"choruses" poems
Your colors are so heavy, how dare I, I cannot sleep. Years inundated under, through skin coils, marigold fields. Yellow crocuses, orange California poppies. Moors of cattle ranchers, yokes of oxen. Plasticine uber-confidence, silky white-skinned testubular thrice people harmonies. Blisses of contagion, contagious bliss. Wrists and incisors, tying down in a bedroom, waking up to live harps and choruses. You dance like you're so alive, but I'm so alive I can't dance. Or breathe. Or knead my fists of earthen wears, or sell my soul completely. I drove off a cliff last night, but the four foot fall ended neatly. The plateau authors my chance to sew my bright, beyond- my fortunes. But the hour before I fall asleep, seems to be the greatest torture.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:54 AM UTC
*Pristine dreams of gossamer
in fantasies of white
This is what i hope will guide
my slumber on this night.
Rainbows in a sky of blue
with clouds of grey beyond,
Ripples lapping lilypads,
upon a golden pond,
Butterflies and hummingbirds
in acrobatic arcs,
Shade in grass beneath a tree
with choruses from larks,
A cool breeze on a summer's day,
my love within my arms,
Clouds that block the blazing sun,
a coyish smile that charms,
Stimulants for senses
in a countless, vast array,
Gratitude for blessings
i enjoy most every day,
All these things and more i ask
when sleep mine eyes doth close,
But most of all, a peace within,
and love that always grows.*
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 11:56 PM UTC
Listen to the slivering paths of the Autumn breeze
The coming velvety skies drenched in ink reflecting silver stars
Wave goodbyes to the elusive flawed brown stone with pensive eyes
A heart will gasp years ahead for callousness past shown now in tears
Remember those golden sunsets for now woeful days are never azure
Watery eyes and wrinkled mask lament a time you could have shared
A King's ransom at your feet twined with an honest heart assured
Hear the whisperings of the mockingbirds and muted cold choruses
Rainbow starlights betrays pots of gold hidden never to be found
Maidens dance retro and the harpist pluck for painters with brushes
By sunkissed shores blends of contrasts joyous in customary ponds
Smiles pure from honeyed caves same when as waxed spears plunges
Save me a place in the delights of Troy and tell Helen to send a sound
Bring me home to peace and love, rescue me from lions in golden cages
[email protected].
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 11:09 PM UTC
Noise, Noise, Noise, Noise, Noise
That's all I hear
Drowning out the choruses
And the sweet melodies
The verses are distorted
And the poetry ignored
I don't see how people get by
With all of this Noise, Noise, Noise
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 1:15 AM UTC
Choruses of songbirds lift my eyelids
for the fourth time since five.
The harmonies tenderly resonate in my ears
Singing me to life
Purity where I house guilt,
the songbirds spout glorious praise,
Honestly awake when I lie still
it is no wonder I hide from the light.
With a beautiful song, he bobs through the light
that he wears on his wings
Unafraid to be heard and no reason to fear
for he is not broken, for he has not sinned.
The songbirds sing me to wake
And I soberly stare at the shadows of trees
where they perch so fleetingly,
and I long to sing in the innocence of morning.
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
~
Marigold melodies whispering soft
Harmonies dream on the wind
Scented illusions of days in the past
And those about to begin
Blooming of music in shades tinted yellow
Sweet as the day you were born
Penned in the key of to never forget
Symphonies cast off the storm
Beneath a sunrise of violin vistas
Precious this garden of song
Petals in piccolo choruses beaming
Hoping you will sing along
Listen as heavenly arias play
Now as the music does start
Find every note is performed just for you
Composed of the love in my heart
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 7:46 AM UTC
I’ll rev you like a Porsche
Pressurize the clutch then
ease on the equipped brake
enrolling the steering wheel
On the highway as we sing
Tuning choruses eccentrically
apply the mascara and smile
put my flock on, swing like Bowie
Craze up in seismic grooves
Shift to a self expression culture
be so extreme that you glitter
I’ll desire your ambiguousness
Unarguably, I’ll hold your hand
An evolved zeitgeist in revolution
squeeze their prejudiced little heads
replicate, experiment your persona
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 1:56 PM UTC
your touch,
deafening noise
chaotic choruses;
clouding my mind
agitating hourglasses,
showing me that time exists.
but, why do you do this to me?
after claiming connection..
–
meditated movements
in the moment,
is what i crave;
in my tension
setting intention.
opening
and activating the root
of my sacral desires.
–
do you not have it in you?
bass dissolving;
enough to take the beat away
into your fingertips?
with half of your heart
touching me;
calculated caresses,
preplanned movements..
haven't you ever
let yourself lose control?
haven't you ever
closed your eyes
and seen into my soul?
yes?
no?
maybe?
lost eyes tell me otherwise.
–
do not touch me,
unless you mean it..
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 12:54 AM UTC
Upon a path of trepidation
Walked I along with hesitation
I trudged forth in contemplation,
Remarking on my indignation.
I felt as though the road would end,
Each step came forth again and again.
To pass the time, I counted sins,
Not religious exactly, just decision’s wind,
I thought of my own life, and how much change
Had plagued my mind and my own cage,
The prison in my head that I live through,
Even though there’s worse that I could do,
I closed that link before I could
Think of things I knew I should,
I “forgot” them throughout the years,
To push away all of my own fears,
With that then settled
The road I reveled.
I noticed the dust on this forgotten trail,
Each step disheveled the dirt so stale,
I noticed I hadn’t been the only one
To walk this trail and be undone,
But I was however the first in a while,
The steps i left behind me were straight and filed.
-
Withered whispering romance had wilted away
A faceless me, within I decayed,
The road was vast and all omniscient,
The weather indeed was quite consistent,
Muggy, dreary, a hint of mist,
Melancholy so, that I wished to be ******
I would have loved to be drunk again
As I had been so before like many men,
To take upon this journey but straight,
Would have felt like bringing train and freight,
It is important to realize
That I was alone and not in guise,
For to find myself, I was myself,
There was only I to seek for help.
-
about three days had passed along,
Wondering if I was even strong
Enough to find the cross in road
To decide which way that I should go,
When in sudden surprise there came,
The cross in road appeared to exclaim,
I could go straight, left or right,
As one would think it might,
But each direction had their own feel,
So much so, I thought it may not be real,
I gazed at each about an hour,
And witnessed their foretelling in my head as they showered.
-
The road ahead was static and unchanging
I found myself to be salivating,
Nervous, the feeling crept on through me,
The sensation of the same emotions, unruling.
I thought of the looming possibility,
That to change anything was not in my ability,
That I would be forced by past to walk this path,
Straight on and forward in a droning, mindless trance.
This startled me and I quickly thought
That I had best my chance be wrought,
Left or right, like straight, I felt both,
Like a voice somewhere inside bequothe,
“Lest ye not choose wrong dear boy,
Or you, I fear, will die empty in ploy.”
Chanting choruses of Gregorian nature
Repeated that stanza in mocking stature,
The repetition to the point of depravity,
I digressed, I became my insanity.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 12:25 AM UTC
The cold festive wind blew;
Laughters, hollers of "Merry Christmas!"
Came along with the breeze.
Children, with their little toy drums
Bang, bang, banging away;
Choruses of "Gloria In Excelsis Deo";
Pine trees, Snow flakes, deformed Snowmen;
Houses are lined with
Blink, blink, blinking
Colorful lights and wreaths;
Somwhere among them,
in some living room,
"All I Want For Christmas" is on loop;
Cookies are laid for Santa Claus;
Presents are stacked
Under the Christmas tree--
With garlands and *****
And--
The Christmas lights
In a room in the middle of a second storey house,
Were shining as brightly as they could,
Being wrapped around the neck
Of a teenager misunderstood,
Hanging lifeless on the ceiling
With a note pinned that read,
"Happy Christmas from the dead."
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 7:29 AM UTC
A maidenly form with goodly balcony:
Chic design of an unrivalled Architect.
Finely balusters decorate her dreamy
Shape--especial from fore to aft.
As the Shulamite's apples in Solomon's
Pleasing courtyard is her love in my
Heart, exchanging thus my flagons
With her berries on the bed of sapphire,
Until dawn choruses enter the day's ear--
Heaven's chandelier beams into the bower.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 10:22 AM UTC
the creatures of nature, can sure be a jovial crew
the creatures of nature, can sure be a jovial crew
listening to them I often do, within this piece I'll explain to you
listening to them I often do, within this piece I'll explain to you
within this piece I'll explain to you, the creatures of nature
can sure be a jovial crew, listening to them I often do
birds sing mirthfully neath the sun, their choruses lift the heart
birds sing mirthfully neath the sun, their choruses lift the heart
in a rousing chord cicadas thrum, such a delight they all are
in a rousing chord cicadas thrum, such a delight they all are
such a delight they all are, their choruses lift the heart
birds sing mirthfully neath the sun, in a rousing chord cicadas thrum
the next time you're outside, tune into the natural world
the next time you're outside, tune into the natural world
you'll hear a happy zeal, a resonant gleefulness
you'll hear a happy zeal, a resonant gleefulness
the next time you're outside, you'll hear a happy zeal
a resonant gleefulness, tune into the natural world
their choruses lift the heart, a resonant gleefulness
birds singing mirthfully neath the sun, you'll hear a happy zeal
within this piece I'll explain to you, tune into the natural world
the next time you're outside, in a rousing chord cicadas thrum
such a delight they all are, listening to them I often do
the creatures of nature, can sure be a jovial crew
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 8:50 PM UTC
You broke bread and cracked voices.
Accompanied choruses of songs
you never bothered to learn.
Played God with radio dials and
sought salvation in airwaves,
leaving translation to the speakerbox.
Like a proper disciple-turned-prophet,
the static air took artistic liberties
and ****** up the message.
In all honesty, you wanted
so badly
to believe that this time, together,
you could out-live the reckoning.
That this time you were
something divine.
But tonight you're too sober to speak
and too tired to try.
Once again, you apologize.
She'll cradle your cheeks just so,
with such delicate touch
you're almost convinced it's done lovingly.
(You've been trained to speak
between such parentheses.)
You always tell her exactly what she wants to hear
but never what she needs to know.
You both leapt from this bed, aiming for Space,
Hoping for something biblical,
but found, once again, that the sky
is nothing more than a mausoleum of stars.
And what
goes
up
Must
come
down.
From that funeral view
the truth collided into you
quicker than the avenue below.
Now you know what the moon must have felt
when the rockets came promising that
after this, things will never be the same,
then left just as quickly
with their pockets full of rocks.
You know what it's like when they steal part of you
just to put it on display.
It takes this distance
238,900 miles,
from here to the moon,
to leave your Me at ground level
and plummet into the
second person singular.
From depth like this
it's almost as if,
it never really happened to you at all.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 7:16 PM UTC
Cross-petals of daffodils sway to the cries
Of starlings – stark shrieks and minute iridescent
Wing-beats – while the willows whistle,
Tumultuous as feathers caught in the wind.
Like the fragrant taste of rain, you tell me
About mistakes made by people in love,
How temptations of her white heron-legs
And meadowlark voice stole your attention,
Like flies drawn into the range of a bullfrog’s tongue.
Your words meet heartbeats under tremolos
Of wild grasses with olive and mauve sprouts,
Lingering beneath brewing oyster clouds.
You adorned yesterday with honeybee stings
And barbed crescendos of climbing roses,
But tomorrow brings sweet-tongued
Hummingbirds and thrumming choruses
As your soft-spoken daylily promises
Dissolve silence into adoration.
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
pour rice down my throat to staunch the flow of blood
on each grain is a something,
an art,
art through the ages,
my body is an art
I am blur and gray, day and dawn
broken choruses string all the worlds in my eyes together
and force them to sing a something
about eyes like stars
the thing is that I'm not looking up
(I'm never looking up
I'm terrified by the shades that linger in the more upper rings of Hell)
I'm looking down and around and I'm surrounded by stars
this is the bottom of the lagoon
I am an everdrown
Ophelia, wake up!
(she's gone she's gone she's gone)
godspeed starlight swimmer
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 10:57 AM UTC
There is a beetle on the high street,
pushing the sun along at a fraction-
0f-a-mile-per-hour. He is pondering
his plans for the summer.
Perhaps different venues?
Perhaps different dung?
But he knows it's all foolishness.
He never goes anywhere.
Then a god falls out of the sky.
Not a particularly large one,
a medium-sized god as far as
they go. Roughly human-
shaped. Not counting those
streaming banners of fire
that pour from his eyes.
Few humans have burning eyes.
A dagger drips from an open
wound and he clenches his
blood (it is his own blood) in his hand.
More are coming he realizes.
All of them. And he's quite
correct. Without trumpets or
lights or choruses or bowls or
scrolls, it starts to rain.
The beetle pauses in his
pilgrimage to survey the
man underneath the god's feet.
A hand in a crater of asphalt
with a keen, nigh-inaudible
wheeze of breath. A cough
and a choke.
And the beetle scuttles on.
They fall from clouds that aren't,
I mean, actually in the sky. They crush
buildings and businessmen, They
eat fountains. They descend into an
unthinkable and unthinking
age like a dizzied chorus that cannot
pick up on the beat. Purple sash
and green helm, They build mountains.
Teeth chip around the clay- the men
and women- like fireworks.
The gods' great works resolve
like a finished slider puzzle, like the
back of the sun. Mannequins watch
the moving marble for a moment.
But the Mutes eventually find a voice,
they shout, they run into the fray.
Tantalus' mouth fills with
wine. The beetle walks around his
head. Sisyphus' back was broken
by a boulder. The poor little fellow
descends into an inferno and
climbs the devil's back like a
Purgative mountaineer. Such struggle,
thinks he, to have to take a detour.
Sky sets fire to the shell pink
sun at night.
The liquid spheres engulf ideas
on a dry stretch of ocean.
Clouds splinter in a victor's hands,
are frozen shut.
and everything sinks back home
in the middle of a wor
Mar 8, 2010
Mar 8, 2010 at 2:32 PM UTC
*Autumn robins hop spritely in Sycamore trees
With gingerly voices , with musical tributes
just for me
Choruses of carry on , carry softly , carry me back , carry
me home heard in the breeze
Sing blue for love lost , yellow for childhood
summer , crimson for the coming dusk , violet
for the wildflowers that edge hill country thick pine forest
Chre , chree , cha -chreet
Swee , swee , cha -roo
Perform colors of the bounty of spring , of afternoon sunbeams , of boysenberries and roadside streams
Sing polyphonies of winter , snowcapped hedgerows and holiday dreams*
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 6:28 PM UTC
Cold as the morning
cold as my blue heart
we don't have
to hold something
to feel its absence
to know its significance
we are drawn for reasons
beyond our limited sense
of time and space.
Each moment is
a turning point
we get to choose
whether to anchor in
isolation's safe harbor
or tell stagnant fear
to **** off
we'd rather live
exposed and free
fill every cell
until brimming over
with all the love
that is destined
to flow our way
even the kind
that defies description
will forever be
the singularity.
We are alive
the ink is still drying
on this page
there are choruses
yet to be sung
love is
open
come in
out of the cold.
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 12:30 PM UTC
For the longest time,
I only ever thought about someone coming into my life
And “take my pain away”
How in fairy tales the prince comes and saves the princess from evil
And they live happily ever after.
I always wanted a fairy tale and in a way I think that,
That’s what ****** me up.
All these expectations from boys who are just realizing
The world doesn’t revolve around them.
My feelings were laid out for me in the sad lines of songs
And choruses I thought I understood.
Thinking that my life is the worst and I just want to end it all.
Do I? Do I really want to give it all up?
I’ve been ******** myself this whole time.
Telling everyone else not to give up,
To just give it time and positive thoughts and then they’ll be okay.
Though I gave up on myself so long ago I forgot what day it is.
I give myself great advice but I very seldom follow it.
It took me ******* up every relationship I have had in my short life,
And losing so many people I lost count.
It took me growing up to realize I can only save myself and until I do so,
No one can “take my pain away” no one can make me happy.
I have to be my own hero because everyone else is following my lead
And too busy helping themselves
I’m not saying I need someone in my life,
But at this point I think that it would help a great deal.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 10:56 AM UTC
You are full of deluges,
thunder lips and
lightning eyes,
footsteps punctured by light claps,
voice parted by turbulent
winds, You
are the last light in this
greying darkness,
the last calm before these endless
howls, the eye of
the storm.
You catch me in this mud-tracked
ground battered
by wind and rain,
umbrella turned and
turning out-inside, and
inside-out like the butterflies fluttering in
my stomach. You watch
my knees begin to shake
and steady them
with your glance.
You make me wish away
the rain dances,
the raincoat choruses caroming
the river-ran streets
in the middle of day
like a colourful charade,
the desperate
songs and car horn honks
and fog-lit buses and street lamps
piercing through this
watery veneer.
Am I lost in Your sea of silence?
I don’t know,
but I know that I have drowned in
these storms before.
And I know, that my cheeks
run with Your rainwater now.
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 11:10 AM UTC
i have survived
storms.
i have survived a father's voice like thunder;
handprint lightning flowers petal over my skin
like i am a garden to sinners-
adam and eve call my grassroots their home and hum lullabies-
i have survived
anger.
pros and cons of
clock-ticking therapy sessions where money is thrown at my gaze,
fixed on the wall,
dollar-a-second drumming fingers
screaming so loud that heaven shuts the blinds and hangs a "closed" sign on the door.
pros and cons of
stumbling home,
under a murky peerless crowd of smoke,
slurring words trail around and behind me like moths to a porchlight.
morning headaches,
angry adults
damaging drywall and breaking family portraits
exhausting search for answers
exhausting search in a silence that lengthens the disconnect from child to mother
where your mind goes red and the honest truth that stays stuck to the roof of your mouth falls out
where you become an overflowing mailbox and your hands shake
the absence of parents who never taught you to hold your tongue
i have survived
hurt.
i have survived the specific type of loss that you feel in the pit of your stomach
the one that lies next to you
when you stare at the ceiling and your face hurts from crying
tears scrub your eyelids raw and you promise,
"if i ever make it through this,
i will never be here again."
i have survived giving up,
taking it all back, throwing it all away,
parallel structures of contemplation and decision
i have survived
lonely.
angry storms of abandonment, melodies of the lonely and the hurt
i reprise to the ones that add injury to insult,
you are not the worst thing that has ever happened to me.
i echo choruses to the people that force me to grow up at sixteen
i have destruction embedded into my neurotransmitters
i have shooting post-traumatic pain in my memories
i have survived
a hell that your hands are not stained enough to touch.
i assure you,
my love,
i will survive
you as well
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 8:18 PM UTC
It's knocking.
Inviting me to come in.
Not demanding. That won't happen till later.
Right now, we're all on best behavior.
It's calling me,
The satin, silk, and cashmere of well chosen words.
Painting a picture of possibility and promise.
Implausible pay, promotion and perks
Pursuing the path, pursuant to plan.
It's inviting me in,
And reminding me that this was my idea.
But to what, I am not as certain as I was.
Or perhaps I'm just a little afraid.
Are those tingles excitement or premonition?
Warning or inhibition?
It is calling me.
It 's calling me forward, or so it says.
I think it's forward; hard to tell direction some times,
amidst a fog or bright lights.
But I hear voices behind me too.
Calling me back, whispers of doubt, hints of inadequacy.
That's weird, but there's cheering too.
Oh, the blessings of being loved!
It sounds familiar. Those voices have been quiet for some time.
Are they mine?
I think it's about time both choruses were heard again.
It's knocking. I'm walking.
Headed for the door.
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 12:29 AM UTC
Something about cold lips makes me warm.
Something about your voice sighing a swear
Into my neck, makes me grip the bed.
Something about you makes me moan.
Imagine me pressing my hand into your nape
And dancing down your back.
Your skin is so special
I can't pull away.
Tattoo your body onto mine,
So we can do this forever.
Play me soft, now loud
Let's make music with our bodies
Chaotic choruses under moonlight
Shaky strums finding our song
Just right.
The silence in between kisses is golden when
I can hear you begging for more.
Let me explore so I can find my favorite spots,
And yours.
Something about my name on your lips
Gets me shivering.
Something about your body rips
Me apart and puts me together again.
There's something about you
That no one else can outdo.
There's some things that you do
That no one else knows how to.
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 1:04 AM UTC
.
Without you life has no meaning
A lonely book upon a shelf
Stories held for no one reading
Waiting silent by myself
Pages turned with nothing written
Chapters come without a clue
Words repeat in shades of darkness
Sentences of lonely due
Without you there’s no direction
Empty highways ramble on
Stark and barren roads dividing
Moving constant on my own
Painted lines without an ending
Solitude at every cost
Seeking all but finding nothing
Always on the edge of lost
Without you there is no music
Lyrics sung that do not rhyme
A violin whose strings are missing
Loneliness three quarter time
Melodies in empty function
Concert halls without a stage
Choruses now gone forever
Notes erased upon the page
Without you there is no reason
Nothing but an empty heart
Never beating, always waiting
Longing for a brand new start
Opened wide as you I beckon
Fill my world with wondrous view
It’s true, my life would have no meaning
If my life was without you
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 1:56 PM UTC
3 nights
of
chatroulette:
New Mexican college girls &
Jessika
from Sweden ...
-- beats couchsitting i guess! tho
end up doing
enough of
that
come 4 AM
, playing battlefield 3.
next night
drives
to sportcheck
for new skates, 1.5 hr
sessions in McCafe
piledriving value menu ($1.49 ea)
bacon cheeseburgers
trying to avoid the bar.
(those same conversations:
*"how've you been since
last i saw you here?"*)
-- cutting off match heads in tyler's room,
tossing them
into
battered
kleenex box, 2000
of 'em --
propellant for some
jury-rigged
pipebomb:
two blasting caps/
1
in each end,
courtesy Snow Lake Lodge.
drive around looking for
detonation site (field, preferably, nice & open/but remote...)
tyler & jeremy arguing
up front,
have coat over my head
in th'backseat reading
Mexico City Blues...
O Kerouac ! / better man / than i !
(this my liver
would dispute,
"YOU treat me right!!")
-- guess i never have been
over-fond
of drinking alone ...
. .
(that often)
tell me : how is this great?
a bang & some
shrapnel,
zinging thru the woods?
-- i'm bored to tears;
take me home to my good chair
where i can read these blues
in peace.
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 10:19 PM UTC