"coloratura" poems
-for Zukiswa Mvunguse~
and for
~ Jul,
who once again,
loved each line best~
having already deduced that:
“the unplanned is his plan,
it’s his faceted flaws
that refract his coloratura”^
the titled alliteration teases him into thinking
there, is more to be said,
more to be prayed,
the unplanned lesser lesson is as-of-the-yet unlearned,
and the sunburst of a full fledged
lying-in-bed born from a static spark of kinetic energy,
awaking in an unfamiliar bed
or a too familiar state of mind,
begs for birth and vainglorious death-by-anon/amity
of another poem
I have written poems commissioned,
“write about suicide,” asked a friend,
“take this word and artfully knead it,” once, was once an oft request,
twisty manipulate your scheming resources into
finely assaying a field rock raw,
laboratory mind-mine it into an essay that delve dives
where you fear to treacherous tread,
resultant, an awkward prayer, now, a valued mineral
no poem is truly planned and no prayer ever truly answered,
but as you compose, pushing the last, next word
ever farther to the right,
you self-confess, expecting no absolution, that the poem,
this one as well,
and the next, and the next, and the next
has always been planned since your inception,
always a prayer asked, and in creation conception,
answered even if not directly answered,
for
in the bare minimum asking,
is the answering,
is the planning,
is the poem and the prayer,
is his owned
alliteration
Mar 24, 2019
Mar 24, 2019 at 8:16 AM UTC
the wind whispers to you in furious ways,
ominous notes, like a dusty violin
stenciling finality into the air.
the percussion
of foot-soldiers trembles the grass.
you have grown, my war-child,
from the days of ****** tea parties
to a diva guerrilla,
terrible and well-rehearsed,
your bulleted libretto close to your chest--
and as trumpets sound in the offing,
the curtain draws back.
AK-47, pizzicato--
gasoline breeds fire, incinerates woodwinds,
the wine of the coloratura soprano
melts into blood.
witch, ***** daughter of gunpowder,
bella contralto, your
deep and tremulous vibrato is a
grenade,
and as death crashes to a crescendo,
mortality in the tin frequency of cymbals--
the only armistice
is annihilation.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 10:27 PM UTC
I WANDER down on Clinton street south of Polk
And listen to the voices of Italian children quarreling.
It is a cataract of coloratura
And I could sleep to their musical threats and accusations.
1.4k
while
worrying i
would never
wake up without
thinking of you first,
I realized i managed to see past
the thought of you today there's
so much of me that's new, so much of
me i've never seen, and i've only ever taken the
first step but watch me, watch me take the second
and the third and crescendo far above the heavy thrum
of acoustic guitars,
but
didn't you
love.
that.
about me
anyway?
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 10:18 PM UTC
there is a place where the digitized vinyl gospel funk
intercepts the rumble of passing cars
and creates the most electrifying revitalization
sharper even than the razor blade air
running darting
from underneath far-off frosted leaves
on starch high branches
scraping my fingers and ankles
with ceaseless sounds that show
the bristled boundless scuplted green plane
how to dance
soon the sun loses its hold on tranquility
and leaps from the halos
of buildings and coloratura crowns of trees
painting the bustling scene with an overlay
of glossy jubiliation
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 10:12 PM UTC
1
In constant consonance
Love, in it's minimalistic sonata
Plays a slow stitched waltz
Into the cough syrup
Haze of memories
2
When love was just a
Second-hand suggestion
A rebellious rose
Reaching recklessly
For a remarkable reaction
Finds a score left unfinished
From years past
3
In pointe shoes
Two bodies dance a
Painful coloratura
Yet in the midst of
This pa de deux
Love remembers contentment
Jul 2, 2016
Jul 2, 2016 at 6:15 AM UTC
six trees gathered, a single stand,
looking for a gathering, standing of four more,
a prayer circle to make, branch to branch
holding onto each other, to have their bark better
heard, the question on the table, today’s agenda:
why must trees die?
overheard their human querying same, the proud trees
too, puzzled, sending their inquiry to the heavens that
feed them never failing, water to quench a rooted deep
thirst, their role, job description well understood, purposed
to shade the world, give off fruit, so tasked, so asked:
why must trees die?
Caught the busy Lord unawares, dealing with seasonal pandemics,
endemic hatred from the frailings of human weakness, who honor
pretense by their mouth moving, but don’t believe their enunciation,
oh! tiresome battlefront, millions of casualties inflicted on each other,
Lord could not countenance another self-interested questioning of his earthly architecture
why must trees die?
on a beautiful paradisal day, cumulus whites decorating a blue coloratura that never be quite replicated, quieting, five-sense waters at ease, minimal moving, lunching noon hour,the birds, insects, rabbits all retired to cooling reservoirs, munch, gnaw, pollinate, yet the trees misjudge the sun dial iris quietude in the manger, the grove, as the Lord’s good graceful forgiving demeanor, therefore shocking, disbelieving the unforgiving ruthlessness of a deity of love, so the
cracking of a single bolt of punishing, purposed lighting, that knocked all the trees down, single blow, roots embruing, ember glowed, a “sounding” the world hears unoften, unremitting, not understanding its other-worldliness, so rare appearing when an actualized answer is returned, declarative, tangible, glorious words:
because I am who I am, The Eternal, alone, who keeps the imperfect balance of all my creations, without oversight, asking only from them
acceptance of things beyond earthly comprehension...
Jun 6, 2020
Jun 6, 2020 at 8:20 AM UTC
ZzzzZzzzZzzzZzzzZzzz
It was the key of E
ZzzzZzzzZzzzZzzzZzzz
punctuated by the coloratura
of exuberant birds
greeting the morning sunlight
as the bees rushed from flower to flower
zealous to drink in the nectar of a new day
A leaf blower pierces this subtle but mighty symphony
Why can't we just allow the wind to blow the leaves?
Still the bees ZzzzZzzZzzz
Still the birds rival the greatest sopranos
And I pause
What am I adding to this grand opus?
Am I in harmony?
Am I the din?
ZzzzZzzzZzzZzzzZzzz
And we keep buzzing, humming, singing
As this little planet turns, ecstatically
In a symphony of galaxies and stars
Basking in the dayspring sun
Oct 24, 2020
Oct 24, 2020 at 9:46 PM UTC