Acoustic Shadows 4-8-26 Craig Cornish
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Acoustic Shadows
As screen doors slam an audible footprint of sound
Echoes in phonics of ice in glasses
And tinkling bells of ice cream trucks.
The solstice ripens
Growing large in the splash of rainbirds
And telltale whirr of hummingbirds at feeders
As humidity buzzes, the breath of summer’s envoys
Sound out a boneless resonance
With chords that tease and tantalize
Alluring in fleeting notes hatching hazy inklings.
Haunting memories of a solstice oratorio renewed,
Veiled in the caress of a mirage,
Reverberate in noisy shimmers of Luna’s fullness.
Ripples of ghostly illusions speak in clues
Like bards of déjà vu
When sounds trickle down furrows of skin and soil
Leaving hints that foreshadow dusky shades
Recalling the hum of warmth in cold bones
And cues that foretell of the season of crickets.
The day after your passing
You met me on a trek
I sound out of my mind
To you I would expect
I walked miles upon miles
To prolong the experience
I felt you there beside me
Matching my every step
You wanted to console me
But you only sighed
As I felt us become one
Your force entered my stride
I could feel your broken heart
When it synchronized with mine
No doubt that it was you
Things will get better with time
You don't have to stick around
But that’s what angels do
I promise you I’m good now
Who am I trying to fool?
But you owe me nothing more
This life with plenty jewels
What more could I ask from you
Sustaining a life that you created
Is what a fathers supposed to do
In the flesh we cannot see you
But surely, you are here
Death is an illusion
Energy never disappears
Your striking image in my children
The indistinguishable ears
Thank you father for your grace
How bitter sweet the tears
Trumpets sound out, bells of Christmas ring
beneath a silent sky of linear silver light
a reindeer with antlers of solid gold
prancing in the snow,
the world is all aglow!
Taffeta gowns brushing a mezzanine heaven
Seraphim Angels winged in fashioned glass
lost in a tempura of time and space
Christmassing stars of gorgeous gleam !
Whispers of Christmas a murmur of Grace
above the heavens a choir of Angels sing
"Hosanna To The King of Kings"
let us serve Him until the end of time.
21.12.2024
If we were friends again.
All I wished was to have a chance,
To sing our favourite songs,
While watching you play your drum set,
Along my piano, harmonica, and even guitar.
There were so much for us to share and care and
To treasure through out the rest of our life.
Christmas was all about joy, hope and kind.
What would you do on that special holy night?
I knew you would love to be on your own,
Lonely sitting in front of your whimsy desk,
Working hard on your laptop,
While I would be fiddling my fingers.
On the baby grand piano keyboards,
You raised a voice without making a sound,
When, I made sound out loud without my voice.
This is the tale of young Polkahontus.
She lives in the forest; her aim is to taunt us.
The squeezebox is ancient; it’s lacquered and red;
she communes with the spirits and plays for the dead.
She gives the accordion a little squeeze;
the raspy sound out of it’s more like a wheeze.
She dances and prances and plays in the wood;
I’d drop a tree on her if I only could.
At dusk she gets started down there in the vale;
I’ve fingered my crossbow with thoughts to impale.
In the rain, in the snow, even bitter and cold,
she’s playing that polka; Good Lord, it gets old.
I’m at my wit’s end, so I get down the rifle
with murderous thoughts of a squeezebox to stifle.
I aim through my scope with the polka red dot,
but I won’t pull the trigger, ‘cuz that polka girl’s hot!
If your best work is done at night,
Which is now no longer your right
With neighbors to to your right of you,
With neighbors to the left of you,
Neighbors on top of you
Who don't want to hear a sound out of you,
Before breakfast,
And if they do,
Your insurance had better be paid up,
In case the wrong people, you wake up.
If your best work is done at night,
While the moon is still bright,
And you passion for your work is at its lowest under sunlight,
It may be time for you to pack up,
Before you get too many backs up,
And head for places,
Where the neighbors to the right of you,
The neighbors to the left of you,
Are far enough away, not to hear the sound of you,
Or where the roar of the traffic,
Is horrific,
For the full twenty four hours,
And it is safe for you to work your normal hours.
One Friday night, the stars are bright
The moon shun early from its light
Right on the hill, I paint my words
To the tune of coarse vocal chords
The wind blows cold as green leaves sway
Like it's a time for holiday
Contesting voices everywhere
The loud songs play from here to there
Alone, I sit here in the dark
I listen to the sound of lark
Loud drunk voices sound out of tune
Although from shame, they are immune
Oh to live in the pulse of the sun and feel blessed
and smell the sweet scent of a flower's in-chide
to inhale all the power of summer's attest
and exhale it towards God's ambrosial tide
To bathe in the peace of the stars during night
and flow with the light of the dawn like a kite;
To course through the heavens and never lose sight,
one must sound out the trumpet of summer's respite;
To dream by the oak and awake by the sea
when August has ripened and turned Jubilee
you must enter dominion of summer's delight
and live in the rapture of candescent light
Oh to live and to love one must first learn to kiss,
the kinetics of summer, with eternal bliss.
INTERVIEW WITH A DYING TREE-
I stand erect I embrace we
You cover me I am under you us
Grounded together we two
I am of you, we both stand in the wind
Both sprightliness, yet of skins
I die daily, my skin sheds
We gather this meeting we hug a conference created beings
In examination whose evaluation our dialogue audience
Exchange canvass the 3rd degree who said you’re a dying tree
I shed skin you shed buds and leaves daily
I speak life, live tree I speak life into me
You’re created-higher than the grounds
You’re created to cleanse the air
So that I may breathe the breath of God
You’re confer with
You’re pollinated
You’re survey you sound out ascertain the opinion of doubt
You shall not be disease nor die out I speak life I decree
I speak life, no you shall not be hewed, nor are you diseased
I speak life, you’re not said a dying tree
6/24/23
For “The Interview” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anthony Biaanco
The clip on my folder has finally cracked
From all the paper that’s been stacked
All the paper piling up on top
My mind has unwaveringly become an emotional shop
A pivotal moment of a significant heart beat that can’t stop.
An influential mind of days’ nights and time
Running free of feeling and thought
Of integrity and dignity that can’t be bought
Not a cheap bargain that’s for sale
There’s no price tag on these tall tales
Irrevocably
Permanently
Conclusively
As you scan
Beep
Beep
Beep
The screen reads decline
I’m sorry sir, madam if I sound out of line
They say that’s okay its fine
We understand
We have a mind that can comprehend
It’s just that we have a strong love for your written hand
I say here then take a copy for nothing
You have given me more than something
Your respect I take willingly
Far more worth than money.
when autumn’s last but long exhale
left mists of winter in its trail
her thoughts turned to the past to look
at greenway and the paths she took
where reading signs inside her skies
she'd dream up deaths and alibis
along the short cuts through the wood
with thoughts of stabbings and of blood
while hemlock often made her think
of slipping coniine inside drink
then with the breathless views behind
a choking often came to mind
though with the river dart in view
her thoughts would turn to drowning too
and passing by the greenway bell
she'd sound out bludgeoning as well
then muse once at the greenway gates
of ordeals, follies, pigs and fêtes
before she'd vanish through her door
to ‘kill’ some time and write some more.
This Poetry Soup is a real blessing
Allowing me the chance to meet
So many wonderful people round the world
Making the circle complete
Never before has this ever been possible
Could lead to better understanding
Know this sounds like a grandiose idea
Can never tell where it's landing
Had to start somewhere, why not here
Promoting peace and harmony
With all the great minds residing here
Offering a peaceful philosophy
Do I sound out of touch, a bit off the wall
Oblivious to how the world works
Not at all I insist, if we all band together
Round the bend world harmony lurks
I know, I know, this man is a dreamer
Smoking up some funny weeds
Just leave me alone as I dream of Utopia
Never know where this all may lead
This Poetry Soup is a real blessing
Allowing me the chance to meet
So many wonderful people round the world
Making the circle complete
Things happen
and we get caught nappin’.
Have you given God charge in your life?
Can you really rest in Him and stay calm in strife?
Do you sound out His orders on your drum and fife?
With sacred drum set a steady pace,
with fife add notes of grace,
stress to face.
~
Live in peace
In praying never cease
giving thanks, when the rains seem to pour.
Repaying goodness when evil beats on the door;
display patience, sing praises, rejoice evermore.
Depending on God, issues discussed
your doubt undone in dust.
Faith is trust.
When my Mother died,
There was no state funeral,
No tear felt announcement,
She was not deemed documentary material,
And no one saw money making opportunities,
Because of her passing.
Yet my Mother like so many of her generation,
Was the reason literacy levels were going up not down.
She was a prolific letter writer,
And it rubbed off on us,
Long before we caught the bus,
Well prepared and well fed for,
What school could do for us.
She would have been proud to know
That her great grandson,
Who is only three,
Knows each letter in the word,
Curiosity,
And can say the word too.
It is written on McDonald's happy meal carton,
In big letters for all to see.
Under the words Book or toy?
For those who bother to look,
And are able to sound out the word to their children.
If that is, they were lucky enough to have a person like my Mother
To spark their curiosity?
The BELLS * * *
Resonating
Along that weaving of our days
Past the encroaching darkness
And its wishes to spoil, to wilt
Whatever good it touches; and
How it recedes
With the ringing of the bells
Of Faith: music declaring
Our most Holy Lord’s power;
Calling out his children, loyal
In the fight for Good.
The bells call God’s warriors
To prayer, in the tapestries
Of our days; to raise devotions
To his omnipotent glory; and to
Praise the name of Jesus Christ,
Son and savior, creator of light.
Bells, to sound out his dominion,
In majestic ringing; to gather
His church, to hear our calling
In our gifted souls; to ever choose
Paths in obedience to his purpose,
Not our own desiring wants.
For we are created to edify and
Enhance. Each of us, according to
Our endowed talents, is —
By the weaving of our choices —
Here to color in some mark
Of beauty
Into the tapestry of our being
With God...God Alone...
———————————————————————
(c) sally young Eslinger 5/23/21
Thanks be to God
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.