"contralto" poems
blueberries gasoline and prostate gland
breast cancer Wonderbread and pacifier
controlled experiment space travel and honey
peanuts inductive reasoning and electricity
tornadoes torture chamber and biscuits
copyright car radio cantaloupe
golden eagle lunch break tomato
Romanian songbook rhubarb and barbed wire
always hungry nevermind meat loaf
goosefoot mango juice Ipad
mosquito bite city street and broccoli
Chinese cabbage female *** drive water sport
pure contralto goat yogurt new year
black death white light and green tea
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 8:28 PM UTC
I
Here’s the mould of a musical bird long passed from light,
Which over the earth before man came was winging;
There’s a contralto voice I heard last night,
That lodges with me still in its sweet singing.
II
Such a dream is Time that the coo of this ancient bird
Has perished not, but is blent, or will be blending
Mid visionless wilds of space with the voice that I heard,
In the full-fuged song of the universe unending.
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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 do not see the hills around,
Nor mark the tints the copses wear;
I do not note the grassy ground
And constellated daisies there.
I hear not the contralto note
Of cuckoos hid on either hand,
The whirr that shakes the nighthawk’s throat
When eve’s brown awning hoods the land.
Some say each songster, tree and mead—
All eloquent of love divine—
Receives their constant careful heed:
Such keen appraisement is not mine.
The tones around me that I hear,
The aspects, meanings, shapes I see,
Are those far back ones missed when near,
And now perceived too late by me!
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take me to Paris, she said through star-filled eyes
through which she couldn't quite see
and his shadow beckoned her delicate hands into the unknown
and when she touched the Eiffel tower it felt almost as cold as his hands had been
when he picked her up from the grass
but she ignored his ice hands
and instead
hummed to the tune
of his contralto voice
even when it raised with every hoarse breath
as it turned to terrifying storms of thunder
she lay in silk as her artist's muse
soft fabric against skin
chills sweeping up her back
goosebumps against her arms
yet she smiled
but she longed to hold the paintbrush and swim amongst the bright colour
when she traipsed across sunset fields
she felt his grip tighten
but she treasured the security
that he wielded
in his rough hands
and when he hit her
it felt like a kiss
May 14, 2021
May 14, 2021 at 5:27 PM UTC
DO you know how the dream looms? how if summer misses one of us the two of us miss summer-
Summer when the lungs of the earth take a long breath for the change to low contralto singing mornings when the green corn leaves first break through the black loam-
And another long breath for the silver soprano melody of the moon songs in the light nights when the earth is lighter than a feather, the iron mountains lighter than a goose down-
So I shall look for you in the light nights then, in the laughter of slats of silver under a hill hickory.
In the listening tops of the hickories, in the wind motions of the hickory shingle leaves, in the imitations of slow sea water on the shingle silver in the wind-
I shall look for you.
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The long and tempered draped in threads black and red.
I heard your song before I could hear you sing
So many souls in one voice so many tones of toil
How many nights did they string out your glory cured on black oil?
So Slip the jab when lights flicker fast
you beat them down to the streets
they tried to beat you with the side-speak
It's okay, we got records and you got tender
when the tables turned you dished out what we blendered
Your record was played louder than the rest
our money was your mind ******
Bitter in jest like mothers media mess
cinderElla your dress dismantle moments
That were meant for no one but Frank
I take another listen while my love does crank
A slow grind, it goes well with what I drank
That autumn wine house is the sugar in my Bowl, Tank!
No substitute for Contralto diction, a heart shank
So I come crawling back to you like pulp fiction
We love our ***** drugs *** and musical afflictions
I'm sure you were watching when MJ took it all the way,
thinkin' Who cares if I burn out or fade away
Can't be leave you beat me to the punch
27 was my aim but got distracted by the day to day
guess you never got that time
but now you'll get plenty out of mind
Take your time you tall glass of wine
fly away at 33 revolutions per meters per Second
Those Seconds Squared as over time come paired
rest your vibrato on the drums of my ear
and lay your diaphragm on the beat of my heart
I'll give them the finger for questioning your part!
I'll give them a humdinger for the hell of your art!
you beat me to the punch you goddess of clubs
So I live to carry your tune and fade away sweetly to the tomb
We'll never say goodbye with words
cus's your vibrations synchronize my palpitations
Invisible meanings shared between nouns and verbs
We say love is blind... Could it really be that absurd?
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 7:18 PM UTC
She sits alone with two antique clocks
one of water, the other of sand
I dare ask if she likes watches
Only the older, she replies,
they hold the infinity of time specious
In her words an elemental charm
and the risk of all enigmas
Then in contralto voice she adds
and now my name is simply K
and I think of Kafka's leopards
breaking into the temple to drink
from the sacrificial amphorae
My soul writes in ancient dialect
feeling hers close with mine
while I watch her body
from eternity in ****** key
a window of flavoured amethyst fire
progressive surrender
the crossing of a desert
the dropping of clothes and masks
the thin veil remains yet unbreached
the original time of the first blood
still under the anvil of desire
so rarely given the offer of this grace
the membrane of the soul to be loved
with pain, with pleasure, with totality
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 7:31 AM UTC
if a bird just can't sing the Blues
what can you do?
buy him some lessons
with a mezzo-soprano,
or lower his beak
to an alto contralto?
take him to doctors;
buy him a shrink
but don't give him time
to just sit and think?
buy him a *****
and a liter of Beam-
then tell him that things
are not what they seem;
give him good food
and lots of attention;
then rent him out
to the woodpecker's convention.
(and if all else fail,
he can guard your corn
and play his nostrils
like an old French horn)
Jun 24, 2010
Jun 24, 2010 at 4:57 PM UTC
nothing walks better than the ‘day light shakes’
you’re working today and the briefcases are deciding,
to be hearts instead of skin
you’ve decided the night
whilst it past
not worth its sleep – the sun juices
a dead man across sand
the beers beers beers or maybe just
the previous day
a dancer in itself
was enough to keep you
awake
and moving until now;
stretching the ground
with your feet
one after another, an absolute laughter of free limbs apart;
escaping the need to run.
the sun
just another mouth openening
just;
above yours
you’re commuting and already rolling your neck like a sleeper
with a crook and a sigh
because the night was rough
and when you blink – your eyes water
and duty pulls you in
like an engorged worker
in a factory of silk
there is humour in your tiredness however
there is a rubber floor
moving
beneath your feet
understanding
why you smile quietly
(every now and then)
getting on with the daily beat
body-aching
each and every part
used up
from lip to heart
arching back
the phone rings;
you pick up
a cat sits
eating dogs
a low voice, contralto
below the voice
you hear
a piercing sound
the orchestra sings in the open office
above the 4 ft walls and above the water coolers
and again you chuckle
as the customer does
and a sweep
just enough to **** the day
a little
to open you up
enough
to let the mouse move
to let the flutes devour
politey unwashed
reacting to vermin
a savage flux
putrified by clock
quickened and quickened again
turned
so no animal speaks about the tick
no lights on
a blinding grace
which -
there already is –
the foundations laugh
and the day flys
as the window slams
and she leaves inbetween
as you return to your desk
turning your head
to watch the thing go
and disappear
past where you can see.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 1:28 PM UTC
Chipmunks, squirrels collecting
bitternut hickory, chirping
against a small owl cruising
low beneath the trees.
Everyone has gone this morning
to school or work. Laundry rolling,
carpets vacuumed, cleaning
in the bathroom on my knees.
I'd like to be Whitman, praising
the pure contralto, Wynton practicing
all day. But like my father dying
I cannot hear what I cannot see.
Locally there's politics, processing
points of view. Eventually coming
to a decision, building or not building
windmills on the sky, bridges in the sea.
Insignificant and mighty happenings
seem the same from my vantage ageing
gratefully, inexorably, planning
how to die in my own **** way.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 7:49 AM UTC
The very end of August
Brings a stillness in the night,
When the many trills of midsummer
Are silenced and the fireflies gone out!
Lying stilly and listening, I hear
A solemn drone, like an old contralto,
Trying to warble but instead
Radiating an insistent hum
That thrums athwart the arid air,
Long fingers scraping a humming tanpura.
Even the full moon is dry,
Gazing down, matter-of-fact,
Through the dust-like mist.
Summer has given up,
Letting leaves and vines dry up,
Tinged with red and shriveled bronze.
I could walk in the garden now,
And not worry about slugs on
The dried stalks of lilies.
The robust asters offer little
Temptation to garden pests
And strapping thistles seem to stand guard.
Is the balance between my will
Over the garden and its desire
To overflow and bloom beyond me,
Now achieved yet unwanted?
Yes…I prefer the lushness that comes
After the rains, with an untamed riot
Of color and green, the celebration
That happens on its own, heedless
Of my wishes; yet I revel in it
Every time it wins
And will wait a year
For this to emerge again.
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 3:23 PM UTC
In the darkness
I hold the trickle of your whisper
like a falling feather
feel the contralto tick
of a heartbeat
skin against skin
holding each other
as if flowers
delicate in the breeze
tumbling through
a carmine flush
of desire
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 3:33 PM UTC
O' baby-faced days,
where kettles hum contralto
and stoves sing "Pancakes!"
Dec 11, 2021
Dec 11, 2021 at 4:16 AM UTC
Tattoo'd songstress,
Contralto vocals from a
Broken heart, Cohen's bird
On a wire, exalting freedom
All the while tied to intoxication,
Those who loved her
Wished her well, but she was
Pressgang'd, harassed
Until she finally flew away,
Leaving only that voice
Her Spirit trapped in a CD case.
Jun 27, 2019
Jun 27, 2019 at 4:12 PM UTC
Garrulous voices
my ears can not bear
Contralto deep tones
they shake my old bones
they echo in my heart
–yours
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 3:27 PM UTC
Under watchful eyes,
I writhe and wither;
Every flower wilts eventually.
In a hollowed contralto I'll sing
Brokenly
A fractured hymn falling well on deaf ears.
The curtains draw over hungry onlookers
But the show must go on!
So the madcap laughs as he leads the dance,
This graceful waltz of suspense
Finally I
Keel over from shortness of breath.
My last line of defence
Shall be devoured till the last morsel.
Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 12:17 PM UTC