"harpsichord" poems
Well-tempered
As Bach's staccato joy takes hold
Of Book 1: Prelude No. 3
A clavier so mild, calm
Lagavulin-scented air
Peat moss, weather fair
The happy harpsichord
And the placid piano
Join in my glass
Mingling, giving the whisky
A nuance
Of elegance
Balancing the burn
Excellently
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 4:38 PM UTC
Heaven
. . . Have Mercy . . .
Rest, rest, rest, for ye be none,
pitiful Fallen One.
Quivering bows flow over grave strings
bassoons and basset horns ring
pounding timpani’s announce:
Master of the Holy Choir
- - Renounced - -
Vain, fluttering heart
sublimely denounced, scorned;
fouled, ousted:
Horned.
Wailing strings, bassoons,
basset horns, thundering kettle drums
lift angelic voices to glorious requiem.
Pleas for Eternal Light’s remain
in wings refrain.
Heavenly Chorus' cradle to sustain,
mercy to soften
disdain.
The Holy Oracle contests --
to no avail.
Siblings’ choir protests.
Beauty beyond measure,
Angel of pure, Divine tessitura,
Absolution for Thee?
Foretellers of dark illusion
open Holy Scriptures to reveal
the drone of Eternal Damnation:
trumpets of ill
drag Thee to Hell.
Deep, ephemeral rhythms
exalt dancing strings,
seal destinies -- Kiss The Almighty King.
Glory be unto His Majestic Reign,
Will Supreme,
Tremendous,
Powerful, Holy Being.
Scribes record,
recite this dreadful day,
condemn Thee: Fallen One.
trumpets lament, strings mock
this unholy, forbidden way.
Bows flutter -- a memoir
of redemption.
Cries of confusion
dissipate
into muffled choirs,
murmurings
of deliverance.
Delicate chants
beg for forgiveness;
a Soul’s salvation, fusion.
To no avail!
Turbulent strings strike the Holy Duel
in wrath, writhing hatred,
majestic wings tumble --
twist to wrenched ******
Death devours, Birth becomes
the Fallen One.
Angelic dissolution --
distraught, agonized Ethereal,
Eternally beautify
these ghostly, trembling
winds, strings, harpsichord, drums.
Voices of brotherhood remembered,
cushion Angel’s earthly descent.
Breathe into infantile genius
heavenly symphonies
to sweeten a life
trapped, scorned,
condemned,
mourned
Love of God: Amadé
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 11:02 AM UTC
You are beautiful and faded
Like an old opera tune
Played upon a harpsichord;
Or like the sun-flooded silks
Of an eighteenth-century boudoir.
In your eyes
Smoulder the fallen roses of out-lived minutes,
And the perfume of your soul
Is vague and suffusing,
With the pungence of sealed spice-jars.
Your half-tones delight me,
And I grow mad with gazing
At your blent colours.
My vigour is a new-minted penny,
Which I cast at your feet.
Gather it up from the dust,
That its sparkle may amuse you.
3.3k
@---\\---
i will hear
a classic piece
that my soul may rest
music soothes
the savage beast
which writhes
within my breast
the light begins
with violins
a lovely harpsichord
then came in
some flute!
woodwinds!
a winsome building chord!
finding my direction
back to a place that's fair
finding my connection
to a friend
who's there
finding my companion
in a friend who's free
music is the bastion
AND ALWAYS WILL BE
soulsurvivor
(c) 6/17/2015
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 8:49 AM UTC
poetry masquerades under too much
freedom of ineffective
politics, which it does not which to
engage with, namely it's own:
far-left mummification,
the far left mummified its heroes,
the far right cremated theirs...
one took the route to
Prometheus absence as subsequent
lack of camp-fire eagerly hell-bent;
what truth is woman? the woman worthy
of socio-political affairs, or affairs
of paranoid idealism signature sentenced
as counter-argument with haircut stylistics
and tattooing? a healthy visible status,
rather than an unhealthy counter, status
or no status, one ascribed the guillotine phobia,
the second a necessary Buddhist heroism -
both left reward-lost: dream of troll maidens,
dream of perfected bedroom antics with
so much **** reducing acting to naught
and theatre to desperation with the ignited
insignia of bureaucracy rather than
bored harpsichord rebels hash tagging
emily davison for bets and awareness in having
monopoly - of her beauty i'll speak but little,
am i the shopkeeper, the merchant,
easier under the Niqab than for her fancy of ******
taking place... dreadlocks un-kept,
and three signatures on lips that made kissing
a pain... removed, thus revenged...
if i knew woman i'd have kept one...
but since i know none, i kept cats, bypassing women
and imagining children; and all the better
for my liking, such that the world shrunk
to the size of Lichtenstein - oh but the few
buttered friendships are there to be spoken off
in old age... the few that remain have already leveraged you
to bite the worm closest to the heart,
in times when educating yourself equated itself to being shamed;
when education became shame and trivia quizzing,
when education became Latin bulimia
and even that didn't fertilise the earth to spawn
the awaiting, unearthed root for what came to be
known as the chattering colour: as death stood,
in its wintry palace, jokingly mannequin.
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 8:31 PM UTC
When I write down your “nanananas” and “lalalas”
I cannot make it sound like a melody:
you have a voice
and I only have fingers that cannot play the harpsichord
feet that stumble over themselves, while yours
stumble over strings and vowels and pretty breaths.
I prayed to God just so he would tell me
how to explain the way you lace symphonies together
white drugs laced with a more dangerous one
you exhale vanilla and formaldehyde
and your hiccups win first prize.
You remind me that we are all healing but we cannot all
throw our bodies in Lynches River
or Lake Pontchartrain
because there are not enough black garbage bags.
You remind me
not to swallow cement
so I get filled up with ***** instead.
I hope that you do not drink too much water
to make room for pink milkshakes and doughnut holes
so honored to be inside you they
reach up and hold your voicebox like a shooting star,
I hope that you are selfish sometimes
like when I read my words just as you would sing them.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 3:38 PM UTC
Anticipation is like a former actress who eagerly awaits a future prospect, where delicate wallflowers hang with certain fortitude.
Similarly, our medieval ancestors played the harpsichord, whilst later English Baroque flaunted her chauvinistic flamboyance to those who fluttered their eyelashes in the name of socio-economic harlotry.
I am pleased to meet your acquaintance, my friend of gallantry.
However, the roots of Portugese expression are conveyed in the aristocracy of our heritage.
As purity is the laughing stock of assumed independence, and pride is buried in lascivious presumption, we must remember that the classical piano shares an Arabesque flavour which stands in juxtaposition to our Saxony.
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC
**Gee, You’re So Beautiful
That It’s Starting to Rain**
Oh, Marcia,
I want your long blonde beauty
to be taught in high school,
so kids will learn that God
lives like music in the skin
and sounds like a sunshine harpsichord.
I want high school report cards
to look like this:
Playing with Gentle Glass Things
A
Computer Magic
A
Writing Letters to Those You Love
A
Finding out about Fish
A
Marcia’s Long Blonde Beauty
A+!
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 7:10 PM UTC
Come in! Come in! Enter into the viral abyss of the ages.
Give thanks to the astrological signs in the name of the ancient wisdom of the oak tree.
Smouldering coals convey their warm and glowing connectedness in a medieval village, whilst the screeching owl swoops into the lofty turret of the olde English churchyard.
Will you pay homage to the proclaimed majesty of Anglican monarchy? Dare you submit your soul to the authority of King Henry VIII in the guise of what is deemed to be Catholicism? Listen: Thatch your roof my naïve friend of putrid beauty – the real plague is already upon us. Can’t you feel the tangible octaves of the harpsichord?
The rhythm of midnight will never deplete in her resounding cries throughout the universe.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:45 PM UTC
Are you able to feel the depth of the forest, where wisdom screeches throughout the branches of the olde English cemetery.
The harpsichord is majestic in its historical and royal sexuality.
Render your ****** taxes unto the so-called order of the sophisticated wilderness.
I am perplexed at what we have been conditioned to believe.
But the Church of England is now obsolete.
Thank modernity for relativism if you so desire.
But understand this: The foliage of humanity will never be swept under the metaphorical carpet of autumnal bewilderment.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:37 PM UTC
Dead plains
Open air
My baby, my K,
Smells of lavender petals,
Defined despair.
A known
Vowel howls
Like she does at night.
Turning right she lights
All former antiquities
Prove wrongful due regularity.
A pressing matter topples
Next to the standing tower of rubble.
Grey stubble tumbles
Like hours out of the hands of a clock.
A kaleidoscope of horror
Makes the mind entrenched in narrow.
She tells me the name
Of a former lover of another
That pressed no buttons, rubbing
Everything
The wrong way.
We compare, we see a sea of troubles
Illuminating nothing but the past,
Never meant to be free.
Trees shallow swinging singing
Like scythes across the yard.
Burgundy yarn weaves through my heart,
Cold as you were today,
I got nothing else to say.
Pressing matter, dear dead hatter.
Craziness is a beauty
Only the Cleopatra's of the world
Have to truly suffer.
Cradle me naked, cradle me dreamed',
Ain't no love like the
Broken sick and broken hearted'.
At least the darkness
Harkens thee dead ghosts of
Former lives forgotten.
Grey gravestones smell like
Roses given my former lovers;
Each hour with her is
One that will never be forgotten.
Present pasts pass me in the
Mirror; these shop windows are all colored
Green.
Caretaker saint, apple apricot skate, a
Note for the doctor stating
All is forgiven, all is about.
I remember the dream,
Shallow and filled with steam.
Fine patent leather, stitches and cream.
She pressed her face to mine,
Like silk string woven into seams.
Nothing is the matter.
Nothing passes the time.
Dylan hurls the harpsichord,
Gripping the nails,
Repositioning the boards.
The ice was to thick to climb,
The snow to heavy to see through.
Where you see your life is
What you think you can do.
Books on fire.
Trains of heavy steam.
Life is nothing but
An unforgettable dream.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 6:09 AM UTC
I was told not to love another woman
I was told not to **** any man
so I thought about books when I laid in my hammock with lemonade
how I wanted one with a spine as long as mine
to finger in the dark of a moonless night, rather than myself
or any mermaid-girl who dripped with water like loose gemstones.
Her stories were what I would read and her body
I would imagine swimming to the harpsichord of a fantasy film song
effervescent, but never touched by anyone
even a fellow without blowfish thorns for fingernails
as smooth as hardback covers, as permanent as paperback pages.
And I grew up, and I did love another woman
and I did **** a man
but I still remember the mermaid-girl who had paper fins
and an all-consuming love for splashing ink like an ocean’s brine.
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 4:11 PM UTC
Anonymous!
Tell me what's her name my friend.
The one who stole your heart away.
Noisy siren, snatched your beautiful heart.
Entrapped in words ideal.
She powered by a pen.
Ignited by war my child.
Sometimes fired from summer sun.
Winter rain.
Hailstones biting.
Causing pain.
Sometimes cruel and vile.
Human love discarded.
Dumped on the pile
Words strung on a harpsichord score.
Lost love has a date with destiny.
Destiny wholly untrue.
Two anonymous writers.
Write day and night.
Sort of seeking recognition.
Potential footsteps lead to perdition.
Hope and pray not.
Their only prey is words.
My soliloquy she cries in solitude.
Solipsist by choice.
In her sophistication!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 3:44 AM UTC
Palingenesia sits in canopy view,
a spectrum of emerald across convex corneas,
sinking in helicoid spirals...
Come light this match under this petal!
and
Perch atop this mushroom!
and
Shred this leaf down a hydrogen avalanche!
...a puma languidly strolls into lush valley's golden cup,
traversing caverns dusted in soft twilight.
reverberations of sound waves,
echo-y crystal thunder
quakes mountain and sky,
blended like soft clay
through harpsichord fingertips.
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 10:52 AM UTC
There is a secret I can't tell anybody.
It bursts from within me,
boiling my insides and
scratching on my heart.
It explodes out of me and
immediately,
it turns to mist.
It must.
There is a secret I can't tell anybody.
Secret stolen words
being played on a harpsichord
or a harmonica.
Which one is it?
Both touch my heart,
either in a beautiful spring song
or the lamenting notes of the blues,
coaxing my soul to sleep.
There is a secret I can't tell anybody.
Hidden in each drop of whiskey as we sing.
I still do cling to your picture for dear life.
Desperately.
Or is it slipped into the screws of my sunglasses. and hanging onto the fragments of my cut off jeans.
Seventeen. Seventeen.
Sixteen.
There is a secret I can't tell anybody. It's hidden in the way I feel when you touch my arm.
In between my heart strings when you hug me,
long.
Or the feeling deep down in the shank of my soul
when we say
***** you.
***** me.
***** us both.
and we'll both go to Hell.
Maybe for this secret,
maybe just to stay in love.
Can we please?
Stay in this raging sea?
There is a secret I can't tell anybody.
I will not tell a soul.
For if I do, I will only be causing the damnation of myself and this incarnate heart of mind.
But, I fear, I must talk to you about it. If I don't I will explode
and you will live with my guts on your face and my pulsating heart in the depth of your hand.
But,
I'm afraid if I do tell you my precious thoughts,
being vulnerable,
you will turn your back.
Like you usually do.
Like a bad habit.
Shatter it against the wall.
And you know I'm not the best guard of secrets.
Help me.
There is a secret I can't tell anybody.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 11:19 PM UTC
We have a treat for you all!
It's Captain Obvious and The No-duhs
With their newest hit single, "A picture of a picture"
How existential are they?!
They use a clavichord, a harpsichord
A mellotron along with an autoharp
And of course a theramin to express this song to the universe
I will say no more
Here they are, Captain Obvious and The No-duhs
"Hey, are you free today?"
"Hey are we still on for tonight?"
"Do you live in eternal
Or temporal time?"
"Lets look back on our
illegible live's highlights"
"I got a paper cut from a bookmark"
"But I haven't got a bastard's clue"
"If I should round to nearest tenth"
"Or pop all of the animals made from balloons"
"Now, I'm looking at a picture of a picture"
"And I'm truly the worst for wear "
"You missed the cut off date"
"You're camera shy so there"
"Hey, you wanna chill today?"
"Hey what you wanna do tonight?"
"Want to watch the changing of the tides?"
"Or take in a movie then go and grab a bite?"
"I disregard the label makers"
"And mark all the typos"
"Shorten all the long winded speeches"
"And smelt all the silver idols"
"Now, I'm looking at a picture of a picture"
"And I'm truly the worst for wear "
"You missed the cut off date"
"You're camera shy so there"
"Knit me a sweater of vanity and greed"
"Sew me a lust and sloth tapestry"
"Croshay me a hat of envy and wrath"
"Macramé me a bracelet of gluttony"
"Now, I'm looking at a picture of a picture"
"And I'm truly the worst for wear "
"You missed the cut off date"
"You're camera shy so there"
-Tommy Johnson
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 5:52 PM UTC
There has to be disharmony said the
man with the harpsichord and the barrel
***** played as the pet monkey swayed and the handle turned back to the start.
In the rush to begin the mad grin of the old man stood out by a mile and the smile on the face of the other in the race was wiped clean by the starter who fired the gun, tunes ran through the long queue of men who smoked pipes like they still were in style and the thrill of the chase was not lost in the pace as the tunes ran on in the night,
in the morning when flagging the tunes started lagging behind, but the monkey being blind saw nothing at all and heard only the barrel ***** grind.
The harpsichord man drew a sword and he ran just a little bit faster that day,
no monkey
no sway
no *****
no grind
no body to find,
disharmony wins the day.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 8:42 PM UTC
Transient action
I wonder if he wanted to
Geometrically pinpoint constellations
Pastel hues in a camouflage fashion
Springtime daisy blooms
What wicked way comes
If she thought she could auto not
It was a choir singing harpsichord
In street trash gutter subterfuge
The tops of trees swayed in the winds
With the gated cage striations
Jan 10, 2017
Jan 10, 2017 at 7:43 PM UTC
How the struggles served to strengthen my love for you
and faith that I am standing inside your enhancement walls
In sleep, a calmness washed over me,
White oceanic noise,
Ebbing and flowing like
Earth's lungs inhaling and exhaling
I awoke in the sunlight,
And heard the soft coos of pigeons outside my window,
Assembling their family nests
I watched as burdens of past and future
Passed through me like driftwood
In the clear river flow of now
As the last ruminants of the ripples faded
The rhythmic flow of my breath,
Legato, no longer staccato
And thoughts like harpsichord
Strumming on my axon strings
In this serene love I'll rest with you,
Tranquil and protected,
A journey forever written,
To find myself back to you
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 10:42 AM UTC
We broke up a week ago, but
I still sleep in your bed every night
because there's a sink spot in the mattress,
your sheets smell like Old Spice,
and you hold my hand underneath the pillow
until our circulation gives, and the needles
***** our senses, pausing the blood flow
until we roll to our separate sides.
But when our hips collide,
hands playing my ribs like a harpsichord,
kissing your scruffy chin and collarbone line,
my dream begins to slip and I'm reminded again
how good it is to forget.
Coming to you is like coming home,
all washed-up and beautifully damaged.
So I draw the curtains and I turn on the fan
to lull us into another hand-painted, night design
where my lines intersect with yours,
the comforter overlapping us,
shadowing the fact that I shouldn't really be here,
but you dare not ask me to leave.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 4:06 PM UTC
There is a story of which I know,
That no happy heart would dare to go,
The chimes ring silent in the frigid wind,
And the harpsichord’s tune lowers, tightens.
-
Before my tale, I must make preface,
The tale, metaphors, rightly seek justice,
For there are no emotions quite like found here,
Life just continues, a grinding gear.
-
When the flower lost its petal,
It said “These things just happen.”
It wasn’t time, it was a crime,
To let this flower die ugly.
-
The tree has lost its apple,
The only thing that marked its beauty,
No longer can it the apple cradle,
Its brilliant seed so fruiting.
-
Think of the dark storm cloud,
That lost its rain so pure,
It likely never will be found,
This sickness has no cure.
-
The feeling burrows in your stomach,
It eats away at your heart,
It terrorizes your mind,
To know they have found another to start.
-
Though no one has ever died,
From a muscle left this broken,
I guess I should have lied
Asleep, instead be woken.
-
Bring me the silken cloth,
From my box of fragile,
It will protect this darkened stone,
And mend it back to evil.
-
Think of every time you’ve cried,
About something you could not change,
And see if you still care to know,
Why it is yourself to blame.
-
Think of every category,
that you could have mended,
All of it an allegory
To your love intended.
-
When you see the bitter face,
Of reject and spite and be hated,
Coming from your used to be
Loved, but relocated.
-
You will find yourself the virus
Of your conjoined lives,
You will never be pious
Enough for their love, despised.
-
**** everything about yourself,
It helps ease the anguish,
But keep yourself here and conscious,
So you understand true languish.
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 12:19 AM UTC
My insides swelled begging their casing to break.
To be set free from the confines they had been expected to find comfort within- to sit with contentment for all eternity, to accept the known with no knowledge of what was outside of their ingrained idealization of a humble abode.
They throbbed, slight at first then gaining vigor as my vitals cried out so sweetly to acquire some sort of insight as to what lie beyond such a feeble body.
Rip me open from head to foot, expose the very reason for physical existence and destroy it. I want to feel my heart on the floor.
Drop my stomach from fifty stories if it means that of a slight fluster of butterflies will evolve into a spontaneous combustion of excitement along with blood-stained pavement for my proclamation of wide eyed wonder, and the butterflies.
Give my hands to those in need.
Sever them with the grace of which graciousness should be felt and hand these hands to the masses reaching for something, someone, to allow those who have fallen to rise above adversity.
Lend a hand! Lend a hand! For I only have two.
Throw my eyes in places that uplift your soul.
Play the harpsichord of my vocal chords when in need of an extra push.
Keep my lungs, for you were my breath of fresh air.
Lay my skin atop rose petals and let it dissolve.
Throw me to beauty until I’ve become nothing at all.
Allow me to live without limits until I am all gone, for how can one truly experience all that is lovely without turning to it completely.
I want to be of use, you see.
Far from what existing as one conjoined body is set to allow me.
Cut me up into a million parts, spread me far and wide.
Then look to all the humbled souls, as if I haven’t died.
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 7:34 PM UTC
I do not imagine suicide as impulsive,
rather the day I wake up and travel thousands of miles
in my thoughts
to tell everything I have inhabited goodbye.
Nature will have the instinct to swallow my skin
in its blanket, the breeze whispers
to my boyfriend that I love him anyway.
A crew of mushrooms shall lay me on their breast or
beneath their umbrellas as in a rabbit hole
and upon lying down, petals spill
across my tired eyelids, and the breeze murmurs
that it is okay: I will not be missed because I will have
nature holding my bones the entire time.
She is there, playing my hair like a harpsichord,
whisking me away.
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 4:02 PM UTC