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Come Down
by Michael R. Burch

for Harold Bloom

Come down, O, come down
from your high mountain tower.
How coldly the wind blows,
how late this chill hour ...

and I cannot wait
for a meteor shower
to show you the time
must be now, or not ever.

Come down, O, come down
from the high mountain heather
now brittle and brown
as fierce northern gales sever.

Come down, or your heart
will grow cold as the weather
when winter devours
and spring returns never.

NOTE: I dedicated this poem to Harold Bloom after reading his introduction to the Best American Poetry anthology he edited. Bloom seemed intent on claiming poetry as the province of the uber-reader (i.e., himself), but I remember reading poems by Blake, Burns, cummings, Dickinson, Frost, Housman, Eliot, Pound, Shakespeare, Whitman, Yeats, et al, and grokking them as a boy, without any “advanced” instruction from anyone. Keywords/Tags: Harold Bloom, literary, critic, criticism, elitist, elitism, ivory, tower, heights, mountain, winter, cold, frigid
Dream Fisher Mar 3
She dances on ivories
To a small bar dreams came to die
Closing her eyes as each digit sweeps
Becoming sound as fast as her fingers fly.
Hoping her music will set her free
From a town she lingered too long.
She plays them the song she's felt
In every bone, letting the piano tell
The words she's too afraid to say.

She dances on ivories
Live on a stage with attention of many
Looking for familiar faces but doesn't see any.
Her music takes her places far and wide
Everything she wanted, still it doesn't feel right.
Adored by her fans in a personal spotlight,
Loved for her sound, shaking countless hands
Thousands fill the stands as she's grown
With each show, she feels more alone.

She dances on ivories
For her family listening to her play,
Telling her children if they try to be,
They can be anything if they practice everyday.
"But listen, no matter how much you grow
Don't ever forget this is your home."
Ederae Dec 2019
II
I've quarantined this tenderness for now
Of failure, evolved away
Not for the weariness of blood,
Coiled upon our ivory
Not for the reeling about it all,
Painting them with quiet eyes

Please.
I never wanted to know about this.

All I used to need was a shadow
Not for rest
For food, fruit
For time sulking further into the earth
My love, it was all I ever wanted
But a world without end
annh Jun 2019
Nox
moon-soaked renegade
Morpheus riding shotgun
the ivory and the horn
5-7-7
‘Such dreams as issue where the ivory gleams Fly without fate, and turn our hopes to scorn. But dreams which issue through the burnished horn, What man soe'er beholds them on his bed, These work with virtue and of truth are born.’
- Homer
Seanathon Apr 2019
Smashing ivory
Pounds like loving ***
But without the sudden sweet release
Instead
All there is left is ivory keys
Piano
Corey Feb 2019
Her hair; a bright
statement of autumn
leaves falling from
trees dying with the bitter cold.
Her eyes; a vibrant
youth met with
a love of old.

Her arms; an ivory
pale and comfortable
kindness that hold with
tightness only love can create.
Her hands; a delicate
touch that once gone,
remains.
A Dec 2018
Trembling fingers dancing across piano keys
Making a melody out of the ruin before them
Stringing together thoughts and lines and notes
With planned out motions to their smallest component
These same fingers desperately wish to rewrite their own design
To piece together a brand new composition
They know better than to hope for something other than ivory
iactuallyhatethisthanks
Seanathon Dec 2018
Ripples beneath concrete feet
Falling all around the trees
Are the days of lightful shadows still
Are the scenes unseen to me
Quietly
Softly
Mostly
Between ivory keys
Are the pulling, plodding, plucking leaves
Which kiss the earth like a butterfly
And depart fluttering with bus stop wings
To no other earthly springs comply
Between Ivory Keys
B E Ragland Nov 2018
On a scale of 1 to Lord of All,
how important is your
opinion of what others create?

I see you, through these sigils,
pretending every breath you took
is a doctorate.

Did you know you dont have to choose between being the brush or the brush stroke?
You could build boats,
hunt ghosts with broken radios,
climb mountains to commune with the dead,
stare at the stars and make
your own constellations,
or play ukulele alone with a head full of acid.

All I am saying is
there are far better plotlines
than playing sovereign king of the
swamp that swallows you
and believing it be noble.
Németi Csenge Sep 2018
A dozen white maidens in ivory silks
Grip the rich tissue in your tempered skull.

I hide from them in my own clinical whiteness,
A kind of peace in prayer,

For what once was a promise of decadence and excitement,
Is now a character of lavish leather lilies.

I'm sorry that I hurt you so
With my actions, words, or mind.

I am but a child
Stood in grass-stained whites.
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