Long Tympanic Poems
Long Tympanic Poems. Below are the most popular long Tympanic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tympanic poems by poem length and keyword.
My open-ended lines can convey more than one idea. Verse 3, middle line, ends in “I am.” I am both okay (today) & puddles on pavement.
whispering birds through wind and light rain
no drama of wildly flapping wings & lightning
sweetness in covered tones, under umbrella
mine is red and white, candy-striped, mint
moment at the beach, ebbed into tall mug
heat of cream & coffee steam my a.m. lens
just peachy in mid-May, Mother’s Day past
don’t have to pretend to be okay today, I am
puddles on pavement, swirls of mud and moss
sounds of Spring tympanic, tinkling & symbolic
dull day, verdancy not at all bright, nice chill
still those tweets invite a kiss of heart, mind, soul
louder tweets, grow, not as mad as thunder, tow
not of under, nor rip; chorus of natural sequence
and consequence, harmonious, non-disclosure
biddies somewhere are moving their beaks
cheeky in gossiping, speaking curses not kisses
only man intentions to kill, imagines the hearse
be sweet, as proverbial pie; as best homemade honey
don’t terrify anyone with a storm of marmite words
lightly flap your wings to visit the poor in your dreams
thoughts cohabitate with nature, change moment
to moment, pierced and pecked synchronization
not numbed out by a blinding sheet of buffeting sound
There is not a day
Not a day goes by that storm cloud do not accumulate, gather in the deep recesses of my throat, and choke off my life’s breath – that do not rage on, behind these sorrowful, doleful brown eyes, just waiting for a chance opening, that will let out a deluge of pain, pain that has rained down upon this tired old soul for far to long, cutting deep groves into my spirit, leaving thick scares that may become the walls for another to try and tear down as I have tried to do with your walls .
Acceptance will let me know - finally – that alone in this world, I will walk, alone in my room, were the bitter sweets, sound waves of music, dance along the acoustic meatus and beat upon the tympanic membrane on their way into my brain and were the rays from the cathode ( boob ) tube light up the gray matter ( that sits in this stark room ) with it’s illusionary images of imaginary lives with a thousand stories that feed my – and so many more – empty moments. Alone in my bedroom, I lay, were darkness and dreams fill my empty nights, alone in my bedroom were preparation of energy feeds this old body of mine, alone in my bedroom were Mother Nature’s embryonic fluid flows beneath me, surrounds this tired old body with the heat of her life giving essence, her mysterious forces submerging all my cares and woes- for a few hours anyway .
Alone in these rooms, my heart lays, alone in these rooms may be my fate, my destine and alone in these places may allow me - along with all that I have written and written to you – to be able to grieve for the loss of someone and something that was never mine to loose in the first place and would never have been in the first place, it seems .
B. J. "A" 2
Janurary 11th 2008
Golden Disks and Whale Clicks
mind song riffs
joining the back beat
nature clicks
timpani
drums of black thunder
percuss
then the sky opens
a luminous landing
off gasses from the heat shield
rainbow across a spectrum of light
Cam’s Glieseian tongue flew over the surface
of the audio generator
Voyager’s golden disk long gone now
transposes across a film of galactic plasma
the taste of whale and bird song they tongue
enthralls them—though they had no notion of
whales or birds
mind song cascade, scroll, behind the visitors opaque orbs
joining the back beat nature clicks woodpecker tunes
tympanic membranes shiver upon
retractable body hair
drums of black thunder roll
past helmetless crowns
percussing their brain stems
orgasmically
then the sky opens
Sol’s a black dwarf they are too late
but still the songs sang
Cam tongued the plasma film
once more then reentered interstellar
hibernation
First Published: Eye to the Telescope 1/15/15
mind song riffs
joining the back beat
nature clicks
timpani
drums of black thunder
percuss
then the sky opens
a luminous landing
off gasses from the heat shield
rainbow across a spectrum of light
Cam’s Glieseian tongue flew over the
surface of the audio generator
Voyager’s golden disk long gone now
transposes across a film of galactic plasma
the taste of whale and bird song they tongue
enthralls them—though they had no notion of
whales or birds
mind song cascades, scrolls, behind the visitors opaque orbs
joining the back beat nature clicks woodpecker tunes
tympanic membranes shiver upon
retractable body hair
drums of black thunder roll
past helmetless crowns
percussing their brain stems
orgasmically
then the sky opens
Sol’s a black dwarf they are too late
but still the songs sang
Cam tongued the plasma film
once more then reentered interstellar
hibernation
First Published by Eye to the Telescope 2015
Mystical labyrinth of twisting harmonic warnings
Gazing into infinity’s composing handiwork –
Moonbeams in silver sung sonatas –
Ivory hued cantatas resolved from heart pacing crescendos
Spring’s soothing birdcalls after tympanic thunder.
Measured tempos of rhythms search for their time signature
As aching melodies in moveable feasts of swans
Search for resolutions in atonal firebird tango ballads
Through classical dusty suites of western legends
Not losing pitch or tripping over downbeats.
Too many notes squeeze into four square spaces
When magic flutes songs soar over seraglio dreams
Imperial marches set imprisoned phrasing free with fanfares
And close encounters of key notes discard dissonance
Seeking rhapsody in hues of blue.
Plaintive and joyful - hopeful and merciful -
Healing rhythms inspired from the eternal melody,
A lost chord to haunt then heal the midnight heart
All arranged in one accord from the Master’s apprentices
To rest in finality of one trailing echo of waltzing river.
Almost always, as additional allurements arrive, ask as a Being...
By better borne behests become best Causes ?
Can causes create concise concepts Diligently ?
Do doers do decidedly dumb doldrums Ever ?
Each eek echoes egotistical efforts enduring Familiarity...
Faith fathers forgiveness for flaunting fabled Gifts.
Gasps give great grief, growing gruesome Hatreds...
Hasn't humanity had hurt hearts hung Innocently ?
Is insistence in increasing irritation inevitably incongruous Justice ?
Jimson jars...jitters...joggles...jolts...just jocose jurisprudence' Knell.
Kerfuffle kin, kickshaw kept ken, kindly knaves kneading Lamentations...
Leaving love's loaves, lordly lotharios, looking like lowlifes Made.
Marking more madmen mere moronic monsters meting mayhem Nearby.
Now, not never, nab needed nerves, nurture nasturtium near Openness !
Once only one, ordained our ostracism, outrage outdone on overwrought Plight.
Perhaps pride precludes passable patience, posing portentous prolapse Quickly !
Quiet quandaries, quarrelsome qualms, quivering quixotic quirks Resplendent...
Reaching relapse, revolving recidivism, reconstructed reflective reform Seen !
Searching secretive states, seemingly simple, sincere serenity sought Through...
Tender tears, touching together to total tympanic transformation Unjust.
Unique union...unimportant, unbending, unpopular, unless universal Veracity !
Verbose verbalism, vertical vignettes verify vital victory Won.
When written with wit...watershed words work wonderful Xerography !
Xyloid xylography, xeroxed xeno X, Yet...
Yesterday's youth, yowled yummy young yips Zanily !
Zeitgeist, zombie zealots zapping zonked zingers...Away !!
Poesy and song are all about
rhythm and flow, and tunes and tones;
how every rise and fall throughout
make melody within the zones
and forms of verse without fade-out
to listener's tympanic bones.
Measure’s a trick of deft poets,
who know the cadence of their feet
gives lines their tempo. And so it’s
like Poesy’s pulsating heartbeat;
it’s hypnotic (and you know it’s
rhythmic),—so feel its potent beat.
Together, Poesy's clear measure
(the crests and troughs of its music,
the highs and lows of its leisure)
can roar like a score symphonic,
an orchestra of high pleasure
with counterpoint so harmonic!
BELLS
I.
Bells has a tingling ring to it,
a jingledy-jangle silver tone.
The tympanic waltz, close knit —
angelic chorus of Christ’s throne.
And Winter parades its magic —
the pure white snow purling gold.
Morgans’ shiver and shake chromatic.
Enchantment’s carol — behold!
O Christmas day — the pearly gates
stretched wide open in senssuround,
handbells harmonious, worldwide translate
singing, sweeping, melody crowned.
~
II.
*Poesome bells! They’re morose.
Tentacles dingle-dangle forth.
Curious onlooker of its strokes,
midnight binds its ears, looks North.
The lonesome brass calls for lad
and lass with clean cuts and braids.
The aww-no sound is clad
in a nonsenseless grade.
*Edgar Allen dawdles with death clang,
its clanger brain, hellish.
The beauty, from tower hangs —
the dauber of knells doth relish.
12/20/2020
*Some thoughts from Poe’s poem “The Bells”
You will say something unexpected,
a sudden potency will bruise my blood.
I mention an ordinary thing,
you show me how my words are clouds
beneath your skin.
An invisible tissue
connects our common language.
I imagine the tympanic bones
of our ears as they converse
in contrary vibrations,
duets that we sing from different rooms.
You say an odd thing
which I cannot translate.
I comment upon something
you have no knowledge of.
In-between the words
campfires ignite
in synaptic junctions.
Eventually we arrive at an understanding,
practice a deep listening
ignoring all dictionary meanings.
SILENCE
Articulations bound by another’s place.
Maw silenced, no expressions from this face.
Inarticulate, the lingna moves not for Beauty.
Vocal cords caught, a voice sought.
Yet no lyrical, poetic vibrations projected.
Pinna, tympanic membrane never again to be affected?
Silences, preponderates the roar between a reality and memory.
Mnemosyne, perched on high, tells the story.
Mneme gives insight, with insight, no glory.
For all, fear, fear it has come to an end.
No longer a supposition ?, a bestfriend?
To hold out for a touch, may prove too much.
Auricle, not the Oracle, to believe.
The heart blinds, it doth deceive.
Love ?, did the soul ever receive?
It flounders at the bottom of boundless seas.
B. J. "A" 2
August 15th 2011