C Jacobine
Nov 14, 2011

On the lawn in the court,
on the bench by the bush,
pipes are singing cacophonic rhythms.

Breezes, on becoming aware of said tune,
gather to dance
and trade their burden treasures

Once wearied by translucent celebration,
the breezes turn home
carrying echoes of song and gifts.

The piper stifles his tune
and leaves the court,
which returns to equilibrium

a chorus cacophony born
wordvango
wordvango
Jun 30, 2014

i subsist on verbs
and postulate on chords
apostrophe
a symphony of synonomy
a chorus cacophony born
in hymns
and antonyms playing
on violins
paper pen
a concerto operatic
absurdity!

Alexandra Carlyle
Alexandra Carlyle
Oct 11, 2010

I am always caught
                           on the ragged
        edges of your breath.    There are too many
                    words in the syncopation
                                  of your sighs
            and I never know
                       which ones you mean.  I know
           that I need them.       A sequence
                    of notes is not always
     a song, but I still listen
                          for a melody.      And still, I expect
                                  more than I find
     in your slanted
                       glance.        Your eyes are dissonance
                         trapped behind glass.      Once, the secrets
                                     hiding between your lashes
           peeked out.            Their echoes
                    are still tonguing the air.

Derek Yohn
Derek Yohn
Apr 2, 2014

What is today if not a ripple,
the shock of yesterday
bouncing off tomorrow?
Each moment nothing more
than pebbles thrown and sinking?
Our human efforts a shrill
cry in the canyons:

"I want to be free to be me...
to be free to be...
me to be free...
i want to be me...
be free to want...
i want me..."

but it trails off, dies out,
like the ripples in the pond,
the efforts of a stone.

Sandee
Sandee
Aug 2, 2013

Like a discordant chord striking the piano deaf,
Or a saxophone that lost its swanky sex appeal,
When you breathe down the neck of my violin,
      The horsehair refuses to bow,
When you huff out your limitations into my harmonica,
      You disrupt my harmony,
Throwing me
                                                        offbeat.

[But I refuse to be beaten].

unless I'm a drum and you've got the right rhythm....
Jade Ocampo
Jade Ocampo
3 days ago      3 days ago

I’ve done ill; I’ve done bad
B̶u̶t̶ ̶I̶ ̶d̶o̶ ̶n̶o̶t̶ ̶r̶e̶g̶r̶e̶t̶ ̶a̶n̶y̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶
B̶e̶c̶a̶u̶s̶e̶ ̶i̶t̶'̶s̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶
So I had to say sorry
A̶n̶d̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶m̶a̶k̶e̶s̶ ̶m̶e̶ ̶d̶a̶m̶n̶ ̶s̶i̶c̶k̶
Because it’s the right thing to do
E̶v̶e̶n̶ ̶i̶f̶ ̶I̶’̶m̶ ̶n̶o̶t̶ ̶r̶e̶a̶l̶l̶y̶ ̶s̶o̶r̶r̶y̶
A̶b̶o̶u̶t̶ ̶e̶v̶e̶r̶y̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶
T̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶h̶a̶s̶ ̶h̶a̶p̶p̶e̶n̶e̶d̶ ̶
And I’m guilty for committing
An unwritten crime; so, “I’m sorry”
M̶a̶y̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶s̶o̶l̶e̶m̶n̶l̶y̶ ̶g̶o̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶h̶e̶l̶l̶
I’m glad you have forgiven me
I̶’̶d̶ ̶b̶e̶ ̶g̶l̶a̶d̶d̶e̶r̶ ̶i̶f̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶h̶a̶v̶e̶n̶’̶t̶
For now, my heart is light;
no burden to carry.
T̶h̶e̶r̶e̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶n̶o̶ ̶b̶u̶r̶d̶e̶n̶ ̶a̶t̶ ̶a̶l̶l̶,̶ ̶a̶c̶t̶u̶a̶l̶l̶y̶.̶
I̶ ̶d̶o̶ ̶n̶o̶t̶ ̶r̶e̶g̶r̶e̶t̶ ̶a̶n̶y̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶.̶ ̶
B̶e̶c̶a̶u̶s̶e̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶;̶ ̶
M̶a̶y̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶g̶o̶t̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶h̶e̶l̶l̶.̶
THANK YOU!!!
D̶i̶e̶!̶ ̶S̶l̶u̶t̶!̶ ̶D̶i̶e̶!̶
For giving me a chance.
D̶i̶e̶ ̶s̶l̶o̶w̶l̶y̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶p̶a̶i̶n̶f̶u̶l̶l̶y̶!̶ ̶
I̶ ̶a̶m̶ ̶n̶o̶t̶ ̶s̶o̶r̶r̶y̶ ̶
A̶b̶o̶u̶t̶ ̶
A̶n̶y̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶
And being your friend again.

This poem is about someone who accepts reconciliation towards an enemy. The words in strikethrough are his real thoughts.
Audrey Howitt
Audrey Howitt
Feb 7, 2012

the harmony of discordant tunes

infiltrates mind

closed to thought

strewn against wind

in the onslaught of scattered

steely voices

attuned to this one alone

messages of self-loathing

that medication covers over

the bandage merely adequate

a stale, small blanket

wooley

euthanize thought

unapologetically strident

so that this one

can finally

sleep

dreamlessly

Written for those who I know who hear voices

copyright/all rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2012
Johnathan Teitley
Apr 25, 2013

Silence
is subject.
Infinite and default.
The sublime,
a poets' boon.

But silence
is not our lot.
We clutter,
filling,
filling.
Trash skyscrapers,
corpses
language and noise.
Noise.
Wonderful, rapturous noise.

Grinding steel,
movement of earth,
Noises of lives,
big and small.

And we're getting closer,
filling infinity with our mounds
and heaps.
Meaningless and beautiful,
what's here and what's left,
resounding to the edge of reason,
further
and
further.

Who is there when the screams turn to silence

#sad   #anger   #hate   #silent   #scream   #bitter   #apathy   #murmur  
 
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