"resonances" poems
*Firelight Affairs & Atmospheric Starlight,
Rainbow Instincts Enlightening Her Satellite Twilight,
Quivering Symphonies & Colorful Voices,
Lyrical Abstracts Of Her Monochrome Noises,
Prismatic Rage In Her Eternal Sage,
Resonances Whispering Her Voices Onstage,
Vertical Ensembles Of Her Ecstatic Fashions,
Witty Odes Enlightening Her Arrested Passions,
Prancing Temptations & Provoked Mysteries,
Entrancing Her Artistic Waves & Surging Tapestries,
Storyteller Flares On A Perpetual Lease,
Intoxicated Mirrors Of Her Spiritual Release,
Lucid Memoirs & Condensed Revelations,
Inquisitive Glances Of Her Cupid Flirtations,
Crimson Armors & Her Reflective Scents,
Illustrious Serenity Embossed In Her Scenic Ascents,
Fluoresce Echoes & Her Scenic Prelude,
Coalesce Spotlights Guiding Her Summer Nudes.
- 01:24AM -*
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 3:00 PM UTC
On the ocean of life I
Dropped thought-pebbles
Resonances in winds
Rebounding in ripples
Actions born in countless waves
Triggering counter-actions!
Cataracts of wonders, suddenly
Vomiting volumes of gold
Pouring golden flames
Into life ocean purities
Bouncing up hills and valleys
In voyage of expectations
Creating realities in emeralds!
Tumbling air in blues
Skies beatific glory binges
In endless waves in azure skies
Echoing sounds of depth
Deeper than the deep
Launching into the Deep
Harvesting immortal gold
Reaping eternal glory!
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 9:28 AM UTC
In deep layers of silence
I used to hear music,
without words or instruments
it did flow,
the birds used tell me-
secrets of listening to nature.
Parakeets spoke in resonances of green
crows and egrets
complemented again and again,
the music, I thought, was a divine hallucination,
but now
it all turns upside down,
You, complain
you keep on hearing someone crying,
from within.
I see eyes welling up,
which are those memories
that blow up, surge out?
Shh..keep quiet for a moment,
a commotion is getting nearer and nearer,
the ice caps are melting,
but who cares,
the crowd has no mind,
they are braying for blood,
Whose blood?
their own, but can the blind distinguish?
*"come, this is my blood, drink it,
cut this bread in to pieces,
eat it, be satisfied.."*
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 7:24 AM UTC
poetry
is the ability
to strike someone once
and have the sound resonate
inside them forever
prose
is describing the sound
with more resonances
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 6:56 PM UTC
Allowing the energy that
Pulses through the universe
To flow
Without effort
And allow its messages of love to be
Captured by your receptors like a radio
So that
You can transmit the love further
Compile and compress into language
The love that speaks
So queer without words
So that you can whisper them into the sleepwalkers ears
And hopefully rouse them gently
Like removing the blindfold
And releasing the music from mute
Open up the senses, both physical and intuitive
By turning down the restless mind
Mute the channel of thought so that
You can introduce harmonic resonances into the framework
Mixing and blending samples of love tones
Helping others get in touch with the rhythms
And beats of the divine
And by helping then get in touch
You can turn on channels within them
That they have yet to discover
Channels that are programmed within us
For that exact purpose
For us to unlock the dams that
Prevent the flow of love frequencies
To electrify us
And dissolve isolation
-Chaotic Melodic
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 10:30 PM UTC
Plucked spinets in discord
To a harmony of chorus,
Sonorously pitched
On a warm Summer eve.
Balmy is the air
In a shimmering blue silence
And the purity of cadence
Leads the Godless to believe.
Passers bye pause
In the magical moment,
All heads rotate
To the origin of sound,
Heavenly cascades
Through the twilight of evening
Causing couples to dance
As though jewelled and begowned.
Delicate resonances
Entwine the moment,
Swayed rythmic rapture
Entrances the crowd,
Ensembles of satyr
Arouse tender senses
In caressing the maidens
To pink ****** proud.
Pink ****** proud
Are the breathless young maidens,
Bright shining eyes
From young tapping toes.
The rapture of spinets
Played deftly with passion
In the cool of the night,
Where a pale moonlight knows.
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
2 November 2011
Nov 2, 2011
Nov 2, 2011 at 9:09 PM UTC
Vibrating Words
In our
speaking and hearing
words akin to solid things
oftentimes standing alone..
the weight of many nouns
fills our logic and comfort
our progress and pain
until now..?
new times demand
enjoined conversations..
resonances which reach
to levels obscure..
processes and verbs
waking sleeping nouns..
each word an experience
simple vibration
or nothing at all...?
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 11:15 AM UTC
Unmelted candle wax
From two hundred melted candles
Litters a granite counter top
The metaphorical resonances of which
Were lost three weeks ago
When the counter swam like water
In hallucinogenic bliss,
As through knowing each other more, not less,
We fell finally all the way out of the love
Which once seemed so much more solid
Than water
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 12:50 PM UTC
Tis not in commitment
To love that warrants beauty,
For fickle a girl beauty is indeed, not to be bent
By sorrow and pain filled gazers and dandies,
Eyes gleaming in fleeting hope, without sense,
That their smiles, enwrapped and dependent,
Will have recompense
By her gaze, resplendent,
And perhaps, if in good favor,
Have admiration bestowed on them amorously.
But nay, beauty is a fickle girl. Alas, we love her.
So as the breeze sings melancholy,
And the leaves reflect her lips of flame,
As milky clouds remind of her skin,
When her hair is night, dark and sleek, putting others to shame,
Filled with expectation
And apparitions of loveliness,
I think of the sweet longing,
Hoping for the moment not to pass.
The sweet longing
I loved then,
For a moment,
Lingering in the agony of emotion,
In a short eternity that I underwent.
I then found beauty.
But then the lights were no longer low,
The emotions, so resplendent in ardor, escaped me.
The façade was gone after the show.
Nay tis not in commitment to serve
Love that hold beauty.
Tis in the memory of nerve,
Tumultuous as a stormy sea.
Tis in the very slow-grown enthrallment
Of her melodious voice.
Tis in the memory of through what my heart went
When I told it to her by my choice.
When I told how it was stolen by her raven hair,
By her star-drenched skin,
By her cherry lips at which I’d stare,
And the voice so in apprehension, rife with emotion from within.
Tis not in the resolution itself
Of intricate harmonies and dissonances,
So pleasing to the ear in their discord and wealth,
But in the expectations and resonances
Of this ecstasy,
That resides beauty,
Which is why I told her my love and melancholy,
Letting her forget, and proceeding to flee.
For the wonderful nostalgic memory
Of the shortness of breath,
Would by intimacy,
Certainly be put to death.
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 9:11 PM UTC
A frigid February night,
the moon resplendent in its fulgor,
while a prevailing bristled cold wind
dashes across my dry face,
I inhale the cold, brittle air:
nitrogen, oxygen, argon, carbon dioxide,
whistle through my lips,
like a trice ballet, it delivers life into my lungs
hoarfrost, as huellas are left behind,
in remembrance of its path.
At night I feel at ease,
beyond what
an aubade can offer.
Gazing up into the dark abyss,
I am overwhelmed by the
union of neighbors that float above me
in sync with the moon:
Mercury, Venus, Saturn, Mars, Jupiter,
and the assemblage of mythological
Greek god’s only visible before dawn,
watch me, observing my every move.
Winds encircle the night,
disrupting the stillness of
the undressed oak trees,
their branches swaying back and forth
as to wave hello, or is it a goodbye?
Winterberry hollies dance at their feet,
untouched snow glistens,
and mirrors the dazzling assembly of stars.
Within the woodland, mysterious sounds
echo through the silent, cold:
a cackle, a flutter, yipping creepy sound,
nature’s orchestra coming at me
from all directions,
cautiously listening, as I attempt
to decipher the resonances.
I exhale.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 1:01 PM UTC
“Hey. I heard about this country we could visit.
Would you go, if it was with me?
Well what if I told you it was a bird country, and everything was made of feathers.
Yeah, ocean and desert colours, soft and sleek and it glimmers like a dream.
Songs? Yeah, it’s full of ‘em. In all resonances and all keys, some of them mimic but most of them are original pieces.
So, would you go with me?
Why?
Oh, I’m just bored I guess, just feeling stale I guess, just feeling like there’s something out there I want to see.
(I don’t say that I want to see it with you).
Oh, you mean, why with you.
Well
When we were in the park the other week you stopped to talk to that guy with a sulphur crested cockatoo on his shoulder and you smiled when it bopped its head when you said its name – Larry, wasn’t it?
And you laughed for the longest time after we invented an adventure history for him and the bird.
That he was a pirate sailing the oceans to gather the gold and jewels to win the hand of his beloved.
The bird sniffed the air and pointed towards islands of treasure and scratched maps onto the deck of the ship.
He was only in Sydney – we saw this by the harbour, didn't we? - Because his ship needed to restock.
It would be one of those old school wooden ones and it’d look real quaint and beautiful next to the metal ferries swooping in and out of Circular Quay, next to the titan cruise ships that take up half the harbour.
Remember that?
(If I thought it would work, I’d sail ships and become a jewel thief for you)
Oh, no, no baggage limit – bring all the poetry you want. They give paper for free on the plane, even.
We can buy seeds at the duty free. No, Not sure about pens. I’m bringing my ink set anyway.
Haha, yeah, I still calligraphy faces for people who’ve lost theirs.
(I could draw a book of you, though you don’t need it)
It’s a week round about trip.
Just us two, and animals that fly to and from our hands.
We can take bicycles and skate around the island and climb the dead volcano where gigantic nests hold eggs in warm rocking slumber.
(Perhaps we can be each other’s volcanoes and warm each other)
Oh, it’s casual, don’t bring your moleskines, just your two dollar notebooks. Weather will be light, so not more than a hundred pages.
So, does this mean you’ll come with me?
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 2:26 AM UTC
watching my footsteps slowly dwell in this
empty walkway, the rapidity of my breathing steadily
alters my fainted vision.
powerless to see what’s behind this lengthy and
meandering trail, the still darkness continues to
wobble my somnolent body and soul.
i can hear faded voices echoing in the dimness of the night,
scared and disoriented, the corridor seems so elongated.
the serene reflection of the moon outside is undeniably amazing,
but its pale luminosity gradually kills me from within.
wondering if i can still escape this everlasting torment,
the voices are beginning to sound patent and obvious.
enlightened by the cheerful voices under the daunting dark sky,
i hastily chased these resonances until the murkiness swallowed my being.
taking my chances, i ran as deeply as i could,
until the beams of the sun elucidate the rusty creepy alley.
surprised from the eccentric sight,
i warily sat down on the floor
gazing at this peaceful and tiny square shaped room.
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 12:27 AM UTC
The natural frequencies
of a being
cause resonances
throughout
the ether of life
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 10:45 PM UTC
How rare to truly hear
what another person
is actually saying,
caught up, as we must be,
in the imagined resonances
of our own perceptions.
Do I hear you or do I
hear me hearing you?
By no means the same thing.
- mce
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 6:39 AM UTC
A need for connection,
Attachment.
Drawn in, enchanted by
Resonances with nature
And the kinship of others,
With beauty
Forged by heart's endeavour.
And so should we
Always aspire to polish
Such precious achievement
With love,
A blessed friction of sorts
That allows us
To birth our night into day
And bathe it clean,
So that beloved things can glow
Together in a litter of light.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 3:56 PM UTC
We are entangled in the fabric woven from the warp and weft of Life's fibers.
We love the idea of escaping these threads of thought that restrain us; each seeking to find that quantum of solace that allows us to float free.
But there is an uncertainty inherent in finding ourselves. Breaking out of our shells to explore new possibilities poses as a forbidden pleasure to attain, and often the exertions required may seem to overwhelm the escape it offers.
But...
Those random rewards, those instantaneous attractions, those excited states, those resplendent resonances,
Form the bonds that keep us human.
Jan 24, 2020
Jan 24, 2020 at 11:54 PM UTC
The music wasn't all that good.
But I didn't notice it that much
because I was lost in the
metaphorical resonances
of listening to a dead man's
favorite music.
It felt wrong,
holding a book while most others
held only tears and a bag of chips.
I wasn't a friend is his, and no.
We weren't related.
I'd never met him in my life
and yet there I stood,
mourning the loss of a man
with apparent terrible music taste.
Moral of the story:
Don't take a poet to the funeral of a man they've never met.
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 12:51 PM UTC
Let’s be ghosts together
Wavering between the physical
And the spiritual
Resonances of what we once were
Not to give any less credit to what we
Were
But ghosts
We could be that
Together
Forever
Not even death will
Do us part
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 7:46 AM UTC
Lost in the blue skies on valley hills
Blown away in yellow stars winds
Blooming at the mountain radiance.
The nightfall envelopes in violets
Dropping silence in colorful echoes
Resonances in songs beyond the
Ethereal, living souls dead infinite
In life of continuous animated glory!
Jul 20, 2019
Jul 20, 2019 at 6:46 AM UTC
Where the weight
Of the shadow
Proportionate to
The depth of the pain
And when
Less is more
Where's less?
When the light
In the soul
Resonances
The pure happiness
Let's where
Rather be
Feb 5, 2020
Feb 5, 2020 at 6:12 PM UTC