"reverberations" poems
With shades of gray our lives
Intertwine
We collide always
My ways were changed but it doesn’t come so nicely
Relax, Relapse, Relax
It’s back to the floor I go
I can hear reverberations and feel the
Syncopation of our hearts as one
A single touch and my tension comes undone
With eyes to calm storms and a smile to awaken waves
We wait and watch and feel and want
And need and heed this warning;
I might love you too much
Oct 27, 2010
Oct 27, 2010 at 7:49 PM UTC
*I roar with a bravado
that echoes throughout
the deepest caverns
of brave souls
yet with every time
there lies a risk
of my own reverberations
shattering my heart
I am fragile glass
fashioned into
the fearsome form
of a lion
I have been chiseled at by
Father Time and Mother Earth,
carved away by my pains
and my worries.
I am no façade;
there is nothing ornate
about me designed to
hide something heinous
I can shatter
just as easily
as my mother’s
prized china set
But I roar on
even as I chip away;
my joints creaking
and my body scorched.
Do not mistake my
scratches and cracks
for weakness,
I have demons of my own.
I walk this ground
with the hope
that my roars,
in spite of my fragility,
will instill a sense of hope
into all of you
with glass hearts
such as mine.*
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 12:26 AM UTC
and
just like that
I am falling
unfolding in your eyes
layers of shadows unraveling
in polar-laced
spirals of hunger
deep freeze melting upon tongue
an icy build-up
thawed in seconds
for my very cells burn
beneath your gaze
as you take in the fullness
of my presence
despite the smoky,
glass-paned haze
My presence-
suffused with
the darkness of silk-
I want it to graze your skin
the most gentle feather
stroking emotion
coaxing out the
delicately-wrapped
firestones in you
spinning them into
a frenzied lava-slaked ocean
and then those unexplained,
flurried lattice flakes
that somehow soothe and cool
within this inferno
of just-missed proximity
My essence
is cast like a net
over you
as we dive into
the volumes
as I pull the
heated visions out of your mind
feel your heart's closest
most tiny reverberations
little beats barely heard
yet in some unlikely way
pump blood into mine
Undo me
as my wet blue pools
dissolve into yours
my trussed-up implosions
flowing out in air-spun tempest
Unwrap my defenses
a soldered-up dam breaking
a glass tubular bell
hairline fracture quaking
Strip me bare
no need to even touch me
for the vapors of
your voice
remove the layers
of debris
like the steam of earth
irons out
the blackened quilt of sky
to reveal
the altar
of our
stars
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 4:07 AM UTC
Obsidian wind chimes
welcome the crashing waves
as another day exits, slowly
sinking beneath the bay.
Cool waters drenched in
an almost amethyst hue
offer mental reverberations
as I ponder what I am next to do.
Though the sea is but a tide
that ebbs & flows-
repletes & recedes-
her words of wisdom forgo
past the banks of her beaches
& spread a breeze to every corner
of night.
She beckons me within myself;
her deep abyss but a mirror.
Her waters shine in a glimmering splendor
as she makes the path ever clearer.
To leave this shore that raised me
is not a sign of disrespect, but a show
of honor. My broken levees have her
to thank & for that, I call her mother.
Sep 9, 2021
Sep 9, 2021 at 5:33 PM UTC
The redneck got arrested last night.
The ******* was barking back at dogs
and belting shots of scotch well-before sundown.
You could say he and the sun were collectively sinking.
Nights like these
breed pregnant silences
between the outbursts.
I sit poised for the next eruption
as a child cloistered under covers for fear of thunderclaps--
Another howl,
(presumably bellowing for beer)
then he's batting his live-in lap-straddler
around the apartment beneath me.
With every strike
the drywall learns a lesson
this ignorant *****
can't get a grip on:
some things never change.
The world will change around them
like tissue growing around a bullet fragment.
The cops come,
the cuffs go on,
and the problem is put on pause for an evening--
but he'll ascend the stairs with the sunrise.
They'll reconcile,
because misery does want for company.
He'll promise he'll be different.
She'll actually believe him.
They'll be back to battering their plaster
with the reverberations of ******* and arguments.
She can't see that a drunkard's apologies
are counterfeit currency.
I took it for common knowledge.
Perhaps it is...
Perhaps, like living in tornado alley,
they cope with ceaseless shit-storms
because they're just too lazy to move.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 12:36 AM UTC
There's an architect designing the world from the skyline downwards, as he believes himself to be a God
The paraffin lamps on Victorian cobbled corners are as dry as the seraph in dust bowls over some arid sea
A portrait exists, of a town covered in mist and the orange cliffs are a thousand bloodied wrists
Somewhere music plays to ghosts, obtuse reverberations of some cave on a mountain... or something
and what a useless skill it is to be a poet, flouting fanciful words as if a single soul cared or could possibly muster anything more than unadulterated apathy
What a lonely life it is, to spend entire days watching *********** and reveling in dissociative stoicism
Watching cam girls for hours on end, swept up in conversation yet never taking part, only watching
They seem as lonely as anybody, holed up in crimson rooms as anonymous DJs play through laptop speakers
Fielding obscene questions with a smile and renting their body in timetables to the highest tipper
and some days the depression becomes so heavy that ************ seems impossible, though it's possible to blame such scarcity on the anti-anxiety meds that have ruined so many-a youthful folly
Is there a more flattering notion, than a story teller being commended for honesty when every word is a lie
Fictional accounts of melancholic lives told in a pulchritudinous verse or a prose of the most regal purples
Using nothing more than psycho-stimulants and a smeared bedroom window for inspiration
There's a writer sat at a desk, typing ridiculous lines of text, as he knows himself to be human
and in that humanity he strives to create a realists interpretation of existence through scattered memories
and derivative styles of his favourite authors whilst using educational texts as footnotes in imaginary diaries
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 2:10 PM UTC
Around me architectural mastery:
sycamores, embankments, enduring ionic pillars.
I round a walkway bordered by trees,
enamel thawing, gliding off their low leaves.
Beneath the late-May’s pounding sun,
through the glittered trees’ reaches,
a gazebo crackles into sight.
Children in their prime, sunbathers, a wistful portraitist
encircle it carelessly:
a leisured chimney; the billows of life.
The foliage escapes into the river,
purplish, palpitating, cyclic creases
receive the dewy notes.
Kayaks licking acacia-gum-edged
ripples sputter and slip
through reverberations
of leveled white-water terraces.
Blackcurrants in clotted cream
slide on the plush lips of a young passerby.
The 8 above a doorway
dances motionless, silent in my periphery;
“Nicolas Cage just sold the spot”
pops from unknown lungs
inside the Circus crowd.
Unacknowledged, half-proud
hands built the Roman baths
alone, closed-in by such grace,
forgotten, then as now.
I wander these ancestral lanes
more or less alone, the same.
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 7:55 AM UTC
There was a time when the Owl was the lover of Sound.
Sound was a beautiful creature, full of laughter and life and raucous vitality.
Sound loved the Owl, and the Owl loved Sound.
They would perch in the trees together, laughing, listening to the calls of the peepers and the crickets yells.
Sound would joke, maybe I’ll leave you, go live with them.
The Owl would laugh, who would you go to? Who could love you more than I?
Time passed, and they were in love.
But Sound began to notice a change.
The Owl became sickly, thin, gaunt. Laughs turned to coughs, jokes to weak smiles.
The Owl didn’t eat. How could he, when Sound accompanied him on all of his hunts? The Owl didn’t sleep. Sound may have loved the night best, with its echoes and reverberations in the dark, but daytime was also filled with Sound’s calls, and the Owl could not tear himself away.
Sound begged the Owl, go, eat, sleep! The Owl didn’t listen. He refused to leave Sounds side.
Sound knew that seeing the Owl like this hurt more than being separated from him.
That night, the Owl slept.
He slept all night and all day and when he awoke, it was night once more.
He rustled his feathers, but, to his surprise, Sound was not there.
He opened his beak to call forth. But Sound was still absent.
He searched all throughout his home, becoming increasingly frantic. Sound was gone.
The Owls pain and confusion rushed forth. He opened his beak silently again, then threw himself into flight.
Sound did not accompany him there, either.
The Owl flew all night. His eyes grew large from searching, his hearing keen, and he stretched his neck looking every way looking for Sound.
As morning broke, the Owl returned to the perch he had shared with his love. He listened to the calls of the peepers and the crickets yells, alone. He closed his now- wide eyes, and, from the depths of his being, he crafted a reply, a plea, a call.
“Who”
Who could love you more than I…
May 6, 2012
May 6, 2012 at 8:58 PM UTC
She said:
There have been a ridiculous amount of synchronicities:
I realise now how much I am in your ocean.
I said:
My dear, then not a drop of dark tincture cast in these clear waters in which we swim,
a vast sea in which no matter at what end you lie,
I feel you in the very reverberations of the molecules around me -
the slightest tremor!
And must turn in your direction and with blind eyes penetrate the depth searching for your form,
and begin the journey to find you and at last embrace you with every ion of my Being...
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 2:23 AM UTC
Thunder birds
Feathers made of light
No crashing in the night
Heedless heals shatter the ground
Muskets silencing every warning
Thunder birds
Voices carry out songs
No silence in the oblivion
Hollowed breathing gasping oxygen
Bullets' sonic reverberations
Overpowering every whimpering
Thunder Birds
Witnessing every crime
No veils cloud the terror
Burning images through tears
Weapons of desolation spark
Smoke and fire to blind just eyes
With every burning desire
We were meant to love
But instead fell low
Construing our delirium
As if by predestined design
Without faulting the system
Facilitating issuance of our sickness
Restless voices trivialized
To demobilize their power
Appropriating oppression as ours
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 11:31 PM UTC
Shall I ever have a bad day
I remind myself of the way
the green of the trees compliments
the violet of the nighttime southern summer sky;
Shall I ever feel lesser
I remind myself of the way
my mother appears
as her eyes well with tears
of pride and joy;
Shall I ever experience a sense of emptiness
I remind myself of the sound
of my dad's laugh,
of the way my brother always gets
my references;
Shall I ever have a moment of doubt
I remind myself of the reverberations
that hollow your insides
when the guy you like kisses you for
the first time;
Shall I ever forget my purpose
I remind myself of the way it felt
when I saw my nanny's husband on my
graduation day;
Shall I ever doubt the future
I remind myself of
the way I moved on from
my deepest love;
Shall I ever feel weak
I remind myself of
my first days in D.C. as I
stumbled aimlessly through streets
with which I was unfamiliar;
Shall I ever be devoured by ambiguity
I remind myself of
the peace I have felt as I
watch the steady ripples of
the Ohio;
Shall I ever get lost
I remind myself of the
paths I have forged,
of the arms that
extend open;
I may seek resurrection mother nature
offers me
in the sand
I have felt in my toes,
of the grass that has tickled
my back,
of the sunsets that have moved
my soul,
in the water bodies that have sung
me to sleep;
I may be reborn in
the rifts of my
favorite songs,
in the quotes of
my favorite movies,
in the words of
timeless poems;
in the love the world extends
I shall never go without
comfort,
inspiration,
rejuvenation;
I shall never truly become lost
for the world always
finds me.
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
Sweltering insurgencies of electric power chords
Tribal reverberations of skin-stretched drum boards
Rolling and filling; syncopating the noise
Of the tit-less toys
The dick-less boys
Enraptured in the music
The anthem
Of invidious phantoms
My eyes hurt inside and
I want to pull them out and
Scrape out the gunk and rust
that’s behind my self-indulgent perseverance
so I can cry
for the first time in years…
Wrapping my hands around his slender torso
Licking away the paint, the dripping ooze; more so
Than hastening my ****** and mordant urges
To bite what emerges
And my mouth purges
The obelisk from underneath
The iron-pierced jester
The voracious molester
My hand tightens as I grip
his throat tighter and
I want to squeeze until his eyes pop
from his sockets and
laugh until I puke against the walls,
watching the ****** fluids mix
like an execrable marinara sauce…
I turned thirty while still being sixteen
The vivid beauty of the world was only in dreams
But none of mine, none that I can recall
Many years have passed since I took the oral fall
Where no one saw
Intransigent need to live
For the snake in my veins hungered for more
So many had their way
until I was limp and sore.
Defamatory fingers of mire and strife
Probing and stretching
My insides
And devilishly comforting
With limpid ambrosia
That’s infected by bilious worms and maggots covered in icing
And fruit
Amatory gauntlets fastened and secured over
Handless limbs that retract under matriculated frictions
That fracture, crack, morph, distort
Emphasize, marginalize
Rationalize, desensitize
Acts of *********** evasion, moral drainage;
Pieces, bits, chunks, sections, portions, servings;
Arms, legs, eyes, tongues, fingers, toes,
Love, lust, infatuation
Adoration
Boys, girls, women, men,
Angels, demons, monsters, humans
Creators, gods, titans, divas
All extended and limited from the minds that worship
Sanctify, mesmerize, glorify, rectify
While humans eat more, love more, **** more
Than the angels, demons, monsters, and titans
We ponder and cherish
Nevermore, for me
Ever lore, for all
Crows surround
And chaos found.
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 11:11 PM UTC
Morning’s graceful
In a serene attire
Solitary soul
Genuflects in reverence
We are travelers
Seeking refuge here
This beauty is eternal
Morning Prayer
Rings true
Reverberations heard afar
An ardent plea from the Soul
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 10:43 PM UTC
The glass patters in the darkest hours of the night
Exponential reverberations resemble that of a radical earthquake
Disrupting the peace; serenity.
The erratic patter splatters, exemplifying works of Jackson *******
A stain on the cloth of happiness, it spreads,
Disrupting the normal pattern degrading matter
Corroding, yet it creates.
Feeds, but it drowns.
Creates smiles, and forces frowns.
So simple, although complex
Dark patter.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 6:56 AM UTC
Fibre optic cables,
clipped conversations,
partial strangers,
networked communications,
keyboard ambiance,
anxious remonstrations,
system failures,
nicotine meditations
smudging frames,
hierarchical mediation,
computerised bleeps,
opaque mechanisations,
brightening windows,
verbose inflections,
silks ties,
limited reverberations,
exaggerated flirtation,
bowel eliminations,
pointless days,
power imitations,
numeric values.
insurmountable situations,
digital bleeds
eventual discontinuation
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 11:16 AM UTC
We are like resonating strings
We crave what resonating brings
Matching our vibrations
With audiovisual sensations
Rapid reverberations
Expand and cross nations
Transmit like radio stations
These vibes deny explanation
We seek community
Where we can truly be
The truest form of “me”
Totally friction free
Grooving to the moving
Jiving to the beat
Dancing to the music
Feeling so complete
We are energy looking for a path
A certain resonance frequency
That could be conveyed with math…
But that would be indecency
Instead we name it differently
We call it personality
But to put it honestly
We are atoms in reality
A pattern, a frequency
A string reverberating
Looking to vibrate freely
Liquid, liberating
So go with your intuition
Follow the beat of your own drum
Find your ideal situation
Your part of the continuum
Jun 24, 2019
Jun 24, 2019 at 11:19 AM UTC
MEMO
FROM: Mr Phil Indifrence, Strategy Chess Insurgency Corps.
Space Headquarters, Castleview Avenue, Dunstable XY10
TO: Ms Petal Dontrun, Crimson Chess Federation.
De la Wigan Headquarters, Wigan, United Kingdom, SM00
Dear Ms Dontrun,
Please accept my greetings. I write to clarify my stance on our
outstanding matters and hopefully to deter further speculation,
gossips, rumours, distortions, misinformation and sensationalism by the media.
As you are aware I contacted you on the day as arranged only to
be confronted with a response that was astoundingly unethical, un-
professional, rude, inconsiderate and totally uncalled-for. It was
so below expected standard that it raised doubt about your suit-
ability to be seen as a matured adult much less an intelligent being.
Still in the reverberations of this seismic occurrence I called again in
the hope it was a momentary loss of composure and yet again I was
subjected to a deluxe version of the first onslaught. To say I was
flabbergasted is putting things mildly, most especially as it was
totally unwarranted and underserved. It was obvious you lacked
any sense of decorum and had become an affront to common human decency and an embarrassment to your status.
In all fairness you did call some weeks later, but it had become
apparent that the ethos, protocol and cordiality that my Organi-
sation works within may not be relevant to your Organisation,
hence my unavailability to your contact.
I write to primarily reiterate that my position on this matter and
the present status quo is not based on some immature Ego play,
stubbornness, power-play or pride, rather it's in all truthfulness it's a belief in upholding standards in ethical considerations. I do not believe that bad manners, ill-considered behaviour, ill-judgement and a lack of sensitivity and good grace are matured and progressive trends to interact cooperatively within.
In conclusion, this is my stance on this matter and I hope it helps
your understanding. I believe a formal Apology from you and your
Organisation is appropriate in this regard and will instigate a
return to cordiality between our Organisation.
If you however feel this is unnecessary I will respect your decision
and the situation will remain unresolved.
I thank you for your attention.
Regards,
Phil Indifrence. C.E.O.
Feb 23, 2019
Feb 23, 2019 at 5:18 PM UTC
the outline of your jaw
and the promise of your verse,
with stanzas harboring a coincidentally similar curse,
create timely reverberations
lurking in the limbo of my love's reincarnation,
and freeing me from this cerebral assurance of alienation
caused by characterless cowards wrought with affectation and negation.
Jan 21, 2012
Jan 21, 2012 at 12:38 PM UTC
Verbiage
Sagacious humans would concur
Salacious verbiage is trenchant
Verdant language withers a guileless soul
Hubristic linguists deem limpid oratory irksome
A Didactic, petulant, boorish, garrulous, nefarious, obtuse, and insolent
Overtone is not my intent
Puckish, risible, mannered, jocular, antic, and adroit
Reverberations I am manifesting
TRANSLATION
Words
Smart people would agree
Healthy words are sharp
Unripe words die naive spirits
Self-confident word users find simple language annoying
Moral instruction, rude, insensitivity, wordy, wicked, blunt, and contemptuous
Feelings are not my purpose
Impish (silly), laughable, artificial, playful, clownish, and clever
Reactions I'm hoping to create
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 12:15 PM UTC
This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling,
Like a huge ***** rise the burnished arms;
But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing
Startles the villages with strange alarms.
Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary,
When the death-angel touches those swift keys!
What loud lament and dismal Miserere
Will mingle with their awful symphonies!
I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus,
The cries of agony, the endless groan,
Which, through the ages that have gone before us,
In long reverberations reach our own.
On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer,
Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman’s song,
And loud, amid the universal clamor,
O’er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.
I hear the Florentine, who from his palace
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din,
And Aztec priests upon their teocallis
Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent’s skin;
The tumult of each sacked and burning village;
The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns;
The soldiers’ revels in the midst of pillage;
The wail of famine in beleaguered towns;
The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder,
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade;
And ever and anon, in tones of thunder
The diapason of the cannonade.
Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,
With such accursed instruments as these,
Thou drownest Nature’s sweet and kindly voices,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies?
Were half the power, that fills the world with terror,
Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts,
Given to redeem the human mind from error,
There were no need of arsenals or forts:
The warrior’s name would be a name abhorred!
And every nation, that should lift again
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead
Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain!
Down the dark future, through long generations,
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease;
And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,
I hear once more the voice of Christ say, “Peace!”
Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals
The blast of War’s great ***** shakes the skies!
But beautiful as songs of the immortals,
The holy melodies of love arise.
1.9k
With an Earthquake,
the deadliest moment is not during.
It's the aftershocks.
Rocking those weakened foundations
to rubble.
The same is said of Love.
No matter how shaky
or rough.
When the motion stops moving
that's when truly life is tough.
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC
I only caught a passing moment of their conversation, but the dyed redhead, bowed black face hidden behind her tresses, clearly remarked, I'm part Irish. That's white. while the boy beside her captured her every movement with sarcastic circular motions of his imaginary camera, and something in the taste of the air took me back to the iciness of the cell.
Long after the guard clanged the iron door shut, letting the reverberations fade into the silence of small spaces so evident in the 10x6 enclosed room, I heard her. In truth, recollection deceives me in associating my first awareness of her with an impossible remembrance: a womanly scent flowing on a non-existent gust between her cell and mine. But no, it was definitely the distinct, distant quality in her voice as she softly called Who's there? that caused me to press my ear tightly against cold iron in eager anticipation. Hello was all I mustered. She responded in relieved tones with tales of abuse, pimps and prostitution, all mixed with crack bumps measured in metricities that would have made her high school math teacher proud. For hours her voice echoed through the halls of the jail, pausing only for an occasional guttural response Uh-huh or, Uh-uh before continuing her tragic, comforting tale.
Eventually day broke and I left the cell-- left the girl locked away, nameless, out of sight. And, I would have forgotten. I would have never searched every face wondering: if I close my eyes and listen, would the voice that still echoes in my head present itself in a stranger's features?
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 8:38 PM UTC
I believe that all of these different forms are also the human mind, but that being said, where would these personality traits stem from if not from the mind? I believe that there was influence. These "gods" Could be GOD in the spirit realm evolving throughout space and time as we continue to evolve and that we are what the spirit/dream realm manifest into. We are more than we know and God made it that way for us to ascend to him with adventure . I believe in something I can't quite define yet, but it's something of a blend between eastern and western philosophy. Western is very left brain and useful for foundation, and creating the lines we walk, but Eastern is very right brain and uses visual stimulation and spiritual science to examine those lines, accept them, and move through them. Together they could show the truth, but really it is all in the mind. Consciously you see it, subconsciously you feel it. The dreams and Gods that are written (like the Greek Gods) you could correlate them not only to personalities, but also to our navigation physically and metaphysically in science. 12 vital organs, possibly 12 distinct personality types, 12 months, 12 hours, 12 disciples, 12 reindeers, 12 days of Christmas, 12 inches in a foot, 12 Main Gods, 12 zodiac signs, and 12 main chakras. The number 12 is only significant for identification, but all speak a message of the same thing, the translation is just different for each.
It's like a song the continues on dynamic and technical as it progresses, then an octave change creates the same with a twist while simultaneously other songs run parallel, perpendicular, overlapping, harmonizing, colliding, splitting, connecting, fading, and never ending until the vibrations and reverberations create light stimuli that creates a similar matrix that manifests into physical matter we call this holographic universe. God just spoke the first note and then his essence began to split into many. The tree of life metaphor. We are all God, but we still have to seek God to tap into God because of how far we evolved from source.
I know the truth is there, but it channels in as fragments. Bittersweet to the hungry soul.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 11:32 AM UTC
i tried to write a poem that wasn't about you
but nothing came to mind
so i climbed up on top of my mom's roof
and puffed smoke signals towards the moon
in hopes that they'd take my thoughts with them
before i knew it
i was counting sattelites
the same way that i'd count your breaths at night
apparently everything marches to the same measure as your sunken sternum
"sunrise, sunset."
somewhere in orion's belt
hides the same gleam as your moonlit grin
and i'm back at it again
twisting up sweet leaf in the appologies you'd sling
and hoping you'll think of me
when you wake from coughing in your sleep
as i scortch my fingertips
maybe you'll be reminded
of that first campfire kiss
we shared in the sticks
was it five years ago
or was it six?
****
i just can't think of anything but our tangled hips
the way they read just like a star chart's dots and trailing dashes
and the astrological improbability of celestial bodies managing to gracefully merge
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 7:46 PM UTC