"conductors" poems
Bodies moved and liquor spilled
Hands got up and all felt good
Music created a flow and rhythm became nourishment
Five senses became three
Lovers were formed and lovers were lost
Tears fell and mixed with the liquor
Injuries occurred
Enemies were made...
Bodies still moved and liquor spilled
Hearts were broken and hearts were delighted
Curves appealed to the eyes and grasps occurred
Smiles became kisses and
Kisses became conductors of emotions and desires
*** resulted and smiles occurred...
Bodies moved and liquor spilled
They all went home and memories were erased
-Conscious
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 1:39 PM UTC
#If there were better words
I would sing 'em.
For now,
Silence is a crowd
And I'm making it as their leader.
Or only true believer,
In words.
Or lack of them,
regardless,
It's a mute commute to what you want.
Was it my bad, behavior?
that was feeling you-
before you were feeling me
around my neck
I get it.
Out of respect
and for heart murmurs
Its true,
I can feel it;
Me, mute is a commute that you want
This train had to keep moving.
The conductors wife is at bay.
Many people are apologetic.
But many more have destinations to make.
Like crying baby.
And a grin,
from a lonely man in his gazing,
fading lying chair.
For you
And me-
In this booth.
Mute is our commute to what we want.
Mute is our commute to what we want.
Dec 11, 2017
Dec 11, 2017 at 4:42 PM UTC
my cat bit my earphones
i am a person who commutes everyday with my earphones on. i listen to music and i dance to it. doing what seem to be small jerks to the public but a series of big and grand moves in my head. i was a dancer.
but my cat bit my earphones.
i hum the tunes ever so softly only to find out the stares from the people i ignored the whole ride, could hear me. i was a singer.
a silent performer.
for the audience of none.
and yes, my cat bit my earphones.
i am a person who can’t live without it. i listen to music and i zone in. i cancel all the thoughts in my head and just be. in the midst of beats, melodies, harmonies, and lyrics i was at peace. the maximum volume became my version of quiet.
and yet my cat bit my earphones.
the cheapskate in me stops me everyday from buying a new pair even if in exchange i’d have to embrace a new kind of quiet.
the quiet shared by the people i commute with:
the roaring engines, the horns of cars following no beat at all, the shouting of the barkers and conductors rapping with no flow. i hear everything. i was a listener.
a loud performance
for the audience of one.
all because my cat bit my earphones.
i blame my cat everyday for this punishment. i love my cat but sometimes i wish she could pay for it or even apologize for that matter. but i have no choice but to continue my everyday commute without my earphones.
**** my cat bit my earphones.
the thoughts i can’t mute when i commute now screams loudly begging me to listen. begging me to write them down. begging me to finally piece together all the words i know will make sense when given time. i am a writer.
i just can’t help myself but think that my cat bit my earphones.
now i am a person who commutes everyday without my earphones on. i listen to my head and i feel it. putting together ideas and emotions that may seem unpolished to me but could be something great to the public once heard. i am an artist.
a performer.
for the audience, i’m the one.
all because my cat bit my earphones.
Jul 18, 2019
Jul 18, 2019 at 5:02 AM UTC
Blue-grayish waves lap summer's sun-drenched beaches,
eternal, soothing rhythm, an enduring melody, into the soul it reaches.
Neighboring celestial bodies, conductors of the tides, creating eon's symphony,
embracing, pacifying music: a choral harmony.
Placid, glistening lake with fall moon's luminescent splendor,
silvery, reflective mirror, still and serene, lying quietly in slumber.
Bright, streaming rays, upon the surface, become as two entwined eternally,
brilliantly flowing: a beacon of tranquility.
White, pristine snow upon the meadow on a winter's early morning,
softly sown, caressing Mother Earth, pure and alluring.
Sol's rays shimmering on crystal flakes, a mosaic luminosity,
sparkling diamond facets: a blanket of serenity.
Dew-covered fields patched with spring's wild flowers,
dazzling array, vibrant and alive, displaying rainbow's colors.
A zephyr stirs bouquets of aromatic splendor, emerging reality,
a living portrait masterpiece--a canvas of vitality.
Nature, an ageless composer, conceiving kaleidoscope showcases,
perennial seasons casting actors on scores of different stages.
Wise is it, from time to time, to pause in awe and humble reverence,
and view a master artist's majestic, grand performance.
Mar 14, 2010
Mar 14, 2010 at 5:32 PM UTC
Tonight's grey cloud hangs over the pearlescent blue and pink of today.
The gray is an avalanche
criss-crossed
with black
powerlines
that spread like cracks in a mirror.
The rain starts to fall.
To my right is a young blonde
age (17?) unknown.
Her bag and telephone
would
match
but for a shade.
The rain starts to fall.
Young lovers kiss in the calm embrace of one another
beneath an awning the colour of
old ladies - no
boredom - no
subjugation -no.
the under side of an old mattress.
The rain starts to fall.
Across the gap stands an Asian man with the complete accoutrements of a golfer.
Obfuscated now by a train
with the palette of a McDonald's ad.
The rain starts to fall.
The streets are become slick
and every lamp bleeds the start
of an oil painting
with brushes made of light.
The air is cool.
There is a canal that stretches between seats, walled by rows of heads.
In the distance a little girl peaks her head up in the middle of all this,
she wears a bright pink plastic bow on her head that blinks and glows.
Traffic lights streak
green and red
over black gesso.
Cars streak
silver and blood
down black gesso.
"I simply don't need to cheapen things further"
Matching work uniforms.
Matching looks of boredom
Matching shoes and glances
Matching telephones
Matching lack of conversation
Matching hair
Matching matching carpet and drapes
Matching posture
why is everything matching?
(they got off at the same station)
Suburban princess holds the phone like a bible.
I attempt to sketch her arm in my head....but I am too ******
I am hungry.
The outside air is cool.
This is a carriage for the antisocial
3 rooms of solitude.
Everyone is plugged in
No-one dares to speak.
The Art of Conversation.
An old woman sits in front of me, with the face of Ray Winstone in drag.
Her hair is a dandelion
and her eyebrows are birds
painted in the distance.
Hands wrinkled and knotty
like old fruit.
Trains are predictable
the purest form of modern transport
all the little fishies
in the giant metal can
are silent to one another.
The train conductors voice is boredom.
I mistake ambient noise for music.
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 11:13 AM UTC
Our planets spin in revolutions only
science can explain;
like how meteorologists are magicians
when it comes to describing the rain,
or the way conductors know at which
platform, and at what time, your train will arrive,
or how doctors can look you up and down
and pin point, with accuracy, where you’re in pain,
like a miller creating silk wholemeal flour
from coarse capsules of beige and brown grain,
or like experienced pilots landing again
in LAX after 7 hours in the same seat in the same plane,
or how writers can sit down at keys
and make them dance into Steinbeck, Hemingway or the holy Mark Twain.
Last night you escaped early because the girl
you wanted to leave with left moments
before you did; and now you’ll be back
in bed checking if your horoscopes match
and if your love compatibility is worthy of a
‘I’m in love’ badge.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 12:14 PM UTC
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the George Washingtons
of my generation.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the Thomas Jeffersons
and the
Benjamin Franklins who
aren't afraid to dream of
words that haven't been
created
and things that have
yet to be
designed.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the
Revolutionaries who
have yet to be
born.
For the Paul Reveres
who have yet
to take their midnight
rides
one if by land,
two if by sea.
one if by land,
two if by sea.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the
modern day
Lewis and Clarks who
explored a land beyond
exploration's eye.
For the Sacagawea guides that
guide from a shining sea
to a sea of gold.
For the immigrants who
traversed waters of salty tears
made solely of their own fears.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the slaves held captive
not by their captors,
but by their own fears,
hopes,
desires
and dreams.
Afraid to pursue a land
just slightly beyond their own
R e a c h.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the conductors of the railroad
that was unseen.
The one that ran not on
coal and steam,
but the one that
ran on
Dreams.
I wanta write a poem for the ages,
for the Teddy Roosevelt
conservationists
and the Stravinsky
concert pianists
and the Maya Angelou
performers,
and the,
people.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the soldiers battling
for a cause they didn't
even start.
For the lives that gave their
lives for a cause,
because they believed in
The cause.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the Daddy who's still
looking for work,
For the Mommy who has
given up
Hope.
For the widow and
her orphan,
For the soup kitchens
that can't
stay open long enough.
For the failing
Economy.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the mustached
man in Germany
rising to a power
ever Grand.
For the nations willing to
ignore it if they can.
For the day that everything
changed.
December 7th, 1941
will forever live
in infamy.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the unconquered Jews who
fought back.
For Anne Frank and her
family.
I wanta write a poem for the ages
For the modern day
Martin Luther King
Jr.'s.
For the ones
who
Aren't afraid to challenge a
System designed to
fight against them.
For the
modern day
Claudette Colvins.
The ones who
aren't afraid to sit down
to make a stand.
I wanta write poem for the ages
For the modern day
Buzz Aldrins
who are
altogether underrated
Just
because they came in
Second.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
A poem that speaks louder
than words
and goes beyond
generations.
So I wrote a poem for the ages.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 2:06 AM UTC
Dripping *** she stood there, completely unaware
That every man about her had turned around to stare.
For in her nubile innocence and when her red lips smiled
She was causing utter mayhem as distracted drivers piled.
The Postmen stopped delivering, Policemen stood agape,
Conductors missed their trolleybus and Superman his cape!
…And as she sashayed down the street leaving bedlam in her wake
And all the while her red high heels were causing earth to shake,
Perambulating gracefully, impossibly demure,
She sauntered down the causeway, with a loveliness so pure.
Whilst just behind and following, a ravenous hot mob
Of nature’s gift to manhood, all slavering at the gob.
Quite suddenly with a swish of skirt she swirled about and laughed
At the frozen apparition there immobile and aghast.
Acutely frozen with embarrassment at having looked so ****** absurd
They all dispersed their different ways without a single word.
“Bye boys” she chortled, with a devilment in play
With flick of skirt and toss of hair she turned and walked away.
Ha!
Marshalg
Laughing to myself at the silly old mating game we play.
Pukehana Paradise
14 April 2013
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 5:18 PM UTC
They're building something out of nothing
They want to understand beginnings
At what expense to singularity
To what expanse to make a copy
A quirk for a quark
What if it falls in the right hands
It's a challenge of the world
Not just for nation over nation
Not just for dollar over dollar
Two billion notions down the drain
And still we're competing
Abandoning logic
Emptying pockets
For bankers and robbers
Conductors of a runaway train
Made up of cowboy hats
And wrist watches
And ***** tonics
Floating in pools of oil
Wombs of oil
Nov 23, 2011
Nov 23, 2011 at 7:53 PM UTC
I woke up from a bad dream trembling under the strength of deformed uncertainty. On this quiet, sweet night I dreamed that my mask is melting. Nakedness beneath terribly surprised me, I felt bare while disgustingly beautiful pink skin stuck out from beneath magnificently repulsive layer of white chalk which ran down my face in the beans. In single moment thousands fluorescent drops of days passed before my blue eyes and thousands of miles of pictures mixed as psychedelic assemblage. I was hoping that I would for ever float on silk of big circus tent, the place between sleep and wake and that I will never be touched by reality pedestrians or nightmare riders. Returned from a long journey dedicated to the cult of friendship riding on a brass beast sentenced to a breakdown. Return is a successful escape from the curious conductors who wear chains and key, maneuvering between spacecrafts driven by hesitative captains, sliding in between hot geysers of alcoholic delirium on the crystal surface of Arctic ice. Sweet and bitter is the view over always the same icy peaks that cast always different shadows, while the foamy rugged hillsides are blurred with the haze of responsibility, sunny with the light of honesty, depending on the morning. I rub my eyes while my mask, of which I am very grateful, still persistently covers the lines of my face and I wonder whether kilometers traveled last night were part of a dream or reality?
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 12:04 PM UTC
A bolt of lightning as our lips touch for the first time, tips of tongues conductors
A torrent of water in my body as your “love” flows into my ears and permeates my cells
A blaze of fire as our bodies unite in intimacy and our souls become one - bound inextricably
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 5:04 AM UTC
Salient Cannibal
i am famous example: a cuckold
of light
i've lamed conductors maimed seducers
and committed a variety of sadness
please lay deep in me the confederacy
of
photo copy girl.
fin.
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 1:59 AM UTC
Break me,
disassemble me if you must
but build me better next time.
I can’t bare another ill-fitting ego.
Dancing in these ridiculous shoes
outgrown a decade ago
the idiot grin finally yields
to burning blisters.
Even the dance, spun from necessity
is outdated and awkward
In fact, every dance I see
every silly play, every make-work crisis
clumsy, clueless conductors
orchestrate tone-deaf symphonies
while we dance our days away.
Oct 25, 2019
Oct 25, 2019 at 12:11 PM UTC
There's a sizable difference
between our lives and existence.
But, we can cover the distance
with an epic persistence.
We should try out indifference
without leaving our imprints
and cast away our existence
to the edge of fickle brilliance.
Nov 8, 2010
Nov 8, 2010 at 7:45 AM UTC
leaking pearl ear rings
shining
she sings of
glass.
In the images mirrored she
has borrowed a lifetime
and more
conductors who then wrote
and loaned
her the score
tampering with time
she learns how to mime
the words,
vocal chords shot by
the distill of
a thousand and one
mountain men
high on the skyline
an end to a lifetime
a drink to another
old friend.
Down by the remains
of the charcoal pits
ash still spits from
the mouths of the homeless.
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 9:42 AM UTC
The opus begins in a tentative way
Each character playing their signature phrase
With gesture, with posture, with rhythm and grace
The dancers then enter the stage.
The conductors baton, Imposing control
Directing the tempo and pace
Blues jazz folk rock, rap and rounds
The singers are finding a voice.
The orators speak, the actors declaim
Crafted prose flows from their lips
While jesters and. punsters, irrepressible funsters
Are gagging and cracking their quips.
The master of ceremonies calls all the spots
He hopes the production will gell
The shifters and movers, and technical groovers
Do their jobs amazingly well.
The instruments thunder, brass blares, and strings soar
Drums are the loudest by far
Then silence descends, a pause, the applause
That’s all folks, lets go to the bar.
Jul 19, 2010
Jul 19, 2010 at 12:45 PM UTC
You hear the sound of couples
dressed high and fancy,
mingle as their souls tap the floor outside,
to the sound of strings, brass, and percussion
tempering themselves for the heat of music.
The passionate movements of bows,
batons, and fingers, to form the wonderful
elegance, behind the masterful music composed
by fellows now long gone.
Ah, to the sounds of majors and minors
my heart feels at ease, to the subtle creaking of chairs,
to the rhythmic chimes and strums of instruments within
the skilled orchestral ensemble. All this,
topped by the eccentric and emphatic movements
of the swift conductors hands, and arms,
watch the spring, when the crescendo arrives
his spring is let loose, and jolts,
currents, swift, sleek, fluent motions, baton in one
passionate turning of pages as music flies on by,
at 4/4 pace.
Oh, the fine thunder of the percussion,
and deepest strums of bass at the right,
combined in a movements finale, to make an
awe-inspiring harmony, that one does not
really expect, with two previous movements
just elegant and peaceful,
such a quickened pace and depth of drum
and strum takes us all by surprise.
Then, Silence,
joyful applause,
continuous applause,
then its all over,
and we head home.
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 11:12 PM UTC
electricity no longer runs through these tired veins.
eyes are shattered glass. vision obscured by a film of numbness.
laughter sits on my chest uneasily, not sure how to fill
the cracks in my heart.
talking has become an anomaly, my voice lost on deaf ears.
no one notices the splintered girl
trying in vain to feel the currents of heat rising,
to feel anything.
what i would give to be able to see lightning in the sky
and to feel the static between my palms.
the purple-white flashes leaving imprints
on the backs of my eyelids,
they make me remember who i used to be.
i miss the crowds and the voices of the broken
acting as conductors of the near tangible energy.
i could have flown into the sky
when i had those nights in the palm of my hand.
i was charged, alive.
sometimes i swore i could see the webs of lightning
raising the hairs on my arms.
it was real to me.
so here i remain
praying for my spark.
just one spark.
Jan 26, 2021
Jan 26, 2021 at 3:28 PM UTC
.
Tangled threads of beaming light
Yesterday today and tomorrows blessing
As we borrow pity and switch the beat
Hands held high, praising praising
The glory that sits upon our blistered feet
And we dare not utter sleep
*We are the minds counterpart
Heavy in the contexts
A linger in the words felt
Through the hollows door
An explicit glance through the past
And therefore our future*
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 2:05 AM UTC
You must have been so lovely, Sylvie.
Your song sounds purple, like the underside of rose petals.
It shimmers and flickers in the water of the Seine, held together by a whispering, weaving thread, a voice in the softness.
I know you,
I've seen you.
You're me when I play, the piano keys conductors for all of your loveliness,
Pouring your essence into my heart as I begin to learn your curves and your lines.
I am you, Sylvie, a woman in love,
and I caress the keys and sing with your voice a song in which you are forever imprisoned, captured in a jar and preserved for eternity.
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 4:06 AM UTC
*Cherry , huckleberry , and peach Indian summer bouquets
glide across honey- brown sugar loam
They rattle , crackle and dance at the cue of fragrant ambergris winds , gather in splendid sheltered havens , attending by cackling red-winged mavens
Sing to me airborne madrigals , Cooper angels , Pileated conductors of the oakwood , choreographed lapping lakesides , the scrub of White Pines
Land of the pumpernickel shadows , of cinnamon needle carpet
cast adrift in the very breath of artist , lover and songster* ..
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 4:20 PM UTC
Where are we in Time?
Conductors forfeit their ability
at the edge of the shore
in a veil of solar shadow
syncopated rhythms of motion
disrupted by the presence of revolving carbon masses
within the reach of it's symphony
begins a demonstration
of control before them
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 10:36 AM UTC
At birth,
I came out
Teetering
On a ridiculously
Wide platform.
You could probably
Land a plane
On it.
I was blessed that
The sharp edges
Were laid out
So far
From my grasp.
Blessed
That I would
Forever live
In safety,
All cords
Securing me
Like a harness
At least till I fell.
Suspended,
The cords
Bit
Into my
Skin,
Bringing me inches
From the ground
Soaked in eye sweat
And sweat sweat.
Flesh and water are both
Excellent conductors
Of electricity.
Please
Don't pull the umbilical cord.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 10:44 AM UTC
call me when your flight lands in Munich
and we can discuss
how the cinder blocks
standing stationary in the walls
like cold queen's guards
meet so seamlessly
they touch so cleanly
never a crack, never a pore
call me when your flight lands in Tampa
and we can talk about
all of the clothes on the floor
folding and crinkling
discontinuing continuum
they haven't been touched since July
and when you call,
we can talk about how they
make my room smell like
gasoline
let me know when you land safely in Munich
and I'd be happy to go on
about the smell of the parking garage
equal parts old rain and new exhaust pipes
and the open air
underneath the moon; so close
that I will grab it out of
the closet sky
and give it to you instead of saying:
I'm so ******* sorry
let me know when you land safely in Tampa
and we can assume the position
of conductors
of a grand orchestra
of lost crickets and cracking bones
of the dogs barking at
spilled black ink
and chasing the painted Sun
and maybe when the song is over,
we will clean up the mess
and be able to fall in love
with nothingness
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 12:23 PM UTC