Long Grandiloquence Poems
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Utopian dreams of HALCYON days are blind to devilry.
Where OPULENT wealth with SONOROUS, grandiloquence,are feared by JEALOUSY.
PENUMBRA casts it's shadow dark, so prying eyes don't see the Light,
And DESULTRY whose changing ways, distracts observant eyes.
EXUBERANT spirits are deluding, masking minds from clarity.
CREPUSCULAR, earths twilight night, and eerie shades of dawn,
Where evil hides in virtues guise, as Faith then Hope and Charity.
Those VISCERAL feelings deep inside, are lampooned by pasquinades.
These sarcastic, CYNICAL tirades, arranged by evil to avert, the devil in disguise,
Who tempts with promises he will not keep, beware, be very wise.
1/ 30/ 2016.
Across the globe, music ascends—a universal zephyr,
Bridging cultures in harmonious yearning;
Chords converge from Andes to the Zangezur, xenharmonic,
Dulcet tones of a duduk—in the air, they whisper.
Every note—an echo of humanity's vibration,
From flamenco's fire to the finesse of a cello's undulation;
Gamelan's gongs—a gamut of sounds' timbre,
Harmonium's hum—hearts and spirits, it serenades.
In India where the sitar intricately resonates
Juxtaposed with jazz as New Orleans quavers;
Kora's strings kiss the breeze as Africa pulses.
Lyrics leap across lands—in mosaic form, it oscillates.
Marimba's mallets are on wooden keys lightly narrate
Ney's notes always navigate in a trance-like murmur;
Oud's ornate voice offers a limericking lyric
Perhaps to partake in profound kinetic kinesis.
Qanun quietly queries—a quivering jumping jubilation
Rhythms resonate—a restorative impressive intonation;
Samba's syncopation—a spirited harking harmony
Tabla's tempo—a testament of gripping grandiloquence.
Uilleann pipes uplift with urgent a fever for fervor
Violins voice the vibrancy of the endless echo;
Whistles and winds—the world's diverse diapason
Xylophone's xylography—a cross-cultural cadence.
Yodeling yonder in the Alps' billowing bellow
Zither's zephyrs—a zenith we accentuate and attune.
PERSPECTIVES
at every
turn
insistent
tender
encounters
more
prominent
refocussi
of
attention
to
proceed
repurposed
in
an enfilade
brilliant
&
intense
grandiloquence
of
self-regard
with
compelling
familiarity
in
an
unforgettable
literal
fragile
labyrinth
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand
The apostles of decadence claim that the divine spark demands lust, power and material goods.
Why pay attention to these puppets enlightened by the dogmatic obscurantism of the West?
Our heavenly portion seeks elevation and not the accumulation of earthly riches.
Evil and good coexist in everyone, physically and spiritually.
To say that a reality does not exist because we have not yet experienced it is an error.
Human prowess will never answer all the mysteries of heaven.
Wanting to explain spiritual phenomena using scientific logic is a Western absurdity.
Eloquence does not always sanctify truth, fairness, probity and justice.
The ignorant and hypocrites speak with diabolical grandiloquence to keep the masses in the darkness of alienation.
They speak with a demonic passion to lead astray all those who feed on their lies.
I have met several enlightened people who deliberately distort African spirituality, as the slavers did when they arrived in Africa.
It is painful to see Westernized Africans excel in deceiving their fellow human beings by using the imperialist methods that kept some of their ancestors in the savagery of slavery and the barbarity of colonization.
"The selective instinct of the artist tells him when his language should be homely, and when it should be more elevated; and it is precisely in the imperceptible blending of the plain with the ornate that a great writer is distinguished. He uses the simplest phrases without triviality, and the grandest without a suggestion of grandiloquence."
~ George Henry Lewes
I am a fan of simple,
Not highly ornate,
I must understand the words,
So as to relate;
When I read poetry deep
With toughest vocab,
And the meaning of the lines
Are too hard to grab,
I'll simply skip it and go
To the next best one,
Too flowery is not cool,
Such poems I'll shun;
As they say, keep it simple,
It works best for me,
Ornate language is okay,
But it'll just bore me,
For I'm a fan of simple,
Not highly ornate,
But give me ornate trinkets,
Now, that would be great.
24th March 2023
Rhyme scheme: abcb
For Constance La France's "Writing Challenge - 'O' words" contest
A cartridge filled with a horde of shackled emotions, am I,
Trifle feelings loiter within me, until she elicits them out,
Wizened by time, she knows that otherwise I might turn mordacious...
God guides my pen and has assigned her my way,
~ She is the vociferous voice of my heart ~
She knows my malleable moods and masterfully makes magic
By weaving whispers into wistful words,
~ She is the byzantine boon of my being ~
With cogent candor she cajoles me to compose poesy,
She and I share a companionable camaraderie...
In the mystical moondust of Maker's majestic mercy,
I acquiesce to her ingenious genius,
~ She is an efficacious eclectic enigma ~
For sometimes, she plays truant tricks,
Her surreptitious evanescence is a conspicuous conspiracy,
Abandoned, I have to await her august appearance...
The soft stardust of her sartorial splendor,
Renders me a mere puppet of her puissant prowess,
~ She is a phenomenal Phoenix ~
For she encourages me to endeavor towards excellence,
Her alacrity aggrandizes my acumen,
Having faith in her fortuitous favour, I flourish...
~ She is my God-given "gift of grace" ~
Her multifarious munificence is a monumental mystery,
She has transformed me from a fruitless flibbertigibbet
To a fulfilled female fount with her unfailing finesse...
~ She is my mysterious, magnanimous Muse ~
Feeling forever grateful to God for her grandiloquence.
5th January 2023
For whom do you write, vainglorious poet?
Who are the disciples you seek?
Shall converts worship at the altar of your prose;
Devoutly reciting your works?
Is there passion alight in your breast;
The call of some unknown muse?
Or does your pen labor of its own accord,
Guided by some universal force?
What is the sermon?
What message do you proselytize to the masses?
Shall all bow, or bend knee;
Demonstrably awed by your articulate compilations?
Self-fashioned prophet!
Or perhaps it is godhood you seek.
Author of verbal constructs.
Creator.
For who can judge your writing?
Who can look down their nose?
Furrow their brow?
Scoff?
For what you have crafted stands.
In grandiloquence or simplicity.
Perfect.
Crafted just so, and gifted to the world.
Can a critic better evaluate its worth;
Can the detractor eclipse the creator?
Perhaps then, it is he
Who fancies godhood the more.
A Grand inquisitor!
Laying to rest the heresies of your writ.
Sound the trumpets!
Send forth the drums of war!
Who shall emerge the crusade?
Shaper of public opinion.
Master.
God?