"crescendoes" poems - Hello Poetry

Palms overhead sway, nudged by the occasional breeze. The chatter crescendoes before dying down... To make way for the call of prayer. It called to its followers. So calm... So sincere... People hunched over their tables. Savouring delights that came on plates. Wafting aromas, mingle like the swirls on candy. Drenching our senses... As we immerse ourselves further in such good company. I looked at the eyes that surrounded me... Only soft, kind gazes greeted back. There are no shadows here... No silhouettes... Only faces I know generous with their gift of glow. A rising warmth emanates from the pits within. In this here circle, no matter how motley, I feel alive. I'm drinking up to a stupor... This lovely band of five.

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Jan 7, 2016

Jan 7, 2016 at 10:58 PM UTC

ryn

Band of Five

Palms overhead sway, nudged by the occasional breeze. The chatter crescendoes before dying down... To make way for the call of prayer. It called to its followers. So calm... So sincere... People hunched over their tables. Savouring delights that came on plates. Wafting aromas, mingle like the swirls on candy. Drenching our senses... As we immerse ourselves further in such good company. I looked at the eyes that surrounded me... Only soft, kind gazes greeted back. There are no shadows here... No silhouettes... Only faces I know generous with their gift of glow. A rising warmth emanates from the pits within. In this here circle, no matter how motley, I feel alive. I'm drinking up to a stupor... This lovely band of five.

28

I have been seeking a moment when My paean would see the light A melody when your serrated laugh Crescendoes and obviates all evils But what I'm truly wishing for Is to be a scabbard to your sword The bell that wakes you up at noon A hymn that you know by heart And the rituals that you adhere to Tell me how I could shield The furtive rhythm of your chords To venerate the echoes of your fingertips And be completely absorbed in your silhouette I am proclaiming my paean That seems five months of age But in fact it has been decades Trapped amongst verses and rhymes If Hemingway was exchanging breaths You could be his martini glass Or the obsession of Shelley with Keats Or maybe a beer bottle on Hank's grave But the golden lotus has been outdated For you are my fierce flames To sanctify and to revive And unlike Plath I'm living to see When my paean would come to life

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Jul 12, 2016

Jul 12, 2016 at 4:23 PM UTC

jana-chehab

Set a Setting When You Please

I have been seeking a moment when My paean would see the light A melody when your serrated laugh Crescendoes and obviates all evils But what I'm truly wishing for Is to be a scabbard to your sword The bell that wakes you up at noon A hymn that you know by heart And the rituals that you adhere to Tell me how I could shield The furtive rhythm of your chords To venerate the echoes of your fingertips And be completely absorbed in your silhouette I am proclaiming my paean That seems five months of age But in fact it has been decades Trapped amongst verses and rhymes If Hemingway was exchanging breaths You could be his martini glass Or the obsession of Shelley with Keats Or maybe a beer bottle on Hank's grave But the golden lotus has been outdated For you are my fierce flames To sanctify and to revive And unlike Plath I'm living to see When my paean would come to life

28

she looks at me as if to say, you were simply, an honest mistake, made with good intention, and nice at the time, but long since forgotten, a futile woodwind, in an orchestral life, struggling to make an impact, on hyperbolic composition... tell me, truthfully, you don’t remember its pitch, the call of its notes, rang true, it seemed, for you to imply, it was not even heard, makes a mockery of the efforts made, honestly, just once, say its crescendoes did not bellow, with the strength of a timpani, the sweetness of flutes, the heart of a sax, say that the notes that you sang at the time, were a lie, simply, an honest mistake, and i'll leave this composition, promising though it seemed, broken and incomplete, just as you’d like.

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Dec 29, 2010

Dec 29, 2010 at 9:45 PM UTC

shawn

just like music

she looks at me as if to say, you were simply, an honest mistake, made with good intention, and nice at the time, but long since forgotten, a futile woodwind, in an orchestral life, struggling to make an impact, on hyperbolic composition... tell me, truthfully, you don’t remember its pitch, the call of its notes, rang true, it seemed, for you to imply, it was not even heard, makes a mockery of the efforts made, honestly, just once, say its crescendoes did not bellow, with the strength of a timpani, the sweetness of flutes, the heart of a sax, say that the notes that you sang at the time, were a lie, simply, an honest mistake, and i'll leave this composition, promising though it seemed, broken and incomplete, just as you’d like.

33

A whisper ghosts silently Down the stygian hallway. Follow Me Rushes through her ears, Silencing her thoughts as her heartbeat crescendoes. Tempted, She peers into obscurity, Hypnotized by dancing penumbras. Veiled in the shadows lie the Universe's secrets, But she draws back. Merely a glimpse is enough, And she returns to evanescence.

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Jul 8, 2014

Jul 8, 2014 at 12:50 AM UTC

ashley-williams

Her Volition

A whisper ghosts silently Down the stygian hallway. Follow Me Rushes through her ears, Silencing her thoughts as her heartbeat crescendoes. Tempted, She peers into obscurity, Hypnotized by dancing penumbras. Veiled in the shadows lie the Universe's secrets, But she draws back. Merely a glimpse is enough, And she returns to evanescence.

12

*in the soundtrack of my story, there exists a lone percussionist... and he plays to fit the demands of passing moments. ••• *to the calm he plays steady. in uncertainty he hastens. he matches the ticks of seconds when all is quiet, and he thunders to crescendoes and climaxes.* ••• in the symphony of my life there exists a lone percussionist... and he resides unseen in my chest.*

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Sep 17, 2017

Sep 17, 2017 at 6:08 AM UTC

ryn

Percussionist

*in the soundtrack of my story, there exists a lone percussionist... and he plays to fit the demands of passing moments. ••• *to the calm he plays steady. in uncertainty he hastens. he matches the ticks of seconds when all is quiet, and he thunders to crescendoes and climaxes.* ••• in the symphony of my life there exists a lone percussionist... and he resides unseen in my chest.*

15

The keys and strings and knobs and bows taunt Horse string, shining metal, ivory, silver, and gold—- Glimmering, Beckoning Inclining me to use them To take them, stroke them, slam them Abuse them Worship them And in my mind Their chords with flats and sharps and crescendoes and pianissimos blend Dissonance and perfect harmony battle ferociously Or perhaps they are dancing?

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Oct 11, 2012

Oct 11, 2012 at 8:54 PM UTC

victoria-maretti

September 19, 2012- Trapped in the Music Room

The keys and strings and knobs and bows taunt Horse string, shining metal, ivory, silver, and gold—- Glimmering, Beckoning Inclining me to use them To take them, stroke them, slam them Abuse them Worship them And in my mind Their chords with flats and sharps and crescendoes and pianissimos blend Dissonance and perfect harmony battle ferociously Or perhaps they are dancing?

12

It begins with a whisper. One thought, one voice, one blow upon the dam to a restless river. Silence. This dark duet of doubt of uncertainty; two thoughts to feed two voices to fetter two fiends to fuel an unruly fire, stronger. louder, bigger yet. Silence. No, it crescendoes! Voices rising, rising, rising, like mephitic vapors— I inhale. I choke. I scream. But no one hears me. No one hears what's inside my head. Silence. Please, be quiet lest I ruin me, you, and all that I love; draw a line in the sand, sift out these voices of right and wrong of good and bad of truth and lies because these voices lie oh yes, they do. And if I know me— every crevice every crack every word written in my heart by my God, O my God, who made every crevice every crack every word written in my heart— how can they know me too? Silence. You wicked voices! Yes, I know what you do to stir fear distrust anxiety until I have no choice but to listen to the voices. Silence. No more. No more voices, or restless rivers, or unruly fires, or mephitic vapors. Just— Silence. Blissful silence. I can breathe and close my eyes to the black symphonies of silence. Yet, in the absence in the void a single note echoes indiscernible in the buzz but this is silence and in the silence things become louder until I crave the noise again.

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Jan 4, 2021

Jan 4, 2021 at 2:43 PM UTC

TheJRRose

Silence

It begins with a whisper. One thought, one voice, one blow upon the dam to a restless river. Silence. This dark duet of doubt of uncertainty; two thoughts to feed two voices to fetter two fiends to fuel an unruly fire, stronger. louder, bigger yet. Silence. No, it crescendoes! Voices rising, rising, rising, like mephitic vapors— I inhale. I choke. I scream. But no one hears me. No one hears what's inside my head. Silence. Please, be quiet lest I ruin me, you, and all that I love; draw a line in the sand, sift out these voices of right and wrong of good and bad of truth and lies because these voices lie oh yes, they do. And if I know me— every crevice every crack every word written in my heart by my God, O my God, who made every crevice every crack every word written in my heart— how can they know me too? Silence. You wicked voices! Yes, I know what you do to stir fear distrust anxiety until I have no choice but to listen to the voices. Silence. No more. No more voices, or restless rivers, or unruly fires, or mephitic vapors. Just— Silence. Blissful silence. I can breathe and close my eyes to the black symphonies of silence. Yet, in the absence in the void a single note echoes indiscernible in the buzz but this is silence and in the silence things become louder until I crave the noise again.

79

Music sings out, sobbing in the silence of a darkened room. It rises and falls, waves of calm and turmoil, shared in bursts; crescendoes of chaos and gentle melodies, like bridges between tears. This is where heart-ache resides; patient and deadly, it waits. It lurks in crowded corners, along with all the other sins you make room for. It makes the music you wish others could hear, soft murmurs repeating long into the night. This is where everything resides. The dark portions are home to all your creatures, and all the music they make; worn strings and sticky keys. Jealousy and its drumbeats paired with dishonest notes and the jagged shadows of your temptations and spite. The room is loud around you, but no one on the other side of the door can hear you cry it’s too loud. They hear a rustle of leaves in a barren night. Nothing more. I confess. I confess I still love you. I confess I still desire another, and another; I confess to all these temptations, passions left sour in my mouth. I confess to dreaming of you hurt. I confess to rejecting your body once before, a one night stand left on pause for days. I confess to inflicting your words, just like I confess to feeling bruised and wounded. I confess to tears, when I see you embrace another. I confess to tears in the long, cold night; because I only feel empty at the thought of your name. I confess to wishing I’d screamed at you, howled in agony before your eyes as you slipped between my fingers. I confess to hoping you would admit your scandalous lies, and confess to knowing you never would be good enough to. I confess to whispering your name above me, and being glad I don’t have to bear a response. I confess to painting your memories in words, and loving how they float away, as slippery and fine as silk. I confess all these things, in your name.

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Aug 4, 2016

Aug 4, 2016 at 10:01 PM UTC

tamara-fraser

Confessions

Music sings out, sobbing in the silence of a darkened room. It rises and falls, waves of calm and turmoil, shared in bursts; crescendoes of chaos and gentle melodies, like bridges between tears. This is where heart-ache resides; patient and deadly, it waits. It lurks in crowded corners, along with all the other sins you make room for. It makes the music you wish others could hear, soft murmurs repeating long into the night. This is where everything resides. The dark portions are home to all your creatures, and all the music they make; worn strings and sticky keys. Jealousy and its drumbeats paired with dishonest notes and the jagged shadows of your temptations and spite. The room is loud around you, but no one on the other side of the door can hear you cry it’s too loud. They hear a rustle of leaves in a barren night. Nothing more. I confess. I confess I still love you. I confess I still desire another, and another; I confess to all these temptations, passions left sour in my mouth. I confess to dreaming of you hurt. I confess to rejecting your body once before, a one night stand left on pause for days. I confess to inflicting your words, just like I confess to feeling bruised and wounded. I confess to tears, when I see you embrace another. I confess to tears in the long, cold night; because I only feel empty at the thought of your name. I confess to wishing I’d screamed at you, howled in agony before your eyes as you slipped between my fingers. I confess to hoping you would admit your scandalous lies, and confess to knowing you never would be good enough to. I confess to whispering your name above me, and being glad I don’t have to bear a response. I confess to painting your memories in words, and loving how they float away, as slippery and fine as silk. I confess all these things, in your name.

50

Ain't it all damn-glorious! A beautiful morning to you Mr. Velvet suit Softly breezy too... What 'bout bamboozled? Mr. Velvet suit on the street That **** corner foo' Looking for your boo Mr. Velvet suit? Your babae making babies To **** jazz from city blues, Diminishing our cool. A little bit more than sad The only lone piano (Black crescendoes A half key in b-minor) Mr. Velvety is an entrepreneur I doubt he'll ever sue her That girl he got all dressed up for His sweets Mr. Velvet suit's treat His candy shop heat Holding down the bizness The Streets! Mr. Velvet's company. Don't he dress all nice for you? A bright summer morning This here tiny corner of a bruise, Of a great wide world Sin City and Mr. Velvet suit. Good morning! ****** **** He Escalades as I walk The dog Looking for tricks…

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Nov 16, 2019

Nov 16, 2019 at 6:24 PM UTC

butch-decatoria

Walk The Dog

Ain't it all damn-glorious! A beautiful morning to you Mr. Velvet suit Softly breezy too... What 'bout bamboozled? Mr. Velvet suit on the street That **** corner foo' Looking for your boo Mr. Velvet suit? Your babae making babies To **** jazz from city blues, Diminishing our cool. A little bit more than sad The only lone piano (Black crescendoes A half key in b-minor) Mr. Velvety is an entrepreneur I doubt he'll ever sue her That girl he got all dressed up for His sweets Mr. Velvet suit's treat His candy shop heat Holding down the bizness The Streets! Mr. Velvet's company. Don't he dress all nice for you? A bright summer morning This here tiny corner of a bruise, Of a great wide world Sin City and Mr. Velvet suit. Good morning! ****** **** He Escalades as I walk The dog Looking for tricks…

35

Timpanic membrane mumbles transform into Crescendoes, dumb except within skull walls. Not quite like a burn, not quite like a sting this din deigns to drag out old heartaches and new failures and fresh ideas and stale aspirations but stuck in staccato can any one idea stay or are they doomed to rattle, to deafen? They come and go and is the thought even finished with these streams of consciousness up against dull tasks, wasting commands and all these commands waste so much energy. When I just want the world to stand still is there any one – yes it is who weaves back in and YOU that resonates in overtones. have made the mental madness manageable when you quietly stop the leaking gap. A plane on which to balance. A grip with which to bolster stronger blisters. A quieting yes to block out out the trembling timbre. You are order out of chaos. In the evening’s repose, My silent film dreams honor you, and in the morning I wake to noiselessness and a thunderous heart

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Aug 13, 2019

Aug 13, 2019 at 6:33 PM UTC

BMTalbot

You, The Quiet

Timpanic membrane mumbles transform into Crescendoes, dumb except within skull walls. Not quite like a burn, not quite like a sting this din deigns to drag out old heartaches and new failures and fresh ideas and stale aspirations but stuck in staccato can any one idea stay or are they doomed to rattle, to deafen? They come and go and is the thought even finished with these streams of consciousness up against dull tasks, wasting commands and all these commands waste so much energy. When I just want the world to stand still is there any one – yes it is who weaves back in and YOU that resonates in overtones. have made the mental madness manageable when you quietly stop the leaking gap. A plane on which to balance. A grip with which to bolster stronger blisters. A quieting yes to block out out the trembling timbre. You are order out of chaos. In the evening’s repose, My silent film dreams honor you, and in the morning I wake to noiselessness and a thunderous heart

28

For witless wonder, I wonder, do its servants chase winkless wrinkles in time long-gone? Is a thin piece of cloth so performative? So political? Or are you trailing crescendoes of long-tuneless songs?

0

Oct 4, 2020

Oct 4, 2020 at 9:21 PM UTC

bristokeswrites

should kings fall

For witless wonder, I wonder, do its servants chase winkless wrinkles in time long-gone? Is a thin piece of cloth so performative? So political? Or are you trailing crescendoes of long-tuneless songs?

15

Inferno Noon o'clock in Sin City heatwave, Sirens glaringly shrill from a distance our world Like some distant memory sounds of no one panics Emergencies as common vitamins like local topical Anesthesia... We've become Familiar, indifferent, to the hum Drums, cymbals clash crescendoes Shatters Just background noise As siren songs Beckons The shrill of metropolis Sin City noons The ambulance carries Life / away The distances between us Is the numb we feel Angrily congealed. Anesthesia. Locale : no where's. A no one in a sea of fine faces As human as mine Kind Yet many yet recognize Beauty of all one Shine an ocean of individual and lonely Life Eyes so so wide Noon day Suns' / Alive and Golden (Art) Thine! (*flesh Begotten from Light*)

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Sep 17, 2016

Sep 17, 2016 at 2:14 PM UTC

butch-decatoria

Art Thine!

Inferno Noon o'clock in Sin City heatwave, Sirens glaringly shrill from a distance our world Like some distant memory sounds of no one panics Emergencies as common vitamins like local topical Anesthesia... We've become Familiar, indifferent, to the hum Drums, cymbals clash crescendoes Shatters Just background noise As siren songs Beckons The shrill of metropolis Sin City noons The ambulance carries Life / away The distances between us Is the numb we feel Angrily congealed. Anesthesia. Locale : no where's. A no one in a sea of fine faces As human as mine Kind Yet many yet recognize Beauty of all one Shine an ocean of individual and lonely Life Eyes so so wide Noon day Suns' / Alive and Golden (Art) Thine! (*flesh Begotten from Light*)

43