"alexandre" poems
In 2005 The Piano Man was found wandering the streets of Sheerness in a soaking wet suit and tie
he didn't say a word.
When presented with pad and pen he simply drew a grand piano.
His nurses sat him in front of a beat up old upright
he played for four hours straight;
for four months his hands were the only things to break his silence.
Alexandre Dumas said "man will never be perfect until he learns to create and destroy."
Do you ever think about how Beethoven hacked the legs off his piano so he could feel the sounds he couldn't hear in his head, through his chest?
And Van Gogh heard the sounds his paintings made but kept going until his sanity
was just a memory floating on a distant river under a tired Milky Way.
And you see, like a Gaelic folk song blindness runs red through my family,
so I know it's not much but I'm here, still trying to mould my hands to say the right form of 'I love you'.
And did you know that the human heart beats over 30 million times a year, but we still have a hard time keeping our feet on the ground?
And did you know that the act of breaking in a horse is actually the act of breaking it's back?
Like we can't sit without sitting on broken things.
And did you know that every time a mobile phone sends out a GPS signal a bee loses it's way home, and every bee that doesn't reach it's hive dies?
So on nights when your pulse matches the beat of my favourite song
you don't have to wonder if it's me matching the syncopation of your silence --
and I wonder if you ever found what you were looking for.
And I wonder if you realise that on days you're not here I roll up my sleeves,
count the beats without you,
sit on the backseat and miss you.
And somewhere The Piano Man rolls up his sleeves
creates the Big Bang under his fingertips.
And in 2005 on an April morning in Sheerness, a suited piano man walks straight into the ocean,
begs the current to take him.
I send you a message
a bee loses it's way home.
I send you another
another bee dies.
My chest cavity is a bumble bee crypt,
my tongue a honeyed graveyard.
Another message.
The Big Bang.
The hive.
A suit.
That ocean.
Another back is broken.
Another message is sent.
I fear I am more honeycomb than heart.
To create is to destroy. To destroy is to succeed.
And would you just look at what these piano hands have finally done.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 1:28 PM UTC
Fine living . . . a la carte?
Come to the Waldorf-Astoria!
LISTEN HUNGRY ONES!
Look! See what Vanity Fair says about the
new Waldorf-Astoria:
"All the luxuries of private home. . . ."
Now, won't that be charming when the last flop-house
has turned you down this winter?
Furthermore:
"It is far beyond anything hitherto attempted in the hotel
world. . . ." It cost twenty-eight million dollars. The fa-
mous Oscar Tschirky is in charge of banqueting.
Alexandre Gastaud is chef. It will be a distinguished
background for society.
So when you've no place else to go, homeless and hungry
ones, choose the Waldorf as a background for your rags--
(Or do you still consider the subway after midnight good
enough?)
ROOMERS
Take a room at the new Waldorf, you down-and-outers--
sleepers in charity's flop-houses where God pulls a
long face, and you have to pray to get a bed.
They serve swell board at the Waldorf-Astoria. Look at the menu, will
you:
GUMBO CREOLE
CRABMEAT IN CASSOLETTE
BOILED BRISKET OF BEEF
SMALL ONIONS IN CREAM
WATERCRESS SALAD
PEACH MELBA
Have luncheon there this afternoon, all you jobless.
Why not?
Dine with some of the men and women who got rich off of
your labor, who clip coupons with clean white fingers
because your hands dug coal, drilled stone, sewed gar-
ments, poured steel to let other people draw dividends
and live easy.
(Or haven't you had enough yet of the soup-lines and the bit-
ter bread of charity?)
Walk through Peacock Alley tonight before dinner, and get
warm, anyway. You've got nothing else to do.
5.7k
Bom dia a todos...Desejo que tudo corra na plenitude e vossos anseios e desejos se concretizem na abundância e plenitude. Boa vindima para aqueles que ainda continuam na tão nobre Colheita. Esta poesia é dedicada ao meu Pai: António Alexandre Marques e a todos os seus amigos e conhecidos.
Lembro-me de Ti meu querido Pai
As videiras cansadas pelo sol tórrido de verão,
O rio corre por amor e paixão.
Eu procuro a resposta que não acho,
Sou feito de uvas e do teu abraço.
As rochas xistosas esperam a madrugada,
As uvas amarelas e avermelhadas.
E tu meu Pai continuas aqui sepultado,
Pois o vinho foi teu amor, meu fado…
Palavras sábias de profeta que sonha e sabe,
Lembrança de ti e eterna saudade.
Nossa Senhora de Fátima te acolheu,
Eu anseio também para ser seu…
As uvas dão precioso fruto,
Eu continuo vivo e de luto.
O Douro sublime se consome e exalta,
Por ti Pai saudade quase me mata…
Victor Marques
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 2:29 AM UTC
Il y a des personne qui pour un court instant, comme un petit papillon de Madagascar,
peuvent vous sourie et satisfaire avec une innocence bienveillante si naturelle qu’on ne
trouve dans aucun endroit ou presque :
hammam de luxe !
Il y a des temples enfouis si inouïe qui illumine ma galaxie et te demande, pour guide.…
Oh, steppes arides Mexicaines, mes séculaires puits désert, mes horizons abandonné prés d’
Himalaya qui cherche routard et vie avec.
Huile brulés et larmes séché, enfance volé, démon si prés ne te demande rien : que guide.
Il y à toujours pour nous, les doigts d’une main dans une caresse sublime, parce que tes
bras, courre devant moi, :
Ne t’arête pas, car ton sourire éclate le jade dans blanc si minérale, parfum dans vert
sapin, j’irrigue ainsi et je cultive.Je donne la vie pour que tout ça, anime esprit, Himalaya, donne confiance dans mon éveille,voyage sans fin et vagabonde, les haut plateaux du thé :
« Marquise du haut : regard tout bas ! »
Suis ce fou errant, pour avant ce sale gamin à qui personne dessine :
Ton danse présent pollen mon sens et dans ma voix, je cour couleur de pluie sur ciel pour toi,
libérer mes ailles, un jour pour soie si fine, que tu vêtis dans robe hammam ,
dans Innocence marré Mexique qui Guides ce vol -Vien dans le mien, illumines !
ALEXANDRE STARK
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 7:04 AM UTC
Although I work, and seldom cease,
At Dumas pere and Dumas fils,
Alas, I cannot make me care
For Dumas fils and Dumas pere.
1.4k
Lembro meu Pai António Alexandre Marques
Na vida de todos nós,
Temos pais e avós.
Os dias passam sem despedida,
Amo meu pai toda a vida.
As videiras são teu paraíso,
Uvas do lagar se pisam sem aviso.
Vida por vezes sorridente,
Se ganha e perde num instante.
Foste podador da boa colheita,
Vinho que com Deus se deita.
As folhas das videiras avermelhadas, verdes e amarelas,
São teus anjos, tuas sentinelas.
Deus também amou o vinho,
Pois Cristo Sofreu sozinho.
As tuas memórias são sonhos lindos bem meus,
Amor eterno de filhos teus.
Victor Marques
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 11:44 AM UTC
Si je trépasse entre tes bras, Madame,
Il me suffit, car je ne veux avoir
Plus grand honneur, sinon que de me voir
En te baisant, dans ton sein rendre l'âme.
Celui que Mars horriblement enflamme
Aille à la guerre, et manque de pouvoir,
Et jeune d'ans, s'ébatte à recevoir
En sa poitrine une Espagnole lame ;
Mais moi, plus froid, je ne requiers, sinon
Après cent ans, sans gloire, et sans renom,
Mourir oisif en ton giron, Cassandre.
Car je me trompe, ou c'est plus de bonheur,
Mourir ainsi, que d'avoir tout l'honneur,
Pour vivre peu, d'un guerrier Alexandre.
338
You see dearie
When you want to show imbeciles the moon
and you point a finger upwards
Our imbeciles will look at your finger
So don't bother wasting your time
Let them look at the finger
Let them see their moon on your finger
that's Auntie Mona Kists for you
They say life is full of questions
and idiots are full of answers
So they know the law of Diminishing returns
means anodyne harassments is yielding great rewards
Is thirty years of Blackpool a happy life in Whitehaven
Ask Auntie Mona Kists and our persistent gaggle of imbeciles
Alexandre Dumas says " I prefer rogues to imbeciles,
because they sometimes take a rest"
I forget who said "My very existence seems to offend and upset imbeciles. Which thrills me."…
Imagine the laughter induced to know they where on point
even on Xmas day, talk about dedication of the stupefied
Of all human weakness Obsession is the most dangerous
And the silliest.
East end Criminals and the lunatics fringe in cohorts have
infected vigilante mob and demented Racists.
That's Auntie Mona Kists for you.........
More, more, more please!
Hahaha....Hahaha
Copyright@Kisma Aryse
Dec 26, 2018
Dec 26, 2018 at 3:27 PM UTC