"chorale" poems
Upward I swirl
into the swirl of death shrills
Discontented about absolutism; the lies of war
Discontented about the perversions against nature; man's egomaniacal tendencies
Upward I spiral into the swirl of darkness
Gravity has no power to keep me bound
within myself
I let loose once again
I float towards another endless spiral of dark clouds,
these clouds spin expeditiously within its air-vortex
I see carnage,
I smell blood,
I witness the land of all misanthropes
Into the blackness as I spin,
my vision catches a chorale begging to be autonomous
in the state of sovereignty
The impetus in my desperate and saddened heart
I curse the gods
My tightened fist fails at at the darker darkness,
at this ominous swirling
I see no light ahead likened to the event horizon
on the outer rim of a black hole
My breath is being ****** out as the greed-succubus ***** out life
I see you in me, as we both are caught in this uninvited storm
Will we ever survive?
Will we ever survive?
So we must fight on!
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
Heartstone is a reflection in music on a ‘lost’ poem. The poem described in its two short verses a summer’s day, a landscape, a fossil found and placed in the palm of a child’s hand. The poem inspired a seven-movement work for wind, brass and percussion with solo piano. Here is its poetic programme note.
Chert
The piano draws an arc of rhythm
rising then falling.
Above
two choirs of wind and brass
exclaim, fanfare, mark out
shorter, determined
gestures of sound.
The procession, almost a march,
becomes a dance.
Alone
Two choirs of wind and brass
become four couples
whose music weaves
from complexity a simplicity:
Chromatic to Pentatonic
twelve becoming five.
Prase
Four stopped horns,
five extended tonalities.
Together they wander
a maze of Pentatonic paths;
alone, and in pairs, as a quartet
they discover within
a measured harmonic rhythm.
Tension: resolution
. . . and surrounding
their every move
the piano
insists an obligato,
a continuum of phrases,
absorbing into itself
the warp and weft of horn tone.
Sard
Oscillating
in perpetual motion
the full ensemble
occupies a frame
of time and space.
Flutes, reeds,
double-reeds
brass, piano,
percussion
mirror-fold on mirror-fold
layer upon layer
overlapping.
Yarns of threaded sound.
Tuff
Without a break
the mirrored oscillations
patter pentatonics
on tuned percussion
of marimba and vibraphone
whilst
a batterie of drums
lays down
shards of beaten rhythm
against this onward
folding of tonality change.
In the background
a choir of winds
flutes and single reeds
waymark this recursive journey
gathering together
cadential moments and the
necessary pause for breath.
Marl
Relentlessly, the motion is sustained,
piano-driven,
a syncopated continuo,
rhythm-sectioned
amidst layers of percussion.
Adding edge,
a choir of brass and double reeds
amplify the piano’s jagged rhythms
providing impetus for
phrases to become longer and longer,
ratching up the tension,
ever-denying closure
until the batterie
delivers
a conclusive flourish.
Paramoudra
Pulse-figures of winds.
Motific cells of brass.
Both
negotiate a stream of
fractal-shaped tonality
expanding: contracting.
A blossom of fanfares
folding into
pulsating layers
of tuned percussion,
flutes and reeds.
A dance-like episode
absorbs a chorale.
Four horns in close harmony
against the continuing dance.
A duet of differences
flows into a cascade of chords
in closed and open forms.
The piano supports
brass-flourishing figures
before a final stillness.
Heartstone
In gentle reflection
the solitary piano –
a figure in a landscape
of collapsed harmonic forms -
presents in slow procession
the essence of previous music.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 12:41 PM UTC
With my heart I picture you in polaroids
tinted blue by my eyes, surrounded by crushed leaves.
In the skipping track of my inner eye
your mouth, the way it moves when you focus
the open-palmed reaching of marimba chorale
and softening of your brow from the vines
of midnight-colour hair.
From many perspectives, again and again,
in the skipping track of my inner eye,
photographs shot with love.
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 12:04 PM UTC
7:00am
Shelter Island,
Sat Sep10
on the south west edge of the isle,
the slowrise sunrise just behind the trees,
so early day yet, no full frontal of a sun
bathing to wake up woman, babes asleeping, but the
animals know exactly this hours early
perfection.
indeed, the crazy squirrels are random
hither and dithering in spurts of energy,
only stopping to observe a viewing of the humans
nest~resting through the glass doors with their
inquisitive, self-possessed, bedside reckless manner,
perfected.
the suns pealing gleaming gleanings picks
out any shiny reflective surface that enhances
its low-rise greeting, with a chorale of living objects
singing “Hallelujah orb, what’s in store for us today,”
river~bay, wake-less, its becalming, marbling surface, again,
perfected.
me?
I’m mugged by the perfection intersection of
my eyes-scape, first coffee, the holy quietude, only
the regular soft breaths beside, lend a counterpoint
to these thoughts and the litany of chores the iCal happily, annoyingly, prematurely but with certainty lists, resistance (Walk!)
perfectly ok.
ok not to move an inch, watching this daily movie rerun,
that energizes hope, a contemporary localized contented without the
humdrum of blaring headlines, talking heads, and the
infiltration of the guilty unfulfilled responsibilities demanding a due,
then heavens signal me, Donovan, earbud singing Colors, confirmed
perfectly ok!
“*Yellow is the color of my true love's hair
In the mornin', when we rise
In the mornin', when we rise
That's the time, that's the time
I love the best*”
Sep 10, 2022
Sep 10, 2022 at 8:21 AM UTC
The music swirls around inside my head
The vague colors and apparitions
Flickering behind my eyelids
A truly haunting melody I hear,
Whether it be sung or strummed
I am unsure
It is beautiful and eerie
A lovely sound my mind is forming,
A sort of song for my visions to dance to,
That drowns out the static of the room
In which i currently am
I’d rather listen to this other-worldly chorale
And watch my pretty dreams play out
Than listen to this droning teacher anyways.
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 10:08 PM UTC
We shalt Noel ourn favorite aria
A chorale of valiant rendezvous,
Overcome by ourn setting sun
Enchanted by ourn moon,
Fixated and elevated, by flying bolide's in the empyrean
Statue's of us to be built, with ourn amour' as its coliseum,
Dozy by ourn ardor spree, worn out from long heartfelt night
Covering eachother with balm, mollified by ourn spice...
The birds to maketh their fly-by, the bugs to creep on foot
The sand beneathe ourn locked feet, touched by the soot....
Her head on mine chest, as this she Whisper's ( I loveth thee mine rey)
I whisper back (I loveth thee more, reina of mine heart's display)
As tis
The passer-byers witnessed two angels lost in the moment
Forgetting the world ever existed...
Looking into eachother's extraterrestrial pupil's!!!!!
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 9:08 PM UTC
**Back in time during some tense moment,
of weakness causes a state -of Confusion
or was it an era of delusion in my poetic mind?
to my greatest surprise, this became a series
of my confessional poetry.
Aching for someone to fill a void
A love that couldn’t be granted
Without the repercussion of the change.....
Why have I chosen?
Such a man of low caliber
To fulfill my wildest fantasies
A man who knows
Not what he wants
Who never delivered those timely sigh
Or made the almighty seem
Less powerful than him
Oh how long have I waited to reach?
That high pitch of satisfaction
To hear the sound of
“Oh God, oh my God
Without a choir chorale
My bed, his cave,
No waiver, the thrill is gone
A wish not granted
A void yet to be filled**
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 7:09 AM UTC
we sit at the edge of
vespertide
listening to the chorale
of evensong
this day's opus almost done
now tapering off in
slow melodious decrescendo..
it is the gloaming
and the final flurry of light
glimmers on the horizon
now the night becomes
the diva,
the first star has been wished upon,
the first sattelite too.
and the bass note of the cicadas
builds to a ***** needful hum...
lights go on in little square
patches, and the smell
of barbeque fragrances
the summer night air
under the streetlights
the moths come to dance
a dare each other to touch
the midnight sun...
and in our garden
the rustle of the
tame gone feral
rabbit "bellamy"
has begun...
a hulking grey white
shadow now he lollops
toward the tasty green
carrot-tops...
until the sound of pounding
feet causes him to freeze
considering his position
bellamy chooses discretion
over valour and departs with haste
the wind now has a coolness to it
and the grass grows damp about us
by still we sit enamoured of the changing
slow and quiet about us
the seas whisper secrets
and the birds settle in for the night
excepting those who hunt on silent wings
the stars begin to pop
bright white on the darkening sky
and the crescent moon smile with
a sideways grin...
it is now the darker things come
owls on the wing
spiders to reknit there webs
the big bass frog to sing his song
and the small blood seeker
come with whinging wings
now we must give the night
it's privacy, as we walk inside,
from the pond a series of sounds
means the frog has found dinner
hopefuuly a mosiquito buffet
the vesper tide hath turned
the night is now come.....
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 9:51 AM UTC
the rain falls,
like a hymn,
upon the windows.
a song of hope,
sent from grey
and sombre sky.
given to an
adoring ground
accepted as
communion and
restoration.
listened to from within,
watched by wondering eyes,
the holiness of nature.
....beautifuly divine....
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 4:39 AM UTC
So today, I realized that I was depressed, based on the poem "my fear" that is evident. so I told some people. Like my English teacher, who has been very supportive of me this past year. He quite possibly understands me better than my parents do. But what He said after I showed him "My Fear", shocked me. He said I needed therapy, to get someone else's opinion on my life, which is true. So I decided to get a second opinion, from my band director. I love my band director, He gets me. So I told him that I was depressed about family and stress and school. and He started talking to me about this, and how it effects my playing and ect. But one thing He said was that I need to use this pressure, for that was what it boiled down to was pressure, and use it as motivation. And so I left, feeling a little better. But what really got me was that when I enter the band room afterschool, to grab some music to copy at home, my folder is missing. Now folders rarely go missing, because we have our own spot for them. And I did eventually locate my folder, but the thing was that 4 pieces of my music were missing. a exercise book, a chorale and 2 festival music. Now I know that when I put my music away after class, which was 6th period, we only had one class left. but I KNOW that I had my music in that folder. So sometime within 50 min, someone took my folder out and took my music. Now that, that is out, the fact that I was depressed than this incident with my music made me paranoid, it was not a good combination. I almost started to cry.... it was terrible.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 5:38 PM UTC
On the 21st floor of a corporate building
down in Valero street,
there is an orchestra.
The delicate-paired symphony of
clicking keyboards
and heels tapping on cold cement
to the beat of
practiced impassivity.
The seconds also made sounds
along with a chorale
of both sweet and bitter voices
singing like cicadas faintly next to your ear–
"I told you so".
The second you glanced out the window
will have been the twelfth time;
gawking, scanning the view
like a hawk.
But a hawk is vicious—
and you remember how everyday
always seems to feel like a train ride to
a dead end,
and how Fridays are finales
to a weekly competition
where you reward yourself merely with participation
because you’re here,
you’re here,
but you’ve crawled your way to be here.
You’re not a hawk.
But you gaze down at the people
crossing the intersection of streets
and maybe that’s just as good as life can get.
You’re a lighthouse.
Watching as the hours and people go by
through a small office window —
but how do you call yourself a lighthouse if you
have lost your light?
The script says,
“I’m making a living”
and one ought to take it as it is.
But more often than not
we fail to ask ourselves
if we’re actually living,
or just merely getting by.
Nowadays,
the latter sounds more like a normal thing.
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 6:16 AM UTC
How is it possible?
That in your eyes...
I have found,
that my music Resonates
As hard,
As the shining of the stars.
Never a human show me
That music can be found
In the warm of mortal arms.
Melodies fly over the skies
When I think, on those eyes.
Now, that the light is just white...
My music has no life,
You took the colors apart.
I can not decorate
The rhythm of your lips.
They faded
and,
I can not paint them.
I can not hold
those hands anymore
Indicating the tempo.
So, I will go find you.
The world that is below
Does not scare me at all
The smell of your dry tears
Is singing me to where I should be.
After I finish my last piece,
I will trust in my ears
and, I will bring you with me.
So, we both shall compose,
The greatest symphony of love.
I have figured out
that If I play this twelve row.
The doors of the underworld
will open, so I won’t feel this cold.
Every night after you closed your eyes...
I have been dreaming with:
dramatic purple
Melodies.
Sophisticated
Rhythms.
And
Lyrics that…
Try to convince me
To forget
Your turquoise smell.
It feels like a dream
but it is so real that
It feels like my music
Now is complete
Without your breath.
Now, I’m here…
it seems like nowhere
Absence of presence
NO tonality
ambiguous personality
Kind of
I’m liking this place…
I see you precious as the last sky that I see in my dreams every sleep,
I take out The purple melody
And I play an elegant transcription of the symphony of my dreams…
You look at me and smile
So we both will be apart…
I will bring you alive...
with my next chorale.
With a Symphony
for 300 hundred souls.
I WILL BRING YOU ALIVE
WITH AN ETERNAL RHYTHM
Every morning, Every dream,
where there is a note
you are with me.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
(A)bove the church were golden bells.
(N)ext to it was the finest sight, a hunch-back belle.
(N)ested in a tower of cobwebs and dusty shelves.
(E)xcept no one new that she was a princess walking among our common selves.
(C)arved within her heart is a beauty without comparison.
(U)nsuspectingly she can bust you out and then throw you to a jail garison.
(R)eclaimed by her will was a kingdom of magic.
(T)hat three young lads fought for her though always arguing about logic.
(I)n her eyes you can see a bright red glow.
(S)hining like blood red rubies in a cave under six feet of snow.
(S)ilence is sought out whenever she starts to sing.
(M)ajestic is her voice but can give you an alarming sting.
(I)n her greatest moments she sings with an enormous chorale.
(T)he kind of crowd that boosts her morale.
(H)old your breath for a mesmerizing musical royale.
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 7:18 AM UTC
By green and windblown rippled slopes
where cattle graze in summer sun;
beneath blue skies where larks sing shrill
and rabbits by the hedgerows run.
When meadowsweet and columbine
bedeck the grass like ocean foam;
we soft return like shadows lost
to seek our old ancestral home.
Within the tree-lined borderlands
we wait until the day is done;
‘til passing fancies leave us be
and once again our time is come.
When doors and gates are closed and locked
we slip within as night winds roam;
and talk in whispered secrecy
of times in our ancestral home.
No more within cold fireplace
do fallen logs burn bright and fair;
from panelled walls in sullen oils
dark portraits of the long dead stare.
On bowing shelves of oak repose
the toils of men in leathern tome;
unread and lost for centuries,
hid deep in our ancestral home.
And through the watches of the night
we drift from room to balcony;
recalling days of childhood lost,
and laughter of sweet memory.
Yet all too soon we must be gone
‘ere birds again chorale the dawn;
and disappear like shadows soft
that fly from our ancestral home.
Apr 9, 2020
Apr 9, 2020 at 7:02 AM UTC
Morning Spider
What were you trying to say
from down the dry well
of the German coffee maker?
A brusque “guten Morgan”
unworthy of the finesse required
to defeat the hinged plastic lid,
****** off mate” belying
the English taste for tea,
begging bus fare for the Silk Road
transparent even without a bracing first cup.
A caution, then?
Don’t leave bags unattended,
know the warning signs of stroke,
sleep like a baby
with two-step authentication?
Choirmaster alone in the apse,
dwarfed by vaulting cathedral walls
soaring seamless into heavenly gloom,
where I hover on high, indifferent
god commanding flood water, bestowing
the random fly of mercy, deigning
to lower a spoon of salvation
while you weave a gossamer chorale, perhaps,
working the tiny shuttles your batons.
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 9:22 AM UTC
- tap into the line of grief
- Receiving this message. Recieving messages. Intense and deep. It running through me like a shock. A primal instinct. A knowing.
- last night i dreamt that your face fell apart
- last night i dreamt your came came apart
- in broad day light i dreamt your face fell apart
- in broad day light i dreamt your face came apart
- just when i thought there was no saving me, your mother invites me to join the family chorale of shrieks in response to a baby garter snake (on the porch)
i am unimpressed
calls me out to the porch to look at a snake
i am unimpressed
would i really be concerend?
everyone knows i'm a snake
you (momma) call me out to
you invite me to witness the 3 headed spetacle of a baby garter snake and your daughter trapping it by its tail
"someone **** it"
you invite me to the family event of killing the baby garter snake on the porch
it looks innocent to me
do you expect me to be impressed
afraid?
we all know i'm a (the) snake
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 2:12 AM UTC
Early winter morning under the weakened sun.
Trees sway with the thunderous roar of the blowing wind above the snowy sand.
Heaven's glorious symphonies are heard as church bells rang.
Young and old gather around as the choir started and sang.
Loud prayers can be heard from an echoing distance.
Emancipating each and every heart in a matter of chance.
Evangelic voices from the chorale continued aloud.
Now the priest started to preach with a voice so loud.
Valiant soldiers arrived to join the uplifted crowd.
In a timely manner unveiling a hidden shroud.
Little children were out in the fields playing.
Out in the evergreens vast wilderness and doing their own thing.
Roses and rasp berries were plenty on a nearby garden.
Its a beatiful place with a few wooden carvings.
At last the day is retiring, dusk arrives and the night will finally come and settle in.
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 7:34 AM UTC
among the summer stupor,
the gleeful pounce
onto that that flies
on diaphanous wings
tracing secret silver spirals
small bursting berries in tiny flaxen fingers
blue blackberry mouthfuls
the boys of summer with indigo grins and legs akimbo
their chorale sweet and brimming between
the shrinking hours
a jovial furor against a backdrop of blue
Jul 11, 2021
Jul 11, 2021 at 11:13 PM UTC
I SAW THE BEST MINDS OF MY GENERALIZATION
wearing halos of fog,
opening their eyes with a burst of surreal an' shattering
the beacon of light
with a splatter of the gray matter... afterwards it all became
so fug'n trite.
I'm phrasing perfect with a hint of propulsive barb'd barkin'
—Man, I am aching to blather,
**** man, it's more than butt-cheek chatter—
it BBBBBBBBBButt bubbles with a puhcussive tootin';
a howl absurd!
I raise a cup & say cheers t' Allen Ginsberg
"O BLOATED BLUES an' DECIBELS DANCE
t'BALLYHOO'd BE-BOP FLUNG
An' BOMBS BUSTIN OPEN with Gear's CLAWING
t'BE AIRBORNE",
Yes, he SITs IN a SPACE SHARE'd with us;
finger snappin' & poetry clappin' from
a heavenly ladder's rung...
A MAD HATTER's CHINA TEACUP is filled
with continuous soft crackling liveliness of effervescence...
and buoyed by the holy soul jelly roll that moves
through here now.
So let us praise and bestow upon him,
a heartfelt bow before we etch on the walls
of my primitive pome cave
our beatnik chorale reverberation of "AND HOW!"
By "ooznozz"
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 7:57 AM UTC
Vespers
What were you chanting
from down the dry well
of our German coffee maker?
A brusque Gute Nacht masking
the finesse required to defeat
the hinged plastic lid?
Begging bus fare
for the Silk Road
transparent,
even without mornings
bracing first cup.
A caution, then?
Don’t leave bags unattended?
Know the warning signs of stroke?
Sleep like a baby, use two-step
authentication?
Your cloistered solitude,
fringed bulb of abdomen
whispered tonsure,
solitary choirmaster dwarfed
by cathedral walls
soaring graduated
into heavenly gloom
where I hovered on high,
my nightly routine
to summon The Flood,
deigning to lower
a spoon of salvation
while you wove a gossamer
chorale,
working
the eight tiny shuttles
of your batons.
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 8:23 AM UTC
Swell
cut back
trace the outline of my shadow
with caution tape
Holy **** I'm about to die
Arpeggios
Metronomical beats
****** the tempo
with a chorale prelude
This time in Pig Latin:
Oly-Hay Uck-Fay, M-Iay Bout-Aay O-Tay Ie-Day
Out of key
with somber inflections
Press on my dear, Press on
with a dog eared national geographic
bookmarked to all the places I want to travel
One more time for someone who cares:
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 10:49 AM UTC
Morning Spider
What were you trying to say
from down the dry well
of our German coffee maker?
A brusque “guten Morgan”,
unworthy of the finesse required
to defeat the hinged plastic lid,
****** off mate” belying
the English taste for tea,
begging bus fare for the Silk Road
transparent, even without a bracing first cup.
A caution, then?
Don’t leave bags unattended,
know the warning signs of stroke,
sleep like a baby with two-step
authentication?
But your solitude, small bare bulb
of abdomen, put me in mind
of a monks tonsure, choirmaster
alone in the apse, dwarfed
by vaulting cathedral walls
soaring seamless into heavenly gloom,
where I hover on high, indifferent
god commanding the flood waters,
bestowing random flies of mercy,
deigning to lower a spoon of salvation
while you weave a gossamer chorale,
working the tiny shuttles of your batons.
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 5:58 PM UTC
You were a smeary bruise,
your eye hysterical,
cut from white twill
in the brumal March;
I slipped my blues,
to a blonde chorale
in your room, on the hill
gushing with larch.
We practiced slow,
while black cones bled
coffee. Your breath
came in little throws,
your heart in parcels of red,
that led to our little death.
Feb 7, 2021
Feb 7, 2021 at 9:53 AM UTC
By green and windblown rippled slopes
where cattle graze in summer sun;
beneath blue skies when larks sing shrill
and rabbits by the hedgerows run.
When meadowsweet and columbine
bedeck the lea like ocean foam;
we soft return like shadows lost
to seek our old ancestral home.
Within the tree-lined borderlands
we wait until the day is done;
‘til passing fancies leave us be
and once again our time is come.
When doors and gates are closed and locked
we slip within as night winds roam;
and talk in whispered secrecy
of times in our ancestral home.
No more within cold fireplace
do fallen logs burn bright and fair;
from panelled walls in sullen oils
dark portraits of the long-dead stare.
On bowing shelves of oak repose
forgotten tales in leathern tome;
unread by men for centuries,
hid deep in our ancestral home.
And through the marches of the night
we drift from room to balcony;
recalling days of childhood lost,
the laughter of sweet memory.
Yet all too soon we must be gone
‘ere birds again chorale the dawn;
and disappear like shadows soft
that fly from our ancestral home.
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 6:47 AM UTC