"reverberation" poems
this is my excavation to
the days coming along
running hands with laughter
throwing it down on the table
*straight
flush
okay, cool*
sister, these things don’t matter
when we’re twisting into the sun
with pants that are too short
the fountain rich with
iced chai
tangled with the peculiar
the beautiful
through these moments
I commend
our hearts for finding each other
love is always on the move
as sure as shoe shine
as mahogany
like timidity to relinquish
to let the universe take hold
and instill this emotion
into my body
fit it all in my heart
O, singer of love
fit it all in my heart
the knell
the reverberation
the cotton that lands
on your hair
the sunscreen stuck in my ear
we are a sketch of two travelers
sleeping under stars
the fire
finally dies down
the rapture of the universe
is overwhelming
everything flows
everyone is connected
and this music we hear
is constant
like gentle waters falling
this too, sister
makes my cane solemn
and I draw you in the sand
only to watch the tide
wash you next to me
the emotion
wrangled in English
simply means good
simply means
a full listen and
dear sister
because everything begins
and will be remembered always
as love
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC
I sit watching brown eyes
probe affectionately through the haze
at the mirrors created by close family.
I think the intimacy that is made possible
by the sharing of wine, **** and space
in a dim room full of sad love and smoke
will never ceased to amaze me.
The men see themselves in each other
and are both heartened in their own ways
I am drunk now in my way
and The Mirror is ****** in his
and Brown (Green) Eyes is both at once
Appalachian mouths move in turns
to take a hit or a drink or a shot at wisdom
Suddenly the truth of our three souls is laid bare
on the tiny table there between us.
My heart tightens around the words
as they echo through each chamber
growing louder with each reverberation.
“Happiness is being able to breathe”
Love you, Frank.
Nov 21, 2019
Nov 21, 2019 at 11:52 AM UTC
I fathom fatherhood
His invincible feats
When that magnanimous shadow danced
Bowing his head lowly
And my cryptic looks
Staring that pugnacious shadow
To what he's been unearthing for
A little later in the twilight of dusk
My drooling curiosity burnt in persistence
As I observed a twinkling toddler
Following the lead of his father
With merry- go rounds and exciting swings
As docile as a lamb
He embraced his daddy
Cause that was his world's best swing
And then blew his index finger in air
Spinning around everywhere
The father introduced the whole world
Without shutting him up
The next half hour passed away
And there temple bells rang
And wind blew
Everything became grave
A reverberation echoed
Together with temple bells
Rung the devotional clap
Of a son
And his father...
Worshipping..
Never ever can I fathom
The unconditional fatherly love..
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 11:50 AM UTC
Now they want to come back,
Counter attack.
Reverberation of statements the mind wishes to retract.
A constant stream of this vivid waking dream,
Imagining a world painted with images,
Not scenes.
Screams.
They’re challenging again,
The force of which bonds the paper with the pen.
Again,
Hear their violent cries from below.
Cruelty,
Shame,
Each branded by the chain.
Ravenously searching for a new soul to tame.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 6:11 PM UTC
It's summertime. The saxophone jazz
sounds are pirouettetting the waves
to find their own balance. It's a mauve
inner dance in almost everything around.
More exactly, the melodious movable
sounds become soundable movement
needing a reverberation time to dissipate
the energy. The movement releases its own
purity to become simple fecundity. The pulsed
sound waves are also old memories lost in the
natural green. The saxophone looks much
more like a Tahitian prince dancing his love
on the sand. The singing mauve sea waves
have a sadness taste at sunset. The last one
is a watery mermaid and he embraces her
while searching the high. The sounds need
touch and life. They need to dematerialize
and to disappear into the universe. The
saxophone remains a solitaire keeping
safe his evanescent hermetic equilibrium.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC
"...Ut si globi duo ad datam ab invicem distantiam filo intercedente connexi, revolverentur ur circa commune gravitatis centrum..."
D. Isaaci Newtoni.
From the level of the sea with its worlds of similarity and wonders of nature attracting beautiful birds, these ships fled to find the swirl reaching through to the floor. The ocean bed was dampened with the tears seen by the floating machine.
{ [ ( r - 3 ) d d u d t t ( f ) x ] / [ ( x , P ) ] } =
tau pi g ( y ; hyp N , par Z ) d w d x .
Observation created a self reflection, whereby the cosmic engineers projected the video like winds from outer forests. Engines became magical reverberation arising, if a correct answer could be presented to exist, as quality persistence like pieces of candy. Glittering, colored fragments of glass were scattered along the shore, they all liked as much as they admired the inventor.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 6:55 PM UTC
Plumped rouge with pigment
her lip fills to graze the ********
intent to disquiet the likes of de Sade
autografted with ocular detachment
should a Marquis wish to harness
the song of the morning
within a bandolier of Seine
to ensnare any bustled Persephone
gilted by discharge of ions
into a ménage of torment
through the Porte des Lions.
Hers is the tincture of doxy
caramelized and debrided of naivety,
empowered by the eve of invention,
swollen to curves and grounded in Paris.
Illumination defies pervasion
down to every gear and pulley
she has hushed through mechanization
and lulled by steam,
swaging a cacophony of flickers
encased in glass by the Lady’s watch,
where every rivet of her plate glisters silken
reverberation in cascade,
elegant, caged, and towering,
outspoken in silence,
ever challenging the Champ de Mars.
"Paris by Gaslight," written by Dionne Charlet, is the title poem to be featured in the upcoming steampunk anthology Paris by Gaslight, the third anthology in the By Gaslight Series from New Orleans small press Black Tome Books. Look for the first two collections of poems and short stories set in Victorian Times, New Orleans by Gaslight (ISBN 9780615801186) and Cairo by Gaslight (ISBN 9781516961528). Both collections feature poetry by Charlet, under the pseudonym Dionne Cherie.
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 2:44 PM UTC
1581
The farthest Thunder that I heard
Was nearer than the Sky
And rumbles still, though torrid Noons
Have lain their missiles by—
The Lightning that preceded it
Struck no one but myself—
But I would not exchange the Bolt
For all the rest of Life—
Indebtedness to Oxygen
The Happy may repay,
But not the obligation
To Electricity—
It founds the Homes and decks the Days
And every clamor bright
Is but the gleam concomitant
Of that waylaying Light—
The Thought is quiet as a Flake—
A Crash without a Sound,
How Life’s reverberation
Its Explanation found—
2.6k
I know this place well
It is where I dwell
At times it can be forgotten
Ergo it is my shell
Reverberation fabricates strings and lines that demonstrate
Echos driven back to source with insanity to placate
Lessons are never learned within such solitude
Until a rupture occurs defeating meaningless platitudes
Fundamental discretion against complacent and ill-comforts
Do not take away visibility from the truth that sometimes hurts
Cracks emerge, illumination transcending
A surge, then an urge to crush this shell circumventing
I know this place well
It is where I dwell
In time I do remember
Ergo I leave my shell
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 5:12 PM UTC
*Life without the boundaries
Expands from now and beyond
Concentric circles of consciousness
Waves that binds with cosmic reverberation
Creating intricate patterns of responsiveness
Mind holds the multitude of thoughts
Where they essay a beautiful narrative
You, the protagonist, mirrored in different light*
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 11:41 PM UTC
*He is
My Azure Dreambird,
(The Sovereign of Songbirds)
That soars upon
Skies of Resonance.
His sapphire wings
Weightless by valor,
Hallowed every doubt
That
Cursed my shadow
Until credence reigned.
He is
The Musicality of my Soul,
That I climbed as
A stairway
Into
Gates of Aether
Upon
Porcelain keys
Of an impearled
Grand Piano.
His sound emittance
Ascended in frequency until
Pitch became subliminal
For height
ceased to be
Height,
And depth,
Ceased to be
Depth,
It was
Ineffable harmony
And resolution became effortless
With
The touch of his hand.
He is
The Wings of the Dawn,
A Sweeping Rapture
That raised
Me
Beyond the stratosphere
Until graced by
Untarnished embrace
Of the Baptistery of the Sun.
I burst
From Light’s Intemerate Womb,
Renewed and
Gazed upon Terraqueous Gaia
Then for once,
(Yes, for all eternity)
Succumbed to
Faith in the Transcendence
Of his tender affections.
Woe was existence
Before His lightwaves radiated
Within my heart,
For when I purged my pulse
Of that quaking rhythm
And
Hollow cries
Upon his ears,
He stood moved
And remained
Doughty in his devotion
To me.
In that moment
I fathomed his soul
Glistened
O, for he had not forsook me.
I bear a pilgrimage.
One sought to be
Heard,
Seen,
Felt,
Breathed,
And
Divined
By my
Once
Somnolent spirit
Been
Roused
By the incendiary thew of
His ardor.
My revenant soul
Hath emerged from
The Chrysalis of Time as
The Apotheosis of Astral Flame
(A Reverberation of the Cosmo-Plexus of Love)
That since
The Days of Time Immemorial
Guided by the
Whisper of the stars,
I now cleave
To that celestial susurrus:
To the solace buried beneath
The Soil of Afflicition
(For anguish was all I knew)
In repose
Yet yearning to be
Resurrected
In The Dream of Acquisition,
To for eternity behold
The timeless fervor
That doth layeth
In His heart*
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 11:52 AM UTC
i exist somewhere between the kick drum and the snare
i am the blood thundering in our veins
i am the rhythm that gives us life
i am the 375 nanometers of ultraviolet light shining down on you
i am the space between the notes and the silence before the drop
i am oscillation, reverberation, undulation of bassline
i am rattling ribcage from excess decibels
i am titinnitus waiting to strike.
3,4-methylenedioxy-N-methylamphetamine, Lysergic acid diethylamide, tetrahydrocannabinol, ethanol, benzoylmethylecgonine; choose your poison so that you may enjoy me better
i am the sweat that slicks our skin and keeps us cool
i am the longing look that leaps from eye to eye
i am mellifluous melody, motivator of movement, master of mind.
i am the sea of strangers you find yourself lost in, minimally clad bodies moving in ways you didn't know were possible.
i am the fire-poi spinner, the LED hula-hooper, the melbourne-shuffling madman, the obnoxious bro, the ancient hippie, the obviously underage girl, the idiot overdosing in the corner, and the person wearing more pony beads than clothes.
i am the rave.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 3:01 PM UTC
*Faith in the tempered evening , for the Friday night reverberation -
of hometowns just over the Shamrock green horizon
For the day end Amber-glow of well kept -
Summer gardens
Blessed is the power of tonights Harvest Moon
The Suns early dedication to the Chattahoochee flora of the coming June
For morning dew prisms that ignite rolling hayfields
For talking Indian rivers , Railroad townships and period Flour Mills*
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC
Humm......i can feel,
it's all coming back to me.
the long distant echo is now sounding so near,
like a sweet sounding whisper.
my iris is more relax now, an evidence of closer view.
reverberation of its movement disturbs my hearing.
silently perched birds are looking nervous,
and are negotiating flight.
what a sure sign of it all coming back to me.
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 9:07 AM UTC
The clock struck a peculiar time
Reverberating on the window pains
When I looked up from the old wooden desk
To the stark white face of that piece
My eyes were caught in a haze
The hands of the clock eluded me
The chair scratched against the floor
As I moved backwards and rubbed my eyes
My ears popped ever so slightly
Light headedness came on to me
I found it and remained conscious
Aware of what would occur should I fall,
Succumbing to that mechanism
I mustered myself to remove the clock
Lifting it from a single nail in the wall
I placed in in the top drawer of the desk
It's ticking was no longer audible
Yet I still felt the reverberation
It bounced and rattled within my bones
A pulsing echo within my mind
Never louder yet with each throb
It grew more and more distinct
Then it stopped altogether
And the shadows grew long in the room
I paned out the old attic space
For the breifest moment
Before the shadows evaporated
Blending and mixing with the darkness
Oct 6, 2021
Oct 6, 2021 at 10:10 PM UTC
...Dancing round
A Blazing fire
A tribe of humans
Like no other
Worship money
In suit and tie
Beating drums
Chanting greed
Sky stays dark
Dancing round
A Blazing fire
A tribe of humans
Like one another
Flow with the land
Dressed in paint
Beating drums
Chant with nature
Diamond's in the sky
Dancing round
A Blazing fire
Planet Earth
Beating drums
Chanting with
the universe...
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 12:20 PM UTC
This brown buff speckled throstle of a bird sits in the higher most branches of a yet to be leafed poplar tree . . . and sings. Such a song in the April morning air it greets the day, celebrates the rising sun. Above a suburban street the bird’s song catches the reverberation of a double row of houses, their windows bouncing sonic reflections of unaccompanied melismata.
Olivier Messiaen loved this bird for its répétition égale. Walking the mountain woods around his summer home he would wonder that the grive musicienne could make so exactly repetition after repetition of a complex phrase. A proto-minimalist perhaps? The male mistle thrush appears in several ***** works but most prominently in Saint Francois d'Assis singing luminously on the clarinet.
Although this is the ungregarious male singing away on this spring morning his name carries a female designation Turdus Philomelos. Poor Philomel, whose name means one who loved song, she was a princess of Athens lusted after by King Tereus who took her to a cottage in distant woods and ***** her. Then, he cut out her tongue.
Vengeful Philomel alone in the woods, but a most resourceful and artistic young woman, she set about weaving a tapestry that told all.
*‘She set up a Tracian loom
And wove on a white fabric scarlet symbols
That told in detail what had happened to her*.’
She sent the finished piece to Tereus who promptly ordered Philomel's death and that of her sisters (one of whom he was married to). As the girls were about to be slain they were changed magically into three birds . .
Joanna Laurens play The Three Birds takes the only fragment we have of Sophocles telling of this strange tale. Laurens is both musician and linguist and the text is a marvel of strange sounds and rhythms as the sisters communicate with each other in their personal private language akin, it is said, to Jersiese, an ancient Breton dialect.
So thank you dear song thrush for this morning's wonder: a song sans pariel.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC
I want to write until tears fall from my eyes
and my pen runs dry and I draw silent and still
I want to write you into words I can take with me
I want to capture your being and form on paper
I want to write to soothe the cacophony inside me
I want to pull it out of me, pull me out of myself
in ribbons and strands until I fill a room
I will look at all that was in me, tugging on strings
that have left me empty. I want there to be nothing left.
Hollow out my insides leaving me with nothing but air in my spaces,
leave me with air and pencil shavings
Put all that is me out on display
Maybe then I will find calm.
I want to write about you,
I want to write until I know and understand you so well I confuse you with myself.
I will write and use up all the words in this language,
then make up new ones to describe exactly how 2,630 miles feels like when it weighs inside a heart,
how it feels to smile back at a photograph,
how I recognize voices through doors and it turns out to be a stranger.
I want to write about things gentle and soothing,
things that can act like a surrounding embrace to a heavy heart. I want to comfort myself.
I want language to be like my imaginary friend I whisper to behind a child's hands.
I want to hurt and I want to need, I want to evoke and I want to express.
I want to strike a chord and resonate for ages, a reverberation to last a century beneath the earth.
I want to not make sense and be misunderstood.
I want to cry silently in my pillow,
filled with emotions so human and so real that I know I Am Alive.
I want to find new words for your eyes, your voice, the curve of your spine.
People talk about making homes out of hearts and ribcages,
maybe I can do that too, live inside the marrow of your bones.
I want to fall into your deepest corners and find You,
then I want to surround you with a tender warmth that will calm and douse you
and you will know that you are Loved,
I want you to know that I will take care of you.
There will never be another who will do just This for you.
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 9:47 PM UTC
Their violence. Their fire. Their beauty.
Their clenching, unclenching. Their bedlam.
Their silence.
Their toes squirming in their shoes. Their sobs. Their seventy-mile-an-hour fury.
Their eyes. Their glimmer. Their construction paper dreams.
Their insecurities. Their melanin.
Their rapture. Their forgiveness. Their twisted-up mouths.
Their screaming.
Their laughter. Their spoiled innocence. Their decent.
Their wilderness of wit. Their barbed future. Their ineloquence.
Their noise. Their stretching limbs.
Their vigor. Their hair spurting out of their scalps.
Their secrets echoing and singing through low-ceilinged halls. Their desire.
Their chipped orange fingernail polish. Their belly aches.
Their misspelled crayon messages. Their ghosts. Their audacity.
Their fear. Their braids. Their arms tight around each other.
Their torn jeans. Their longing.
Their possibility.
Their harpoon words. Their blood. Their bursting hearts.
Their walls. Their art.
Their endlessness.
Their airplane arms and their shrieking and their streaming outside into the yellow ache of a sinking sun.
Their rhythm. Their nonsense.
Their hands cupped around their mouths.
Their reverberation. Their chapped lips. Their love.
Them.
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 5:08 PM UTC
Water over stone speaks to me
Voices in my head or reality?
Bubbling, babbling, a fluid oration.
From liquid, an opus of reverberation.
Closer I get, speech becomes blurred.
A child, a crowd, an implicit word?
Retreat a step, lucid communique
Desire to immerse, ingest the parley.
Sit between banks in tears from on high
Hear her voice in the brook as I try
To understand, and follow the sentence at hand
A cacophony of silence sifted through sand.
Meaningless, mindless, numbing address
Just what’s so important she’s trying to stress?
Words from the distant, ghostlike, perchance
Wispy and passionate midsummer’s dance.
My ears reject resonance, but the mind draws it in
To decipher the past and perceive an old sin.
Apologetic, pleading, no mold to this play
Just babbling on, with no true thing to say.
Hands growing numb from water’s icy hold
Must leave this brook, for so I’ve been told
That mystery lives in the motion of hearing
Of water’s sweet journey beyond my heart’s clearing.
Aug 10, 2011
Aug 10, 2011 at 6:58 PM UTC
Word.
Listening intently,
Echoes on replay,
Listening intently.
Word.Word.
Hearing
Less and less sense,
With each reverberation
As it fades into violent silence.
Violence,
They're all words.
Word.Birds.
Spacial relations,
Mental taxations,
Connecting dots,
Listening intently.
I hear fear on the broken tears,
Splashing at your feet.
I hear sadness in your eyes.
Word.
.droW
I'm surprised,
Backwards compatible future,
Forward functioning fables,
Genius played dumb
And waited tables,
Trying patience
And listening intently.
Word.
Aug 18, 2010
Aug 18, 2010 at 4:13 AM UTC
Caress the curvature,
and catacombs of your cranium.
As you sit back
and contemplate the complexities
of your mind.
Drift into a state of relaxation,
amongst the ebbing tides of a soft creation.
Below furrowed brows,
made famous by frustration,
into the depths of foggy thought,
I found my naval base.
An island,
transmitting infinite miscommunications.
Rhetorical bio-essence bounces off the constellations.
An angelic reverberation.
My mind begins to melt
Seeping into walls
Formed by divine hallucination
Exhausted by sheer elation.
Transfixed in a state of utter meditation
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 11:10 AM UTC
A sound that is not from the vocal but exuded as a reverberation from you is what this universe is all about.....
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 1:15 AM UTC
In the darkness,
Reverberation
… empties silence.
… tap; … tap; … tap.
The tapping?
The pendulum‘s grandeur;
A passive state… to time.
Low, slow,
… distant echoes
A bid
… to serenity’s seduction.
Sweeping circuits,
Lap …long,
Against a pebble filled beach.
The tide calls;
Whoosh;
…whoosh;
…whoosh;
…whoosh;
Such foreboding waves
Call.
Surrender;
Approach,..;
Remember…;
Return…,
Taste …
The salty- sweet
… water’s sway.
Ache for desire;
To expose
… forbidden love’s impoverished tears;
An enchanting lure,
… hearkens
Come; … far
Beneath the rocky cliff.
My heart;
Wanting … ;
But no… !
Sanity holds…
It’s… not time.
A snare’s line rings;
Time moves…;
… tap;
… tap;
… tap.
Time, waives protest
… to this recital’s longing embrace.
Home,
Simply composed;
A love’s submerging refrain.
A door,
… stills, open.
A room;
The keep;
Through a corridor’s long shadow,
The silence speaks,
Pride’s measure
… ticks.
… tap;
… tap;
… tap.
Old tatters
Curtains dance.
Soothing drifts
…cool salty air.
… tap;
… tap;
… tap.
A calm state;
Moonlight.
Relics of a heart;
Composing drama plays to shadows;
Cracks on old plaster walls.
Glimpses return
… where waning movements hide;
The essence of sound and silence
Intertwine.
An old window-seat
… gives audience to the stars.
In eyes of youth;
A young girl‘s heart… lives
Once more.
Time falls
Moments recede.
Ah, my love;
I hear the Harp’s comb play
As gentle as a sigh,..
Rolling Home…; Rolling Home…;
Rolling Home across the Sea
A vow, misspoken;
To wait…;
Still…
… tap;
… tap;
… tap.
Golden hair;
Your fancy to heather’s yielding flow.
A hundred long strokes;
As… soft tenders weep.
An altering hue;
… fades of time.
Gold;
Silver;
Now, twists shimmer of soft white pearl.
Time combs these long old satin strands.
… tap;
… tap;
… tap.
Youth now spent; To wear once more
Soft lavender, love-knots.
Ribbons flow…
Aging wrinkles where once
Plump lips reach desire;
Now, the gentlest breeze
… plays prey of a beating heart
Memories.
Take to flight.
… tap;
… tap,
Yesterday is almost here …;
Years abandon
… to the dew scent heather;
Eyes close
To such need
… to touch.
To…
To…
… tap;
… tap;
… tap.
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 11:49 AM UTC
Errant, vast, my expanses
in the depths of hypnotisms
so ancient… still so spicy…
Reverberation of distant essences
is the adamantine wake
of dreaming satellites.
I collect rainbow sparks,
exalted
by craters of inlaid borders.
I would feel a silky tinkling
echoing in my throat,
but without a key,
the unknown does not reveal the intent
of me put down on this world...
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 7:48 PM UTC