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"cadences" poems
From the BBC today, Excerpt Why does Taylor Swift write so many one-note melodies? "It's easy to get distracted by her celebrity, but Taylor Swift is a once-in-a-generation songwriter. From the very beginning, she's displayed a knack for melody and storytelling that most artists never master. Take, for example, her first US number one, OUR SONG Written for a high school talent show, it's a fairly typical tale of teenage romance until the final lines: "I grabbed a pen / And an old napkin / And I wrote down our song." That's smart, self-assured songwriting for someone who wasn't old enough to vote. Notably, the lyrics insert the musician directly into the narrative - something she developed into a tried and tested trope. But Our Song also establishes another of Taylor's trademarks: The one-note melody. Excerpt Repetitive melodies that centre around a single note are part of that appeal. They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech. "They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech." "They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech." "They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech." Rebuttal Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics. They can relate to your song but if they cannot sing it themselves putting themselves in the 'first-person perspective narrative' they cannot feel as-if they have BECOME the artist and are living that moment as they remember it. Taylor Swift sings about teenage love and angst something EVERYONE ON EARTH understands. ALL POETRY BEGAN AS RHYME IN SONG. Cadences are singing statements that confer a discipline and unity. Song acts as a catharsis. The artist shares their pain in a way that is universally understood. If you want to sell a rock, literally a pebble, you will not sell it if it doesn't look like a rock. If it doesn't do what rocks do. If it is not what people remember a rock to be like. Nor will it sell if it is just like every other rock they have ever seen. It cannot convey an emotion unless it elicits emotion. One cannot even begin to feel emotional if one cannot remember easily the past and that includes lyrics one has heard that evoked said emotional state. It is horrifying to see HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS that rhyme be obliterated in exchange for an intellectual or individual perspective NOT SHARED BY THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE. If you want to sell and make money you better start thinking about the 99% of people who are not geniuses. If your sole goal in life is to attract a genius to give you a great job because of how, "smart," they perceive you to be then fine. You are not an artist. You are an employee. "Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics." "Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics." "Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics." Thrice Times Great. ⁻ᴴᵉʳᵐᵉˢ                                            BECOME                               EVERYONE ON EARTH                ALL POETRY BEGAN AS RHYME IN SONG                       HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS             NOT SHARED BY THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE                                          HOW BAD                                       artist? or employee?
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Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 10:29 AM UTC
Article: Taylor Swift and why rhyme sells,
From the BBC today, Excerpt Why does Taylor Swift write so many one-note melodies? "It's easy to get distracted by her celebrity, but Taylor Swift is a once-in-a-generation songwriter. From the very beginning, she's displayed a knack for melody and storytelling that most artists never master. Take, for example, her first US number one, OUR SONG Written for a high school talent show, it's a fairly typical tale of teenage romance until the final lines: "I grabbed a pen / And an old napkin / And I wrote down our song." That's smart, self-assured songwriting for someone who wasn't old enough to vote. Notably, the lyrics insert the musician directly into the narrative - something she developed into a tried and tested trope. But Our Song also establishes another of Taylor's trademarks: The one-note melody. Excerpt Repetitive melodies that centre around a single note are part of that appeal. They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech. "They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech." "They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech." "They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech." Rebuttal Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics. They can relate to your song but if they cannot sing it themselves putting themselves in the 'first-person perspective narrative' they cannot feel as-if they have BECOME the artist and are living that moment as they remember it. Taylor Swift sings about teenage love and angst something EVERYONE ON EARTH understands. ALL POETRY BEGAN AS RHYME IN SONG. Cadences are singing statements that confer a discipline and unity. Song acts as a catharsis. The artist shares their pain in a way that is universally understood. If you want to sell a rock, literally a pebble, you will not sell it if it doesn't look like a rock. If it doesn't do what rocks do. If it is not what people remember a rock to be like. Nor will it sell if it is just like every other rock they have ever seen. It cannot convey an emotion unless it elicits emotion. One cannot even begin to feel emotional if one cannot remember easily the past and that includes lyrics one has heard that evoked said emotional state. It is horrifying to see HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS that rhyme be obliterated in exchange for an intellectual or individual perspective NOT SHARED BY THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE. If you want to sell and make money you better start thinking about the 99% of people who are not geniuses. If your sole goal in life is to attract a genius to give you a great job because of how, "smart," they perceive you to be then fine. You are not an artist. You are an employee. "Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics." "Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics." "Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics." Thrice Times Great. ⁻ᴴᵉʳᵐᵉˢ                                            BECOME                               EVERYONE ON EARTH                ALL POETRY BEGAN AS RHYME IN SONG                       HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS             NOT SHARED BY THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE                                          HOW BAD                                       artist? or employee?
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36
In the divet between mountains Resides a wooden cabin – ostensibly an amalgamation of the scape Adroitly - I - quondam female warrior flit Down massive (ancient) hand-laid, hand-cut carved stone steps Bounding from contingent step onto the dense pad of turned soil Tacit compliance between gravity and soil holds footprints bound A compressed deflating crescendo as pace ignites with bounds Cadences of protuberant wildflowers and grasses erupt from swollen terra A winsome chromatic menagerie, dispersed in ecstatic fistfuls A venerably ancient ritual My nascent clandestine vocation Personally meted out - a beatification for my provisional sanctuary Along glacier-fed stream Lissome fingers shadow inert stalks –plucking dormant beginnings from their desiccated ligaments I am austere and unadorned save for a festoon of pyrite flecks trailing my semblance Residual gilding from my ante-meridian swim taken after requisite gathering of wild blackberries, goose berries, and rhubarb along oft-tamped path The sun, nestling into its requisite apex endorsed my completion I reclined into the hassock of soil, feeling the elements settle about with an embossment of my form Imposing verdure arched subtly as compressed soil beckoned hyperbolic flux As I lay within the basilica of opulent living columns replete with comestible bounty Lingering dew honed inflections of sacrosanct petrichor in unison with piquant clover Wild purple clover buds saccharinely tinted and inundated nestled nerves in mine cribriform plate Birds pitched and galloped through the frond tips and beyond in the lapis expanse Frequently snatching damselfly’s and assemblages of midges from their ephemeral drift Auspicious rays transcended stippled diaphanous gravid clouds Light inundated ether entered humbly into the cathedral oculus Pyrite speckled terrain beneath, and my bare gilded form above Cast a refracted aura about my sanctuary Precipitously the elusive vaporous embankment distended further Ashen atmospheric correspondence inaugurated liquescent sustenance to my mountain abode And I - Lingered beneath the descending gobbets, curls furled in a puddle Fresh topsoil cupping my corporal topographic contours Pressing blackberries into my mouth between smiles
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Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
Diaspora Vocation
In the divet between mountains Resides a wooden cabin – ostensibly an amalgamation of the scape Adroitly - I - quondam female warrior flit Down massive (ancient) hand-laid, hand-cut carved stone steps Bounding from contingent step onto the dense pad of turned soil Tacit compliance between gravity and soil holds footprints bound A compressed deflating crescendo as pace ignites with bounds Cadences of protuberant wildflowers and grasses erupt from swollen terra A winsome chromatic menagerie, dispersed in ecstatic fistfuls A venerably ancient ritual My nascent clandestine vocation Personally meted out - a beatification for my provisional sanctuary Along glacier-fed stream Lissome fingers shadow inert stalks –plucking dormant beginnings from their desiccated ligaments I am austere and unadorned save for a festoon of pyrite flecks trailing my semblance Residual gilding from my ante-meridian swim taken after requisite gathering of wild blackberries, goose berries, and rhubarb along oft-tamped path The sun, nestling into its requisite apex endorsed my completion I reclined into the hassock of soil, feeling the elements settle about with an embossment of my form Imposing verdure arched subtly as compressed soil beckoned hyperbolic flux As I lay within the basilica of opulent living columns replete with comestible bounty Lingering dew honed inflections of sacrosanct petrichor in unison with piquant clover Wild purple clover buds saccharinely tinted and inundated nestled nerves in mine cribriform plate Birds pitched and galloped through the frond tips and beyond in the lapis expanse Frequently snatching damselfly’s and assemblages of midges from their ephemeral drift Auspicious rays transcended stippled diaphanous gravid clouds Light inundated ether entered humbly into the cathedral oculus Pyrite speckled terrain beneath, and my bare gilded form above Cast a refracted aura about my sanctuary Precipitously the elusive vaporous embankment distended further Ashen atmospheric correspondence inaugurated liquescent sustenance to my mountain abode And I - Lingered beneath the descending gobbets, curls furled in a puddle Fresh topsoil cupping my corporal topographic contours Pressing blackberries into my mouth between smiles
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34
_Tendrils of drowsy pleasure entice and hypnotise, As daybreak storms; a rapturous collision, Of distorted cadences and scintillating harmonies, Between discarded blue-sky sheets._
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Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 5:13 PM UTC
Rhapsody In Blue
First, Thank you for this poetry, precious intellect. For employing each muse, under no objection-- Working hard so that the words in my head can sing their celebrations As if without effort, And take their leave in abstract Unity. Second, Thank you for my pain, you lying ************ Every time I fall under the spell of night silence, Unencumbered by those solemn realities, Somehow, still, I long to be bound in the ribbons of mental garrulousness. Because **** It'd sure be hard to write without any words-- Without the consequences of this troubled mind. So, it looks like you’ve found a convincing way to pitch the worth of suffering. And Darlin’, I suppose that I'll be the buyer of your generic brand of heartache-- Never cared for that top-shelf quick n’ done despair anyway. I must just have a pallet for lingering bitterness. Third, Thank you for this herb, mother nature. For the improvisational song that it sings in my veins, Tuning out prosaicism’s drone. For the rocking motion of my psyche That starts when the rapid and the slow converge, And the configuration of the fourth dimension warbles me to sleep In a chorus of veins— Conveying each of life’s cadences, All in vain Of what I myself Ordain.
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Feb 17, 2012
Feb 17, 2012 at 11:33 AM UTC
A List of Thanks
Hedons liken to sound. The hungry cadences wielding that satisfying resolution. The resolution we seek in between memories and the spirit of the staircase. Are we intricate bodies or are we intricate worlds, full of all you have ever known. What is that sound? I may be defined by my actions but my actions are defined entanglement. Some soft note huddled under a hard and heavy chord. Then victory comes in the 42nd measure and is defeated in the next. All of us can make noise but nobody can be heard. Even the altruist is selfish to an ideal, I want then only to make music.
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Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 9:06 AM UTC
Noise Pollution
The night becomes you - hair coiffed in fashion illuminated eyes reveal attraction, the scent of body oil pervasive, ambient music evolves persuasive savory rhetoric, cabernet erodes my inhibition no contrition, turn the ignition. The night becomes you - you wear it well   an amalgam, ardor and insouciance - redefining glamour, ephemeral moments dial down the sunlight, I am slain - voice and accent weave their spell; black dust coat, white hat, a pair of posh boots they live to tell. The night becomes you rhyme scheme -  lyrical poetry sophisticated venue, table for two ensconced, the leather lounge, similitude within difference; undulation - cadences of counterpoint - poise and peril of duality we inhabit the floor. Postprandial, conversation extempore; machinations of intoxicating discourse, I could drink your words - artistic milieu- beguiling imagery, sonant susurrations penetrate my being. The night becomes you - theoretical locutions phrasing depth and humor, undiluted amour, tensions resolve frame by frame, solidify the affair and validate the rumor subsumed in sequence, pulsating, igniting the sapid interior flame silver screen ending, effusive reviews two hearts collide and form one; the cherub's arrow finds its aim. ©2008 & 2011 W.S. Warner
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Sep 22, 2011
Sep 22, 2011 at 10:34 PM UTC
The Night Becomes You
As these forlorn cadences await- unfold To compose a disbanded vow Yielding unto harrows of gates untold Charms death to disdainful plow Death is plowed to a forgiving halt While silver moonlight and whiskey dances remain Glittering gold in this crimson vault- Feeble souls conjure grace as graceless minds abstain Counterfeit conceits ravish this open cellar As the night’s last dance ceases to a disgraceful plea The dweller’s disdain is akin to my killer And heaven yields blood to salt the earth for thee Come away now with your anguishing defeats Seek not a jagged spike as the heaven’s conspire and wake Glory and gold may turn us black as deceit But deception admonishes the dancers in their quake Spellbound nuances of this reality await at every turn Mourning and fighting the finality of this grave Orchestrated knives are rosined like honey, beckoning our blood to burn At last, a burning reckoning comes to ravage the brave But refrain, oh killer- host of this crimson vault Enlist a memoir for our sins Recalling the pieties of our gracious faults, Enough to make this blood go thin.
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Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 9:08 PM UTC
The Last Dancer
Distorted words from holy books, hypnotized by the ********** Whirl the swords 'round our heads, while making their incursion. A snowball out of control a firestorm a reining beliefs too strong to see the winds of peace within them straining. We wake to fear, and fear, and fear, and soon will come the numbing left by the sound of egos blasts, cadences of ancient drumming. Bullies in the school yard, disgruntled husbands batter wives Too many with too much and still unhappy ruining other peoples lives Who then among us will take up the banner now and love themselves, change the world unfurl their angry brow I will move the universe. I will love my life. I will throw away the gun. I will sheath my knife.
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Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 12:33 AM UTC
Distorted Words
in a tea house a jasmine girl plays a piano shimmering a song of soft keys to a lotus blush of fine infusing leaves. morning, the jewels of dawn’s filigree nets a summer storm in a wintry sky coaxed out of a melody of incense, trembling to the infinite blossom of tranquil, arching skies. your poetry, the cadences of the sun unwrapped, the light of the ocean breathed in, beautiful moons that weep for life’s joys, wild summer in our hearts.
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Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 1:10 PM UTC
for lena s (dedication poem inspired by her poetry)
There was a fog that seemed to hover thickly over the perceived salience of his musings    It was as if there were a veiled mystique that left hopeful understanding ,                    ambiguously obscured ... His soul's cadences fell beyond the pale , like a reverberant iron bell’s clamor ,                    drowning acumen ; albeit , unmistakabe crystal clear allusions , scanning inwardly, rhapsody in his mind's eye                     Illusive accord ,                     beclouded by seeming stigmas                     borne of the flesh ;                     delicately sensitive nuances ,                     misunderstood imperfections ,                     bespoken utterance weighed heavy upon heart ... In the hush of pensive repose , flow of soul streamed forth from its retreat within ; bequeathed as if darkness was magnetically drawn towards light , purging muted understanding ...                     Assuredly seeking all questions with verve ,                     accepting , that all answers sought                     are not meant to be understood A realization of those who wish to speak yet abide unspoken ; the unseen mark of those that wished they had been loved , befallen the music of a thundering heartbeat , understanding a circle is vulnerable , only makes it stronger ―                     hence ,..                     it had been written                     in countless misunderstood ways ... Knowing he resists an inner-voice to endure silently for a fear of that which remains indelibly writ , tattooed on introspective walls far removed from the afterglow of light , where depth of soul yearns to be freed ;                     heart speak hushed , deft words avowed                     in enigmatic tongues ― Vayu doth whisper                     soul's prevailing tides ebb and flow                     from unseen depths , permeating                     deeply within inner realms The spirit of soul once steeped his heart’s intone :                "Spell words that bind together passing strangers                    *Coalesce  thoughts to inspirit those whom often walk alone                  Append the goodwill of poetry, aspiring to bond individual                  hearts and minds with words of love and light.                    Conjure written  spells to bespeak sincerely ,                  a faith in unabated love*" and yet ,   he will write it again and again ,.. searching beyond words …words grasped from emerging thoughts                    drawn in to the light                    searching for other adept words                    to recite yet another way ,                    sketch another word-scape ,                    written with the relentless inexhaustibleness                    of an unstoppable awakening ...   Another winter dawn imbues a new day come to light                    he will write it again and again ,                                           ... finding another way to be set free ...                                                                  Harlon Rivers
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Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 5:35 PM UTC
A fog that seemed to hover ...
There was a fog that seemed to hover thickly over the perceived salience of his musings    It was as if there were a veiled mystique that left hopeful understanding ,                    ambiguously obscured ... His soul's cadences fell beyond the pale , like a reverberant iron bell’s clamor ,                    drowning acumen ; albeit , unmistakabe crystal clear allusions , scanning inwardly, rhapsody in his mind's eye                     Illusive accord ,                     beclouded by seeming stigmas                     borne of the flesh ;                     delicately sensitive nuances ,                     misunderstood imperfections ,                     bespoken utterance weighed heavy upon heart ... In the hush of pensive repose , flow of soul streamed forth from its retreat within ; bequeathed as if darkness was magnetically drawn towards light , purging muted understanding ...                     Assuredly seeking all questions with verve ,                     accepting , that all answers sought                     are not meant to be understood A realization of those who wish to speak yet abide unspoken ; the unseen mark of those that wished they had been loved , befallen the music of a thundering heartbeat , understanding a circle is vulnerable , only makes it stronger ―                     hence ,..                     it had been written                     in countless misunderstood ways ... Knowing he resists an inner-voice to endure silently for a fear of that which remains indelibly writ , tattooed on introspective walls far removed from the afterglow of light , where depth of soul yearns to be freed ;                     heart speak hushed , deft words avowed                     in enigmatic tongues ― Vayu doth whisper                     soul's prevailing tides ebb and flow                     from unseen depths , permeating                     deeply within inner realms The spirit of soul once steeped his heart’s intone :                "Spell words that bind together passing strangers                    *Coalesce  thoughts to inspirit those whom often walk alone                  Append the goodwill of poetry, aspiring to bond individual                  hearts and minds with words of love and light.                    Conjure written  spells to bespeak sincerely ,                  a faith in unabated love*" and yet ,   he will write it again and again ,.. searching beyond words …words grasped from emerging thoughts                    drawn in to the light                    searching for other adept words                    to recite yet another way ,                    sketch another word-scape ,                    written with the relentless inexhaustibleness                    of an unstoppable awakening ...   Another winter dawn imbues a new day come to light                    he will write it again and again ,                                           ... finding another way to be set free ...                                                                  Harlon Rivers
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61
Got lost and stopped by the grotto struck deals with villains, and though I'm in my feelings kneeling and ****** off I payed to be ripped off cadences dip, lost the lotto Watery graves appealing strange the solution is lame the parade's an insane path to follow Radical urchin burden grifting the current mechanisms infected luring fevers to wallow in, ad absurdum fathom futility in survival famine imbibes a stifled echo of revival in my head I'm just playing dead for my recital better informed to the abhorrence I'm entitled feathered in form alluring sword alarm from Michael clever to wars imparted forcible and vital, to the era but staring in awe before the cycle Bearing a maw beneath the throes along the final. Bury me after my heart and guard informal notions of the lauded if calluses lift the filthy and applaud it whittle the simply to the too intense or lawless for a history glistening through a rose of sickly fondness I won't ask if you were listening to all this but I must admit I don't think I can trust you to be honest...
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Dec 17, 2018
Dec 17, 2018 at 1:25 AM UTC
No Title
After all this time, the rain has come again soybeans bursting in the pod, dry brown fields. The lake as low as it has ever been clouds pass, thin wisps, withholding all they wield. We too have dried, mere husks, once plangent await cadences, intimacy's desires. A chair rests on a deck, first child's salient artifact of family life once resonant. Not first love, but founded in maturity enough, perhaps, to defy time's ravages. Embarked with proclaimed mutual surety to weather all a life's uncertain passages. But, for now, we tender loves rebuff and find the rain must prove to be enough.
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Oct 8, 2011
Oct 8, 2011 at 1:53 PM UTC
Sonnet, for when the rain must be enough.
. *Come swim within this restless silence the raging river deep within beckons the cadences we hear are the heart's untamed waters overflowing , eroding this heart's shorelines , leaving the thrummed edges wild prevailing currents swelling , no longer able to be contained within the soul’s boundless margins impatiently lost and lovely , faithfully dangerous    I’ll be your ocean and you my sky-- feel the calming tide flood in around us ?    I've been swimming in circles , treading water in an eddy of revolving reverie waiting for the world to turn ; fighting to release the swirling currents meandering through the shadowed places  so deep within how does it feel to be the sky that bestows ocean's light ? how does it feel to be constantly on my mind ? ... what a beautiful piece of heartache* ✩ ✩☺ ✩ ✩  ... ©
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Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 7:43 PM UTC
A beautiful piece of heartache
Light seeps through the Window cadences of rhythm Like a heartbeat Of true intentions Misconceptions dodge the soul Dust particles pass my face Proving I’m still alive Somewhere inside This shell At night my astrolabe Can not contain the measures Of uneasiness and skepticism arising In this government induced anxiety
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Sep 16, 2019
Sep 16, 2019 at 3:58 PM UTC
Particles
Waking in darkness to brainstorming moments Warm under covers on this freezing morn, Recalling the instants of yesterday’s sequences, How they developed and how they were born…… *“Moving with grace in a form fitting garment, Curves in the shadow light tauntingly near, Beautiful lines in a moment of weakness Titillate senses erotically clear.” “Watching the mouth of the bigoted warbler, Watching him spout his idolatry spiels, Rhetoric of mind bending, **** licking garbage Image of self is the place that he kneels.” “Urgency now with insurances deadline Making provision for payments now due, Juggle the baksheesh for paying the piper Or the cruelty of bankers will cauterise you!” “Laughter arouses the happiest moments Merriment opens the faces so well, Emotively gracious the giving of laughter Contagiously, wonderfully ringing the bell.” "Uncomfortably caught in the midst of an untruth Unconscionably really, can’t call it a lie, Got caught in momentum of tale in the telling Upsetting me now to the point where I cry.” "Can’t recall why, but I know there’s a matter, Ripping my britches to try to recall…. Something importantly, now to be dealt with Frustratingly lost in the fog of it all.” "Harmonies rise like a mist in the temple Delicate cadences rise and they fall, I wonder why God allows this unbeliever To sing with the Angels in his Holy hall?” “Running my fingertips over her curvature Feeling the ***** line plummet to fall Knowing the thrill of elicit collusion Anticipate promise of wanting it all.”* Sudden alarm in the midst of a waking Urgency calls at the dawn of the day, Heaving my soul into frost waiting fingers Leaving my dreams in the warmth where they lay. Marshalg “Pukehana Paradise” Auckland NZ. 22 June 2013
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Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 6:40 PM UTC
Reflections of Yesterday
Waking in darkness to brainstorming moments Warm under covers on this freezing morn, Recalling the instants of yesterday’s sequences, How they developed and how they were born…… *“Moving with grace in a form fitting garment, Curves in the shadow light tauntingly near, Beautiful lines in a moment of weakness Titillate senses erotically clear.” “Watching the mouth of the bigoted warbler, Watching him spout his idolatry spiels, Rhetoric of mind bending, **** licking garbage Image of self is the place that he kneels.” “Urgency now with insurances deadline Making provision for payments now due, Juggle the baksheesh for paying the piper Or the cruelty of bankers will cauterise you!” “Laughter arouses the happiest moments Merriment opens the faces so well, Emotively gracious the giving of laughter Contagiously, wonderfully ringing the bell.” "Uncomfortably caught in the midst of an untruth Unconscionably really, can’t call it a lie, Got caught in momentum of tale in the telling Upsetting me now to the point where I cry.” "Can’t recall why, but I know there’s a matter, Ripping my britches to try to recall…. Something importantly, now to be dealt with Frustratingly lost in the fog of it all.” "Harmonies rise like a mist in the temple Delicate cadences rise and they fall, I wonder why God allows this unbeliever To sing with the Angels in his Holy hall?” “Running my fingertips over her curvature Feeling the ***** line plummet to fall Knowing the thrill of elicit collusion Anticipate promise of wanting it all.”* Sudden alarm in the midst of a waking Urgency calls at the dawn of the day, Heaving my soul into frost waiting fingers Leaving my dreams in the warmth where they lay. Marshalg “Pukehana Paradise” Auckland NZ. 22 June 2013
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44
It pretends to be one of us, but it’s not quite human. It masquerades as a person, wearing skin that mimics our flesh, with joints designed to rotate and glide like ours. It listens to the changing cadences and tones of our voices, measures our temperatures and respiration and blinking rates, and then reacts. And when it behaves, it does so on accumulated data, learned and converted into best practices. But it does not have fantasies. It fills its shoes with synthetic muscle and steel but never wears another’s. It does not look at birds and wishes to fly, nor looks to the moon in hopes of someday making the lengthy trek to wander the gray crust. It pretends to be one of us, but it’s not quite human. Not yet. - by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
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Apr 11, 2020
Apr 11, 2020 at 2:07 PM UTC
Progressing Beyond The Uncanny
it took me so little time to learn your syllables and cadences, to memorize your vowel sounds and predict the next breath in your sentence but i am starting to forget and it feels so good feels so good feels so good
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Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 3:10 AM UTC
thirteen
I ache smiles glow like mobile little campfires warming the room comfy, cozy. home. you are home in this place, because they're here. arms wrap around shoulders and hug them tight comforting, together. you belong here, because they're here. eyes closed in laughter one minute sparkling with care the next depth, affection. you are loved here more than anywhere, because they're here. you breathe the air and taste the sweetness of familiar voices, snuggle into the cadences and timbres instantly recognizable as belonging. this is a special place, this place where you belong. this place where you're together. like an old favorite blanket you have given the memory to me of belonging with you to wrap around my shoulders and hug close when I am touched by the chilling fingers of sadness. I ache because I miss it, yes but mainly because it is such a beautiful thing it hurts.
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Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 10:26 PM UTC
I ache
Am I intended to be jealous? Should I have such contradicting emotions? You confuse me, dear love. “I love you”, is your claim, But I am tangled, twisted, feeling tiny- Like a bump on a twig, grown out of a branch Among all the branches of your large tree called concerns. It is not pleasant; It is not right to be this way. You are hurtful, my love. Why are you not the happy thing they say you should be? I have longed to find in us what I believe is joy. So I try my best. But your actions cut my confidence; Your words burn my hope. And still I stay close, As though on a chain. It’s a leash you’ve created with your manipulation, Your way of leaving me without self esteem And your false cadences of affection. So this is how you wound me. And now I resist. I hold my shaking hand up and finally declare, “You can not make me feel this way.” Did God give you this right? Did He entitle you to my heart, And along with it present to you authority to do as you will? I dare say no; I dare say he gave to me that place. So at last, I will not let you do as you have any longer. I refuse to be so small. I end this. And I dare say I am allowed to find real happiness now.
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Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 9:13 PM UTC
My Power
We speak carefully without naming body parts.   As if the utterance of a word could evoke touch – which would mean hearts racing off in jolty cadences, sweat and altogether too much skin. We move with hyperawareness of our limbs. The air ripples and reaches with each gesture in phantoms of feeling. I sense the edges of your fingers, I cannot ignore the millimeters of space between our knees. Your mouth curves down at the edges, when your gummy smile splits at the things I say. I remember your lips. I cannot put them away in a part of me that locks. Your mouth opening against mine – your tongue slipping in. Put it away. Your mouth on the pulse below my chin. Turning back in your doorway, the dawn light white on your skin. Put it away. This wanting is something I can keep like a mantra - a bed with you won’t again be a bed for me. Now we drink as strangers or friends who once pressed their bodies against each other’s – but heavy snow covers only blur the edges, nothing disappears entirely. We speak carefully to hide the pump of blood and memory.
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Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 4:51 AM UTC
We Speak Carefully
Sea stars, urchins and anemones      ride the tidal waters at Rialto Beach            swirling into shallow pools -       clad in shades of blue, emerald and violet. Gnarls of ancient driftwood line the beach      up to the rainforest’s edge just beyond the rise.            Pulsing waves dash and roar against the sea stacks        where the Pacific adjoins the California shore. Legions of seagulls circle above        piercing the misted air with their cries            and the tide, beckoned by the Sky Queen,        begins to ebb and regain the open sea. As the sun sinks into the western sky –        the towers of Split Rock and Hole in the Wall             are silhouetted against the horizon        pasteled in gold, orange and burgundy hues. Gray whales and dolphins breach the surface        before plunging into the sacred depths            where the ocean beats pulse on and on - sounding resonant cadences        through timeless hallows of infinity.
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Aug 24, 2020
Aug 24, 2020 at 6:16 PM UTC
Olympic Coast
The heart sounds cadences 24 - 7     whether we choose to march or where, rhythm section to our several songs,     no drum line like a blood line. It's all business for this noble instrument      never laying out for a chorus for survival is its singular tune. Aristotle thought our hearts were made     to air condition our brains but evidently not enough my friends     for that pesky mythic heart, right sized for greeting cards     and hopeful men on bended knees also drives our swords and powder     to quell our brothers' singing souls. Brothers and sisters, is not the hour at hand     to tune our hearts to superior anthems composed for us in celestial harmony?
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Oct 29, 2017
Oct 29, 2017 at 8:02 AM UTC
Affairs of the Heart
There is much music in language Words resonate, full like a gong Meaning canters like a runaway train And cadences lilt like calypso song When poets open their minds to heaven It pours its musings down from the rift When their ears have heard the musical word Their sombre souls uplift
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Nov 26, 2016
Nov 26, 2016 at 1:39 PM UTC
The Music Of Language
Kamau Brathwaite wrote That "the hurricane doesn't roar in pentameters" And I really believed it could be true That Caribbean hurricanes had their own cadences, their own dances : Ida was reggae, Allen was merengue Brigitte was gwoka David was cha cha cha and Edith was kadans rampa and Dorian calypso All dactyls hatched instead of iambic pentameters Out of each island Zeus 's head Until i met the still eye of Hurricane Muse. Muse was her nickname Her real name was Shar Named after shark and share and shear and sharon, Named after a calypso rose Fearless except for lizards, a rose of  tiny thorns With a taste of a stormy black coffee Born to a dragon of Jade and a   white *** tigress In the midst of the 1961 hurricane season. Shar has the S of Sébastien Sally Sam Shary Sean and Sara The H of Humberto Hanna Henri Hermine Harold and Hélène The A of Andrea Arthur Ana Alex Arlene and Alberto And the R of  Rebecca René Rose Richard Rina and Rafael And she dances not only calypso And quadrille and zouk But a mix as well of Salsa Hustle Affranchi and Reggae In iambic pentameters While she gently paints fearless green lizards Having her five iambs of coffee First thing in the unstressed and stressed morning Before she even opens the syllables of her still Muse eye.
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Sep 7, 2019
Sep 7, 2019 at 3:23 AM UTC
In the still eye of hurricane Muse
dilapidated memories of porters holding luggage pointed north, south, east, west till above greasy lighted seas a semblance poses: broken windows hanging in melancholic cadences of dank repair and doors of half remembered cabarets open and close on treacherous gardens seething tiny bones of lost dreams a lover's whispered kiss hiding betrayal a ballerina's advent through billowing pink clouds a yacht moored to the docks of a mansion slow winter sunsets kindling false yearns naked summer skin now expanse of cautious smiles and tender smokes beneath the azure skies of answered praise and fall to each gathered day
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May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 12:56 AM UTC
SCOTT AND ZELDA, 1929, CANNES