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Mary Torrez Jan 2012
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
Jade Oct 2018
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).
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

jadefbartlett.wixsite.com/tickledpurple

(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience)
Ayelle Garcia Jul 2014
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.
One of the first poems I posted online, inspired by the sound of rainfall.
Elizabeth Raine Nov 2013
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.
Ally Sep 2013
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.
Kassel D Mar 2013
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
© 2013
amanojaku Jan 2013
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
Jane Doe Aug 2012
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,
This is an attempt at a sort of variation on a tradition Ghazal, it's definitely a work in progress.
Devan Proctor Mar 2011
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.
rawpoems Oct 2015
Her mother used to always buy her notepads-- ya know diaries and journals, anything affiliated with paper. And a couple years later she switched from stories to poetry, soulfully but vocally humming the same tune mostly while she unpacked the groceries. And as she grew older she began to bring pencils with her everywhere. Occasionally jotting something down and re-reading it in her head and then looking out at the rain and then humming that song again. But soon enough she stopped, and her mom never though much of it so for Christmas she bought her a journal and asked, why don't you write anymore- and her eyebrows furrowed, her shoulders dropped, she put her hands together and let out a deep sigh. And she looked at her mother and said

"Whenever I'd start to write a piece, it was like a sudden release from all the ticks, all the constantly changing things when I'd listen to this symphony. And I know it sounds stupid but I'd try to feel the music and use it to help me write about whatever I was going through and it would work it was something about the decrescendos and how the instruments would blend that would make my hands shiver until I picked up a pen, see whenever this track would play I'd write my heart out but mom, when I saw him, it was like hearing a brand new song, every single time. When it rains, and you're dazed in the car driving on freeways. Do you ever notice how whenever you drive under a bridge, the rain stops, the car is silent and it's like for a moment everything is still? That's how he is or, more so how he was. He asked me out six times behind the bus, I said yes the first time but he kept going, he kept going and I kept hearing medleys every time he spoke, when he'd tell me he loved me i'd hear the guitar and when I'd say it back I'd hear the violin. there were nights when it would rain and we'd video chat in dark it was a little bizarre but I always loved the way he talked about my eyes, he said they were stars, like an Orion of some sort. And excuse me ma, but I can't rhyme anymore. See as time went by and we were on the phone when it rained he'd fall asleep and I could never sleep cause the thunder the the drums were so loud so instead, I'd listen to his soft breathing and every now and then he'd say something in his sleep with my name he'd be like Kae I duh duh duh, and Kae duh duh duh. I thought it was so sweet, I'd lay back and listen to his solos and even though I all I could see was the flashes of lightning, spiking and gleaming through my windows, I'd close my eyes, and the drums come in tune with his solos and is whisper to myself how he's this and he's that and he's that and this and that and I'd make so happy but there were times where the song was wrong, there were times when the he wouldn't sing his solos and the drums didn't bang on the right cue, sometimes his guitar wasn't tuned so when he strummed some of the stuff he said just did not add up but I didn't care Mom, I didn't care. Cause when the drums did not bang, I'd tap a metronome with my bow, when his guitar wasn't tuned I would pluck my violin for just enough time for him to get his **** together but as time went by, the strings on his guitar, began to wear out. His strings broke and I said baby I can get you new strings, I can play for us until you can get new strings but he said no, he did not want them. He did not want new strings, he started saying this was a mistake, but how could this be a mistake, when he was the only song that did not drive me to a pen. This could not possibly be a mistake, I know our song isn't perfect but it is still our song I cannot bear the though of finding someone else. Please do not make another duet because she will not tolerate it when your guitar isn't tuned, she will not tap in place of the drums she will not pluck her violin to keep the song going please do not go but he took his guitar and left with his broken strings. Mom I had a few rough days after that and I could sit here and tell you how God took away my sadness or how I woke up and got some kind of epiphany but the truth is I don't know, I don't know if he's out there kissing someone else or if his strings were ever or will ever be fixed all i know is the music stopped, and every morning I leave my violin in its case."

And when her mother saw that she was finished, mom didn't cry, mom didn't hug her. Her mother said, "How long has it been since Phillip broke up with you?"

"Mother, you asked why I don't write anymore. Well there's nothing left to write about."

*8/14/15 - 9/8/15
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
Asha Nicole Apr 2012
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.
Rachel Giudici Feb 2014
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
Hannah Jun 2016
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.
Zach Lubline May 2020
Drum beats drown out feet on sand
Melodies punctuated by gusts of wind
The cold is only as biting
As headphone decrescendos
S R Mats Nov 19
Look, listen, strive, and grasp at the depth of all things.

There is a depth of sadness in you that hurts my heart,
And the lack of desire therein to seek and to find pains me.

Where there are shadows there has to be light illuminating.
Even in those depths of darkness, there are degrees of dark
Light plays with light and darkness, layer upon layer.

In music there are highs and there are lows as it flows.
Crescendos and decrescendos.  Adagio and allegro.

Fortississimo and diminuendo.  By degree pianissimo
Largo and on and on and on it goes.  Life is the same.
As all this wonder comes together there is harmony.

Plumb the unfathomable depths of the art and song of life.

— The End —