"aeolian" poems
The possibility of free declamation anchored
And lucid, inescapable rhythms
Do have meaning. They're strong as rocks
In the deep-toned Aeolian mode
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
A Poet could not but be gay,
The Impotence to Tell –
Still makes a poem a surprise!
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 10:54 PM UTC
Aeolian dour fire meridians
Unfettering enlightenments will
Together Scylla with authority
Howling, Charybdis in oblivians wake
Shenting spindel meandering;
The schism termagating sirens
Repasts (diabolic manna)
Refracting ambrosial in the
Lap of Gods eye sophically conjecturing
Ephinany- times charioteering,
The nocturnal triunes discordance
Contemplating consequence thistling
Opothecaric sigels permeating lots
Obstruse lathed cerebral skies
Ruthfully roil whittling indelible
Epitaphs of serpentine repositories
Woefully dawning eternity castening
Harmoniously asunder truths
Deifying yen die.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 11:14 AM UTC
Tonight I have no words.
I cannot grandly sweep my pen
In flowing arcs across the page,
Drawing little soft impressions
(little soft depressions)
That show how lovely pain can be.
I cannot play the great Creator
Who rips a vital pulsing mass
from out His chest,
And molds still-beating clay
With a sad old potter’s gentle hands
into a little melancholic harpist
who plucks the heartstrings perfectly.
No, I have no words that fit
Like others have made fit before,
composing language to fit all the inward lines and curves
(I once knew a few of her’s)
that twist and turn and come entwined,
(the twists and turns of long ago)
crying “Lacrimosa!” in some wee hour
as the breeze blows a lacy curtain back.
I am no Aeolian instrument
Sounding a sweet ethereal chord into the night.
I am the vacuous breath left behind in silence
When the musician’s music stops —
A tuneless referent —
An empty exclamation mark
Howling noiselessly in space,
Meaning nothing
And everything, all the same.
!
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 3:37 PM UTC
Yesterday, a cloud burst in mythologies
and the rain fidgeted over the retreat
of a tidal pantheon; deities swept away
by a current, and we stood awhile, watching
the moon elbow out the dusk. Breathing
is burdensome when cars float on water
and corpses leak out of cavernous
basements. Every tablet, etched, in the cold
heart of building code was read again
and then again. It wasn't enough to blame
Aeolian whim or the raging riposte of Apollo,
now that we had marvelled away Gaia's
ozone skirt. Her amnion always leaked
in folkloric floods each time she birthed
a parable. She once asked Noah to build
an ark so he could ride her waves
and we scrape the sky to impale her
in shards where her womb is soft and yielding,
as we sour the air and burn the water and strip
her of her emerald sigh and melt her hills
and silt her wetlands. Mostly it was the asphalt
plastering her yearning that calcified her veins
and arteries, as she died slowly under our feet.
We could hardly fathom her sorrow for the tears
rolled off her torso like an oil slick
and rode far into the subway for sewers.
Sep 15, 2021
Sep 15, 2021 at 4:29 PM UTC
I came with the wind,
with the wind I will go.
It has always been thus
And will ever be so.
For the wind is his breath
And the Rain is her tears
The sunlight, their glory,
And the darkness, their fears.
More worship the Sunrise,
It seems so to me,
than the fiery Sunset
As it sinks in the sea.
Yet, in truth, both are equal
In pure majesty.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 9:03 PM UTC
The winds have grown articulate in thee,
And voiced again the wail of ancient woe
That smote upon the winds of long ago:
The cries of Trojan women as they flee,
The quivering moan of pale Andromache,
Now lifted loud with pain and now brought low.
It is the soul of sorrow that we know,
As in a shell the soul of all the sea.
So sometimes in the compass of a song,
Unknown to him who sings, thro’ lips that live,
The voiceless dead of long-forgotten lands
Proclaim to us their heaviness and wrong
In sweeping sadness of the winds that give
Thy strings no rest from weariless wild hands.
1.5k
history -
a history -
I wanted to know what that sound was.
I wanted to know what made your hair so straight.
I wanted to ask you to kiss me on the cheek.
You told me the sound was an Aeolian harp
imitating a macaw.
I am a boy on a scaffold imitating a window.
My hair is always the wind's *****
So the trip was a disaster.
So there was
an insufficiency in my reassurances.
a crab in the bed.
a wish in the closet.
But I meant it. I did mean it.
history-
at least I knew where the sound came from,
who made it,
and why it was beautiful.
Mar 28, 2012
Mar 28, 2012 at 1:43 PM UTC
Tasting the tears of dreams,
Deceptive comprehension.
Trinity's discourse, perpetual
Contrived silence discordant.
The knowledgable fruit befallen
Death, periodically living bewildered.
Apparent reality diminishing
Into the solitudarianism of
Times wilderness.
God contemplating mortal annihilation
Beckons the ethereal plane
Upon the horizon of a timeless shore,
Whilst mans woeful thoughts
Roll on like waves flooding the abyss,
Amity aeolian becomingly
Accepts hells fain fury
As a corrupting enterprise of war;
The autolysis of life subjected.
Sound refracted through the farthest of lands
The knell ringeth;
Echoing the languished lamentations
Of life bore by sin
Unto heaven, lifes death.
The second son of the first murdered,
Banished from Eden
walking the exiled path
Crossing the Styx.
1997 ELEETE J MUIR
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 12:53 PM UTC
It's stories above where the butterflies rustled,
Whirring between the lights in aeolian bustle.
I'm smiling spritely at a neon halo,
While my organs writhe in jacqueminot El Niño.
Wading the nightscape with a glitched simper,
I could not change nor attempt to tinker,
Just breaching the moments passing to linger.
Fingers, then palms, then lips, then black,
Then for a few seconds the world collapsed.
A breath, a sip, some wit, I'm back.
Shed the murky vision of captive cataracts.
And now,
The sylph saunters in epitomized elegance,
And I've buckled on the inside to the resonant reverence.
I follow the fragrance in her wake as paralyzed sedatives,
And anything I might say could only lack eloquence.
Then magnanimous mantras attract exact,
It seems way down the rabbit hole I've finally met my match.
There's a mesh of flesh, a smooth caress,
Then I wake and realize these were not visions yonder death.
Particles of my brain erupt,
I can't explain away the unfading elation of touch.
Every pose palatial down to the pixels,
I'd gaze deep in the sheen of her mind gleaming as crystals.
Her eyes open like daybreak in flashes,
Sunstreaks glint over the horizon of her lashes.
There's morning songbirds behind the taste of coffee,
I think she's figured I'm just a well decorated softy.
Unveiling my most human of contentions stripped to the eclipse of logic,
My former self laughs in tones pitched sardonic.
Euphorically strumming at gossamer heartstrings,
Etched in the fabric as sakura carvings.
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 8:48 PM UTC
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder
and that of the hurricane.
Tumult whispered white,
both Aeolian and corporeal,
strummed on strings of solemnity;
the ugly undertaker of buried roses
labeled as wary victims of feel-good graverobbers.
All bled emotions are this.
The Louvre's flashbulbed flecks;
the notes woven within coke lines of symphony;
fingerpainted twig-men crafted by bright-eyed smilers;
this juxtaposed disgrace.
All Beau Sancy in the roughest granite jewelry box
with graffiti scribbled laughing like urban Sanskrit .
"I am become death" dripped in blood through the keyhole
so it now mimics a cherry popped in microwaves
unlocking discomfort, yes,
and crimsoning the cocoon of the diamond.
Peep, Tom, at the glittering Godiva within
and watch her grow in the sacrifice of poetry,
for only in the presence of forsaking and death
and anguish and discomfort
and pain
can she grow to break the eggshell walls.
Tears cut canals in Time's beard
because he consigned the memory of the shattered horrendousness
to oblivion
instead of honoring their homage
and paying respect by dropping tulips and gunships
into their graves at noon's meridian.
Opal eyed reader,
you do not understand.
My eggshells conceal themselves
within individual hells
of purple prose,
more of a lavender in my eyes.
But beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 11:47 PM UTC
“No, I said the song was stuck in my head”.
Well, maybe your just trapped in an entire melody.
Chained to a wall of harmonics.
Pinned to the floor by the tetra-chord.
Sequenced and submissioned in a pool of Lonian Mode and Aeolian Mode notes.
Your brain corresponds to a numeric ratio responding the principal intervals of a scale.
Hail to the symphony, to the orchestra.
Give your all to Pythagoras, the Greek philosopher of such discovery.
This ongoing evolution of stringed instruments and major and minor scales, forms, interprets, co-exists with one another, forever.
If you were to associate yourself to the modern tunings of ancients temperament, you’ll see that just because they have ultimately derived, does not mean that they have all died.
The song you are stuck in reaches way back in time, when world knew no hymn.
Any song is a reminder of a world that once was dim.
Sep 20, 2010
Sep 20, 2010 at 1:26 AM UTC
New musical sketch/work in progress thing!!
If anyone is so inclined, check out my newest musical sketch for a track called "Within":
https://soundcloud.com/apexparadigm/within-theme-1
It's an instrumental track with 3 guitars, 1 piano and drums.
Guitar is me recorded by me, effects are done with Guitar Rig, from Native Instruments
piano and drums written by me and synthesized with Kontact, also from Native Instruments.
-
I've been messing with playing in the 5th position in drop tunings,
and thus was the riff born,
then I adapted it for several things and wrote in some drums in a sort-of hastily fashion.
(that's why I call it a sketch)
If anyone wants specifics:
it's in F# harmonic minor at about 93bpm.
with the guitar tuned to Drop C# (Drop D but down half a step: C#, G#, C#, F#, A#, D#)
Harmonic Minor means that you take the minor 7th scale step, in this case E,
and make that sonuvabitch a major 7th instead of a minor 7th by raising it one semitone, or step.
The result is a step and a half gap between the minor Sixth and the major Seventh,
and the major Seventh makes the dominant chord, C#, into a major chord rather than a minor chord, increasing it's functional harmonic resolution potential, and thus "Harmonic" minor.
Harmonic minor has some interesting flavor; it's rather exotic for how similar it is to the natural minor scale, aka. Aeolian mode.
I think it's rather ******* sweet, personally.
Spanish classical music plays on this harmonic structure thoroughly, as do many other things.
Anyway, there you have it.
Feedback is appreciated,
if you listen, I shall be honored to hear what you honestly think.
It may not be your style of music, but I implore you to think about listening.
As always,
thank you for your time.
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 8:26 AM UTC
Lavendrous sky, with a pink cream hue,
atop our house, enriching the view
the stars under clouds giggle and coo,
while they play hide and seek
In The Midnight Blue.
Fireflies dance in the breezy air,
The crickets chant hymns with a soothing flair.
An owl keeps watch with stones in his stare -
None should be disturbed
In the Midnight blue.
The leaves rustlein' their own norm
lost in the melody of their divine song.
the wolves howl at the end of the shore,
with a mighty thought of more to explore.
The world is asleep, but the world is alive,
As fantasy, charm, and solemnity thrive.
Nothing else need be done save to open our eyes,
And the midnight blue would present the surprise.
The fairies smile in soberest pride
At restless souls in rest's delight.
The breeze blows, and wishes the world better luck,
While orchids embrace it, and add a bluer touch.
The flora and fauna sway freely and prance,
Partaking at will in the calico dance.
Lights stream through the sky with angelic allure
To enhance the contagious sensation astir.
The moon chuckles, strolling with admiration,
As the knight of midnight, in want of attention.
He relishes the sky, and its wondrous hue,
He prods into action, the entities who
Don't partake in the joy of the Midnight Blue.
Amidst this midnight's fascinating mirth,
Silence, a bubble in aeolian's berth,
Strives to remind dawn shall soon take its cue,
And playtime should end with a bow and adieu,
As the owl takes flight through the Midnight Blue.
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 3:14 AM UTC
I shall be
small --
a particle of dust
carried
colliding
collecting
in a tiny sandstorm
with other particles of dust
individually laced
through the eye of Eve's Needle
Cactus, sharp, squinting
against the light
a dash
on a waxed dune
a nuance
-- infinitely small
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 12:01 PM UTC
Exploring musical concepts
in the key of C aeolian, with some G mixolydian;
even some G Phrygian sometimes- dominant.
Naturally, there's also some blues scale licks.
Mostly in 4, but some parts are in 7;
others are in 5, while yet more are in 6
(which is arguably just 3, but I venture to argue all rhythms can be more easily conceptualized as combinations of 2s and 3s. Then, one may argue that it's all just 1s, but now it's just getting nit-picky.. think of it however works for you.)
There's even a groove in 27/16!
Who would do such a thing?
Then, it's also a bit of an experiment
when it comes to harmonic rhythm
(the rate at which key/chord/etc. changes happen)
All that **** east Indian music influence!
While I realize how little of that may make sense
unless One is to approach music fairly philosophically,
I implore thee to copy-paste the link below
to hear whatever it is I'm talking about.
Be warned, though: it's measures nearly 15 minutes long.
What can I say?
I tend to get a bit carried away...
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 4:00 PM UTC
He sat with Michaelanglo
a stirring butress, a rife old glutton.
Seething, the temple may be doomed.
And Jude, 'rich' as HELL,
beaming of priesthood. Cursed him
with mired lucher, saying... 'When do
you think our work will be done?"
The stars that shine about the church
over our heads are beauty,
in the Cistene Chapel are the same
stars that line the apothecary of our souls.
How then do we touch a theist?
With brooms over our feet,
with chicken bones to old to feed
to dogs, with lyes that burn the soul.
Tremulous attrition, and godless neoteny.
All munitions to the decks. For
Jude, the job is never finished.
And to a deity, man is completeness.
And the poet says to the unbelieved,
'Why so true?'
"No one will believe in God,...
if no one is in this Church."
The Sandbergs, the Blakes, the Jaynes's.
Here we have felt poetry, awakened to poetry,
and loved every minute of the poet.
What record could democracy create
by Judas? When does the account of
men try femine reason?
'Ill tell You',.. says Mr. Sandberg,
'Ill tell You!,...that naught one of us can forgive a
great poet.' And Jude, replied,... "Whom then
can I believe?"
Carl Sandberg leaned way back and answered,
'You can believe the Truth; she is warm
to the touch and cold for the feature of
treason.'
"Carl why then do we argue in 3rd person?" says
Jude.
Repling again, the Cistene Chapel is open
for marrage, the ceiling is finished because
no one can account for all of the stars, but who
has to pray with us for forgiveness.
My hands prean lust for wisdom with a
pen, my hands pluck keyboards as do
Aeolian Flutes. My heart is a broken sorrow
and my life is just a poet.
Carl has answered a question,
Jude has lies to tell, and a man will finish
painting the chapel with the sound of
Liberty bells.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 8:31 PM UTC
Tell me what it is
About the trees
Dusty grey and gloomy in October
That resonates so dearly with a heart
Melancholy and somber
This rain is soothing
Like the soft white I line my walls with
A golden haze playing through my veins
And flames to match the essence
But not the calefaction
You can watch me drift into a paralysis effortlessly
A debilitation cold and lingering
Like lifeless trees awaiting the worst
Some sun
Does not change the course of nature
And I wonder what flavor of future
Nature holds for me
I feel like the trees
In the middle of a foggy autumn afternoon
Comfortable
And content
Living in the shadows of a world
Too engulfed in regurgitated highs
To contemplate or appreciate struggle
A world utterly ignorant to individuals soft spoken and inherently
Harmonious in the ways of authenticity
And naturalism and realism
We have the endurance to undergo lifelong tempests
But lack the energy to speed through
Trivial phases of Insatiable beauty
Our growth is goddess enough
Tell me what it is about the moon
Majestic and nostalgically haunting
A calming through night's terrors
And unforgiving traumas
Silver whisps of validation shine into a heart
With love looking a little too much like silhouettes
An ebony void seeping into the cracks of joy
And pain becoming an obvious pattern
And the moon is there always
Watching the molding in a resentful awe
What happened to the life of the young
Happiness looking like summer nights
And chrismas lights and vintage pop bottles
Fading into an uninviting outline
Through that type of half reality
Half fantasy version of time
Months feeling like hours
But unrewarding years all the same
Childhoods disappearing into insomnia
And I'm not very hungry
And I don't want anything for my birthday
Kind of aloof answers
We get it
We're all just tired
Tell me what it is
About the stillness of autumn
That induces a numbness in our hearts
Watching our desires blow away with the wind
One by one
They sing their remorse through aeolian howls
Uncanny and ghost like
Or the early nightfalls
That strangely feel more intimate
Than our last touch did
A type of familiarity rather profound
And lacking in any form of resentment
Maybe it's the significance in vulnerability
The stripping away of irrelevant priorities
To see the real
To see the roots
Tell me what is is
About the trees
Dusty grey and gloomy in October
That soothes a tired soul
A vagabond in search for more
And a heart a little too in love with loss
May 31, 2020
May 31, 2020 at 2:21 AM UTC
I am the moon and the tides.
I am the storm, the battered sea,
raging, raging, until the waters whirl,
deliquesce to droplets, dried in torrid heat…
I am creatures reposed to salty bones,
and I am the undulating desert gorging on them.
I am the Aeolian winds grinding mountains to sand,
blowing away my own dust to bare rock.
I am the tremors, unrelenting shockwaves, collapsing cliffs.
I am the molten lava flows, undermining tectonics.
Beyond the caldera, the release withheld…
The intensity is high, I bleed diamonds…
Shear and tensile cracks throughout,
upwards and downwards;
unpeeling the mantle, liquid substrata, shaken core.
This world is crumbling... I am crumbling.
I am the imploding planet, spinning off axis,
out of orbit planetary collisions, the space flak.
I am the unfathomable supernova, cluster detonation
white nuclear, radioactive fusion.
I am the fading neutron stars, the star dust...
...the black hole.
v o i d
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 2:05 AM UTC
aeolian day
birds swim the green ocean
that flows to and fro
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 12:23 AM UTC
The wood lay quiet as I passed
those thin wan trees in semi dark
their twigs are missing due to lack of light
they stretch up high to see the sky
a chorus group in brown
perhaps atop they have some leaves
when it is summertime
but now they're entertained
by flowers of blue and yellow celandine
when winters gales take hold
they're made like instruments to knock and crack
or through their branches
winds create a sound of mystery
aeolian harp
I do not know
but when I stand and sense their presence close
they seem to whisper peace to me
those strands of coloured trunks
and so I meditate in line
as if I too were one of them
on the fence inclined
Margaret Ann Waddicor 7th April 2016
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 9:04 AM UTC
Mayday , afternoon turbidity , aeolian dynamic flurry with cursory airborne splinter , tall tunic Pines release their last remnants of Winter , at the cusp of torrid June with wind-borne , whirling , stern delivery
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 6:20 PM UTC
-
Hear, the crumbling of the Earth
Here, the end of Venus' birth
As I lie in bare land with bare feet and swollen eyes
I found that my cries mean nothing in a rock where the air reigns in a voiceless bound
--My cries mean nothing in a rock where every part of my being is the Earth itself, resound
I.
Hear, the crumbling of the Earth
Rumble, tumble, crumple, stumble, crumble
I clung to my lungs as the minuscule particles start to dwindle
I reached for my nostrils and felt the spills of aeolian thrills
I opened my mouth and tasted the brittle sand from a forsaken land
II.
Here, the end of Venus' birth
My love, disintegrating, shattering in robust fragility
Fluvial murky patterns, ruining steps of vitality
Disintegrating, shattering in quiet intensity
Tides formulate the next city of Venus' death
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
At last, I lie in bare land with bare feet and sunken eyes
There will never be a winning fight against the inexorable decay of time
In the name of violent rage and anger --I gnashed my teeth
Until my jaws begin to fracture,
Teeth,
falling a
p
a
r
t,
there was never a fight to begin with...
Jun 7, 2025
Jun 7, 2025 at 9:20 AM UTC
Dark hues deliquesce
in the warmth of the burning stars,
the black cosmic sea now floats:
but still an abomination in eyes
of people spoon-fed with light.
Coiling and encircling the unseen ends
on the horizon; like Jörmungandr, the mighty serpent,
while winds hymn odes for the people
who drank in chalices sprinkled with stardust
The language of Aeolian is now have forgotten.
the constrictions of the serpent shall bleed
morning light in a few hours.
I will wait for the revolutions to complete
while caressing its skin through the desire
in eyes.
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 12:20 AM UTC