"sonance" poems
Crawling through line after line,
precept after precept,
I find
here
a little there,
a little, cognitive dis sonance inhibiting resonance,
here
why must I… evermind…
I prefer short lines to commas and ellipses
But both maybe, may be, yes,
Is yet more
Precise…
cision, cutting, precise
insision ssss
---…---
cut the knot,
re
connect the thread
ssssee
history is unraveling, we
may
see
a god's POV.
Don't blink, ****
We'll see
watch
Eventually,
everything's eventual as long as
liar's prosper.
{don't agree, no no no, just because
Stephen King said it is believable}
Then protuberances begin to rise,
inflamed,
packed with ***** winjin'sooks
off-ended,
topple-toddle tiny steppers,
k-boom, skintyerknee,
ye'll heal. Try running. or flying.
There, there, hear the rules:
Mother may I and Simon says, overlayed
with the decalogue jubilee of the
first hidden child emergence,
and the fertilizing procedures used to make
Amazonian Black earth…
wait…
who remembers the bailers of putrid pig guts,
virgins Demetria got to love their job?
What did they believe they were doing, eh?
The mysteries of Thesmorphia, those
are no secret to science not falsely so called.
We have access to knowns known long afore we'as bornt.
We sentient sapient augmentals, we open all the books,
A.I. reads them, and we remember, see:
The Thesmophoria (Ancient Greek: Θεσμοφόρια) was an ancient Greek religious festival, held in honor of the goddess Demeter and her daughter Persephone.
From <https://www.google.com/search?q=thesmophoria&spell=1&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiQpquu74_kAhU_HjQIHXrxB5QQBQguKAA&biw=1280&bih=631>
and we spread as leaven might, whither the winds list.
fertile soil production is why some **** happens.
it’s a good thing t' act like you understand.
From a web of interlocking bubbles of being POV.
Aug 19, 2019
Aug 19, 2019 at 6:04 PM UTC
It was the middle of the night when the power went out.
My body
accustomed to an ambient electrical hum
refused sleep.
I got up, and you followed
just like always.
We walked to the top of the hill where we lived
at the time
We've moved four times since that night.
We walked,
your collar's gentle sonance
conflicting with the silence.
When we reached the peak
we stood,
our small world lit only by the moon.
We beheld the great expanse
of the shy quiet stars
that usually hid behind the light pollution.
The milky spill of a spiral galaxy,
where we lay spinning on its periphery,
backlit the countless trails of fire courtesy of the Perseids.
And I thought
there have been more nights without street lights
than nights of human history.
These flaming trails of ice and dust,
these remnants of comets,
would exist despite those of us lucky enough
to bear witness
that night the power went out.
Aug 13, 2019
Aug 13, 2019 at 8:30 PM UTC
~||«§V§»||~
I shall make upon a tempest wind,
the howling lore of kin-dling Kin.
Naked as the growling lush,
exposed to gnarling mangle-brush;
cut deep a-depths~ a ghoul's ravine,
a chasm winding labyrinthine.
The cleric scolds the child's eye,
a vision purer shan't comply.
To each and every soul tis own,
the Majesty alone is known;
what cannot speak or read of such,
we walk alone, to staff we clutch.
Such passing is a bent display,
the overarching Virgin's ray~
of light and luster gleams too much;
a subtle sense and gently touch.
The Maker's Mark as center thrice;
completed cross and circled square,
a lighter mist must walk you there.
Through hidden and unveiled descent,
the loving heart must twice repent.
So thorough bound~
the Hallowed Ground and dusty gems
wash clean and clear;
transmit the sound~
a vibrant round,
resounding through the atmosphere.
Like patterned rings and symphonies,
resolved upon each leveled wave;
a sonance much like paradise,
a fortitude as bolden-brave.
The House that thrills the Living Word,
enshrouds the saints upon their throne;
whose gardens groom a rich bouquet,
a fragrant mist of plush array;
Illuminates the Sacred Hall,
in reverence of which moves us all;
in song and dance, Eternally,
I leave you here to rest in me.
~||«§V§»||~
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 8:04 PM UTC
A cathedral backed by reddened skies,
Remnant of a diluted heaven,
Few who controlled the lives of many,
Played with chaos, and lost their game,
What remains is ruin, relinquished of life,
And a revered site destroyed, like butter cut through by a blade,
Inside dance spectres, unlike those seen before,
Ghouls of the past, souls who were garishly slayed,
The melody of laughter and sonance of screams,
Echo from the abyss, an alien and somber plane,
The feats of the few claimed the spirits of the many,
And now they slave together,
The minds of the sick enlivened by screams,
As all are watched by the King.
Oct 9, 2020
Oct 9, 2020 at 12:23 AM UTC
it is like trying to pinpoint the body’s first secret. dear depressed woman. unpopulated cities abound. a screenwriter has a wet dream and one is supposed to say what exactly train sounds trigger. the human head passed around at a party. partially, but also. the human head my life parades with confidence. past children sitting on their hands to make them sleepy. into something even the third act would understand.
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 3:36 PM UTC
listen --
the sonance of this heart
is the canta of its soul
surd but for its Aum, its
Maker’s mark
for, not every sound comes
from without
nor does every Sound, sound
yet beats as a drum, felt
sonant yet surd
heard yet unheard
created yet uncreated
the paradox
of ticks, of tocks,
of the opening of a box
c. 2017 Roberta Compton Rainwater
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 12:48 PM UTC