"crescendos" poems
Sitting in some car in a forgotten parking lot
Grey marks the skies
Lush green plants peeping in
The wildlife of concrete and paint makes the perfect background
For
Little ***** of liquid heaven falling on my windscreen
And some music to complete the scene
Each guitar line synchronises with each raindrop
Each blast of power thunder hits hard like heavy metal
But the soft clouds, the gentle ebb and flow lull me to sleep
Whispering, persuading me to dream
But I really don't want to miss this shard of time
I never want to lose little moments like these
A silver raindrop is born by landing on my car
Crash landing, rather
The bubbling pocket of mystery travels down
Swerving and slamming into other fellow pockets in crime
It's life cycle completes when it reaches the bottom
It races to it's death, unable to stop gravity's plan for it
Each drop morphs into another, making a wave
The rain weaves an intricate web of waves
All strutting their sparkly magic before me
I sense a metaphor for humanity creeping in
Millions of crescendos growing about
Too concerned with their internal politics to worry about others
But I stay focused on the beauty all around
I wonder if heaven has rainy days
If so, this must be one of them
Apr 12, 2018
Apr 12, 2018 at 12:28 PM UTC
The concrete jungle.
Home of the dreaded concrete beasts
Who lie in plain sight for the world to see
Crouched in marble ledges, twisted in metal beams
Wrapped around handrails, perched in their cemented trees
They laugh at those who cannot perceive
Because they don’t believe.
And who am I,
Yes possibly me
To find my identity
In removing my wooden sword from its sheath
Placing it beneath my two shuffled feet
To answer the alluring call of the beasts beckoning
To my hero’s heart, for my eyes to blink
To suddenly see them as they were meant to be.
In a world between
Real and imaginary.
For it is I,
Yes I believe it to be
Chosen to find my destiny
In a single push
That propels me
Into the path of the snarling beasts
Approaching their stairs and rails, ledges and beams
Gaps and bumps and ramps with speed
And as they stare at me hungrily
Opening their mouths expecting me
I will stand strong on my wooden sword
As the wheels of fire erupt beneath
And the scenery blurs in the flash of the rapidity
I bend my knees and grit my teeth
My eyes narrow and the drum in my chest crescendos its beat
A shout explodes from my chest, a primal scream
As I press on
In the concrete jungle.
Home of the dreaded concrete beasts
Who quiver in plain sight for the world to see
And whimper at the sight of who they now perceive
Because I do believe.
And it is I,
Yes undoubtedly me
Who will find my destiny
Conquering the concrete jungles of the world unseen
Surfing the concrete waves of the world between
With my loyal vessel being the wooden sword from the sheath,
That remains steady in the face of danger beneath my feet.
I am alive
In the concrete jungle.
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 12:55 AM UTC
Psychedelic scenery
Elicit blithe resolutions
Television
Brilliant channels
Procreate felicity
Evolution
Crescendos
Ameliorate composure
Termination
© 2012 (All rights reserved)
Mar 5, 2012
Mar 5, 2012 at 5:39 PM UTC
thoughts of you make me breathless,
like walking into a steam sauna too hot
seeing you causes my knees to go weak,
blood rushing to that secret spot
that only you know how to touch and finger
driving me wild as you stop and linger
crescendos of pleasurable torment
until you see I'm finally spent
Oh God! I'll never have enough of you
baby take my breath, it's all for you
Apr 11, 2012
Apr 11, 2012 at 6:19 AM UTC
Slipping into my apron,
Hungry in body and soul
Humming as a song played...
I grab my knife and chop-board
Unsure of what to cook
Strange inspirations possess me
Filling me with *****
My kitchen becomes a stage
In my hands- a plectrum and fretboard
Silver utensils- my live audience!*
As I play divine recipes
Strumming master acoustic chords
Chopping fresh, colorful vegetables.
I dash to the remote,
Punch "Repeat" and dash back on stage
Landing on E♭ minor,
Scaling impossible notes,
I slice with razor-sharp plectrum,
On onions and other root chords
My fret arrayed with colors,
Of spinach, lettuce, tomatoes
Carrots, potatoes, olives
Pepper, cabbage and cucumbers.
I hear a thunder of applause
As I ignite the cooker
Butter sizzling in the hot pan
A staccato of sharp notes,
*Ready to modulate innocent vegetables
Through spicy aromatic crescendos!*
I fight hard to suppress a sneeze,
No sneezing on-stage! Unprofessional!
Multitudes of seconds rush by and…
Voila!!!
I stand for a moment
Salivating, awed at my bravura!
Wishing I could hang it on my wall
Tis beautiful like art
But I can’t eat this cake and have it!
So I dig in…
Heaven and earth kiss for a moment
L U S C I O U S!!!
Luckily, it didn’t taste nauseating
Like my last attempt.
No time for ceremonies
I munch from pan to mouth
Pausing for what may pass for a prayer,
I relish every bite!
Not that I’m a foodie or something,
But nothing beats this combo-
Of good food and soul music.
And yes,
*Music is indeed food to the soul!*
I devour, in view- the next meal...
© Raphael Uzor
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
At an unknown time of night at our cottage in northern Michigan…
My younger brother and I heard strange noises coming from the beach again…
We looked up at the ceiling and then the window…
As the voices from outside, in a lively allegro…
Grew softer and louder in repeating crescendos…
We skittered out the door and stared in fascination…
For what we saw must have been our imagination…
The door closed with a creak as our feet hit the grass…
It was at that moment we got a look at the mass…
Of stubby foot, hunchback creatures from which the sounds had amassed…
There was about six of them chanting like a choir…
They danced and paraded around our burnt out fire…
As we looked on, we saw our fire raise…
It got brighter as they lifted their hands in waves…
As light betook the blue beach night…
A crowd of colorfully masked gremlins caught us in their sights!
Their feet slowed to a stop and they quieted down…
They stood still as the fire flickered off their weird wooden frowns…
One reached out his hand in a come-here motion…
They seemed to stand and wait with an encouraging notion…
As the fire crackled and the waves tumbled onto the beach…
All I can remember, is for the rest of that summer…
My younger brother and I served as the drummers…
For that quirky marching band of lake sprites…
With which our burnt out fire we’d reignite…
At an unknown time of night at our cottage in northern Michigan…
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 8:41 PM UTC
Stop describing your terrible ****** encounters
I know you've had other women since I ended things with you
You're acting like you don't have magazines stashed under your bed
What, when I was with you your hand was your secret lover
And now it's not enough?
I'm so cold. I just want the affirmation of another soul's proximity
Is anyone out there?
The spinning feeling increases its tempo
The awful silence crescendos
Bring me back, bring me back
I miss the Saturday night I spent on mushrooms.
Everything was alright in the world
Anonymous carefree the world was ablaze
I convinced myself I was a fire spirit and you were a deer
I'm not addicted: I only tried it once.
All I want is a cigarette and to go back to sleep.
The world will turn without me
Your heart will be cold either way
Why and I vying for your attentions?
I tell myself I'm too antisocial
Until I have asked every single last one of my faceless friends to come get me
I guess it's alright to take some time for yourself
Is this a manifestation of grief or depression?
Is anyone out there?
I prefer the company of strangers to those who I've already become disillusioned with
Will anyone feel my gentle tugging and lend me a hand?
Just a coffee
Just a smoke
Just a walk through the warming days
Spring cleaning
I've successfully ignored your texts for long enough
I think I'll sleep with you
Not because I think that's all I'm good for.
Is it really "being used" if you're aware of it?
Am I not using you as well?
I can't decide if this will turn out well.
To you: Help.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 3:13 PM UTC
TW: r#pe culture
anxiety-riddled,
my head is a constant battle of sounds
and feelings crashing
like waves into each other;
interference scares me.
as does being out of rhythm,
missing too many beats — i am
conflict-averse but i am also
realistic:
i know that
sound travels faster
through solids and liquids
than through the air,
can be distorted
and interfered
into oblivion—
that when
push comes to shove,
whisper networks
can only reach so far.
scores of screaming matches
between metoo advocates and r#pist apologists
crescendos of nails
scraped across a board
feel a bit too familiar
like listening to white noise and broken records on repeat
while scrolling through toiletpaperworthy nonapologies
witnessing victims collectively crying in an orchestra of agony
and then be blamed for attention-seeking at best,
of causing their own suffering at worst.
although it pains me to listen to these tragic tunes,
it is amusing how so many mishear this collective choir as
survivors celebrating with silly receipts in cancel parties
serving blistering hot tea sweetened by revenge - no
all this is anything but
cathartic.
it’s to make people aware
that the same melodies are sung or screamed
by those who suffered similar pains
and so that those of a similar frequency know
there are those who listen
that their voice matters
and we are not alone.
- 20210315
May 28, 2021
May 28, 2021 at 12:44 AM UTC
Pi, at the end of its endless decimals' grandeur,
meets a human being—who holds a mirror!
Until now, the number, knowing only sway,
has been lost in discovery’s polished way.
No more: it begins—on a human—in front of its eye.
Patterns and unique precision, patternless waves,
new math tides soar, pivot at the cosmos' height,
only to bag the ultimate truth:
Fathima—the first spiritual woman—mooned there first!
Fathima steps forward where nature falls behind,
across the dead end, the irrational chasm she strides.
For the cosmos' deep mind, Earth, the ocean is but a drop;
the rope to the top is the lead—the feminine Fathima’s lock!
Raw Fathima moves; in shadow, nature follows,
clustering atoms span between the two,
only to witness her encrypted, secured fashion—
intact, uncharted, yet fully functioning,
in Makkah and Medina, while she lived.
The red fairies at midday’s spot-on,
the black swans arching rainbows in wonder—
marvel how Fathima deduces, straw by straw,
the maestros’ dream of ascension,
potion-polished, taking Ma pauses in liminal crescendos,
between past and future, here and hereafter—a circular duo.
Limning out chiaroscuro in light and shadow—
nothing like it exists, in plain sight or the world in toto!
Rainbows shaded in, sparking out,
the scent of roses in her veiled black hair:
the cosmos anew glinting off her edge,
deeper quintessence than dark matter!
The blueprint, the intelligent pre-design, rests in her elements.
The breakthrough exponent—hidden in her eyes.
Yet beyond the masses’ gaze,
she remains Zahra—light upon the original way.
Truly, only one feminine form has reached across
the other end of the cosmos' endless highway,
zooming past nature’s hidden gems—the irrational Pi,
the complex chasm—a mathematical goldmine.
Beyond the masses’ eyes and their painted canvases,
shine the daylight and the glowing fireflies of the night.
Viva Mankind! Fathima is the Moon at the highest high!
Dec 12, 2021
Dec 12, 2021 at 11:53 PM UTC
i wanted more from him
than enjoying my pizzicatos
while bringing me to crescendos
but it seems
our love may
have already reached
its forte without ever
breathing in its
diminuendo
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 3:26 PM UTC
Her poems are like
sound waves
they can't help the shape they make
arcing, cresting, jagging scores into the sky then
crashing
into smaller crescendos and puddles
refusing to stay still
adamantly holding their shape then
suddenly relenting
into smaller
smaller
lines
Then it HITS, her thoughts
They rip through the message finally clear
not even sure how my brain processes
these tiny wave forms not really sure
how these shapes make me feel
not sure how the words
can drift into my head
and make me feel
something
anythi
ng
.
.
.
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 10:35 AM UTC
1. I hate my acne,
How it blemishes my cheeks,
Leaving scars for you to trace in the dark
as you kiss away my skin
2. I hate my weight.
The rolls of fat unevenly proportioned around my middle
so that my jeans will never
fit "just right"
and my broad shoulders reminding me every time
I pull on a shirt that I'm not built like a woman
3. I hate my appetite.
My stomach's never satisfied with a salad or a soup.
No,
I need the whole **** steak.
4. I hate my laugh,
how it crescendos through deep rolling hills
starting in my belly and ending in my soul.
It's infectious, because
once I start
you can't stop
5. I hate that I'm beautiful,
because I know that I'm not,
but **** when you look at me like that,
I outshine the stars.
6. I hate my honesty,
"No, I'm fine," why the hell can't I just say that,
but no,
I have to go bare my whole soul to you in hopes that
you don't bare it right back
7. Man, I hate that I'm faithful.
I hate that I'm never gonna throw in the towel
when things get tough,
and that every time you leave, I'll stay
8. I hate that I believe,
believe all the lies that you feed me,
hoping, maybe, by God's grace.
It's different this time and you'll stay
9. I hate myself.
I'm too good for you,
and not good enough for you,
and I'll never
ever be what you need,
but I keep trying and changing to become
bad enough for you,
and good enough for you,
and to somehow attempt to be what you need.
I hate myself because I have lost myself.
But 10.
Mostly, I just hate that I give a ****
I hate that I care about myself,
my weight,
my height,
my face,
my attitude
I hate that I'm not happy being me.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 12:20 AM UTC
Bathed in the amber light
I watch these fields in slumber
Resting beneath scattered snow
As the music crescendos.
The mountains gleam in the distance
But every crevice and branch
Is coated in gold
Like a remnant of Midas’ touch.
Peace washes over me
A purifying, gentle force.
The sky’s tender blue
Kisses the horizon.
Jan 20, 2024
Jan 20, 2024 at 5:32 PM UTC
the brevity of a singular breath,
one that is full of peace,
such a rare glimpse but
if you look at his face, at the right time,
you might just see him smile.
then, much like an old spruce cello,
descending in suspense,
that smile -evaporates-, and the
quick "bliss" is no more.
oh how old and wise is this cello i play,
if only it was genuinely surprised by the
intensity of such
-hair raising horror-
it faces in its composure, daily.
"but it simply ain't",
as Bukowski would drunkenly say,
and his quivering cigarette would rightfully echo
through the halls of this unholy Cathedral.
"put me the **** down already, Charles", it echoes.
"no,
i refuse
to let go of my
identity...
...why would i let go of all
-i feel-
is left?"
he (i) is either a man,
or on the road to understanding
what this even means really...
...maybe he's halfway there...
regardless, he now understands,
he must accept
"reasons" to smile won't come often,
and one is subject to the tug of war of life,
of society,
of women,
of his children,
of his forgetful mother,
of his vices,
his hair raising horrors,
the torment,
of his absent father.
to continue is to face those suspenseful
-crescendos-
of life, with
"a ********* smile on your face",
as Bukowski would say,
no matter
-what-
he's been through, or
-how-
-deeply-
he
-feels-
...
-melancholicreator
Feb 21, 2024
Feb 21, 2024 at 6:24 PM UTC
I'm wading in gray water, it lures me
I'm waiting for a dream to choke on now
The music crescendos when I scrape knees
But me and the dancer still take our bow
The water kisses my lips then my nose
I'm gone because I never met happy
For the cons will always outweigh the pros
But you never saw me being sappy
"I love you! Be mine!" the water will say
And I gladly submerge myself in it
The whales will come and carry me away
I'll find my Becoming an Undine kit
Suffice it to say I could never dream
Of such a silent, so hidden a scream
Apr 6, 2012
Apr 6, 2012 at 9:43 PM UTC
Poets go blind from writing by moonlight,
But my artist smites the moon with her luminance,
I write by her subtle, cyan, rays
And would gladly go blind for, with her, my eyes find their fill quickly,
She is the unexpected wind bouncing off the water’s surface,
And my chest is the sail,
Lifted, pushed, expanded and fulfilled to its most righteous purpose,
If the world is a stage than she is the red velvet curtain,
Commanding a sway so slight and savory
That other rags rent and burn,
No matter how mesmerizing the performance is,
A sudden hush or vibrant ovation is demanded in her wake,
A sultry swirl of goddess and girl,
Too precious to be stored with other jewels,
Elegance with every hinting glance, every rowdy inhale,
And every placement of those sinister legs,
That rams would think twice to scale,
The bend in her back is the stroke of my oils,
The pout of her lips is scarlet meat to the lions,
And the feel of her hips sum up my surreptitious desires,
Like good jazz things seem to pull back
Before the cathartic crescendos,
But to put it bluntly dear, the next time you’re here,
It may pay to freshen up with a Mentos.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 2:45 AM UTC
Perspiration accumulates into salty beads,
Falling into her eyes, eyes that have lost their gleam.
We’ve been trapped like savaged animals for three agonizing nights.
Diminutive apertures in this death box supply minimal light.
The screech of the rails are a bittersweet melody to our ears.
For we only know what these horrific monsters have taught. Fear.
As the door slams open, I’m pried from my wife.
I wonder if this will be the last moment I see her smile.
My people are marked with terror and pain.
I realized were barricaded in with barbed wire chains.
My subverted clothes reek of secretion.
This camp is untrustworthy, raising apprehension.
They claim we are not human.
But I ask, do we not bleed, when we are injured?
Do we not dream blissful thoughts?
Do we not pray to the same God?
The same God that punishes the innocent;
Bringing blithe to those sinners that shed blood.
When we lose our cherished, our loved ones,
Do we not shed tears? Do we not mourn?
No! We must not, for we are not human,
According to what the Nazis see.
We are the innocent, robbed of life.
They are the monsters who roam free.
At least, that’s what I see.
I see men, women, and children stripped of clothing,
Stripped of dignity, stripped of all things humane.
While these barbaric monstrosities make allegations.
Claiming they are purifying society, when they are to blame.
Men lose wives; children lose mothers.
Families are torn apart; sisters lose brothers.
Those of us who survive, work until brittle.
Still we carry on, if our minds are able.
Backs of men are scarred from arduous lashes.
While the sick are trapped in rooms imbued with gases.
My hands are enveloped with calicoes and cuts.
My mind grows weary, I dream an ending abrupt.
I’m crippled with anger, and tears that still drip sore.
My heart crescendos with pain, about to implode.
It’s difficult to refuse the tears when I hear the desolate screams.
I’m trapped in a perpetual nightmare, a ceaseless dream.
Still I carry on in life, for that is the greatest revenge.
The day we feel the kiss of freedom, will be the day we have avenged.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 11:13 PM UTC
.
*The sensual caress
twilight mist impearled flesh
alighting a feral desire
within blossoming spring petals
The newness of uncovered skin
a sweetness on unsated lips ,
the taste of passion and salty *******
with hastened breath
sighs do brush with warm ****** breeze
across my naked chest
wild feathers sweeten
tender touch
... emanating
sensual awakenings
Arousing buried desires
unable to hold back
constant cravings
the inevitable currents
pummeling shameless floodgates
with arising untamed springtides swell
Fleshly enslaved yen --
energy sprouts tingling sensations
nascent buds blossoming deeply
flourishing exploding flames
bursting flush
... deliciously white hot
In an unstoppable carnal moment
passion betides
like the surging sea ;
Rising and falling crescendos
unleashed waves crashing ,
drowning in the rhythmic undertow
interlaced bodies heaving adrift in the moment
like entangled seaweeds
in a riptide
as the rolling thunder storm
dances across invigorated tides
with a surging cadence of cresting waves bloom
caught in the Rhythm and the Sea*
✩ ✩ ☼ ✩ ✩
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 8:23 PM UTC
At 15 we were women
And at 12 we were sexualized, scrutinized , afraid , wary , shameful .
Plain Sight is the best place to hide something,
What do you stand for?
We are made from the creative ****** force,
So don’t tell me that I must be dressed up like a pig after slaughter to experience
Sexuality….
I’m made from an ******
I’m an ******* repercussions…
And I won’t be told any different
No matter how “scary” you make *** sound
I’m pure ENERGY WALKING.
I’m a cosmic bliss wave flowing….
What do you stand for?
At 15 we were women , but we didn’t know what it was to respect our wombs for the stargates they are.
At 12 we were sexualized , scrutinized , afraid , wary , shameful of the natural blooming of this cosmic force, sneaking looks at naked ladies on the internet
but we didn’t know how to respect that shaking energy that called out
so we hid it , underneath our pillows.
Plain sight is the best place to hide something , and right there on the cover of The Sun or Daily Star is the most powerful force for change on this planet.
A woman…
And her ****** power –
If a woman can create a child from her own energy systems in 9 months
Then what do you think that power could do to a project or idea
Over .. say 5 years…?
What you stand for is where you invest your attention.
But for now we march on –
Because there are forces mightier than any human being
And they move despite all our frantic pride and jealousy ,
hatred and pain
they move in our heartbeats and in that solar flare , or the pulsar star on the other side of the universe
they move in the spaces dark energy
they move
crescendos rising
majestic beyond any king or queen
holy like you’ve never been privy to
the forces that move in the wild flowers breath
power the changes on our planet .
Balance is coming
Will you be in balance?
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 10:57 AM UTC
Cool, gentle air
glides across my face.
Strains of hydrangeas
mingle with THC
and sweet, cheap, fermented
grain alcohol.
The stillness
knocks the breath from
My lungs.
Wafts of voices drift
across the swaying trees
mingling
with the steady chirp of
crickets and a lone car puttering
in the distance.
A gentle whistle
Like the start of piano concerto
No. 15
crescendes
to the roar
Of a thousand bullfrogs
Straining to hit a high note.
Trees bow
To the iron god,
Voices melt into the grating
Metal monster
Declaring their
Subservience.
The air rushes and then
Disappears
Just as suddenly
And the voices return
and the crickets hum their
chorus
and the stillness
whispers
crescendos
screams.
May 14, 2012
May 14, 2012 at 1:32 AM UTC
in choir, we sing a song about the death of children,
all latin and deep and dark
in my head is a forest with the song always playing, deep and latin and dark
imaginings of trees and dead children,
this is what I am singing
Of course, everyone else is singing crescendos and diminuendos and harmonies and their parts, but I
I am singing trees and dead children
on second thought this is maybe not the best plan,
just as this poem is maybe not the best plan
here we go breaking the 4th wall again
trees and dead children
in choir we sing a song about marriage
someone said no
the piece is conversational and relaxed
i am not relaxed about rejection,
regardless of performance markings and instructions
in choir there is a workshop, where a man tells us about feeling the line of the song.
I understand all about these lines,
pulling and pushing and carrying us through the music
he says we have to control it,
but no one has ever controlled the line of music
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 7:13 AM UTC
_Eponymous, insidious indifference._
_Existence._
_Towers before fates road, exquisite._
_Beckoning the soul to a fork._
_A question._
_A man can break who he used to be?_
_Or will he be? Until he breaks._
_Ponder at the fork, day passes day._
_From end to end, the requiem,_
_sings and rings, like a lovely dream_
_But beautiful things._
_Like destiny._
_Its crescendos extinguish._
_Try though, he does to see both roads._
_To sense and see the masquerade._
_No map to guide._
_No stars to follow._
_No end to see,_
_Through his glass shadow._
Apr 19, 2022
Apr 19, 2022 at 5:08 AM UTC
It hits me,
Like the rush of a tympani
Unexpected, often missed,
Often lost.
Mind pushing back,
Pulling forth
Crescendos,
I do not fear you,
I could not love you.
And I certainly don't
wait for you.
An even change of direction,
Acceleration.
Arms, legs, heart;
Just one more stroke,
One last, desperate
Passion -
Synchronicity.
Feb 1, 2010
Feb 1, 2010 at 7:45 PM UTC
~
Violins sing of purest flame,
alluring harmonies warm the air
Heart beat crescendos keep time
as ember’d flutes whisper beauty
and misty cellos lull wondrous dreams
on the aria of our love
Treble clef desires
curve softly upon your tender heart
while clarinets breathe amorous
melodies of soothing affection,
enchanting serenades
caress our every silent sigh
Forever playing an eternal
symphony of fire,
burning euphonious,
heated temptations
in ever lasting
orchestral bliss
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 6:59 PM UTC
Cicada’s chorus,
High among sycamore’s green tendrils,
Crescendos of summer,
Cacophony of 7 year sleep,
Memory seeps in and out.
Lapping waves of recollection.
Exo-skeletal molted shells,
The remnants of prior lives,
Crescendo of song,
Celebrating new things,
Higher possability
Among branches of summer’s throng.
Peeling back the browns and yellows
Of Old man’s changing wig,
To look within
And glean the mystery
Of summer messages remembered by me.
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 8:24 AM UTC