Long Eardrum Poems
Long Eardrum Poems. Below are the most popular long Eardrum by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Eardrum poems by poem length and keyword.
Engraved with harsh sound, each shackle's screech molested my eardrum,
Its starry silver, sparked oblivious wham into my heart, shattered like shard,
Rigorously, premature sweat hopped down to my forested beard,
Never! They can't let me loose again, as they gathered like a scrum.
Amid the encrusted iron on my encased cage,
My bendy fingers scratches till shallow hole,
Gallows way, full of groggy drops, I envision the woody pole,
Conscience before me, not my time, my death a sin to age.
Guilty of whatever, the judgement not from the creator,
I despised freedom in all form
Next world, I will buy a spaceship to carry law sector,
For, my time is over like a heavy storm.
Pity and pity me no more,
For, my journey a moral lesson in the folklore.
Wither-all to compensate for bending neurons break
I can sometimes see from close or far
the ashes of an endless burning stake
Cosmos shape reflected in my jar.
Arise once more the Phoenix of crucible spent
arrest the tide of sentimental farce
amid the clamoring eardrum, joy’s repent
relativity speaking, either side the bars.
My accent unfamiliar, entertains the moth.
My face defends no banner or display.
Continuing epiphany or sloth,
The choice remains alas to pay or pray.
The ribbon, the scarf, the tunnel, the true
we choose the parable meant to assist
if for one moment un-tighten the screw
unmake not a single list.
DO NOT DOT THE I
DO NOT CROSS THE T
walk on the grass and kick the dog
the cat will provide sympathy.
Raw unfiltered unabashed and relieved
no fire hydrant for dog ever grieved.
You sit there or here or stand or yawn
the worms still cover your nighttime lawn.
For you are, you are not, you lay in-between;
times’ ordinary moments - sometimes unseen
shadows will replicate, suns divide
answers to questions are but tears angels cried
Wormholes and musings and dreams and debunk
make light of our lives and un-clutter our junk
make way for the day and the cleanest of clean
provide us the means for everything seen.
I laugh at the topless trees in the wind
I laugh at the drain of the sewers grin
We laugh at the jokes that we’ve heard twice before
we laugh from our throats till our bellies are sore
and when the laughing stops we die
the ash of our bones laid bare
thin lives stripped of edificial poem
extinguished over here and reborn over there
Tired of the mind stuff.
It's hard to be free
of all those words
that drag behind like a long chain,
clinking in the silence.
Each weighted step leaves evidence,
deep prints beyond the reach
of waves and tide. They stay,
fossilized in stone, stretched back
across time, hanging on
to the heel and added to
by every taken step.
Think of wading out to the line
of breakers, feeling water
burrow into the eardrum,
offering oceans and fathomless
depths where only the light
from exotic creatures punctuate
the dark with their luminescence
pulsing along tentacles or dangled
in front of ferocious mouths.
These are the guardians
of forgetfulness, custodians
of dreamless sleep in which
even words dissolve
and wait in a nowhere
to become something
or nothing at all.
I hear no ambulances at night
Secure sleep brings wishes accepted
When the sirens are whinging
Sanity slightly, briefly unhinging
Silence bulges with restful respite
Rural city living, sanctity protected
Chatter, coo, call of bird community
Bud eardrum with broken two way tune
Tickle of pigeon scale evocative
Constant chirps mosaic cooperative
Chime in with flight twit sweet carefree
Siren counterpart halts song, confuses
I hear no ambulances at night
Tells me that little city sleeps as one
Metropolis echoes layered havoc
Rising pitch navigates dense traffic
Granted nestled peace, place polite
Midnight rest farewells sirens sung
Comfort gained without the wonder
Will the police chase end in tragedy?
Whinging sore implore of sirens
Gradual damagable sanity expiring
Are you able to roughly number
Amount of sirens you heard today?
Summer sun minutes are counted
Nature clears space for autumn
Man recognizes the colors
From green to barn red and gold
- fresh impressions and experience
Everything will soon be repainted
I hear you shout my name ...
the eardrum is temporarily closed
- not quite ready for fall yet
17/08/2021
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
"Alienation"
Burning through the atmosphere
a diamond hugs herculean, demanding, meteoric,
fast like a sharp spear aimed at Zion in the
obsidian night sky deep, so vast, dotted here
and there with other anaemic diamantés
twinkling, then dimming, as if in despair,
they don’t shine as bright
nor so fair,
this immolator is without peer
Lion of Judah, presence felt near.
A shooting star into the stratosphere?
Leaving a blistering debris trail in its wake.
A Sonic Boom breaks through the veil
sends out sound waves, touching, feeling,
slightly off-rail
sends out a Revelation heralding
resounding eardrum shattering tear -
KA-BOOM!
just like some glamour chick’s walked into the room
in 6 inch killer stilettos,
curve hugging deep velvet
the sub-level indigo blues,
shaking everything in the place
slams the door, her audience now captive
is frozen in place, tittering amongst themselves,
“Here’s something new”;
the world awakes to
crushed violets, heliotropes, shell pinks, eggshell pale blues;
she rises above him
he lifts his face.
Arrival in this
AlienNation
no Ocean, a barren place
Holding pattern and station.
Her vessel lands with a thud,
breaks the bedrock, dirt
she steps through the portal
away from it all, she’s escaping
this asylum,
it’s not evolving, it’s not birth
a re-entry of sorts,
a vacuum sucking back down to
Deadly Earth.
(Lovejoy-Burton/ Dec 2017)
(1)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MEfqTlKPqfI
Garden Party at Noon
Fragrance of jasmine alluring butterfly in spree.
Sweet scent of gardenia whelming bumble bee.
Party people got alarmed on shrill cry of parrot.
Flocks of sparrows chirping, rabbit biting carrot.
Kitten licking milk, bees sucking, sipping honey.
Me watching leisurely feeling frolic funny.
Foliage shivered on kiss of mild gentle breeze.
Touch of zephyr ignites memories gone to freeze.
Strong smelling liquor Feni irritated nostril
Lavender perfume from dress of sweetheart to thrill.
Rhythmic music of Jazz exciting my eardrum.
Voices of noisy populace had also charm.
Dainty tasty starters: barbecue fries and sausage
Sizzling salmon, chicken, sumptuous beverage.
Counted hugs and handshakes crossing forty- seven.
Soft touch of lips of my fiancé reached me heaven.
11/30/19
'Smell, Sound, Taste , Touch Repeat Sense' Contest by Sheri Fresonke Harper
The Clockwork Beneath the Skin
I unbraided through my temples a flock of deaf bells,
and my eyelids rang like harmonics shattered in mirrors.
My knees became altars burned by a wax sun,
and my ribs beat a funeral march for sunken ships.
I spat the moon from my throat, an old, cold coin,
and caught it in my palms like a bird without a name.
I searched for your name in my veins, the way one searches for water through stones,
and the echo came back mute, dressed in soot.
I shook chandeliers of nerve and ice from the ceiling,
I bit the plaster off the walls of sleepless nights,
and the floor filled with footsteps that belong to no one anymore.
With arms stretched toward the sky you break like a branch of lead,
in your gaze lie fallen altars and angels stripped of wings,
your body stitched into the shroud of an unfinished prayer,
your soles are anchors driven into ground that keeps on fleeing.
The bell sews its echo into the eardrum of the whole world;
the windows untie the eaves fastened to evening's mouth,
and, boomerang, the silver pries open crates full of darkness
and wraps the body and its shadow, stitched with the same thread.
On the back stairs, the children inside me prayed backward.
Onto the tiles of your house I fell like a rain of bells,
and the drops, like caravans, drank up the frost that followed,
and pressed to my temple, a scaffold behind bars,
I clenched between my teeth the jellyfish garment of the night
and undid the buttons, like veins laid open to the stars.
Night rain on the window pane is the night sweat of my fevered life dream. Time bloats like the reflection I try to avoid. Tears on the bedroom floor for however many minutes or hours. I crawled in here, felled like a sick elm, sickly scooped-out, hunger hollowed, word emptied. Hands...hands that feel like they don't belong to me any more. Something moves within them, puppets them: a tingle like lightning.
icicle fingers
too cold to hold a teacup -
wrists are winter twigs
Fingernails mauve-mottled, heart struggling to pump, circulation slow-crawling. Hands are too blue-numb to grip, and I'm watching the teacup slip...
white pottery shards
mosaic of tannin stars -
the carpet is stained
I found an anthology of short stories I first read years ago, before dream winced into nightmare. Opening the book, a slip of paper floats out, white-dazzly as a snowflake. My hospital admission letter, the sudden white shock of it bookmarking a favourite story.
Bedtime stories. Sweating between the sheets with Ray Bradbury, electric singing sentences pressed to my skin. The push and pull of his prose singing my body electric, giving me a word-**** I won't forget.
Ray Bradbury's everywhere, he's in the air, his words rearranging themselves into kaleidoscope patterns; strange lexicon of snowflakes, of stars. But voices are reassuring me It's just a little fever dream.
Strange how the memory sea floods me as the mind becomes ever more disconnected; the past's wisps floating like feathers through the fog. Fever flicker of faces: Sarah's, silver-shimmery through tears, her blonde hair haloed in teardrop light.
Tonight, anorexia's voice is the knife strike in a slasher movie: a killing, shrilling eardrum drilling. It's the chainsaw buzz scything corn, the shadow knife behind the Psycho curtain.
My immune system is failing, body breaking down.
waves of nausea
crashing on my body's shore -
gastroparesis
slow fast slow fast slow
stutter stop start slow stop start -
arrhythmical heart
Sibilant strobe of whispers, voices, the past's echoes, floating through fever fog...We don't think you're looking after yourself...You're a risk to yourself...I'm sectioning you under Section 2 of the Mental Health Act...
The minefield mind-trap closes on a single word: How?
How has it all come to this?
My mind is the loudest place
I collapse from the noise sometimes
Yet my body rejects it
It never ends
Some sort of hypnosis
A form of mediation
And aggravation
Nails on a chalkboard
Piercing to my eardrum
But I sit numb-
Among a sea of my own agony
Inside a speaker,
So I can’t hear reality
It’s unfair, unjust and unsettling
I wish I could forget
I wish I could time travel
And sometimes
I just want a hug
To feel your loving arms
But then I snap back to solitude
Daydreaming of golden days-
Days that were taken for granted
Years that were put off to the future ones
And I cave
I lose all over again-
Losing finger after the other
Digging my nails into my palms-
No one notices
And there are times all I want to do is scream
Instead with poise
I search for a chuckle-
Some sort of life through all of this darkness
Some sort of heaven in this living hell
And yet I sit there silent as can be
There’s not much that comes out anymore
Not that it ever did-