"clefs" poems
To these Babylonians
Oh father, and I am a child of Abraham
Daughter of salt and desert
Daughter of the sun blazed beige dream mountains
Who roll together like sleeping dinosaurs
In the archives of my memory.
To these Babylonians
And I have withheld from them my true name
For their tongues are not fit to pronounce it
Written in black stardust across my ankle
Branded like the wandering sheep
In the blue hills drowning in yellow gnats and cloud.
My father taught me how to survive
Babylonia
By the seaside the shore was covered in
Transparent jellyfish and dark ocean weeds
Abraham inhaling foamy salt waves
Preaching black oil, blood and fire
Preaching this, Babylonia
When foreign lands resemble home
When homes revert to foreign land.
When earth and sky and water do not remember you
When you do not remember them
Singing still in the salty undertow
Treble clefs caked in the cracks of my bones
Barefoot fire altar, sticky sunbeam fractures
Progeny of Abraham
Singing sacrifice
Stolen seconds folding themselves into eternity.
To these Babylonians
And I am a child of Isaac
Violin strings shouting with the river
Jacob whispered all rivers and all rivers
Flow to Rome
And all salt water tastes of home
Find me in the poison current of the obsidian ocean
Jellyfish seaweed and petroleum-slurred sands
My father Abraham sang many songs.
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC
I TOOK away three pictures.
One was a white gull forming a half-mile arch from the pines toward Waukegan.
One was a whistle in the little sandhills, a bird crying either to the sunset gone or the dusk come.
One was three spotted waterbirds, zigzagging, cutting scrolls and jags, writing a bird Sanscrit of wing points, half over the sand, half over the water, a half-love for the sea, a half-love for the land.
I took away three thoughts.
One was a thing my people call "love," a shut-in river hunting the sea, breaking white falls between tall clefs of hill country.
One was a thing my people call "silence," the wind running over the butter faced sand-flowers, running over the sea, and never heard of again.
One was a thing my people call "death," neither a whistle in the little sandhills, nor a bird Sanscrit of wing points, yet a coat all the stars and seas have worn, yet a face the beach wears between sunset and dusk.
1.6k
Sing.
Mama's voice chimes bells.
Daddy's words raise hell.
The spell of music speaks doors into the night.
She steps onto the moonlight highway.
The melodies frozen in her ears from before
thaw and play their instruments
bringing life to dream-singers.
It's no coincidence
she was born premature.
It seems everything in her life has come early,
so she set her clocks ahead
and listened to the bells chime,
something like mama's voice.
Her home is a choice,
but not hers.
Instead she stirs the *** of muses
mixing salve for all the bruises,
not to her skin, he's not that stupid,
but for her bleeding heart
and broken mind.
Sing.
Purse your lips and cover your ears.
Conjure a tune from down in your belly
and make **** sure you guard all the exits.
Close your eyes and let the medicine
of cello strings and cymbals
back up the voice of your bones.
Don't let the melody presume to take words.
Your mind is caught up, trapped by the pain.
Just let soul **** tumble and fall
and rise, and climb and stall
and leave it all behind.
Let mama's screams blend in with crescendos.
Let go of this world.
Dip your toes in the timbre of streams.
Hands over your ears, don't forget!
Don't forget your form.
Forget the violent storms.
And if you're spun,
spin into helices.
Your DNA twisting into treble clefs,
hug the transformation close.
Who knows? You may sprout wings.
Sing;
If only a half-hearted whisper.
Sing yourself to sleep tonight.
And hope mama's voice still chimes in the morning.
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 12:43 AM UTC
(start with a bow and a swish)
we are a thousand beating symphonies
variations of a familiar theme
treble clefs and four/four rhythms
chord progressions up to E
(sorrow and anger and love and hate)
arpeggios and interludes
minuets quadrilles and waltzes
the refrains, the fermatas, the reprises
we are a thousand sweeping overtures
(the last note rings through an empty auditorium)
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 4:48 PM UTC
An unsuspecting observer would view his property as bland
With subterranean secrets rarely breaching for detection
When pointed ends met with his cracking winter surface
The sludge bubbled out filling every empty space
His inner oil to some
Was black gold
Prosperity
To others still, a tar pit worthy of dinosaur death
He grew as a sheet of ice which could harbor skating lessons
Or unseen, send auto travelers in lack of traction spirals
His light-stealing sticky venom clotted neural networks
A fat tarantula plucking whims from the web between two ears
He fraternized with Morpheus
On odds
With cousin evens
Awakening unsure if he were caught in silky cobs
Or the hands above it all
He certainly felt like a marionette, dangling on feeble feet
Pulled by the digits of ink stained impulse
Hate, tug
Create, tug
They made him dance to their tattooed meter
He felt the crunch of beetles and flies
His temples throbbed as tar dripped from his eyes
Drops forming clefs, pictures, and words
I am but a stencil, he buzzed
Nov 2, 2011
Nov 2, 2011 at 2:02 PM UTC
I get mad at my hands a lot. I remember
how they would struggle to contort
themselves and my shoe strings and how
for so long I was embarrassed by the
laziness of my fingers. They would never
tie double knots right—always strangling
my feet—took forever to finally prevent the
slow untying loops of lace into loosely
tangled treble clefs
or my ampersands: their shapes like ********
figure-eights, always ending up in between
important words. And for what it’s worth, it’s a
conjunction that looks weak and rushed, which
makes it easier to look at because I don’t love
you. Even in Times New Roman it feels this way,
it looks the same: just as tired, as it tries to
keep us tied together by taking empty space
between our names—I hope you mind the gap
when I’m gone; it’s my hands I blame.
You never did anything wrong.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 9:25 AM UTC
Sometimes you meet people that you grow to love.
And then other times, you cross paths with some
that just click with your senses;
heighten your emotions so high everything else seems to disappear.
But beware of those who just snap into place
for they will inject their venom
into the depths of your heart
and leave skid marks on the surface.
They will plaster your atriums with Picasso murals
and sheet music from Bach
only to cover the walls with kerosene
and burn it to the ground for the sole soul-wrenching sake of "art".
And that's okay, you will live on.
But there will still be scars at the entrance sites from every drop of poison.
There will still be scars from the train tracks he carved
from the bat of his eyes and the pucker of his lips.
There will still be scars from the blaze
because when fire burns it does so
passionately
carelessly
wonderfully with furiosity
And you will find pieces of clay under different piles of ash;
You will find treble clefs and fermatas
hidden under every ember that was left to die.
You will still find beauty in the destruction.
And maybe it's still okay to admire the ruins,
even just for a little while.
gd
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 10:45 PM UTC
Par je ne sais quelle aventure,
Un avare, un beau jour, voulant se bien traiter,
Au marché courut acheter
Des pommes pour sa nourriture.
Dans son armoire il les porta,
Les compta, rangea, recompta,
Ferma les doubles tours de sa double serrure,
Et chaque jour les visita.
Ce malheureux, dans sa folie,
Les bonnes pommes ménageait ;
Mais lorsqu'il en trouvait quelqu'une de pourrie,
En soupirant il la mangeait.
Son fils, jeune écolier, faisant fort maigre chère,
Découvrit à la fin les pommes de son père.
Il attrape les clefs, et va dans ce réduit,
Suivi de deux amis d'excellent appétit.
Or vous pouvez juger le dégât qu'ils y firent,
Et combien de pommes périrent.
L'avare arrive en ce moment,
De douleur, d'effroi palpitant.
Mes pommes ! Criait-il : coquins, il faut les rendre,
Ou je vais tous vous faire pendre.
Mon père, dit le fils, calmez-vous, s'il vous plaît ;
Nous sommes d'honnêtes personnes :
Et quel tort vous avons-nous fait ?
Nous n'avons mangé que les bonnes.
742
_Ebony and ivory._
Intermixed clefs.
A landscape of sound.
Not paint, but vibration.
Stories woven in air.
_Imagination_ ignited.
Tales spun from silence.
Love, a melody repeated.
Swooning, a chord held long.
_Emotions_, a full spectrum.
Darkness, a low rumble.
Light, a high trill.
Hard, a percussive strike.
Soft, a gentle sustain.
_Symphonies_, vast and sprawling.
_Rhapsodies_, wild and free.
Logic, a precise sequence.
Mathematics, a hidden structure.
A language without words.
_Universal_, no translation needed.
Across every boundary.
No wall can hold it back.
Species, all ears attuned.
Culture, a shared experience.
A resonance that binds us.
A bridge built of notes.
___Eighty-eight___ keys.
___Eighty-eight___ possibilities.
Each a doorway.
Each a journey.
From the quietest _whisper_.
To the loudest roar.
A universe contained.
In the space between.
A _heartbeat_ in rhythm.
A breath in harmony.
The _soul_ expressed.
Pure, unadulterated.
No need for explanation.
No need for justification.
Just the sound.
And the feeling it evokes.
A timeless current.
Flowing through us all.
A language of the heart.
___Eighty-eight___ keys, infinite feeling.
Feb 24, 2025
Feb 24, 2025 at 7:10 PM UTC
Countdown
T-10 to the unknown
I built this city stone on stone
I worked my hands down to the bone
Overgrown
and unknown
Completely alone
and terrified
Pesticide
Rotten soul and acid eye
Crumble and forget
Lock the memories around your neck
Lock the prisoners underground
Lock your mouth into that frown
What now, is beautiful?
In the street the women march,
Glorify the marble arch.
Here we go and here we stay
Turtle smile and tremble
Oh how child you do resemble
A woman I once knew.
Oh how she destroyed me through and through
How she brought rot to my core
Your lips,
Her beautiful eyesore
All you are and so much more
Mirror-bound like a broken sword
Cling to the promise of the patient Lord.
In the street the women march
Glorify the marble arch
And sing sweetly
Let the music fill the air
Let the treble clefs fill the cracks in your bones
Let us melt and merge these thrones
Tender treason undertones.
Throw the darkness all away
or hide it behind the beating of your heart
First to finish, last to start
Slit your wrists and call it art
Scattered pieces torn apart
And here is where it all begins
The women, they march on every avenue
whispering the secrets of me and you
but if only they knew,
If only they really truly knew.
And what now, is beautiful?
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 7:52 AM UTC
For whose License must your Coppered Mouth sing
Which the Lamb and the Owl compose for you
This - define such Friend - thumb your nickered strings,
Then delve Innocence perform those Tidbits true
Perhaps my Finger - or Eye then about
Point to where your Righteous Heart should belong
As you praise your Job; Past Excellence stout
Play your Hidden Muse in search for a Song
Which Customers, their likely Music spell
Helled or Heavened Clefs you both pacify
That this Foundry should acclaim Managers well
As their War-Torn Throats win your satisfy.
Still it was just a Day; As such Day did pass
Back to your Reward; And Reward it was.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 2:01 PM UTC
for my mind to
write something for you
is for the flowers
to feed nectar to birds,
and your presence and
ears are the vessels
so my seeds are
sown in the ground.
Hello, you, who
reads poems like
a musician clefs.
Basses, so bold and italic.
Half-notes, half-thoughts,
succinct and seemingly
purposeful.
Poetry, is the shelf
on which my thoughts
gather.
Vessels with which
I slice across my head,
and sprinkle stars
here and there.
Mother, father, you, I.
People whom I have
not yet met but have
greeted with my words.
Hello,
here are some words for you.
A poem, to a good day.
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 12:32 PM UTC
Harmony invest this Heart-Thrown Device
And pull this Lever for your Notes enthrill
Turn Lutes into Clefs; With Lyrics advise
To melt that Stone which I'm hoping to fill
And fill with what? That my Shadows you hate
Either due to Skin or Past Demeanour
Spirits or Saints, whether regret this Spate
Or sour those Beads my Hymns endeavour
If by the Leech my Swell Petitions plead
And for once cast out my Determinant
Who, of all do their Valiant Soldiers lead
And left for me this Medalled Adjutant.
I took Reservations once. And it kills
Leaving room for Peace; Yet infest my Skills.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 8:56 AM UTC
I’ve been running to the shore, to the sunset, to the sand
where my toes and the breeze compose a symphony in secret
it starts piano, almost pianissimo, no one has to know that we,
We share the talent, the gift of an emotional crescendo
that we all stamp our feelings on staffs and our hearts are in sync
in sync we are always we are always following the smooth tempo of
time and we’re just all harmonizing with the beach
with the muffled sopranos that flutter around someone who waltzes
with a guitar between their arms, in an alley filled with graffiti
in a salty atmosphere and fresh beans and rice
A little mambo here and there while strolling
down the piano tiles that make up the streets
a little mambo here and there, to keep us going
pianissimo, we must keep it pianissimo
so the world won’t know… yet… that we’re all an impromptu group
we are all interconnected, living under the same staff but different clefs
rarely sharing the beats of our cultures
rarely following canons
it always vibrates, the lingering nostalgia
buzzing, missing the old jazz and the shores, sunsets, and sands
that we shared in our old homes, away from here
We hope it makes sense that our lives are ran in decrescendo
but the connections within each other always form the same ensemble
percussion and wind, forming the shore we stand in front of
the orchestra itself becoming the sand slipping from our hands
and we form the sunset, the sunset that leads everyone here
we all know how we go back home.
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 5:58 PM UTC
We were your little notes inside our peaceful home
A stream of staves on a song that's as sweet as Rome.
With a familial bond that grows beyond the ledger line
We felt more contented than all the octaves combined.
You and mom are the key signatures guiding our way
Her sharp lectures and your flat humor always saving the day.
You taught us how to dance along all the pitches of life
No matter how many clefs there are, no matter the type.
You are always there telling us when it's time to rest
And binds us together with a tie to faith in our chest.
When we felt half of our whole you're willing to take a beat
And point us to the missing dot in our scrambled musical sheets.
You are the chosen composer of our shared symphony
Giving beat and rhythm to every precious melody.
You're as great of a father as you are a talented saxophonist
And we're the living legacy of such a legendary artist.
Sep 25, 2017
Sep 25, 2017 at 7:30 PM UTC
the sky is green and i'm cold
telephone wires string above me
and fold into sheet music,
birds sit like quarter notes and treble clefs.
my throat is burning
from the taste of your name
i thought my acid reflex had been gone
since i was eleven.
i cleared my hard drive today
four point two gigabytes
filled with the memory of you
are gone.
in the blink of an eye
you
are
lost.
(a.m.c.)
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 10:48 PM UTC
WHAT IS NOT THERE...THAT'S THERE.
She saw music
written upon the air.
"I see..?" I said.
Not really...seeing.
"Oh like birds
perched on telegraph wires
becoming a musical score
in themselves?"
She shook her head
as if trying to clear it
of my words
not understanding her.
"No! Not as obvious as that!"
she snapped.
I stood corrected.
She raised her finger like a batton.
"But with...mordents and accents
clefs. hold and thrills!"
I tried to help her along
with her explanation.
"Like notation you mean
key signatures and such!"
"I see them in 3-D
and in colour!"
I could only smile
unable to keep up with her.
"I have only to pluck them
out of the air
set them singing
within my being.!"
I looked at the sky
it did not sing to me.
It spoke only of clouds
becoming other than they were
of weather
that was to be.
She hummed the sky
softly to her self.
I wish I could hear
with her eyes.
Mar 31, 2019
Mar 31, 2019 at 3:57 PM UTC
She licked her lips, incomprehensibly
A feverish dew, luminous beads
A mutual alacrity, unspoken melody-
That guides me to search deeper.
Magnetism without polarity
No witness to confess undue crimes
Healers unaware of their divine power-
Now we caress in our velvet hour.
Shackles and chains extinct from our desires
The birdsong and Sun continue their loops;
lacing together under luscious clefs
of bassy tones, arpeggiating.
The second is nigh that my senses explode
I am not frightened by this pensive moment
Let me drink from the chalice, Priestess
And absorb the sacred knowledge.
Jan 23, 2021
Jan 23, 2021 at 5:44 AM UTC
Ce Zoïle cagot naquit d'une Javotte.
Le diable, - ce jour-là Dieu permit qu'il créât, -
D'un peu de Ravaillac et d'un de Nonotte
Composa ce gredin béat.
Tout jeune, il contemplait, sans gîte et sans valise,
Les sous-diacres coiffés d'un feutre en lampion
Vidocq le rencontra priant dans une église,
Et, l'ayant vu loucher, en fit un espion.
Alors ce va-nu-pieds songea dans sa mansarde,
Et se voyant sans cœur, sans style, sans esprit,
Imagina de mettre une feuille poissarde
Au service de Jésus-Christ.
Armé d'un goupillon, il entra dans la lice
Contre les jacobins, le siècle et le péché.
Il se donna le luxe, étant de la police,
D'être jésuite et saint par-dessus le marché.
Pour mille francs par mois livrant l'eucharistie,
Plus vil que les voleurs et que les assassins,
Il fut riche. Il portait un flair de sacristie
Dans le bouge des argousins.
Il prospère ! - Il insulte, il prêche, il fait la roue ;
S'il n'était pas saint homme, il eût été sapeur ;
Comme s'il s'y lavait, il piaffe en pleine boue,
Et, voyant qu'on se sauve, il dit : comme ils ont peur !
Regardez, le voilà ! - Son journal frénétique
Plaît aux dévots et semble écrit par des bandits.
Il fait des fausses clefs dans l'arrière-boutique
Pour la porte du paradis.
Des miracles du jour il colle les affiches.
Il rédige l'absurde en articles de foi.
Pharisien hideux, il trinque avec les riches
Et dit au pauvre : ami, viens jeûner avec moi.
Il ripaille à huis clos, en publie il sermonne,
Chante landerirette après alléluia,
Dit un pater, et prend le menton de Simone... -
Que j'en ai vu, de ces saints-là !
Qui vous expectoraient des psaumes après boire,
Vendaient, d'un air contrit, leur pieux bric-à-brac,
Et qui passaient, selon qu'ils changeaient d'auditoire,
Des strophes de Piron aux quatrains de Pibrac !
C'est ainsi qu'outrageant gloires, vertus, génies,
Charmant par tant d'horreurs quelques niais fougueux,
Il vit tranquillement dans les ignominies,
Simple jésuite et triple gueux.
Septembre1850.
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