"accordion" poems
His Grandparents were Romany people from his maternal side
In Countries of Eastern Europe they travelled far and wide
But the most basic human right their right to life of them even denied
In Belzec Concentration camp where a million people died.
I never knew my maternal Grandparents with sadness he recall
Due to circumstance of birth and their way of life misfortune them did befall
My gift of music such a marvellous gift to them I feel I owe
In Belzec Concentration Camp they were murdered decades ago.
A tall and handsome man in his early thirties with wavy raven hair
With the marvellous gift of music a great accordion player
In silence we sat and drank our beer as we listened to him play
The beautiful old gipsy tunes from Countries far away.
That all things do come to an end in some cases a lie
In Belzec Concentration camp the gipsy music did not die
But that the gift of music does live on should not come as a surprise
Something that those who commit crimes against humanity seem to fail to realize.
He played at the pub on passing through him I never more may see
But the beauty of his music will live in my memory
His maternal Grandparents who died at Belzec their lives were not in vain
Their music in their Grandchild has come to life again.
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 6:09 PM UTC
they danced in a dream
of bending shadows
face down
begging ***
all hungry back door paradise
ankles strapped on a foot worn floor
paint faced in whorey nights
with pin needle eyes
beded
blood crimson neon's
cut curtains
like kissing claws
so their bodies wouldn't forget
dark pleasures lightening
and biting tantra tantrums
they swallowed mad ***** blossoms of hell candy
breathing the others inhalations
foot sniffing ballet arch
in fastened Japanese melting red slippers
gazing upwards rectums prayer
solar eyed insurrection
finger by finger
clutching wrists like the grave
for bloods salty cove
an injured landscape
a dire pink desert
like bogs hold bones
a rave for a slave
covered in yellow ocher rubber sheets
soft on the feet
x rated amputee costume
made of blood and spit
look mommy no arms
a bellied tattoo
of hennaed homunculi
burning Candomblé Jejé, skull
black eyed beauty hissing
while accordion throated
rip tie tighten
another notch please
a dizzy *******
down silver fluted gullet
in a steamed up bath house
party of blotted sockets
*** kitten
kissed dead girls thighs
tremulous and stretched
a shimmering serum
like wide tubular channels
as pontoon edges slit
through midnight howls for velvet skinned girl
who thrills
her head a veiled Jehovah
saliva wagging tongue ****
a stuttering ****** dance
a hula hot momma in rubble
slapping hot lipped kisses
over starved darkness
along telegraphs avenue
melting eyes like butter
a globed pudding spill
******* drool drops of gold
and black river gladiators
slaughter lies
with every long stroke
between cascading squeals
paraphilias mausoleum
like tumbling eels
a scapegoat pulp fiction
chiseled in cement
******* rips
drip drip drip
babbling **** bubbles
**** spasms ooze like a hot glue gun
fire spats soil cherry clover
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 3:39 PM UTC
If today was for giant caterpillars,
giant crowds,
giant sounds,
and chaos, then this evening must be for
Blueberry fingertips
white wine in my glass
the music of an accordion
and a paperback novel.
Breeze in the window that waltzes with ribbons
and fills the bottles I’ve collected for the past six years.
(soft t shirt from the first time I fell asleep on his couch)
mmm, stop WORRYING.
It is no time at all for any of that.
Take the time to take the time to take your time.
shhh, brain.
hush, mouth.
Quiet Quiet Quiet
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 11:50 PM UTC
I have hairy legs.
The dishwasher is broken.
I have been reading books.
I have been solving stupid math equations
I have to wash the food crusted dishes.
I’m writing a novella
I’m also researching sodium chloride
My novella is only six pages single-spaced so far.
Comment vous appelez-vous?
Why doesn’t anyone participate
In the
Wash Your Own **** Dishes Program?
I’m studying French.
-b +/- Square root of b2 – 4 (a)(b) over 2(a)
Anyways.
I have been teaching myself
How to play my
Black
Stretchy
Accordion.
[I don’t know why,
But it’s stretchy
Like mozzarella cheese]
I have to help my sister-in-law move
Into my house.
Into the basement.
Heh heh heh.
Daiya non-dairy cheese:
“Melts and stretches!”
Now I have to scrape the
Black tar gunk
Off the plates, because
Mother told me to do so.
Oh, the odium of sodium!
There is
No more time
For me
To shave
My legs.
Apr 6, 2011
Apr 6, 2011 at 7:15 PM UTC
I Asked the professors who teach the meaning of life to tell
me what is happiness.
And I went to famous executives who boss the work of
thousands of men.
They all shook their heads and gave me a smile as though
I was trying to fool with them
And then one Sunday afternoon I wandered out along
the Desplaines river
And I saw a crowd of Hungarians under the trees with
their women and children and a keg of beer and an
accordion.
3.8k
I don’t want to perpetuate the produce – consume loop
but when I don’t, I feel like such a lazy moocher
Could I play guitar near after dark bars for $23 an hour?
Victor and I did that once, for $11.50 each
Untaxed, that’s better than my dour real job
So, if I really made my place at a street corner, I’d be a smart earner
But then I’d be a fixture, like the accordion man and the bums with PVC buckets
The bar goers would soon hate me for chumping them out of their cash
with three gritty “Heart of Gold” covers
Then soon the mediocre bums would jump me and Riot, my guitar
She’ll smash into the walk under a Irish flag in front of Murphy’s Law,
while drinkers whoop and punch the air
The bucket goes over my head
and the accordion bellows squeeze round my neck
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 4:16 PM UTC
The French man looks up toward the sky,
Cigarette puffs mocking the minute traces
Of clouds above.
Each puff transient like his youth
Long since sunken,
Immersed in sand and snow.
He plays his accordion,
A forlorn and saggy tune,
One that he had learned in his ancient youth.
A tune with no words,
No meaning.
A love song,
A battle hymn?
As the old hands wove the song together
Only three people noticed.
A woman who was walking alone
Suddenly began to cry
For her lover who had abandoned
Her with child.
A Polish grandfather just across the street
Cradles his young grandson in his lap,
Telling him stories about his
Experience on the battlefield,
Much to the boy’s enchantment.
Granddaughter leaning against his side
dreaming.
And the old accordion man,
Dejected and forlorn
continued to sing his song
While the rest of Paris was asleep.
Dec 7, 2010
Dec 7, 2010 at 5:11 PM UTC
I wish I was in France right now
with that soft accordion singing in the background.
An oil canvas of the town
a slight warm breeze with a magenta and violet sky.
People.
walking around everywhere.
soft tones of everyone's voices from all around are swirling around me like an array of beautiful colors
I want to sit on one of those patios with the great view with you.
Sip our tea, talk for hours.
As long as it was with you.
I paint the love we share in my head like Picasso.
Its beautiful.
I wanna do everything with you.
I wish to stay at that apartment in Paris during the summer one day.
I could see myself with you, living.
I can picture it vividly like a photograph
clean, white, warm, open, and bright.
flawless
Everything is perfect with you.
Im in love with you
I need to be
with you.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 3:39 AM UTC
It sketched and slapped an ombre
of crimson reds
& tangerine oranges
until it carved a comfortable atmosphere
amongst the void blacks
and howling navy blues.
Her sun bleached hair dangled over her forehead.
They were the vines that tangled
into wispy curls of tiger's eye gold that
hung lavishly in front of the youngest
temple.
Her eyes were sour,
a Blink and a whistle.
Someone coughing on the last bus outta town.
Those powerful cheek bones,
that she obtained through her
constant "according to" accordion smile,
fell off into a pair of lips
that were just pronounced enough
to make her look like she would laugh & ****
tempt or incinerate.
Intellect winked from her every word
like a whip of cold water and eggnog.
The Campfire was an artist.
It delicately plucked a scene
ripe with confidence and relaxed alcohol.
A tone that made her amazonian scowl
seem intimate and gentle.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 11:38 AM UTC
I don't feel it, You say. And, pray tell her
name, my sir, that i may find she thee and prithee
Bear me off to southern sounds, fallow fields,
an altar ground, a garland rope of singing springtime snows.
this may be more than i can--;;
YOU
ARE
NOT
WOR
THW
HILE
and i had such an awful dream last night--
you said, Bronwen, my love;
and i could not sweep her hair from the floorboards
beneath which you hid your ***** mags from mice.
because you tell me about it.
WHOAM?
you speak of gOd like dOgs & i am worthless coinage
in the sewers. the sewers find my dress still hanging from your bones.
your bones your bones your piano finger bones
kiss me again
until my lips swell my throat bleeds i do not want you to know how much i crawl spiderlike through the trails of hair in the drain as the autumn leaves the summer leaves the spring buds freeze over hell i am not i am not listening pan-drum please let me say this one last thing:;
he is your accordion player the ***** player man who speaks fluent french and inflected english he is your accordion player on the pipes-----
and you say i do not feel and i reply,
this is too bad too late, chuckle replay as your fantasy walks through the door my team my team she is porcelain lovely see the perfume in your synesthesia colorblind goat footed grandiose Cesar with epilepsy she is your dream she is she is she is!
&meanwhile; the trumpet in soul still plays solfeggio---
1 2 le 3 4 1 2 le 3---1 2 le 3 4 1 3--le 1 le 3 le 1
she is the discord of the seventh in the tenor line
she is membranes she is rain she is towels
LEIGH **** IT
if only if only you weren't so lonely i might call you mine and bring you back homely.
IF ONLY-----Charles weren't so busy while you
stare at silver spoons and cherub smiles
and cupid calls you home again.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 1:37 AM UTC
*dive.. dive..
dive*
1.
I am eating fog on this pre-dawn bridge
an overcoat of no particular mood
keeping intact considered-sincerity of warmth
inhaling air tight with thin droplets
the c-cold of someone's click-clack in the distance
only an echo of studious-oblivion
glancing over the rail as the water swirls, dense
the silent hum of a slow-passing vehicle
windows darkly stare
I wonder who'd possibly be passing by here
and would they be connecting with that swirl, too
2.
there must be a walrus under there
(shrinking-violet, that it is)
its projections long and probably needing plumbs
the departing fingers of night gnaw
attempt to steal what little shelters here
consent delayed by vertical-curses in bloom
and I'm thinking of a cat I used to have
who certainly didn't favour water
protests become latent-airborne, take off
as screeching squawks swoop by
hungry heartbeats gurgle, drip valiant
station within view.. phew, made it!
*an accordion starts to play..
an elegy fit
for a dive.*
st64, 3 April 2014
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 3:47 PM UTC
The moon woke me up for the third time this week. The white light always looked pleasant on our white comforter surrounded by the dark sky and empty room. As badly as I know we need curtains, I can’t stand the idea of buying new curtains for an apartment that couldn’t be more run down. I turned over and watched your chest rise and fall as your body remained in its C shape.
I know your skin. I know every inch of it, the feeling of your five o’clock shadow, hidden birthmarks with freckles due east and west, the scars, and the stories that go along with each one.
I tiptoed over to the linen closet, hitting creaking floorboards between every honking taxicab on the avenue below. When I grabbed the accordion door handle, I could hear you rustling in the low thread count sheets.
“Come back to bed.” you said while yawning away last night.
“Go back to sleep.” I let out some anxiety filled air with my words.
An ambulance and the Doppler Effect ran past our building, numbing my senses with the moment we were parallel.
“Why is every day a melodrama with you?” you sat up.
“Just please, please go back to bed” you were right, but I didn’t feel much like talking.
“I just can’t stand this much longer Natasha, I can’t stand living with someone who won’t talk to me.” Your voice faded and you stared into the moon’s beam of white light. I wanted to hate you for everything thing you were saying, for propelling me into his bed that night, for you changing and losing your luster, because we aren’t, and haven’t been what we used to be.
“Just close your eyes, and just fall back asleep, it is really just that simple” I said firmly, hoping it would put our communication to an end. I stood at the linen closet for five minutes, pretending to look for a blanket that wasn’t there. I tiptoed back to our bed. Your body was as flat as a plank with your chest to the ceiling and your hands by your sides. Your eyes were open, and your skin hadn’t changed but I couldn’t match your eyes to my memory.
Jul 5, 2012
Jul 5, 2012 at 9:26 PM UTC
Central Park transformed,
a natural stadium
of tourists, strollers,
drunk on:
spring beer Buds,
or
buds of forsythia
maps upside down,
smiles right-side up
Amazing,
they don't even notice,
'walk on by,'
*the white shirted, black suited
unicorn playing the accordion*
or the
*violinist
imitating Charlie Chaplin,
playing both her instrument and
her hula hoop,
simultaneously*
ah Central Park,
your air is like
a first cup of spring,
a first morning coffee,
a fresh breath of
a special new,
if you know
how to
just be,
in NYC
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 10:08 AM UTC
Well, what now, hey?
I threw the dog overboard yesterday.
The day before, the day?
Where will you go, hey?
I heard the orchestra-man play
The same way,
Sanctum, requiem, asylum
All Latin in his French dog-eared play.
Hear the monkey, playing accordion play
To the whirling whirly-whirly-ghig
Tre dramatique, no? Today
I understand you're just as "tramatig."
I want to hear your Frenchmen play
Play ***** pipes play play
In his dog-eared French organ-man
Play
But I cannot, cannot say
Tears of joy, in hydrant spray
The Hyades triumphant rainbow stay
Cough your little fears away;
Hear the Star Spangled Francis Key play
Frenchmen play, play,
Little piggies counted play
Black white keys with little piggle-plumps play
Atone-al, A-tonal---atonal tonal sounds as if to say
"Getting married here to stay"
All alone and all today
Settle down if for a day
And who will hear the trumpet play
When organ-man Frenchman say
"Where? Home of the free" and stay
Keep your hands away
Never want to let you say
"Hear me, hear ye, all you weary, weary dreamers
But never left your confidence like Russell-rustle leaf-blown willow-white
You fill them up with seventy two pay
Make a kite, to(k)night, allRight
Thank god for the fleas in the right
Hairless creatures for to sway
I threw the dog overboard yesterday
The day before, the day
And if you'd wanted it to stay
You should've say, you should've say
But never let my hand betray
The vein, the line, the artery
Of arterial shells bombastically
Loquacious to a fault, this day
They say "You want another day"
They say "You never wanted say"
They say "You wasted every day"
They say "They say, they say, they say"
But e'er forget, ne'er forget
I'll despise you abandon heaven for earth to get
And leave your money, your millions behind
For mansions with my Lord to find
But in the ceiling never was a god to pray
Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 10:16 PM UTC
Warming up like an electric orchestra,
the sound of your dad’s band practice seeped
through the vents from the basement.
Drums vibrated from the floor into my feet,
And we tapped our toes together,
thump thump thump.
Drowning out the 80’s punk, your mom
plays polka in the kitchen, making pasta. I stand
over the sauce stained stove watching the *** of water
sizzle to accordion cries and the idea of clogs. We sway
from side to side. Your hands hang off my hips.
Retreating, back to your blue room, we wait
for the wafting smells of garlic, grilled onions and
peppers to call us for dinner. You pull out your
keyboard, a pen, a pad. Pressing buttons, I hear
synthesizers and song samples through your
headphones. We smile, bobbing our heads in sync,
Bump, bump, bump.
~
Finding myself in a foreign living room,
I am alone. The TV is on mute and a “motivational”
speech muffles through his speakers. There are no
basement bands. No pasta, no polka, or clogs and cries.
Only sounds of silence. I press my feet against the floor.
I can’t hear the bumps, I can’t feel the thumps
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 2:18 PM UTC
Ripples in time, wrinkles of fluff.
One more memory, not enough.
Diffuse the thoughts, rebundle them up.
Empty the bottle, fill the cup.
Pour it back and forth, in and out.
Sincere recollections, without a doubt.
Residue builds, the layers form.
Peel them away, reveal the worm.
Squirming side to side, to and fro.
Little Wormy, where to go?
Jump to the left, then the right.
Play that accordion night by night.
Nov 9, 2010
Nov 9, 2010 at 5:21 PM UTC
Feng collapsed into the snow,
looking up into the sky and
thinking of lost comrades, all lost
in the war against Russia.
Not far away, Nikolai was doing the same.
Both of them, neither of them
could forget the other’s identity.
Russian.
Chinese.
Feng ran, approaching the Russian border.
The sound of an accordion.
The Chinese man runs faster,
running out of breath,
long, jet black hair hitting his face like little whips
as the Russian snow dried and cracked his lips.
Finally, Feng spots what he is looking for:
a grey coat and a flourish of a red scarf.
Feng calls out. Nikolai turns around.
The accordion falls to the ground
With a soggy thud.
They run together and embrace,
the coldness and the warmth both
Redden Nikolai’s face.
Feng falls, Nikolai catches.
Feng cries.
A wetness on his head.
A summons to look upward.
Nikolai’s… tears?
Will we meet again, Russia?
No, China.
Can we speak again, Russia?
No, China.
The two men release each other and stand tall once again
like soldiers.
Can we forget, China?
No, Russia.
Can we forgive, China?
No, Russia.
Feng stares.
Nikolai stares.
Nikolai’s hard, rough hands, cracked from the cold
reach toward his own neck.
His scarf.
He wrapped the scarf around his friend’s neck.
This is yours now. Remember me.
Feng’s teary eyes said Thank you.
Nikolai stares.
Feng stares.
Red eyes.
Red cheeks.
Both white faces longed for another word.
Finally, a movement.
Feng salutes and smiles to his forbidden friend.
A soldier’s farewell.
Nikolai smiles, but turns away,
Picks up his accordion and begins to play;
play the tune that his friend knows so well,
hoping that he would remember how it goes.
Feng’s cue.
He draws a flute from his sleeve
and begins to play
the tune that his friend knows so well.
They stand with their backs toward each other
and play that one last song together,
Memories of fellow soldiers and deceased friends
their war-torn countries,
how they were forced to hate each other,
their forbidden friendship.
The song ends.
The music stops.
A heavy pause.
Without another look, they walk away,
Enemy soldiers once again
But forever friends.
The snow falls between them,
Nikolai’s black hair thrashing
In the unforgiving Russian gust
That whispers betrayal! Mutiny!
Russia’s scarf cascading down China’s back,
waving goodbye to Russia
and turning China red.
Dec 21, 2010
Dec 21, 2010 at 4:29 PM UTC
A melodramatic
pirouette, colliding
with the
garbage dumpster.
Dreamt spiral,
*****
Toilet. Sink. Shower.
A final heave,
the diaphragm groans
like a
broken accordion:
carnival
antiphon.
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
Contaminated.
Surely more Macbeth than Banquo.
Level two: Lust.
**** **** **** knock and bang
at the door, for more.
Of what?
What of skin?
What about blood-shot eyes, coated tongue, sore back, bad-breath,
harsh light, pants too tight,
legs itch.
Fidget, twitch;
unnatural movements.
Unlike waking up,
joking, smoking on the porch.
Fancy coffee, cinnamon cakes.
Nothing black or heavy on my face.
Purity, hung-over purity.
----------------------------------------------------
Roaming the streets, alone.
Constantly, consistently, alone.
Dancing to my own accordion tune.
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 9:48 AM UTC
This is a recurring dream,
it slips into my veins
on the best and worst nights
warm and vibrating
lik blue jazz:
I am sitting in a tunnel, huddled
scared and staring, open--
into the hazel eyes of Sarah
the wandering angel of San Jose,
the cool Sunflower in my brain
as Peter Sarstedt fills
the blue-bricked walls
with, "Where do you go to,
My Lovely?"
Shaking my teeth
and ribs
like old blank dice,
lovely accordion sobs-
What vibrations!
Echoes and blue memories running into the dark.
I hear you Peter, She hears you
I must tell you that--
and when I wake
all that's left are the echoes
of my accordion heart
and the sounds of traffic
over the plucking
of red chords in street.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 10:25 PM UTC
A black cat with a grin and
A scythe, slashing thru
Space-time with a giggle
Invulnerable & finite. Untouchable rabbit
Stretches it's torso many meters out
Evading a cannonball.
Time to go to work; no doors here!
Rabbit shaped hole in the wall
Ever never fear!
4 Thirty minutes on a Sat. morning network
Talking animals accordion back
From falling crate crushes
Index fingers stretch their cheeks
Ha ha ha ha!
& a wagging red tongue, almost all week.
Piano dangling by a thread
Shrinking Shadow under your feet
It's right above your head!
You step aside just in time -
An anvil smashes you instead.
Too hard to explain to a real-lifer:
This has no point!
Jun 5, 2012
Jun 5, 2012 at 1:44 PM UTC
Gray matter unfolds
To expose a world hence unseen.
What you thought was soft muscle
Is actually a community of golden pathways,
Carved from the hollow horns
Of unicorns, slayers of virgins.
Like a deconstructed accordion,
It flattens
And reveals a soul, a heart
Floating through space on the back of his fingers.
The deepest annals of the universe
Are uncovered for your eyes only
And for those few blessed moments
There is only greatness.
Jul 25, 2010
Jul 25, 2010 at 10:04 PM UTC
*staring through heat wave shimmer
baring to the sky
thoughts unseen*
1.
watching
picking of peaches in drop-day sun
rows and rows of others
neat aligning synchrony - laden baskets
like well-oiled piston-joints
2.
and when you think nobody looks
a sudden-bite into fleshy-soft ardour
taste oh
of swollen heaven-fruit
*oh ******
accordion-vision spilling of the unexpected
(drip.. drip.. splash.. sink.. )
onto the collar of your cotton-blouse
in slightly off-white splendour
arms thrown up in harvest-fervour
a semi-circle of moist petal
winks at me
from arm-pit labour
a deep flush on cheeks as your locket-eye feels a touch unready
finding my mild-gaze resting on your
rubiest-lips ever seen
3.
later
it is sure
a plumb-matching of that pretty furtive-stain
will be rather fetching
on your light-green peasant-frock
hark now!
the winds will howl in least protest
and
waves off southern-cliff coast
where hardy-souls dare go
will quite steadfast
roar..
in unison
*oh, ice-rains may fall and squalls may blow
yet finest moment-dawning will be
much like..
picking at the ripe-time*
S T - 20 sept
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 4:48 AM UTC