"ensembles" poems
Collab, collab! Oh thoughtful collabs!
Amalgamation of two unique minds,
Merging of dual thinking labs!
Cerebral workshop of life's diverse grinds!
Collab, collab! Reinforced true!
Melding of minds and honed crafts,
Mounted up with bolt and *****
Assembled solid in monochromed poetic drafts.
Collab, collab! A trend that's trending!
A fad that now seems ever growing...
Each other's style we will be wearing.
Matching ensembles, yours for the liking.
Collab, collab! More of it please!
Ocean of creativity, pearls ripe for picking,
Journey for two across artistic seas.
Wonder who with next I'll be swimming...
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 2:03 PM UTC
They didn't know that
her heart was perpetually on vacation,
stuffed
between the pages of Austen and
Murakami.
Yes, they loved her
autumn smiles, her conversations, even
the jazz ensembles of her
clothes. But her heart
was locked in the New York Public Library.
The distance was far
too great, the risk far
too much.
After all, this was the place where Paul
Varjak told Holly
he loved her
and all she did was look at him.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 2:50 PM UTC
Nagasaki failed and the lotus blossom wilts.
But he will never see it that way.
A man of fire took his time to take the shot.
And when he dropped the bomb,
the demons choir took a break from deceitful melodies.
Though they were never really heard
they still beat barrels of rice wine,
which they've converted to percussion ensembles.
The music of our souls flowing and swaying,
while our disembodied toes tap to the melody.
Never again, Nagasaki.
Never again.
Such travesty veiled by inhuman reason.
And I follow it to the end.
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 2:10 PM UTC
*Firelight Affairs & Atmospheric Starlight,
Rainbow Instincts Enlightening Her Satellite Twilight,
Quivering Symphonies & Colorful Voices,
Lyrical Abstracts Of Her Monochrome Noises,
Prismatic Rage In Her Eternal Sage,
Resonances Whispering Her Voices Onstage,
Vertical Ensembles Of Her Ecstatic Fashions,
Witty Odes Enlightening Her Arrested Passions,
Prancing Temptations & Provoked Mysteries,
Entrancing Her Artistic Waves & Surging Tapestries,
Storyteller Flares On A Perpetual Lease,
Intoxicated Mirrors Of Her Spiritual Release,
Lucid Memoirs & Condensed Revelations,
Inquisitive Glances Of Her Cupid Flirtations,
Crimson Armors & Her Reflective Scents,
Illustrious Serenity Embossed In Her Scenic Ascents,
Fluoresce Echoes & Her Scenic Prelude,
Coalesce Spotlights Guiding Her Summer Nudes.
- 01:24AM -*
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 3:00 PM UTC
Don’t judge me with the book I’ am holding,
Don’t criticize me if I desire to gain wisdom.
When curiosity wraps my head down to my feet,
I know that I am in need to be filled
The fear of lacking ensembles me..
Growing in intelligence entices me..
To be a a woman than a lady encourages me,
To be a person than a human changes me..
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 11:28 PM UTC
Words begin to form in my fragmented mind, swirl around the base of my neck, flutter across my bare skin, caress each curve, absorb the essence of my body and grow larger with each twist and turn.
They gather in groups and beautiful ensembles, singing glorious tunes.
They race towards my fingertips and my hand twitches in anticipation as I bolt to catch them.
Suddenly, moments before my net reaches its place,
these ensembles flutter off my body, race off my fingers,
and fade into the infinite atmosphere.
I face towards the sky and breath in deeper to catch the essence of any few remaining,
but all that fills my lungs are the heavier words weighed by their sorrow.
Fragmented words
separated from their companions,
left to dissolve
among the abundance molecules and atoms.
So I bow my head and clutch my net, awaiting the next cluster of delicate, glorious words.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 5:08 PM UTC
Plucked spinets in discord
To a harmony of chorus,
Sonorously pitched
On a warm Summer eve.
Balmy is the air
In a shimmering blue silence
And the purity of cadence
Leads the Godless to believe.
Passers bye pause
In the magical moment,
All heads rotate
To the origin of sound,
Heavenly cascades
Through the twilight of evening
Causing couples to dance
As though jewelled and begowned.
Delicate resonances
Entwine the moment,
Swayed rythmic rapture
Entrances the crowd,
Ensembles of satyr
Arouse tender senses
In caressing the maidens
To pink ****** proud.
Pink ****** proud
Are the breathless young maidens,
Bright shining eyes
From young tapping toes.
The rapture of spinets
Played deftly with passion
In the cool of the night,
Where a pale moonlight knows.
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
2 November 2011
Nov 2, 2011
Nov 2, 2011 at 9:09 PM UTC
We have
Some of the highest test scores
Some of the highest placing graduates
Some of the more expensive neighborhoods
And our teams and ensembles
Are nationaly recognized
We also have
At least one trafficking incident in every school
At least one suicide per school per year
Drug deals so rampant every student has seen one by the time they graduate
Fights in the hallway almost every day
And school counselors who can tell you all about what classes you're best suited for
But who can't give halfway decent advice for life
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 8:06 PM UTC
She learned to dance.
Frivolous tutus and
Twinkling tights
Soft pink slippers
On hardwood floors,
Young, dear, unadulterated.
The centerpiece
Of a music box.
A poor melody,
Indeed,
Does reality play.
Pirouettes don’t show potential.
Relevés don’t yield results.
Interest doesn’t pay interest.
Submission for survival.
Piercings…poles…provocative.
Glittering ensembles,
Sensuality in smoke,
The scandal of skin.
Little ballerina,
Her audience awaits.
No time to be shy.
They want her,
And that
Is what she always wanted.
She learned to dance.
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 2:05 AM UTC
Imagine a canvas,
Holding holistic human history
If only you could picture this.
Analyze space between your fingers
Potential paintbrush placement
The world at your fingertips.
Envisage everything between your ears (then the opposite)
Encompassing ensembles elucidating egos
The composer in all of us, seeking bliss.
Everything experienced, transcended
This convoluted canvas conducive to creativity
Reminiscent of colors brooded over one last kiss.
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 9:17 PM UTC
Never felt I was a sad soul, though I carry sadness
Nor do I feel like an anxious man, though I tremble
So why should I concede to the weight of my madness?
When my thought process is that of circular ensembles;
Simply just not comprehensible in my feeble mind
If I feel heavy today does that does that make me fat?
When in carrying another's weight you could see me kind
Feeling out of place today, could this not be my habitat?
When feeling is one thing and being is another
Returning to my former self will be my endeavour
And I see no other reason or purpose to wonder
Otherwise I'm wasted, an empty vessel forever
Just a sad slave to the hysteria trying to find a place
Just another lost soul, an exterior that can't be caged
Mar 13, 2017
Mar 13, 2017 at 11:45 AM UTC
Your careful hands levelled out the budding bloom, and set the staging pots aside the heat of noon, thoughtful timing shifted them from watery sheltered vase to rough garden ensembles, like that you shaped the ravenous growths again and again.
With careful fingers you massaged around the banks, no garden book to guide such terrifying specimens, you could not bring the scythes to taper off the exploding flanks, so you watched from further every night.
And so with time you peer with awe at the new garden features, puzzled by a wilting stem, delighted by a fanning brush, sometimes tracing natures path, other times your gaze will be lost. Your garden bright and overgrowing.
Open the door dear gardener for life has been unleashed, when the toil of daily demands has reached its peaks, remember your creation. Know that all the blooms that cheer the neighbours, would, with your hand - the Nation.
Jul 21, 2019
Jul 21, 2019 at 5:49 PM UTC
I love solos.
The courage to stand out front, in front of those consigned to the choir, acknowledging the support they provide with a gracious wave, but not afraid to take the acclaim justly due, front stage.
I love solos.
They celebrate breakthrough, on cue drawing attention away from the typical duets, the quartets, the ensembles, tempering a tendency to celebrate humble, to focus on a singular achievement and an agreement that this is a voice worth listening to.
I love solos.
So step out, take a bow
and make it loud.
Sep 20, 2023
Sep 20, 2023 at 4:29 PM UTC
Occasionally, fashion shows start late because the designer is still working on the collection. There are some persnickety types out there who would happily keep tinkering until it’s markdown time.
Maria Grazia Chiuri and Pierpaolo Piccioli decided they would throw in the towel whenever they felt each item in their spring collection was finished just enough to reveal the beauty of the craftsmanship at the heart of a couture house like Valentino. They explained that they had borrowed the concept from the “Unfinished: Thoughts Left Visible” exhibition at the Met Breuer in New York, which showcased some 500 years of paintings still in progress.
The highfalutin’ explanation had one searching for examples beyond the brogues with exposed staples and undyed edges they plucked off a table backstage. But apart from a bit of sagging lining here and a few dangling threads there, here was a collection with that familiar Valentino polish.
The camouflage coats and military-influenced ensembles had a sense of deja vu, too, albeit with more irregular splotches and ruff-hewn embroideries. What felt newer were the monochromatic ensembles, layers of featherweight coats and zippered shirt jackets tucked into tapered trousers. They came in Army green, a deep blue or black — the latter peppered with silver grommets — and were chic from start to finish.Read more at: www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-perth | http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-canberra
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 4:02 AM UTC
I only had one window in the world.
This window, like a scrawny kid, had been recently clobbered by the rain.
Just looking at the trickling rain made me all cold. That was when I pondered
all the things we
could have done
yesterday,
eyes closed,
lying above the sheets.
I thought about your breath close to my ear,
staccato, powerful,
like wind during a storm.
And I thought about our bodies: mine, cold; yours, burning - entwined, our bodies make a
Hurricane.
Then again, it is what it is. Your heart is cold to me; you think my heart is too feverish: you think it needs to be exiled, quarantined,
outside
underneath the rain.
ORIGINAL POEM (OR CHANCE TO ROCK OUT YOUR BEAUTEOUS FRENCH ACCENTS)
*Je n’avais qu’une fenêtre sur le monde.
Comme un gosse maigre, elle se faisait
tabasser par la pluie.
J’avais froid rien qu’en contemplant le
ruissellement. C’est alors que je pensé à toutes les choses qu’on
aurait pu faire
hier
au-dessus des draps
les yeux fermés.
J’ai pensé à ton souffle près de mon oreille,
puissant et saccadé
comme un vent de tempête.
Et j’ai pensé à nos corps: le mien froid, le tien
brûlant - entrelacés, nos corps font un
Ouragan.
Mais enfin, tant pis. Ton coeur m’est froid;
mon coeur t’est trop fiévreux: il le faut
exiler, il le faut mettre en quarantaine,
dehors,
au-dessous de la pluie.*
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 10:36 PM UTC
Merely you in the mind,
With your always nature soft and kind
If I could by heart express you
You are my life and end too
If I get closer, I am living though
If I go away, my heart will go
Merely you in my heart,
your love ensembles my whole part
Of brain and vein, and the emotions wart
Unless thee shine as a summery sun
With your beauty and cleverness,
With your energy and adorableness,
you are my number one
Merely you in the earth,
Yes, I'm falling in your love,
And I bet spending all my wealth
Even myself and all my health
To love you, in my soul to inearth
Merely you I can see
I wish you and I become we,
You got me,
And I held my mine,
Until you shelter and lee
I see no else except thee
You reach the high of legacy,
You are my heart's legatee
I wish you and I become "We"
Sep 18, 2017
Sep 18, 2017 at 3:46 PM UTC
Take me back.
Take me back to a place I've never been before, back to when I wasn't even thought of yet.
Take me to a really big high school where no one gives a **** but everyone manages to pass.
People smoke in the bathroom while touching up their red lipstick, with their RayBans on.
The Richies' get drunk, while the regulars get sad. And the geeks just want in.
Take me back to the place that played dramatic music when I faced a problem, or maybe high-energy music when the guy I like and I share a quick glance. Then, small talk looms overhead.
Take me back to cool cars and clever outfits.
I want witty remarks from the girl who makes her own ensembles, and I want her to bit her lip, flustered.
Please, someone, anyone take me back.
Take me back to the 80s.
~~a.s.f.
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC
Tip toes
Rising.
Pirouette
Falling.
Alabaster and mahogany keys
Melodic.
Science and Math and Vocal ensembles
Learning..
Love and loss and journeys
Discovering.
Introspection and emotion and Life
Awakening.
~rmh 2/17/2015
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 11:02 AM UTC
Grandmother had told me tales of the past,
Fairytales that we’ve all heard of,
The maidens in the scullery maid attire,
transforming to the princesses with the
embroidered and jeweled gowns; rivulets of silks and satins,
blue as the sea, greener than the highlands, more purple
then the dusky skylines, a true stamp
of royalty, poise, eloquence, and beauty.
And ensembles topped off with gold
encrusted and amethyst crowns.
Sure, the fairytales were what I lingered
onto during the years of my inexplicitly
innocent childhood, that I wished I still had.
I missed it, the tales, the anecdotes
that shaped my perception on love, hope, and faith,
far off from what I viewed in the looking mirror today.
I missed my grandmother’s hands, brittle and worn,
but kind and warm; I still thought about them
as I cleaned out the attic in which I’d forgotten existed.
And I grew up, my memories of it faded,
now covered in cobwebs and bristling wind
that sent a chill up my spine, but I found
much more than what my memory had allowed me to collect.
Amulets from what I assumed to be my grandmother’s youth
were stowed and tucked away in the alcove of a velvet shelf,
hidden by the splintered of decaying wood.
Next to the swell of the dresser, the door of the
furnishing remained ajar, revealing manila
colored increments of letters, some harbored
by the envelopes, some pierced out in the open.
The edges had crippled away,
flecks falling to the sandalwood bottom.
They were timeless, old, maybe not important,
to the wandering eyes of a stranger.
But to me - they held a mystery
that was waiting to be unraveled.
A story of my grandmother’s life she never shared with me,
just as private as she was open, perhaps I’d find in those envelopes
the same mindset I also had when I was young.
Perhaps she believed and dreamt of fairytales I had once done,
paraded around in the jewels and bangles hidden way,
basked in the ambiance of a sweet love
that was doomed to end in the decay of both parties.
Little figurines of silver and gold were placed under one
of the drawers parked away in the furnishing,
toys form her childhood, weighted by standard and price.
Her words I had adored as a child,
ate them up like sickly syrup and supported
them as if they were undiscovered treasure, but
now I finally got to “see” my grandmother’s
treasures deposited in her attic, the very place she
had hidden the most interesting stories that she
left for me to discover after she left.
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 9:26 PM UTC
Designer Mandira Wirk gave actress Nimrat Kaur a regal look when she showcased her New Royals collection at Amazon India Fashion Week on Saturday.
Wirk showed 20 ensembles, including Kaur’s ivory drape concept sari with just a zipper, panelled gown with mother of pearls and dori work paired with a sheer cape.
“Her collection is so pretty and feminine,” said Kaur. “I love her clothes. This collection is called the New Royals... it’s bringing pretty back, beautifully enhancing the female body form. It makes you feel so light and pretty.”
Panelled anarkalis, jackets and capes, crop tops, jumpsuits and tapered trousers appeared alongside designer’s signature drape saris and dhoti pants.
Wirk, in a beautiful off-shoulder powder pink dress, said: “I wanted to get pretty back to the runway. It is pretty feminine, wearable and an extremely versatile collection.
“I have done lots of pastels...lot of capes, sleeves. So basically a very feminine and romantic collection.”
The range saw a heavy use modern details like wide pockets and deep waistbands paired with layers of French knots.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/plus-size-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 4:12 AM UTC
Prior to Early May Day,
Can’t help to driving into flavour of red and green.
Are all duties done?
Or never end with trio ensembles,
May sun stays and birds continue to sing.
It is a real chill out,
The genuine thing.
I am not deceived,
but I do think summer is hidden around the corner
With you and all
...
Apr 30, 2019
Apr 30, 2019 at 4:56 PM UTC
At 10:27pm, you call
and we whisper sweet nothings,
holding our tongues
to keep from bending our bond.
Conversation becomes hard
as we tiptoe around the things
we really want to say.
I laugh,
releasing the bubbles that you put in my lungs.
I'll admit breathing is easier with you.
Air couldn't be more precious
If it were made of gold encrusted diamonds.
That's because of you.
I don't mind singing off-key songs in your ear
because there's no doubt for your acceptance.
You encourage those flawed concerts
as if they were choral ensembles.
At times you join in, just as off-key
as though you are just as imperfect as me.
You begin to tell me of a dream
and then stop.
I shouldn't know,
but we don't keep secrets from each other.
We move on to talk of the moon
and Bruno Mars, stars and movies,
just to drift back into your fatigue fantasy.
I smile,
but you don't want me to respond.
At 11:49pm, you have to go.
Neither of us wants to end the conversation.
I'm sad, but I don't let you know.
"Platonic" we repeat.
It's only to remind ourselves.
You reluctantly hang up
after we exchange an "I love you,"
with more depth than either of us will admit.
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 11:08 AM UTC
The silence was sinister, as if, sound had lost its vocal chords,
the days arrived and sunsets painted the sky in crimson
and gold leaf ensembles of artists dreams.
While they sat around a table, document drivers ran around
pushing agendas, translating armageddon scenarios
if the other side raised a finger or pulled a trigger.
So the sulky diplomats sat like doormats where
the national feet were wiped upon and trust was invested
in their stupidity. Harvard education, pin-striped suits
with loud aggressive neckties announced their status
to TV crews and intrepid journalists, hanging on every word
like guillotines, to ravage the leading newspaper stories.
Headlines were deadlines. Diplomats drummed
up side angles for photographic faces to appear firm
and responsible to the taxman's money.
Here they gathered
with their policy whisperers awaiting for a signal
to open their loaded dialogues of positions and
policy shifts. Yet no one said a word.
The silence, for once, kept all the mouths shut
( one wished permanently!)
no one said a word for 3 long hours,
but they sipped chilled water, took notes of nothing
glared at each others sides and took notes
again of what was not said.
At the stoke of two, when the clock belted
a twang and the echo bounced through
many empty heads, the diplomats rose
to call it another day of negotiations.
The cold war had just had its 9th meeting.
Author Notes
The Revolution says little, but the war take sides. Diplomats are busy 'discussing' how to end the war, and find a solution. Their policy positions are so entrenched, that little happens. The silence is as loud as could be. Meanwhile, the guns boomed and little childrens playgrounds were pock-marked with cluster bombs. Lines of refugees, walked up the mountains seeking shelter in neighbouring towns. The cold war complemented the heat war that was raging on the battlefields of doom. Please stay indoors.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 6:35 PM UTC
Breathing in the air of **** and hash,
Absorbing the levity atmosphere,
The sun glares down upon us,
Covered in sweat and mud,
Floating through the sound waves,
A dissonance of sounds,
Feeling like a wolf in the night,
An unhinged lunatic howling,
Thriving for a sense of freedom,
Dancing to the heavy bass,
Feeling the vibration from the stage,
Moving my body to the rhythm,
Creating moves, stretching my body, leaping
Twisting and turning with all my friends,
The bass drops and we pounce to the beat,
The crowd rouse and joyfully move their feet,
A glimpse of gracious placed upon everyone’s faces,
The moment is sweet and clear,
Wrapped up in a bubble of glee,
I never want to leave,
Adrenaline is pulsing through my body,
Amazed by the people I’m meeting,
Dazed by their oddity and individuality,
Hypnotize by their creativity and charm,
Eccentric personalities,
Majestic ensembles,
An honest conversation of TOxicity,
Of past stories twisted with our own memories,
Unique bonds moulding overnight,
A journey of finding one’s split soul,
Late morning belly laughter,
Bathed in a sweat of positivity,
Colliding with emotions of vulnerability,
Drum and Bass music still roaring at 4am,
Fleeting back and forth,
Slowly vanishing back to the camp site,
Reaching for the comfort of my tent,
I catch my breath and slip into in a state of serenity,
Echoes of squeals and laughter thunder in the background,
Sunlight radiating across my skin,
Warmth of content,
I slumber into a deep coma
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 4:48 AM UTC