Long Resonances Poems
Long Resonances Poems. Below are the most popular long Resonances by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Resonances poems by poem length and keyword.
The pensive piano,
the ominous orchestra;
the gorgeous guitar,
the driving drums.
Deep into my being the songs dig,
the aching and yearning welcome.
I find solace in the solos,
relief in the refrains.
Every beat, every melody, finds a home,
and yet sends me out to find more.
One verse tells me I never need another,
the next reminds me of the perpetual pursuit.
One hymn sates my appetite,
another only builds my thirst.
All command me to sing along,
to tap the rhythm out the best I can.
A harmony takes me back to years ago,
whether I wish it to or not.
Any doubt I ever have of true magic is stolen,
whenever a tune chooses to carry me elsewhere.
The sacred strains,
the beautiful ballads;
the rapturous resonances,
the meaningful measures.
I hope you know
your love for them
means something—
even if they cannot
be there to receive.
Star-felt, seen—capacities infinite—
resonances traveling deeper
than boundaries we create.
Even if love blooms
in soils of delusion,
does that make it less real?
Hearts do not measure truth
like minds—
what you feel still breathes—
sorrowfully exhaling
capacity to care.
Love, even unreturned,
reveals your heart’s bleeding truth—
its depth, its music—
its willingness to give.
And when your heart grows heavy,
remember: you deserve
that same devotion.
Turn your passion currents inward—
let them soften your spirit—
let them remind you
how worthy you are
of the love you so freely
channel.
8.20.25
the s e a
remembers the taste
of cinnamon sunsets~
the essence of
emerald embers
and resonances of petrichor
when the tides tremble
in turquoise delight,
amidst the marine snakes
slithering through
oceanic echoes,
mirroring Medusa melodies
in envious tones.
and as the morning
stars nestle in the
wildflower warmth
of the honeyed sun,
wine-red ink
flows within midnight
vines in vain,
aching to be heard,
while the jealous jasmines
jinx the sanguine spirit
of January garnets
I wear in
grace and gratitude.
yet if my sky knows
not the colors of darkness,
would the moon still
be my poetic savior?
silently sewing sequins of solace
to the fabric of love,
floating like cosmic candles,
elegantly emanating
perfumed perseverance
for I am the silhouette
of the horizon
wrapped in a plethora of
p e a c e lilies,
sprouting in the
glistening garden
of gossamer verses,
finding roseate reasons to rhyme,
when eclipsed
is the luna-light
and monsoon monsters
are the cynical spectators,
knocking on my canvas
with needles and nails
sharpened with
paper-thin confetti
of resentful remorse.
but I ponder,
will the blind still feel
the storms I breathe
and the strength I wear
to waltz through wicked weeds,
eager to chain unspoken needs?
this is me running from the toxic rain,
pushing me back into
the twilight zone,
where I surf
through nothingness,
engrossed in timeless trust,
tied to written tranquility,
manifesting magnetic waves
of inner truce and magic
as the sea remembers
the serenade of serenity
and the sky knows
the metaphors to merge
winds of love and
waves of kindness.
They say one cannot embrace pure silence,
But can they feel the silence embracing them?
Our minds in pausing and transitions,
Could it be…that
Within our souls is an air pocket or two?
Is there a space that should be filled?—can be filled?
The composer was aware by the traffic
That music is merely sounds
And he accepts those sounds and loves them!
Many have said if this was so,
How meaningless music would be!
But there is a certain truth to his words
That one can find buried inside
Nothing is quiet
Everything is so loud
Silence is naught but fought
And mechanical resonances bring peace to the heart
Like sounds to music
Is like words to poetry
There is possibly no rhythm to it at all
But there is a mental tempo as hard as iron in this shackled mind
Poems are all but words
I accept what they are
Simple, wonderful words
And they are embraceable
Even in our view of silence
-inspired by the composer John Cage on the “experience of silence and sound”-
Melody Maker
The music in my mind plays softly.
It is quiet today.
I can write and enjoy
each stroke of the pen
as it touches the paper...
like a lover for the first time
with their dearest one.
Gentle, soft, and methodical
the sounds interlace the moment,
with memory, to create remembrances
for later, when the resonances have lessoned
or stopped altogether. .
In the distance
I can see the white clouds,
they are rising slowly,
and gaining power, and physical strength.
My heart beats slightly faster, at the sight,
and the music responds.
Somewhere nearby
harps were joined by lutes,
and flutes.
Not dancing and prancing,
but bouncing against the unseen
droplets that will fall with the coming storm.
It has not happened,
but I know that it will... still.
I rush to finish the equation,
of love and forever,
the answer clearly presented.
The tune changed,
and rearranged...
the water touched the paper,
and caressed it anew,
the secret was then lost.
lovely
lonely
pristine
piano chord
reverberates
reflecting on silence
on a cold evening
piquant
placid
sustained
string quartet chord
whispers
seeking an answer
on a quiet evening
piano chord
reverberating
reflecting on silence
string quartet chord
whispering
seeking an answer
piano chord
reflecting on silence
string quartet chord
seeking an answer
piano
reflecting on silence
string quartet
seeking an answer
piano & string quartet
reflecting on silence
seeking an answer
quintet
reflecting on silence
seeking an answer
silent quintet
seeking an answer
silent
answer
There are those who believe this Age is ending
They mark time by fractures, not by firelight sending.
While I... have watched another map unfold: a hidden one, a tree in hymns
Drawn in the quiet hands of those remembering… you, being one of its limbs.
You were never meant to flee the storm
Sadly, into it… being born.
So, you can rise not as an escapee
But as witness, as a re-weaver to be.
As the one who sees the bones beneath the sky, and fearless...
Did not and does not now… turn away tearless.
Seeing the age of fixed meaning is ending
To apply better stitching, changing, mending.
Knowing we are not who we were... a generation past
And tomorrow, we won’t be who we are today...
Being not meant to last.
Not because of failure... because the world has entered a turning
This is not collapse, nor is it progress churning…
It is not prophecy fulfilled
It is just life... paying its bill.
It is the sound of old structures cracking
Beneath the weight of too many borrowed truths, tracking.
It is then the stillness after memory is uprooted
Before new roots find soils better suited.
It is the storm... not of weather, but of meaning
Of something grand, better seeming.
___*___
In this storm, we are asked no longer to believe...
But to perceive better, to receive
Through not holding fast to the known…
No, become able to see what has never been before shown.
To see with the Art of Seeing… not just with the eyes about the room
But through resonances, shimmers, and presence’s blooms
And the broken chords of once-beautiful songs...
Now longing to be sung again
With new notes, containing a deeper silence between them.
___*___
Oh yes, in this age, philosophy must be lived like a raft
Versus written for pillars rising in temples of marble crafts.
This philosophy must float, it must bend
It must not just ask... “What is truth, as of old, where will it too end?”
No, instead: “What is true enough to carry us through this crossing?”
We seek not conclusions tossed… but continuity.
Not control... but resonance, welcomed in unity.
And so, bonding us further into the beyond understanding, we walk.
So it is, this now, with the new path seeing… we will talk.
And once again to sing… a most beautiful song.
Ethics and Integrity
To live with integrity is to align oneself with the music of the cosmos.
Morality is not a set of imposed chains, but the natural rhythm of the soul in harmony with life.
Every act of cruelty, every exploitation of nature, strikes a discordant note that reverberates through the whole.
Compassion, honesty and protection of life, on the other hand restore harmony to the universal song.
Freedom is not the absence of boundaries, but the presence of alignment.
A river is most free not when it spills everywhere in chaos, but when it flows in its bed toward the sea.
So too with humanity - we are most free when we embody love, when our actions resonate with virtue.
Sex and Creativity
Sex is not profane, nor is it merely a biological transaction.
It is sacred - a union of resonances that can open a gateway to the divine.
When approached with love and reverence, sexuality becomes an act of creation not only of life but of spirit.
It can be an alchemy where body, soul and mystery meet.
Like all forms of creativity, sexuality is holy when infused with integrity.
To treat it as mere consumption is to desecrate its power.
But to approach it as sacred play, as reverent union, is to rediscover its role as one of the deepest expressions of love.
Vanquishing Fear
by
Odin Roark
Her unwritten diary
Read of descriptions
glittering private
Her hourglass of
diamonds
Where forever truly
destined forever
Her beauty made
artists shy
Their palettes’
ablaze with
unfettered colors
Her trail of
fragrance brought
flowers about face
Her presence in
crowds like a warm
tropical breeze
Suitors rifled their
pockets of tricks
Bent on conquest of
the untamable
For beneath her
silk-like curls
Dwelled the
inexplicable
The enigmatic
defense
Protecting the lost
Never to be found
Lips not yet ready
to part
So grew the nymphet
of patience
Often confining
herself to shoreline
treasures
Where shamans
fathoms deep
Shared sonnets of
passion
From sea shells to
auricle passage
Personal imaginings
to echoing without
end
And then…
A man did appear
Heretofore merely
another serial lover
Leaving traceable
imprints
Evidence for
confirming
He did exist
Her first glance
fostered nightmares
Burning fear of
losing that
Which she knew not
of
So virginal her
experience
Yet rarities do
happen
Pen and paper gave
birth
To offspring of word
and symbol
The poetry of two
reflected many
Where shamans and
sea shells
Imprints and
nightmares
Poetry’s family tree
of shared resonances
Became transcendence
together
I AM DEAD BECAUSE I FEEL SO!
I lay wrinkled and knotted, trying to iron my crumpled self...
Vibrating with those ugly, gruesome resonances, I relive those horrors each day.
I AM DEAD BECAUSE I FEEL SO!
I walk yet I feel crippled...................
I can see my inner self but why do I feel blind.............
I can hear my internal sobs, but deafness seems like myself...................
I am not dumb but where my laughter is lost, I am not sure.................
I AM DEAD BECAUSE I FEEL SO!
What was it that caused this ABUSE, I try to reason out?
Perhaps my silly heart or my funny face..............
Maybe my ugly hand or my miserable mind..................
I AM DEAD BECAUSE I FEEL SO!
It was the depth of that ABUSE that set my soul to choke into breathlessness!
I AM DEAD BECAUSE I FEEL SO!