"clamouring" poems
Somewhere beneath that piano's superb sleek black
Must hide my mother's piano, little and brown with the back
That stood close to the wall, and the front's faded silk, both torn
And the keys with little hollows, that my mother's fingers had worn.
Softly, in the shadows, a woman is singing to me
Quietly, through the years I have crept back to see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the shaking strings
Pressing the little poised feet of the mother who smiles as she sings
The full throated woman has chosen a winning, living song
And surely the heart that is in me must belong
To the old Sunday evenings, when darkness wandered outside
And hymns gleamed on our warm lips, as we watched mother's fingers glide
Or this is my sister at home in the old front room
Singing love's first surprised gladness, alone in the gloom.
She will start when she sees me, and blushing, spread out her hands
To cover my mouth's raillery, till I'm bound in her shame's heart-spun bands
A woman is singing me a wild Hungarian air
And her arms, and her ***** and the whole of her soul is bare
And the great black piano is clamouring as my mother's never could clamour
And the tunes of the past are devoured of this music's ravaging glamour.
6.8k
It wasnt long before the baluster flapped somewhere in the distance and Icarus knew how old he had been on the day of his birth. For whatever reason, the snow capped cappuccinos he had willfully destroyed in a heated debate on fiscal policy had him beginning again. Why was there always a beginning where there was an end? Fur traders used to circumnavigate the Hudson's Bay of his humanity when he was young, sharing drinks and fire water whiskey like it was all an H2O ready for the soul search. Sadly, many ended up in Hitlers concentration camps weeks after the **** invasion of Poland, about a month or so before the fall of the Roman Empire. Beginning with a last breath, Icarus strode off the plank with a new-found confidence unnatural in his niceties of long past. It was as if 1 minute and 35 seconds was enough to dish a clamouring populace onto the dinner table before the fat step-father gleefully orders
everyone to 'dig in, everyone!'
Cancelling everyone's appointment with Dr. Pardon meant the gaining of a key participatory certificate in El Dorado, and the gold lingering in dusty sun-beams was sifted for the taking. Some got rich, the rest got miserable. The rest used to imagine the gold, staring at ivory towers and lottery tickets, apple cores lording over old public servant applications near the city hall drain pipes as the modern world collapsed into a flash-mob image of Ronald Reagan.
Icarus was a sliver of duskish light flittering a top distant windowsills, all cupped in an intentional light because happiness was as possible as sadness. Not that considering either would make you either.
Icarus slept as his wings incinerated at the first glimpse of the solar system. He now believed every single proverb the old ***** slumbers had whispered their children as they woke to find themselves adults.
In the beginning he found the beginning beginning again. It made him feel however you wish. Both were just as possible. Both were just as much a jazz configuration as a smooth and easy guitar rift.
Ahha!
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 5:31 PM UTC
king of the sea,
with a rigorous exoskeleton peeling away
moulting causes such distress,
exposed to the thrashing undertow of the sea
and enemies
who protects you?
a callow arthropod poised on fractured shells
it isn’t your father,
balancing a bottle of brandy between his lips
or your confidant,
skidding his tires across your mind
a starfish tried,
she threw her arms round your shell
as you added new muscles underneath
she stuck her tube feet in her claws
as you brittled her skin
she said I love you
and you retreated
when you are 70
and clamouring the floor
put your arms behind your back to beckon her to you
try –
she is the sea and no one owns her.
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 3:38 PM UTC
ME ALRIGHT!
She watches as
I write.
The soft wheeze of lead
leaving words in its wake
like seagulls following
the trail of a ship
clamouring after
the refuse of the mind.
Soon the page is
littered with words.
They crawl across the page
in their best 4B.
It pleases her to see
the graphite leave these
tracings of me
upon...beyond...the white.
She looks at the journey of my hand
as if writing were a magic rite.
She asks if she can
draw.
"Sure..." I say
and the words cease.
I just put the tittle
on an small i and j.
The words splashed across the page
like puddles of thought drying in the sun.
I hand her the pencil.
She shakes it and shakes it.
And shakes it.
"What's that for?"
I dare to ask.
"The pencil is too full of words.
I want a pencil full of lines."
"I see..." I say
even though I don't really.
Well, it seems to work for
nothing comes out but line after line.
She lost in the little planet of
her intense concentration.
She throws in the odd curve
and a wonky circle every now and then.
The lines look confused
not too sure just what
they are doing
on this scrap of paper.
I ask her what
the lines mean.
"The lines are you of course.
See...?"
"I see..." I say
although I don't really.
But indeed in this
drawing I am
very much
as she sees me.
The page never lies.
These are scribbles that were my eyes.
I have as it happens
eyes five
stuck on the side of
what appears to be a head.
And yes only one leg.
One leg with seven toes.
An abstract alien
bird father.
It takes pride of place
sellotaped to the fridge.
"Yep...that's me
alright!"
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
WHAT A WONDERFUL LITTLE BOY
The view
gazes at him.
The landscape gathers
itself about him
as if he were a piece of pigment
in a painting a blob or blurr
of blue or green or
something in between.
"What a wonderful little boy!"
a passing cloud, pauses...muses
and says once more in case the hill
hadn't heard.
"What a wonderful little boy indeed!"
a tree agrees...winking...its leaves.
A river runs through him
alive in his senses.
The grass runs all over
the field tickling his naked toes.
Sunlight throws
itself at his feet
bows before him in all
its glory.
A breeze throws his hat high
up in the sky and
returns it to his hand
as if by command.
The clouds grazing now
upon a hill top
fascinated by his presence
how he has come to be.
"He makes us feel
so very much alive!"
One cloud nods
to another.
"Oh, there's a poet in him
to be sure to be sure!"
the river remarks
its voice clamouring over stones.
Time that sheep dog barks
but the clouds only luahg
"See how he lends us
his voice
in order that we may think
and speak.
Look I'm talking
in human words."
"Ballea...Ballea...Ballea!"
the farm shouts its name.
Again and again and again
the river exclaims
"Owenabui...Owenabui...Owenabui!"
sunlight dancing in its voice.
A bird stands stock still
upon the air
neither coming or going
just standing on nothing
as if it were a punctuation mark
typed upon the sky.
Time returns now
in policeman mood.
"Move along now...nothing to see here
move along now!"
And the landscape loses a voice
the sky its ability to see
the cloud has no words
the bird become a dot
only the sunset
whispers to an horizon
"What a wonderful
wonderful little boy!"
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 6:49 AM UTC
All sounds have been as music to my listening:
Pacific lamentations of slow bells,
The crunch of boots on blue snow rosy-glistening,
Shuffle of autumn leaves; and all farewells:
Bugles that sadden all the evening air,
And country bells clamouring their last appeals
Before [the] music of the evening prayer;
Bridges, sonorous under carriage wheels.
Gurgle of sluicing surge through hollow rocks,
The gluttonous lapping of the waves on weeds,
Whisper of grass; the myriad-tinkling flocks,
The warbling drawl of flutes and shepherds' reeds.
The orchestral noises of October nights
Blowing ( ) symphonetic storms
Of startled clarions ( )
Drums, rumbling and rolling thunderous and ( ).
Thrilling of throstles in the keen blue dawn,
Bees fumbling and fuming over sainfoin-fields.
2.4k
Can you hear them whispering
There inside my brain
Can you hear them tinkering
Trying to shake lose what is sane
Can you hear them Clamouring
There inside my mind
Can you hear them favouring
With sadness all they find
Can you hear them plotting
There inside my cranium
Can you hear them knotting
All my thoughts till thier alien
Can you hear them screaming
There inside my brain
Can you hear them scheming
They are driving me insane
The voices here inside my skull
Are always chattering, never a lull
They are bent on my destruction
At first it was a sweet seduction
Now it's a roaring wave
Trying my head to cave
I can hear them as plain as day
Can you hear them what they say
Those voices in my head
All them yelling, one thing said
They only want me dead
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 1:44 PM UTC
Comeback
Perhaps I should be grateful
That I never was recipient
Of great applause,
Years of adorers,
Broadway’s honey,
Years of being stunning,
Grateful that
I never had to kowtow, bow out,
Miss the kudos and the fame,
Never knowing what life was
With and without them, since I never got them.
Never got to play Las Vegas,
Glad there never came a time
Of longing for a non-existent encore,
Cheering I no longer hear.
Hair going grey,
Kilos heading the wrong way,
You are asked to make a comeback,
Or you’ve asked to make a comeback;
Life feels boring,
No alluring pleasure takes the place
Of listener filled with earful grace.
You sweat and strain, extra kilos off again,
Get back routines,
Move as you did in your teens,
Flexibility, the voice retaining every nuance.
Frank and Cher came back again - and then again.
We followed each rendition, each gradation, limitation;
Cheered until the cheers turned into hesitation.
I am grateful that I never
Had the clamouring for autographs and tresses,
Shredded dresses, theirs and mine.
Never had the glamour and the clamour of masses,
Fervent need to make a comeback,
Coming back to audiences smelling wine:
Hard to define.
And still I play and sing and grow.
Comeback 5.28.2008/revised3.19.2021
Birth, Death & In Between; Time; Vaguely About Music; Arlene Nover Corwin
Mar 19, 2021
Mar 19, 2021 at 5:07 PM UTC
Glances from across the room louder than the music
louder than the bass that everyone is waiting drop.
Musical notes clamouring against the floor,
don't pick them up.
leave them there,
walk around them
on tip toe
in ballet slippered feet.
feather light or lead heavy.
veins of lightning.
forming vowel sounds with my mouth.
ooooooOooOOO
EEeeeee
i. i. i.
AHhhhhh
Sew me together with fingertips like the soft kiss of lemon drops,
coming up the stairwell
the warmth of wanting
the bite of yearning.
Flushed pink.
Pinched red.
Pricked purple.
Spaghetti mind of soft thoughts
turning hard and stale like cracked chapped candy cane lips.
Naked and waiting.
Scabbed mosquito bites that bled bright red.
OOoooowww.
Gimme a sec.
3-5 business days until rejection.
I'll keep you posted.
48 hours of maybe.
Lemme get back to you.
No RSVP
establishing a lack of certainty.
but but but
Re: Urgent: Plz Respond ASAP
But when?
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 11:04 PM UTC
tea leaves sit soggy, sad
forgotten at the bottom
of the cup
leaching, bitter tannins
now, forgetting the life they led
no one willing to read their fortune
no spilling of the secrets
they never truly had
just detrius now
from dust to dustbin
the cycle of a tea leaf
long or brief,
happy or sad
a parable, in hot water
once green and lush in colour
in essence, verdent's liquid fame
once used and now just *******
every life has limit, every limit claimed
as we sup, we suffer the race of time
running through our fingers
clamouring at our mind
one day we too,
will be *******
waiting for the dust,
one day we too
shall leach our liquids
in the unforgiving dust
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 12:52 AM UTC
No life or death
Pain or pleasure
Galaxy
Or Universe
No more beautiful dawns or dusks
No world of wonders
Or anything
Once we are gone.
So it’s Now Boys!
Attention!
As Huxley said
On “Island”.
Live for Now.
For this very moment.
Stop.
Let your mind go blank.
Listen to your body
And all that surrounds you.
Breathe in the oxygen
That gives us life.
Admire the sky
And all beneath it.
Join with nature:
Sapping grass and foliage
The song of birds
As Mummy Sparrow feeds her fluffy chick
Its beak open wide
Clamouring for food.
Enjoy it all
While it lasts.
Paul Butters
Sep 8, 2017
Sep 8, 2017 at 5:53 AM UTC
In the heart of your ears through splendid cities pierced with light,
the river murmurs of mad seas in lonesome rooms
of the veins in the arms of notorious daughters, oh blue waters!
i sing and the woods sing!
she stands polka dotted in a great bronze chariot
the shivering willows like an ***** of iron down the long black river
we entwine our thin arms and great conquering black eyes
the sky is hell-red where the stars are sleeping.
in the sacred woods, under the light of the horizon
the poet speaks of eternal voice organ-pipes;
I cared nothing for all the horrible spinning eyes of the ferris wheel,
clamouring birds seen as archipelagos and the eyes of panthers
nodody gives a **** about real birds like the voluptuous coyote eagle
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 12:26 AM UTC
Dennis was a citizen
A denizen, a resident
Of somewhere near a motorway
A hideaway most opulent
Ensnared amid the railway
And trail ways for motorcars
A haven from the modern day
The takeaways and trendy bars
But shattered in the summer morn
His rest was torn by hammering
Invading what was once inert
So to his curtains clamouring
He banished each to either side
He threw them wide with knuckles white
And saw in front of his abode
Across the road, a building site
A certainty within his mind
Did slowly wind his purpose tight
And with a grim determined jaw
Across the floor he took to flight
Descending stairs without a care
His morning hair resembling
A dandelion set to seed
In need of disassembling
He strode across his dining room
And snatched a broom which lay by chance
Against the table by the door
And held before him like a lance
He mounted his beloved bike
A cycle like no other made
And on a builder set his sight
With all his might and unafraid
He charged his foe at quite a rush
And with his brush, the builder smote
And leaping from his trusty steed
He did proceed to stop and gloat
Before resuming in his spate
The builders mate did turn and run
To raise the dragon, JCB
It roared with glee and wheels spun
So Dennis, though his ears resound
With just the pound of noble heart
Did firmly stand and face the beast
His brow was creased and feet apart
He struck the creature savagely
And stubbornly with just his head
And that, according to the news
Was what the paramedics said
The End
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 6:30 AM UTC
Can you hear them whispering
There inside my brain
Can you hear them tinkering
Trying to shake lose what is sane
Can you hear them Clamouring
There inside my mind
Can you hear them favouring
With sadness all they find
Can you hear them plotting
There inside my cranium
Can you hear them knotting
All my thoughts till thier alien
Can you hear them screaming
There inside my brain
Can you hear them scheming
They are driving me insane
The voices here inside my skull
Are always chattering, never a lull
They are bent on my destruction
At first it was a sweet seduction
Now it's a roaring wave
Trying my head to cave
I can hear them as plain as day
Can you hear them what they say
Those voices in my head
All them yelling, one thing said
They only want me dead
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 7:57 PM UTC
Alfonso is a handsome bronze-hued lad
Of subtly-changing and surprising parts;
His moods are storms that frighten and make glad,
His eyes were made to capture women's hearts.
Down in the glory-hole Alfonso sings
An olden song of wine and clinking glasses
And riotous rakes; magnificently flings
Gay kisses to imaginary lasses.
Alfonso's voice of mellow music thrills
Our swaying forms and steals our hearts with joy;
And when he soars, his fine falsetto trills
Are rarest notes of gold without alloy.
But, O Alfonso! wherefore do you sing
Dream-songs of carefree men and ancient places?
Soon we shall be beset by clamouring
Of hungry and importunate palefaces.
1.5k
On the eve of whatever day it was, I awoke with the thought of sand jazzing its way through me like a joggers rush of blood to the head. Not a lot of fun, but fun enough to smile at the prospect of a working vehicle now clamouring its way seamlessly into my life and out through the front door to shake the post-mans hand and ask him his name for a Friday drink session because he's more than a postman, he's Michael Thurney Barnet of 5864 Quesnel Street, Powell River, BC, V8A 6H5.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 9:11 PM UTC
1.
And so, I clamber up the heavy slope
and sit alone upon a wide, flat rock.
I still the voices clamouring hard within
and try to listen to the air settle and breathe . . .
The eagle swoops low, whirring loud beside the rocky outcrop
likening its talons to sustain the hold of life . . . (this line to be amended ...sounds odd)
Leaves quiver silent on massive trees
obedient to nature, yet roots bold outgrown . . .
Shade reaches and stretches genial arms
while feel of dark and moist, fertile ground pervades . . .
Air thick with teeming life the eye can't see
thrums with invisible threads, linking slow tendrils . . .
Quiet sky looms dignified and peers squinted
while sun rays slant into pores, kiss my cheek.
Beetles scamper light along the soft, red sand
and not unlike them, I seek still the answer within . . .
2.
Fierce fire takes up dry tinder, consumes into heated coils
destroying with relish, yet offer cleansing balm . . .
3.
Sudden rains refresh, glance off surprised face, upturned
sweet deluge leaves all sodden to delighted heart . . .
4.
I turn not away
I look up
to receive . . . gladly.
I give such thanks
fall on knees to see . . .
No red sky (as in my nightmares)
No lost sun
No smoky horizon
No grey trees
No dead leaves.
Only yellow sunshine
Only blue sky
Only green leaves
Only clear horizon
as far as the eye can see.
S T, 8 May 2013
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 1:01 AM UTC
Listen
to these green plants
pleading
beseeching
you would think
they'd be used to it by now
but every year the same old thing
look the rain is finished folks
you're on your own now
nine months before the next shower
this is how leaves suffocate
see the gray dust clogging their pores
hear them choking
under a wind thrown blanket
this is how they drown
brittle and crackling the grasses
soon the weight
of a starving grasshopper
will be enough to snap
them
shrubs will dump
their curled up castoffs
earthwards
scribbled twigs alone
will remain
from now on
only the thieving airplants
will thrive
viral invaders
******* sap from reluctant hosts
who can ill afford
to accommodate them
now patient rocks
are emerging from cover
each a palette of vivid lichens
sundecks for snakes and lizards
now that the clamouring grass
is gone
the land lies baking
withdrawn
curling
into herself
even the air
sighs
slumps
soon fire will come
to cannibalise
the undergrowth
play chasey
through the dry grass
send ants scurrying
downstairs
flip a nod
to the big old cactuses
tickle the toes
of the mesquites-
who will stand stoic
observing the pillage
around their hot feet
and shrug
resigned
seen it all before
they are above it all really
fire
will play homage
to their indifference
lay down
a black velvet carpet
wind
will whistle up
tiny tornadoes of ash
to pirouette
and perish
everyone
will accept the inevitable
eventually
and just knuckle down
to wait it out
in a state of trance
floating
on a dream
of rain
Tricia Lambert
Mexico
Nov 2010
Sep 18, 2011
Sep 18, 2011 at 10:07 AM UTC
jesus came back in 1945 in egypt
with a shepherd
digging the scrolls up:
the nag hammadi library...
the jewish historian josephus wrote
about a false egyptian prophet
~2000 years ago,
dot dot dot...
well... dot dot dot;
counter argument?
in defiance the defence rests its case
with a semi-detached and a roast dinner
every sunday until death do us part.
sorted then!
*** change's a bonus on top of
that balancing act to keep glogotha relevant
in terms of impregnation above the interest
of bethlehem to orientate
east with 3 splinters aimed at gift:
take east and you're looking at a linear
two dimensional realm of preceding allocation...
preceding allocation of the mirage that's
a recurrent but nontheless a receding mark
of served colour...
**** we all missed the 2nd coming in 1945...
the holocaust got the historians clamouring
for the columbus prize - as that famous hip-replacement
for the jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way!
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 11:24 PM UTC
you grow your beard out a little in may and look
like a flyboy in 44 with a soft face, soft mouth
just toughing it out to get home to apple pie and books
the one with the glasses, so to speak.
new, but in a way that says "if i shaved it
i'd be cutting away the memory of every bead
of sweat i shed in the time that this all grew"
and you look at me and god
those are .50 calibre eyes
green as the pacific
clamouring with all the pain and silence
of its little islands.
May 23, 2011
May 23, 2011 at 9:19 PM UTC
I have the keys,
but I ring the bell instead.
She opens the door always,
peering from behind,
wary, irritated eyes.
He stands behind her,
holding a ladle, most of the time,
with a soft smile on the face
he greets,
which I meet,
then set my bags aside.
The living room is a tidy map
of corners sectioned as per need,
a corner to pray,
a corner to store,
a corner to watch TV.
Hidden inside drawers
is a room for memories.
But this is not where I live,
but away in a room confined
to sleep, dreams, and reflections,
and one black rectangle
that keeps me aligned.
It is my escape route,
from the noise the vessels make;
in the kitchen when they thump,
on the table where they clamour,
from chasing footsteps that chase each other
to and away in tantrums.
I have one window that slopes
towards a paradise that chirps and glows
I have a door that remains closed
to the only house that I ever had,
love, but cannot adore.
I restrict myself to that one room,
in the end, the darkened corner,
and pass through the clamouring kitchen
and the rumbling living room
every morning,
to step out of that door.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 11:47 PM UTC
Til twinkle pinkie rosebuds turn shrubbery so wild
wilder than the fume upon which the moonglade
climbs gloomy tide to make welcome of the night
until the little birds sing your name
then times be as happy as flame
One goldfinch and 3 white pigeons
a colourful macaw parrot and falconet
or the black crowncrane of large pinions
soul's fleeting harbinger of the lorikeet
type, as i await the little birds sing
The whole of my being approves
by the star shining in northerly clime
as in clinging on tight to a feeling so true
of grim death in moment so prime
until the birds vocalize your name
only then shall I not feel the disdain
Patience robs the clamouring chest
heels are still weary and cold in rest
and soon little birds send me tweets
by the dawn chorus of early birds' beats
shall one become happy and gay
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 2:47 AM UTC
Herself of infinite possibilities stemming from
that moment...
Drowning within her womb! Never one for reflection,
as those that looked upon the glaring in reflective
gazes where her sisters that were still connected
with her memories.
That which was meant to feed the focus of life wrapped
upon there throats like the hangman's noose.
She looked on hands reaching in the vastness of diluted
life, her screams silent within only her sisters heard her
clamouring as life was diluted from there figures.
Gazing upon there reflections, no longer a trio of playful
content. two months she was collected in apparitions
that floated around her.. decaying into void reflections.
The silent screams of her sisters lingering through the womb
even though they were gone there cries haunted her.
As she was released the memory faded beyond her innocence,
till age crept upon her skin, and in years that past.
Echoes images of crying babies filled the air, till her eighteenth
and when she gazed into her self she saw herself.
But when descending her sister with opal eyes lingered.
Skin crawled like spiders weaving their thoughts on her
skin, beneath herself things crawled. Videoing herself in
mirrors echoes surfaced like one drowning in nothingness.
And she saw those of her conception reaching forth for warmth.
Looking upon the mirror, the love of those who were echoes
reflected in her absence cried at what was taken before.
A pact was versed for even though there form was lost
a trio of life still lingered within her, from womb till birth.
Now they live a life of echoes each respective of the others
emotions clinging to the shorelines of each consciousness
that washes up. There is a sea shell on the shore but there
is three echoes that live within this moment haunting the
shades of life's passing, never looking at ones own reflection.
Jul 2, 2017
Jul 2, 2017 at 10:59 AM UTC