"cacophonic" poems
It is early.
and the world hangs silent, but the birds chirping their chime,
An angelic choir of vibratos
And tenor beaks
humming sweet
to the early tangerine crest of sun
slivers a powerful bar of light over the peaks
to a newly brilliant horizon.
Sweeping the dredges of darkness away
as the stars fade
like coal dust
back again, packed into their cupboard of night
one by one,
lanterns snuffed and sent
into the vibrating blue
as if the whole sky should erupt into fire
azure, hallowed morning pyre
Encircled by the gradient hues
of coral pink and castille yellow
Mediterranean teal
A symphonic
cacophonic
**** of birth
Good Day, Sweet mother earth.
Squeezed through the valleys
canals
allies
every nook and forlorn cranny
kissed with her blissful photonic army
And the infantile creatures cry with glee.
The dewdrops clutch the blades
the tender palasade
of petals
remembering their darkened escapades
slipping tender rain
to feed the dirt,
the lonely detritus
elixirs of the lovely night.
And the world bursts into a veritable
kaleidoscope of life
With a trillion pairs of eyes
accessing the mother dream
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 2:48 AM UTC
poetry is heart speaking
her deepest wisdom
or lightest whimsy
traditional form or free verse
let souls sing
sprinkle metaphor and simile
if you are a poet, write like one
words are music
let them breeze like a melody
color with mix-matched sensory
don’t stay inside the lines
see sounds with eyes closed
hear flickering of fireflies’ light
smell beauty in distant mountains
taste majesty of flowers’ bloom
touch forgiveness
bring personification to life
“she” is much sweeter than “it”
and a seat cushion may have a roundness to her
throw in some high speech
make someone grab a lexicon
delete those extra words
‘I’s and ‘the’s especially
alliteration can create cacophonic chorus
while similar sounds of assonance
tie hoards and scores of words together
although there are no rules
try your best to use poetry’s tools
with this above all else:
let your truth ring
let your insights and revelations
be a healing to self and reader
let experiences resonate in hearts
and harmonize voices
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 4:49 PM UTC
Your colored flags wave in the breeze, and with them flutters my
beating heart.
Your cacophonic symphony rings in my ears, and with it sing the
thoughts in my head.
Your smells tug me in every which direction, and flavors dance
upon my tongue.
Your trottoirs are filled with a million eyes — with men, women,
children of different creed and color. They are them, and I am I, and
together we stride forward.
Oh! What have you done with me, Atlanta?
I was only a lonely, aimless cloud drifting after your twinkling
lights.
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 6:08 PM UTC
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
Nov 14, 2011
Nov 14, 2011 at 3:51 AM UTC
(history)
Quell the bard was silken-clad and ever young.
her flute connected earth and sky,
tamed lightning in the higher notes..
her ancient horse would winnie to her song
of endless breath she blew her story even into stone.
having borne the stigmas of a *****
her martial prowess struck,
trampled disrespect to cacophonic dust
while over hills and vales he carried her--
a love-sick equine heart at peace at last upon the road
between her thighs, commanded loyalty of beasts and men.
none claimed her for their own,
though some risked instant death to try
..stirge beaks tap on bones and rock
to seek corrupted blood of elven kings,
who having reigned and fallen
to a royal troglodyte of dragon times,
paint each eon with ambivalence...
i conjure what my heritage beholds
--reclusive double-tongue to hoard all words,
reinvent religions for a lark
what legend am i privy to the making of
that hasn't had its underwires stripped,
hung about a square in lewd display of Fact
to purge a sense of mystery awry?
i am alone within my fantasy.
its symbols still mythologize my i.
i will not bare it here, or anywhere--
concealment is its freedom, and its boon--
in which a frame of tenuous material appears
where antidote addictions cycle musically,
the timeline's summoning
a game of recompense, compensating wanderlust
won by whim and licorice for thought;
it finds familiarity untamed--
adolescent anchorage aweigh--
adventures into wildernesses lost
.
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 1:56 PM UTC
It was in wander
for not lost was she.
It was in wonder
for without sin
she walked towards
the tree bearing
sweet fruit
enticing her forward
lust sent a lumber puncture
through her spine
upwards it shot to the
brain; cerebral forms
into a beating heart.
It excited her there was
such freedom found
in such innocence.
Pulsating quivers she waited
Adam to her Eve
daisy chains falling from her neck
framing a prepubescent chest
hooks temperately fastening
white knotted cotton hand sewn dress
virginal white
no womanhood in sight
Annabelle’s life, a melody of
melancholic cacophonic raspers
from asylums, former patients
of Briarcliff Manor
residing in her; only misery
innocent running’s from
grave dangers of
stark raving madness.
For, today
she wasn’t embroiled
as Arden’s pet
instead she was the little girl
so born to be before the woman
was stolen, bound by
a physicians sick
nightmarish re-enactments.
For, today
she was free
a starling, passionate
darling.
© Sia Jane
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 7:10 PM UTC
in a dark autumn forest, five creatures
strangely glow, cold peaked ears are blue,
rhythms of thudding, scudding boots
full of youth, synchronized they run,
outlined in neon, nearly covered in fur,
running amok in the hungry dark.
what do they search for in the dark?
all keening, these tempestuous creatures.
what propels them? what makes their fur
stand on end? faces an oxygen-less blue
as arms are locked and strong legs run
with the heavy monotony of feet in boots.
driven by laughter and labored breath, boots
thunder up dewy hills, disturbing the dark
loam underfoot, disheveled as the wind runs
through and into and throughout these creatures,
and the trees, and the strange aura of blue
surrounding a juggling man with hair like wolf fur.
he is levitating, has eyes like a burning fur-
nace, is manipulating boxes of light, wears boots
that make him seven feet tall, his is the blue
of martyrs, of imagination sacrificed to dark
forces, alight like clicking live wires the creatures
tumble on, finding a new reason to run
toward a long, narrow, white hallway they run
across an empty street, a nearby raccoon's fur
bristles as they break all boundaries, these creatures,
all sharp claws and fearless teeth and stomping boots,
assault the stillness of closed doors and early dark
morning eyes just beginning to distinguish the blue
of the sun's prologue, a deep and melancholy blue.
charging the hall doors, they dance and thump and run
down the shadowed interior, adjacent rooms dark
but for the lights of the lonely and static cat fur.
on wooden floors the cacophonic burst of boots
rumble like wild animal's hooves, here come the creatures!
and as the sun illumines dark corners in orange and blue,
through untidy mists these creatures continue to run,
all flailing limbs and matted fur and brawling boots.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 3:15 AM UTC
Morbid hallways swathed in death,
smeared with blood soaked discontent,
wrought with cacophonic lament;
this is my asylum.
Eyeless gazes pierce the veil
that separates my mind from Hell.
Though, thin's the shroud that shan't prevail;
this is my asylum.
Lipless, toothless, ear to ear;
these wretched grins sinewed with fear.
Putrefaction rots their sneers;
this is my asylum.
This is where the dead don't die;
this hellion mire's where they abide
with fleshless hands stretched toward the sky;
this is my asylum.
Asphyxiation, let me breathe,
lest I join these mortuous fiends.
Purge my soul; I shall bequeath
myself to my asylum.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC
oh
most blessed silence
a gift of your departure
*of course
it had to end*
the mirror pool
now shattered
with the ripples of
your cacophonic dive
treasured respite
slips away
the horizon again
stained
with your shadow
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 11:07 AM UTC
color has fled the sky
blinded by the sharp, white sun
we drift until we land
among chalky ridges
devoid of leaf or claw
voices of reassurance
keep calling after us
yet here we have little
but ourselves to save us
stale water, stale air,
dry bread, what little there is
if we're lucky, we'll return
but for now, we revel
in the miracle that we are here
and look back upon our sullied asylum
stirring with cacophonic frenzy
distant, isolated and inaudible
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 12:35 AM UTC
Eyes darting across a blank canvas
Where do I begin?
Heart filled with words yet spoken
May this blank canvas embody these unspoken words
Blank—filled
Empty—whole
Bright—yet dark
Words unheard
Accounted for within
Sankofa,
Let’s begin
At the age of 16, poetry, cacophonic, became an outlet for me.
Emotions that once felt so distant, merely a faint and infant shadow, stand beside me today at 23.
Hello, friend, it’s been a while; I thought I would not be graced with your presence again.
Aug 31, 2025
Aug 31, 2025 at 8:17 PM UTC
There are one-hundred-and-seven-point-eight pounds of what I’m pretty sure could destroy you, if it really wanted to (and It does. It does). Because I know you don’t remember the magic like I do, of when my neck first stretched itself so that I could reach those newly-licked lips beneath the cataclysmic explosions in the sky above our heads – and it was we who were those fissions and fusions erupting in the night. Eruptions so cacophonic to me and yet to everyone else they were so silent… unnoticed. Perhaps they were to you as well, for you seem to have forgotten. And now I do **** thee – your amnesiatic self and she – to take this cross from off my spine and find a hillside on which to burn (and do not doubt that the flaming match will be flung from my very own fingers). And may your skin seethe in the hell you tossed me into with your lies and fickle promises and your strange interpretation of what love may be (is this what your sweet mother taught you?). You were right when you said that love was in the fire shooting through the sky that night, and yet the only remainders are the fallen cinders resting in my hair today. So here and now, my love, I grant you the distance that you so desperately needed to give reason to your pitiful excuse to break my heart. For you I will build a boat out of fallen trees, and it will take me so far away (if only in my brain). And I will sail away as you turn to ashen residue, and smile, for the sky will be marked by a peculiar clarity.
Aug 22, 2010
Aug 22, 2010 at 5:37 PM UTC
our daily information
defies all expectation
reporting in unnerving detail
how trains derail, tour buses fail
to stay on roads without a rail
how terrorists attacked again
when nobody expected them
what nonsense politicians spew
unfortunately quite a few
how the economy keeps getting worse
yet billionaires still fill their purse
pollution levels have ‘improved’
El Nino has the jet streams moved
millions of refugees are loose
around the globe, few clothes, no shoes
armies and gangsters flex their muscles
cannot resist the deadly hustle
and for the icing on the cake
thousands of lives are now at stake
we learn without too strong emotions
that a new virus was discovered
the waters of our rising oceans
have by now covered
a third of several island nation's land
no more idyllic beaches with white sand
all this mixed in
with those exciting human interest stories
about the latest dog show winners
some brilliant wunderkind beginners
major and minor worries
from distant neighborhoods
commercials for the latest fads
and all the current healthy foods
self-advertising TV channel ads
who’s s great in sports
and who of sorts
in short
24/7 of much useless blather
that neither alters our lives
nor can we change its mostly dreary facts
yet we risk drowning under this debris
of cacophonic sound and image bites
unless we learn to
set our marks
clear our sights
turn into info sharks
devouring just those bits
of almost hidden information
we can make sense of and digest
the clues to what is really going on
below the surface of our media-created ocean
it’s the commotions in the depths
that teach us best
give us a glimpse behind the curtains of stale words
make us aware there’s little time for rest
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 3:24 PM UTC
patient waiting, time to
allow an ease from cacophonic
pupil dilation into a more
constrict perception of the
world around. rain falls
gentle, facilitating the
transfer, as low-fi ambiance
jams on. some thunder in
distance, paling in comparison
to the vocal sparks in the night.
flittering and wisp-like, urging
ever forward. urging:
'Come out of this a mess,
or not at all.'
manifestations, much as Red-Eye,
enticing to come up and dance with
death. to keep the measure through
turn for turn and twist for twist.
know the hooded Death missed
time again, giving the
'. . or not at all'
another chance
to strike true. another chance to
set the eyes out in feast, when
morality shall be felled and the
vocal sparks sublimate to ever
only being rare thunder in the
distance. with flash of luminescence,
storm never given chance to weather.
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 5:08 PM UTC
§
If I could sing the sweetest melodies,
I would cut out my tongue, and give it to you
so music would follow you wherever you might go.
If my fingers could strum the air,
and draw forth streams of dazzling notes,
I would cut off my hands, and give them to you,
so I could play for you for eternity,
and stroke your cheek gently, and soothe you
when you are alone.
If my eyes could see into your inner essence,
and draw forth your inner beauty
in a chorus of magnificence
I would cut out my eyes and give them to you,
so I could look at you for eternity,
and unleash your inner light.
As the raucous cacophony
drowns out the dazzling sounds that swirl all around you
I would give my entire being
just to bring music to your life,
so that maybe your loneliness might fade,
as the silence is mastered
by the music of my love.
I wish that I could ****** the silent moments,
annihilate the cacophonic jeers.
But such things are beyond my grossly limited powers.
Until we are brought back together
and I might play for you and sing for you
all through the day,
until then my words will have to suffice.
Just know, that wherever you are
I am singing for you, even when
all you can hear is silence.
Believe me dear one,
your song is being sung
even now.
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 7:26 AM UTC
It was in wander
For not lost was she
It was in wonder
For without sin she led,
The tree bearing sweet fruit
Enticing her
Forward.
Lust sent a lumber puncture through
her spine.
Upwards it shot
to the brain, cerebral forms
into a red beating heart.
It excited her, the
Freedom found in such innocence
pulsating quivers.
She waited
Adam to her Eve
daisy chains falling from her neck
framing a prepubescent chest.
Such tender collar
Bones, hooks temperately fastening
white knotted cotton,
hand sewn dress virginial
White.
Annabelle's life, a melody of
melancholic cacophonic
raspers,
from asylums.
Former patients; Briarcliff Manor
residing in her; misery.
Innocent runnings from grave
Dangers of,
stark raving madness.
For, today, she wasn't embroiled
as Arden's pet.
Instead she was the little girl so born
to be,
before the woman was stolen
bound by a physicians sick
nightmarish reenactments.
For, today she was
Free.
a starling
passionate
darling.
© Sia Jane
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 8:39 PM UTC
They said I could be anyone I wanted to but they were wrong
I wanted to be like your favorite song
to be a part of your magical fairytale,
your heart's charm and your soul's breathtaking Dale
I wanted to be a sunrise in your awakening
the floret that greets your smile while you reconcile
reality from the panoramic view of Wonderland
the first voice that seeks to know what Morpheus had to say
and the feet that shuffle right next to yours along the isle
as you walk into the much loathed cacophonic routines of everyday
I wanted to be the thoughts in your head as you
ply your trade from dawn to dusk
the inspiration that helps you crack every labyrinthine task,
like a lonesome butterfly dancing in elation
to relax your mind and mitigate any tension,
to help you endure racaous that comes with responsibility
and the arms that hold yours to congratulate you
upon getting through every other day,
I wanted to be the mouth that acknowledged your milestones
or the palms on the wheel driving you home
I wanted to be the shoulders you lean on
plus the arms you laugh and grieve in,
a place where your comfort does truly begin
I wanted to be your companion on this life long journey
many have deemed the rest of our lives
your blessing, alas! Your for better for worse...
I wanted to be your biggest fan as you concur the elements
to share with you proceeds from my dream tenements...
for thee so much I craved to be and tried to do more than just want
but the more I embraced desire the bigger and more excruciating her flames burnt
I said hello you said goodbye,
making me think "You can be anything" was merely a big fat lie...
Countless is the much I wanted to be, it's still haunting
that ultimately the best I could do was "wanting"...
Nothing more.
Jun 16, 2017
Jun 16, 2017 at 7:01 PM UTC
I'm testing out the boundaries of the pitches I can make
The cacophonic melodies are keeping me awake
And if I had control of what I ever heard before
The noise I hear today is never welcome anymore
My ear is now an oracle I cannot comprehend
The skin around a part of me I verily offend
Repeatedly defying every thought I ever had
I wonder if I'll realize the moment I go mad
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 10:36 PM UTC
Sunday is gloomy
But monday is something much worse
Monday I wake up and dreams turn to ashes
The spell you put on me
My dear is a curse
All the rosy pictures I drew in my head
Are bleeding out my eyes
And turning my world red
There is no yellow brick road
To bring me back home
I’m out in the fog and the mist all alone
Sunday is magic
Compared to the tragic
Transformation from night
Into day
The dark is a safety on which I rely
When the daylight reveals all the details in sharpness
That contrasts the dullness I feel when the lights are away
And I’m not awake
There’s nothing but a maze in the traffic
As I look out my window to peels from their horns
It’s a cacophonic orchestra funeral march
And it’s bidding me throw myself down
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC
if you sing a moment of transaction
or the sudden influx of a face conjured
to so many an enterprise offered for
protest. A hand's insisting tremor
an emptying from over and over an indication
of askance.
A counterfeit I cannot grieve over and over.
Its renown a nearest position /
a silhouette from a smokestack
about to be sensed out from a customary
strangeness.
stranded in a lilt of a becoming word
or question subtitling a frantic enemy
you -- panicking all across, a retailed
fugitive thing. You can become a plaza
if not sing but exist in the district
from a humdrum projection fated, tagged
with a purebred amount. You can
will it so /unbecoming of/ a plaza minused from and adhered to as cacophonic
only in newsprint here is your performance
of a numbered caution. Permit you to be
nominal, going into without purpose
you can become a plaza
if I pose need from (y)earning
May 28, 2016
May 28, 2016 at 3:50 AM UTC
Forgive me
You've heard it enough.
Forgive me
Said more often than love.
Forgive me
Has lost its charm.
Forgive me
Your patience is done.
Forgive me
I've taken you for a ride
Forgive me
Our life's become mine.
Forgive me
For the promises I broke.
Forgive me
For ******* your soul.
Forgive me
For making you part of the crowd
Forgive me
For all the lost phone calls
Forgive me
For the insecurities that I create
Forgive me
For my cowardice ways.
Forgive me
That cacophonic chant.
Forgive me
You can't hear it anymore.
Forgive me
Love has lost it's hold
Forgive me
You said as you walked out the door.
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 11:01 PM UTC
it starts with the masses.
heaped upon one another in grey, wet bodies
and from the amalgamate of ruined life
rise the silver, brilliant winged
filthy sog and bones sludging off
their unmatched, magnificent light
like shooting stars they ascend
to the enormous white clouds
garnered with the span of their great feathers
wearing masks of divine neutrality
and we
in the masses
stare so longingly at those divine heavens
some of us with patchworks of feather and bones- hopeless things we can barely call wings-
tattered and ripped but still determined, like the writhing of a starved beggar-
flatter unsteadily up
groping desperately at the clouds
with bony, aching fingers
only to meet
solemn and unforgiving
stone
and pushed
back,
tossed
back
into the masses
and like comets, they
rain down
the fall of the inadequate
crashing into the hideously wet festering:
into the decay of the mundane and ordinary
and thus the procession commences
great silver wings nailed with dignified
steel stakes
graceful hands and feet
mangled unforgivingly with hammer and iron
we, the inadequate and mundane and ordinary
we wail, we scream we cry
for the destiny of divinity
in anguish and desperation, our cacophonic chorus
becomes
the great symphony
of the decaying and dying
bathed grotesquely in the light of the holy
we continue to beg and shout and call
the opera of roaring voices:
the crucifixion of the prodigy
as we continue to decay
the weathering, spreading
and becoming, morphing into something no longer
recognizable
slowly we die off
each of us, clawing and howling to our very last moments
in succumbing to mortality
the symphony, melting in its desperate, rabid energy
until the echo of the last
haunted cry-
silences
hence closes
the fall of the inadequate
the crucifixion of the prodigy
and
the decay of the mundane and ordinary
Nov 6, 2020
Nov 6, 2020 at 8:19 PM UTC
Act one, scene one;
A date with drama
Has just begun.
Two youngsters
Hale of body
Ready to run.
Act two, scene one;
Excitement does not
Necessarily mean fun.
Too many secrets
Not enough revealed
By either one.
Act three scene one;
Good news can be
Bad news for some.
A lucky break
A chance to take
One could not shun.
Then comes intermission
Perhaps time for confession.
Sometimes no, sometimes yes
But maybe too much to confess.
Perhaps that’s how it goes
Maybe romance owes
Its success to mystery.
One chooses one’s own misery.
Act four scene four;
Being very careful
What you wish for
Seems obvious
When one looks back.
So very patrician.
Act five, scene one;
The denouement begun.
The finale can be dramatic
All cacophonic static
Or the lovers can walk off
Hand in hand in the sun.
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 1:03 AM UTC
I asked my better halves
how they desire to lie,
once their hearts stop beating,
and breath bids a last goodbye.
Whether they want the stars to
sculpt their constellation, or
the wind to whisper their
cacophonic tales.
Whether they want the earth
to devour their cadaver, or
the skies to weep and
wash away their existence.
The guitarist stated he'll despise grief
as his memories are being relived,
of who he was and who he remains,
as his guitar sleeps in the arms of its heir.
And maybe, the perished strings of an old guitar
don't have to be mourned over,
but applauded for the melodies
that once kindled a ripple of delight.
My dearest across the border
wishes to be nestled beside a mosque
to be enwreathed by The Divine
and lullabied by the Azaan.
And maybe, the eternal slumber is a charade,
and the past still echoes
within the mute boughs or
streets alive with familiar voices.
My junior casts an absurd wish —
to be submerged in cocoa's caress
and be tossed to the lesbian zombies,
who hunger, not for flesh, but for a passion, so savage and insatiable.
And hence, I believe, the hilarity will haunt forever,
but so will my adoration for her,
and perhaps, the craved fervour will
find its form in me.
Then, another writer wove it in her own syllables —
she urges to sink beneath the dismissed waves,
flicker among starlight, like undying thoughts.
She wants her bones to dissolve, ink for Gods,
and her heart to rest beneath a willow.
She wishes to slip into silence,
like laughter scattered over dreamy vinyl,
breath scattered over moonlit stars,
and a page torn mid-sentence.
And lastly, if you enquire of me,
I wish my corpse to be a legacy beyond self
and be gifted to time and science.
But if coerced to be cremated,
I wish to reincarnate as a litchi tree.
With my arms extended in a welcoming warmth,
I will embrace the excluded,
my shadow will shelter the weary,
and my fruits will sate the starving.
All of which I was never offered
in the frigidity of my bloodline,
but was abundantly endowed with,
in the refuge of my closest mates.
Jun 23, 2025
Jun 23, 2025 at 12:06 PM UTC
My feet wandered into
the serene shoreline
while the strong waves
hushed my cacophonic mind —
I strummed my fingers and gripped
tightly of my conch.
While my lips brushed around
its spiral shell — as I whispered my wishes
and blow through,
suddenly an angel
flew by and swiveled —
his wings burning.
From the heavens, he falls
right through the deserted sea.
My naked feet began to push
its life towards him —
he lies on the sand and his wings burning through.
Silhouettes of him rang on my mind;
gashes of water fell
through my eyes —
and whilst even the silence
grieved for us.
His burning wings calmed the strong winds —
the winter sea began to calm its strident waves
as I let myself lie awake beside him.
I closed my eyes and the replicas
of myself flashed through like a
candescent wind —
and there I saw a woman
lying in the hospital bed.
The sun mirroring the artificial light
through the windowpane;
the man standing beside her
had his wings folded —
and his eyes cold as the winter
and the woman dying in her
tranquil sleep.
The trees had fallen its last leaves,
and the winter is coming at dawn.
The man covered my eyes and I was at the
winter sea again —
“Mona, you will die in winter.”
And I woke up.
It was September.
Sep 19, 2020
Sep 19, 2020 at 3:15 PM UTC