a chorus cacophony born
wordvango
wordvango
Jun 30

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!

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

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.

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.

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....
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.

Olivia M Jackson
Jul 8, 2010

Streaming glitter
Suspended laughter
Delayed happiness
Evident abasement
Surmounting fears
Shadows dance in torment

Pleasant gestures
Pretence abundant
Deferred bliss
Creeping obscurity
Empathizing stares
Lured smiles led to drown

Malevolent touch
Masked intentions
Insubordinate emotions
Disappearing identity
Longing spirit
Laughter is beheaded

Joyful wickedness
Jeweled thorns
Loving stabs
Poisoned kisses
Unassuming mortal
Beauty lays dead

© 2010 Olivia M. Jackson
in the woods. Cacophony birds
Prabhu Iyer

A noon-time beat plays in the head
Tea-time brawl revisited now.
Lisping out a song later. 'Really?'
The fridge is empty. The late cuckoo
tugs at the heart; Summer sweat
on evening's brow. Deep down
glow, inner lit springs shadowed
in the woods. Cacophony birds
returning home. Cook, cook, cook.
Filling up sink. 'Ah, am I that bad?'
Insecticide can; Make something up:
the noisy fan; Lady in hood, rising
from the lake. 'Could I have....just
done it another way?' Walking by
the bund as the sky slips away
veiled among the blinking stars.

An attempt at linguistic abstract expressionism - presenting a persistent pattern underlying a stream of thoughts.
#love   #voice   #cacophony   #mosaic  
Kim Jong Il
Kim Jong Il
Jan 8, 2013

At night
Streets of this city are isolated
Whoever said cities do not sleep might
Have lied.
The morning touches the sky so gently
As a lover
Paints it so tenderly
Yet with passion of blinding love
This city
Has people of most ardent eyes
Of most wonderous hearts.
I will be one of them sometime
That will be when I’m at my best.

I haven’t been
At my best yet.

 
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