"shriller" poems - Hello Poetry

Echoes and re-echoes Lost in translation What I say Ricochet’s from walls Shriller to the ear My own voice Comes back to me As a big blow It’s never-ending My voices do not travel Beyond the stony resilience Maybe one day My words will carry Enough weight To crack this resistance

0

Feb 22, 2015

Feb 22, 2015 at 10:37 AM UTC

amitav

Echoes

Echoes and re-echoes Lost in translation What I say Ricochet’s from walls Shriller to the ear My own voice Comes back to me As a big blow It’s never-ending My voices do not travel Beyond the stony resilience Maybe one day My words will carry Enough weight To crack this resistance

15

Through those long hours of indiscretion And those long wept nights I have detested The constant echoing of that one word In the alleys of my mind With each passing second, hour and night The echoes got Louder Shriller Noisiest Those echoes of 'undefined' The echoes of what you left me with After I offered you all that I was In my body, soul and mind You said what we shared was undefined Transforming my life Hours of my day and my nights Into a struggling realm Where I struggled to find Some invisible strings that might Lead me to a ray of light Where I can start my search for myself Left by you as 'undefined'.

0

May 1, 2016

May 1, 2016 at 4:23 PM UTC

bina-awan

Undefined.

Through those long hours of indiscretion And those long wept nights I have detested The constant echoing of that one word In the alleys of my mind With each passing second, hour and night The echoes got Louder Shriller Noisiest Those echoes of 'undefined' The echoes of what you left me with After I offered you all that I was In my body, soul and mind You said what we shared was undefined Transforming my life Hours of my day and my nights Into a struggling realm Where I struggled to find Some invisible strings that might Lead me to a ray of light Where I can start my search for myself Left by you as 'undefined'.

23

MIDNIGHT FLICKS OVER INTO TOMORROW "Henry, Henry...?" his wife's voice getting shriller and shriller he doesn't answer her can't answer her. Midnight flicks over into tomorrow with a little green click from fluorescent numbers. It seems as if she's in the next room. A piece of solid reality but she's not only a disembodied voice. She's been a ghost now these 20 years. "Henry, Henry..!" the parrot says again so much her it seems she has been reincarnated Martha as Polly. The parrot growing old with him. Edith Piaf sings on old shellac "Sans amour on n'est rien du tout!" The parrot joins in on every "du tout." "Coming dear..!" he smiles "...coming!" the parrot scolds him when it sees him "So there you are!"

0

Aug 24, 2017

Aug 24, 2017 at 4:21 PM UTC

donall-dempsey

MIDNIGHT FLICKS OVER INTO TOMORROW

MIDNIGHT FLICKS OVER INTO TOMORROW "Henry, Henry...?" his wife's voice getting shriller and shriller he doesn't answer her can't answer her. Midnight flicks over into tomorrow with a little green click from fluorescent numbers. It seems as if she's in the next room. A piece of solid reality but she's not only a disembodied voice. She's been a ghost now these 20 years. "Henry, Henry..!" the parrot says again so much her it seems she has been reincarnated Martha as Polly. The parrot growing old with him. Edith Piaf sings on old shellac "Sans amour on n'est rien du tout!" The parrot joins in on every "du tout." "Coming dear..!" he smiles "...coming!" the parrot scolds him when it sees him "So there you are!"

37

Neither freshly downloaded Nor recently bought. Old music wafts Out of the digital sarcophagus And gently floods The familiar channels Of my auditory cortex. It neither flows on The unyielding slopes of time Nor from past to the future. But on the plains of untime. Washing against the shores From myriad mouths Long after the flood seizes. A little shriller on the ears A little baser on the heart Of old blazers and mothballs Grainy and sepia A chunk of frozen time.

0

Oct 8, 2017

Oct 8, 2017 at 6:16 AM UTC

DSD

Of old music

Neither freshly downloaded Nor recently bought. Old music wafts Out of the digital sarcophagus And gently floods The familiar channels Of my auditory cortex. It neither flows on The unyielding slopes of time Nor from past to the future. But on the plains of untime. Washing against the shores From myriad mouths Long after the flood seizes. A little shriller on the ears A little baser on the heart Of old blazers and mothballs Grainy and sepia A chunk of frozen time.

19

There go those voices again, Like being an operator in a Telephone exchange for the Mentally insane. The nurses Take no notice of your pose Or how you stand with hands Over your ears telling the soft Voices to go away. Mother said It was demons come to take you Off for being a naughty girl and That you’d end up in purgatory If you were lucky or burn in Hell. She was a swell dame, always out To spread the blame. Father said It was a form of dementia, he still Does, his voice shriller than all the Rest, telling you what to do and What is best. The quacks try all Kinds of things to sort you out, Even try frying your brains, one Even tried shafting you, knowing No one would believe you if you Sprouted it all out. There is a kind Of calm once the voices are gone, A kind of honeymoon without the Sweaty nights. Kafka speaks to You often, his dark piercing eyes Breaking through the gloom, his Voice soft, gentle, but persistent Like a leaky tap, but at least he Speaks sense, not like the others With their useless crap. There Is a scent of ***** in the air. The high windows letting in Light; better the sadness of Day, than the madness of night.

0

Jul 8, 2017

Jul 8, 2017 at 4:58 AM UTC

TerryCollett

Kafka Speaks Sense. ( 2010 poem)

There go those voices again, Like being an operator in a Telephone exchange for the Mentally insane. The nurses Take no notice of your pose Or how you stand with hands Over your ears telling the soft Voices to go away. Mother said It was demons come to take you Off for being a naughty girl and That you’d end up in purgatory If you were lucky or burn in Hell. She was a swell dame, always out To spread the blame. Father said It was a form of dementia, he still Does, his voice shriller than all the Rest, telling you what to do and What is best. The quacks try all Kinds of things to sort you out, Even try frying your brains, one Even tried shafting you, knowing No one would believe you if you Sprouted it all out. There is a kind Of calm once the voices are gone, A kind of honeymoon without the Sweaty nights. Kafka speaks to You often, his dark piercing eyes Breaking through the gloom, his Voice soft, gentle, but persistent Like a leaky tap, but at least he Speaks sense, not like the others With their useless crap. There Is a scent of ***** in the air. The high windows letting in Light; better the sadness of Day, than the madness of night.

36

I say, “Stop,” but she doesn’t stop. I say, “Leave me alone,” but instead she steps closer, until her nose is touching mine, and maybe I’d think she wants to kiss me if she wasn’t screaming at me instead. I say, “Stop yelling at me,” but her voice gets louder and shriller and something in me snaps. It’s been two years of silence, two years of leaving voicemails at midnight, apologizing for something I had no idea I’d done wrong. I wished on every star, every dandelion, every 11:11 just to know why, because she’s been my safe zone since we were five and I still don’t understand why it all disappeared. And now she’s telling me that I was charity and her good will ran out. She says, “It’s her fault.” She says, “She’s crazy.” She says, “She tried to **** me.” Not true. I lost control. But maybe I don’t want it back.

0

Aug 20, 2018

Aug 20, 2018 at 7:38 PM UTC

plot_twist

Into Fire

I say, “Stop,” but she doesn’t stop. I say, “Leave me alone,” but instead she steps closer, until her nose is touching mine, and maybe I’d think she wants to kiss me if she wasn’t screaming at me instead. I say, “Stop yelling at me,” but her voice gets louder and shriller and something in me snaps. It’s been two years of silence, two years of leaving voicemails at midnight, apologizing for something I had no idea I’d done wrong. I wished on every star, every dandelion, every 11:11 just to know why, because she’s been my safe zone since we were five and I still don’t understand why it all disappeared. And now she’s telling me that I was charity and her good will ran out. She says, “It’s her fault.” She says, “She’s crazy.” She says, “She tried to **** me.” Not true. I lost control. But maybe I don’t want it back.

8