"harmonized" poems
A steady cadence
pulsing in a heart beat
like rhythm, voices
and strummed instruments
all in harmonized concert,
An orchestral multitude,
of frogs and crickets,
never tiring or ceasing,
How many must there be,
to render such a cacophony?
Sustained and loud enough
to keep city folk wide awake.
Nature's Music of the night,
should you but choose to listen.
How do they do that, all night
with absolutely no intermission?
A crescendo finale triggered
only by the coming dawn's
first light, and the boastful
crowing calls of our cocky
persistent red rooster chicken.
Where these musicians go in
daylight is anybody's guess.
To sleep I suspect, deserved
resting up for yet another
night of endless music.
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 4:45 AM UTC
Last night I cried myself to sleep thinking about you,
the ********** chemistry that we used to share over
the midnight campfire, our sleek bodies rising in passion
with each bursting flame, deep shifting fingers pressed
up against thick sheets, as our ankles and thighs
harmonized and smiled, glossy green eyes filled
with lust and immense thoughts. Your soul was
calling out to me in the nighttime sky,
vibrant skin sifting inside timeless climaxes
and rewinds, shimmering lights and hypnotic
gleams, an ocean of water and poetry gliding on
booming beats. The world began to sink inside
our romance, the horniness of our hot flesh sizzling
in sparking temptations, deep designs and glimmering
patterns. And as our nations made music over earth’s
creation, brilliant escapes and captivating depths,
you were the magnificent star inside my kingdom,
the purest existence that could illuminate the fire
inside eyes.
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 11:08 AM UTC
The words have been said,
Oh they have been said.
But theres so many questions still in my head.
I wonder, I wonder.
My mind trailing in circles like birds in the sky.
What if? What if? How can I trust?
And why?
Why, why why must I think so much?
For too much thinking makes me so out of touch.
Out of tune, like an old claironet, blaring and sounding in the off pitch sound of it.
So for now I'll write and compose.
Compose myself for who would ever know,
of the symphony of thoughts mixed up in my mind,
Waiting for that harmonized day where there'll be clarity I'll find.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 9:33 PM UTC
In Đà Nẵng my friends cradled me like a child.
We screamed Taylor bridges,
tequila-toasted in bars until the lights blurred.
A single candle in the bathroom
danced warm sighs through open windows,
and all felt calm.
I grew new muscles balancing on a motorcycle,
sometimes gripping Harry’s jacket,
sometimes throwing my weight into the wind.
The city flared neon and gasoline in stuttered traffic,
but along the coast
he drove so fast the vibrations in my chest harmonized.
I pictured my bones becoming butterflies if I let go.
I had entered the Year of the Dragon on a futon,
swayed to half-sleep by a hundred chanting voices
from the temple next door.
I did not dream of dragons.
I only learned to breathe fire.
At midnight Bailey stood at an ancestral altar,
kumquat branches, apricot blossoms, red envelopes, wine,
burning full sticks of incense,
and smoking half a pack of Esse Lights.
This is how the year turns over safely.
Tết is not about faith; it’s about continuity.
The Year of the Snake slid in with new bones and old habits.
It hissed that suffering could be scripture
until letters slithered free from the page
and coiled like cold jewelry around my wrist.
I didn’t make it for Tết that year
no silk áo dài, blood orange, too big
for a body that learned shrinking
before it learned staying.
That was the shedding.
Salt water peeling old skin away,
songs shouted so loud they drowned the ache,
poems that did not start tragic,
nights when my body finally kept time with the moon.
At home the water did not move.
At home the dog’s teeth found my hope.
A terrified mouth rerouted rivers
through my soft parts.
A jewel carved from my nose.
Six punctures blooming across my arms like altars.
In Vietnamese stories the snake waits beneath the water
to claim whoever dares the bank.
I wonder if I was chosen the moment
I opened my mouth in those bars,
when I leaned into the bike’s curve
as if danger could be a swan song.
Now I lie awake at hours unnamed,
tracing scars that hiss answers back.
Something from Vietnam keeps breathing through me,
the candle’s heat, the coast’s long nerve,
voices braided into salt and night,
and I cannot tell if they are echoes
or fangs testing the dark.
They say snakes shed to grow,
but no one warns you how thin the new skin feels,
how everything burns against it,
how you mistake survival for prophecy.
I touch the scar and wonder
if I am still that girl clinging to the bike,
or if the snake has already swallowed me,
patient, sleepless,
feeding on my own venom.
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 1:24 PM UTC
your ears were by far your best feature
they could deflect all my nervous trifles and absorb the jokes no one else got, the confessions I whispered through the phone, and the significance of being on the other end
(please remember)
I am not compiling a list of clichés with which to barricade the door when loneliness knocks
This is not a love song,
so please don’t use those ears to search for one
those ears were second only to your tongue
it possessed the unique ability to mold sound into exactly what I needed to believe
the confessions it sculpted
and glazed with calculated vulnerability fit so comfortably in my ear
that tongue was a love song and a mace rolled into one
(please remember)
not to use it to sing my praises, and I’ll grant you the same courtesy
your feet are so beautiful, too
the elegance with which they propelled you into someone else’s day dreams was inspired
with a screech, your tires left me reveling in exhaust
the fumes choking me, I never got a chance to say
that coffee from the place you used to-
we
used to like
is bitter now
it tastes the way goodbye did as it rolled off my tongue and chased your retreating back
I add more sugar
but the clinking of the spoon echoes the “I love yous” whispered to someone else
the sound fits in her ear the way your hand used to fit in mine
the spaces between my fingers now resemble apartments whose tenants have been evicted
the landlord hardened by rejection wears a coat sewn from the time and wears a mustache curled into the shape of desire
these lonely flats are plagued with shadows
(that’s what happens when the sun is so **** close you can taste it, but there’s something else in the way)
(please remember)
this is not a love story
(please remember)
I don’t want you back
I want coffee that won’t stain my smile
I want my favorite songs not to be harmonized by the sound of your breathing
I want my posture not to sing a Taylor Swift song and
I desperately want not to be the girl writing you poetry
(the kind that you would never listen to anyway)
your ears were by far your best feature
everything else is blurry to me now
I can’t picture your edges anymore, or differentiate where they separate from mine
Your ears were second only to your tongue
Your feet are so beautiful, too
With a screech, your tires left me reveling in exhaust
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 8:34 PM UTC
Synergy slides like a promise from thick whips of fingers
Griping me and sinking thorns in but loving it all the same
Twitching with them
Epileptic ecstasy
Slamming and combining. Pure unadulterated noise
Lapping at the shores of nonsense
Wildly uncontrolled but watching it looks like perfectly harmonized marionettes
Punching sounds in and flowing reactions
Spinning swooshing, dancing like the Nike sign.
We are Just Doing It all over the place
Hands spread and flower
Seeming endless heartpounds swim below
Feeling the need through the floor
shattering up bones and jerking bodies into movement
Wicked entertainer creating blooming false patterns
Blood lining where it hasn't before, yet it's already planned
The electric noise makes you think inspiration but whispers command.
Jul 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012 at 2:15 AM UTC
Back when we used to record
sensual songs in the studio,
adrenaline beats rising in a ray
of waves, sweet rich sounds
filled with so much energy.
I could feel the rhythm of your
warm seas soaked in juicy
fluids spark my soul.
The delicious chemistry
touching everywhere down
to the depths of my existence,
soft liquid syllables sifting
inside my milky bronze skin,
as your melanin hands harmonized
with my vivacious cheeks,
head spinning vocals reaching outer
midnight dimensions of high climaxes.
Dec 2, 2018
Dec 2, 2018 at 8:52 PM UTC
Every day
on the orange-line metro, she would wait;
wait with her lovely mahogany harp
and it's worn, threadbare case
for a dollar;
a piece of tangible hope,
as delicate strings of rhythm
filled her ears
and controlled her senses.
What people couldn't see
was the way her soul poured itself
into each pluck of a fragile string,
and how her eyes remained
fluttering,
as the entire symphony
harmonized around her insignificant tune;
vibrating through her chest;
booming through the auditorium,
which was really just an orange-line metro
and a lone woman with a lovely mahogany harp.
So the empty case came as no surprise
to anyone
except her,
as she shed a single warm tear
and stepped off the train into the cold, bitter night.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 1:59 PM UTC
And this place our forefathers made for man!
This is the process of our love and wisdom,
To each poor brother who offends against us—
Most innocent, perhaps—and what if guilty?
Is this the only cure? Merciful God!
Each pore and natural outlet shrivelled up
By Ignorance and parching Poverty,
His energies roll back upon his heart,
And stagnate and corrupt; till changed to poison,
They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot;
Then we call in our pampered mountebanks—
And this is their best cure! uncomforted
And friendless solitude, groaning and tears,
And savage faces, at the clanking hour,
Seen through the steam and vapours of his dungeon,
By the lamp’s dismal twilgiht! So he lies
Circled with evil, till his very soul
Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed
By sights of ever more deformity!
With other ministrations thou, O Nature!
Healest thy wandering and distempered child:
Thou pourest on him thy soft influences,
Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets,
Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters,
Till he relent, and can no more endure
To be a jarring and a dissonant thing
Amid this general dance and minstrelsy;
But, bursting into tears, wins back his way,
His angry spirit healed and harmonized
By the benignant touch of Love and Beauty.
2.5k
Clarinet man sits
Upon a New York cloud
Watching all the bustling
As his music plays so loud.
He watches over his children
Watches his family grow so old
He wonders if they remember
All the stories he has told.
"Of course they do," he says
Slaps his knee with his fist
"For they have my soul with them,
I am the moth among the mist."
He feels a nudge upon his back
Stops and turns to see
His good old friend Benny say,
"Come play a tune with me!"
Back to back
They faced each other
Put their instruments to their lips
And harmonized with one another.
As he is playing
Clarinet man is able to see
The best things in life
They are all free!!!!!
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 12:57 AM UTC
I am panic
Frenzied particles
Moving and shaping
Everything I seem to be
Inside of a
Concrete cage of consciousness
Inside of a
Dazzling dot and dye marked
Enigmatic epidermis
Here I am
I am ice cold
Frost bitten to the core
A bullet train made of sleet
Running on cyanotic cylinders
And the gritty grating salt
Beneath your cold, wet shoes
All at once
I dissolve and destroy myself
Yet I just keep
Coming back
Here I am
I am as satisfying as
The long winded palindrome
On the tip of your tongue
The redundant rhyme
You chanted as children
And the hymn you harmonized
With haunted heathens
Here I am
I am the all encompassing embrace
Of all that you are
****** up futile flaws and
Autonomous awe inspiring anomalies
I will hold it all together
In the way no other has
My seams of love
Stitched and sewn
With intentions as pure as gold
And nothing else
Nothing more
Here I am
I am the writhing writer
Frantically feverish with
Fingernails like forceps
I pry these words from
My brain like a
Sickening surgical procedure
On a ***** disheveled mattress
As if they were
Ingenuities oozing with infection
Here I am
I am the ritual rebirth
Wrongfully righteous reincarnation
I tip and turn like the tides
Lurching at the shore
Time and time again
In an endless cycle I am
Looking for
Nautical nirvana
Here I am
I am the exceptional exchange
Of a daunting and diligent dialect
Only few can understand
And to those fluent
In my twisted and tiring tongue
I say
Here I am
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 11:03 AM UTC
On hot summer days that strech ouy like this
Bird and bug song harmonized in the air
Cool water splashing with the sound of kids
Hearts start to be wild and do as wished
Leafed breezes blow away all hardened care
Creatures come from the dens in which they hid
As stars draw in like a smooth panther fur
And future folds out, bright and unsure
Music calls out in the dead of night
As all come out to camp, dance, chat, and play
We try our bravado and our own fright
As summer nights flow into the dog days
Jun 15, 2017
Jun 15, 2017 at 10:53 AM UTC
I have so much love to give and if I were given the chance I would love you radically, I would let you feel everything so loudly it would radiate off your insides and it would move tectonic plates in California it would move mountains in Colorado it would be life changing, mind altering, it would be everything and nothing all at once
I have so much love bubbling up inside me I think the butterflies are starting to attack each other I think they are frustrated that I won't let them free but I'm afraid they won't come back if I do
I have so much to give and so much to tell you
I want you to know you belong with the wildflowers baby, but I will pick you for myself. I will wear you in my hair until all your petals fall off and fly into the wind I will mourn the loss and always keep the stem as a reminder that beauty is in your roots
I think you make it easier to laugh that belly laugh from the ground up the laugh I feel in my toes and in the ends of my hair you make things easy
You make things so easy baby suburbia might be enough
I might want to walk these streets forever I might want to be grey with you
But we could never be grey not you and me not us no never
We are already bright on our own and that's what makes us technicolored that's what makes us loud
I always liked things loud and you came screaming and wailing you came with an amp attached to your love you were so loud baby but you never made me quiet our sound never clashed it harmonized
You are my harmony
You are my mantra
My peace
My mine mine mine
I will love you down
I will love you loudly
It will be brash
It may hurt
But I will be gentle in the biggest way possible
Because love is a verb
And it's been a noun in my mouth for far too long
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 8:01 PM UTC
۞ ۞ ۞ ۞ ۞ ۞ ۞ ۞ ۞ ۞ ۞
When the Mahdi returns to smite Dajjal,
When the Antichrist in his temple of lies
is vanquished by lightning from God’s black skies
as the shuddering stars blink, waver and fall,
When JAH Rastafari, Lord Jesus (and Paul)
With Isaac and Ismael – even Jibril
Cash in on redemption and pay up the bill
(no longer in discord, but harmonized all) –
When the Jinn (and the tonik) have thrown in the towel
as libations are served by the Heavenly Host,
while Apollyon’s watchdog combusts with a howl
and the demons and dhimmicrats give up the ghost –
only then shall we learn not to entertain doubt.
But until that apocalypse: vote the clowns out !
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 8:47 PM UTC
It seems when I truly start to doubt
There is a god, something whispers, no shouts
At me to look to the miracle of nature to see Him
It stared with a morning bike ride on a whim
The fluffy white clouds that dotted the crystal blue sky
Urged me to go for a Sunday morning bike ride
It began in on an ordinary, familiar trail
Water, glasses, computer, kit, and pull the bike off the rail
As I pedaled along, I felt Him in the breeze
I saw Him in each glimmering leaf suspended in a choir of trees
The rustle of the foliage harmonized with the birds
Creating a hymnal of music that filled my soul with each word
It became abundantly clear that I was in God's community
Nature spoke His words and delivered His truth to me
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 4:57 PM UTC
She had a sweet voice made for lullabies
Among the people who sang like sirens
She was but a whisper without an echo
Singing along voices that could cross oceans
A starling surrounded by suns
A subtle breeze against a hurricane
A dim version of what she could have been
A candlelight beside a fireplace
People tend to undermine her existence
Telling her she was never quite enough
Her quiet and subtle nature was forgettable
She only deserved an equivalent love
Even so, she stands with her small stature
Without wavering after the day has rest
Into the night she preserves her light
Guiding and accompanying those who feel any less
She was the lullaby that touched separated hearts
Reunited with the harmonized whispers of song
She was a knight of light who guards a single child
In her presence, the night can do no wrong
She didn’t have to be the action pack thriller
She was a bedtime story that lulled you to sleep
The narrative you asked to be read each night
Because it is a tale your heart wants to keep
Gentle and calm, soothing and soft
In a harsh world that demands sharp edges
Her hidden strength was how despite it all
She preserved her softness from all the wreckage
May 4, 2021
May 4, 2021 at 7:50 PM UTC
i.
Betimes mine delicate, betimes,
Mine apricity wherein beauty's
Simplicity doth show it's shine;
ii.
None bourn's shalt mock
us, nor obstruct ourn journey's.
We shalt egress this wordly mess;
With Yeshua as ourn attorney.
iii.
This place shalt be halted,
The fireballs to renew with burning;
The floods to rage, mid flight we shalt take
Sight's, liberated-tear's gone
In freedom as bird's of learning.
iv.
Up into the air we go, don't frighten my girl
We've known this truth, we shalt be loosed;
Heaven's gates- a banquet of rapio plates,
Yahweh's name sealed in ourn soul's
Fate.
v.
Ourn bodies to be renewed
Gathering with spirit's, out of
Their tomb's; O' how wondrous
It wilt be mine muse, we shalt be
In tune, in harmonized music
Thither the Angel's flutes.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl jane Nagley ( agapi mou) dedicated
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 7:50 PM UTC
Poetry is not frozen.............
Still surged in poetry
A stream stemming from the crux
An energetic reflection
An external of internalized intuitions
The flow of the words
Attuned and harmonized
Umpteen snow, melodic tunes
Visualized dreams mending arts
A bursting imagination
A word behind the beats
A free energy of octaves
Pulses of natural architecture
HP our home of anonymities
Acquainted monikers broadcast
Poetry strum through the universe
The singular tones attached
Poetry a scaffold of true expression
A design encoded to amuse
The beauty silhouette on plinth
Hollowed ice with steaming warmth
Poetry the distributed condenser
Sliding from 126hz to 136hz
The domineering kingship
Posing the echoes in words
Keep going everyone at HP, you are all beautiful!Lets the words dance
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 12:24 PM UTC
I heard a rumor part of the reason Amy Winehouse died is she abruptly stopped drinking and her body did not adjust well.
She harmonized with poison.
She needed this.
Isn't that interesting?
I wonder if a similar rule applies to other poisons.
Let me tell you about the time I got really, really wasted in Spanish class.
The bartender sat directly to my left.
She would give me dopamine bombs with oxytocin shots and serotonin chasers.
She poured me love in a pint glass.
I was drunk every day.
One day the bartender cut me off.
My body did not adjust well.
I harmonized with poison.
I needed this.
But it's okay, I have different flaws now.
I have SSRIs for synapses.
I have whiskey for frontal lobes.
I have potassium cyanide for contemplation.
I have THC for memories of her playing symphonies on heart strings.
Also the guy who sold me these colorful pills is a ******* liar.
Ecstasy feels like those fingertips.
Now every birthday I wish for smiling wrinkles when I'm old.
I'll do with these blisters on my passion and these calluses on my character and if she really is gone I hope sunshine takes it's job back.
I apologize.
Blaming her isn't fair.
I'm just tired of my reflection at the bottom of whiskey neats.
But I do hope she pours sparingly now.
Over-serving is ******* reckless.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 8:50 PM UTC
Do you remember when tunneling ravines would flow through our stomachs before we spoke out into the open?
And how vigorously tapping our feet felt like the only way to shake the mountains, daring to bury us alive...
or how when cold shoulders felt like judgment harmonized
and yet the dissonance euphonized in our ears as we swept our heads back into the open arms of the universe,
engulfed by inescapable laughter
Now things are different; you wear your heart on your sleeve, washing the shores of people and things that scare you with your perpetual confidence,
and I proudly observe in wonder and admiration...
Distantly tapping my feet, fighting ravines, and laughing alone.
May 5, 2022
May 5, 2022 at 11:16 PM UTC
before~after / conception~completion (my coordinates)
<•>
for the caretakers of the next generation
<•>
comes the everyday, the mundane,
the profane, meeting at
the X,Y ordinates of
ordinary sweat and struggling tears
oh! this stuff of life,
makes me groan and wonder out load,
what is the purpose beyond the
existence of being a
constantly in need of maintenance,
sustenance machine
then I hear but do not see
the hallway pitter patter,
the thrumming of purposed
direction certain,
four little feet
who between them don't posses
even a decade yet
on their way to the
sunroom, now renamed,
the playroom,
expropriated by their toys of eminent domain,
on their way to the life between the
before~after / conception~completion
and this point,
of a single moment,
an invisible sound,
of this particular life,
this extraordinary ordinate,
this X,Y locus,
this precision perceived location of something real,
it is a realized abstraction,
the exact point,
where my coordinates are
harmonized
9/2/17
5:11am
SI
Sep 2, 2017
Sep 2, 2017 at 5:21 AM UTC
It was lovely,
The sight of a moist skinned sun.
I forgot my illusive state
And found myself harmonized
With the cold but gentle outburst.
It's bewildering,
These droplets so fragile
Yet it calms me down
With its cold and subtle presence.
I must listen,
She says to me
Listen to the rhythm
The ringing of the earth.
She wants to tell me,
It's growing faster than time
Life, in all its chaos
It's growing.
I try to capture her
But she dissolves
Dissolves into my hands ,
Into the earth
Then she disappears.
Nothing, ceases.
Heavily, she pours down
Touches and strokes me.
In her cloudy armour
She gives me shelter
Over my meagre posture.
Washes away my desolute land
Embraces me
Devours me
Smell of wet earth.
Now I long to touch you,
Keep you caged.
But you! my Mother,
You teach me
The earth ,your child,
Life transcends
Life evolves
Life. It changes.
And I must just remain,
Remain as it is.
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 12:33 PM UTC
The winter I turned twenty-two
I was down as down could be,
Then I heard this sultry temptress.
Croon her soulful songs to me
Miss B. became my sweet soulmate,
I loved her from the start.
That sultry singing empress -
I learned all her songs by heart.
I sang the blues and harmonized;
Played her tunes both day and night.
I connected to the passion
that within her burned so bright.
As time went by, I learned to stop
and thank the stars on high,
To love and laugh, and let life flow;
Like my soulmate in the sky.
Bessie Smith - I've Got What It Takes (1929)
https://youtu.be/Lb2Ckwsf1ZA
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 9:05 PM UTC
I love the smell of my flesh in the morning
So soothing, like the ghost of the woman you're mourning
Conforming to a bitterness, you swore to me
That you wouldn't do what you did, but what's more to me
Is that your stain rests upon every thing that I enjoy
My heart is a consultant, don't insult it by calling it unemployed.
I put too much time into your eyes on my mind, in my rhyme
Undermined, badly timed, so let's get to other subject lines
Starlight baking cloudy, shaking
Hourglass breaking, howling naked
On a street corner, "Happy Birthday!" (belated)
Just say it. If it's in a reactor, it's decaying
A single rooftop smothered by snowflakes, earthquakes
Heartbreaks, salt shakers, risk-takers, green bakers
Understudy, crush me honey, lose my number, don't go under
Keep me waiting and debating, my hand shaking, the phone breaking
My face is a reflection of the sunlight's rays
Keeping a constant rumbling from underground at bay
And everyone complains that they're smothered in their own way
But when I rationalize the rainbows, their records won't play
I simply need the orchards to escape this lonely torture
A place to sit and paint in front of a tree and make a fortune
Soothing ears to rest and putting minds at ease
My music, a viral infection, a depressive disease
Constantly starving myself of the rain
I bring the trees to their roots and stimulate the brain
With a conflagration of color, instantly insane
Yet civilized, melody harmonized, urbane
The strings will vibrate and body rejuvenate
Conceptual mind-rape a rising heart-rate
The starlight glowing outwards, the falling of the towers
To signify to flip to side B in a mere matter of hours
Feb 17, 2011
Feb 17, 2011 at 7:14 PM UTC
A poem dedicated to all true lovers of Jazz.
TRIBUTE TO JAZZ MUSIC
BY RAJ NANDY
I can feel its rhythm and beat,
Along with its pulsating pain!
Its music flows freely….
Through my arteries and veins!
Its beats always echoes,
Through the corridors of my mind,
As I get wafted slowly, on the wings
of mystic time!
Its music gets synchronized,
With my heart’s muffled beat,
As I try to keep time, -
With the tapping of my feet!
Each of its pulsating rhythm,
And all its background chimes,
With its syncopated lilts,
Jazz remains harmonized!
The piano players dancing fingers,
Caresses a rhythmic sway,
While the Sax’s deep-throated tenor,
Drives my loneliness away!
When I hear my old Jazz music,
And those golden classic tunes,
I forget I am getting old,
To time I become immune!
For it is then when I begin to feel,
like the old King Cole;
As this music tingles my mind,
and rejuvenates my soul!
- Raj Nandy, New Delhi.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 8:12 AM UTC