"fanfare" poems
I lay spread out on
My local shingle beach
Letting the pebbles
Sift through my fingers
I consider the myriad
Shapes and forms they take.
The varying rust
Charcoal grey and mustard shades
I set myself a mission
In the multitudes
That the sea brings to my feet
I will find amongst the
Copious cobbles
The ultimate pebble
Perfect and pleasingly
Quirky or smooth.
I become so absorbed by
This sifting sorting
Comforting process
A simple quest
I forget myself
And my proximity to the waves
Until i am splashed
And soaked and
Have to vow to take up
This valiant quest
Another day.
Until then I have taken
Home a few shortlisted
Candidates
And made a promise to stand up when
The winner is found
And make a little trumpet
Fanfare sound
And hold the stone aloft!
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 6:54 PM UTC
ECOFRIENDLY HOLI
Soon will be coming Holi,
And people will play it in a group toli.
Amidst all this fanfare, request you I, to consider this most sincerely ;
When painting each other, in a frenzy do not get caught;
Harmful paints n colours use do not; n precious water waste not.
Summer soon will follow n water indeed scarce will become .
We will it need; n request you I, to leave for plants, animals n birds some.
Wood comes from chopping off trees, which are very precious;
An earnest request is, to play an ECOFRIENDLY HOLI; let's be gracious.
Let's burn away all our vices and all our habits weird and bad;
Let each of us with these, bravely combat, without being sad.
Armin Dutia Motashaw
Mar 3, 2020
Mar 3, 2020 at 5:02 AM UTC
just another lovesick poem
written by another sad boy
about
being alone or
rejected or
"in love"
as if any of you
*************
have the experience
to look at another human
and know
to the depths of your soul
that you are
in love
all lowercase
because
love isn't trumpets and fanfare
love is
quiet mornings and
simple dinners and
a willingness to be
vulnerable
love is
"hi babe
I know you've had a rough day at work
so you just lay there and
let me make you
***
or
"I'm gonna make you dinner
and then
I'm gonna tie you up and
**** you"
love is not
what we were taught in church or
on the Disney Channel or
from a Stephanie Meyers novel
love is not
what your parents told you
"wait to have *** until you're
married"
abstinence is good
condoms are bad
your *** should be vanilla
men are dominant
women are submissive
missionary is the only position
*** is about procreation not pleasure
love is self defined; find it for yourself.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 1:59 PM UTC
Ganders...gargantua--ensconced in far-fetched space...
(attrition)...LOOK AT THAT LINE...LOOK AT IT...
ROUND THE CORNERS OF PERPETUITY...predilections.
A soul's inalienable fracas...on bend and knee...hop...and
whoop...miasmic gargoyles poppy-wreathed...
for all-too-lucid dreaming...chanting etceteras of bare riff raffs.
Golden breastplates...weeping willow wings...empurpled--
fending fang trumping lines of: yuck, cluck, claw and kook.
...Listless eyes...alphabetize...think a blind oracle's informed
absentia...holy and bovine.
Redolent airs...perspiration of spume's most distancing shore--
eyepieces for the specks and logs in the oculos of brothers
and sisters.
As dust to dust doth not settle...heart's yonder score...nay cease
of interstice...off-world amorousness.
Gather ye yarrow sticks...hurl them at days...roofless arcady...
live into the spectra of their worlds, come friend or foe...Fate's foundling.
Lines strung as prayer beads...curs-ed beads...forget-me-nots
enclosed in letters baiting Long Farewells, in the great literary
correspondence of authored and Author.
...Ye gorgeous gargoyles come perch and push.
Persona non grata...the wide world...unisex prodigal...All--returneth.
LOOK AT THAT LINE...LOOK AT IT...(attrition)...ROUND THE
CORNERS OF PERPETUITY.
NEBULAEIC FANFARE...come perch to push...lo...ANGELS!
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:35 PM UTC
.
Feint is the Muse,
that looks upon me,
challenging my existence
with deep baleful interest.
Its struggles hard
to contain its indifference
at the mere mortality
that I conduct.
And conduct I do.
As melody takes
centre stage
in a flight of fancy,
constrained by rhythm
temperate, steady,
and insistent.
The cadenced beat
of skins keeping time
to a fanfare of sound.
But my voice is silent,
conspicuous by its absence,
in mute violation
of speechless freedom.
The words won't come,
no song message birthed
for altruism
nor benefit of composition.
The flight of fancy stalls
and gently rocks in a cradle
of anticipation.
Rhythm drops to a meagre
pelvic twitch,
insistence foregone and forgotten
in a cynical parody
of the vocal deficiency.
Velvet drapes lick
the wooden floor stage,
and the performance
has just begun.
© Pagan Paul (14/11/18)
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 6:56 PM UTC
You stole my heart,
So I stole a kiss
And just for a second
I might barely miss
The stubble on your cheek
And the touch that
Made me so weak
You came into my life
With no notice at all
No fanfare or bells
Went off when you called
But little by little
You broke into my heart
And now it’s a shame
I didn't fall from the start
I had no idea
I’d be the one that you’d choose
Nor did I know
I’d be the one that would lose
But still today
I would pay that price
Just for the chance
To just kiss you twice
The first for the nerves
When I’d try to be brave
And the second to remember---
It’s the kiss I would save
I’d keep in my heart
Where I’d never forget
The look in your eyes
And that last sunset
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 9:00 PM UTC
the nature of this night
spreads its thin harvest upon my table
a gruel and water porridge feast
with the fanfares of her jaundiced hand
many more lined up with eager grin
for the warmth of paupers kinship
thin blanket wrapped round our shoulders
snow gathers at feet
she captures the moment on paper
the image of all of us gathered like when we were young
the grandiose illustration
with its brilliant colour fanfare with
jugglers and wine swilling laughing men blinded by drink
chorus line of female dancers who wear costumes of the hundred years war
lead the assault on the last bastions of the ignorance of bliss
all descrying that we can ill afford to be sleeping
while empires are built in our namesake
the so daintily shod soldiers whos feminine wiles misunderstood
have taken over the dancehall beneath us
and have taken up song
the grandiose illustration
caught by her pen on sketch pad
has leanings to the Marxist revolutions
and philosophys of the rhetorical
but in the end we join them and
drink the port sing the song
a thousand years of tales to be told
in the eyes of a single girls sweet thoughts
epic landscapes filled with noble men and storybook girls
the grandiose illustration
shows the two of us on the beach
with the sun racing down to touch the high towers of miami
and fill the laughing joys of thouse who toss and
tumble in the breaking waves
the nature of this night
in one small corner of the illustration
a simple window with the shade drawn
that says goodnight
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 1:03 PM UTC
Heartstone is a reflection in music on a ‘lost’ poem. The poem described in its two short verses a summer’s day, a landscape, a fossil found and placed in the palm of a child’s hand. The poem inspired a seven-movement work for wind, brass and percussion with solo piano. Here is its poetic programme note.
Chert
The piano draws an arc of rhythm
rising then falling.
Above
two choirs of wind and brass
exclaim, fanfare, mark out
shorter, determined
gestures of sound.
The procession, almost a march,
becomes a dance.
Alone
Two choirs of wind and brass
become four couples
whose music weaves
from complexity a simplicity:
Chromatic to Pentatonic
twelve becoming five.
Prase
Four stopped horns,
five extended tonalities.
Together they wander
a maze of Pentatonic paths;
alone, and in pairs, as a quartet
they discover within
a measured harmonic rhythm.
Tension: resolution
. . . and surrounding
their every move
the piano
insists an obligato,
a continuum of phrases,
absorbing into itself
the warp and weft of horn tone.
Sard
Oscillating
in perpetual motion
the full ensemble
occupies a frame
of time and space.
Flutes, reeds,
double-reeds
brass, piano,
percussion
mirror-fold on mirror-fold
layer upon layer
overlapping.
Yarns of threaded sound.
Tuff
Without a break
the mirrored oscillations
patter pentatonics
on tuned percussion
of marimba and vibraphone
whilst
a batterie of drums
lays down
shards of beaten rhythm
against this onward
folding of tonality change.
In the background
a choir of winds
flutes and single reeds
waymark this recursive journey
gathering together
cadential moments and the
necessary pause for breath.
Marl
Relentlessly, the motion is sustained,
piano-driven,
a syncopated continuo,
rhythm-sectioned
amidst layers of percussion.
Adding edge,
a choir of brass and double reeds
amplify the piano’s jagged rhythms
providing impetus for
phrases to become longer and longer,
ratching up the tension,
ever-denying closure
until the batterie
delivers
a conclusive flourish.
Paramoudra
Pulse-figures of winds.
Motific cells of brass.
Both
negotiate a stream of
fractal-shaped tonality
expanding: contracting.
A blossom of fanfares
folding into
pulsating layers
of tuned percussion,
flutes and reeds.
A dance-like episode
absorbs a chorale.
Four horns in close harmony
against the continuing dance.
A duet of differences
flows into a cascade of chords
in closed and open forms.
The piano supports
brass-flourishing figures
before a final stillness.
Heartstone
In gentle reflection
the solitary piano –
a figure in a landscape
of collapsed harmonic forms -
presents in slow procession
the essence of previous music.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 12:41 PM UTC
It’s possible to speak too much to remember what your words mean.
And so is the two-fold danger faced by writers.
Danger is to pace a hole in the floor.
Danger is to stand until you can’t move anymore
like when shallow waves **** your feet into the sand.
So I try not to stand when I write.
I keep a narrow tack
without too many big words
which pedants use to dig great holes in the ground
–moats to keep others out–
or make you think they think big.
But anyone who reads knows about Icarus
and anyone with aims must beware:
to shoot directly upwards is to strike your own head
when like fate the arrow
returns to source.
You’re only as good as your mind,
your characters only as strong as you are.
—at least, this is true in so far as you know.
True in so far as they speak.
For to test them you must torque them
and twist at their cores,
and make opposing forces meet–
but only
as hard as you can.
This makes writing a hill slick with oil.
Insecure. Potential energy.
Potential failure
seated
in all of that grime
that cakes your toes like grease that coats
the teeth of great industrial gears.
So I try not to stand when I write.
But whether the better take comes when you plunge
and you slide and dissolve like so much ice,
I must say I don’t know,
the thought
seems nice.
But the same
It seems like those who let go
Are the ones
with the least to say.
I can't decide
either which way.
All I know about writing is
most sentences are punctuated wrongly.
The period is certain,
but writing is undecided.
It is the figuring-out, a quest-bound troop
that moves with all its own fanfare.
Question marks curl up—
invisible smoke on a summer coal fire:
heat twisting the air like irons in stoke
giving sign of the transformations there withheld.
For fire mediates matter,
so writing stands ever-between.
But I’ve spoken too much and I don’t know what these words mean.
And so I fold like there’s danger in writing,
while danger is imagined like borders on a continent.
Danger is thinking
I'm dangerous enough to keep silent.
Like shallow waves,
given way to sand.
So avoid letting voids form
where the mind dismisses confrontation to more capable smiths.
Writing is –at best– an attempt.
Even with shallow structures
in rhythmic din,
the silent breaks by force of pen,
and all because of the simple fact
that quiet refuses to bend.
All I can hope is my writing upholds these unknowns
while I try not to stand.
But you ask about writing?
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
Inside the Rainbow Forest
Where unicorns are born,
And fairy dust floats on the air
From sundown until dawn,
There dwells in royal splendour
Yet very rarely seen,
The king of all the pixies
With his pretty pixie queen.
His palace is a mushroom
As tall as any tree,
With bright red spots upon it
That will make you squeal with glee.
A winding golden staircase
Stretches to the very top,
In a mesmerizing spiral
That you think will never stop.
All those brave enough to climb it
Would soon chance upon a door,
With the most enormous knocker
That you really ever saw.
One hard tap summons the butler,
A polite and friendly gnome,
Serving tea and fondant fancies
That will make you feel at home.
Through a maze of vaulted chambers
Each more lavish than the last,
Passing walls lined with the portraits
Of kings from the distant past,
That dear gnome shall gently guide you,
With much merriment and song,
To the Great Hall of his master
Who resides there all day long.
From beneath a silver archway
Set with precious gems galore,
You will enter to the fanfare
Of ten trumpets, maybe more.
Dainty apple blossom petals
Shall be scattered at your feet,
As you bow your head in homage
To the king you are to meet.
With a heart bursting with wonder
You will hastily be brought,
To the throne of his most highness
Far across the royal court,
Threading through the marble towers
Of an ornate colonnade,
And a troupe of prancing dragons
With their riders on parade.
Seated high upon a pumpkin
In a matching orange gown,
Curly shoes of bright green velvet
And an elderflower crown,
The king shall bid you welcome
With a beaming toothy grin,
As he beckons to the minstrel
For the music to begin.
With his beard like cotton candy
Waving wildly in the air,
As he slides down to embrace you
From atop his lofty chair,
Both your arms shall link together
To the fiddler's merry tune,
Clicking heels and laughing loudly
As you skip around the room.
In the magic of the moment
You will give yourself to fun,
As the mischief making monarch
Tweaks your ears and cracks a pun,
All those cares your heart now carries
Shall dissolve and simply be
Lost in wondrous celebration
Of a pixie jamboree!
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 6:38 PM UTC
Your left claims my right’s rest—
knuckles hum, sweat salts the air.
Sharps snag—a tangle—undressed,
metronome skips our heart’s fanfare.
Breath clots where sighs arrest,
heel hooks what the pedal bare.
Skin maps chords upon our *******
Teeth script scores we swear.
May 6, 2025
May 6, 2025 at 9:30 AM UTC
As I walked the hills I heard the horns
The stamp of steeds and cry of a hound
I ran towards that iconic call
The hunt was on, I knew the sound
As I watched the fox run and hide
A magnificent creature sleek and fine
The thought intruded upon me
And created an image in my mind
What greater event could I encounter
Of the pursuit of love that I here had
The pursuit of something beautiful
called forth with trumpets and fanfare
Chased by all and caught by few
Tracked and then lost, joy and despair
The chase of the fox
Woman, seductive and coy
Pursued by gross beasts
Determined man and boy
For love like that fox is wily and sly
Catch only a glimpse before it flies by
Sleek and slender a thing of great worth
Pursued by all to bring home to the hearth
For love outside your possession has no value
Home it must reside to bring satisfaction to you
Jul 27, 2022
Jul 27, 2022 at 3:47 PM UTC
building purist æsthetic
proselytizing solar-powered heliolatry
commemorating historic concert
sensing dark forces
fokken lekker antwoord
pumping sensory overload
featuring high-tech dee-jay
admiring gelato micro-truck
laxing laying lazing
"doing something nasty"
continuing quality content
entering another cathedral
journeying without borders
"exactly one year
since visiting vatican"
appreciating full-time gigasphere
awaiting pyongyang performance
depicting unlikely crowdsurfer
foreseeing exponential improvements
furthering esoteric agenda
sensing profound incompatibility
data-mining people's infidelities
anticipating futuristic caffeine
perfecting invisible propaganda
researching mind-control techniques
polishing psycho-social weaponry
sensing social embargo
flourishing frantic fanfare
admiring longitudinal monument
parodying marketing slogans
cycling through österreich
eyeing dystopian disneyland
streaming crosswords extended-play
herding glass kittens
deleting idiosyncratic fragment
loremipsum-ing laconic loudmouth
receiving ultramodern telegram
eigo-ga wakarimasu ka?
guzzling duck-fat fries
encouraging panic selling
(juxtaposing past incarnations)
getting black-and-white privilege
renewing boutique account
relishing cinema poutine
re-entering hibernation mode
opening old windows
continuing zoo motif
absquatulating excessive excesses
nullifying originality claims
proliferating protean persona
disappearing sidewalk alphabet
shrugging opprobrious moments
enjoying vertical alignment
re-entering cyberpunk paradise
approaching island sun
soaring beyond monoliths
trivializing extraneous argy-bargy
decreasing character limits
dumping generic accounts
uglifying commit message
escaping into idiosyncracy
moonshining great lake
exuding idiosyncratic propaganda
living nineties' dreams
making occidental cuisine
envisioning idiocratic president
expropriating your time
ascending homely helix
singing fat lady
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 12:12 PM UTC
[Fanfare, obviously]
This poem should begin with the call of a bugle,
as is fitting for an ode of Braveheart Macdougal.
Children of Parklands, take heed and be wary,
as I relate now, in verse, a tale cautionary.
Benigna Murdie was a most virtuous lass,
blesséd with promise and a penchant for sass.
To peer pressure she was admirably immune,
and ne'er did she bow to the temptation of goon.
Nary a drop of ***** has e'er passed her lips,
save for politeness and church-mandated sips.
Yet even the mightiest fall-- what a pity!
(harder than I did that night in the city).
So I hope you all glean a moral from this,
and your interpretation does not go too amiss.
But all is self-evident, to quote Descartes,
so allow me to recount this tale from the start.
She hails from a country renown for their piety,
for their pacifist ways and universal sobriety.
The Scottish are known throughout the land
for their temperance of character and lightness of hand.
And our poor Bennigles was no rule-exception,
she subscribed quite wholly to this perception.
A more reserved and reclusive girl you've not seen,
virtually a saint at only nineteen.
Passed out on the couch, liquor was never the root,
only strain from the studying and academic pursuit.
A paradigm of virtue, a pillar of purity,
no “that's-what-she-said's” to compromise maturity.
But that all changed one day touched by fate,
when Rachel realized that hedonism's great.
She took to the streets to revel in her glee,
and legit nothing bad happened cause this isn't tv.
Alas, now I'm drunk and the screen is a-shaking,
perhaps of wine I should halt my partaking.
I cannot continue with this facetious ode,
as we all well know that this is a total load.
But I'll miss you, my Brit, and our shitshow nights,
our Australian exploits and your culinary delights.
Sorry I couldn't finish to detail your demise,
but perhaps I'll conclude after an Australia-reprise.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 6:20 AM UTC
A holy dip in a river, revere you may,
Or any philanthropic act may it be,
Only wisdom finds divine salvation,
From cynic cycles of birth and death,
Believe in boundless bliss beyond ….17
Relish respite in temple serene,
Cherish in the shadow of a tree,
Squat or lie on a flat ground,
Renounce worldly comforts,
Peace prevails in plenty.
Believe in boundless bliss beyond ….18
Dwell you may, in ecstasy,
Of fanfare and fortitude,
Attached to materialism,
But, to revel in the divine bliss is;
The only redemption of lingering life.
Believe in boundless bliss beyond ….19
Delve into the divine discourse of deliverance,
Sip the holy drops of sacred rivers,
Worship the lordship of Almighty
The Lord of Death dare not pinch you.
Believe in boundless bliss beyond …20
Pangs of birth, panic of death,
Over and over, again and again,
Make one and all sick and sullen.
Cultivate divine diary of deeds,
Enroll the ultimate bliss of eternity.
Believe in boundless bliss beyond …..21
He who cogitates cool inward,
Be content with what he has,
Contempt to what he has not,
May look like an innocent child,
Or an indecent mad cap outward.
Believe in boundless bliss beyond …..22
Question yourself –
Who are you and me?
And other kith and kin?
There lies delusion in delight,
Of experience and exposure,
Of trials and tribulations,
Ending up in ****** dreams.
Believe in boundless bliss beyond 23
Almighty is all pervasive,
In you and me and all around,
To be furious is to be foolish,
Drop ego; uphold equality& equanimity,
As the best way to sacred sanctum
Believe in boundless bliss beyond 24
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 7:44 AM UTC
Up in the air the parachute went
Droplet in gold and came in a box being sent
The Gold parachute shined from above
There were many ideas one could think of
As the parachute dropped down
The parachute sparkled all around
Two couples kissing in the parachute in descend
A romance being started from a different kind of blend
A parachute reading, “SPREAD LOVE TO ALL”
Also underneath caption, “WITH LOVE SOMETIMES YOU FALL AND YOU MUST GET UP AND NOT LET IT BE A STALL”
The parachute descended safely down to land
It became its own fanfare.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 1:57 PM UTC
Object of my love,
My heart aflutter high,
Your auburn eyes paint a never-ending sky.
Your sweet lilac perfume,
gently breathes down my neck,
and your arms pressed delicately around my side,
one more kiss
is all I ask.
You give to me,
an oasis in a desert,
sunlight breaking night,
and emotions now become,
all the more enjoyable.
Life's motions
set my endurance high.
Now,
my heart slows,
my breath sighs,
my eyes soften,
and all around me
is the brilliant fanfare of love.
Mend the wounds unto me from my life,
and sew together my broken pieces,
with kindness
and love.
Steal my nights away,
sleep's another moment
not spent with you.
I've been given grapes,
give it some time,
now I want wine.
Jun 9, 2010
Jun 9, 2010 at 12:24 PM UTC
Stinky and Hinky
Both egregious pigs
Set out to **** us all;
They don't care a fig
If all of us starve to death
As long as they get rich.
Stinky and Hinky
Each a venal summabitch!
Stinky hired Hinky
Two minds, one sewer.
Stinky had no talent
But Hinky was newer.
Many people doubted
That either had a chance
But over half the voters
Chose to skip the dance.
So we got two reprobates
With no regard for us.
So, without much fanfare
And no legitimate fuss
The country got overrun
Crooks got left in office.
Now they all are setting out
To, once and for all, off us.
Stinky is a *****
And Hinky is a bigot.
They crap on the Constitution.
And expect us all to dig it.
Stinky uses the USA
As his personal ATM.
Hinky is just evil.
We’ve had enough of him.
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 5:22 PM UTC
You wait on the smooth and shiny floor
of the arrival area with mixed feelings,
you're a groom expecting his bride
to be led to him slowly and unscathed
on the sliding plastic pieces of carousel.
You think about how relieved you are
for making it out of the plane,
how you managed to mumble
an indistinct farewell to
the pretty flight attendants
that filled your in-flight fantasies.
Then you also think about
the last time you came through this airport
and your luggage did not arrive;
how the uncountable footsteps
and phone calls yielded nothing.
That's when little beads of sweat
begin to flock on your brow.
The first few luggage are discharged
through the small opening in the wall,
arriving with subdued fanfare on the carousel.
An all black Samsonite cruises by,
followed closely by a blue Nike sports bag
that puffs out its chest as if in a military parade.
Then a green and white plaid bag drifts by
and you wonder if the owner is from Ghana
or perhaps a proud Nigerian.
The plastic draped Travelpro catches your eye,
half torn to shreds - a good reminder
of the hazards of cargo handling.
Four minutes go by
and you've become a detective
swiftly and skilfully scanning the bags
as they drive by in their solemn procession.
Then you spot that red and black duffel bag
wearing your Mum's purple ribbon
and your eyes instantly light up.
Your cheeks push up in delight
and your lips become glued
in a perpetual clown smile.
As it moves close and you pick it up,
you notice the early rays of light
that have begun to filter in
through the concrete slits in the wall.
Suddenly you realize:
what a great day it is!
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 8:11 AM UTC
The sun, a heavy spider, spins in the thirsty sky.
The wind hides under cactus leaves, in doorway corners. Only the wry
Small shadow accompanies Hamlet-Petrouchka's march - the slight
Wry sniggering shadow in front of the morning, turning at noon, behind towards night.
The plumed cavalcade has passed to tomorrow, is lost again;
But the wisecrack-mask, the quick-flick-fanfare of the cane remain.
Diminuendo of footsteps even is done:
Only remain, Don Quixote, hat, cane, smile and sun.
Goliaths fall to our sling, but craftier fates than these
Lie ambushed - malice of open manholes, strings in the dark and falling trees.
God kicks our backsides, scatters peel on the smoothest stair;
And towering centaurs steal the tulip lips, the aureoled hair,
While we, craned from the gallery, throw our cardboard flowers
And our feet **** to tunes not played for ours.
2.6k
She said I was her second favorite.
Not that she'd met a better man,
but that way she left room for
improvement.
She wanted to believe in fidelity
like someone wants to believe
in Jesus or pure justice.
She asked my complex thoughts--
the wordless ones. I asked for an explanation.
She only stared, and I realized I
couldn't tell if her eyes were
green or blue.
She stabbed her ice with a straw
and told me to stop calling it love--
what we were making. That was
fine. I had a few other terms in mind.
She said nightlife and fanfare were
for homosexuals. So, we spent
most evenings eating Chinese takeout
in a rented room.
She vomited on the Fourth of July,
while fireworks erupted. I sat in
a lawn chair, and tried to remember
how she looked in that black A-line dress.
She needed to know my plans for our future.
I said there were endless open doors in front of us.
She said she only heard the sound of a door
closing behind.
She was a free spirit. And I "put it on trial."
She said she needed me
to change the channel.
She said when we ended -- and we would end --
I'd learn a valuable lesson:
a woman is the only creature
that doesn't have to die to haunt you.
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 2:20 AM UTC
SUMMER MARCHES IN
(Movement no. 1)
It comes crashing down
like doom.
A martial fanfare
begins a long conversation
questioning fate,
arguing for the human condition,
and for death's open invitation,
which we dare not deny.
WHAT THE MEADOW FLOWERS TELL ME
(Movement no. 2)
Their blooming voices
are oboes and lush violins.
The sun is surely brassy bright
in the sky above.
Radiant alpine flowers
and woodwinds
from deep within their burrows
make the case
for a music well tended
and serenely fed
by sweet springs emerging from the depths
here below.
WHAT THE CREATURES OF THE FOREST TELL ME
(Movement no. 3)
The life force
tends to run amok.
Yet things do not fall apart,
the center still holds.
And though it is mundane -
pedestrian, at times -
we cannot deny the joy in this life,
nor do we wish to.
But know, traveler,
that submerged in every caldron of joy
is a small *** of darkness.
And it will find you
or you will find it -
not only because it is fated,
but for the sake of your sanity.
WHAT MAN TELLS ME
(Movement no. 4)
Here darkness sings.
Again the plucked string.
O Mensch!
You tell the tale!
You take this story
back to the mountain.
A woeful tale you bring,
but it is gilded with joy.
A chorus exalts your condition.
Deep is its grief,
but joy is deeper still.
WHAT THE ANGELS TELL ME
(Movement no. 5)
Bimm Bamm
Bimm Bamm
the children's choir
sweetly intones.
And what, pray tell,
do Angels have to say to us?
I've heard about love
I've heard about emptiness
I've heard about absence
without presence,
about nothingness and the void.
But I have never heard such singing!
WHAT LOVE TELLS ME
(Movement no. 6)
Sweet the air we breathe.
Pleasant the sights before us.
Words are stilled,
anxious thoughts banished.
There is nothing on Earth
or in Heaven
that disputes this sweet resolution
all the parts made whole
Nothing that could possibly
speak against it
(though French Horns will have
their interests heard).
But here it is.
The end.
O Mensch
come to your last and best
resting place.
Also sprach Gustav Mahler.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 9:19 PM UTC
War paint I always found unnecessary:
Gloss for manicured lipstick commercial princesses
Not of my kind.
And though I walk with shield, I am without armour:
Ramparts mere cheekbones,
Bare skin impressionable as snow.
Boot-print,
The mark I hated. My characters:
Frail tree rings, exposed to the chill night air.
Gold inlay frozen solid.
The fairly bound dream factory
Lies purple with melancholy.
It’s the world’s bruise. It colours sudden,
Shadowing the other side of the room
Where it paused, rare moth
Lighted upon my dark reflection,
A Mona Lisa dressed in black
And reminiscent of bobby sox.
Beauty without fanfare.
Stuff of woods: we do not glitter.
We don’t call out.
Our tongues are both dumbstruck bells.
Shy rabbits, we fold within ourselves
And sequester our secret pulp.
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 7:15 PM UTC
Faceless books relive life as pseudo-abbreviated scribes
the tip tapping of helvetica lies reporting banal times
falsified laughter coughed up between every three lines
Faceless books wasting precious time
gathering the masses for the fanfare of a couple of guys
and gals.
Crippled by conformity to fit within cyber-society for cyber-friends and cyber-lives, virtually living a virtual life without virtually living in the first place.
Posing pursed lips and filming grainy video clips
one-liners of the wall signers pretending to pretend to care to come off as they actually pretend to care to begin with.
Two hundred and plus empty entities and counting, the next person met can subscribe to my life now.
Feb 16, 2010
Feb 16, 2010 at 8:22 AM UTC
What if there's no truth
or the truth just sounds like lies
would you recognise it anyway
see through its disguise
Would you trumpet its arrival
play a fanfare in its name
or would you sneak in quietly
like a thief avoiding shame
Have you lost sight of whats important?
In our greatest hour of need,
will you stand up and be counted,
or count the profits from your greed.
What happened to integrity
common sense and pride
Did you give them up by choice
or were they forfeit when you lied
So keep your silver, Judas
it matter not how much you give
The truth of whats behind you
is with what you now must live.
Dec 5, 2010
Dec 5, 2010 at 7:24 PM UTC