An arbitrary effigy
Enacts its own soliloquy;
Concocts a taste sensation
Fit to consternate a nation.
What's an ethical conundrum?
Sinful, existential ho-hum!
Guaranteed to whiten whiter
Never lit one cross on fire...
Yet the sugar pills create
A side effect that won't abate -
You're free to spend more time prostrate
Than one can ever stay awake.
Now your own somnolent scream
Conducts a constant marching theme;
Reverberates the eight of Rome
As sifting sand toward sunken home...
If as you glance up at the sky
You still sense wonder from on high -
If with every labored breath
You'll glibly force another step -
Seek some meaning midst these words
Although the cadence is absurd:
NeVeRmInD tHe BuRnInG;
ThAt JuSt MeAnS iT's WoRkInG!
Repeated explanations shutter,
lights crawls through,
storing, and new glass encompasses over years.
Reds first flood into pink,
which bleeds into the silky handiwork of the toy maker,
a testament of effort and a drag in the dirt where wrists ache.
Chapters sculpt where lessons are learnt.
Green sidelines uniform greys where improvement and deterioration mean the same thing.
White pools where words were suspended and boiled to molten.
Blue hope swirls actively amongst it all, the promise of a fly’s infatuation to embrace the inside of a shell.
Colour explodes and light fractures through once saturated,
No matter an attempt at dignity, it bleeds through in a ray of illness all the same, shaking fingers glow a pink hue.
“I told you I was sick” echoed in the mind and it reverberates in the glass,
reds shine through upon reflection from blue, green and orange.
The image it makes stark against the atmosphere’s ivory.
The patterns stain all that the eyes drink with the pressing distant promise of return.
The earth has songs
of times before you can imagine,
the reminiscing and longing,
the memories of the ages.
The waters sing
their melancholy moan,
the ocean reverberates
of the things long gone.
The winds sing,
whistling their tune
of joy, fury, and sorrow
being shared in the now.
The skies sing,
the thunder crackles,
beginning the tale
of that which is to come.
The earth has songs
of times before you can imagine.
The reminiscing and longing,
the memories of the ages.
Can you hear it?
Just listen.
Prior to intent, in the unmanifest,
where creative will of God reverberates,
in us as the Monad, in peace and at rest,
the seed of desire in our heart then gyrates,
bringing about creation at God’s behest,
enacting its role till the desire abates,
whence heart quiescent it returns to the source,
in time dissolved stillness without use of force.
Ego indulgence is a brainchild of mind,
which labours within the matrix of space-time,
so to be free, head and heart must be aligned,
whence all that is then left, is God’s bliss beat chime,
melding with which, ego cravings are declined,
that all nodes tango dancing, conjure a rhyme,
enabling us then to reclaim Monad’s light,
which mirrors God’s heartbeat, throbbing with delight.
Om is the gong that reverberates within ~
God calls from the void so we plunge in therein
Cab door slams.
Midnight bleeds.
Keys jingle like broken dreams.
“The night rider is back,” she sighs.
Beer breath fills that one room.
“Who?” she asks the ceiling.
“Useless woman,” he spits low.
Single bulb shows a man unmade.
Hand rises. Her eyes don’t move,
Fixed like a viper before its prey.
“I won’t back down, John.”
Pot hits floor.
Emptiness reverberates.
Days numbered, he growls.
She stands, it's sure.
Door turns to flag.
One with the whole, yet distinct and unique,
as nodes atop our head radiate light,
our soul dances with Cupid cheek to cheek,
feeling in form rapture of bliss delight.
The soundless gong of Om reverberates,
music ethereal so compelling,
throb of magnetism that never abates,
dawn of realisation foretelling.
The meaning of silence thus redefined,
by remaining still, we fulfil God’s will,
transformed as living light, divine aligned,
awestruck beholding how voids within fill.
Blessings from God fall on us like light rain ~
Vibrant in solitude we thus remain
Irish Toast
Dhia Duit
the Irish love a good páirtí
and go at the craic with gusto
the Guiness and Jamesions flow
musicians gather round: bodhran, fiddle,
guitar, concertina, the hall
reverberates to the sounds of a lively ceili
lasting till the wee hours of the morning
enough to keep the fairy folk awake
when all is finished before leave takin’
a toast is hoisted with glasses all around
Slainte mhaith to you all
On Monday morning magpie sang.
I thought it was for me.
He warbled high, he warbled low,
With joy for me to see.
His head leaned back, beak to the sky
The tumbling notes rang out.
He would have sung them anyway
If no one was about.
As sun shone through the misty morn
His song continued clear.
The silences between the tunes
Delightful to my ear.
On Tuesday morning, once again
The scruffy magpie sang.
His liquid notes, from one to next,
All through the air it rang.
‘Twas for himself, the joy of life!
On sunny mornings, sing!
To other creatures, me and them,
True pleasure did it bring.
On Wednesday morning, cleaned the house,
No outside time for me.
On Thursday an appointment made
And that would have to be.
When Friday came I’d quite forgot
To miss my magpie friend.
Then at stormy evening time, I mourned.
I found him dead,
I cried because I realised
That he was old and weak.
But even so he’d sung out clear
And given joy to me.
His song goes on forever
Lilting, weaving through the sky.
A sound like that reverberates
And never will run dry.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
childhood dreams whirl~
dizzying, gleeful blur.
popcorn smell wafts through the air.
cotton candy clouds drift by~
laughter reverberates across time.
shadows lengthen, dusk
d
e
s
c
e
n
d
s
steeds slow, music fades.
time dissolves~
carousel of yesterday.
Waves in many ways—
eradicate what is straight
strident ripples roam
stroking cadence through our days
with vibrato, tremolo.
These waves wander in—
from sea-swell and drifting dunes,
patterns everywhere.
crinkles, murmurs, punch-lines rise,
breathing life with rhythmic beats.
Waves caress photons
wind embroiders still smooth ponds,
perms crinkle warm hair —
sand grains stream off dune-crest spines,
wave crests leap up to applaud.
Soft waves rock the boat,
lullabies for seafarers—
lilts in sea and foam
restful calm before the storm,
when wily wind turns wicked.
Twirling the senses,
waves blur the world's hard edges
with a gentle tone.
violinist's vibrato
with tremolo's memento.
Nature resonates,
reverberates waves' accord,
with quivering rhythms—
in myriads of heartbeats
in earth, water, sky, spirit.
Hatred and anger blazing,
first from thoughts,
then ungodly actions.
Reverberates in homes,
schools, on roads,
and in other places.
The children exposed,
helpless.
Don’t let it back in as
it echoes thunder in
the walls,
let God’s peace in
for all seasons. ~
The grumpy wind cries through bottle glass and bone,
Grain silos whine like widows at the gate,
Each sunrise shows up but exits the dongas alone.
The main street sighs,its colors ages out of date,
A dronkie in overall insults the deserted mine,
His guffaws crack,deranged,underneath the weight.
The spaza still sells nyaope and wine
And phantoms line where concertinas used to play,
Their sounds of tiekie draai to hosannas of turpentine
Youngsters pursue tyres that stagger,then spin away,
Grime hides their glee,fields no longer yield,
Old topies sit like statues at close of day.
You comprehend-beyond the rot,
The shattered shield,
A determined ditty reverberates tenderly through pain
Whispers of the wind rise through my pink hued leaves.
Ethereal evening glow lights the skies.
Raiders of the dusk, hovering on standby.
Walking my way past, I take the dais.
Omnipresent generals in attention stand along with me biased.
Longing wreathes wait on the carved guardians of kingdom mean.
Voyage through the vast unknown is on cards
Either a march to victory or martyrdom I believe.
Salvo of battle cry reverberates unseen.
Oh, my sweet parakeet, Cheesesteak,
I cannot bear to see you in this state -
your beautiful black and white feathers
all ruffled, no more to ever flutter;
your cold dead bruised body left here mercilessly
ravaged by the claws of my black cat, Stella -
Stella, the stealthy predator
who already massacred other birds of mine.
Who can fathom the mind of a cat
whose soft fur and purr are so precious,
yet whose attacks on innocent creatures
are so ruthless?
Such a strange and awful paradox it is -
that sweetness can display such savagery.
Dear Cheesesteak, your singing still
reverberates inside my mind.
My darling bird, who never harmed another,
nothing can I do
but bury you and say a little prayer
that you are safe in the rainbow realm
where all good pets go.
Sing, Cheesesteak, sing.
And fly with your pretty little wings
among the heaven’s clouds.
One day again, I’ll be seeing you.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.