"falsetto" poems
Your music is sensual, dark and languid
Mysterious and **** hypnotic and sultry
The slow tempo and rumbling bass drums are a heavenly mix
I close my eyes and let the forlorn echoes immerse me
In a sea of falsetto vocals and stuttering percussions
Your music is enigmatic, puzzling and seductive
Pacifying and troubling, calming and cinematic
Your champagne crooning is a movie in itself
Telling me the tales of a gloomy sex-infused hangover life
And it connects to the depths of my soul
Even though I've never experienced it
Narcotized slow jams filled with samples of punk and rock
Transports me to an actual dream world
Your subtly crafted harmonies and beats are celestial
And your lyrics a painkiller
That numbs the wounds in my soul and takes me higher...
Your voice is R&B; but your lyrics are ***** rap
You take such vile words and turn them into something beautiful
and I adore that.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 4:02 PM UTC
the world is too bright.
i am blinded by false smiles and laughs strained to reach that falsetto note.
that preconceived notion that paradise of the land brings paradise of the mind.
sand is still sand, and water is still water,
less we quantify their quality by purity and color.
sand is still sand and water is still water,
and i am still me.
the world is too bright,
so i filter it into sepia tones gentler to the mind's eye and swim to where the water meets the clouds.
i am drowning,
but not from the ocean's relentless caresses,
but from the world's relentless stresses:
beauty that is measured and calculated,
saturated with standards that burn like the sun and are as intangible as its rays,
a paradise built on sand as quick as it is to judge.
so i swim to where the water meets the clouds.
where the water is still water,
and i am still me.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 11:56 PM UTC
You have
inner-city-Chinese-restaurant-koi-pond
eyes; infiltrated pupils
that sit behind and spy on the others sitting around,
all whilst remaining dark: a hallmark I admire.
There's a maternity queen wrapped tight in a dress,
blue and white, who sits at the front and speaks and
you write down what leaks and you make it
stick with a biro you bought with a virgin-first
pay check envelope-
ripped open with an eager thumb I'd like to hold
when winter rolls up and in.
Lighthouses look across bigger ponds to warn
of storms that are yet to come.
From afar they see and decide,
weigh up and divide choice into digestible chunks of
we can save them, or if not, we'll guide them whilst they swim:
you make me do this endlessly, almost every day
and this poem is to stop me from thinking
your falsetto hums, that pause in mid air, free, are for me-
you've another bow in brown hair and our corridor conversations
lead nowhere-
I'm gracelessly in love and I just said love and
it's a kind-of cliché, a boring over used word
that we all use when we're excited;
when we run laps around a track that we cannot navigate,
when we're hungover and don't want to work with another desk clerk bore
who sits and talks and works as if an unpaid chore,
but it is true and I wish you'd notice me.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 1:16 PM UTC
In the sordid caste
of flowers, the wild
rise on their stems
for a name,
and rupture into light
through the copse of partridge berry
distances tumble over the wet colours,
like mauve tongues
along the thighs of an eventual sunrise,
that comes moaning free
of the unforgiving dark,
in the wet jazz soliloquies of light
and suddenly, through the lips
of Septembers lovely grind,
to bind the Summers cunning wounds,
your hands reach far into the blue hordes
of wildflower,
and redolent fevers, kindled
by some hummingbirds blurred
and exquisite agitation, you
are the body of my confession
and South
marks the same
unfathomable distance home,
over the prairie
that tonight grants calm,
in the balm of C minor,
a mute, sibilant liquid dream of rain
soothes, my voice grows hoarse
and stills, though from the hush of willows,
rasps the vast reservoir of wind,
as the jay, a blue throb in the holly, casts
my hue in lush cascades of desperate, abandoned braids
lift the fevers muslin depths
and these unaccompanied words, sing
a sonata
proverbs in petty sounds
spill from a cracked jaw
and a parched throat,
in the Sabbath of the heart
heaven never thought to map
this distance and its jubilee
over wildflowers, I bear
your name to stay the mauve hour
of devout crickets,
crouched in the rain,
dying in the thick falsetto of mist
and the sordid hum of birds, dim
in their hollow cote,
and sudden blue, sudden blue,
how I adore you....
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 1:03 PM UTC
Taking place where you calumniate
with hidden mask behind interface
An embolism hidden behind your lines
Where a falsetto lies your charm
How you create isobaric pressure degradation between your monodical screaming mee-mee's
Creator of sheol , abode of the dead poets
So supine in way and thought
Where will your Valhalla be
You valetudinarian
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Caluminate - to utter maliciously false statements .
Interface - a shared boundary across
embolism - a swelling of a blood vessel due to blockage
isobaric pressure degradation - lines drawn on a weather map marking increasing or decreasing air pressure
Sheol - the place of the dead
supine - failure to act due to moral weakness
Valhalla - Norse hall of God's where slain hero's are received
valetudinarian - one who shows unduly concern for their health
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 10:17 PM UTC
His heart was kept in a babooshka-doll
that released memory smells
with every layer that eroded.
The wooden fences faded
to damp brick in the corner
of his head reserved for the harmonica
that played through the microphone
in his neck till the sound got lodged
in his maudlin march
that had him running like he
was angry at the road.
His Echostep
vibrating in
the kremlin skin
and marrionette heart strings
that kept him.... him.
Despite broken wings
he made the air around him dance
with the resonance of each
broken crystal ball shard used
to predict the past.
Each chime raised a mountain,
folding back on itself
hoping the hallucination would end,
till tired hands
batted away golden hawks.
With rocks for claws.
It was all the fights with the wind
that had the clouds leaving the moon's
Picaso skies,
and sailing towards him on warships of
rain and frozen effigies.
They arrived, astronauts
from outer space
burning from the lips
outwards revealing grey
intent and red mists.
He fought back with false start
epiphanies and the falsetto
prophecies that stung the air
with pitch raining down.
Leaving bare branches where once
green hands applauded
everything but empty air,
like listless typewriters furiously
trying to find their voices.
Feirce winds and fake faces
left blinking with closed eyes
in the vastness of battlefield.
Turning stomaches and
blank canvas whirlpools,
storms of anti-peace
scarring the last conquests
of the flightless ape lizard,
and all his gorilla warfare.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 4:23 PM UTC
Gene Wilder's ***** Wonka* once asked me
to step into a world
of pure imagination
and I danced to his voice
of sugary imperfections.
The swelling strings drizzled
on top falsetto inflections
captured me childishly
with candy-coated attentions
But even the finest chocolate melts,
and I learned to let purity be
pushed by treacly lyrics
or stern midgets secure
in their fudge-topped zealotry.
It sifts too pretty for me,
powdering my grown-up
infatuations with petty
wants, getting a little messy
What I crave instead's stained-glass contraptions
to propel me past the stretches
of biblical proportion
where light and dark don't mix.
I'm no Idiot, good-hearted
in the veins of Fyodor
or Akira, and I can't see
beyond the pure tedium
of a blurredly driven snow
I like my mental drifts grime-choked and splotched
with some savory do
dropped in to dissolve flossy
confections to a salted soup
of imagined impurity.
May 20, 2010
May 20, 2010 at 6:08 PM UTC
You are intricate.
Tracing neurotransmissions down your spinal column,
from freckle to L4,
turning slow motor momentum.
It's my weighted moment,
my wordplay peachfuzz.
Silence, silencio, silent night,
simple sectors seething softly,
like a whistling tea kettle with
mutational falsetto (puberphonia).
Words are flowing,
just tripping their way around my e lin- sheath.
If I had to guess,
I would assume that neurochemical firings occur to the beat of softspoken dubstep.
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 10:58 PM UTC
DIMASH THE SHEPHERD
(Story of One Sky Conclusion)
I am
Shepherd
Cloaking myself
In God’s soft simplicity
My tasks complete
Songs sung
Light shone
Souls ignited
Each day seven wheels
Revolved their full degrees
Now the Awakening
know that Love is the Strike
of Light on the sleep
of a hundred thousand
years of wrenching knots
I return to You
to dissolve again
in your gentle
Ecstasy of knowing
Yourself as Voice
Each of Your atoms
in a chant or falsetto
resonated in freedom’s
True radiant White
How you ached to know
if You could go further
than planets not yet discovered
You did through each of my
Harmonic breathes
Now I’m done to
cuddle frolicking lambs
and hold my staff
as heaven’s drumstick
It will beat the
silent space between
Resonating genes
You are well pleased
Our art of evolution
continues to vibrate
in every fingertip
each sea-sponge and
Sand grain
Refreshed I will descend
then ascend again
as You instruct
to expose muted layers
My F-sharps alchemising
wolves with nightingales
I bow to You
As I hood !
©GhairoDanielsPoetry2022
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 4:52 AM UTC
my friends don't understand why i'm so preoccupied with this boy that is always so quiet, so negative, so lonely. i've never told them before but i think i relate to that feeling of loneliness. i know how it feels to cement heavy walls of silence around your exterior so no one bothers to come inside, and say nothing when words jump into your throat, and feel everything but then feel nothing at all. it doesn't make much sense but i fell for you because you have eyes that always ask me questions, eyes that take my anxieties and pull them into the calm ocean in between your lungs and hide them there for me. “don’t worry,” you say. you always say that. i worry. “don’t worry.” i try to stop, for you.
but then i start worrying about you, and it's an endless cycle.
i claim you as my cure, the mellow remedy to melt in my bones as i walk down the hallways. i don’t want to throw myself down flights of stairs anymore. i don’t want to melt into the sidewalks with the rain. i don’t want some distant boy to fly to me and carry me away and i don’t want some boy who doesn’t know my name to turn his eyes in my direction. i just want you, and you’re here. i just want you, and you can see me.
the truth is i always write about your eyes because they are the only thing that makes me feel cared for anymore. they are the only thing that deserves my writing at all and you are the only thing i ever seem to want to write about anymore. i don't want some glazed-over faux-shine of love. i don't want to want you one day and be forced to forget you the next. i just want to tuck any of your nightmares in my pockets, knowing that you are my own dreamcatcher that hangs along my heart. i just want lazy conversations like the humid summer air that suffocates my soul every july. i just want effortless, and that's exactly what we are.
i like to sing and you don’t understand it, but i wonder what you would say if i told you that i can hear you singing. the melodies of your fingers and the falsetto chill of your skin and the harmonizing of your laughter with my own and the waltzing scent i sometimes notice. it sings to me, you sing to me, you are my silent musical that shakes me down to my very bones.
and someone asked me the other day how i love a boy that doesn’t know how to love, and i just shook my head simply because you taught me everything i know.
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 2:16 AM UTC
And the show is never over!
I don't even remember purchasing the tickets.
Welcome to a runny nose, and welcome to a style of up and down.
Because that's all up and down are; styles for the miles of crowded planet.
Drink your tired music like a bowl of wonton soup
Chunks will surprise you.
Swipe your debit, credit, hallmark card to purchase them
All of them.
Every inch of their REM.
I woke up to the winter concealed in valleys
Filled with fortune and ethernet cables.
What's your wifi password?
"Thanks, love."
Alright, thanks, love.
What a beautiful way to say "careful."
Carefree.
Curvature of some invisible decimal point.
I love you.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 2:02 AM UTC
She’s the type to eat a bowl of ice cream,
shoot a gun, and be fine. I’ve never seen so many pieces
under someone’s rug before, but she keeps
herself in cookie jars, in ink cartridges, in book binds,
anything she can find. I’m surprised she even looks
in the mirror anymore. It’s not possible that she’s herself whole.
But she braids her hair back when she rides her horse,
she channels old Miranda Lambert
and pumps that kerosene melody through her veins
like it wont’ catch fire. I’ve seen her
poke her head through old sweaters like she thinks
it’ll be something new this time. I’ve seen her paint
her skin in expensive body washes, the washcloth
like sandpaper as she tries and tries to smooth
all of the uneven edges she’s collected.
I bet you could watch her memories in a wishing pool,
like in a mini mall, with all the pennies heads down.
They would spin themselves around the surface,
suffocating one another so that only the good ones would shine,
but she dare not pour herself into something that reflective.
It would only reveal what she ties into the waistband
of her old American Eagle jeans every morning,
and that would just be too **** hard. It’s easier
to venture ******** with a crummy perspective
and a realistic approach than it would be to even consider
that maybe this time it wasn’t her fault
for expecting to much, and that maybe people just ***** up.
That maybe, for once she wouldn't blame it on it getting her hopes up
that made her fall, but that no one was there to catch her.
I’d rather watch her cry herself to sleep for months
than to pretend I admire the harsh falsetto she bites back
in all of her lullabies. But she’s the type
to burn old pictures for fun, to delete contact names,
to swallow all her sadness and paint her bedroom a new color
than watch herself come undone.
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 12:05 AM UTC
men would always tell me about the
arcs of screaming air splitting through gaia’s hair,
the heads of wheat falling, light shredding, and the sun bowing before
Leah and her scythe
this woman spent all her twenty one years in the fires of idaho
working for her father
preparing food for her brothers before their schooling.
she was made to stay at home,
and there she worked and washed and read and cut and crystallized
business men in windup cars would see her off the highway
her muscles swaying with the wind, treetop hair flogging the setting sun
singing folk songs to herself in a falsetto that sounded like a rocking chair.
these men would stop to chat, but soon realize that this
Leah was burning too much for them.
her heart was different from city folk
and most country folk for that matter.
her ventricles were connected through a series of
crimson twigs and gnarled vines.
it pumped like any other heart,
but it would crack and wheeze anytime she left that farm.
those businessmen expected that she would be enthralledby anything out of town.
but it was the opposite; fancy gadgets bore her and
snazzy suits and autos seemed like pointless little ornaments.
she’d be more impressed by a man who could cut wheat like she could
a man who could shoot life out of the iron earth
and feed his kin with the pickings of his heart.
but she never quite found a man like that.
she stayed there, and let herself bleed into those idaho hills.
the roots of the grain wrapped around her veins
and her lungs breathed for the farm
just as its rainfall pumped her brown blood.
she never grew old that Leah, because she kept her crop so fresh.
every morning she watered and plowed and every while,
with scorching eyes and whipping locks
she’d swing her scythe, and smell the breaking spines of wheat,
and would quietly sing,
like a rocking chair.
Posted by David Clifford Turner at
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 11:19 PM UTC
when the sun fears enough to cower over
the moon with its knees and
is kissing the tender
glass of the mirror
that reflects one side,
neptune weeps like a baby
birthed from a place unknown
yet needy all the same.
with that,
my eyes are forced open
my hands to take its waist,
its apple that was once
part of a tree.
heat sears me like stigma
yet this is different:
a paradox that speaks
not in tongues of abuse
or nationalism of one's mind.
instead,
this new sensation
is accompanied by
a high-pitched falsetto
as if feeling every paper cut
**** into his mind,
his flesh of lost innocence.
then, when reaching out
to touch this "him",
this hymn i've found,
his skeletal oblivion makes itself known.
- eozyoh. 8.12.2017. 12:42 am
Dec 9, 2017
Dec 9, 2017 at 12:26 PM UTC
Goodbye
Disgusting excuse of a friend
A confidant
I used to hold such confidence in,
Now a sickly
Pseudo relationship.
You and I
A Despicable desert dry
Duo
I can't spend another second
At this pathetic pretending
That you can offer anything to anyone
But a narcissistic notion
And a nerve-racking
neuroses of the mind
The universe is out to get you
I curse my oblivious self
I had forgotten you are the single
Cohabiter on Earth
Ah, yes
You are undefeated
At the blame game
I've tried to hold honor in defeat
But, I don't have an ounce of energy left
For your egotistical world
You unhinged
Dark gate
You let your steed of self-obsession
Out to stampede the sincerest hearts
You don't even see the *****
Destruction
You deal out
From your deprived reciprocity
Alcohol, your only ailment
Your **** filled words
Tossed out lament and futile
This is where we go our divided way
I will not claim even a freckle on your face
As a friend
I will not look back
Nostalgia is not necessary
I will detach myself from your
Leach like misery
And I'll slowly build strength back
A blood flow of enraged fierceness
Has circulated through my core
And it will be as if
I never had any bit
Of me
Belonging to you
Friend, now foe
Farewell
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 12:31 AM UTC
Well hello, all, I’m your maestro ceremonious
they call me Lokonious, purveyor of the odious
so sit back, relax, and celebrate the… atonalness?
A: Andante con fuoco
We’re goin’ a cappella so let me say first
your style’s ba-roke, now let’s get on with the verse
you’re all up in the scale with a falsetto pitch
hittin’ soprano like a castrato *****
my mind is sharp, while you’re stuck outta key
my rhythm’s all natural, you can’t find a beat
you need some help ’cause you’re out on your own
find that ****** on a subway, the metro-nome
B: Allegro con brio
throw down the fermata and hold up a minute
your ***** a cacophony, no way to spin it
and son, i ain’t broke, my style’s all classical
you just can’t register that my words are magical
I spit rhymes in fantasy, can’t you see that you’re beat?
And they thought an allegro was unfit for elegy
A: Moderato col legno
well as for your girl, it may sound corny
the ***** loves my brass ’cause she’s: oh so *****
dispel your illusion, i got one more
your girl’s like a crime show… easy to score
B: Allegretto grazioso
your intellect is minor and your insults are bassless
your composition’s hardly a harmony: graceless
your cymbalism’s trite, and your motif’s unknown
an unfocused opus full of dissonant drones
A: Affrettando agitato
get out my face with your unnatural rap
you spit cold air and your lyrics are flat
you’ve got no harm while my canon’s a gat
so work on your refrain, ‘fore I bust da cap-OOOHHHHH
B: Coda
pull your weak crap, ’cause you’re outta your mode
such imperfect rhymes that we’re calling a cod-a
no time for the fanfare, you’re trying my patience
an end to your requiem, bring out the cadence
So that’s their story, best not get involved
their fight’s an augmented fourth: difficult to resolve
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 5:47 PM UTC
Alfonso is a handsome bronze-hued lad
Of subtly-changing and surprising parts;
His moods are storms that frighten and make glad,
His eyes were made to capture women's hearts.
Down in the glory-hole Alfonso sings
An olden song of wine and clinking glasses
And riotous rakes; magnificently flings
Gay kisses to imaginary lasses.
Alfonso's voice of mellow music thrills
Our swaying forms and steals our hearts with joy;
And when he soars, his fine falsetto trills
Are rarest notes of gold without alloy.
But, O Alfonso! wherefore do you sing
Dream-songs of carefree men and ancient places?
Soon we shall be beset by clamouring
Of hungry and importunate palefaces.
1.5k
Night is singing blues with wrong falsetto,
In my fingers dies a cigarette,
You’re the one
But why so much directions?
Where are you?
No answer--dead objections.
Earrings and bracelets are my fetters.
You are gone..
But you still breathe in letters.
Here your voice
It’s touching lids of blindness
Here the choice
İmpartial, regardless.
Sew my veins
I need them for tomorrow,
Zip my soul
But don’t unveil the sorrow.
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 12:59 PM UTC
It's me you're looking for
according to Lionel not
quite falsetto but at least
smooth alto unpunctuated
to give your wonder freedom
to wander and wonder
who each of us is - poems
demand so much of us
for sure hesitant English
speakers add frequently,
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
Rubber faces. Foreheads sweat, stream clown makeup when cheeks meet. Sweet blood: corn syrup, water, starch. Lick then smell. Vampires pick jolly rancher debris from teeth. Blue fangs. A skeleton in the closet undresses a nun. Open door open window sit three cats. Watch the sun set. Crows murdered around oak trees. Darkness. Lights, music, karaoke, Elvis sings Franki Valli. Richard Nixon gropes a slutty nurse. Left hand, right breast. Alcohol permeates air. Skin, sweat. Touch. Marilyn Monroe hoards candy corn souped with beer broth in her stomach. Passes out. Steve Irwin wears a sting ray through his chest, ***** tail through his shirt, surrounded in blood. First place in the costume contest. Alter egos. Fred Flintstone feels snubbed. So does a saran wrapped girl. Nipples hidden with black fabric circles. Black balloons. Orange ones. Red balloons. Popped. Silent girl in white stands in the corner. Caresses a small bottle of cyanide in her fingers. Thumb, middle, pointer, pointed at Marilyn. She knows she will not wake up. They’ll call it suicide. Elvis finishes his song in a falsetto,
Oh, what a night.
Oct 5, 2010
Oct 5, 2010 at 10:46 AM UTC
Roddy's Rooster, man! you couldn't
oust her
Standing up there on his dunghill fair
Announcing to the whole world, to All
everywhere
My **** He's the greatest doodle doer
O! that Roddy's Rooster.
He don't need no booster, does
Roddy's Rooster
He'd even go after the goose sir
Don't you fouster with this Rooster
You'd only lose sir
Now vamoose sir.
Very dapper and quite the scrapper
Patrolling his perimeter
Strutting around the farmyard pound
Invariably, henhouse bound
If you were to meet him
It'd be "Put up your dukes sir
Me! I'm Roddy's Rooster".
With his tail feathers all fluffed up
Like a feather duster
And his chest all puffed out
Quite the Dandy and always randy
What a Suitor that Roddy's Rooster
And O! what a Wooer, that wooey
doodler.
I I
He came a cropper though one day
When he fell in the Hopper
Now he's a good deal shorter
And not half as cocky as before,
Now he sits on his wall lamenting his
fall
Thinking of the days when he used to
have a ball
Has Lady Luck that Grand Old Duck
deserted him I wonder.
Sad to see, now he's a bit gammy
More Bandy than Dandy
He still South's in the Summer
But has doubts in the Winter,
Now he likes to crow his woes and
lows away
Climbing up onto his dunghill, he
greets the day
But now in a high shrill falsetto
voice
He sings in a whole different way
" I've been round the Ringer but I'm
still quite a Dinger
**** a Doodley Doo"
Now... now he's a ****** Blues singer!
O! that Roddy's Rooster.
Roddy's Rooster Yeeaahh!
Mar 17, 2020
Mar 17, 2020 at 10:29 AM UTC
I loved you before the alcohol,
Hourglass to the soul,
hour pass,
days maybe...
in between the formulation of golden nuggets in the mountains silver sands.
You held my hand and through velvet touch,
Electricity meander through my arms,
before the storm calm,
the start of a heart attack -
then the pack of house of cards collapsed.
In a deserts smile,
you flatlined through our favourite past times.
The pastures rich with buttercups
and dandelions like the last time.
When we walked over the train tracks harvest.
Last summer and last spring.
Somethings are everlasting,
and some pass like storm clouds without one droplet of rain,
in casting,
our love grew like tulips,
Yellow, red and blue,
bruises,
but soon come the rain,
our muses loses,
&
rendered useles;
I went away and
It's too soon to explain myself,
For that.
Back,
with cap in hand.
Lost in hearts melted by false starts,
and feathered cap,
Falsetto moods
sharp stilettos,
slap back.
I couldn't let go when the sun came through,
and a calming parting of the clouds where the rain came blue.
I thought I could live without you,
but I bottled it,
again.
Now I've nothing left to give,
but my gift to you.
sinking, sleeping in the land dunes
trying to understand you.
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 10:56 AM UTC