"decrescendos" poems - Hello Poetry

inky black skies pricked by pinholes of light above our heads with your hand in mine as our feet dance - exalted and anxious upon the tired concrete ground where we've danced before the knowing gaze of the sagely moon upon us does not compare to the brightness that gives life to your eyes and births your smile we escape inside from the uncertainty of night with your hand never leaving mine and the frantic dance continues until we are strewn together cloaked by covers hearts pressed together in a duet of frenzied marcato beats that steadily decrescendos as our breath slows and our limbs weave and entwine like a dreamcatcher bodies intertwined protected from the ghouls of night with your hand in mine we sleep safely

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Jan 2, 2012

Jan 2, 2012 at 8:27 PM UTC

mary-torrez

dreamcatcher

inky black skies pricked by pinholes of light above our heads with your hand in mine as our feet dance - exalted and anxious upon the tired concrete ground where we've danced before the knowing gaze of the sagely moon upon us does not compare to the brightness that gives life to your eyes and births your smile we escape inside from the uncertainty of night with your hand never leaving mine and the frantic dance continues until we are strewn together cloaked by covers hearts pressed together in a duet of frenzied marcato beats that steadily decrescendos as our breath slows and our limbs weave and entwine like a dreamcatcher bodies intertwined protected from the ghouls of night with your hand in mine we sleep safely

26

Heart skips like a warped record, trembles over scarred vinyl until "I love you" tastes incomplete: (I) love you I (love) you I love (you). My Swan Song mewls off key, cascades across the marred terrain of my soul in a thick lacquer of tears. Notes flatline in unison with my waning pulse (waning, like the face of the moon on the night of my eighteenth birthday). My breath resigns to static, dances in slow decrescendos-- sputters its way towards nothingness, slipping rapidly from my consciousness until I no longer hold any recollection of the music (or the poetry).

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Oct 17, 2018

Oct 17, 2018 at 6:00 AM UTC

VinylPoetry

Swan Song (Warped)

Heart skips like a warped record, trembles over scarred vinyl until "I love you" tastes incomplete: (I) love you I (love) you I love (you). My Swan Song mewls off key, cascades across the marred terrain of my soul in a thick lacquer of tears. Notes flatline in unison with my waning pulse (waning, like the face of the moon on the night of my eighteenth birthday). My breath resigns to static, dances in slow decrescendos-- sputters its way towards nothingness, slipping rapidly from my consciousness until I no longer hold any recollection of the music (or the poetry).

28

Look men made a habit out of wanting her see men like blondes men like curves men like *** some men want it all because I guess all men want to date actresses Norma Jean little girl never had a home passed around like nothing never had a home and was passed door to door abandoned because her mother lost her marbles a girl who was only wanted by men since childhood Norma Jean she heard a chorus of lies every time someone called her name and she was not good enough so she dyed her hair not good enough so she changed her name not good enough so she became an object and when she could act no more when she looked into the mirror and couldn't see herself looking back it was not good enough Marilyn a star with the most useful tool looks but couldn't focus the little things so three men left instead she focused on the audiences clapping focused on the people loving her focused on the men in the front row whispering Marilyn as they let her beauty invade their souls like a main street ballyhoo playing praise to her not knowing each note was bittersweet making her feel elated and crushed crushed beneath the chains holding her too strongly to her past behind every compliment she felt his wandering hands the hands of a man an orphan was supposed to call father or the hands of a boy the boy she was supposed to call brother because her whole life she was only wanted for one thing and the men in the crowds only echoed what she had known all along that she was not good enough so she dyed her hair not good enough so she changed her name not good enough so she became their object not good enough so they mocked the woman who only aimed to please calling out to her holding her up not knowing she would fall see the depressed have an intimacy with death it’s there in their dreams but sticks around for their nightmares and the fans turned to one another trying to determine the distance between joy and sorrow not realizing that depression can push the distance making the tallest mountains look like ant hills creating decrescendos so soft they fade out of existence and for a moment it felt like the entire universe had begun to cry distance must be an illusion the woman can’t be dead Marilyn her life taken transforming the way people think about emotions and for an instant it was like sadness was a tangible thing like you could reach out and feel it like for the first time you could see happiness and sadness tango in a dance so slow and delicate that we finally understood the history was so important to know the woman all we ever had to do was look.

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Nov 20, 2013

Nov 20, 2013 at 10:06 AM UTC

elizabeth-raine

Monroe (After Koyczan's Beethoven)

Look men made a habit out of wanting her see men like blondes men like curves men like *** some men want it all because I guess all men want to date actresses Norma Jean little girl never had a home passed around like nothing never had a home and was passed door to door abandoned because her mother lost her marbles a girl who was only wanted by men since childhood Norma Jean she heard a chorus of lies every time someone called her name and she was not good enough so she dyed her hair not good enough so she changed her name not good enough so she became an object and when she could act no more when she looked into the mirror and couldn't see herself looking back it was not good enough Marilyn a star with the most useful tool looks but couldn't focus the little things so three men left instead she focused on the audiences clapping focused on the people loving her focused on the men in the front row whispering Marilyn as they let her beauty invade their souls like a main street ballyhoo playing praise to her not knowing each note was bittersweet making her feel elated and crushed crushed beneath the chains holding her too strongly to her past behind every compliment she felt his wandering hands the hands of a man an orphan was supposed to call father or the hands of a boy the boy she was supposed to call brother because her whole life she was only wanted for one thing and the men in the crowds only echoed what she had known all along that she was not good enough so she dyed her hair not good enough so she changed her name not good enough so she became their object not good enough so they mocked the woman who only aimed to please calling out to her holding her up not knowing she would fall see the depressed have an intimacy with death it’s there in their dreams but sticks around for their nightmares and the fans turned to one another trying to determine the distance between joy and sorrow not realizing that depression can push the distance making the tallest mountains look like ant hills creating decrescendos so soft they fade out of existence and for a moment it felt like the entire universe had begun to cry distance must be an illusion the woman can’t be dead Marilyn her life taken transforming the way people think about emotions and for an instant it was like sadness was a tangible thing like you could reach out and feel it like for the first time you could see happiness and sadness tango in a dance so slow and delicate that we finally understood the history was so important to know the woman all we ever had to do was look.

120

Here we are again We're caught up in this dangerous game for two Playing our sick game, hoping the other will loose Spinning left to right, we pick up the fight I chase you and you chase me It's the same old thing. You beg and then I plead Neither of us willing to give up the lead We switch from time to time And of course there are several altercations Because you are the Cat and I am the Mouse, we don't belong together, you see. Try as we might, we always fight You want the milk and I want the cheese We never seem to agree. But here we are again, picking up our dance Wishing that this time it might actually last Because you are the Cat and I am the Mouse, we don't belong together, you see. But this time you hoped and this time I agreed, that the Cat and the Mouse could actually be together The music decrescendos, the tango is done. The Cat and Mouse walk out, side by side, as one.

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Sep 9, 2013

Sep 9, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC

allyremelle

The Cat and Mouse Tango

Here we are again We're caught up in this dangerous game for two Playing our sick game, hoping the other will loose Spinning left to right, we pick up the fight I chase you and you chase me It's the same old thing. You beg and then I plead Neither of us willing to give up the lead We switch from time to time And of course there are several altercations Because you are the Cat and I am the Mouse, we don't belong together, you see. Try as we might, we always fight You want the milk and I want the cheese We never seem to agree. But here we are again, picking up our dance Wishing that this time it might actually last Because you are the Cat and I am the Mouse, we don't belong together, you see. But this time you hoped and this time I agreed, that the Cat and the Mouse could actually be together The music decrescendos, the tango is done. The Cat and Mouse walk out, side by side, as one.

23

feelings fade like the dull horizon diminished by the sun shades of orange slowly turn dark and bare themselves like starlight to the evening skyline and the constant clamour of the countryside decrescendos into the babbling brook and soft chirps of frogs until once again sleep comes and a new morning brings different light

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Mar 21, 2013

Mar 21, 2013 at 3:39 PM UTC

kassel-d

dissolve

feelings fade like the dull horizon diminished by the sun shades of orange slowly turn dark and bare themselves like starlight to the evening skyline and the constant clamour of the countryside decrescendos into the babbling brook and soft chirps of frogs until once again sleep comes and a new morning brings different light

16

each cigarette now is you and i then entwined in a back car seat me face up counting the leaves not yet fallen as i burn down to my filter as you seep slowly like sap down my spine i can still feel how sharp your teeth were can see your wrinkled foundation thin slices and bright orbs of her in your irises like a string of lanterns in the night and for many moons i walked in your field sent murmurs up to your window kicked rocks to drown your doubts oiled the rusted binds of my predecessor you were so swift and careful felt the pulse in my fingertips cut loose the fishing line snuffed out a menthol in my wrist but even now the tempered taste of marlboro glory is not my own it’s a folded map i skip over city lines and highways though when my back hits dead grass the smoke rises while i look upward expecting the same view the stars are strung, an insect anthem decrescendos you are far from this field, far from that car and far from the ashes collecting below my last smoke

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Jan 28, 2013

Jan 28, 2013 at 4:05 PM UTC

amanojaku

marlboro glory

each cigarette now is you and i then entwined in a back car seat me face up counting the leaves not yet fallen as i burn down to my filter as you seep slowly like sap down my spine i can still feel how sharp your teeth were can see your wrinkled foundation thin slices and bright orbs of her in your irises like a string of lanterns in the night and for many moons i walked in your field sent murmurs up to your window kicked rocks to drown your doubts oiled the rusted binds of my predecessor you were so swift and careful felt the pulse in my fingertips cut loose the fishing line snuffed out a menthol in my wrist but even now the tempered taste of marlboro glory is not my own it’s a folded map i skip over city lines and highways though when my back hits dead grass the smoke rises while i look upward expecting the same view the stars are strung, an insect anthem decrescendos you are far from this field, far from that car and far from the ashes collecting below my last smoke

32

When he hears orchestra he wraps his body around it entirely, As if the crescendos and decrescendos spread out in a vast horizon around which he can loose and find himself in cycles like the moon. As if the vibrato could resonate at a frequency that would dislodge him from this life, from this crippled city, from this traffic on I-81. As if, like an oyster nursing a sand grain, he could snap shut on a swelling of violins, or on the ghost of sound that follows the cellos out, the last breath, as if he could compress it inside himself, down into something he can keep. He hands it to me like a ring that doesn’t fit on my finger, and I pretend as if I understand but the meaning's unclear, and he says it’s okay, listen again, listen again, listen again,

0

Aug 29, 2012

Aug 29, 2012 at 9:50 PM UTC

claire-eliza-1

Ghazal I

When he hears orchestra he wraps his body around it entirely, As if the crescendos and decrescendos spread out in a vast horizon around which he can loose and find himself in cycles like the moon. As if the vibrato could resonate at a frequency that would dislodge him from this life, from this crippled city, from this traffic on I-81. As if, like an oyster nursing a sand grain, he could snap shut on a swelling of violins, or on the ghost of sound that follows the cellos out, the last breath, as if he could compress it inside himself, down into something he can keep. He hands it to me like a ring that doesn’t fit on my finger, and I pretend as if I understand but the meaning's unclear, and he says it’s okay, listen again, listen again, listen again,

12

Trembling as it sounds, Every time the keys play down low, My life tones & pounds In its own decrescendo. Things become shallow, As blurry as fogged glass. Can I pull myself out of this hollow Or wait for time to pass? Let your encompassing melody Lift me off my hollow. I wish to be free So I can hear your sweet crescendo.

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Jul 6, 2014

Jul 6, 2014 at 8:57 PM UTC

lingua-persona

Crescendos & Decrescendos

Trembling as it sounds, Every time the keys play down low, My life tones & pounds In its own decrescendo. Things become shallow, As blurry as fogged glass. Can I pull myself out of this hollow Or wait for time to pass? Let your encompassing melody Lift me off my hollow. I wish to be free So I can hear your sweet crescendo.

12

There is a futility towards the external, that which does not allow result. The purple flower flutters as peace in pieces for the eyes to consume. All its power lies within living canal and tunnel, within the glories we do not see. All its mysteries are within the slowing down of worldly rhythm under thumb and neck and wrist. Its seeds and its seeds’ seedlings wait on paused condition. Under such rule, these pulses murmur and whisper over timed time, dividing as they roam such a mass. These beats halved and halved again, like footsteps slowed to the walk of dirges’ decrescendos. Suddenly there is the lifting, the heightening unknown, unwanted, the plastic bag over the brain, the sharp and climbing breath that scales too lofty uncontrolled unwarranted and rebellious, soon arrested under hand and heart, unable to meet such stimulation, it, without a hope. The flower consumed is the fighter on cue. There is no keeping it, the speed of paralysis outrunning, overcoming the only home such a heart ever knew, now shelled.

0

Mar 13, 2011

Mar 13, 2011 at 8:24 PM UTC

devan-proctor

By Monkshood

There is a futility towards the external, that which does not allow result. The purple flower flutters as peace in pieces for the eyes to consume. All its power lies within living canal and tunnel, within the glories we do not see. All its mysteries are within the slowing down of worldly rhythm under thumb and neck and wrist. Its seeds and its seeds’ seedlings wait on paused condition. Under such rule, these pulses murmur and whisper over timed time, dividing as they roam such a mass. These beats halved and halved again, like footsteps slowed to the walk of dirges’ decrescendos. Suddenly there is the lifting, the heightening unknown, unwanted, the plastic bag over the brain, the sharp and climbing breath that scales too lofty uncontrolled unwarranted and rebellious, soon arrested under hand and heart, unable to meet such stimulation, it, without a hope. The flower consumed is the fighter on cue. There is no keeping it, the speed of paralysis outrunning, overcoming the only home such a heart ever knew, now shelled.

1

I’ve heard this rhyme tide before So new with it’s uplifting surge A refreshing and invigorating elixir Of indulging pleasures and splendors I need not learn the steps of the dance The music piece is the only variation With new faces in different stances in place Crescendos and decrescendos are unchanged Soon I’ll hear a music playing Of happiness and loneliness of the heart The first verse will sing the new to discover And the last will go back to the old and familiar

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Mar 18, 2013

Mar 18, 2013 at 4:10 PM UTC

erosandthanatos31nyc

New and Old Verses

I’ve heard this rhyme tide before So new with it’s uplifting surge A refreshing and invigorating elixir Of indulging pleasures and splendors I need not learn the steps of the dance The music piece is the only variation With new faces in different stances in place Crescendos and decrescendos are unchanged Soon I’ll hear a music playing Of happiness and loneliness of the heart The first verse will sing the new to discover And the last will go back to the old and familiar

12

So far from you a true broken heart sings, But never sang for you. Yet you can’t help but listen to the music, Each note pulled into you. Broken tones hearts strings must reconstruct, All played back to you. Oh how you wish such a bold and cruel melody, Was truly meant for you. Each chord loudly echoes your ever quiet desires, The harmony floats around you. Each note stretched till a breath must be taken, One always resonates through you. You shamefully horde each cold, sorrowful note, The coldest rest freezes you. Carefully collecting each burning, charcoal chorus, The warmest key scalds you. And then you secretly preserve fragile decrescendos, They softly fall upon you. It seems you have built this elaborate humanity, Of notes beautiful to you. Please sleep with a thousand chord progressions, Creating lovely dreams for you. Serenity has began to fill your very heart and soul, Quickly the music becomes you. What will you do when the song comes to its end? Perhaps it will destroy you. And what happens when the melody finally dies? The silence might end you. But I do hope the song continues to play in your heart, Until another love finds you.

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Apr 19, 2012

Apr 19, 2012 at 2:16 AM UTC

asha-nicole

The Tale of The Musical Maiden

So far from you a true broken heart sings, But never sang for you. Yet you can’t help but listen to the music, Each note pulled into you. Broken tones hearts strings must reconstruct, All played back to you. Oh how you wish such a bold and cruel melody, Was truly meant for you. Each chord loudly echoes your ever quiet desires, The harmony floats around you. Each note stretched till a breath must be taken, One always resonates through you. You shamefully horde each cold, sorrowful note, The coldest rest freezes you. Carefully collecting each burning, charcoal chorus, The warmest key scalds you. And then you secretly preserve fragile decrescendos, They softly fall upon you. It seems you have built this elaborate humanity, Of notes beautiful to you. Please sleep with a thousand chord progressions, Creating lovely dreams for you. Serenity has began to fill your very heart and soul, Quickly the music becomes you. What will you do when the song comes to its end? Perhaps it will destroy you. And what happens when the melody finally dies? The silence might end you. But I do hope the song continues to play in your heart, Until another love finds you.

30

and every time you say i love you my soul aches vulnerable and whispers its secret tickling my veins with staccato laughter pulsating my heart with taunting palpitations ...too and when i hear the slurr of La leave your cracked lips and the sensuous caress of the Vvvv against your tongue as your soprano voice decrescendos into a forgotten essence of beautiful sound, I breathe to hold my breath to let your music resonate in the quite rhythm of your inhale, exhale ...too and every manically scratched line in the etch-a-sketch patterns of my hand every strand of tousled hair every flutter of my feather duster eyelashes every scribbled freckle upon every cell of skin every taste bud adorning my tongue every part of my being...too i love you

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Feb 28, 2014

Feb 28, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC

mysouldefined

TOO, I LOVE YOU

and every time you say i love you my soul aches vulnerable and whispers its secret tickling my veins with staccato laughter pulsating my heart with taunting palpitations ...too and when i hear the slurr of La leave your cracked lips and the sensuous caress of the Vvvv against your tongue as your soprano voice decrescendos into a forgotten essence of beautiful sound, I breathe to hold my breath to let your music resonate in the quite rhythm of your inhale, exhale ...too and every manically scratched line in the etch-a-sketch patterns of my hand every strand of tousled hair every flutter of my feather duster eyelashes every scribbled freckle upon every cell of skin every taste bud adorning my tongue every part of my being...too i love you

15

Life is a song, full of crescendos and decrescendos. Some have lyrics, some do not. Some seem to drag on forever, some are cut short. Some have movements, each different than the one before. Not everyone will like a certain life’s song, the ones who do will hold it close and cherish it. Learn from it. Mold that song into their own. Composers learn from one another, the difference from a single life song and an ancient composer’s many pieces is a life song is never forgotten. Notes from a life song will be passed from person to person, creating unique melodies each time. Life may end; a life’s song is immortal.

0

Jun 2, 2016

Jun 2, 2016 at 7:47 PM UTC

adisquis

Life is a Song

Life is a song, full of crescendos and decrescendos. Some have lyrics, some do not. Some seem to drag on forever, some are cut short. Some have movements, each different than the one before. Not everyone will like a certain life’s song, the ones who do will hold it close and cherish it. Learn from it. Mold that song into their own. Composers learn from one another, the difference from a single life song and an ancient composer’s many pieces is a life song is never forgotten. Notes from a life song will be passed from person to person, creating unique melodies each time. Life may end; a life’s song is immortal.

1