The large pipe *****

is building up walls of sound --


a castle in air.

Oh to be swept away in a melody
Caught in the maelstrom of a rhapsody.
The throbbing tide tugs our hearts
Like David charming Saul with his harp.

In intimate dance, soul and song entwine
Two notes forming a chord sublime.
The lyrics, an incantation, of unearthly hold,
Giving us the vigor to face the untold.

And one day our cadence will surely cease.
Our completed symphonies may bring peace.
Will our compositions instill life or death?
Will we exhale life before the last breath?

You've left me
to find words
to fill
your empty beats

-em vidar

Her Music

Her music is a siren’s melody that stirs my lust within me.
She stirs my desires from my mire’s into chamomile tea.
I poke and **** to understand what I have on hand,
To understand what makes me bend so to that band.

Is it the counterpoint of chest and waist that draws me into delightful harmony?
Is it the peak of each sloping lick that entices my ear and makes it perk up?
Does the dotted staccatos of her face draw me away from the affrightful monotony?
Is it so wrong to try and demand what makes her so desirable to me?

But as I poke and **** and pray and prey upon her contemporary anatomy,
Will I **** the joke of the frog that made her such a fantasy?
As I hope and have and hate and harbor such feeling on her,
Will I find the joke on the frog was always just inside her?

Do I want her music for it stirs my tea,
Or do I want her song for it makes me happy?
Do I poke and **** and prey and pray for her melody to be within me?
Or do I poke and **** and pray and prey upon her for her contemporary anatomy?

Chamomile dreams help lull me to lay,
To avoid the night of thinking about the day,
To once again hear her melody,
And fear her coming into my sleep.

A dream of beauty played by a lyre,
As my tongue snakes the song of a choir,
Bind her music and mine together,
Blind the melody of her forever,
Can she say yes, no,
Could be mine and mine alone,
Don’t take what isn’t mine,
Dissonance grown as harmonize,
Everdream break and eyes align,
Every sin made again mine,
For Eve is not Adams’s rib,
Fraught with the thought of glib,
Got nothing to give,
Giving love to nothing she is,


As the key of C is a simple beauty,
No flats nor sharps or blemishes on the tarp,
With an infinite possibility,
For a finite amount of humanity.

Yet mine is complicated with dismay,
Enharmonic with six symbols,
Found,
Two-ways.

For her melody is C,
The great.
She is my tea,
And strait.

And mine is grey,
The dead.
A pale sway,
Of dread.

As I poke and **** and pray and prey and hope and have and hate and hate the music,
I wonder if 7th can be rounded.
As I poke and **** and pray and prey and hope and have and hate and hate the music,
I wonder if my 7ths are rounded.

As I poke and **** and pray and prey and hope and have and hate and love her music,
I wonder if tea dreams.
As I poke and **** and pray and prey and hope and have and hate and love her music,
I dream about a new key.

As I poke and **** and pray and prey and hope and have and hate and hate and love her,
I wonder if I’m right.
As I poke and **** and pray and prey and hope and have and hate and hate and love her,
What if I’m not right?

A charming young man on a boring old day
Sat with his guitar, and began to play.

His angelic wings cushioned his back.
So soft and pure, in color, they did not lack.

His calloused hands plucked at the strings.
The notes that he played were such beautiful things.

The notes and the scales would soon evolve into a song.
written on the air... It would not last long.

A song that would never be matched again.
Each day, his songs were different but the same

Each song held a purpose, whatever it was.
It was up to the listener to interpret its cause.

our life
is but a bunch of chords
stringed together -
some happy, some sad,
some pensive, some tense

we play along,
we get rhythm,
we explore,
we discover

until the string
is cut short

do we get an encore?

How committed are we to days and nights of peace?
I’d say soft guitar music softens the pain
As does a good book, wan sunlight, a walk,
Maybe all three on a perfect day with
Soft guitar music in the background

Noise is accepted. Visitors are welcome.
Nothing better than a small thing
to look forward to
The path outside awaits
Gentle music for an hour-long break
The phone call that reminds you it’ll be ok
Anything soft, anything gentle,
Anything that may send you off to sleep
Strumming soft guitar into your brain

When it rains,
do the cracked tips of your fingers itch
to play?
The secret between creator and created
overwhelming.
You, piano man, live.
Empty slowly full
letting go but never fully going.
Sunburn on your back, music in your ear,
I will never understand life
as you do.