"crooning" poems
My memory beats in rhythm with my heart.
Spilling out snapshot flashes of life like a flick book's muffled cries.
Controversial plastic shell, elastic strap, stick insect mattel covetted for months
until Santa dropped it down the chimney,
almost as fast as she sprogged and regained her figure
- the original scrummy yummy mummy set to spread low self esteem.
My daddy said anyone can crank out a kid like she did,
as my mother ground her teeth to protest on behalf of her traumatised frame.
Strange, I almost became one of the lost - before I grew cells and self,
another fragile foetus swinging on a noose
from gallows where once a ****** failed to stayed closed.
Little life curled tight self soothing sings al na tivke iredem bim'nucha
My memory beats in rhythm with my heart
as I lie beneath my shroud of sadness filled with down shrinking from the light of day
I want to tell you that I love you,
that my heart brays, beats, bleets, breaks, aches for you.
My soul, spirit, self thrice chorus al na tivke iredem bim'nucha
as waters flow from deep to deep
where danger dances and solace is sought
from beyond the fruitless orchards and willows weeping
branches reaching out for you.
My memory beats in rhythm with my heart
surrounded by madonna, ***** and all betwixt
spheres of life protruding, pronounced, announcing themselves;
in streets where bundles, terrors, cherubs, banting, brat and bairn alike
shriek, scream, squeal, shout, squalk, squabble, sing
in a cacophony that makes my heart weep and ache in longing
to sing to self in solitude al na tivke iredem bim'nucha.
My memory beats in rhythm with my heart
pulsating thoughts, dreams, hopes of you through the whole of me.
Brought to my knees I seek wisdom, guidence, strength to let you go.
The river is waiting for you, you who I hold tight in my caul
trying to trust, seeking strength to hakshev le'ivshat haga'lim
holding the thought of you,
the love of you,
the hope of you
tight in my arms crooning my lullaby of lament
al na tivke iredem bim'nucha
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 5:57 PM UTC
Can I write you a love song
I’ll sing it softy in your ear all night long
Blow gently without words on my saxophone
Diamond and Pearls behind the throne
A beautiful ensemble meant for only you
As I give credence too
Take my hand
Cross this journey with me as I sing about faraway lands
Past Egypt pyramids shifting Morocco sands
Lay back my love, allow your mind to silently drift
Feel the enchantment of my piano keys as it spiritual uplifts
I’ll sing love songs of old
A cappella chorus echoed from deep within my enlighten soul
I’ll sing to you about the blues, society’s injustice, and elements of darken storms
Keep your heart warm, while playing my French Horn
Enrapture foretold from this dedicated symphonic poem
A music sheet of percussion, woodwind, brass, keyboard, and strings
Harmony carrying the mind away as the joy of coming spring
I’ll hum your favorite beats, can you feel the crescendo now
Fiddle from the heart by the sweat of one’s brow
Submerge your cerebral cortex, lose yourself in the sultry tunes
Harp sounds bathe of light kissed from the illuminating moon
Destiny overcasts in the lyrics
Fate floating stratospheric
Karma of others handled in the eyes of satiric
Opera, I give you so grand in its grace
French Creole dialect murmured among silk and lace
Sounds of my flute resonant to face
Allowing my Cello sounds to thoroughly embrace
Can I write you a love song
Body and soul serenading soprano to keep you standing strong
My guitar stringing your philosophies along
An equal equation, one plus one equals two
Emotions, feelings, sentiments, its tenor expressed only for you
No compass to my heart, my seasonal love found in hidden melodies
Trombone guiding back and forth breathless as it please
Orchestra sounds
Ascending minds, bodies, souls, pass the opening clouds, divine and profound
The last note sung by me as we gradually come down
Beautiful music embraced, needs never to make a sound
Shh, close your eyes
Meditate on the music for a little while
Hush sweet baby don’t say a word
My heart softly tweets to a mockingbird
If that mockingbird don’t sing
Can I write you a love song created only for your being
As minds are sightseeing
Hearts fleeing
Timpani drums guaranteeing
Entwined of our divine wellbeing
Emotions freeing
Crooning of bodies heard as the day is long
Can I write you a love song
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 10:39 AM UTC
When the dust swirls in the March wind
the forlorn noon is thick with flames of the forest
and the meadow sighs in gold yellow sun
my eyes seek Krishna in that aching void.
She grazed the cows from morn till twilight
and though eldest among the siblings
she was schooled only in the blazing days
learning to pull her herd to greener pasture
venturing into marshes none would dare tread.
Not one groom could be found for her
bypassed she was for her fairer sisters
that went to school grew up were married
and ushered new inmates to the world.
Then a few summers past
when I had almost forgotten her
I saw her forehead smeared with vermilion.
But why she had to come back
playing once again the shepherd girl
gathering them for home at dusk
crooning aaaaaa….oooooo…..
I don’t know if Krishna went back to her husband
for after a few days she wasn’t seen again.
Only the winds howled in the forlorn noon
and the little shepherd girls who came after her
whispered she had at the in-laws
hung herself from a tree.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 8:04 AM UTC
Sometimes when sorrow sinks in
I worry a wailing might screech from my chest
And every person for miles might hear it.
Or feel it shake the air, like hot flame
Ripples carrying my saddest indulgence
As the beast that weighs me down, croons.
So that people quaking, step out of the way
And we have room to sing the lonely wail, some more.
Sep 29, 2019
Sep 29, 2019 at 2:40 PM UTC
The boy sat beneath the grey gum,
listening to the magpie crooning,
somewhere far above his head.
He watched as the figure approached,
an old man stumbling down a dirt track.
"Yer back than." said the boy, standing.
"Yeah." Replied the man, "I'm back."
The boy sat down again "Yer staying?"
"I should never have left you,
I realise that now." The man replied.
"Was it fun where you went?" asked the boy,
"No, it was miserable." said the man,
"It could never be fun without you.
Have you been to the tree house lately?"
"Not since you left," said the boy.
"I've just been sitting here waiting,
for you to take me to the carnival,
where we could eat candy floss
and hot dogs to our bellies ached."
"I should have taken you with me,
I've missed the carnivals and candy floss."
The man said his eyes filling with tears.
"Is the tyre still hanging over the water hole?"
"Of cause it is," said the boy, "you want to go there?"
"Oh yes!" Cried the man "I want to go there.
More than anything I want to go there!"
The boy stood up and took his hand,
and together they walked across the pond.
03/03/2010
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 1:49 AM UTC
her hands
around
my shoulders
my body
quivering
consternations
her voice
crooning tunes
that're bolder
asking me
to wake up,
it's
just a bad
d r e a m
but tell me
what
rise and shine
is
in a
world
of
fall and fail
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 1:56 PM UTC
This poem is a toast to our love, to pure love.
Let peace, purity & contentment prevail
everywhere evenly dispelling hatred.
There's a hint of you,
In everything I do...!
There's a hint of you,
In everything I do...!
Whether it's writing poems,
Whether it's riding horses,
Whether it's reading books,
Or it's roaming nooks...
There's a hint of you,
In everything I do...!
There's a hint of you,
In everything I do...!
Whether it's blooming flowers,
Whether it's raining droplets,
Whether it's crooning lullabies,
Or it's draining tensions...
There's a hint of you,
In everything I do...!
There's a hint of you,
In everything I do...!
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 9:29 AM UTC
Perched upon a tree tall
sings a bird – yellow, small,
listening to whose beautiful song
parched earth sings along
Euphoria, euphoria!
Melodies that the bird sings
Ebullience its music brings
Flowers bloom and winds flow
Spreading smiles on the go
Euphoria, euphoria!
Yet the bird cares not
If music is adored a lot
Singing for its own pleasure
Crooning alone is its nature
Euphoria, euphoria!
Flowers, wind, earth or tree
The bird wants no captivity
When oblivious to others around
The bird sings in perfect sound
Euphoria, euphoria!
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
Your music is sensual, dark and languid
Mysterious and **** hypnotic and sultry
The slow tempo and rumbling bass drums are a heavenly mix
I close my eyes and let the forlorn echoes immerse me
In a sea of falsetto vocals and stuttering percussions
Your music is enigmatic, puzzling and seductive
Pacifying and troubling, calming and cinematic
Your champagne crooning is a movie in itself
Telling me the tales of a gloomy sex-infused hangover life
And it connects to the depths of my soul
Even though I've never experienced it
Narcotized slow jams filled with samples of punk and rock
Transports me to an actual dream world
Your subtly crafted harmonies and beats are celestial
And your lyrics a painkiller
That numbs the wounds in my soul and takes me higher...
Your voice is R&B; but your lyrics are ***** rap
You take such vile words and turn them into something beautiful
and I adore that.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 4:02 PM UTC
The skin of your shoulders,
the skin of my teeth,
tripping tips of fingers,
eyes retreat and re-meet.
We made a mess
of your hair, sweet Lioness,
you grappled and tore,
bit, I kept it to a dull roar.
You, you did coo,
as I saw nothing through,
coos for crooning,
surreal, surreal, surreal.
Excite the hunter,
excite the huntress,
as we take turns playing the prey.
Levitate the weight,
paw at my soul,
I lick your sores,
and beautify the remains.
We made a mess
of your hair, sweet Lioness,
returned and renewed
a sense of pulse, a sense of the thrill.
You claim me again and again,
claw into me, spilling my demons,
whispers smoke, chaotic melody.
An overgrown field of sheets
laid flat,
no question, no success or distraction,
panting, panting, panting.
Sep 6, 2010
Sep 6, 2010 at 9:06 PM UTC
This morning,
I walked with god and man, and animal
I've come to believe,
no other possibility,
He denies me sleep
as His insurance policy
some One wants to be sure,
someone sees His sunrise poem,
He selected this ancien regi-man
to be His admiring audience,
with deer, squirrels, rabbits, a red fox, an osprey
always complaining, why do they get
the cheap seats
so up at five,
no jive,
gotta get there early,
for a good seat,
on the dock by his name
watch the color blue transgender
from feminine elegy elegant pale
to peacock royal male,
the water,
a contributing editor,
phases in with a steely grin,
with ermine whitecap hints
and an orange marmalade sky homage,
I cannot try to describe
and here is where man comes in...
as the tableau reveals a still life
come to be,
a painting enlivened,
come to me free,
bursting with
effervescence and
animal life tribunes,
paying on...
strange...
my Pandora app
back to back,
plays for me
Gershwin's Rhapsody In Blue,
hard upon it comes
Saint-Saëns's
The Carnival of the Animals
and I
enfeebled amateur,
needy for a
word titan Titian,
can think only
this trite thought:
*I know not who is the
instrument and who
is the
artist,
but virtuous us,
We, all, now-capital-buddies,
now, all, well-color-capitalized,
god and man and animal,
crooning a chorus of appreciation
let this "accidental" miracle,
this collaboration,
enthuse me,
to live happily
with anticipation
for just one more day...*
June 2014
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 6:56 AM UTC
**** me, I still dream of you.
When I'm thick in sleep and I'm so so lonely
and you
not you but dreamYou my dreamYou is
just so so ******* sweet...
and you're touching and I'm crooning and you're touching
and I'm twitching at the brink
the steady hand steady tongue
bringing me closer and further and closer and further
and I wish
wish wish wish
this was real
real really happening
because dreamYou isn't quite as harsh
as realYou was but
I can't kiss dreamYou without
your perfect dream face
cosmic scary dream morphing
into someone somebody not you
and what's sad
so sad, **** tragic
is you don't care a bit
not a smidge
not a ******* drop about
my miss miss missing you
dream or otherwise.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 5:04 PM UTC
Someone undeserving of my devotion,
ugly and beautiful,
whispers that scratch up all my dreams,
crazy glue,
a strutting rooster, cocking its vibrant scarlet head back and forth,
a wolf crooning into the night, only to eat me a minute later,
an ornately decorated box, containing a demon of possession,
a precious ******* up vinyl record,
an expensive bugatti that everyone wants but no one can get,
a snake, venomous, but protective of her eggs, really just scared,
a lamppost that's tired of it's job.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 3:22 PM UTC
Can we get much higher than this?
When all I can hear over the old dial up phone you use is the sound of nicotine exhales
and big sighs caused by silences I am too scared to fill.
Can we love any more than this?
I can hear you humming the song that's spinning and it makes me love you more.
You laugh at my nervousness, how I twitch when you say my name.
I always ignore you because I'm scared you'd say goodbye.
Can we get more tired than this?
Four am, your favorite albums crooning me to sleep.
Could you be more mistaken?
You thought I was scared of your darkness, of the shadows beckoning to you from every corner of
homes you did not own, and people you did not really know... yet.
I have a permanent dent in my ear from piercings that were too heavy for my fragile skin,
and everytime I run my fingertips over it, it reminds me of you.
You are bent but never broken, never broken.
Can we get more distant than this?
It's been months since I could honestly say that I thought you loved me.
So many miles, so many miles, so many
miles...
You're 874 kilometres away from me.
You are universes away from me.
And now everything tastes like goodbye.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 10:22 PM UTC
my throat aches for food
my stomach and mind shout
naysayers
heavy with
the clock, she won't stop chattering
nervous tic
aching shoulder, from laying on my side
staring
waiting for
one new message
crooning songs echo
in my shallow veins
beard of dunedin
oh to stand in manufactured rain
cleanse together
hot steam breath collide with
(well)
****** scenes dance heavily
salty
sweet soapy soft silky
soaked..
i feel so alone.
what life would crawl over my skin?
what lips caress these dead eyelids?
what fingers traces these cold curves
like tree limbs next to the curb
i am living trash
but I still want to make you
wet
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 5:37 AM UTC
Walking to work, I saw Joan Rivers
Blowing me a kiss today
Through a store window on Indian
With that smirk you can't mistake
I crossed on Tahquitz Canyon drive,
Said "hi" to Lucille Ball,
and passed a smiling Elvis Presley,
rested against the Welwood wall.
This is where the ghosts of Hollywood dwell
Is this a Hollywood Heaven or a Hollywood Hell?
But this is where the ghosts of Hollywood dwell
the Shangri-La where the angels fell...
On a fountain's edge across the street,
Sits a grinning Sonny Bono,
and just north of there you'll find 26 feet
of Marilyn Monroe shadow.
and Frank Sinatra's voice is still heard
Crooning through the air at night,
while here forevermore at the El Mirador,
you'll find the pensive eyes of Albert Einstein.
This is where the ghosts of Hollywood dwell
Is this a Hollywood Heaven or a Hollywood Hell?
But this is where the ghosts of Hollywood dwell
the Shangri-La where the angels fell...
When the stars die,
they might fall from the sky,
but they never truly disappear
cuz you'll always find them here.
This is where the ghosts of Hollywood dwell
Is this a Hollywood Heaven or a Hollywood Hell?
But this is where the ghosts of Hollywood dwell
the Shangri-La where the angels fell...
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 7:15 PM UTC
I lay my head down on your empty lap,
And fall right through the air
My wings don’t sprout just like they should
All I see is red
Your name a faint memory in the spring wind
As autumn comes I’ve nearly forgotten,
but remembered well enough to have it stuck on my tongue
just on the tip, just enough to itch and scratch and bite and kick
just enough to be unforgettable
The light shines in the darkness,
The winter comes in spring,
My love dies in daylight,
My love dies not at all
An empty grave is calling invisible
Cat calling and begging to drag the forgotten into bed
But another hand pulls towards the heavens
A hand that isn’t even trying, isn’t even seeing, only just barely there
Just enough to be unforgettable
Tomorrow, tomorrow is a new day
But not for illusions,
Hades is crooning a siren song
But ears are filled with wax for my fair Penelope I must return
Even if she’s dead and gone and alive and well and doesn’t want me
Deeper than the ocean,
Farther than the sea,
On your boat you’ve moved on,
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Crying out my love’s name, the one that I’ve forgotten,
Begging for their sweet return,
Its just enough to be unforgettable.
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 8:15 AM UTC
Somewhere on the moon last night, Neil Armstrong came back to life and was standing in the middle of the Sea of Tranquility in complete darkness. His frail, decaying hands that were no doubt filled with formaldehyde, held a rather large and sure-to-be extremely heavy boombox that loomed up and over his head, blasting “Total Eclipse of the Heart” on repeat. He said that it crossed his mind more than once to replace the six faded white American Flags with the stereo, but ultimately decided against it.
In mythology, bleeding is considered to be a feminine attribute:
“I bleed, therefore I am.”
(But this is also the downfall of a version of feminism that is not intersecular.) ((Your lunar cycle does not necessarily need to function in order to be considered a woman.)) (((I am not sure of which, if any, version of feminism Neil Armstrong subscribed to.)))
When a woman is bleeding, they say that she is at the height of her power; she is aligned with the tides and the cosmos. She is celestial. Blood is sacred,
eternal—the very essence of our beings—
but if the Blood Moon was
really just the moon on her period,
what could she do last night she could do at no other point in her life?
Where was her power? She was isolated,
forgotten by the sun,
hidden away inside the umbra of the earth.
(Which is the part where the masculine power of the sun rejected the most important feminine attribute of the moon.)
Michael Collins flew solo around the moon while Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin played with dust and rocks. For 48 minutes he was completely alone, radio silenced behind the shadow, and he thought about death and being the last man standing from Apollo 11.
Inside Neil Armstrong’s speakers, Bonnie Tyler was crooning that
“your love is like a shadow on me all of the time,”
and I have not yet decided if this is
good or bad.
Instead, I am wondering if Buzz Aldrin feels sore for
eternally being second best? Or if he still thinks that the view from the
moon is still one of “magnificent desolation?” And
does he feel this way about all three of his ex-wives?
Do they know that the moon was his first love?
We name missions to the moon, to
Luna’s surface, to Diana’s territory, after a
Greek and Roman god of the sun, when
wolves howl to the goddess
instead.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 8:42 PM UTC
so it begins when it begins
blasé grass serrates
past herds of carabao dreaming anxiously
of the day's toil;
the countryman stilts through
mounted in gray mountain
with dippers, casserole, mirrors
with imprints of ******** clad women
and women who are (really ******** clad) ready for bathing work,
collections of red days and even
tenderly the ***** sing attenuated songs of rooming-houses —
the crunch of basil over the afternoon.
waft of a pasture's death my eyes well
up rivers and ponds of elation. dog days, feral nights limp behind rusted
kennels and makeshift asylums
there is nothing left of the world
(this small world
that only rises when bellows
of festivities harangue the many streets
bending in them, the curve)
men moving from neck to neck
of bottles — (in the north there
is only four corners of bottle: gin,
pristine brook; in the Visayas is
the redolent Vino Kulafu of the same
potency) plucked out of the vermilion
and on benched careening on half-painted gates crooning Sinatra
gets stabbed, bloodied on the floor,
named after elegies; native chicken held
upside down and beheaded as many blacker days stifled; what do you make
out of this?
carabaos, equines, hens line up
the slaughterhouse behind the
TODA; you know a fine day when
it happens — breaking eggs
against the lip of the kaldero. crumbled
archaic sensurround, barrage of
simmer round the clock cycling
before the child wakes and wails to suckle
our mothers, faster than repose
of milbrightlions of stars falling asleep
to silent radios, leaving windows
open revisited by the eve of cold.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 10:24 PM UTC
He talks to me through the radio,
Crooning out my name
To a catchy tune.
It’s stuck in my head.
I welcome the torture.
Your forecast predicts
Rain clouds and harsh winds.
I’ll pretend it’s spring
And the sky is sunny.
The only rain
Will be my tears
Watering the weeds
That have overgrown in my
Quaint garden.
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 1:11 PM UTC
Imagine yourself
intertwined
with an anteater,
an octopus &
a chimpanzee
all at once
in a room with soft lighting,
beaded curtains,
vanilla incense burning
& Barry White crooning
under a full moon.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 9:15 PM UTC
My travels start
Right here
Deep in my mind
My travels take me just where
I please I don't have
To leave my warm room
My travels start
Sixteen sun
Beating down
Sinatra's crooning Jobim
And I'm just dreaming of my
Great romance to come
I don't need a little ticket
Tells me I can take the train
I don't even to risk it
There's no blistering sun
Or driving rain
And it's here that I remain
My travels end
With a sweet
And peaceful time
I've found such sense deep within
No more will I feel
The need to go travelling again.
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 6:51 AM UTC
t's fall out here now.
-----------------------------
a haven it was once
now a mourning ground.
------------------------------
For you this year
wildflowers I leave
------------------------------
The sky under which I walk
the memories you left with me
all bear down on me
inside and out.
-----------------------------
I can hear you laughing.
the sound carries
through the cold air.
Serene and sure.
-------------------------------
Leaves crunch under my bare feet.
I can feel them.
They keep me here
Even when all other reason fails
------------------------------
I cannot walk into your tomb.
My feet refuse to move
an inch beyond that pretty wood.
So I stand at our door listening
to that soul trapped inside.
-----------------------------------
A warm voice crooning
some long forgotten song
a myriad of sounds and images
buried behind that door
--------------------------
The sky under which I walk
the memories you left with me
all bear down on me
inside and out.
- havenx
Mar 29, 2021
Mar 29, 2021 at 6:20 AM UTC
I want to go back to my past
When tame pigeons of joy nested on my eaves
And I could hear their crooning
With the sweetness of love outpouring
I want to go back to my past
When innocent instincts ruled my heart
And I ran after every call from the woods or bush
Mesmerized by the whistles of the oriole and the thrush
I want to go back to my past
When every rainbow and every peacock feather
Ignited curiosity in me as a child
And colored my imagination wild
I want to go back to my past
When, with friends, I sat in the mango grove
And savored the ripe juicy mangoes
Careful not to let the pulp drip down our mouths
I want to go back to my past
When we strolled along the sandy strands
Watching the wild waves fray
And cooled by the kiss of spray
I want to go back to my past
When we had watched at night
A hundred fireflies dancing around the neem
Wondering if they were stars fallen from heaven’s seam
I want to go back to my past
When, like breeze, we ran over the meadows
Looking for the bleating lamb
Singing in chorus, ‘Mary had a little lamb’
I want to go back to my past,
When life appears a trying test
With ‘the slings and arrows of an outrageous fortune’
And as and when I feel so desperately alone!
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 8:23 AM UTC
You often subside from my mind,
Like spring tide;
Ferociously in, suddenly out,
Resistant to the crooning of the moon,
Sheltered in your own lunacy-
Stepping to your own tune.
I long to love you evermore,
But your grasp is not tepid,
Simple motions don’t shelter I
From splitting in the storm.
You seize safety-
But like the tide, you subside.
I feel as if the glow meant
To reside resonates somewhere far,
In two meeting once again-
The sleepy kiss from a listless lover.
We are the waves crushing one another.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC