting non verbal
awkward teenage mutant
ninja turtle memories, that now deafeningly blare
at the threshold of ear
splitting decibels, how hard of hearing human
(nada so) subtle in retrospect, I am aware
interpersonal nuances clear as the tune
Doris Day Que será, será
did voice, a catchy air.
I walked down the alleyways of London
Early one edgy Friday evening.
I am a touring, curious resident, mind you.
The sun was shy and was sinking breathlessly and
With the hushed melody of frazzled fog.
I headed towards a snaky road, cobbled to fractured
Heels and hills, and stumbled upon
Oxford Street, famous for all manner of glitz
And devoted heartbreaks.
It was nearing winter, but not yet wintertime.
Autumn, hoar with age, and damp,
Was about to swallow her pride and go away —
And go the way of all flesh—
Leaving nothing behind but her gathered and swept-up
Wreaths of browned, aged, haggard leaves.
Oxford Street, the world's loudest bazaar,
A fattening roofless museum of couture
That runs on a long, broad and sinfully perfumed hall,
Peopled by men and women, ancient and modern,
Fogeys and hipsters,
Held fast to its deafening sound and picture of glossy, sexy lipsticks,
Redder than deer blood,
And assembled pieces of mascara,
So charming, so flimsy, on glass trays and wooden hooks,
Each selling much more than a fragile penny.
I inhaled and exhaled, culture dragging my feet, cloyed by
Sensations strongly adhered to by hissing smells of now and then.
I was shocked by the magic of flitting lights and fleeting senses.
Shoulders rubbed each other with shuffling, dragging gaits,
The rush needless and lacking in manners.
Should there be a fall from the height of Stevie Nicks' platform
Shoes, the grounds would rumble, ankles would dislocate, ‘HELP! '
Would be screamed beyond Beatles' decibels.
On Oxford Street, it's go your own way—beyond Fleetwood Mac.
I followed in the footsteps of only those who walked with caution.
Litters of shredded London Evening Standard smelled differently, rolled and
Spread out, reminding everyone, resident and tourist, of the
Elegance of the English alphabet, the fine fonts of printed almanacs.
The next man I stumbled upon his shoulder, a reserved newspaper
Vendor, the age of an embryo, yelled, Blimey!
Hosting my bent thorax upon his bale of hanging papers,
He asked, pulling me up with his one unfettered hand,
His breath on torture,
‘First time on Oxford Street, mate? '
‘Last, ' I mumbled.
(If I hadn't walked past my older brother's bedroom door
I wouldn't have realized that I needed some more)**
Ladies and Gentlemen, his time came much sooner
Then we could have imagined, now mourning this crooner
On the verge of this pinnacle, about to be on top
I speak of the memorial of one Reginald Belford Scott
Just a statement to the world with this cover
Simply to let us all know they need time to mourn for their brother
All colors, no colors, none segregated
Black placard venerated
From the opening bells tolling, decibels reverberated
To the ending with a rock n roll sermon elevated
A power punch with this Nineteen Eighties driller (all killer no filler)
Now the second bestselling album to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller”
Yes, it’s plain with an embossed band’s logo
It’s a value (not a hue) as far as artists go
It leaves much to our imaginations
I think that’s on purpose, to allow ruminations
So, here’s some peace for all those who lack
Wait for the headlines, we will be “Back in Black”
Tinnitus tinnitus, innocuous by name,
invisible tasteless, sounds pretty lame,
Ears hissing, snakes inside my head,
Growing louder, causing turmoil in bed,
Room’s spinning, feel like getting sick,
Banging kicks off, rhythmically quick.
Tinnitus tinnitus, pneumatic drillers,
incessant maniacal machine gun killers,
Thumping smashing, trash metal band,
Like rock music, but this I cannot stand,
Eyes are bloodshot, severe lack of sleep,
cacophonous noise, then marching feet.
Tinnitus tinnitus, chainsaws a cutting,
No trees or lumberjacks, I see nothing,
Put on the radio, try drown out noise,
overwhelmed, lose rationale and poise,
Church bells peeling, ringing perhaps,
overloaded, mind spirals into collapse.
Tinnitus tinnitus, curse this living hell,
hammering my face, eyes begin to swell,
Delirious sweating, sheets soaking wet,
overcome in confusion, desperate upset,
Pray to god make the torment go away
release me from this Kafkaesque array.
Tinnitus tinnitus, eardrums explode,
Brain is shattered, as decibels grow,
Can’t take anymore, at my wits end,
On slugs of whiskey, sanity depends,
One after the other, knock them back,
Throbbing numbing starting to relax.
Tinnitus tinnitus, drink myself unconscious,
Wake up next day, agonizingly nauseous,
My ear is on the pillow, bottle’s in pieces,
covered with blood, trembling increases,
Look in the mirror, No no this cannot be,
Vincent Van Gough’s, staring back at me.
By
David Kavanagh
So, so lyrical,
yet logical,
it's certainly atypical;
and not proverbial,
but integral
and oh, most controversial!
But is it topical,
optical,
even for the intellectual
to see the actual
pragmatical
to its theoretical?
So casual, gradual,
and implausible,
it’s almost incomprehensible
were it not for the owner’s manual.
It, too, appears eternal,—
not temporal.
Never mind paradoxical.
Damn! it’s infernal...
Alas, it'll be too “illogical”
for the head magisterial,
whose financial
committee might find it problematical.
Still, the crux is perennial:
it’s too pivotal
to not state the irrefutable
with extra audible mega-decibels
if the funding residuals
for scientific experimentals
like the quantum mechanical
are incommensurable,
which is thus deplorable,
intolerable, insufferable,
disagreeable, horrible,
and most unsupportable
(in my view as a professional)!
RITES OF PASSAGE
Each Christmas we all gathered there,
‘Aunt Clare, has more room ,after all’ with
her trestled tables and chair.
Grown-ups swigging their brown bottled ale,
young-uns, lemonade with paper straw,
VE style parties, once more.
Lunch over, the voice decibels rose,
raucus laughter oiled by the beer
brought forth more plates of festive cheer.
Cards slid noiselessly over the American
cloth, copper coins switching from pot to pot,
enthralled children watching on, ‘til
banished with a special treat, to the cold
stairs, or now bare front room, or to play
out in the deserted twilight street.
Every year the ritual was much the same,
a family ‘bring and share’ , long before
such gatherings were given this name
The orchestra marches on in Gothic dark
The guitar brigade lights the night with a spark
The ***** angels with furled black wings
Take flight as the alto sopranos screams
The tenor tangent scratches the stage lights
The overloaded cannons shoot at the sky
And the backup witches writhe with the king snake
And the decibels start the earthquake
At the demon soiree plays each heart string
As the masses are swayed by each catatonic ring
And the charging bull, the rhythm section
Pounds to the misery of each predilection
Bombast and bomb blasts
I've not seen a crescendo like that
The smoke clears and the arena comes into view
With the bodies spent and strewn
And the vixens and sirens screaming
Like a queen who’s king died in the war
Splashes and crashes
As the debris floats to the shore
And the conductor (that ******)
Can’t keep a beat
The beast has now had enough
As he begins his retreat
War torn and forlorn
The stage lights finally go out
But not before the medieval four
Sound the trumpet blast, Ahh! at last