Long Echoless Poems
Long Echoless Poems. Below are the most popular long Echoless by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Echoless poems by poem length and keyword.
"The Vibrationary Possess Feelings"
The silence
became a killer,
it annihilated most
of everything eventually;
the soul becomes numb
dead to the core.
they say
empty vessels
make the most sound.
this is not true.
without vibration
there is no frequency
no light energy;
life becomes
an echoless chamber.
the vacuum of silence,
like a black hole
ate its way swiftly
through everything that
required frequency for fuel.
the atmosphere
became numb
became dead.
can you imagine
not even a bird singing.
when the beautiful monsters
made their entry,
music
became their language;
evolutionary feelings
touched the All of emptiness
with strange synchronicity.
unity existed
unlike any unity
known to those of the
time before,
who had vacated
indefinitely.
it played
like a pulse
running keenly
through
everything.
they weren’t of aether.
they say they arrived
with no hearts,
with something different
dancing through their veins,
but music
became their language.
the ones with no blood
heard and felt everything.
The Vibrationary
possess singular
non-solitary feelings;
music is their language
frequency their advantage
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
For teaching me of unknown paths
For hinting to me of fogs at feet
For reminding me of sunrise tea
For showing me both ink stain and light rain
For simply savoring the simple life
For illustrating the service of the eremite
For singing to paulownia blossoms
For dancing with loneliness
For sculpting sorrow and joy
For nights in caves
For ragged cloths pulled tight against
the biting, bitter frosts
For wondering at tiger tracks
and losing foods to monkey packs
For hunger days
and thirst nights.
For solace found in the brethren-free,
high mountain, echoless and grand...Lonely...
For smiling to passing clouds
For bowing to bent bamboo
For conversing with berries
For chorusing with birds
For sitting at the feet of pebbles
For asking deep of puddles
For taking advice of flocks,
both goats and geese. (And gnats, as well.)
For taking as their audience
the empty Valley
the midnight Sun
the empty bowl
and the passing breeze
I wish to not ever visit
each and every hermit.
Not ever.
Not ever.
Forever.
No, never.
Mystique mist shrouds the penultimate path
to the future, fading away in obscurity.
In twilight hour the sunset swansong resonates
the echoless tune of forlorn somber life,
silhouetted against the faint skyline of longing.
The threads of turmoil weave
the blue motif with sadness mold
in craving satiation, riding the sensuous storm
to the blank mindscape of frustrated desire,
once embedding the fervent fascination for repletion.
The shards of splintered hope adrift on buoyant flow
of cascading memories of the lively times
bring back the flavor of the old spices of life.
The remnant vibe of rejuvenation returns
within the sanguinity sphere of listless life.
Who would lend their essence to such words
Uncrumple them ‘midst fading sense of truth
Sharpen dull edgeless rusting swords.
Shouted once from blood stained creaking boards
Muttered by those grown “long in the tooth”
Who would lend their essence to such words
Whisper calls from echoless fjords
Spur the interest of our failing youth
Sharpen dull edgeless rusting swords
Challenge them to run - not from - but toward
A passion that would brand them as uncouth
Who would lend their essence to such words
Reweave them as a fire, incite the hoards
Nurture the subtleties taking root
Sharpen dull edgeless rusting swords
Re-sound the growing call of freedom’s chords
Deny the tyrants reign of spurs and boots
Who would lend their essence to such words
Sharpen dull edgeless rusting swords.
©2/26/2022
AN ORIGINAL VILLANELLE CONTEST
Sponsor – L Milton Hankins
They really don't know me.
My existence doesn't affect them.
Unseen on the crowded streets.
Just another passing breeze.
A name not even carelessly whispered.
Just another number.
I'm falling through the cracks.
An echoless scream resounds in my ears.
And so it goes for years and years.
The same unvisited house.
Never noticed at the end of the street.
Where curtains of iron protect;
From intruders who never come.
The unpainted mailbox,cocooned in cobwebs.
Houses the loveletters yet to be sent.
Near the unmarked grave;
In a lonely plot embedded in weeds.
Where the flowers are invisible just like me.
I tell myself I do it for the birds.
They gather together
around flameless fires
feeding on warmth’s memory,
chattering amid the blowing leaves,
feathers puffed against the cold.
Their beauty undimmed by the
stark dark and light of barrenness
their songs no less beautiful
in the echoless emptiness,
their presence – undiminished.
Quietly, I leave a gift,
mixed seed to welcome all
sustenance to those who share
a loneliness in winter,
a scarcity of caring
the fading heat of flameless fires.
I tell myself I do it for the birds.
10/18/2015
submitted to – For the Birds – poetry contest
sponsor – Anthony Slausen
Like a Witch Disguised as an Owl
Like a witch disguised as an owl, loneliness deafens us with its wing of clay,
it comes toward us and its tireless claw keeps growing in the dark,
it has been on this earth for ages, a shadow wearing a human face, carried down through centuries,
in general we embrace it quickly, but its fears run too deep for me to hold in my hands,
I don't try to translate them, or tie them to the thin thread of the day.
Accepting its geometric way of slipping through our unfinished sleep,
we perform small rituals with enormous symbols, drawn on the eyelid of night,
and then we hum a nameless melody, torn from some forgotten choir,
I swallow its echo like a hot stone, so it won't disturb me too much,
and I stay silent, waiting for the quiet to grow back from its own ashes.
It carries in its gaze collapsed cathedrals and children who never once cried,
its footsteps are old coins fallen into bottomless, echoless wells,
and its claw, grown from centuries of hunger, digs into the wall between me and the world
a crack through which everything I never said and never wept pours out,
and still I remain here, on its threshold, a silent and doubting witness.
Sometimes I feel it settle on my chest like a bird heavy with melted lead,
I listen to its breathing, steady and cold as the sea beneath winter ice,
and I understand that fear doesn't want to be defeated, only held, like a sick child,
so I sing to it quietly, in a broken voice, a song I don't even know myself,
and it falls asleep a little, just enough for me to breathe in turn.
And maybe this strange stillness is the only prayer we have left,
a wordless dialogue between fear and the body that still wants to exist,
a witch and a man, seated on the same step of the same endless night,
each humming the same echo, each in his own silent tongue,
until dawn comes and turns it, if only for a moment, into ordinary light.
CAMPFIRE
I thirst to taste your solid wood stare
I see you and no one else
Nestling under the stars
Hungry for each others ears
Chasing every comet across the sky
Fierce when it comes to standing tall
Desires releas screams from the mundane night
Running naked throughout the world
Firewood burning the depth of our soul
Dancing in a path we put mortals to shame
A swarm of gray shade arousing the night
Secret moans before, morning dew hit sunrise
Prowling in circles
Feeling each others instinctive curiosity
Surrender to the ashes of our hide
Passion lost within a dream-catchers web.
A pack of thieves we long to be
Weaving into an echoless growl
No one dares to separate the pack we create
A stare of solid wood I hunger to taste.
Night after night, IN THE MOOD ~always
Pontificating pin heads
laboriously tongue lashing
mandatory attendees
pundits, preachers
oligarchs of oratory
empowered by mad scientists
in twisted mind laboratory.
If everybody gets a bite
of a sandwich never ending
the masses will be sated
and we’ve controlled our spending
if everybody works for free
--that is except for you and me –
we’ll clad them in amorphous dress
and treat them all the same
then we’ll give them numbers
for servants need no name
We’ll sell them all a golden goose
some magic beans as well
fan the flames of fear and hate
then lock our compounds iron gate
rally them in revolution
painted posters – false solution
We’ll watch the sun set in their eyes
as curfew bells remand
the darkness to the deviants
who won’t cave in to them
listen in the shuttered minds
of echoless condemning sin
Peace cannot be won by war
global warming’s not just a thaw
bathroom doors are not the key
to making everybody free
nor does shouting down the opposition
lend credence to a fool’s petition
It’s tongue in cheek -it’s just a joke
just an old guy -blowin’ smoke.
But then again -it could be true
the proof is – sadly - up to you
John G. Lawless
©8/12/2018
I am the stranger who loves you in silence,
A merchant of echoes in the endless bazaar of nostalgia,
From the shadow where chicory flowers bow their heads to pray,
I whisper to you, sweetly clear and unheard.
I am the stranger hidden in the shadow of a reticent love,
Who kisses the pages of a dusty volume, filled with poems that would weep,
On evenings that sink into the dim light of a forgotten world,
Where I call upon the muse, in a late and solitary recital of yearning.
My gaze upon you, an unfinished poem of ardor,
With every passing moment, you become a string of divine pearls,
You let me drown in the sea of your remembrance,
Sailing on waves of longing and on the ship of dreams.
In this world, you are the untamed sonnet, and I—
The stranger who once knew the depth of your eyes,
Now, I cry out to you through an echoless abyss, unhinged,
I return to search for you, dreaming that maybe, maybe you will come to me, someday...
I am the stranger who loves you in a world of perfect illusions,
With a soul dancing upon the ruins of a forgotten fortress,
Sifting through the ashes of your abandoned memories,
Calling out your name in the wind, unheard, tirelessly, even beyond death.
Every day without you is an eternity of unfulfilled longing,
And the embodiment of loneliness clutches me tighter,
I am the stranger who wants you as the moon craves the night,
And I adore you like the poet who, in the dark, still calls out for his lost muse...
I am the stranger who will not spare your shadow from my mind,
In the library of time, where we are but a burnt book,
And on every page, you will find written just twoo words,
I love you... I love you... in an eternal whisper, etched.