"soundscape" poems
Hungry.
In the silence,
of this afternoon,
they arrive, ready
to feed children who wait
in nest high above.
Their high whistle dancing,
pierces the soundscape
These mejiros--yellow with sharp white eyes,
Comb through hibiscus bush
Finding a meal
Hidden within
Like parrotfish
Munching through coral reef,
I sit under tree listening,
Abruptly
The seashells to my mind
Fill with shrill sounds
Of mothers scolding monsters,
A quickening--
Their white eyes dart like fearful
squid flying through
brushy undercurrents.
Underneath,
The small lion cat
Stalks the
Hungry sounds
In the bush
the Hungry looking for Hungry
Apr 26, 2019
Apr 26, 2019 at 9:22 PM UTC
This verse soundscape
is labelled dejected and angry.
Procrastinated
pockets
of
hope deferred
make the heart choke
in a vice-like
pressure cooker
tension filled
with
the cardiac solution called
LIFE
Think about it.
Tasting your own medicine
is
such a bitter pill to swallow.
They say
“Be the change that you want to see”
but
NO CHANGE
I see
on paths traveled
now
&
before
me.
Does this mean
the change I want to see
is
‘no change’
– a Spirit
personified
slowly
dying
yet
living
within you and me?
Think about it.
Tired of a dead lifes' heart attack?
then
SEE THROUGH
the change you want
to be.
On your journey
bitter pills do digest.
USING
the
MEMORY
of that
ill
taste
to heal
&
outlive
the sickness
prevalent in this
human
**RACE
?**
Think about it.
WHAT REALLY IS YOUR HURRY?
S L O W D O W N.
Can't you can see ?
GRAVES'
great joy
is
to
blind & thieve
"your grace"
leaving you
with just enough energy
to
kick the bucket,
while robbing you of understanding
that these
sweet words
origin
from
YOU
to
ME
reflecting
what 20-20
would let you
really see...
**You are Kings & Queens**
Think about it.
We are all connected unilaterally.
Put plainly;
we agree to disagree,
in the midst of the fact that
there can be
no lasting freedom
until there is a weathered
wisdom
of
UNITY.
So(w),
If you see her
hold fast,
relinquish not,
D O N 'T L E T GO!
For
that's the point
when we truly become
LOST SOULS.
© Qwey.ku
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 10:44 AM UTC
A synthetic thunderstorm envelops me
and I forget where my life is.
I forget about you and your fluent tongue
of disinterest, puppetry, and misinformation.
I forget the speakers and soundscapes;
wires and ties and strings attached,
the way I struggle to sleep alone,
but cannot share my life with anyone.
I forget the next payday, the next lay;
the need to borrow words and feelings
just to make sense of my own.
Distraction and hunger for nicotine
become near-echoes of a past life-
an umbilical bond to old decades
of habit and mistrust for the sober mind.
I forget the ash and ends I have left behind.
The ocean is close but occupies no space,
only the airwaves with a rhythmic breath
to still my own, reducing my identity
to fractals of self-interest and oneness.
I forget who I am amongst the writing desk,
The Book Of Longing, the cooling tea;
the stagnant water. I forget flesh desire,
violent *** and apologetic *******
I forget, for once, the need to live,
amongst all of this living.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
By: James Zander Young, September 29, 2011
I just watched the most beautiful sunset tonight.
As seals watched me watch Cormorants head south for the winter.
Against the backdrop soundscape of waves lapping and flapping along the seashore.
The skies opened up as though Heaven were among us, the moon peaking here, the sun there.
Oh how I have missed thee!
Sunset at the beach
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 3:00 AM UTC
heavy air,
a body beside me,
it's face buried in a pillow, resting
the two of us like sprawled starfish
on a sea bed of blanket
here we lie, centered in our narrow room,
a room made bright by the single skylight above,
clouded
the following forming the soundscape of this moment:
- Sam's breath, my breath
- a pair of bluebottles buzzing and bumping into the walls
- an itch every now and then of sunburned skin, a leg brushing itself against the sheets
- a distant Tristan singing songs to his daughter down in the kitchen
there is a bucket with sick in it
there is a ***** laundry pile
there is a red, sun cream stained bikini hanging on the door handle
there are two clean, white towels and
two holiday cameras: the first's film already finished, the second with a little yet to go
Maybe we'll go to the beach
Maybe we'll go to the town or discover
a new town or ride our bikes out again until we find somewhere just right
the day has so much promise and
I have so little I have to do
but lie here and be grateful for time
Jun 14, 2023
Jun 14, 2023 at 7:51 AM UTC
On the days I hate music,
I entertain silence,
in a sense.
I stifle one music and greet another:
Silence accompanied by the soundscape.
In my car, windows rolled up.
The world outside my vessel becomes dulled.
The silence I sing ain't so quiet;
tempo'd to the turn signal's metronome,
the droning hum of the engine,
the screaming world seeping through cracks and crevices
within the assemblymen's exquisite craftsmanship.
I hear these songs.
I roll down the window;
I hear the staccato shrieks of impatient cars.
I hear the bombinations of the road worker and his jackhammer.
I hear the droll of the cement truck drudging down the highway.
I hear the light treading of the jogger
making her way down the eternal sidewalk.
I hear coffee poured and pondered over in the coffee shops.
I hear grocer boys bag absentmindedly in the supermarket
(where Allen and Walt linger).
I hear silverware jingle in the busboy's bustling trays.
I hear dog's elation leaning out their master's passenger window.
I hear tires groaning over the hot sticky pavement.
I hear the wind carry the sunny tune like the steady conductor
guiding their orchestra across the threshold to the enthralled audience.
The wind carries the tune to me,
and I hum along.
The days I hate music
are the days I remember
why we make it in the first place.
I escape to and from the soundscape.
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 1:13 AM UTC
There is a subtle grace
To the whispers veiled
In caress of autumnal promise
Would that I could offer their solace
Where all seems beyond repair
So much light hidden
Where it once shone brightly
Your touch offers strength, always
Taking this mind, this soul, this heart
Offering something needed, something new
So perhaps it can forever dwell in the senses
That have long ago left to dwell with stars
For there was a time when sorrow yielded
To a future soundscape of colour and intrigue
A desire called destiny that called to me
In tears we paint the future
On a landscape of sorrows
Building towards the clouds above
Searching for a glimpse of the sun
For we share ourselves reluctantly
What else is there to do?
But take the moments
Seize the hurt and watch it die
For in its death
We shall liberate our cries
Set free the chaos of emotions
Where bonds were created
On the power of friendship
Throwing off our shackled lives
To be free, to be at peace
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 11:16 AM UTC
so you decided to call me and plead yourself
the soundscape music made you miss me, again
what am I to wonder as I ponder your request
I'm still gluing back the pieces of another broken heart
am I just a spray on cologne when you need the fragrance of love
only to try your other brands when I finally wear off
perhaps i'ts not the product, but the user's misuse
read the label, this product expires in thirty days
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
The night falls swiftly,
And yellow flashes
Of northeastern
Fireflies mark
The edges
Of the
Hedge-lined path,
And gnats
Hang in the air
Like suspended gravel
While my flats
Slap the pavement
Like a ****** rap gavel,
In repetition so
Soothing I forget
My sentence
And all that I'm losing,
And everything makes sense,
I feel connected
To the heron
Gliding above
The river
Like messenger
Pigeons follow
The street grid,
Or like a charge down
The neural pathway
That makes me grin
When I realize
I'm not defined
By what's within,
No more
And no less
Than the wilderness
Can be constrained
To the way the wind
Sings its wearisome
Twilight refrain
As the air moves
And spins
Through the spaces
Between the wooden
Masses atop
Parnassus,
I feel the humidity
Flee,
And my breath quickens
As Corycian nymphs
And the nine
Sacred women
Of creation
By man's mind
Surround me and drive
Me to place one
Ancient foot
In front of its partner,
The images they conjure
Like a Reckoner diamond
Encasing me
In a cage of
Liquid iron
While beckoning
Me forward
With 72 hymens,
But I know it's a lie,
I know why
Men fight and die,
And it's not for any
Contrived diatribe
Promoting an
Unattainable
Ultimate prize,
It's to give rise
To the feeling
Of being alive,
That's all we want,
That's all we strive
To find,
And that's why
I'm approaching
Mile five,
And breathing
The life
Inherent in night
With the scent
Of the soundscape
Still burned in
My sight.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 10:59 PM UTC
A sharp bark wakes me.
Tears begin to fall.
Distant growls ring,
tinged with pain and laced with loss,
reminiscent of an all-too-distant past.
It roars and bellows anew
as though intent to bind me to this wakefulness
so I might be a witness to this spectacle of grief.
A fine stage night makes,
for in deepest darkness
the enunciations of anguish are all the more potent.
I lay and listen to the falling tears,
the rhythmic backdrop to this soundscape of sadness.
The fury ebbs as the night deepens,
but tears continue to water the earth
long after the thunderous voice has resigned itself to silence.
Aug 26, 2011
Aug 26, 2011 at 12:55 AM UTC
I have long sought quiet.
And please, let me be clear: quiet.
Not the quietus Hamlet desired,
No “consummation devoutly to be wished” for me.
No, with or without a bare bayonet,
UNBEINGNESS is hardly what I seek.
It is not the predicament of death,
But the quiet spectacle of the grave I envy.
Originally a city mouse,
I am familiar with the urban soundscape.
I know city noise, amped up in decibels.
Noise-induced stress, shrill and enervating,
Add to the mix a working-class neighborhood,
Where someone is always hammering,
Using a power tool of some kind,
Repairing, improving an older, somewhat decrepit home;
But a steal as the realtors say.
Or vehicles, like Old Havana relics,
Held together by secular prayer,
And thriving underground Cuban capitalism.
Then just for fun: *"Let’s send the son of a ***** to war."*
Tympanic membranes be wary and be ******
Stretched and perforated,
Compressed and torn,
Shredded like wheat.
Pummeled by shock wave.
I was Lear wandering the heath,
Your ass-cheeks cracked:
*“Cataracts and hurricanes . . .
Oak-cleaving thunderbolts . . .
Sulphurour and thought-executing fires . . .
Singe my white head!”*
Cue Cabaret music (Cabaret (1972) - IMDb www.imdb.com/title/tt0068327): “Willkommen, bienvenue, welcome . . . to Indochine,”
First a Weimar-Saigon suckee-fuckee,
Then out to *The ****
Mind-numbing concussion,
Reek of jellied gasoline,
Charred meat,
Assorted red entrails,
Obliteration of thought complete.
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 8:48 PM UTC
You wouldn’t let my feet touch ground
until side A died out
and the pirouette ceased.
We laid there in our Analog Atlantis
staring beyond the ceiling
letting the soundscape crash over us
and cascade into auricular orifices.
Our bodies lifted from the mattress,
floating up and up—
past the ceiling, past the trees,
past the planes and clouds,
past the stars and planets—
into the ether we fantasize about
in our synchronized dreams.
Til the sound waves receded,
and our bodies washed up along the shore,
our contours molding into impressionable sand,
turning our gaze to one another—
the needle lifts from the wax
and returns to rest,
the platter ceases its cycle,
the speakers die—
and instead of feet touching ground,
I flipped over to side B.
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 10:57 PM UTC
Do we dance to this song
After we've said our vows and I do's?
Will you hold me close
In your white wedding dress
And stare into my eyes
As they brim, beholding you?
The melody waltzes on.
Is this our farewell,
Departure and heartbreak in 12/8 time?
Will we say our last goodbye
As different tears fill my eyes?
The melody waltzes on.
Will I crumble inside
When its haunting soundscape
And splashing cymbals come to mind
And I remember what I had?
The melody waltzes on.
Somehow I can't discern
Whether the rhythm is truly made for dancing;
It mimics a runner's perfect pace.
Are we running away or toward each other?
The melody waltzes on.
Is it a rendezvous or a cry of surrender?
Is it me bending down on a knee
Or hanging my head in defeat?
Is it everything I've wanted
Or what I have when all is gone?
The melody waltzes on.
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 11:44 PM UTC
A naturist, I shed the day’s tight notes—
My flesh unbinds as cello strings softly sway
The bath exhales a vapor-softened throat,
Its liquid song dissolves the stress of day.
You breach my silence while my fingers play—
No words, just layers pooled where footsteps passed.
The water hums a frequency unchained,
Your back rests softly, knows my ******* are cast.
Your fingers trace my folds, our tones slowly grow—
A throbbing drone our mingled pores now greet.
The soundscape swells where flesh begins to know
The crush of solitude our heat completes.
The water cools, yet still our bodies own
Two silences embraced by undertow.
Feb 14, 2025
Feb 14, 2025 at 6:00 PM UTC
A satin and reedy melody is sweeping across the soundscape and painting my world in
Traditional and elegant blacks and whites,
Sables, indigo moods, and orange skies.
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 8:56 AM UTC
Songs of voice
Of soul
Of tongue
Of heart
Build a soundscape striking a chord
In me
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 2:39 PM UTC
I think Vincent Van Gogh sliced off his ear to drown out the noise.
Life is so **** loud all the time with its crashing and banging
And sounds of screeching halts in action.
Keyboard clicks and the voices of Charlie Browns teachers.
I feel lost in this soundscape and not in a good way.
Tires and church bells the sounds of the drooling mob drive me mad.
I can't hear myself think anymore,
My soliloquy swallowed by the utterances of curses and cries of crows.
If the world would silence itself for just a moment,
I could sigh in relief.
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 2:31 PM UTC
Snow Sleep
the promise~warning of a fresh snow delivery
by milky white angels alters the soundscape
of the city; the early traffic is major muted; the
boisterous, ribald ribbing of teenage competition
is put away in the drawer, reserved for weekend
snow ball fights and Central Park mountain sledding
but what I come to tell you is of my beloved, who nearby,
advantaged by the silence deep sleeps in the ultra
quiet of the bedroom for I have tiptoed lightly away,
nary a squeak or a tweet to sting or wrest the cool
comfort of the concoction of dark+chocolate combo
of absolute silence, the political commentators must now wait their turn, while supping my endless Blue Mountain white mug
yes, even I, wide awake for hours, sense the ulterior
sensory deprivation, the only noise is the windage
of the air conditioning that refrigerates its humming
and the body’s humming response, a choral harmony
of shhhhh…
why matters this to you, I do not know, perhaps
a mutuality of recognition as your children exercise
their snow day privileges, letting you off the hook,
for there is always tomorrow when the dragging-
out-of-bed, the stomping of snow boots, and pleas
to help them find their hidden scarfs and gloves cannot
go ignored, or be silenced…today, this sound of snow~sleep,
a rarity for us city dwellers, who, the unfortunate few, will soon venture forth to meet obligations, completecontracts, open the shop,
write the reports and do the daily diurnal or place calls to counterparts overseas to jointly prognosticate the future of
the next twenty four, but with a snowy lethargy
I write, this, to you, to my children, to the world, but
mostly to my beloved, who, drugged by snow~sleep,
yet to stir, sleeps a soundless sleep of….
*wait-a-minute, 8:00am, and I hear a bellow of hello,
a lighthouse sound of warning, and kitchen noises,
the cicadas of circadian rhythms cannot be held back,
triumphantly awaken her, the habits of a lifetime
cannot be overcome…*
8:04am
nyc
2/13/24
Feb 13, 2024
Feb 13, 2024 at 8:15 AM UTC
Three
chests heave-
in the dark,
Breathing throughout
Each exhale.
The soundscape
adopts
a sleepers tone;
As
the clock's
Tick tock,
Counting each second;
Becomes infinite-
The midnight's
metronome
Insues...
Mar 29, 2024
Mar 29, 2024 at 3:44 AM UTC
Lost in the ways of sound waves
Swimming in the tone of the loud bass
Hoping I can make this home
Let my home be a soundscape
Let my thoughts drift off,
my mind is infinite
When I think of this, I think of things
That are intimate, increments, sentences
No I'm not sexually speaking
Art is inside of my soul,
from the outside it is reaching
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 12:59 PM UTC
the theatre has fallen,
the great black box is no longer a home away from hell
it is a soundscape of fear and hunger
where I can't feel accepted
and no longer respected
it is a nest of inferiority
and a longing for conformity
lonliness eats my heart away
though exactly why, I cannot say.
It used to be my home
my kingdom,
but on return from summer
it was as if the house had been renovated,
a new family moved in
and I'm not even a guest,
I'm a ghost, unseen by all
drifting through walls that used to be
stuck in the past
desperate to breath with the living.
But instead I stay in back,
haunting all I see,
under the realization,
that the only one being haunted,
is me.
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 8:31 PM UTC
I have never heard a more beautiful sound,
than the song she sang as I fell asleep.
It illuminated every star in the sky,
and captured my every dream.
It sounded like the brush strokes that paint the sunset,
and winter icicles melting.
I heard the sound of tears rolling down stained cheeks,
and the ghostly wail of wind through the trees.
That haunting music followed me into sleep,
and I was blinded by what I couldn’t see,
but the soundscape was ethereal, pulsing with every heartbeat.
It was the sound of her heart and she had given it to me.
I heard every high, every low, and every sad silence.
The sound of her soul was greater than any symphony.
Somehow the notes became me, they changed me,
and I could finally hear my own quiet.
I have never sang a more beautiful song,
than the song I sang as she fell asleep.
I had never scrawled the contours of my soul into composition,
but I did it for her, because she brings beauty.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 2:56 PM UTC
You
are somewhere close
yet dislocated, sheltered
in your centered peace
adrift beside all certainty.
We
turn as apron-ed satellites
in matinee of gentle speak,
our mundane, London-Saturday
the soundscape to your stasis.
Surrendered
to this bastion of valiant
machinery. Your pillars
in this paradise of waiting.
Jun 6, 2018
Jun 6, 2018 at 12:29 PM UTC