"cacophany" poems
Sagaciously gloaming melanite eyes
Resonating euphoniously ululated memories;
The shadow land of illusion
Rising out of the ash of an acorn
Wallowing in the blood of wars strident refuge,
Gnomic relics errant of an
Enigmatic almondine heart
Offering an olive branch upon an
Altar made of oak.
A ruminantly nostalgic requiem
Sedititiously traversing the firmament;
Ineluctable reprobation
Ineffably manifested,
The doves of meta-morphosis
Embracing the silk garments of love;
Sound minds cacophany
Devouring the delusional devout
Veridically inspiring ascendancy
Decieving serenities whisper throughout
The dominions audaciously
Rousing ambivalent fears.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 10:27 AM UTC
Gentle silence unfolds into chaotic cacophany
My eyes once dry
open wide to watering
the rain outside
the tears inside
washing away debris
from the forest
of confusion
watering my seeds
of awakening
to this truth
now
Apr 29, 2019
Apr 29, 2019 at 11:59 AM UTC
Your sunlight wakes me with a gentle glow
Lifting me from the sleep below
Your omnipresent blue twinkles serenely
While your beauty overwhelms obscenely
Each street a new promise of adventures new
And distant islands known to few
Your water so powerful cleanses all
Sweeping under bridges so tall
The mystery of your Eastern delight
Keeps me with you every night
Smoky, silky, rich and heady
Always waiting, always ready
I rely on you to lift my frown
And you have never let me down
Cacophany of noise, your urban voice
Embodied by life and love and choice
Towers on which a thousand summers have shone
Here long before me and long after I've gone
Five times a day you sing out your chorus
Reminder I share you with each grubby tourist
But underneath this ancient dome
I know you are mine; my City, my home
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 11:29 PM UTC
Among the blight-killed eucalypts, among
trees and bushes rusted by Christmas frosts,
the yards and hillsides exhausted by five years of drought,
certain airy white blossoms punctually
reappeared, and dense clusters of pale pink, dark pink--
a delicate abundance. They seemed
like guests arriving joyfully on the accustomed
festival day, unaware of the year's events, not perceiving
the sackcloth others were wearing.
To some of us, the dejected landscape consorted well
with our shame and bitterness. Skies ever-blue,
daily sunshine, disgusted us like smile-buttons.
Yet the blossoms, clinging to thin branches
more lightly than birds alert for flight,
lifted the sunken heart
even against its will.
But not
as symbols of hope: they were flimsy
as our resistance to the crimes committed
--again, again--in our name; and yes, they return,
year after year, and yes, they briefly shone with serene joy
over against the dark glare
of evil days. They are, and their presence
is quietness ineffable--and the bombings are, were,
no doubt will be; that quiet, that huge cacophany
simultaneous. No promise was being accorded, the blossoms
were not doves, there was no rainbow. And when it was claimed
the war had ended, it had not ended.
2.2k
straight through my spine the desert winds blow flute,
before my burial under the sand,
my skull an empty can, whistle and hoot,
my ribs a xylophone, femur in hand,
the dissonant cacophany--my taps,
a song for funerals devoid of men,
the vultures took my flesh in neat-sized scraps,
efficiently disposed in nature's den,
oh, once a garden, lush with greenery,
our love, abandoned by my rib's dear Eve,
now with her heart removed, the scenery
decayed, and to the burning sand i cleave,
my covering completes with eve's new dusk,
out of her sight, this old forgotten husk
(C)2012, Christos Rigakos
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 8:33 PM UTC
a silent scream in my bones
hollow harrowing thorns
acid rain cacophany
words whisp off hot sidewalks
vanishing into thin air
intentions crumbling
dried black roses
poison darts
my rice-paper heart
alert and acute
to the wrong signs
a child digging worms
for a sunny fishing day
freshly hatched baby vipers
deadly fangs felt like kisses
somehow betrayed
by youthful innocence
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 7:36 PM UTC
My heart bleeds colours
but not the way you'd think
it drips
R
A
I
N
B
O
W
S
through my veins
a
CACOPHANY
a
SYMPHONY
a
disdainful loss of my dignity.
Yes, my heart bleeds colours
I can no longer wear it on my sleeve
for all to see
the dazzling display that leaks
For such a heart as mine,
that appears so vividly black
I find it quite amusing,
for there certainly is a lack of
FEELING
and
EMOTION
coursing through my veins
and yet when it bleeds
THE COLOURS FLOW AGAIN
I've blue and yellow, mix to make green
Pink and purple
make the circle,
a full rainbow it would seem
Oh my heart bleeds colours
I am now no longer clean
for all my colours have started
seeping out my seams.
May 1, 2018
May 1, 2018 at 8:20 AM UTC
**** the things that make you run,
who needs 'em?
And let's be honest,
aren't we all a little more afraid of
staying, anyway?
I'm tired of all the toughness.
It is not pretty or popular or thoughtful or fond
to be a disconnected, dearly contented, apathetic
sack of **** body bag made of
music and stardust and a cacophany of epiphanies
being carried around in a lump of a brain that has
"no ***** to give".
I'm tired of the way that we're striving to live and it's ********
Giving up is not poetic,
and heavy tears are not pathetic when they have been built by
resistance
to the every growing popularity of a
selfish way of living,
as in taking without giving
and being unconcerned with the result.
It's not adult to be so *******
foolish,
and childish,
and finicky
and spineless
and what is this "toughness" anyway but a
generation of ********
who's parents didn't want to have too listen to them cry.
And no silver spoons would ever ponder on why.
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 4:46 AM UTC
Around us.
Around you.
Around me.
Everything is so
loud.
Dec 31, 2020
Dec 31, 2020 at 1:19 AM UTC
Why?
The burns fade in,
Deep,
Forming scars under the skin.
Scars so bold they burst,
A cacophany of shrill screams scratch softly,
Ever so softly,
At the thin skin of my inner dulcimer.
"Why?" he shouts,
"When the fire is set and the ashes,
That dark grey matter of life itself consoled,
Congeled,
Converged,
Are spread,
You do not rummage through the spoils of the spill!"
Oct 7, 2011
Oct 7, 2011 at 3:21 PM UTC
the birds sing songs of sweet agony
begging, crying
for the end of expectations
end of the madness
the intolerable weight
they bartered with hell for flight,
air the illusion of weightlessness,
wings in exchange for terrible visions
laments cursed to sound like shallow song
they too are mute here
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 11:51 PM UTC
Stifling steaming
sweaty suffocation
Vines envelop
inescapable intwining
Sun pierced canopy
light jagged glass
In shifting shadows
a crawling cacophany
Slithering serpents strangle
branches of
overhead dread
of filth
and bite
and sting
In eyes and smiles
the jungle breathes
heaving
coiling
waiting
Oct 10, 2022
Oct 10, 2022 at 5:06 AM UTC
A flexible sanity
A rigid madness
So seems divided
My weary soul
An intersecting of mirth
And misery
Why does it seem
So hard
To express my feelings
This lonely night
As I sit alone
In this small coffee house
A half eaten piece of cake
Before me
I take a drink
And think of my situation
The hiss of the cappuccino machine
Reminds me of the tiny voices
In my head
That constantly whisper
And tell me I am worthless
I try to ignore them
But they are too many
And speak too loudly and often
My mind is a jumble of theories
And facts
And deadlines
It's quite madd'ning
I can't escape
This cacophany in my brain
One voice tells me to go left
Another right
And yet another tells me
To stay put
For I'd only wind up back where
I am now
A failure
So I claw at my face
And stuff my ears in vain
With cotton
No matter what I do
I still hear them
And I worry that
I'm going crazy
Ha ha!
Maybe I'm already there.
Dec 6, 2010
Dec 6, 2010 at 8:09 AM UTC
Forced into action
False starts of recognition
Badly ascribed motives
And motivational speakers dying by the boat load
Trying to make a quick buck
From the wisdom of the cosmos
As if it wasn't freely available to anyone who will listen
Blistering lips and burnt fingers
**** bliss and listerine
Coughing up your anatomy
In a cacophany of coffee drops and cheap plonk
Like the company of even cheaper politicians
Civil servants serving their civil selves
While Santa's elves run the workshop
For pig slops and platitudes
It's so easy to short change people with no change
But big hearts and some semblance of social conscience
Who want to see their fellow man succeed
While greed drives more powerful men to darker ends
The soul corrupted green and crispy
Neatly pressed and folded in a money clip
While the trip of a lifetime waits in a little black bag
But who's keeping score
How can you when the game is so confusing
Quietly excusing themselves from the sidelines are the ones making the money on the whole **** thing
It's rigged, you should know this
Quit while you're ahead
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 8:47 AM UTC
free and wild he roamed the city
ears wide open he relished the din
eyes wide open he enjoyed the choice
home again he refined his appetites
yesterday he looked to tomorrow
not then considering consequence
today he looks to yesterday
not yet considering price
free and mild he settles now
ears plugged he misses the cacophany
eyes closed he dreams of dancing light
home in turmoil he builds his tomorrow.
full of hope he worries
full of energy he waits
Jul 21, 2012
Jul 21, 2012 at 11:34 PM UTC
"angel, come clean,"
the river whispers
as if i were not
already in love with it,
as if it did not
harmonize with
the sound of my
beating heart,
thump-thump-thumping
in ethereal cacophany
scarlet drips between my thighs
and off my wrists,
and when i sink beneath
an ocean of blue,
it runs red,
and
relief sprouts out
of lungs, finally, finally--
and then
i dream of
water rising
and collapsing
lungs,
all that breath swallowed up
like a siren song
heaven is a ***** liar
pleading for forgiveness;
the truth is buried
at the bottom of
a freshwater river
in the decaying hands of
a skeleton
who yearned for
eternal solace
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 3:23 AM UTC
I apologize in advance,
For none of my love songs will have melodies.
I will laugh in euphony and cry in cacophany, I will bleed with every typo and breathe with every verse. I will think in metaphors and speak in rhyme.
I will tell you I love you
Not by using those three words
But by writing my own; pages at a time.
I will compare your eyes to lighthouses in the mist
And your laughter to a lark's opera.
You won't just hear me say "you're beautiful" (though you are), but go on for chapters about every little freckle.
You won't understand why I think so dramatically. Or why I take so long to choose my words (because I always know I can find better ones). You will become angry when I sit down and write because I just can't say what I want to with my voice.
But, most of all, I apologize for the way your face will fall when you read my poems and discover who I am. You will awe at how I can hide so much in those little notebooks. You will hear stories about me that will never escape my lips. You will tremble at the exhausted self that remains after I pour all that I am into the pen strokes on the paper.
For these things, I am sorry.
So please excuse me for being a poet.
And please excuse yourself for loving one.
- p. winter
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 8:16 PM UTC
Dawn prevaricates-
reluctant to break
But mynah beaks open
their cacophany amongst
rustling bamboos
Dogs stretch and yawn
nuzzling to run in the
relative cool
I wait
Let light encourage
Snake to slither home
to burrows, fat from
night feed
in they squeeze
Full moon round as cheese
sinks stately behind
the promontory
On turning
sun drips honey
over greened mountains
Five islands sit-
their time will come
As mine, alas
has gone
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 3:08 AM UTC
The colors, they won't stop.
Bright, beautiful colors
Flashing, expanding, piercing
Red, green, blue
An endless
cacophany
Of meaningless
noise
The noise, it won't stop.
Voilent, grating waveforms
Squeaking, screeching, piercing
Sine, cosine, tangent
Like playing a chalkboard on a turutable
Like playing a vinyl on a pizza crust
An endless
poem
Of meaningless
Load Me
Dec 16, 2017
Dec 16, 2017 at 6:36 PM UTC
This place is my secret
A world of words and angst,
Every exquisite emotion
Perpetually eluding capture,
A cacophany of thoughts in a crowded room, spilling out on our pages in a glorious,
thunderous chatter of
Love, anger, fear...
Bravely we expose them all
Here
But this is not my only secret
Poetry
Rhetoric
Identity
Dreams
Emotions
Hidden in
Intimate wording that strips the
Meaning of truth
And
Love
Oh so much love
Verbosity bringing an
Escape in indulgent
Rhythm
Secrets within secrets
Sometimes we ‘hide’
Sometimes we bare ourselves for scrutiny
But the scrutiny remains within
Feb 12, 2021
Feb 12, 2021 at 8:09 AM UTC
I wake still and far too often
with the all-too-slowly
but oh so evanescently
fading memory of her voice.
Ever since that odious event,
that heinous malevolent and
deafeningly persistent
drumming in my head
that disturbs my sleep
distracts my thoughts
and haunts the daymares
of my diminishing life.
The blaring, blasting bluster,
the eruption of molten viscous sound
that barks, yaps, yelps and yowls,
that sounds, resounds and reverberates.
How can I escape the cacophany
that threatens to enmesh me?
How can I return to the
tranquillity of a serene silence?
Feb 16, 2019
Feb 16, 2019 at 4:55 AM UTC