Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Christine Ueri Jul 2012
Heaven

. . .  Have Mercy . . .

Rest, rest, rest, for ye be none,
pitiful Fallen One.


Quivering bows flow over grave strings
bassoons and basset horns ring
pounding timpani’s announce:
Master of the Holy Choir
- -  Renounced - -
Vain, fluttering heart
sublimely denounced, scorned;
fouled, ousted:
Horned.

Wailing strings, bassoons,
basset horns, thundering kettle drums
lift angelic voices to glorious requiem.
Pleas for Eternal Light’s remain
in wings refrain.
Heavenly Chorus' cradle to sustain,
mercy to soften
disdain.

The Holy Oracle contests --
to no avail.
Siblings’ choir protests.
Beauty beyond measure,
Angel of pure, Divine tessitura,
Absolution for Thee?

Foretellers of dark illusion
open Holy Scriptures to reveal
the drone of Eternal Damnation:
trumpets of ill
drag Thee to Hell.

Deep, ephemeral rhythms
exalt dancing strings,
seal destinies -- Kiss The Almighty King.
Glory be unto His Majestic Reign,
Will Supreme,
Tremendous,
Powerful, Holy Being.

Scribes record,
recite this dreadful day,
condemn Thee: Fallen One.
trumpets lament, strings mock
this unholy, forbidden way.
Bows flutter -- a memoir
of redemption.

Cries of confusion
dissipate  
into muffled choirs,
murmurings
of deliverance.
Delicate chants
beg for forgiveness;
a Soul’s salvation, fusion.
To no avail!

Turbulent strings strike the Holy Duel
in wrath, writhing hatred,
majestic wings tumble --
twist to wrenched ******.

Death devours, Birth becomes
the Fallen One.


Angelic dissolution --
distraught, agonized Ethereal,
Eternally beautify
these ghostly, trembling
winds, strings, harpsichord, drums.
Voices of brotherhood remembered,
cushion Angel’s earthly descent.
Breathe into infantile genius
heavenly symphonies
to sweeten a life
trapped, scorned,
condemned,
mourned

Love of God: Amadé
16/02/2012

Inspired by Mozart's Requiem.
In Yucatan, the Maya sonneteers
Of the Caribbean amphitheatre,
In spite of hawk and falcon, green toucan
And jay, still to the night-bird made their plea,
As if raspberry tanagers in palms,
High up in orange air, were barbarous.
But Crispin was too destitute to find
In any commonplace the sought-for aid.
He was a man made vivid by the sea,
A man come out of luminous traversing,
Much trumpeted, made desperately clear,
Fresh from discoveries of tidal skies,
To whom oracular rockings gave no rest.
Into a savage color he went on.

How greatly had he grown in his demesne,
This auditor of insects! He that saw
The stride of vanishing autumn in a park
By way of decorous melancholy; he
That wrote his couplet yearly to the spring,
As dissertation of profound delight,
Stopping, on voyage, in a land of snakes,
Found his vicissitudes had much enlarged
His apprehension, made him intricate
In moody rucks, and difficult and strange
In all desires, his destitution's mark.
He was in this as other freemen are,
Sonorous nutshells rattling inwardly.
His violence was for aggrandizement
And not for stupor, such as music makes
For sleepers halfway waking. He perceived
That coolness for his heat came suddenly,
And only, in the fables that he scrawled
With his own quill, in its indigenous dew,
Of an aesthetic tough, diverse, untamed,
Incredible to prudes, the mint of dirt,
Green barbarism turning paradigm.
Crispin foresaw a curious promenade
Or, nobler, sensed an elemental fate,
And elemental potencies and pangs,
And beautiful barenesses as yet unseen,
Making the most of savagery of palms,
Of moonlight on the thick, cadaverous bloom
That yuccas breed, and of the panther's tread.
The fabulous and its intrinsic verse
Came like two spirits parlaying, adorned
In radiance from the Atlantic coign,
For Crispin and his quill to catechize.
But they came parlaying of such an earth,
So thick with sides and jagged lops of green,
So intertwined with serpent-kin encoiled
Among the purple tufts, the scarlet crowns,
Scenting the jungle in their refuges,
So streaked with yellow, blue and green and red
In beak and bud and fruity gobbet-skins,
That earth was like a jostling festival
Of seeds grown fat, too juicily opulent,
Expanding in the gold's maternal warmth.
So much for that. The affectionate emigrant found
A new reality in parrot-squawks.
Yet let that trifle pass. Now, as this odd
Discoverer walked through the harbor streets
Inspecting the cabildo, the facade
Of the cathedral, making notes, he heard
A rumbling, west of Mexico, it seemed,
Approaching like a gasconade of drums.
The white cabildo darkened, the facade,
As sullen as the sky, was swallowed up
In swift, successive shadows, dolefully.
The rumbling broadened as it fell. The wind,
Tempestuous clarion, with heavy cry,
Came bluntly thundering, more terrible
Than the revenge of music on bassoons.
Gesticulating lightning, mystical,
Made pallid flitter. Crispin, here, took flight.
An annotator has his scruples, too.
He knelt in the cathedral with the rest,
This connoisseur of elemental fate,
Aware of exquisite thought. The storm was one
Of many proclamations of the kind,
Proclaiming something harsher than he learned
From hearing signboards whimper in cold nights
Or seeing the midsummer artifice
Of heat upon his pane. This was the span
Of force, the quintessential fact, the note
Of Vulcan, that a valet seeks to own,
The thing that makes him envious in phrase.

And while the torrent on the roof still droned
He felt the Andean breath. His mind was free
And more than free, elate, intent, profound
And studious of a self possessing him,
That was not in him in the crusty town
From which he sailed. Beyond him, westward, lay
The mountainous ridges, purple balustrades,
In which the thunder, lapsing in its clap,
Let down gigantic quavers of its voice,
For Crispin to vociferate again.
King Panda Mar 2016
every profile of the body
drapes of a fallen dress
the flowers twang
the bassoons
the wooden harps

the human body is a temple
with the purpose of changing
into new forms
ephemeral
beauty
or love
or passion
or life

the metamorphosis of another
the brother
the kiss
the flowers of evil
the death of a maiden

Ovid
hear me
Ovid
love is simply a measure of
bumps and holes
Ovid
love grows out of soft marble
Ovid
we are one

the mythology of
passion ensues
the act encased in
fire
It seems I missed the opportunity to wish you, a "Goodnight, Pleasant Dreams", my dear.
   Many would say a small thing as Things go. What with the Trumpet blaring out "I Love You" and the Bassoons low mournful note of "Goodbye",  and in between, the blazing Pinions of love's "Do or Die".
   But here is a Home!!  This thing made of Stone and Brick, Trees cut to fit.  Call them Love, Faith, Charity and most crucial Hope.
      This small profound edifice is held together by the Mortar(Good morning, Beautiful. How are you today) and Lathe ( let's do this together. Can I do anything for you?  May I ease your burden My Dear. How can I Help.) And the Nails of Iron and the Glue that Binds( Good night.  And Peaceful Dreams, Sleep here in my arms.).  It's all these little things that hold it together. The Constant Work that Love Engenders in one another to Build Together. That Proclaim Quietly but Resoundingly, One Moment to the next, Day upon Day, Month to Month, and Year after year, that We are Companions in this Life. That I will not forget that My Friend is with me and to always Undertake for the best for My Helpmate.
    That is the bedrock upon which  Love of each other and all the rest is built.
  And so,when all the nourishment I want is in front of me.. Your mind... With all your Hopes and Dreams, Fears and desires, your Passion and your Apathy, your Great Strengths and your small Limitations!!!    
       All the memories we created together. When seen through your eyes The perspective and light, have changed all I see, as if for the first time.
    You and our first kiss, Discovering in ourselves each other. That is what it is about. Learning where we fit together like a pair of double doors that had been used individually in different houses.
     The years apart gave us different wear and an admixture strength and weakness.  A Fine smoothed finish polished by countless hands, yet Rough here or there, where kicked open or the small crack from when we stood firm against those of Ill repute who used without care.
       But when finally brought to the others side, Its obvious they were made to fit together from the start, that this is where each belongs.  Supporting one another and facing the world, Side by Side.
    To our Friends. ALL-WAYS  Open an our Ownself.., we allow our selves the privilege of accepting that we all have flaws and own is that we Dont deny ours.
Remember that while we apart gained and lost and so did they.  If you look we might need some sanding here or there. A bit of planing and joined in a couple spots. But .. We were always for eachother. Made to stand together each fiting the other a left and a right the same in their differences..complimet.
             - Alexander Hamilton 2018
For ...you
It can and does happen
James Gable Jun 2016
The audience, silent, took a breath in unison
Included in the orchestra was every instrument imaginable
Banhus and Gadulkas played folk and polkas
The brutish brass, bodyguards and protectors of stringed melodies

Included in the orchestra was every instrument imaginable
A concert harp, plucked by fingers long, smooth and sharp
The brutish brass, bodyguards and protectors of the woodwind class
Saxophones provided a melancholy lilt, the timp was traditionally built

A concert harp, stroked by running fingers, smooth and sharp
Every sharp and flat note was passed through the throaty reeds of oboes
Saxophones reminiscent of ‘jive’, the timp in its size had nowhere to hide
This exhibition of musical traditions played late into evening with no intermissions

Every sharp and flat note accounted for, motifs carried whispers of folklore
Banhus and Gadulkas, swapped stories with bassoons and bagpipes
The exhibition had finished, piano keys rested, every note has its operatic death

The audience, silent, took a breath in unison
At the old downtown Theater a curious group of performers appear after closing time , a little after sundown !
The pipes of the grand pipe ***** make the stage their own ...Large ones , tiny ones and gadgets the likes you've never ever known !
Instruments of various heights , shapes and sizes ! Teeny weeny flutes and big oboes answer and call ! Vox humanas sing like the choirs above , Rooga horns from old cars sound off , little blue birds twinkle lovely alms ! Wood Flutes tower sixteen feet high ! Brass trumpets heard from miles around , contra bassoons big enough to blow a man down !
The clap of wooden horses crossing covered bridges , antique telephones and drumhead switches !
Lovely diapasons lead the show , big burly Reeds make the stage their own !!
The mops , buckets , brooms and dust pans dance as the entourage bellows , the music grows louder as the pipers come together !
As all the pipes blow a beautiful song , debonair Sir Console graciously invites you all to sing along !
Copyright January 21 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Alyanne Cooper Aug 2015
Listless bones
And weary muscles
Flop on a floor-bound mattress.
Crooning tunes
And lilting bassoons
Flit on a fan-turned breeze.
Despite the heat
I find respite
In this brief pause
From reality.
Sun Drop Jun 2018
Don't defy the clarinet, its keys are awful sharp.
Don't attempt to struggle 'gainst the plucking of the harp.
Don't strike at the chin-rest of the nimble violin.
Let their sounds ****** you, breathe in deeply and give in.

Let your eyelids flutter as the bass punches away.
Drift off into slumber as the horns start their foray.
Dream of passing pleasantries, and don't mind the bassoons.
Why supply rejoinders when the sounds solicit swoons?
Children’s voices crying out
and laughing loud and clear
Like an orchestra of sound
for everyone to hear

The bass starts first, parental leave
gives go ahead to play
The marching beat as kids go forth
and out into the day

A trumpet hail for company
is raised from door to door
The flute returns, the oboe too
accompanied by more

The fun begins on strings and swings
go back and forth with speed
All cares and woes are flung away
percussion takes the lead

A drumroll raises up the stakes
a dangerous new move
Chromatic scales, gymnastic fails
the cymbal’s sharp reprove

The roundabout reveals the chorus
repeating the refrain
The highs, the lows and all between
All voices sing again

The seesaw conversation starts
bassoons begin up high
The oboes and an English horn
ascend into the sky

A far away note penetrates
the happy symphony
A lone voice trills with increased speed
and calls out ‘Time for Tea’

As kids go home the conductor
Bows and takes his leave
The park is left in quietness
notes floating in the breeze
The bass fades in, nice and slow,
fading out again for a moment of silence.
The flash of a flute in the distance,
a slow cymbal shaking into existence,
cellos driving out a deep and quiet rhythm.
The tin whistles of frightened seabirds
fly for shelter from the rising and falling
of bassoons floating in the dark sky.
The conductor unleashes a mighty roar
from his orchestra and gone again,
the violins with their staccato
carrying on for a bit longer
before the orchestra erupts again,
playing a few more notes than before,
the oboes constantly playing.
Drumsticks beat down steadily
on a cymbal held in a gloved hand,
rising up in crescendo and accelerando,
harder and faster they fall,
harder and faster they strike,
the orchestra blares again
as we in the wings start to get unnerved
but the storm has used all its power,
the players are tired tonight
and all that is left
is the tambourine man
shaking his hand as he walks off stage.
Mikkoy Mencede Aug 2017
The moon and stars they wept.
The grey blanket of clouds covered the light source.
The morning sun was dead.
In a bunked lowly chair I sat as I stare the first drop of sky's tears fall in the windowpane.
It's like watching a full played orchestra.
The loud crackles of every droplet hitting my roof sounded like violins.
The wind steered the tempo of each cello sounding raindrops.
Marvelous harmonies of saxophones, bassoons, oboes, clarinets and flutes symphonized the silence.
Sky, the orchestra conductor is crying.
So am I.
Then I remembered, that I'll play a function too.
I'm the orchestra's vocal soloist.
Oh, here's my part . . . I screamed.
Depressed.
Mark Bell Jan 16
I wandered lonely
With my raccoons
With a back pack on
And their
Bassoons
We were heard
Before we were seen
In the mountains
In the cities
Blowing out tunes
And reciting ditties,
Townsfolk would
Take there pills
Following us blindly
Into the hills.
These crazy tunes
Would make
them hyper
My raccoons
Had
Became the
Modern day
Pied piper.
We cleansed streets of
The human race
We took the homeless
To better place,
These raccoons
And their bassoons
Are coming to a town
Near you soon.
You will hear us
Before you see
You don’t need
A ticket the
Music’s free.
Johnny Noiπ Feb 2019
This is a constructive letter to the stomach.
Young people lose their interests.                                           He wrote a letter
about food, stomach and humidity.
Indian ears are easier to grow.                                                    Sky Sky heard
a letter to his wife.                                               He wrote about my husband,
my guest and my guest.
Fantasy puppets, imagination fantasy
Indian fantasies. He wrote a letter to his wife.
Young people lose their interests.
Soft cover and soft soft cover and repair.
Focus on the keys for adolescent teenagers.
He writes a letter from the stomach
and the abdominal cavity.                  He listens easily to the ears of the Lord.
When it looked blue, he wrote a letter to the owner.
Woolen Dolls, Indian Blue Glow.
She wrote a letter to her husband
so that some items and the rats were too big to hold.
Focus on the keys for adolescent teenagers.
He also wrote about feeding
the stomach and stomach. Young people focus
on their needs. He wrote a letter about their food,
their stomach and their humidity. Indian ears
are easier to grow. Blue sky I heard. He wrote
a letter to the owner.
He wrote about the neck, stomach and stomach.
Fantastic puppets, imaginary fantastic fantasies of India.

For some of them, he wrote a letter of ownership
and set up an arms control. Young people focus on their needs.
Soft cover and repair of the cover and the wool.
Teenagers pay special attention
to the importance of their needs.
He wrote a letter explaining that he had escaped from his stomach
and his pain. Strengthening Indian ears is easy.
When he touched the air in the air,
he wrote a letter to the airline's owner.
Wool dolls in blue turbans.
He wrote a letter to his owner
and was too big to bring
some goods and brochures in their hands.
They focus on the needs of their teenage son.

The bottom line is the epoch-dynamic
gramme of a hundred stomachs.                                                 Oi néoi canan
the symphonic thous.                                                The grapes of the epistles
gia to fagitó, to stomachi kai tin ygrasía.
This indicates the efcolation of an anecycle.
About Sky Sky, we have the epistolio
sýzygó tou tou. I grapple with my son,
our eighteenth son, and my eyelids.
Fantasía marionétes, fantasía fantasía
Indikés fantasióseis. Égrapse mia epistolí
sti sýzygó tou. Oi néoi canan the symphonic thous.
Malako kálymma kai malakó malakó
kálymma kai episkeví. Estías is the kíidiá
gia tous éfivous efivous.                                        The grayling of the epistles
and the stomach and the coil of the coilotype.
Akoúei éfkola sta aftiá tou Kyríou.
Ottoman emperor, the grave of the epistles
of the stoic idiocrats. Mállines rounds,
indicates light bulbs.

The Égrapse mia epistolí sto sýzygó
tis óste orisména stoicheía kai oi arouraíoi
átan polý megáloi gia na kratísoun.
Estías is the kíidiá gia tous éfivous efivous.
The gradient of the epistle is the same
with the stomach and the stomach.
Oi néoi epikentrónontai stis anánkes tous.
The epistles of the epistles,                                               which are bassoons,
have stomachs tous kai tin ygrasía tous.
This indicates the efcolation of an anecycle.
Ble ouranó ákousa. Égrapse mia epistolí
ston idioktíti. Égrapse gia to laimó,
to stomachi kai to stomachi.                                       Fantastiske marionettes,
fantastic fantasies of Indyas. Gia merikoús
apóús, égrapse of epistolí kyriótitas kai
dimioúrgise énancho éplon. Oi néoi
epikentrónontai stis anánkes tous. Malako
kálymma kai episkevi kalimmatos
kai tou mallioú.                             Oi éfivoi dínoun idiaíteri suosy sti simasía
ton anankton tous. The epistles of the epistles
are exiguous to those of the drape
and the stomachi tou kai ton póno tou.
Even more than ten indices of affinity for each.
Onting a ton of aragon of the air, the grave of the epistles
of the idiocrats. Mállines kookles, ble tourmpáni.
The grave of the epistle of the idiocrats
is that of the half-giant,                                    and that the mercy of the ages,
and the fyllas of the churches.
This is a constructive letter in the stomach.
Young people lose their interests.
He wrote a letter about food,
stomach and humidity. Indian ears are easier to grow.
Sky Sky heard a letter to his wife.
He wrote about my husband, my guest and my guest.
Fantasy puppets, imagination fantasy
Indian fantasies. He wrote a letter to his wife.
Young people lose their interests.
Soft cover and soft soft cover and repair.
Focus on the keys to teenagers.                                                       ­   He writes
a letter from the stomach
and the abdominal cavity.
He listens easily to the ears of the Lord.
When it looked blue,                                         he wrote a letter to the owner.
Wooden Dolls, Indian Blue Glow.
She wrote a letter to her husband
so some items and rats were
too big to hold. Focus on the keys to teenagers.
He also wrote about feeding
the stomach and stomach. Young people focus
on their needs. He wrote a letter about their food,
their stomach and their humidity. Indian ears
are easier to grow. Blue sky I heard.                                                   He wrote
a letter to the owner.                            He wrote about the neck and stomach.

— The End —