"drumbeats" poems
somehow, right now,
it’s winter and i’m wrapped in your embrace.
somehow, it’s winter and we’re all wearing brown,
sitting on soft couches and listening,
pretending we’re oh so smart,
when really?
we’re oh,
so
young.
and all our hearts, they’re strewn across the floor,
all our work is forgotten,
as we kiss and touch and watch the snow fall,
and sit down to dinner,
where we slow dance -in the living room,
then wrap our arms around each other,
repeat the same songs on some ancient tape player.
those slow drumbeats, the soft jazz notes,
the growing thrum of this cursed city
-the one we danced to? sank into the sheets with?
this, this is where we got lost in us.
with the snowfall outside and, who would have noticed
that we smell like something other than fall candles.
i grin, and we grab our things off the floor,
and laugh it off. somehow, we know this place,
it’ll always be our home. after all,
sweaters cover our marks in a way sun-clothes can’t,
don’t they darling?
now, soft skin, pearlescent,
seems like some sort of luxury, a wish made during yule,
something i can only share with you,
because truly, i don’t think i’d want to share this cold place,
unless they were you.
and as we waltz to slow music, as we plan, as we laugh,
as we sit down in the candles,
i think i’m falling all over again,
because your eyes look hodded in the light,
your skin inviting, your mouth soft,
and your smile makes me wish you’d swallow me whole.
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 10:00 PM UTC
Not all tyrants wear funny clothes.
They stand up in front of masses,
shout a song of lies
to totalitarian drumbeats.
They are monsters wearing crocodile smiles.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 12:42 PM UTC
kisses and moon beams, i found you in my dream.
skateboards and swim shorts, we are care free.
lifes eternal gift, your momentary illusory particles shift.
heart beats and drumbeats, our hair curls.
dancing the night away, entranced in electromagnetic swirls.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 8:50 AM UTC
Stay away from the voodoo, love.
Resist
the swamp music
the bells on her ankles
her feathered fan
and when she sways
at the hip—
goddess of sudden changes
patroness of prostitutes
and abandoned lovers—
chanting Mambo, terrible beauty.
Say nothing
when she leans close
(cinnamon, tree bark and, faintly, smoke)
and breathes
*If you have no altar,
I am your altar.*
Stay away from the voodoo, love—
her drumbeats and cypress trees,
her hocus pocus
honeylocust.
Dec 25, 2010
Dec 25, 2010 at 6:03 PM UTC
Kindness is not nice.
Nice is soft and inoffensive.
Nice is easy and effects no change, it's cotton wool - not stuffed tight, but just resting on the surface ready to be blown away or trodden into a muddy disinterest. Nice is a damp whisper, a mouse cowering in the corner, taking up as little space as possible, lest it be noticed, lest it presume too much and cause a whisker of offence.
Kindness isn't like that -
Kindness pushes in, claws out, quick and heavy, uninvited, unexpected, taking pleasure in disturbance, in leaving nothing unsaid and little undone in its pursuit of creating a disruption of difference. Kindness counts everyone a target, anybody a likely candidate for a three act matinee and evening performance of loud Kindness. Surprise is its currency, smiles its language, common humankindness its passport to lands yet to be explored, to vast red territories with drumbeats of gratefulness for the opportunity to march in with regiments of compassion and to leave a signature devastation of brutal Kindness.
Kindness is not 'nice'.
Kindness is loving awe-ful.
Dec 24, 2019
Dec 24, 2019 at 3:37 AM UTC
In the darkness that dispels all hope
we fumble with meaningless insight.
What we said does not relate to what we want
and yet we embrace boundaries to punish ourselves
with unnecessary hells. Languishing in the thought
that silence will answer these loud questions.
We love because we are created to love
unconditionally.We hate because we don't understand
what vast oceans of meaning lie in love.
Silence may answer the ascetics
monastic and contemplatives but
rarely an equation for relationships.
When its grey it rains tears of knowing
where we belong and to whom we belong
in the worlds whole people. Love binds us all
in this understanding fabric of contemplation.
Yet in the darkness we find solitude
and hope in the isolation of reason.
The silence between the drumbeats
announces the rhythm of the song.
We walk in silence
yet celebrate without it.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 19 days ago
- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11566249-Grey-Skies-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.8dgLQUr8.dpuf
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
In one's lifetime, comes a moment or two,
when a sunny day's sky of powder-blue
turns to an utterly gloomy black night
not at all a beautiful twilight
:::just a dark firmament...no homing birds in sight
When in a flurry,
it comes naturally,
to want to sit...on the ground,
on the floor...just somewhere down
with both palms cupping jaws
resting on knees are angled elbows
discontent and stagnation
nag one's imagination
heartbeats
............are drumbeats
glances are fleeting
unfocused:::::escaping
such are vain attempts, to dismiss
avoided thoughts and scenes:::to release
::::and decide...all must eventually cease
yet.........it's never easy to find peace
can't just forget sounds of voices...and sweet laughter
jokes and conversations that came, before and after...
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::
they are tattooed in the mind
::::::::: they are ::::::::::
::: i n d e l i b l e ::::::::::
:::: e s p e c i a l l y ::::
:::on:::moments:::when:::
:::we struggle the most:::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::::::only:::to:::realize::::::
::::::::::::::::::[[[]]]::::::::::::::::
::::::::[[ memories ]]::::::::::
::::are:::a::::[[metal cage]]
::::::::::::: and we :::::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::: are :::::::::::::::::
:::::::[[captured birds]]:::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
it usually takes long:::::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::::to be freed:::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::;;;;
::::::from being:::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::held:::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::[[ c a p t i v e ]]:::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
(November 2015)
Sally
Copyright January 13, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 9:56 AM UTC
*Claw beneath your ribs
Hold down wild you
Just for a little while
Feel the anguished flutter
Begging these gruff hands . . .*
1.
Fear takes commotive hold
Makes wooden legs
Delayed dance…..so delayed
Causing silent attendance of synchrony
No use stepping out for flight just yet, if alone
Will meantime practise wing-span
iron out brittle energy
attempt to fortify links
..
2.
Careless snubs to fragile sapling
Did absolutely nothing
To the course set out
Only hypocrites squander even half-truths
and wallow in obsequious words
rendering paralysis and decay
I will continue to claw beneath your ribs
Covert trove awaits us
In the tormented form of
Crashing waves on a broken coast
Hacked to near-distraction by potent searching
3.
Loss is not wasted
unseen by its absence:
evocative presence felt …with penniless eyes
I challenge you to visualise our melting:
perched on fate’s right shoulder
re-sent to this basic arena as buoyant token
summoned by that primordial, blue light
..
*the sun may well baulk and melt
at the ruddy sight of
such intense clawing beneath your ribs
(like your customary digging into my bristling blades)
To find my foetal place
within the calling drumbeats
of imperative you . . .*
S T, sunsday . . . 21 July 2013
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 4:50 AM UTC
It's dark
It's cold
It's damp
It's empty
No.
It's gloomy, no light of any kind
Heat extinguished, just like hope
Dense, choking air, a sense of dread
Nought but the sound of breath and a beating heart.
No
Fog shrouding the area, blurring lamps flickering, wavering
Rustling leaves and fear, like ice pouring through veins
Rotting, decaying wood stench filters through the air
Blurred shapes, thunderous drumbeats and hasty exhalations
Once again I've fallen asleep in the shed
Oct 5, 2017
Oct 5, 2017 at 6:48 PM UTC
I know where I came from, long ago,
It is a land where bare feet dance, stepping to and fro.
Where drumbeats and heartbeats become one,
And at night, the sea dances on the long horizon.
My land has felt the grim bite of war,
And now the place where I grew up is my home no more.
I hear the cries and screams of my kind,
Forever branded as the one that left them behind.
I fled across the seas for safety,
But a place that wards off mem'ries I have yet to see.
And here no one will offer a hand,
This land only knows grey concrete, I wish for white sand.
And I remember what it is to embrace the sun.
My skin is now dull, a tired grey,
Mirrors watch as the light in my eyes now fades away.
They are still fighting, though I'm not there,
Though the seams of my country are beginning to tear.
I still remember where I come from,
But I fear- should I return- that home will be long gone.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 4:29 PM UTC
Something
vanishes into thick ether,
swimming ripple-less.
Faintly,
from far away,
the drumbeats of Onam.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 7:06 PM UTC
Kindness is not nice.
Nice is soft and inoffensive.
Nice is easy and effects no change, it's cotton wool - not stuffed tight, but just resting on the surface ready to be blown away or trodden into a muddy disinterest. Nice is a damp whisper, a mouse cowering in the corner, taking up as little space as possible, lest it be noticed, lest it presume too much and cause a whisker of offence.
Kindness isn't like that -
Kindness pushes in, claws out, quick and heavy, uninvited, unexpected, taking pleasure in disturbance, in leaving nothing unsaid and little undone in its pursuit of creating a disruption of difference. Kindness counts everyone a target, anybody a likely candidate for a three act matinee and evening performance of loud Kindness. Surprise is its currency, smiles its language, common humanity its passport to lands yet explored, to vast pink territories with drumbeats of gratefulness for the opportunity to march in with regiments of compassion and to leave a signature devastation of brutal Kindness.
Kindness is not 'nice'.
Kindness is loving awe-ful.
Jul 3, 2020
Jul 3, 2020 at 2:01 AM UTC
Pitter patter raindrops gently sprinkle my windows,
Thunder rumbles again.
Sky’s are dark, darker, glooming happily,
The day meanders, hiding and seeking,
and the sky starts pouring its heart out .
Pale silver threads, navigating their way down against a backdrop of green-black trees.
It is June.
And my day of revival, birth and reckoning.
Only a day away from the solstice.
Here in leafy, caressing, sleepy Goa,
the dusk will soon begin its slow, steady, inevitable drawing in.
In my secluded, fragrant, verdant labyrinth,
I sip coffee,
I notice the lone squirrel scurrying away to find shelter,
and listen to birds chirping, bees buzzing, the gurgle of water,
and to an insistent song in my head that just doesn’t stop playing but too spellbound to put pen to paper right now.
And now, as I go for a drive on this quiet, directionless, mellow afternoon,
I cannot remember the word I want to write,
I think I have no words.
The thunder is closer now.
It sounds like drumbeats , the rearranging of celestial furniture, like our transit to this beautiful abode we call home now.
Unexpectedly a bird is singing in the midst of it all unabashedly.
I think about the past.
Not in any structured way. Just people who have come and gone, who linger, who stay and who have left their indelible fragrance around me.
For a few moments, my mind wanders down the past and I sigh at my own predictability.
The thunder is passing. Grumbling and groaning in the distant now.
Each leaf looks freshly washed, scrubbed sparkling clean and shades of green hold my gaze.
The paddy fields look abundant and satiated.
The single bird has become a small chorus, a full roaring celebration on.
I stare at my page. I have still written nothing.
But, sweetness,
I just experienced divinity,
I feel blessed and just absorb the present.
I am the road and the paddy field,
I am the bird, the squirrel and the bee,
I am the thunder, and the rain,
I am the song and the quiet,
In the abundance ,
I am me, what I want to be❤️
Jun 20, 2021
Jun 20, 2021 at 10:54 AM UTC
I woke up to screaming
no- I woke up screaming.
Your pallid, rotting face leering
above my lips
Icy steel between my bones,
hot wet rivers down my cheeks
A wash of pastel colors
and furious drumbeats
Laughter,
echoing
and your memory taunting me:
******* right* you should be scared of me
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 7:10 AM UTC
**Celestial scholars
deliver influencing scripts
days brisk with drumbeats
evenings spilled from riverbanks -
drifts of violet, ripe moons.
A life for living
make creativity your song
let all sorrow go
our tomorrows fade too fast
every moment so precious
Your choices to own
claim to have truly lived
be free like a bird
soar to the highest mountain
feel the breeze beneath your wings
All will surely die
your body is not a chore
the energy life
is eternal, infinite
and clothed in velvet breathing
Life's ageing busy pace
relax - observe and still time
neither thoughts nor none
hum a song about the stars
or astronomy lessons
Dwell in loving peace
share spiritual sustenance
imperfect mirage—
unbend, barefoot in its shade
languid afternoons, blessings.
Hearing poetry's grace
Echoes that laugh-lust-cry-love
relentlessly true.
Souls rapture joined - bestowed
kiss softly devastating.
A world awakes
in spaces of wonderment.
Slows worries until -
our eyes open: Surprise Splendors
Treating earth like a lover**
**Refining senses -
resilient beauty touched**.
*???
???
???*
Submit your 2 line 5/7 challenging verses then your 3 line 5/7/7 answering verses in a 'reaction' please
.
May 17, 2010
May 17, 2010 at 11:29 AM UTC
A heart deflates
into a circular fire,
burning a tunnel in reality
so a dark train of thought can barrel through.
Hieroglyphic crocodiles swim
into a stream to eat gazelle.
A universe is just the iris
of gods.
I grew up in a cactus hut
that was atop the boogeyman's hat.
'Ol Skullface evaporates like a rippling image
in water...
dreadlocked lightning
bottle sips on the venus flytrap's *******
Maybe I'm the combination of Bob Marley's dope smoke
& Dali's pipe steam.
That right there
was his psychedelic ego
he o rarely sees.
The Native American sound in my brain
reminds me of beautiful cave paintings
in candle lit screams & moans
echoing.
Bamboo lightning
sword frightening shimmers
in the light.
Tribal war paint vicious sharp drumbeats;
fangs ready for battle,
a head bobbing mystic predicts victory
in the shadows;
glowing.
Ashes from the evening smoke means we've won,
thanks to my brain eye.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
How old I was I can’t remember well.
But too old for a vivid remembrance, of pain
for me, and death for you.
Whiteness of fur spoke of purity,
blood painted whiteness, Red--
rusted beatings you bore,
Whimpering, wriggling your body
tied on that rope, hanging on that “santol” tree,
bearing witness, wounding your skin,
In agony, you were wrestling
with metals, they folded, they bowed,
clasped to your neck, the rust.
Hide! said my Mama.
Don’t look, she added.
Hide I did and look I did.
In-between those bamboo slats, I saw:
the whiteness of your body;
blood painted the whiteness, red, like the rust.
Sweating.
On that bamboo stick I held, I gripped my hands
also brown, like the lining on your neck.
Tears unshed, sealing my lips.
Like boiling water, trapped on that *** that these brutes had prepared
scalding your skin,
Dogs fed on dog, these brutes were
singing in worship of “Tanduay”, a bottle, their god.
Drumbeats wanting, but laugh, and laugh they did.
Like a good master they called you, Azucena, an innocent girl.
Voice lilting, luring you to your death,
Azucena... not the provincial bus, that will transport you to your grave,
Azucena... not the white “liliums” that abound the heaven, or your grave.
But a name, a noun, to feed their protruding stomachs, stinking,
to wash their rotten soul, perhaps.
Azucena,
Asocena,
But that’s not your name.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 11:23 PM UTC
i don't know how to love
two people -
i don't know how
to choose.
the fact is that right now i'm yours,
but i watched him playing today, feeling the music with every part of his soul,
and my heart has never beat that way before.
my breath has never been more taken.
i have a weakness, you see
for people who make beautiful things,
and i could feel the strikes of his drums in my blood -
i could feel it through the floor
straight into my body,
until i couldn't tell you where my heart stopped
and the drumbeats started.
my friends promised me that it's only a phase,
and that you are who i want, truly
because you are who i have
and they're probably right,
but right now there's a part of my heart
that is pumping my blood with drumbeats,
and right now there is a part of my heart
that isn't yours.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 4:31 PM UTC
symphony of sound
a discordant composition
orchestra on cosmic stage
witching hour to dawn
woken by screeching wind
twisting that way and this
manic banshees
rampaging
in through the window
chilling my body with cold damp fingers
shutting them out
they howl even louder
joined later by rain
incessant drumbeats
endless cadence
on hard earth
lightening
synthesized energy
streaking uncontrollably
around nature's concert hall
listening in silence
watching in awe
standing ovation
applauding unseen hands
Jun 19, 2012
Jun 19, 2012 at 12:43 PM UTC
if you've ever been heartbroken or
any kind of broken over the small things
the things people tell you in their car
or on the couch, or the words they speak
in their silence when they listen, in the dim lights of
the city when you say nothing
and hurt over what has been said
because it's like somehow,
some way, everything in your life manages to
become a soppy convoluted bucket mess
and your happiness ebbs away in thick drumbeats
so it's all you can do to play with your hair
wait till he drops you off,
although you won't cry, you don't know where to cry
the solitary atmosphere of your room is too familiar
you're starting to associate the lack of comfort with
an empty space, to a drop or two of salt
after the door closes you'll sit and wonder
what to do,
what to do
you don't know what to do.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 2:30 AM UTC
I squander countless days
Reading in the library
since our last encounter
the tales I have learned
About women of magnificent legacies
Amazement on how you
Imported the hunt for wild game
In the African regions
Your skills bombarded as my attraction
Which is so astounding?
Preying behind me
With loss words of love
I was pounced
As the night falls to darkness
We intertwine to the drumbeats
Of African native songs
Doing their sacred dance
Heartbeats overrun
By antagonistic contemplation
I cannot let go
To a mystic woman
Whom I can't forget
Sep 23, 2009
Sep 23, 2009 at 1:01 AM UTC
A thunderstorm rushes in summer making us sheltered and hide away into our barrier.
Under drumbeats from the gloomed sky, we watch streams of rivers flow beneath our feet.
As the wind began howling, I look to see the world being shaken.
Have the rain being thrown all around us, twisting and turning as the wind dances with it.
There were flashes up above us, a symphony of sound,
From the roll of thunder.
We step outside and see the whirly world.
Hearing the claps in the distance,
We raise our heads smelling the sweet new air.
Bright flickering blots shoot across the sky, making a light show for the world and I.
Raindrops came down one by one, perfect diamonds shattering to the ground.
While I hide from the storm, the world opens its arms and sings along.
Where thunderclaps and lightning burst above is a symphony from the angels.
The heavens put on a show just for the both us.
As the final heavy raindrops played the last notes of the song,
The drumbeats rolled away,
The flashing stopped,
A hush of silence crept over the world,
The sun’s warm rays peeked through the clouds,
A new cord struck a note as birds flutter their damp wings while soaring through the painted sky.
The soft decline of sound that comes after the storm.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 2:37 PM UTC
The Power Enfolds
Its dark now and the silver light of Luna coats everything with a gilt edge
the air is cool , not yet summer warm and it softly bites my skin,
Still shy after all this time aware of the marks of time
not vanity really ... but the awareness of being a Crone now
Slowly/quickly the shush as silken robes fall to the ground with shy smiles
and giggles of proud young Sisters skyclad for the first time
Softly The Lady's Maiden calls us to the Circle
Brushed/Caste and Invited all the same as decades gone past
Hands clasped laughter replaced with solemn purpose
The drum beats to keep time the heartbeat, , , the Mothers heart
Candles shimmer drums throbs a warm breath .... She is here now ...with us
The Lady's Maiden smiles and our steps now fly
Smiles and hands now entwined ... The Power Enfolds
Voices now calling chants old and ancient beyond time
Luna's silver light enfolds, encloses and energizes
Now we dance on the drumbeats
Blue smoke sends our chants spinning high
Firelight flickers blue and orange higher now snapping crackling
Sheer white light the sheen covers the dancers
as though we were all gilded in The Lady's light
Tresses swinging braided , twisted , oiled and unbound crowns
Halos of colour and curls ... clouds of shimmering tresses
Our only cloaks floating now swinging in time
And the drum slows
and the fire dies
and at once all the dancers feel the cool night air
Soft voiced the Lady's Maiden gives our thanks and dismisses the corners
and the Circle is severed and time again begins
Quietly robes are once more worn and voices rise "Do you need a ride?"
And everyday life has resumes though the air is redolent with power
Sisters glowing with power called down, soft and gentle smiles
show that The Lady's soft touch...has blessed us all
The Maiden greets and blesses each Sister
a few quiet words and the soft touching of hands
fingers softly entwin and eyes dark with Power and Secrets
This has been a Ritual a Calling a Rejoicing Reaffirmation
And we are once more connected Sisters, Elders, Teacher, Mentors
Woman all .. Sisters all.. in The Lady's Light we are once more one
Solita Shadoewalker - 2007@Copywrite
Mar 6, 2010
Mar 6, 2010 at 3:11 PM UTC
The beautiful clockwork
and mechanical silence.
Boredom broken by nature,
nature broken by violence.
As time tics by
and we feel so jaded.
The growing urge to defy,
the urge seems so faded.
Repetitive motions
fill up life.
Ancient drumbeats
leading eternal strife.
The omnipresent struggle
presents the status quo.
To break the flow or go with it?
The answer we may never know.
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 12:06 AM UTC
What do I want in life?
The wind in my hair,
The sun on my back,
The sounds of drumbeats
And rustling trees in my ears.
A well-loved book nearby,
And a pen in my hand
With a blank page before me.
A creek running over my toes,
Its melody blending with the trees,
And the grass beneath me.
The arms of the one I love around me.
That is all I want
From this life.
With only this,
I will be content for all of my days.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 8:35 AM UTC