"choral" poems
~for those who will read this and weep~
*the quiet ones,
the silent Job ones,
who quote not from the
Book of Lamentations,
but author their own,
based on-the-job experience
localized versions of cryptic elegiacs
accepting the wooden crosses borne,
stepping up to the
unrequested unforeseen,
then buried under, burnt alive,
yet never relieved by dying,
nailed by words, stronger than iron,
promises sworn, promises kept
with no ending date relief,
promises by and to themselves,
but not for themselves!*
*the wearers of crystal glass shackles,
adorned with decorative locks for which
no key did the maker make,
nor any divine creator
dare conceive an early release,
never no escape contemplated,
for the lock human, unrepentant unbreakable,
a decorative useless metaphor gesture,
a blunt “life ***** advertisement
I compose amidst a
bus pond of mismatched city folk,
a tapestry of ages colors and differing views on god/no god,
none would believe that as the bus sways me,
it’s in rhythm to holy choral music,
hundreds year old,
divinity masses and motets worships,
where one human can hide temporarily
a safe house,
to calm his questioning relentless
from the horrors of no answers,
for when the mind has no solution
to the rough and tumbling lives,
lived in glass shackled confinement,
the poets desperation equals theirs*
*summon eagles to transport these imprisoned,
but the shackled refuse,
I come to them but they wave me off,
I go crazy for once I was enslaved,
thirty years war that left devastation,
from which so many poems created
so I speak with heightened regard
of one who planned futures for others where his
non-existence was a founding father (ha!)*
*but the day came and
I was released by my own inactions,
but means nothing until a way to
away found
to release the yet bound early*
got a couch, airline miles, hundred dollars
in my pocket and an unrelenting need
to save them, a consumption disease,
the glass shackled, at ease,
won’t rest till all are freed
this my creed
no one left behind
these cyber words do not mock
for they are unbounded, set free,
when
the flesh connects and the needs of the flesh
are stronger for they are in heart conceived
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 5:45 PM UTC
Day-colored wine,
night-colored wine,
wine with purple feet
or wine with topaz blood,
wine,
starry child
of earth,
wine, smooth
as a golden sword,
soft
as lascivious velvet,
wine, spiral-seashelled
and full of wonder,
amorous,
marine;
never has one goblet contained you,
one song, one man,
you are choral, gregarious,
at the least, you must be shared.
At times
you feed on mortal
memories;
your wave carries us
from tomb to tomb,
stonecutter of icy sepulchers,
and we weep
transitory tears;
your
glorious
spring dress
is different,
blood rises through the shoots,
wind incites the day,
nothing is left
of your immutable soul.
Wine
stirs the spring, happiness
bursts through the earth like a plant,
walls crumble,
and rocky cliffs,
chasms close,
as song is born.
A jug of wine, and thou beside me
in the wilderness,
sang the ancient poet.
Let the wine pitcher
add to the kiss of love its own.
My darling, suddenly
the line of your hip
becomes the brimming curve
of the wine goblet,
your breast is the grape cluster,
your ******* are the grapes,
the gleam of spirits lights your hair,
and your navel is a chaste seal
stamped on the vessel of your belly,
your love an inexhaustible
cascade of wine,
light that illuminates my senses,
the earthly splendor of life.
But you are more than love,
the fiery kiss,
the heat of fire,
more than the wine of life;
you are
the community of man,
translucency,
chorus of discipline,
abundance of flowers.
I like on the table,
when we're speaking,
the light of a bottle
of intelligent wine.
Drink it,
and remember in every
drop of gold,
in every topaz glass,
in every purple ladle,
that autumn labored
to fill the vessel with wine;
and in the ritual of his office,
let the simple man remember
to think of the soil and of his duty,
to propagate the canticle of the wine.
27.2k
I.
And my hair became too much
It overtook the walls
made its way into the office on the sixth floor
and then hung
like a dripping willow’s branches
over the desks
By the time they thought to find me
I’d already been wrapped up in a cocoon of brown hair
indistinguishable from the walls
that was now
also covered in the thick strands of undulated hair
II.
everything and everyone became consumed.
III.
In hairy chrysalis, the scissors uselessly
hung on some poor frantic pair of hands
forced into pupa
IV.
It was on the third day that the streets surrounding the corporate buildings were once again
populated with people, that a young woman in heels swore she heard a
faint choral singing coming from the 5th or 6th floor of a dreary grey building.
V.
everything cocooned
everyone consumed
all in pupa
VI.
During metamorphosis, a caterpillar digests itself leaving only behind imaginal discs
that shape it’s adult body.
everything becomes consumed.
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 12:05 PM UTC
I wish you detox from drunken heights,
I’m jesus for today until my current shift ends
and the next one begins, after many nights,
in the garden centre of fallen south coast eden.
Shine shine shine
Light of mine
For now everything’s just fine
People’s faces glitter as I go by,
memories of sinless youth,
for my hands blind with nostalgia,
that my being resurrects.
The child Lazarus scurries past my side,
to his home with his future in his hands,
in my hands, cupped wide.
Shine shine shine
Light of mine
For now everything’s just fine
I can love the unfortunate,
for my fortune is golden.
Delivered in letters
from North, West, East.
My trinity circle who join me at my supper,
breaking the garlic bread and sipping the borello,
to top crab ravioli baptised in the stream of sauce.
Shine shine shine
Light of mine
For now everything’s just fine
The gates of heaven are open,
unblocked by the deaths of Keats, Shelley and Williams,
their souls not blocking the exit with an Underground Queue.
I give my blessings to
Livingstone and Charles Gordon
The one native he changed and the others’ sacrifice at Khartoum
Gained me my crown to modestly flaunt.
Shine shine shine
Light of mine
For now everything’s just fine
I float down the hall, to His Mighty Voice,
as my gold becomes a donation on the alter,
to gain the choral hymns of Mercury gilded rock gods
that will brighten my days
for now,
oh glorious moments.
Amen.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 12:22 PM UTC
*Rising full moon spreads her cryptic commands
on the tree branch a wise owl sits intently listening
from her window a girl in wonder discreetly observes ,
seeks its unknown meaning , a pregnant pause in the choral music*
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 10:02 PM UTC
Along the sea floor
The choral beds your
Topology of dreams, sure
As any submarine lore
Between the blades of sun rays
An octopus parades
Happy in the shafts of light
It is not wrong or right to be an octopus tonight.
Aug 10, 2012
Aug 10, 2012 at 3:34 AM UTC
The flickering lamp in your hand
sways as if to swim in peace to me
the lily scenting a warm ponder
ripples from the apple of my eye
and bobs across to bid approach
blooming with a soft absorbing sigh
which enters an essence close to reach
Your touch colludes in a light lashed usher
enticed to where my heart will sing
of finding lithe spirit mute from flesh
I slide into choral waters with longing
for the wonder of a parting life wish
Drumming soft
as butterfly strokes
swishing in the night
so close
and so remote
she could vanish
into poppy fields
at any moment
but will never leave
my sight
fluttering
I swim onward..
I swim
out..
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 10:32 AM UTC
The hour which might have been yet might not be,
Which man’s and woman’s heart conceived and bore
Yet whereof life was barren,—on what shore
Bides it the breaking of Time’s weary sea?
Bondchild of all consummate joys set free,
It somewhere sighs and serves, and mute before
The house of Love, hears through the echoing door
His hours elect in choral consonancy.
But lo! what wedded souls now hand in hand
Together tread at last the immortal strand
With eyes where burning memory lights love home?
Lo! how the little outcast hour has turned
And leaped to them and in their faces yearned: —
‘I am your child: O parents, ye have come!’
4k
* * *
Interjections come bubbling down
To burst the mind.
Choral injections,
Humming injections -
Mean, mean, mean clowns:
Dancing madly in kaleidoscope gowns
They shamelessly grind
The last grains of my sanity.
The reality is quite snippetty -
And thus parallel worlds are designed.
Oh! - let me go, let me go!
To where Alice is Queen.
To where she sits
Among her kingly mirrors
And teaches the art of
Being seen
A trifle here and there,
And always - everywhere!
(c)kRu, 11.10.-17.11.2006
Jan 30, 2010
Jan 30, 2010 at 1:10 AM UTC
I
Just as my fingers on these keys
Make music, so the self-same sounds
On my spirit make a music, too.
Music is feeling, then, not sound;
And thus it is that what I feel,
Here in this room, desiring you,
Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,
Is music. It is like the strain
Waked in the elders by Susanna;
Of a green evening, clear and warm,
She bathed in her still garden, while
The red-eyed elders, watching, felt
The basses of their beings throb
In witching chords, and their thin blood
Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna.
II
In the green water, clear and warm,
Susanna lay.
She searched
The touch of springs,
And found
Concealed imaginings.
She sighed,
For so much melody.
Upon the bank, she stood
In the cool
Of spent emotions.
She felt, among the leaves,
The dew
Of old devotions.
She walked upon the grass,
Still quavering.
The winds were like her maids,
On timid feet,
Fetching her woven scarves,
Yet wavering.
A breath upon her hand
Muted the night.
She turned--
A cymbal crashed,
Amid roaring horns.
III
Soon, with a noise like tambourines,
Came her attendant Byzantines.
They wondered why Susanna cried
Against the elders by her side;
And as they whispered, the refrain
Was like a willow swept by rain.
Anon, their lamps' uplifted flame
Revealed Susanna and her shame.
And then, the simpering Byzantines
Fled, with a noise like tambourines.
IV
Beauty is momentary in the mind--
The fitful tracing of a portal;
But in the flesh it is immortal.
The body dies; the body's beauty lives.
So evenings die, in their green going,
A wave, interminably flowing.
So gardens die, their meek breath scenting
The cowl of winter, done repenting.
So maidens die, to the auroral
Celebration of a maiden's choral.
Susanna's music touched the ***** strings
Of those white elders; but, escaping,
Left only Death's ironic scraping.
Now, in its immortality, it plays
On the clear viol of her memory,
And makes a constant sacrament of praise.
3.5k
merrily the birds chirped
at the dawn of day
their songs of happiness
drifted in the wind's splay
out on the porch
at first light
listening to them
brings one much delight
their choral sounds
fill the air
with a tune
ever so fair
they make one's heart
lift and sing
as they impart
their cheering chirping
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 6:41 PM UTC
She visits us every time
The building needs repainting
And every time she visits us
We ask her:
“When will you be back?”
You say you will only be
A jeepney ride away.
We sing; the choral chimes with the wind.
Dry leaves always settle down
Where the wind stops.
Only it does not. But, it settles, and always
Wherever the wind leads them to grow
Apart.
Maybe that’s the purpose of apartments.
Always seeming to leave, to stay only
For sleep, not rest.
We kept talking every time
How our phones ring each other.
You answer questions, always you do so
Not with a no, it was difficult for you;
Nor a yes; but always you say:
“I’m right here”
“5 minutes”
passing through regular public commute;
you are always nearby,
always stuck in heavy traffic.
I can even see you every time,
Always there,
And always smiling.
The last time we smiled together
You told us:
“I am always here – a whisper away”
Only you are there
Not here.
(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal / July 25 2013 - Parañaque)
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 9:44 PM UTC
Beethoven choral racing through frozen forests
through rain and frost storms
We are carried on fast horse through winter
against furious Beethoven
Making love on lost sheets of saffron and straw
a frozen speeding vision explodes into your corner
racing fierce on pianoforte
Beethoven one note pure
against humanity
Feb 5, 2012
Feb 5, 2012 at 2:16 AM UTC
Called Religion before Romanticism:
Darling Radha’s swing,
Pressing softly to her blue
Beloved Trickster’s skin.
Called dharma, grace, and savoir-faire
Confounding fated will,
Called freedom then for putting off
The destiny we fear.
From her swing I can believe
In good romantic faith-
While makers of a moment’s
Beauty, steal a tear away.
When I laid,
Bathing in the roaring spray
At the feet of the lower falls,
And wandered through soft blue
Volcanos guarding Atitlan,
When I watched,
Clouds burst from his fingertips
Cold war to choral glory,
Seid um schlungen Millionen!
An die Freiheit! An die Freude!
When I found,
A girl whose smile couldn’t hide her pain
Singing her song’s last echo,
At once the world was not the same, but...
How could I ever know
How could I ever know...
After the West was won with lies
One man said, "God is dead."
I mute the TV from her swing,
Smile, and bow my head.
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 1:24 AM UTC
.
1
In the corner stands
My blue guitar,
Mirrors my grimace.
2
I have played you
So like dream was the dear song
Where you playing me?
3
Your body makes mine
Shudder as I imagine
A woman in my arms.
4
At the top of your body
Are keys unwound at the ready,
Silver spirals of tunings.
5
My soul is near hollow
But the blue guitar
Is filling in the foundations.
6
What makes the blue guitar
So shining in the mundane,
All the world is makeshift.
7
My fingers wet with you,
What water sounds like,
As it kisses the earth.
8
Deep in the strings
I summon my being,
Always blue as sheer sky.
9
Blue guitar, silent, singing,
My fingers ***** your neck,
Never do you scream.
10
Once I heard music,
The sweetest tabulations
Of sorrows in rosewood.
11
My fingers ache on steel,
These are your moved guts,
Strings that I borrow.
12
At an open window,
All the day obtuse,
I hear birds in your vibrations,
Untouched air of blue guitar.
13
I do not know anything,
Music is lathed on an open fret,
The heart is beating to a note of bliss,
Hole set in the body braced by wood,
Time cuts as it is sectioned, a staff fires,
All the chords are listed in primes,
Is the ear a window or is the eye,
Blind in the choral songs we make,
All things are ephemeral, wonderings,
Variations we work as structure fades,
As the blue guitar is touched, turning light.
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 9:37 PM UTC
A Statement Solo and a Response Choral in Existential Whine Mode
Solo: Before we end for today – do begin thinking about a topic for your research paper due in December.
Chorus: I don’t understand…but you said...are you talking about the persuasive essay…what does “expository” mean…oh, this is not expository…but we’ve never written a persuasive paper…is this the persuasive research paper you’re talking about…what is the difference between “expository” and “persuasive”…but what are we going to write about…I mean like why don’t you give us a topic…I don’t understand…when is this due…but that’s the pro and con, right…it’s not…but you said…what does “bibliography” mean…so when is this due…but how many pages…so you just want the bibliography and the first page…I don’t know what you mean by a thesis that can be argued either way…I don’t understand why you don’t give us a topic…I’m confused…what do you want us to write about…but when is this due… I don’t understand…but you said...are you talking about the persuasive essay…what does “expository” mean…but we’ve never written a persuasive paper…is this the persuasive research paper you’re talking about…but what are we going to write about…I mean like why don’t you give us a topic…I don’t understand when is this due…but that’s the pro and con, right…it’s not…but you said…we’ve never written a research paper before…what does “bibliography” mean…so when is this due…but how many pages…so you just want the bibliography and the first page…I don’t know what you mean by a thesis that can be argued either way…I don’t understand why you don’t give us a topic…I’m confused…what do you want us to write about…but when is this due… I don’t understand…we’ve never written papers like this before…but you said...are you talking about the persuasive essay…what does “expository” mean…but we’ve never written a persuasive paper…is this the persuasive research paper you’re talking about…but what are we going to write about…I mean like why don’t you give us a topic…I don’t understand when is this due…but that’s the pro and con, right…it’s not…but you said…what does “bibliography” mean…so when is this due…but how many pages…so you just want the bibliography and the first page…I don’t know what you mean by a thesis that can be supported with authoritative sources and logic…I don’t understand why you don’t give us a topic…I’m confused…what do you want us to write about…but when is this due…!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!????????????
Oct 26, 2017
Oct 26, 2017 at 4:07 PM UTC
.
1
In the corner stands
My blue guitar,
Mirrors my grimace.
2
I have played you
So like dream was the dear song
Where you playing me?
3
Your body makes mine
Shudder as I imagine
A woman in my arms.
4
At the top of your body
Are keys unwound at the ready,
Silver spirals of tunings.
5
My soul is near hollow
But the blue guitar
Is filling in the foundations.
6
What makes the blue guitar
So shining in the mundane,
All the world is makeshift.
7
My fingers wet with you,
What water sounds like,
As it kisses the earth.
8
Deep in the strings
I summon my being,
Always blue as sheer sky.
9
Blue guitar, silent, singing,
My fingers ***** your neck,
Never do you scream.
10
Once I heard music,
The sweetest tabulations
Of sorrows in rosewood.
11
My fingers ache on steel,
These are your moved guts,
Strings that I borrow.
12
At an open window,
All the day obtuse,
I hear birds in your vibrations,
Untouched air of blue guitar.
13
I do not know anything,
Music is lathed on an open fret,
The heart is beating to a note of bliss,
Hole set in the body braced by wood,
Time cuts as it is sectioned, a staff fires,
All the chords are listed in primes,
Is the ear a window or is the eye,
Blind in the choral songs we make,
All things are ephemeral, wonderings,
Variations we work as structure fades,
As the blue guitar is touched, turning light.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 5:23 PM UTC
the clay watched with rented breath
the red robe genuflect before
the dirt-dark nailed wood.
strange words were uttered
choral echoes flew
they too would bend their knees
those veiled long hair
those oval faces with scanning eyes.
the red robe spoke
they moved the corners of their mouths
till they were too far
they nodded, and nodded, and nodded
they did not know how to stop.
the red robe did not speak
he read from two slabs.
the air cracked by a
tip-toe cadence of metallic muttering
they held their breath
but there was panting.
with one unseen flicker
that stole as fast as
light shot from up beyond
there
perched on that dirt-dark nailed wood
a dove of light of blinding vaporous whiteness.
we hid our eyes.
our faces too.
we only saw a tall slender spiral staircase
that ascended a long, long,
long way.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 9:31 PM UTC
Blue-grayish waves lap summer's sun-drenched beaches,
eternal, soothing rhythm, an enduring melody, into the soul it reaches.
Neighboring celestial bodies, conductors of the tides, creating eon's symphony,
embracing, pacifying music: a choral harmony.
Placid, glistening lake with fall moon's luminescent splendor,
silvery, reflective mirror, still and serene, lying quietly in slumber.
Bright, streaming rays, upon the surface, become as two entwined eternally,
brilliantly flowing: a beacon of tranquility.
White, pristine snow upon the meadow on a winter's early morning,
softly sown, caressing Mother Earth, pure and alluring.
Sol's rays shimmering on crystal flakes, a mosaic luminosity,
sparkling diamond facets: a blanket of serenity.
Dew-covered fields patched with spring's wild flowers,
dazzling array, vibrant and alive, displaying rainbow's colors.
A zephyr stirs bouquets of aromatic splendor, emerging reality,
a living portrait masterpiece--a canvas of vitality.
Nature, an ageless composer, conceiving kaleidoscope showcases,
perennial seasons casting actors on scores of different stages.
Wise is it, from time to time, to pause in awe and humble reverence,
and view a master artist's majestic, grand performance.
Mar 14, 2010
Mar 14, 2010 at 5:32 PM UTC
Step into my universe
You'll see only words
In my mind, flurry of feathers
Hurricane of riled up birds.
They amass and circulate
Searching to break free
Storm of ink; doesn't abate
Bleed out for no one to see.
*Hidden inside my heart
Forbidden words I long to convey
Teach me how to start
With you I foist to play.*
Words veiled by silent secrecy,
Cloaked words I long to shout
Bordering the point of heresy
Tabooed words without doubt.
Almost an eternity I've whispered
With care and only hushed tones
Well kept secret undiscovered
Laying quiet under unturned stones.
Thought myself alone when I heard another
One that sings choral to my own
A mournful call that sang together
Grey melodies embodied in skin and bone.
*The cravings of my heart
Your words I wish to fill
In my head occupies the biggest part
Our declaration's the only seal.
A vow you and I made
A love we wish to last forever
Dismissing that opportunities evade
Who would need a supporting paper.
Hidden softness within me
Only you can tap and enjoy
The only one that holds the key
Heart and mind meet to employ.*
Our hearts, like kings, would've risen
Adorned and bejewelled on their crests
Let us sing in unrehearsed unison
Crowned words we've locked in our chests.
IamMsIves
rhymesmith
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 8:21 AM UTC
In the fuzzy haze of long and lonely, sunkissed days
I want you so, so much.
We have what we have,
I treasure every moment,
I will never ask for more.
But...I am thinking of you,
Walking slowly through a dappled glade
Thinking of me,
Beside a rippling stream,
Swirling currents, mirroring divergent thoughts and needs.
I wish I were walking beside you,
Would you hold me
Amongst the softly swaying trees,
The nectar drugged bees a choral swell
Accompanying a long and languid kiss?
Let me be the girl you dream of,
The one you glimpse sometimes,
Shimmering in the sun.
Smile when you see me,
Smile, and sigh, my love,
For there is nothing more.
Our dreams are all we have
Maybe, all we ever will.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 7:20 AM UTC
"Ezekiel saw de wheel; way up in de air
And de littl' wheel run by faith, oh yes, an' de big wheel run by de grace of God
'Tis a wheel in de wheel in de middle of de wheel way Lawd in de middle."
Choir songs are fun and catchy and I have to sing them every God **** day.
They are all written by some funny looking black guy named James in the earl 1900's.
"John said the city was just four square, walk in Jerusalem just like John
and he declared he'd meet me there, walk in Jerusalem just like John,
Oh John oh John what do you say, walk in Jerusalem just like John."
Most of them are about God and faith but sometimes you actually feel them.
It's weird, they make you feel spiritual. A whole class full of students singing can do that to you.
"All this night shrill Shaunteclear, days proclaiming trumpeter,
claps his wings and loudly cries, "Mortals! Mortals! Wake and rise!
See the wonder days are under, and through his will good be done!""
Sometimes you don't even know what they're about, no kidding, but they still feel nice to sing.
The ringing of the Sopranos and the roar of the Baritones is awing, it really is.
"And the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells,
how the twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle,
in the crystal lime-de light."
It's cool when you sing poetry, like Poe or something like that. It doesn't give you the same
feeling but it's still cool, if you can get into that kind of stuff.
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 1:08 AM UTC
Today I walked to the park and back
And saw suburbia rearranged into dizzying distortions
All the trees had a purplish tint
And on the grass, I saw multicoloured light reflecting off the dew
When I got home
I attacked all the imagery with a dagger to reshape reality
And a blank mirror to recreate the world in my head.
The world that was quiet is humming again
I hear choirs of crickets and choral basslines
Cacophonous and ecstatic in the constant confusion
The dull concrete is shot open with marquee moonlight
Indulgence pouring out, free-flowing like communion
And painted onto canvases like rain on a car window
Daydreams and delusions are ice cream melting, sticky and sap-like on your chin
Clouds pixelate with diamond edges
Voices ring out in a flurry
And there isn't a soul in sight.
So I breathe in the air
And let all the sounds and smells and limitations of reality colour my imagination once again
Daydreamed delusions and nightmarish reality are one
Filaments in the vibrant violence
Until the summer fades away again.
Aug 18, 2023
Aug 18, 2023 at 7:25 AM UTC
Nectar-drugged bees throb and buzz
A dizzying, delicious hum.
A choral swell accompanies the growing surge
I, the conductor, back and forth, back and forth with my baton,
Deftly delivering a rousing, rhythmic performance,
The ****** an oh, oh!
Crescendo
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 9:33 AM UTC
.
1
In the corner stands
My blue guitar,
Mirrors my grimace.
2
I have played you
So like dream was the dear song
Where you playing me?
3
Your body makes mine
Shudder as I imagine
A woman in my arms.
4
At the top of your body
Are keys unwound at the ready,
Silver spirals of tunings.
5
My soul is near hollow
But the blue guitar
Is filling in the foundations.
6
What makes the blue guitar
So shining in the mundane,
All the world is makeshift.
7
My fingers wet with you,
What water sounds like,
As it kisses the earth.
8
Deep in the strings
I summon my being,
Always blue as sheer sky.
9
Blue guitar, silent, singing,
My fingers ***** your neck,
Never do you scream.
10
Once I heard music,
The sweetest tabulations
Of sorrows in rosewood.
11
My fingers ache on steel,
These are your moved guts,
Strings that I borrow.
12
At an open window,
All the day obtuse,
I hear birds in your vibrations,
Untouched air of blue guitar.
13
I do not know anything,
Music is lathed on an open fret,
The heart is beating to a note of bliss,
Hole set in the body braced by wood,
Time cuts as it is sectioned, a staff fires,
All the chords are listed in primes,
Is the ear a window or is the eye,
Blind in the choral songs we make,
All things are ephemeral, wonderings,
Variations we work as structure fades,
As the blue guitar is touched, turning light.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 11:22 AM UTC