Orchestra

As we aim to silence the pain
which we are fairly allotted
by birth-right

a deafening calm consumes us
while focused on the pleasures
overdue to us
in the treble.

Signals cease to lift
the alarm lever,
if we don't
move
our lips

to speak
to the self
in the language of the body.

Before translation
the strangeness deters our curiosity
about how one thing may become another
and make melodies
by note, by color, by shade, by immersion,

there is understanding
needs to be met
and lyrics to listen to
while we move

this way and that
away from where it hurts most
toward what we know
says nothing
about us.



Painting by Wilhelm Carl August Zimmer (1853-1937) / Public domain.

Sheet music

I hope you would agree,
my dearest sole reader,
that the oblivion was everywhere
we were not
interested in the apathy
invested
in each other.

Listen,
I will speak about what comes up
to the surface in poetry
without using names
I will call you,
I will bury you,
I will label and sort it out
of context
placing things in such a way


You think-This is real,
the sound of air doesn't linger
long enough
to touch one another

And yet we float in the same light,
listening
to each other
fall between the lines,
Hear-
we are.


Painting by Anders Zorn, 1905 in [Public domain].

Conductivity and Rhythm

The bass was low all day,
the only thing that resonated
was my deaf ear toward the treble.

When my eyes bulge with tears,
it is time to surrender,
when the bones feel metallic and leaden,

light notes miss their harmony.

A dread tastes sour and acrid
in the back of the mouth.

An idea of where one is and
what must be done is conjured
in a line, the music keeps time

alive, lightening the load

a feeling carries a tune
echoing the heart and human
need to be moved by sound.




Painting by Johann Carl Loth (circle of) (1632 - 1698) – Painter (German)Born in Munich. Dead in Venice.Located at the Palace Museum in Wilanów [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The world in a puddle

Shiny onyx paved streets that shine 

like oil

kaleidoscope reflections of topaz gems

yellow lamplights tossed from windows

makes me warm

inside.

Lullaby metronomes count water

droplets, clepsydra down the side of the house,

this eave, my gutter

fills, pours this bass beads across paving stones

reminiscent of a game of puddle hop-scotch

I count the treble, 

it answers the hydraulophone

inside me.

That musty smoke that lingers like dye

in the sky, leaking out of rooftop chimneys,

house pipes blow and issue

a rescue signal, 

for those inside.

Countless poets have captured this in smaller 

rain barrels commonly called buckets.

We lost some along the way,

which accounts for the change in overall volume,

by composition, ice is also vaporous. 

Drops do both ways.

Nobody cared,

these were not the ideal conditions for thirst 

or poetry,

water was everywhere, like supply versus demand

as far as they could see, 

there was no end

to verses. 

Image credit By English: thesandiegomuseumofartcollection (Flickr) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Muse-ack

The music spoke its secret ways
that day
the note
in the glass bottle was found
and magnified you-

Up high,
a troupe of black birds stream
through the pink zephyr in blushes
-it becomes clear
they know the song by
wingbeat
the chorus
in choreography-

Silvers of this
lay strewn
all about you-
once seen, became
blinded faith
setting eyes
on bald faces
the cloud mist-

Soul survival,
the score was more
than we can consume
in a low life
mock swallows
in moments made
intoned by bliss.


Painting by Pedro Américo (1884) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Where purple fades to black

Draw, if you can, a picture
Please-with your eyes closed in bliss-
May I imagine seeing it too,
and what if-could I be with you
this night where we never miss the truth
if it should fall before us

Find, if you can, a wish
hitched along aligning stars
winking the words in a code
they read, like they need
to fill up all our empty cups with
drops between here and there

So why are we still so thirsty
amid our aqueous aura
see opulent streaks, purple pains majestic-
The salt is the bitterness, now all dried up-
maybe the ache will shoot me-
the shape of lines we need to meet
May be in ink, in visible
made purple and moon

Feel, if you could, a feather-
this is the same as my kiss
Want is the honeyed passion oil
glimmering for attention under heat-
watch the butter-flies battle this
This, this, is the same as wonder

Why are we left wanting
this is more than we can grasp in a life
this is more than we can make in a word
shown ourselves wrapped up in a code
enigmatic strike momentary flashes
passed missed messages
millions of miles apart, we started

Be cause, once I've heard-past-
where the purple fades to black
and the doves skip the lyrics
due to heavy rain
this is where we dance outside of time
feeling the echoes of each
others heart beat
living in the notes.

"After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music." -Aldous Huxley

This poem is in tribute to and inspired by the artist Prince and his lyrics to the song "When Doves Cry"recently passing away at the age of 57 on April 21, 2016. 

Published in A Prince Tribute Poetry Anthology, published by Yellow Chair Review.

Image of painting by Charles Joshua Chaplin [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

2nd Image of Purple rose By Portraitlady4306 (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Composition by ear

The music tutor

Directed the pupil

Watch-Watch-My Hands-

Listen-Hear the sound-

In Here-It feels

Right-There.

and those scales rose and sank

perked up for notes to hang shapes

Of waves on passing ears-

No-No-NO-

You missed a step-

Here-skip-and where is that note

You played-out of tune-

Try to pretend you play.

and again, the pitching seas rolled,

bodies thrown together, clumped 

Whole words found themselves 

in forgotten consonants,

meaningless 

Bumbles swarm. 

Painting By Frances Hodgkins (1869 - 1947) – Creator (New Zealand; Great Britain) Born in Dunedin, New Zealand. Dead in Dorset, England. Details of artist on Google Art Project [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sob Sonata

The rumbles around sound-
roars that surround--
no discernable locale---
indivisibly missing
musicality, pressing

pieces like piano keys
vibrations strung out
taut us to feel
the re-percussions
in our bones, marrowly
on tune.

Aural artistry struck dumb
by letting too many high notes
float
off the grid.
This is how it sounds
when tears chime in.

Unlocking grooved records
teetering on a clef and
caught in a cosmic web
solidified as steam,
in thin air,
the words will find you
on the treble
if you feel deeper
than the brute beating
of unsound bodies.




Painting by Thomas Eakins, Elizabeth at the Piano c. 1875 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

radio waves

Songs are planets
spherical orbs molded
by collective atomic
minds and sub-pieces
bonded serendipitously
as sound.
Each element
each instrument
tuned to its own
bio-chemical
reaction and re-action
of push and pull
bound by electro-
magnetic hypnotism,
like rhythm
the body moves
and spins.



Image by Dana Berry [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.  

Pre-recorded: The following is not a Live poem

It's not like it used to be...
We used to dream about making robots
do our menial work, not our magical works-
those things only humans can do:
like cry, create
and ideate
ways to make life easier on us
less of us needed
participation nonessential.
(human auto-pilots)
A sweet serenade
became a re-mix, betwixt by
the sound, dubbed for deaf ears.
A vocal scale made smooth
by the synthesizer, equalizer
(humanizer).
An actor feels no butterflies
when he appears on the inside
of the idiot box,
he's no cracker jack.
Legs are not broken on blue-ray
slipped discs, but no risks.
It's bare (bones) entertainment.
Pictures say many things, it's said
about what is no longer true
they cut a slice of time, etched
on mirrored paper.
Once around
the fire, stories were told
yarns knitted
and lore was learned.
This was way before the plague
of plagiarism, words were invented
and tailored to suit.
Reproduce en mass,
a photo, a note, striking a chord
a player piano
knows your tune
pre-recorded originality
plays on repeated loops
serenading us
out of our own mortality.

“Nothing has really happened until it has been recorded.”

-Virginia Woolf

Image By New York : Broadway Music Corp., publisher. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, sheet music cover.