Short Thrums Poems

 when true love rains, 
rose moon reigns~heart 
thrums strains in stars...

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At 27 you succumbed, 
Abandoned frenzied fans in shock - 
Tremulous threnody still thrums, 
As echo of the last string strums -
Your strident sound soars high, you rock! 

September 7, 2022...

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hospital's antiseptic ambiance,
   temple of impeccable hygiene,
      the oracle, the doctor, still not in;

the wallclock  looks bored, tired of ticking,
   drags time at an arthritic pace,
      anemic hands round its palsied face;

white coterie thrums down the hallway,
   doc's rounds complete, all waiting in place
      for his diagnostic curse or grace....

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Today's Cry Tomorrow,
The crazed blood roared,
Operatic vein beats,
Deafening thrums the ear,
The Mob's mad pulse,
Sickly gathering speed,
Sunset drifts across their barborous drone,
I turn my face from the crimson crowd,
To walk in mind with today's failing light;
until tomorrow...




By David Nickle Read 26/12/17
All rights reserved by the author

...

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true love is what we fall into
it's music always thrums
nightly I sleep entwined with you
then when the morning comes

wake up sleepy dream girl,
softly stretch and uncurl
I taste your lips of pearl

always irresistible you
true love is what we fall into


For: Quietus October 2021 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Unseeking Seeker
October 19, 2021
howmanysyllables.com...

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Desire glides in on calico wings,
a breath of a moth
seeking a companionable light,

where it hovers, unsure,
sullen, shy or demure,
in the margins of night,

a soft blur.

With a frantic dry rattle
of alien wings,
it rises and thrums one long breathless staccato

and flutters and drifts on in dark aimless flight.

And yet it returns
to the flame, its delight,
as long as it burns....

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hospital, with its antiseptic ambiance,
our top temple of impeccable hygiene,
its priest-oracle, the doctor, 
not yet in.


weary wallclock looks bored, tired of ticking,
pulls and drags time at an arthritic pace
with anemic hands around its 
palsied face.


at last, white coterie thrums down the hallway,
doc's rounds complete, everyone must wait in place
for his crucial diagnostic curse 
or praise!...

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Sorrow climbs
its roofless tower

Descends to be thigh deep – 
genitalia deep.
Now it has the weight 
of rain clouds.

A smoked umber
moves through 
an invisible throat.
Fine hairs
are stroked to arousal.

A drowning wrist
above a whirring hand.
Pressure rubs saturated sounds
from probing fingers.

The belly of a curving drum
thrums, moves us to a place
where nothing matters
but the next note....

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Sorrow climbs
its roofless tower.
Descends to be gut deep,
genitalia deep.

Now it has the weight 
of rain clouds.
A smoked umber
moves through 
an invisible throat.
Fine hairs
are stroked to arousal.
A somnambulant wrist
pushing a whirring hand.

Pressure rubs saturated sounds
though probing fingers.
The belly of a curving drum
thrums, moves us to a place
where nothing matters
but the next note....

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I hear the music of the night, and as the angels  begin to sigh   
the last ribbons of light fall loose across my path 
God , vigilant illusionist of all times 
as you scry the moon for me tonight, the stars  
align themselves, and the Universe thrums  in solvent time;  
Dios, incarnate flash and glimmer of my soul,  
legionnaire of all mankind, you draw me to your heaven  
as if I were a mere reflection of the stars I see tonight...

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the tsundoku trail beckons me,
a promissory path of pleasures to be had,
veiled in the haze of unexplored possibilities.
i take my first steps into the secret museum,
strolling into the forest of forgotten volumes,
each one brimming of worlds yet unseen.
my breast thrums with curiosity,
echoing the eternal rhythm of the psuche:
"what lies missing, these dogeared pages?"
now that my friends, is the mystery..
“welcome to Poetry Soup.”...

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Celestial hues of blues and indigo fantasies 
dancing beneath the moonlight 
soft in a field full of golden chanterelles 
luminous stars of silver quiver in the night sky ;
Musical lyres shine proud filled with Holy chords   
inside the midnight hour thrums of silence    
partner, with Messianic clouds
A mass of angels appear
in the Palindrome of heaven, 
and suddenly everything is crystal clear, 
about what God is doing here....

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Then whistling strands went silent 
And cries bled out the ground 
Hushed over earthen weeping 
And golden fields were drowned. 

In tears of quiet, silence
Sounds out the nothing drum
Beats thrums of peaceful sleepers
A voiceless, ashen hum. 

Tears of quiet dried to rust
Lit up by morning glow
Picked off, a surface crust
The under-flesh to show

Un-scabbed earth with silver vines
Unearthed new ground rubbed raw
To house embedded saplings 
And see another dawn. 
...

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Wide awake in the pitch of night   
is when they come   
drifting in and out dreams   
dancing between real and fantasy   

declaration sits within the heart 
and is always felt   
each time different but the same   
the longing oft remains   
and roams   
  
the thrums, the whirrs   
easing me off to you   
caressing those night time blues   
staring then stirring   
  
how can I await   
as time passes by slowly   
but surely   
you wait too...

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a heart …
is meant for a
far better habitation -
for a chest
that garners gold
and laurels …
and a coursing
of benevolence and bounty,
not blight …
so why?
perhaps it thrums 
to weed the world of wonder -
to set against
what’s truly worthy,
or bespeak
what dark things I am …
perhaps, just
to assure the Universe
it is not infallible -
to remind others
of all that I once was,
and to remind me
of all that I am NOT …
all I had wished
(in quiet corners of the day) …
to be....

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