It is 2 AM by the room clock,
Body, helpless, detached; done
Brain, still active. Heart wanting
the sweet melody of music. Alas,
the speaker needs the electric
embrace of replenishment.
It is 2 AM by the room clock,
Body, makes a sound that the
brain rejects. The heart craving
for notes, noise; chaos. Dejected
it lays on the bed, hopeless like this
damn night.
It is 2 AM by the room clock,
The body is content, the brain not
so much. Trying to make sense of
the Sonance. The heart, relieved,
entrained with the vibrations. Alas,
It is the spring, poking from within
the bed.
In this sanctuary, where dreams
take flight, where silence unleashes
its fury. This bed spring sings without
fear, and draws sleep a bit nearer. With
each creak and a crack, it creates a
melody for the heart to unwind.
Verily, it happens at 2 AM every night.
Prompt: Spring (Bed)
Categories:
sonance, absence, anxiety, metaphor, music,
Form: Free verse
Bewildering static
frames the soulless—
restlessly habitual, as
crippled philosophies efflux
amidst stunted swells,
cracked and parched
despite ocean whorls that
coat wayward sentiments, of
grave quagmires rippling in
steady streams,
paradoxically cornered into a
vortex of intoxicating drifters.
Rather, the moon guides my way
amidst lulling meres,
soothing the storms
raging within perplexed
personas, sailing towards a
dawning of lucid seascapes—
home to you, my ocean blue.
Categories:
sonance, ocean,
Form: Free verse
There is no god in England
(I learned of that this day)
For when a man is stricken
He has no more to say.
He lies in expectation,
The end to shortly be,
Torment is blindly gazing out
Through eyes that barely see.
The blaze within his body
Radiates, and yet,
The chilling of his very soul
Allows him to forget.
With sonance all around him,
The sobbing and the tears,
He listens to so many words
Whereas he hardly hears.
And so, within his restless mind
His hopes are all he'll keep;
All he'll find to warm his heart
As those about him weep.
And in the darkness of the hour,
When all is done and said,
He sleeps the sleep that comes to pass
And rapes his weary head.
Categories:
sonance, angst, bereavement, cancer,
Form: Rhyme
The redolence of tropic garden orchids
A hush of tender whispers in my ear
The tang upon my lips of your amrita
A tingling on my skin as you draw near
Your fragrance is narcotic to my impulse
The sonance of your voice, a drug divine
Your taste, a sweetened opiate, inviting
And velvet pelt, a thing of grand design
Please ruin me with essence and aroma
Destroy me with the music of your sighs
Consume me with the flavors you desire
And feel the rapture ... as your virtue dies.
~ Honorable Mention ~ in the "Smell Sound Taste Touch Repeat Sense" Poetry Contest, Sheri Fresonke Harper, Judge & Sponsor.
Categories:
sonance, emotions, feelings, love, passion,
Form: Rhyme
Whistling bells through the wind bring me ease,
like melodies that bestow perfect tunes in harmony.
Through the breeze it’s music to my longing ears,
an aria of beauty that has become a rare composition.
I hear the rhythm that no one else can seem to hear
when I calmly sit on my porch and listen to the sonance.
Grandma birthed six children yet was gifted in ways
I wish I could learn, but I know I could never compare.
She raised her family but in the latter days of her life
she created a pulchritude of music that twists and turns.
So meticulous blowing glass and creating perfection
in each chime she assembled with threads of love.
Now everyone in our family has one on their porch
to remember grandma and the symphony she gives.
I have it hanging all year long like a nostalgic memory
knowing that my grandma lives in my heart forever.
Especially during the warmer seasons I feel her near,
sitting on my porch listening to her gentle chiming voice.
Wind Chimes Contest
Edward Ibeh
August 28, 2018
Categories:
sonance, grandmother, meaningful,
Form: Free verse
Sitting in silence 'neath cellar ceilings,
Creeping creeks crack in corners' crevices,
Whose acoustics are brushing my feelings,
With suggestions in sounds of a presence.
"Who goes there?" I demand inside my head.
As movements pussyfoot in penumbral
Waves inside the curves of my open spread
Eyes. Feathers of ether or ethanol,
Splash in my nose and slide into my throat.
I choke and check with a turn of my neck,
To see what has gone bump and is afloat.
My eyes catch glimpse as to what the heck,
Made such a sound in this creepy old house:
There sits the phantom of a quiet mouse.
Categories:
sonance, fear, house, sound,
Form: Sonnet
Painting Voices
by Odin Roark
How indelible
These frequencies abounding
Filling our senses with color
Defending our spirit with aura
Voices speak
Sing
Chirp
Bellow
Crosshatching endless layers
How personal their colors
Sounds of red
Yellow
Green
And blue
Diminuendos to crescendos
Weaving and blending
Curling and attaching
Mixing hues of sonance
Into the kaleidoscopic surrounding we absorb
To make into our own palettes
How lightning gray
The subway shriek
The yellow/blue
Of a lone sparrow
The crimson red
Of a Pavarotti high C
Would that the world might create
A global canvas harmonized
By colors of passion
Love
And peace
Even as they sort out
The dissonant vibrations
Of a Pollock guise
To allow our blue/gray tempest rage beneath
To surface and become one
With the purity of white
To know that the reflection of all color
Cannot be known
Without the awareness of black
Painting voices
Pulsation needing only whisper’s hue
To truly hear and see
Categories:
sonance, passion,
Form: Free verse