"concertos" poems
~
Your beauty sings harmony
with a cantata sunrise,
euphoric melodies in viola
and piccolo lingering
‘pon a lavender haze
of periwinkle whispers,
symphonic poetry
afloat of dawn’s breezes,
ecstasy in tangerine desires,
wafting concertos of passion
as I listen quietly
to my day once again
beginning with the perfect
lyrics of your smile
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 6:32 AM UTC
When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your flawless makeup
Instead I think of your eyes, the window to your soul.
I describe the love that flows through soft hazel gaze that only a mother can produce
When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your perfectly done hair
Instead I see you reading a novel on a hot summer day,
As if it were your true reality in that moment.
I see the power that literature holds
I describe your mesmerizing voice repeating the lines of Eloise in Paris to me,
I mention the soothing way in which you read the Velveteen Rabbit,
And I credit you for making me fall in love with words and the way they can make people feel.
When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your schooling history
Instead I picture you and I see a symphony around your soul that courses cannot teach
I see Mozart's Sonata No.11 and Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos
I see Monet’s Water Lilies, Veronese's Wedding at Cana and Michelangelo’s David
I describe the joy in your eyes when we saw the Sistine Chapel and the Champs-Élysées
I describe the vast knowledge and art that makes up your personal mosaic.
When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your professional accomplishments.
Instead I mention your ability to hold someone and make them feel loved
I picture the times you embraced me while I silently sobbed over circumstances that you tried to protect me from.
I picture the words that you gave me at just the right times
I see the comfortable silence you provided when I couldn't bear to hear words through the pain.
When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your clothing or the way you dress
Instead I mention the way you clothe yourself in humility before God
I see the verses that you have sown into my heart since I was young
I speak of the way you clothe yourself with the armor of God
I remember the scriptures that you so carefully knitted on my heart
When I describe you to a stranger,
I describe you as
A woman after God’s own heart.
A woman who understands that beauty is vain but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised,
A woman who teaches wisdom and kindness and serves with joy,
A mother who clothes herself in strength and dignity and laughs without fear of the future,
A mother who encapsulates the love of Christ here on Earth.
I describe you as everything that I hope to become.
Aug 12, 2021
Aug 12, 2021 at 12:42 AM UTC
I met him one night in December...
close to Christmas Eve
When I walked in he had
candles lit and some
scotch for us to drink
His peepers are dark and squinty
His laugh is warm and lovely
His voice is satin spiked with honey
He drinks purple-graped-red-wine
He resembles Dionysos
Nature as a male
He works with cryptic messages
Amalgams and
his speach is a rainbow of
different languages
Could of sworn I've met this
man in some dreamy
distant place...
Palaces of concertos ringing
when I study his copper face
I had a restless wistfulness...
A particular soulful malnutrition
That eventually dissipated
in our bathtub conversation
I swear I would cross oceans
In the hope that we might
meet again
I understand he has a habit of
diving into fountains...
He dances with gypsies on
the street
Sometimes I fail to see how
someone as worldly as he
could like someone like me
I call when he runs by Vesuvius
I want his extra time
I always forget the 7 hour
time difference but...
when we talk it makes me smile
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 12:02 AM UTC
i. you broke both my legs and i'm still trying to walk. you ripped concertos from the back of my throat and said,
"look how beautiful you are."
ii. you don't have a nice smile. you smile like it's hurting you, like it's tearing you apart from the inside and you choke out words like stakes digging into my back, saying,
"then again, you did seem heaven sent."
iii. you sing church hymns with your whole self, your body pulsating with the force of it. you look at me when you sing, narrow your eyes as you kiss me, singing amazing grace like it actually meant something to you.
iv. you're biblical. you kiss my fingers and hiss holy words into the spaces between them, recite verses when we go to sleep at night, whispering,
"i don't have much faith left for messiahs, but i'm pretty sure you could be one."
v. i hate you and i don't know why. actually, that's wrong. i hate you because you never really died, did you, you're still here, imprinted across every surface in my house did you know that having an eidetic memory means i will never be able to forget you?
vi. you shattered my jaw and took the remains with you, painting a mural in different shades of red, saying,
"sweetheart, this is how you look best."
vii. you told me once that vampires are just vengeful angels and i don't know if i still believe that. i don't know if i ever believed that. i don't know what you believe when you tell me,
"look at the mess you've made."
viii. i wonder how long i've been faithless, or faithful. whatever you want to call it, sweetheart, when you say,
"you could have been all this, love, and more."
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 4:00 PM UTC
Atara wants to listen
to the pianist
play some Chopin
in some place
in Dubrovnik
so we get dressed
in our best
have a shot
of ***** first
and a smoke
on the balcony
a look over the sea
and she says
I he'd wished play Mozart
I like Mozart
well he's playing Chopin
so that's it
I say
but he won't be playing
the piano concertos
of Chopin
she says
no he hasn't got
an orchestra with him
just him
playing alone
I say
she sits on the balcony
in her red dress
the one that I bought her
in Paris
the one she's grown out of
(not to mention it
to her of course)
she inhales
and looks
at the street below
remember
when we made love
to Chopin's Piano Concerto
number 2?
she asks
we didn't make love
to the concerto
we made love
with each other
I say
you know
what I mean
she says
you'd bought me
an LP
of the two concertos
and we made love
to the 2nd one
I looked at the red dress
it fitted tightly
her *******
were pushing it
to the limits
her plump knees
were showing
that red dress ok?
I ask
she looks at me
sure it is
it's my favourite
she replies
pulling at the hem
trying to pull it
over her knees
you bought it for me
in Paris
yes I did
back in 1970
is it that long ago?
two years?
yes two years
I say
gosh I don't usually
have a dress that long
she says
maybe you should
buy me a new one
she says
I bought a new one
last month
to go to that wedding
I say
O but that
was a wedding going dress
she says
I look away
look at the sea
the red dress is fine
I say
(despite what people might see)
there's a good looking dame
on the balcony over the way
I don't say.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 1:55 AM UTC
Paul Wittgenstein returned from war,
feeling half a man.
He had fought his nations’ battles
at the cost of his right hand.
The loss of an appendage
scars anyone, its true.
Paul was a pianist-.
With just one hand what could he do?
Paul Wittgenstein was fortunate
Having Ravel for a friend.
A confidante of Gershwin,
He said Paul would play again..
He wrote a sweet piano piece
To be played with just one hand.
If you close your eyes and listen
You would never guess his plan.
A composer of precision,
With a jazzy playful side,
His left handed concerto
Was one to make the angels cry
Paul Wittgenstein took to the stage
A sea of faces looking on.
He played the piece so brilliantly
None guessed his hand was gone.
Not until he left his seat
To bow to their applause
Some gasped in their astonishment,
But most just cheered and roared.
Ravel's Concerto for the Left Hand is one of the most brilliant and important of 20th-century concertos for any instrument. Composed for Paul Wittgenstein, a pianist who lost his right arm during World War I, there is no way by simply listening that you would ever know its secret. Both of Ravel's concertos were heavily influenced by jazz--possibly also by his acquaintance with Gershwin--and successful performances must combine his customary precision with a certain ability to "swing" the tunes. --David Hurwitz
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 6:43 PM UTC
*
Your beauty sings harmony
with a cantata sunrise,
euphoric melodies in viola
and piccolo lingering
‘pon a lavender haze
of periwinkle whispers,
symphonic poetry
afloat of dawn’s breezes,
ecstasy in tangerine desires,
wafting concertos of passion
as I listen quietly
to my day once again
beginning with the perfect
lyrics of your smile*
Jul 15, 2016
Jul 15, 2016 at 11:31 AM UTC
-
Harmonic dreams
in slow dance tempos,
melodically sing to you
the music of my heart
Performed whispers
in the key of love
echo from a twilight sky
of stardust concertos
On gossamer strings
upon a moonbeam guitar
tuned to the symphony
of your serenade smile
As mesmerizing lyrics
of forever poetic promises
resonate from our heavens
creating the perfect duet
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 7:02 PM UTC
*she Saturday early rises,
water crossing all on her own,
upon the all-white Menantic ferry,
departing from her small isle of paradise,
for it is the sabbath,
she must worship
with David,
her Yogi *** rabbi
muscles stretched and strained,
forgotten was the
degree of difficulty,
attending to this yogi master's instruction,
the hardship of obtaining
body and mind,
spiritual synchronization
90 minutes of serious mantras
serially and seriously chanted,
is tiring in ways I ken from
the safety of my observation deck
on the counter couch facing
she keeps me company,
after breakfast,
amidst the white lace curtains
sunroom surrounding the home on the bay
succumbing to mine own chant,
for with right hand cunning,
I drug here with
violin concertos in minor chords,
one after another, pill she ingests
before me now sleeps, she,
her Lulu arms and hands enwrap
her deep-sleep-bound eyes-in-her-head,
fading in and out of semi-consciousness
all-the-while
I compose
poem~mantras of my own,
which she cannot hear
so far away she has flown
my mantras of love and affection,
however do not dissipate,
my chants forever repeating,
for when she awakens,
she will read this and many others,
in her email inbox*
so who is the yogi master now?
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 12:28 PM UTC
do not fall in love with a musician because they will play you like a symphony.
they will get to know every enchanting note of you. they will find parts of you in which they must get improve but in the process they will resent you for this.
they will caress your heart with their suites and sonatas. they will gently hold your hips as you would the curves of a violin. they will **** you, sweetly, slowly, then presto, with fire. they will make love with you, but not to you. they will play beautiful concertos with your body but they will not dedicate a single note nor rhythm to you.
they will finish playing you when they become tired of hearing your melody. they will leave you in a folder or a case somewhere where you will never be played again.
-m. j. g.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 4:53 PM UTC
~
If you were mine…
If you were mine…our footsteps would
dance on moonlit verandas
while candle lit flickerings enticed my smiled reflections
with your arms tightly around me
symphonies would play to the rhythm of your charm
as we swayed in the essence of forever
on cloud soft concertos of affection’s melodic whispers
eternal echoes would sing in harmony to your eyes,
hauntingly dark invitations to my endless destination,
soothing reflections comforting weathered longings
If you were mine…satin beaches would
eclipse tan line passions
beneath glistening waves of aquamarine salt water bliss
gently caressing the depth of our love
palm leaf shadows of cooling design would weave embracing patterns
of ocean fed breezes tickling our naked forms
as sea foam fingers probe pearl smooth valleys
sunset tides would tease beneath star orchid heavens
blooming of every wished for fantasy…
lasting happily ever after upon sandcastles dreams
If you were mine…my life would
be a mosaic of delirious euphoric visions
in constant creative motion delivering sincerely
every ounce of joy your heart could desire
painted in the sweet essence of everything that is your spirit
vibrant in wonders of fragrant poetic offerings
versed in accordance with your every need
believing that happiness can begin with a smile,
walk along endless streams of worshiped blessings,
remaining satisfied and forevermore yours
If you were mine…oh, if you were mine
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 12:12 AM UTC
*Mother Is A Song
I was born on the wind
swirling through tall trees,
downstream fed valleys
into open, high grass plains
where nights twinkle stars
and days are a warm yellow
because Mother is a song.
I was raised on her voice,
carried by wrens’ wings,
spoken in blue jay chatter
that told of black soil
giving life to African Violets
sprinkled neath tall Sequoia
as each word whispered her name,
cause Mother was a song
and I was born
to be her singer.
She often spoke in violins
sounding like a fast-moving rill
cascading over smooth rock
and deep cello metaphor
dancing gleefully through
the eons old gorge
while oboeing calmly
toward the delta’s sea.
Her seas, symphonies of blue-green
waves playing with whale pod sonatas,
dolphin leaping concertos
as clown fish nestle among coral
listening to tides and meter
where all life began
and now witnessing death.
Mother is a song
and I am born on her cymbals,
loud and angry like thunder;
raised to be her lightning singer.
Mother is a song
no one listens to anymore.
Aztec Warrior/redzone 11.30.16
(NOTE: an ode to the large death of coral in Australia’s Great Barrier Reef due to rising sea temperatures and pollution)*
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 12:07 PM UTC
~
The sun sat low on a lavender sky
Gentle its light traced your skin
Falling in love and I don’t wonder why
Lost in your beauty again
Pine needle sonnets now gracefully flow
Symphonies waft through the air
Taking your hand in the essence aglow
Soothing these moments we share
Hear now my song sung of only your praises
Melodically sweet it does play
Concertos whispered in poetic phrases
Softly I send you this day
Harmonic echoes in voices so tender
Now as this day does depart
Waltzing a path tuned of angelic splendor
Lyrics a’ flow from my heart
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 8:37 PM UTC
I'm a hidden hero wrapped in plaster
Scrape away my hollow eyes
Uncover the darkness, danger, dust
I am shallow, shocking, forgiving, loving,
Fanatic.
I'm a would-be poet, afflicted with an inverse scheme of self-preservation.
Conducting concertos of charm on my inferior exterior
Appearing dreadful, hungover, a mite dreary
Enough to seem needy
Feed me, clothe me.
A courteous, cancerous kid contemplating causes and effects
Affect me, feel me, fight me tooth and nail.
Coddle the cuddler, campaign with cannon.
I'm a casual casualty
A murderous misanthrope.
Color me gray, tear me down to size.
Charming and belligerent
Selfish and unholy
Pious
Righteous
Conflicted.
May 10, 2011
May 10, 2011 at 10:52 AM UTC
*
Harmonic footprints
we stroll hand in hand
Seashells and heartbeats
alone on the sand
Ocean breeze whispers
and sandcastle dreams
Twilight concertos in
shimmered moon beams
Slumbered horizons,
a slow lullaby
Stars made for wishing
now sing to the sky
Melodic waves
softly kissing the shore
Here on this beach
I could not love you more*
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 7:04 PM UTC
*
Harmonies caressed my heart
in soft serenades of
whispering concertos
on the strings of my deepest desires
Acoustic symphonies,
performed on a cappella breezes
in perfectly tuned emotions,
echoed upon my longing skin
Piano compositions
sprinkled with stardust
shimmered before my enchanted eyes
in ivory colored wishes
As my mind thought back to
something I had recently read,*
“A smile is worth a million melodies”
*finally understanding its meaning ~
for when she smiled, there was music . . .
the most beautiful I have ever heard*
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 6:44 PM UTC
~
Flights of fancy float
on pink chiffon wings
while skyline dreams
weave sunset tapestries~
Blueberry moonbeams
glow on twilight murmurs
and daisies dance in
symphonic breezes~
As star shine concertos
echo enchanted whispers
upon my lonely heart
and still all I think about is you~
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 2:46 PM UTC
Lizbeth's mum
tidied up
Lizbeth's room
such a mess
plates and cups
on the floor
and LPs
here and there
underwear
cast aside
not picked up
then she found
the *** book
in Lizbeth's
chest of drawers
opened up
saw pictures
of women
and **** men
positions
and advice
she sat down
on the bed
going red
hands shaking
closed the book
didn't know
anything
of those things
that she'd seen
other than
the basic
position
should she say
to Lizbeth
what she'd found?
just 13
why would she
need the book?
and has she
done those things?
Lizbeth's mum
put the book
back again
tidied up
polished round
went downstairs
in a trance
turned on her
radio
on came Bach
concertos
the cellos.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 3:29 PM UTC
Petrichor and wisteria interlace at the empyrean .. Electric blue spatiality , brushed in sable waves , protracted shadows connect days end ..
Concertos of twilight mourn her passing .. The insatiable Harvest Moon shimmers afresh ...
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 8:04 PM UTC
~
Piano keys tickled
in soft lullaby melodies
echo in harmonic measures
neath an ivory moon
tuned midst an ebony sky,
shimmering sonatas in
sustained twilight concertos
waft in sensuous tempos,
acoustic sighs sing
as silhouettes on
candlelit curtains,
caliginous shadows of love
sway together in
rhythmic duet motions,
dancing to the ecstasy
of this symphonic evening
composed of love
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 7:12 PM UTC
Ah! An idea! Bouncing neurons bump
frontal lob to ear canal, rushing down
veins, pulsing through arm muscles and finger
bones until the tingle erupts for a pen.
Arms scramble, books over desks
shoved onto their sides, French homework flies around
Mozart concertos swirling up towards
ceiling fans and floating down, down, down ,down
until landing gently on, of course, a pen.
A pen- the holy instrument that will
transfer innermost thoughts and emotions
into beautiful prose and poetry.
Held by fingers, the pen is power- but
wait, the pen has no ink. (Gosh-darnit-all)
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 11:51 AM UTC
~
Black on white
Scores in three quarter sorrow
Sharps and flats beneath heartbeats
Dust and cobweb mosaics
glistening in the key of pain
Scaled deposits wait
lonely in the corner
Replaying adagio chords of lost love,
composed in major and minor
on yellowed decaying paper
Tuning key locked away,
Forte expressions shackled
in sustain pedal nightmares
of faux concertos worn
in overture’d blistered edges
as empty fingers play on
Blood trickles on ivory,
cascading in mirrored visions
as I realize this candelabra’d composition
was written by me…in my hand, my notes
all the while knowing, the empty chorus performed
is the hurt I have staged upon your heart
Silence finds me sitting
on a wobbly bench, uninspired
attempting balance with a still metronome
living in the shadows of what I have become
decomposing your smile, ashamed at the lyrics,
cursing the music for it is the song
of your sadness that I should never have played
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 6:33 PM UTC
The beast rolls around the corner,
its head rearing, taunting and playing
the piano keys like Beethoven on his last hurrah,
proudly smothering my chest with an ache,
an emptiness.
"Only between us," you say, a glance my way,
a reassurance, with a cloying smile. My heart tightens,
"No," I was about to answer, but my thoughts move,
the dictionary in my head turning "no" into a, "Yes, of course".
Turning my truth into a lie,
my heart the severing line.
Giving my frown the definition of a smile.
Beethoven still plays the piano in my mind,
playing his wonderful concertos and sonatas,
this deaf man.
And you can call me friend, your comrade,
your companion, in that less of a jumbled dictionary of yours,
filled with dog-eared pages and highlighted words.
"You matter to me," I say with every ounce of conviction.
You can hear me, but unlike Beethoven you never make a sound.
And I am the broken recorder, testing my conviction.
But as Beethoven is deaf,
in this mental dictionary of mine,
filled with contradiction,
you are the only word
whose definition is friend and foe,
both one and the same.
Too near to the line to be different.
And the strange thing perhaps,
is that it has never changed.
Feb 25, 2019
Feb 25, 2019 at 7:08 AM UTC
~
Soft sunrise whispers
on apricots glow
Tangerine breezes
outside gently flow
Waking to beauty
my eyes they do see
Finding the one that
I love next to me
Dew drop concertos,
a meadowlarks sings
Pastel desires
on butterfly wings
Gazing at you as
you lie there asleep
These are the moments my
heart loves to keep
Daffodil dreams and
a sunflower wish
Warm blanket hugs with
a good morning kiss
Rose petal fragrances
cool on the wind
This is how every
day should begin
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 7:32 AM UTC
The fluttering wings of angelic partners echo throughout the distant parameters of musical horizons. Have you felt the grip of warm and contracting concertos? It is important to give accurate attention to the feeling of the sound, as it transcends our weak articulations. Is there a hole in your heart? I plead with you: do not be vindictive. Why? Because your calm and faithful walk down the streets of cirrus amazement are admirable, and your heartfelt embrace is not divorced from ******** gardens of socio-political symphony.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 2:52 PM UTC