"bravura" poems
Slipping into my apron,
Hungry in body and soul
Humming as a song played...
I grab my knife and chop-board
Unsure of what to cook
Strange inspirations possess me
Filling me with *****
My kitchen becomes a stage
In my hands- a plectrum and fretboard
Silver utensils- my live audience!*
As I play divine recipes
Strumming master acoustic chords
Chopping fresh, colorful vegetables.
I dash to the remote,
Punch "Repeat" and dash back on stage
Landing on E♭ minor,
Scaling impossible notes,
I slice with razor-sharp plectrum,
On onions and other root chords
My fret arrayed with colors,
Of spinach, lettuce, tomatoes
Carrots, potatoes, olives
Pepper, cabbage and cucumbers.
I hear a thunder of applause
As I ignite the cooker
Butter sizzling in the hot pan
A staccato of sharp notes,
*Ready to modulate innocent vegetables
Through spicy aromatic crescendos!*
I fight hard to suppress a sneeze,
No sneezing on-stage! Unprofessional!
Multitudes of seconds rush by and…
Voila!!!
I stand for a moment
Salivating, awed at my bravura!
Wishing I could hang it on my wall
Tis beautiful like art
But I can’t eat this cake and have it!
So I dig in…
Heaven and earth kiss for a moment
L U S C I O U S!!!
Luckily, it didn’t taste nauseating
Like my last attempt.
No time for ceremonies
I munch from pan to mouth
Pausing for what may pass for a prayer,
I relish every bite!
Not that I’m a foodie or something,
But nothing beats this combo-
Of good food and soul music.
And yes,
*Music is indeed food to the soul!*
I devour, in view- the next meal...
© Raphael Uzor
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
Sinbad’s sea-battered ship was
poised on the edge of annihilation,
The Sultan's brow furrowed with curiosity,
then without warning
Scheherazade stilled her narrative
and lived to see the morning sun.
When the moon and stars next owned the sky,
Sinbad was snatched from the jaws of death
then the saga of Prince Kalandar
seized the king's soul with wonder
but Scheherazade left the tale unfinished
and sang with the birds at dawn.
Rimsky-Korsakoff turned the pages at his desk -
consumed by Scheherazade’s charms
then etched his pen across the waiting staves:
The violin must weave her spell once more
and bassoon and oboe take the prince’s part.
Trombone and trumpet led the martial call
and all the rest enlisted for the cause.
Russian bravura fused with the seductive allure
of exotic tunes born of the dust on the silken road.
A sonic whirlwind filled Saint Paul Church,
as winds and tremolos grew to cyclonic force.
A wall of brass completed Kalandar’s tale.
capped by an exuberant clash of cymbal plates.
The silence yielded to tender violins
chanting a hymn to the princess in all her grace.
Tambourine and winds wove a tapestry
of her debonaire and most virtuous prince.
As the final pizzicato chord faded, the Sultan
turned to Scheherazade with tear-filled eyes
and beheld his immortal princess
and she her valiant and eternal prince
and so it would be as long as night preceded dawn.
She kissed away his tears of joy and whispered in his ear,
“My beloved husband, I will tell you stories forever.
Tomorrow you shall learn of the Feast at Baghdad.”
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 11:27 PM UTC
Con diez cañones por banda,
viento en popa a toda vela,
no corta el mar, sino vuela
un velero bergantín;
bajel pirata que llaman,
por su bravura, el Temido,
en todo mar conocido
del uno al otro confín.
La luna en el mar riela,
en la lona gime el viento
y alza en blando movimiento
olas de plata y azul;
y va el capitán pirata,
cantando alegre en la popa,
Asia a un lado, al otro Europa,
y allá a su frente Estambul;
-«Navega velero mío,
sin temor,
que ni enemigo navío,
ni tormenta, ni bonanza,
tu rumbo a torcer alcanza,
ni a sujetar tu valor.
»Veinte presas
hemos hecho
a despecho,
del inglés,
»y han rendido
sus pendones
cien naciones
a mis pies.
»Qué es mi barco: mi tesoro,
qué es mi dios: la libertad,
mi ley, la fuerza y el viento,
mi única patria la mar.
»Allá muevan feroz guerra
ciegos reyes
por un palmo más de tierra,
que yo tengo aquí por mío
cuanto abarca el mar bravío,
a quien nadie impuso leyes.
»Y no hay playa
sea cualquiera,
ni bandera
de esplendor,
»que no sienta
mi derecho
y dé pecho
a mi valor.
»Qué es mi barco: mi tesoro,
qué es mi dios: la libertad,
mi ley, la fuerza y el viento,
mi única patria la mar.
»A la voz de ¡barco viene!
es de ver
cómo vira y se previene
a todo trapo a escapar:
que yo soy el rey del mar,
y mi furia es de temer.
»En las presas
yo divido
lo cogido
por igual:
»sólo quiero
por riqueza
la belleza
sin rival.
»Qué es mi barco: mi tesoro,
qué es mi dios: la libertad,
mi ley, la fuerza y el viento,
mi única patria la mar.
»¡Sentenciado estoy a muerte!;
yo me río;
no me abandone la suerte,
y al mismo que me condena,
colgaré de alguna entena
quizá en su propio navío.
»Y si caigo
¿qué es la vida?
Por perdida
ya la di,
»cuando el yugo
de un esclavo
como un bravo
sacudí.
»Qué es mi barco: mi tesoro,
qué es mi dios: la libertad,
mi ley, la fuerza y el viento,
mi única patria la mar.
»Son mi música mejor
aquilones
el estrépito y temblor
de los cables sacudidos,
del ***** mar los bramidos
y el rugir de mis cañones.
»Y del trueno
al son violento,
y del viento
al rebramar,
»yo me duermo
sosegado
arrullado
por el mar.
»Qué es mi barco: mi tesoro,
qué es mi dios: la libertad,
mi ley, la fuerza y el viento,
mi única patria la mar».
José de Espronceda, 1840
1.6k
This takes place on a rooftop above the city
Almost twangy, almost
Stars are out, and boy, are they ever strong
The sweetest lullaby of a love song
Sung to me from your fingertips
Patetico
Strumming the notes as you would a lover
Best friends turned to endless memories
Perfect, soft whispers
Harmonies that make me listen so close
I don't want to miss a thing
Breathing in the calmest wind-- your air
Sospirando
Coming together with a melody that grows
Two bodies unified as one loud symbol--
Crescendo, dolcissimo, fortepiano, melting gelato
Rosy reds and the palest clouds
Awakening both hearts, not a dream
You tighten your grip and beg me not to go
Ostinato
As long as you keep singing from your fingertips
Appassionato
And if those hands are your outlets
Bravura
I’ll stay here
Al fine
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 3:12 AM UTC
A poet is sitting by the riverside
As he stares blankly into the water
He sees a copycat staring back at him
A poor man’s poet of the people
Once there was the promise of bravura and muster
Now his company is mind-numbing and lackluster
And there’s only one poet to blame
One man who deserves the centerpiece
In this game of shame
For a battologist he has always been
He never cared to forbear
The tedious yet sumptuous curse
Of repeating and echoing
And echoing and repeating
So the poet sits by the riverside
His glazy eyes fixed on a man in the water
Who would like to be a swan
But is doomed to be a vulture
The disciple of an inferior culture
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 3:43 AM UTC
<>
“I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat,
gossip of flames, clack of sticks cooking my meals,
I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice,
I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or following,
Sounds of the city and sounds out of the city, sounds of the
day and night”
Song of Myself (1892 version) by WALT WHITMAN
§§§
*Irony great, some say unto delicious, for my writing,
be a fusing of surroundings of silences, admixture of
inconsequential noises, atomic horn and geese honking,
sun rays speaking in tongues, my skin translating, both,
the sounds of the city, those of out of city, merged, both,
accessible, instant recall, stored for tongue tasing upon
these blank pages below, needy for wordy fulfillment,
copy and place these mishmash of cacophonous,
on a single page, simmer, blend and sauce, of course,
salt to taste, mine, author of this recipe being born,
born in the night, prepped by day, the lovely sounds,
kettle or pan, broiler, fryer, slow cooked on full flame
they are the melted butter sweetness crossing the span
between the body of the heartbeat, the ache of the brain,
shot out in rapidity, error’d and stain’d, their state natural,
for this mess of beans, collection of noises, stir my soul
where they contain’d, aromatic, fanatic, exotic, sticky hot,
only a singular harsh invades, the shrill of the voice human
this piece, this poem, a flavoring, a dish-not-to-be-repeated,
once consumed, spoiled milk, molded with Jello mold green,
back to hiding in place of unseen, of bravura masked as cowardice,
when crackle of easy wasted word cowards, daily spewed,
so precious these ingredients, these artful sounds, easy ruined,
chitchats of nothingness, parlous blasé wastrels, seize! cease!
take thy tongue, let it memorize all the oddities that fill your ears,
ecrivez! the cooing, smacking, the alliteration of snap, crackle, and
yes, pop! and if you can love the human voice, of that too, tho not me,
more beloved, the exterior symphony of kettle drum, soft cry of violin,
timpani tingling, guitar plucking, the voice of men, too oft abusing and abused by untruths, emboldened lies, they are the sounds
I love least, love to hate. a shrill disease, the TV liars...*
§§§§§
May
Manhattan Island
May 15, 2020
May 15, 2020 at 3:44 PM UTC
He scrunches up his face;
A bravura of sheer irksomeness.
Fruitless tries of wild fathom.
His act halts his face facing mine;
dawning of endless gaze.
After a splendid array of irritability all that his partings exit is a set sound of,
Tch.
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 9:44 AM UTC
Gemini in the dark
Preys upon beloved aurora.
To pounce on a pierced heart
Is the art of bravura
For your meticulous game.
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 8:05 PM UTC
Ó morte! O silêncio de tua voz me é tortura,
Pois suspiraste em chama tão cedo
Colhendo de desesperança, o medo
E secando fontes de virtude em tua bravura
Ó morte! Por que recolhe tua graça obscura
Quando nutre interna, minh'alma em segredo?
Por que fazes-me ardilosa, teu lume enredo,
Quando aviva-me o desejo de unção tão pura?
De eras tortuosas, tece-me piedoso dilema
Neste espírito breve, de impetuosa e extrema
Flor desatada e imprudente
E eriçam minhas razões para que a tema
Mas bem sei que és gentil! Pois, da paz amena
És tu quem guardas os tesouros eminentes
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 10:06 PM UTC
seminal squirt didst sanctify
an anonymous boulder
when mercury dipped below
hashtag mark registering colder
than usual temperatures circa
winter of year 2000 in proximity
to the sacred chapel
at Valley Forge, Pennsylvania
(house zing carillon player)
rifling thru manilla folder
first inn search of apropos
mailer daemon ***** muse sic,
thence finely pitted secretly riddled with holes
encoded sheet threaded thru bell jar contrivance
sans, handy dandy mechanical holder
to accompany prurient powerful ******* pang
bubbling (like the **** kens), and didst smolder
especially, cuz a free ranging
NON GMO, **** in boots
hello kitty sauntered
(emanating pheromone heat
hand dill lee pronouncing feral passe faux foots),
dripping, seething with hormonal secretion
uttered via vow welled roots
gluten and monosodiumglutinate free *****
hapt tabby on the prowl ready
for par laid view ****** piqued Saint Peter
to enter heavenly labial shoots
rather than suffer frost bite
the above mew wing tigress attempted
to keep toasty warm
('thru minuscule tunnel
lacked add **** quit light)
prickly endowment fired
raging testosterone
with braggadocio, brio, bravura and might
owing pretentiously pusillanimous feline
fur reed black as night
hood hit attempt to cap cha moxie ********
thus ensuing a mutually satisfactory plight
until a park ranger back his utility truck
than gregarious, felicitous, erogenous
then quick as greased lightening
***** creatures disappeared out ta sight.
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 10:19 PM UTC
And what’s then? What’s left?
Maybe the faith that the day'll beep,
That day when the sun pushs cheekily
To windows, disturbing sleep.
That day when there’s no sadness,
When everything’s clear and plain!
That day when the soul is married
To happiness, sprayed with rain.
That day when all the trumpets around
Struck the march, bravura and blessed!
That day when I live the whole time
Just live without any dread.
Jun 13, 2025
Jun 13, 2025 at 6:12 PM UTC
Couples.
attractive people walk in
I'm too tired to make up an excuse
The only people I know that judge me
Is the singles
Couples..
I just can't be apart of that group
Ive never been in one
I don't know if I should be ashamed
But I don't care
At least not anymore
Couples...
I'm not afraid, I'm sure of it
Takes a lot of courage, so I've heard
I have no reason to build myself up
I like being lonely
And I always will be
I don't need anyone
Couples....
My heart has been destroyed
Not even in a group
I just seen some things go down
I shouldn't have been there
By the time I will be in the couple group
I'll be dead
Partially deaf
But that's not an excuse
It's the truth
Couples.....
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 6:45 PM UTC
I told everyone that I’d be fine -
They dynamited my golden years
And put the pieces in the trash -
But I said I would be OK.
I have resources and reserves
That paved the way
Past rocky highways in the past
And would suffice me once again.
I reassured the ones who wept
That this was not to be an ending -
That I had maps and GPS
To guide me to a safer haven.
But when I looked inside the box
Containing my bravado
There was a hug and a kindly word
And nothing else to help me.
Shocked at all that emptiness
The first thing that I did was cry
And gape into that hollow space
To wonder where the courage went.
But when I saw the others stare
I clamped the lid back on real tight
And glued a smile onto my face,
Picked up my box and strode away.
Now I’m hidden safe at home
Astonished at my disbelief
That years could warp away and melt
The fortitude I counted on.
That I should find myself alone
With nothing but a broken crutch
To help me cross the quicksand bog
And locate solid ground again.
How shall I navigate the mire?
My GPS and maps are gone.
Bravura’s just a memory.
I’m not the big girl after all,
There is no Mommie I can call
No friend to offer magic beans
This time I find myself alone
To see if I can find a way
To fill back up that empty box.
ljm
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 1:14 AM UTC
Dulce miel, esa de tu boca,
que arropa mi piel
desatando una furia peligrosa.
Como dulce caramelo
te comes mis deseos,
tus labios tienen el calor preciso
para derretirme en tu regodeo.
Mi sal no te asusta
pues tu miel en mi piel
me envuelve en dulzura.
Tú mi dulce jinete,
dulce complemento para esta amazona,
versado en jadear mi cuerpo
y, en tus brazos pierdo…toda mi bravura.
Confeccionas lentamente
el cocido de mi pasión,
elevando mis respiros..,
desnivelando mi intuición.
Como dulce caramelo
elasticidad soy en tus manos
moldeando mi cuerpo a tu agrado.
Dulce y salada, tierna y antojada,
Me subes la mirada-confirmándome
“Que tú eres quien manda”.
Tú suculenta y acaramelada boca
me derrite en ensueños, y,
evidenciada siempre quedo….
cuando el azúcar de mi piel
deja rastros en tu cuerpo.
LeydisProse
2/14/2018
https://m.facebook.com/LeydisProse/
Feb 20, 2018
Feb 20, 2018 at 10:44 AM UTC
Coronad a la escoba de laurel, mirto, rosa.
Es el héroe entre aquellos que afrontan la basura.
Para librar del polvo sin vuelo cada cosa
bajó, porque era palma y azul, desde la altura.
Su ardor de espada joven y alegre no reposa.
Delgada de ansiedad, pureza, sol, bravura,
azucena que barre sobre la misma fosa,
es cada vez más alta, más cálida, más pura.
Nunca: la escoba nunca será crucificada,
porque la juventud propaga su esqueleto
que es una sola flauta muda, pero sonora.
Es una sola lengua sublime y acordada.
Y ante su aliento raudo se ausenta el polvo quieto.
Y asciende una palmera, columna hacia la aurora.
398
"I come from a defiant lineage of constellations made with the brightest stars.
Raised as a raw, untamed wolf by women who never apologized for their power.
My blood is the receptacle of unflinching bravura."
- "How are you so fearless as a woman?"
Jun 7, 2020
Jun 7, 2020 at 12:32 PM UTC
Last night I was beguiled by dreams galore:
of sailing ships, pirates, explorers and more,
but the best for me, was of a country scene.
A quiet rustic retreat, where I was often seen,
accompanied by the music of a babbling stream,
cavorting with Nature. Wandering in my dream
along a brook, where willows danced and swayed,
in choreographed terpsichore, as water music played.
The cadence of rattling reeds: a pulsing even beat,
were as castanets, that energised my restless feet!
There was magic in the music, heard by me this night.
Seduced by its bravura, I savoured the gentle delight,
of soft vagrant breezes, that added their unique refrain,
to the rhythmic tattoo. Enhanced by the beating rain,
perfection then prevailed, with the pleasing music heard.
Complete in all respects, it required no single word
to further foster my enjoyment, of its haunting melody.
As such it was pleasing, and a pleasant treat for me,
though twas a short lived dream; that was soon done!
Of many dreams encountered? This was a cherished one.
Long shall I remember, as a moment to hold dear,
for such entertaining dreams, are a rarity I fear.
Bringing a welcome smile, to replace a morning frown;
raising spirits high, when I’m worried or cast down!
May 3rd, 2018.
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 7:26 AM UTC
“We were affirmed to fill each other’s souls,
And I so wondered does she love me as once?
Its dubiety that one should never have to voice,
The strength in your words has become futile,
My love is unequivocal with no quandary just praise,
I know no other way to love you other than I have,
Because love is meant to be linked as one to other,
I believe no woman should be without a crown,
Recall your soul clenched in that poignancy of quarry,
I feel as if you have your hand caressing my chest,
Auspices armor for every hand like fruits of the sun,
Create women into mystically celestial beauties,
How has the integral of love come on me abruptly?
For when I am sad I always know she is far away,
With egoistic antipathy subjugated transient bravura,
Confined souls left in disarray coerce incessant decay,
It is said you expire twice once when your love leaves,
And when the person you loved calls your name anew,
It is then we will receive our Laurel Arch”
By AG 06/01/2018 ©
Jun 1, 2018
Jun 1, 2018 at 6:58 PM UTC