"cymbal" poems
I'm a bird.
Despite the wind, I will fly.
I'm a star.
Despite the reign of the moon, I will shine.
I'm a seed.
Despite being buried, I will bloom.
I'm a ship.
Despite the rogue waves, I will sail.
I'm an ocean.
Despite the pollution, I will flow.
I'm a polar bear in the arctic.
Despite the temperature, I will survive.
I'm a Lucifer (Not the devil).
Despite the darkness of the world, I bring light.
I'm a cymbal.
Despite being beaten hard, I emit beautiful sounds.
I'm a fine vintage wine.
Despite aging, I will never go sour.
I'm a petal.
Despite producing scents to allure pollinators, I do repel undesirable pollinators.
I'm a Lion.
Despite the size of an Elephant, I'm the king.
I'm a Phoenix.
Despite being burned, I will rise and live on.
I'm an Oracle.
Despite the obstacles, I will reach the pinnacle.
I am Omokeyede.
Despite the evils of the world, I choose peace and love.
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 7:43 PM UTC
My hair stands on end
and I tip over, spilling
into the sky and down
into the dirt.
The stage explodes inwards
in colorful bursts,
black and white bears
strumming and growling
in a cymbal crash
a thunder clap
a tap-dancing
madhouse jamboree.
The threatening noise
reverberateraterating
through the hills
and climbs up inside
until I fly out of my body
straight up into the heavens
with a sigh,
a soul release.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 2:06 AM UTC
Have we all become mere automata
guided by the ring of pings and notifs?
The spray of lather from a sea of data
carrying with it wrung celebrity whiffs
have stung us with a certain aphasia...
The written thought was a lifetime ago
long abandoned by the times and all--
where once there was soundness to follow
nonsense amassed like a rising cymbal
whose crash sent reason to the gallows.
The news of the day presents a delectable entree
of a hodgepodge of this, that, and nothing much.
Wherefore we find our tongues compelled to say
something about the aftertaste or to prejudge
as if we were connoisseurs--it must've hid faraway.
Are we perhaps amusing ourselves to death?
I am by no means a Luddite to such a degree,
but I believe we have bombarded and blessed
ourselves a little too much to see...
only time will tell us reason's final breath.
Sep 19, 2023
Sep 19, 2023 at 10:38 PM UTC
I
Just as my fingers on these keys
Make music, so the self-same sounds
On my spirit make a music, too.
Music is feeling, then, not sound;
And thus it is that what I feel,
Here in this room, desiring you,
Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,
Is music. It is like the strain
Waked in the elders by Susanna;
Of a green evening, clear and warm,
She bathed in her still garden, while
The red-eyed elders, watching, felt
The basses of their beings throb
In witching chords, and their thin blood
Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna.
II
In the green water, clear and warm,
Susanna lay.
She searched
The touch of springs,
And found
Concealed imaginings.
She sighed,
For so much melody.
Upon the bank, she stood
In the cool
Of spent emotions.
She felt, among the leaves,
The dew
Of old devotions.
She walked upon the grass,
Still quavering.
The winds were like her maids,
On timid feet,
Fetching her woven scarves,
Yet wavering.
A breath upon her hand
Muted the night.
She turned--
A cymbal crashed,
Amid roaring horns.
III
Soon, with a noise like tambourines,
Came her attendant Byzantines.
They wondered why Susanna cried
Against the elders by her side;
And as they whispered, the refrain
Was like a willow swept by rain.
Anon, their lamps' uplifted flame
Revealed Susanna and her shame.
And then, the simpering Byzantines
Fled, with a noise like tambourines.
IV
Beauty is momentary in the mind--
The fitful tracing of a portal;
But in the flesh it is immortal.
The body dies; the body's beauty lives.
So evenings die, in their green going,
A wave, interminably flowing.
So gardens die, their meek breath scenting
The cowl of winter, done repenting.
So maidens die, to the auroral
Celebration of a maiden's choral.
Susanna's music touched the ***** strings
Of those white elders; but, escaping,
Left only Death's ironic scraping.
Now, in its immortality, it plays
On the clear viol of her memory,
And makes a constant sacrament of praise.
3.5k
Susan
with her china-white skin
relaxed
down to lace bra and *******
“Have you ever heard this?” she asks
… sets the album, drops the needle
in the groove
We wait till bass fills in the room
sending time and silence empty-handed
down a hallway
Susan lights a joint
settles on the bed
ample legs begging apart
She ***** in deeply
impounding clouds
Head thrown back
Thick glossy hair—
loses gravity
Eyes half-closed, shadow-heavy
clear and blue like piano
The walls are muted trumpet
stutter-hush of cymbal and the snare
Crackling over scratches
We are barely there
Susan exhales
a swirl of fog to a frail moon
Only her sultry voice still holds me tethered
“Have you ever heard anything— like this?”
Miles flows
around me
Smoking
On the floor of Susan’s room
lying clothed and drunk
Soaked
with chords and wonder
I never hear him coming
Miles takes his time
Nov 25, 2016
Nov 25, 2016 at 12:22 PM UTC
Gilhooley had ordered a meeting
Everyone had to come round
St. Patricks day will be upon us
And a venue just has to be found
We have to find somewhere authentic
Our normal old pub just won't do
We can't celebrate with the punters
Where the beer isn't green, it's dyed blue
Gilhooley awaited suggestions
It had to be somewhere close by
There were all sorts of names on the table
So they decided to give them a try
It needed to be "somewhat old Irish"
with no dee jay, and a folky type band
they had to have red headed women
And a barman, with drinks poured and at hand
The first place they went was McKenna's
It seemed like a great place at first
but the service was slower than treacle
and a man would just die here of thirst
They found one that looked rather Irish
It was known as the new *** of gold
it had a rainbow outside on the awning
this should have been a warning fortold
the next one they tried was a classic
The green and gold tavern....a hit
but, it was booked on the day for a party
and this didn't please them one bit
they finally found one to their liking
full of guineess and pretty colleens
a punjabi bar by the name of ben doury's
where everything was curried and green
it was a party that no one remembered
that meant that it must have been good
nobody went to the jailhouse
even though three or four of them should
The beer and the curry were epic
the singing was like nothing we'd heard
a sitar and cymbal based trio
played so loud that nothing was heard
Gilhooley said next year we have to
come back here and do it again
It was the best St. Patty's ever
most of them passed out by ten
The next time you go out to party
call Ben Doury, the place is spot on
the food and the beer are one colour
with a Punjabi Mumbai Leprachaun
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 11:51 PM UTC
Sinbad’s sea-battered ship was
poised on the edge of annihilation,
The Sultan's brow furrowed with curiosity,
then without warning
Scheherazade stilled her narrative
and lived to see the morning sun.
When the moon and stars next owned the sky,
Sinbad was snatched from the jaws of death
then the saga of Prince Kalandar
seized the king's soul with wonder
but Scheherazade left the tale unfinished
and sang with the birds at dawn.
Rimsky-Korsakoff turned the pages at his desk -
consumed by Scheherazade’s charms
then etched his pen across the waiting staves:
The violin must weave her spell once more
and bassoon and oboe take the prince’s part.
Trombone and trumpet led the martial call
and all the rest enlisted for the cause.
Russian bravura fused with the seductive allure
of exotic tunes born of the dust on the silken road.
A sonic whirlwind filled Saint Paul Church,
as winds and tremolos grew to cyclonic force.
A wall of brass completed Kalandar’s tale.
capped by an exuberant clash of cymbal plates.
The silence yielded to tender violins
chanting a hymn to the princess in all her grace.
Tambourine and winds wove a tapestry
of her debonaire and most virtuous prince.
As the final pizzicato chord faded, the Sultan
turned to Scheherazade with tear-filled eyes
and beheld his immortal princess
and she her valiant and eternal prince
and so it would be as long as night preceded dawn.
She kissed away his tears of joy and whispered in his ear,
“My beloved husband, I will tell you stories forever.
Tomorrow you shall learn of the Feast at Baghdad.”
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 11:27 PM UTC
Vibes caught
static between
snares
hips swinging
searching for music
that played their truth.
The bass line
wasn’t just music
it was breath
pulling ribs apart
to let
the rhythm in
Fingers slid down
necks like frets
pressing
into chords
that hummed notes
down thighs
in time
Wanting
too blow
saxophones
Spitting all over
the reed
Jazz
isn’t something
you hear
it’s something
that happens
to you
cymbal crashed
piano keys
Play confessions
no hymn
would dare too
black and white blending
spilled burbon over
smoke-stained wood
Feet tapping
out codes no one
else could decipher
syncopated riff
breaking patterns
breaking rules
The off beat
gospel you
couldn’t write down.
The room
swayed with them
walls leaning in
leaning closer
to the crescendo
the saxophone
came in
it was a third hand
tracing lines
down spines
nobody dared
to blow before.
This is jazz:
argument
turned
foreplay
rough pull
dissonance
before harmony
slips in
like a satin sheets
you weren’t ready for.
Hands hit bodies
like drumsticks
slap rolling
inhale percussion
moaning muted horn solo
They weren’t just
feeling the music;
they were
becoming it
beating out solos
on each other’s skin.
The sweat smelled
like vinyl records
warm grooves
pressed
into the air
spinning
slow spins
catching sparks
needle skating over scars
was a minor chord
that somehow
still felt major.
learning
how to recognize itself.
Passion spilling out
her mouth
scotch over his
mahogany wood
The rimshot
of her sigh
Improvision
improvisation
of his kiss
Scatting sound
echoing
from lips
His horn
hit her high note
one that split
the room in half
she leaned closer
saying
“Do you hear that?”
But he wasn’t listening
to the music anymore.
He was listening
to her pulse
that slick
heartbeat drumming
solo against
his wrist.
This is what
jazz does
You don’t
just play
It consumes.
becomes the air
the walls
sweat
the skin
It’s the music
you don’t hear
but feel
right there
in the space
where your ribs
can’t hold
the notes.
Jazz
doesn’t end
it just fades
into the background
waiting for you
to join again
Nov 25, 2024
Nov 25, 2024 at 7:13 AM UTC
Duke said,
“People pray in many different languages
and God hears them all.”
I’m equally a Jew and Muslim,
both living in perfect peace within me.
I’m a little bit Baptist and a little bit Episcopal.
I yearn to swim in the living waters,
and hunger for the cup and bread.
I’m more of a Quaker then a Buddhist.
Only because I’m American and I can’t speak good Chinese yet.
But Buddha’s Lamp is my constant companion,
illumining my every step in this dark world.
I’m also equally composed of east and west Indies
and sometimes even druid.
The Great Spirit and Tantric arts
remain mysteries to me.
I only know them by feeling.
And yes our Afro Heritage.
The drums, the whistle, the dance,
synchronizes our heart beat
to The Beneficent One’s finger taps.
Yes we celebrate The Holy Spirit
with cymbal, voice and drum.
I am a full dues paying member
to the 2nd Hoboken Chapter
of the Unitarian Universal Catholic Church Respectively.
We meet down the block from Sinatra’s Synagogue.
We are all apostles and responsible
for our small spaces that we rent here on earth.
I know I’m 100% Zoroastrian.
I am mesmerized by the fire.
My heart aches for the light.
I tend tiny candles
and listen for the lonely fire
of Coltrane’s sax.
I’m a nun and
a Thelonious Monk.
We run an inn for weary and lost travelers.
We build hospitals to cure the infirm;
and schools to teach the golden rule of love.
We try to do things differently.
Dizzy practiced the Behai faith.
“OOM BOP SHE BAM” I pray.
Music Selection:
Dizzy Gillespie,
Swing Low Sweet Cadillac
jbm
Oakland
12/26/98
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 8:29 AM UTC
After cocktails at Luigi's Bar, and then The Golden Bowl,
I proposed we play a gig of jazz-inspired rock and roll.
We all thought we'd make the fans cry out for encores every night.
But our schemes were dreams that faded in the morning's ruthless light.
My blue guitar should captivate the people every night.
But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled.
My dream faded out of sight.
Playing keyboards was Patricia. (Never 'Trisha', never 'Pat'.)
She'd a taste for gracious living in her small art deco flat.
She would practice chord progressions, sipping lapsang souchong tea.
Then she played away at weekends with her special friend, Marie.
She trained her dainty fingers to explore new grooves each night.
But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled.
Her dream faded out of sight.
We had Ritchie on electric bass, with tap-and-pull technique.
Such a clever devil — Ritchie almost taught the bass to speak.
Ralph the drummer's backbeat cymbal crashes measured out the bars.
We agreed the speed — then found we could not play like superstars.
Would the crowd be wowed by passion from my lovely blue guitar?
No, the dream crumbled, as the band stumbled.
Our dream faded overnight.
The Blue Guitar Quartet
was as close as we could get
to our vision for the music of today.
But we bumbled and we fumbled,
our aspirations humbled.
So we slowly put our instruments away.
"The Blue Guitar Quartet
is down, but not out yet.
With practice you will crack it," said Marie.
"Let Patricia be your singer;
she's a musical humdinger,
and as soulful as a solo girl can be".
"She can improvise a blues
based on any riff you choose.
Let's have handshakes and embraces —
this quartet is going places!
Here's to jazz-rock, and The Blue Guitar Quartet!"
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 2:19 PM UTC
"I would say I care about women's rights, but I wouldn't call myself a feminist"
"I think men and women should be equal, yeah, but I don't want to be called a feminist."
"Does that mean I can hit you?"
The word feminism rattles like a cracking cymbal crashing
just hard enough on pavement to scratch it
but not hard enough to break.
The word feminism manifests itself in our culture
in poisonous ways,
like the food dye in our candy'r
parabens we cover our faces in,
we don't say this word cos' it's scary
we don't want to make too much commotion
while white men in black robes orchestrate the court system
and have police by the neck, inserting money like a candy machine
we fear the word that gives us a step to bring equality
while white men in suits ask us "how we doin'"
and we don't admit that we're angry,
women don't show anger, it isn't polite
when the men in the subway puts his hand up our skirt
and says "hey baby you like that"
no, he doesn't ask if we do, he tells us out flat,
insinuating our satisfaction is a product of theirs
reminding us with a hand on public transportation
that anyone who has a **** can be one and we can't do ****
because we aren't supposed to be angry, it isn't polite
The word feminism manifests itself in delicate ways
we can't ask for too much, they won't take us seriously
****** intergrity? girl, try again
the right to not wear a bra?
Where do you think you are? this is america
An opinion
one that they hear
that isn't facilitated
out a white man's mouth
into a white man's ear
we aren't a filter
won't you raise your voice?
**** being polite,
please, make some noise
The word feminism manifests itself in ways you can't see
if you fear what it might make you lose
you haven't much yet by the hands of the man
so why are you choosing not to grab your sister's hands?
Stop saying sorry when someone interrupts you
stop moving out of the way for men who don't move
put your female foot down, don't say excuse me
you're a woman, angry with every right to be
stop fearing the word feminism
for the connotations are flurries
the word denotes storms we're starting
join us
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 9:30 PM UTC
^¡^
Color me be a cymbal
Let me be a gong
Color me Coyote brown
Let me limp along
Color up my faltering voice
Let it come out wrong
Color me a blackbird
A deep & moody song.
Color me a minstrel
Let me be a knave
Color me a sinner
Who is yet unsaved
Color me a'weeping
Let tears come in waves
Color me a raven
Perched above a grave.
Color me a cloudy day
Color me the rain
Color me a carousel
That ol' circle game
Let me be a priest of straw
Let me see bloodstains
On songwritten pages
On my Christian name.
Color me a kite in flight!
Color up the strings!
Color me an angel
A rusty golden thing!
Color me a blackbird
Cuz, man, those birds can SING!!
Yes, even a blackbird has
Red & yellow on its wings...
^¡^
by Catherine Jarvis
Dedicated to Joni Mitchell.
Aug 6, 2020
Aug 6, 2020 at 8:23 AM UTC
1.
You can never go home,
not to the home you left.
When you leave, you get bigger.
Not necessarily in girth, but in consciousness.
When you come back, everything,
even the walls of your parent's house,
seem to have shrunk.
2.
Look.....
Here comes the parade.
With its paper mache floats
and twirling batons.
Cub scouts and boy scouts,
all in a neat blue and drab green row,
followed by a high school marching band
playing "Stars and Stripes Forever".
From bygone wars, limbless surviving soldiers flinch with every cymbal crash.
3.
I watched billows of cottonwood clouds
swirl down a summer hometown avenue,
they met on the street corner for a song........
"Alley Oop", or "I Like Bread And Butter"
These ghostlike voices will live there forever,
innocent, asleep, numb, waiting.
Soon, the postman will bring your future.
Soon, you will be just a number on a lotery ball.
Soon, you will have to dissect luck or fate.
4.
I took my 87 year old Father to gather his tools
from his long time place of work.
The instruments of his livelihood.
He did not need them anymore, he had retired.
Some tools he had used since World War II,
some he made for a specific job.... never to use again.
All neatly placed in toolboxes built in the 30s and 40s,
yet not a trace of rust.
These were the tools of a tradesman,
a (Tool and Die Man).
He once told me, “Son, if I can’t fix it because I don’t have the right tool, I will make the tool”.
I thought him to be Superman.
But there I was, loading up my Father’s history,
to take home, to be sold to the highest bidder.
I myself have made my living playing music for audiences.
I also have tools.
Guitars, amplifiers, harmonicas, microphones.
There will come a day, in the not too distant future,
when I will have to “retire” the instruments of my livelihood.
Though I will not be as stoic as my World War II Father,
I will go kicking and screaming to the pawn shop,
remembering every song that fed me,
and every chord that made people dance.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 8:38 PM UTC
it rains
and i smile.
dopamine pumps
as water vapor
excited by evaporation
and
exalted by the elevation,
wishes to remain in the clouds.
but the float is fleeting
and eventually a rain falls.
with it the water,
so enlightened by the episode,
returns to the surface
as it was before
but somehow new.
to remember but never miss being a gas,
understanding the evanescence of effervescence
while
everblue junipers
caress the wet sidewalk
and twigs hug the curb
as they float down the street.
tomorrow sand will appear
at the edges of the road.
I haven't
watered my garden
in over a week.
but
now spear shaped tendrils
of liquid hydrogen monoxide
plummet down at
twenty two miles per hour
making patterns across the
wet surface of the earth.
in the bright spots
rain drop splashes
stumble back and forth
across the dance floor
like cymbal crashes.
wasps,
grounded
by wet wings,
begin their slumber
early,
jaws locked,
legs dangling
off the stem of a flower
whose petals are
battered and wet.
the newly
pregnant
ocean
swells unnoticeably.
streams emerge,
rivers rob banks,
puddles form
around
orangeskin pores;
and the
everblue junipers
caress the wet sidewalk.
triggering
the docile drum
of dopamine,
pulsing,
pumping.
prompting
the corners
of the
eating,
speaking,
spitting hole
to elevate,
elongate, ebb,
and stretch apart
exposing crooked
violent jagged bones
that broke our gum.
the docile drum.
as water vapor
comes to understand
the evanescence of effervescence
to a syncopated beat,
i smile.
May 28, 2011
May 28, 2011 at 6:43 PM UTC
I'm gonna try,
And I'm gonna fail.
Then I'm gonna try, try, try,
And I'll try again.
I'm gonna lose,
Time and again.
But, I'm gonna keep playing, baby,
Because someday I'll win.
The longer it takes,
The sweeter it will taste.
The prize is the flavor,
And it's love that I'll savor.
So, if you brush me aside,
Just know I'll be waiting,
My patience, enduring
And love, unabating.
My faith, my desire,
Knows no limitations.
You'll know me one day,
Meanwhile, no lamentations.
As rises the sun,
With certain precision,
And shine do the stars,
Through the vast expansion,
I'll be just like clockwork,
I won't let you down.
When you need someone be to be there,
Know I'll be around.
I sorta needed you, baby.
I kinda wanted you, dear.
I hoped you would call on me,
When you wanted someone near.
I guess it wasn't my time,
And maybe he's who you want.
It's sad that you gave in
To his virtueless vaunt.
These grapes are not sour.
They are sweet on the vine.
My love in undaunted.
Still, here I wait.
I wish that he could make you happy.
He doesn't have what it takes.
The moment you know that,
Then know I await.
From under the viaducts,
And the shadows beyond the stage,
Behind heavy curtains,
Let my love asage.
You know we should crash like the cymbal.
You know we should anger the Sea.
You know that the sky should rumble
In praise of our unity.
I'll keep thinking that I'm next to you,
Cause sometimes thinking is all a man can do.
I'll long for your embrace,
If you would only give me grace,
I would give my world to you.
Aug 3, 2023
Aug 3, 2023 at 12:01 AM UTC
Snap crackle pop
I am turning into cereal
Sparks light up
My inner joints
My hips are tiny fireworks
My fingers are singed from within
My neck is an cymbal crunch
Knees sound like the summer does
Like the cricket song at night
Even when I blink
A wicked noise escorts
My body is a symphony
I sound like I've lived a profound life
Yet I've barely lived at all
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 1:37 AM UTC
Sitting swirled in dark
Glowing singers play
The woman near me shifts
Wrapped in pride
I see you
Fixed to the cymbal
Nailed in concentration
I huff
A breath filled with broken adolescence
The woman is broken from her glaze of motherhood
For a moment
I notice it was you
She was looking too
I blush
Wrapped in dark
She doesn't know she isn't the only one watching
I glow with shame
Burned by your old womb
You, still stapled to the drum
Don't notice.
So I turn farther in to blue
And watch.
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 11:46 PM UTC
O living being... how long alive?
Through the ages I've survived
Through war and peace, abundant thirst
Of all that's living, I was first
O living being... what have you seen?
A forest coast, a rocky green
A bird to float, a cloud to wing
A wave to wash, a sand to sing
A maid to rise, a king to fall
A peasant wise, I've seen it all
O living being... what have you heard?
A poet's hush, a silent word
A trumpet's bleat, a woodwind's blare
A piercing crowd, a noisy stare
A cymbal's trill, a fluted crash
A dynasty of smoke and ash
O living being... what do you know?
A rapid sloth, a hare that's slow
A solemn kiss, a passionate oath
Yes, young man, I've seen them both
The wise to boast, the fool to swear
The sun to glint, the stars to glare
O living being... I stand in awe
Surely you're Methuselah.
Soul Survivor
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
All these roads lead somewhere
Our dismembered beings will never see it all until we're dead
But we can die and make it back alright
And if we died, would we even want to come back inside?
There's something real out there and it'll always be there and all it takes is to pay perfect attention
Chance favors the prepared mind as we can see for ourselves
When we traverse this abyss
Learn to pay attention
Learn to dance with the patterns you perceive
The sonic tapestry is a music piece
It never stops , and it covers everything
Everywhere is always everywhere else
Music never stops
Listen to it beat you away
Is there a difference between me and the music?
I am you, after all, this poem is me
And yet it is you because I'm not the only one
And we'll never be apart until we die, but even then we'll be together, each as nothing
So beautiful, so absurd
Feel that breeze blowing your hair?
You are its breath
It escapes your lungs and you ride around a vibrating
Symbol, your thoughts swimming and crystallizing but never blinding
Swirling around you in coagulating meaning
The grass grows, it is your beard
Lying there in the field
Can you feel it any different?
The grass brought you here to lie down on it
The grass inhales you as you light it,
And fully grokked, your ghost breathes itself out in rings
Snap the rhythm and it ripples with the cymbal
Into love,
The path through remains you, it's full of stars and eternal youth
The gray dawn on the beach is a constant truth
Our dreamtime dreams of being awake
I woke up and thought I could fly
How wrong I was
Spying over the shoulder of God
I told him, "You're a character in my story
I am you,
I am more.
What can you do to me?"
And God looks back, knowing that what I say is true
For I perceive him and even as he marvels me with illusions he can never erase my mind
I don't even capitalize his pronouns
God and his carpenters joined the dancing eternal parade
Like the end of an Animal House knockoff
Where we send off parts of ourselves to new times and places we've never conceived of
Populating the universe
Which gets bigger the more detail we observe
An optical contradiction
For you are the greater resonance of both your
Self and your Opposite
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 11:31 PM UTC
LSD
acid rain
slowly detaching
feel no pain
lights all blur
colours smear
cold wind blowing
whispers her song in my ear
nerves tense up
panic saunters in
if I dont keep sippin' this water
the bad tippin' will win
a bubble surrounds me
but I can still see clearly through
a new found understanding
of just what is really true
you placed a cymbal on a drum
to play for us your show
sparks fly off, with every hit
and time moves endlessly slow
I smoke, but I feel no satisfaction
my fingers swell like sausage links
I wonder if it's all for real, or
if it's just what my mind thinks
this is a musical trip today
we jam, and fry, and blaze
we laugh, because we can't understand, like
no sentences are made from the words we say
soon I long for my cocoon
to swaddle my self in warm
while your laces turn to snakes
unafraid, they mean no harm
the morning eventually comes
but feels like she's been here all along
the rising sunlight hurts my eyes
as the morning birds sing their songs
Maybe I'll get breakfast....
Mar 27, 2011
Mar 27, 2011 at 9:48 PM UTC
Words we all can alter
From the day they're born.
Sacrifice them at the altar
Before they are airborne.
Words can get you so blue,
That you would shed a tear.
Like a real strong wind blew,
Words lift you up a tier.
Words are a clashing cymbal
And can stir up your good soul.
If you use words like a symbol,
You hide them like a sole
All around the world you'll roam
But you will never meet
Any words that don't have room
To take on much more meat.
No words that you have read
Didn't shed some light.
In black and white, or red
Upon your mind they lite.
They're like the morning dew,
And the birds that soar.
Words can soothe when due
Or can make you sore.
Sep 9, 2011
Sep 9, 2011 at 11:35 AM UTC
Crossroads are a particular
kind of place where mythology
and actuality combine,
mix and dance with your shadow.
Limitlessness has a name
and social security number
in your restlessness
and your ambitiousness.
I've performed in cafes and on street corners,
In bookshops and depots,
woods and public restrooms
with the junkyard profits
desperately clutching to my clothes,
refusing my money
but begging for my love.
But now I am at the crossroads.
The smoke from my soul
comes in, forces me to turn around,
turn around turn around,
and see the faces,
so many different faces,
all those who have
loved me,
mocked me,
befriended me,
mentored,
hated,
changed
maimed
spit in my eye
called me what they thought I was.
So many faces.
So many eyes full of dreams and ire.
How many would I come to know again?
Who would become fortune tellers
blues-men
teachers
cops preachers
mathematicians builders destroyers
soldiers of fortune
businessmen liars or junkyard prophets?
Who will become like smoke in the fog,
slightly hazy lost-boys
off to never-never land,
never to be seen or heard from
except for the cries that whisper
the time?
So many faces.
What will I be to them?
A companion
friend
liar
hater
lover
brother
sideshow
an I knew him when
a face that looks at their back
at the crossroads,
a wisp of smoke?
I turn again,
turn turn,
a cymbal shot
pushes me forward,
left and right,
but I can never go back behind.
Johanna whispers
Even salvation must get old.
I know she must be correct,
at least as far as I can turn my head.
The right is barred,
the left is guarded by the beasts,
the faces hum a dirge or a lullaby,
I straighten my jacket,
pack my self into a slip bag,
and blow away with the smoke.
Apr 16, 2011
Apr 16, 2011 at 11:44 AM UTC
If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing.
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when completeness comes, what is in part disappears. When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me. For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.
And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 9:39 AM UTC
I'd make art that wasn't the equivalent of processed
microwave food, without the "gourmet" label.
Then again equal validity in creation is only debatable
if you're an ******* who believes any of this has meaning.
If you're taking yourself seriously,
you're going to get ****** up by
the **** end of this joke; Art is more than these
observable qualities of reality. It is beyond us.
However, everything we are is made of the stuff.
We are art. Life is art. Life is meaningless
Art is meaningless.
We are meaningless. You.
You are meaningless as well.
Roll on snare... None of this holds real validity.
Abuse of cymbal.
In this lifetime I want so many things that simply
will not happen. She says my "dreams" are floaty
although I know I won't live to see them.
Life flies by so fast it's a wonder we don't get
tickets. I want light that moves at 40mph
and scorches on impact. Explodes like fireworks.
It should glow; green or blue.
I'd use it to cook these dinners,
burn these notebooks,
**** these mother
******* guitars.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
Here am I
Amongst thousands
And thousands
Of voices -
Poets and journalists,
Novelists and singers -
Clanging the cymbal
Of earth's groaning cry.
There you are,
Hosts of angels
Singing, your voice
Together sounding
The praises of our God.
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 7:23 PM UTC