"improvising" poems
What a city I murmur to myself looking at its map.
We approached the city known as Dis,
with its vast army and its burdened citizens.
At last we reached the moats
dug deep around the dismal city.
What destroys the poetry of a city?
Automobiles destroy it,
and they destroy more than the poetry.
Dante and Virgil chased by 7 or 8 dangerous devils
Grumpy, Happy, Sneezy, Sleepy, ***** . . .
Our heroes reduced from metaphysical philosophers
interested in god and what man has done to man
to improvising primitive tools for survival.
Hope abandoned, we rate our chances of expiring
in the nuclear fire – excellent –
during the decline of western civilization.
On the other hand, I hope
our current problems are only temporary
and it’s just a matter of time before
the public ignores the 24-hour news cycle.
Bad news sells but the good life’s all around us.
One feels love and devotion
even for the 60 million who voted for our opponent.
Vaclav Havel said with a wisdom well beyond brilliance:
“Either we have hope within us or we don’t.
It is a dimension of the soul, and it’s not dependent
on some particular observation of the world or estimate of the situation.
It is an orientation of the spirit, an orientation of the heart
that transcends the world as it’s immediately experienced.
It is not the conviction that something will turn out well,
but the certainty that something makes sense
no matter how it turns out.”
It resembles grief. But it's not quite grief. I'll give you grief.
Certain days planned to be eventful I look forward to for weeks.
Let the peaceful transfer of power proceed. The sorrow and the pity.
Never may the anarchic man find rest at my hearth.
When the laws are kept, how proudly the city stands!
When the laws are broken, what of the city then?
We are moving through some allegory between a City of Hope,
where history has been abolished, and a City of History,
where hope can be slipped in only as contraband.
Failing to achieve understanding, we're searching
outer space for an entity to unite us as humanity.
That person, or city, is consciousness.
Two ancient female poets are a revelation,
the clarity of their complaints: lost lover, lost city.
Our enemy eventually becomes our brother,
his misery lifted by coming to her city.
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 9:23 AM UTC
THAT crazed girl improvising her music.
Her poetry, dancing upon the shore,
Her soul in division from itself
Climbing, falling She knew not where,
Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship,
Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare
A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing
Heroically lost, heroically found.
No matter what disaster occurred
She stood in desperate music wound,
Wound, wound, and she made in her triumph
Where the bales and the baskets lay
No common intelligible sound
But sang, "O sea-starved, hungry sea.'
5.9k
'let's walk to the ocean'
said the passing clown to the mime
'it's quite a long way'
expressed the mime
'yes it is?'
the clown replied
mime frowned
and they began walking...
clown in his big floppy red shoes
mime improvising as he went
at the edge of town they ran into a juggler
on the corner trying to pick up a few coins in his cup
clown asked the juggler if he'd care to join them
in their walk to the ocean
juggler said 'why not, things are kind of
up in the air for me right now'
they headed west toward the coast
clown had 5 boxes of Mike and Ikes...every flavor
in his red scarf on a stick
mime had plenty of slim jims
this would keep them fed until they reached their destination
several hours into their odyssey
a storm approached
a lone well drawn pine provided refuge until the storm cleared
as well as a snack and chance to learn of each other's journey
to this point
clown had done many things throughout his life
in pursuit of love, home and family
but he had failed in his search for a life he always dreamed of
and now this face of heavy make-up and big red nose would
hide the fact that he lived a life of constant sadness
mime had been a singer and worked for years to perfect
his craft... dreamed of making it to the big stage
but he refused to sing what they wanted him to sing and even though he had amazing talent, he was refused time and time again
becoming a mime would mean he'd never be reminded of the beautiful voice he possessed
juggler was a star pitcher known for his amazing fastball when he graduated college and was only days from signing a contract with the Yankees when a car accident damaged his shoulder so severely he lost his fastball
he juggles to keep his arm in shape in case his fastball ever returns
juggler asked clown why they were headed to the beach
mime was interested as well and produced the perfect look of inquiry
clown stood up...tossed the red scarf on a stick full of Mike & Ike's over his shoulder, brushed himself off and replied...
'why not?'
Aug 8, 2019
Aug 8, 2019 at 6:49 PM UTC
Seriously though, perfection is overrated held up in high esteem it seem
Most believe perfection is the absence of the bad the ugly and the extreme
Most believe that to be perfect is to be pure devoid of all the flaws or so they deem
However, it all lies in the balance just like the see saw, its not the absence of flaws but the balance of it all
Balance between the good and the bad as seen in nature's law
Well its my opinion and everyone is entitled to one with no intent to cause offence
But under the right lens all this will somehow make sense
Observe, there's no love without hate and pain, we can't have light without the presence of darkness, can't tell what's good without the bad, can't tell what's real without the fakes, mistakes and aches
I can go on and on about this but you get my drift you catch my pace
Just like the faces of a coin, these perspectives help us to appreciate, create, associate and experience
Experiences shape our perspectives and our perspective help shape our lives
That's why I appreciate you... all your strengths and flaws makes you.. you. We ain't picture perfect but we are worth the picture still
So just chill, you don't have to keep trying those shoes they want you to fill
Life didn't come with a manual, we are all just improvising trying to cut the cloak according to our coat.
Maybe you should too and Imma be here for you, just grab ahold of my hand and we will keep afloat.
In my eyes you are perfect so just hold on to that boat and sail ashore, I promise there's more in store.
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 4:51 PM UTC
silence was improvising in my eyes
in this tender fog between one moment
and this moment
and I could see the old love approaching
to invade me
to intoxicate me
with its hypnotic violence
this love like a fossilized wood in their gaze
came to visit me
again
with so many faces
so many whispers
it was as if angels had descended
on the barren land and
with their unthought hands
were tenderly carressing
the old bones unsung
what else could have I done
than
open my eyes and dream
the palimpsest of forgotten dreams
forged in the greatest intensity
of all the fleeting moments
in which
they blinked
(I need to shelter my heart from
the silence of decaying leaves
from the violence of life destroying
itself)
Nov 30, 2022
Nov 30, 2022 at 7:28 AM UTC
(my great, great grandfather as told by my mamasita)
he came from Calbiga
with his Spanish nose
tropic’s warmth allowed him to wear
but a pair of shorts everyday
his shirtlessness revealed
smooth, supple, brown skin
thick shimmering white hair
the only clue to his age
without knife or razor
his fingers felt his face
and tweezered stubble
with a pair of empty clam shells
he slept on a pillow
of hard narrah wood
made smooth and shiny
by years of use
he built his nipa and bamboo house
by the shore
big, sturdy and strong
sheltered at cliff’s foot
it withstood every storm
high atop the cliff
a tree stood tall and huge
a prolific garden of crops and flowers
grew in the soft filtered light of its canopy
cane and banana relinquished skin
in strips scraped clean and sun dried
woven into harvest and fishing baskets
braided into fishing line
he cut down only what he needed
allowing the plants to thrive
long before sustainability was new
old folks said that tall and huge tree
was a faeries’ castle
tending pineapples growing beneath it
Apay Bectay heard a voice beckoning her
a sweet musical melody in the wind
“Bectay…Bectay…”
she peered upward to a vision so beguiling
a beautiful naked lady sitting high on a limb
her skin a pale, pale white
her face and smile radiant
she stroked her long golden hair
with a golden comb
as it flowed alive with the breeze
she appeared as a mermaid underwater
sitting in a sea of swaying green leaves
Apay Bectay ran home for fear of enchantment
one day, my ears followed a peaceful, playful tune
until I came upon Apoy Engo
by his front door post
improvising on a small yellow flute
he had carved by hand
a thin, foot long bamboo chute
harvested from a nearby grove
when the tide was high
you could always find him fishing
by the house, close to shore
rain or shine
as long as the sea was calm
sitting in his banca
slightly stooped
patiently awaiting a bite
for his viand
a woven sun shade hat
tied under his chin
a picture of serenity
accompanied by the soft lapping sea
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 11:56 PM UTC
*
not sure if it’s a song
my ear gathers or a
story gently murmured
out of the blue water
sailing between ridges
innumerable notes
I listen to these secret
codes I lightly stare
at the creases an
opening on the
improvising
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 1:17 PM UTC
I'd like to eat a mango
As I glide through a Tango
My bubbles would pop
While doin’ Hiphop
I’d soothe my soul
Swingin’ Rock and Roll
No time for slumber
While doing the Rhumba
My blood would pulse
To a Viennese Waltz
Dizzy’s how I’d feel
Skipping a Scots Reel
I’d dance Ballet
With my valet
I’d cut a rug
Doing jitterbug
I’d be happy as
Improvising Jazz
I'd like to swing a Fire Poi
In exotic far away Hanoi
I’d fly to San Francisco
To indulge in Disco
I’d as soon not talk
Sliding through a Moonwalk
I’d wear a yarmulke
While doing the Polka
I’d get the gist
Of doing the Twist
I could unwind
With a Bump and a Grind
I’d take off my wig
For a fast Irish Jig
I'd be a hot Mama
Performing the Cha cha
My heart would sing
To a Highland Fling
I’d step up the tempo
To stamp a Flamenco
I'd feel alive
Just doin’ the Jive
Now the ending’s your choice
For better or woice!
One is glad One is sad
Pick one and it’s done-
I’m off to France It’s the witching hour
For a chance to dance And I’m a wall flower.
Tricia Lambert
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 5:10 PM UTC
You tell me three little words;
I reply with four smaller words,
You smile at me;
I laugh with glee,
We share a moment or two
But we hide many things through
And through from each other
Wonder sometimes why we even bother,
Don't know who's going to speak up first
I'm parched from talking got to quench my thirst,
We walk away to our own little planet
Etch a sketch shaken we don't plan it,
What we'll say next
Lies shallow deep fabricated text,
How long can we keep this up
You're half empty I'm half full brimming cup
Of false interchanges amongst us
The world outside can't join this circus,
Always putting on a show improvising
We wear masks to keep from disguising
Our deep dark truths threatening to be sieved,
We are the greatest actors to have ever lived...
© okpoet
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 12:38 AM UTC
I shared myself with you.
Whether you could hear it or not, through every chord I played I screamed and bellowed and sobbed out the story that created the mess I’ve become.
But we created something magnificent together.
My pain was the consistent and simple base.
Your intricate melody understood and validated every drop of sorrow that hit the keys.
The last 10 years I've been a product of my symptoms.
My instrument rusted scrap metal from the unshed tears of a 5 year old child that never got to grow up.
I wasn’t her today.
In that chapel, improvising and forging music from thin air, I was radiant shining through the trauma of a girl who was too young to know her body wasn’t something to be abused.
You helped me do that.
You knew what I needed without having to communicate.
For those few minutes you knew me like no one else ever could.
Your crescendo set my life into motion, and in a major key.
No one else will ever join me for measure one of this symphony.
We started this piece with a love of music and the lord, and I couldn’t have requested anything better.
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 7:31 PM UTC
Silver roses breaking hearts.
Beds with silver linings
And piles of piles.
Waiting all day in place
For a person.
Take a number,
stand in line.
You're not the first person here.
He takes up his instrument,
And plays one song.
The only song he knows.
The song of life.
Playing E sharps and B flats,
He composes as he plays.
But he's not improvising.
(He play's what's meant to be)
His song sounds different to all
Because their lifes goes to the music.
If he plays a bad chord,
You get backstabbed.
It he adds a sixth,
You lose a love.
If he plays a major,
You have a laugh.
If he plays a m7,
You fufill a dream.
But sometimes bad chords sound best.
And sometimes good chords make disharmony.
But then again,
Why do you care?
You don't decide your life,
He does.
Everyone is under his control.
Including him.
His song is powerful.
Even if he isn't.
His music is what sets him apart.
But he's just forcing you to hear his song.
You can't stop listening.
Even if you try.
He adds twists
And turns
And buckles
And cliffs
And jumps
And unrealistic explosions.
But, he doesn't know why he's even there.
He thinks,
"Why can't someone else play this?"
He's confused,
Is it true or is it not?
Or are his thoughts controlled by want?
He doesn't know,
So he continues on.
His song dies down,
Ending anti-climactically.
But as his story ends,
It starts again.
It turned out,
Time was cyclic.
Mar 7, 2011
Mar 7, 2011 at 5:36 PM UTC
I know I'm a ****
I know I stutter and stumble
I know I **** up, a lot
I know I take it too far
Forgive me
I'm not good at improvising
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 7:57 AM UTC
Her poetry, dancing upon the shore,
Her soul in division from itself
Climbing, falling She knew not where,
Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship,
Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare
A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing
Heroically lost, heroically found.
No matter what disaster occurred
She stood in desperate music wound,
Wound, wound, and she made in her triumph
Where the bales and the baskets lay
No common intelligible sound
But sang, 'O sea-starved, hungry sea.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 7:04 PM UTC
*They have a wide choice
To pick any sharp-pointed
Tool to slice my neck with
Or to stick in my stomach.
But no!
I know that they won't be
Satisfied hurting me ******
And so they took to words
Or simple boycott they've.
...Their weapons...
Unluckily they were once my friends
And I had set afire the newest trends
Improvising & exploiting my ways,
Which they follow until these days.
And lo!
They forget me - they forgot me
They have forgotten my words
For I wasn't their teacher ever
Nor would they ever become
...Atul Kaushal Sharma...*
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 2:51 AM UTC
shadows shift like wax-paper
making silhouettes upon the snow
swords like words are swallowed
will we ever let it go
in silent trust i echo wisdom
deep, profound, beautiful
the space, poignant and versatile
musical, rhythmic and free
love is improvising again
making the most of where she stands
and even where she can’t
for she loves to be in over her head
which is what i still sometimes don’t get
who is in charge of your destiny
do you believe in such things
why are we made from a symphony
and where can we listen to our memories
and justice is a bargain
that we may not always expect
so give thanks for an abundance of free water
while we are still blessed
to have access to this resource
as we are the source of our own happiness
and waterfalls and aquifers
embody the cascading shower of our breath
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 10:03 AM UTC
My finger glaze the tops of each seemingly tall mountain
They are soft to the touch but far deeper than I choose to recognize
Each stroke must be in an exact measure to ensure that the melody flows
The sounds are perfect in every way
Some I think about on a constant basis and crave to make my hands produce them again
Caution is wise when improvising
It’s impressive and can bring about wonderful new worlds
But strike a note out of the key and some worlds may shatter
Recover.
Safe.
Once again I drag my hand across the endless space of the pages
I still find myself going over old music and perfecting it in my mind
That is until the true melody sits in front of me and plays with my mind
Teasing and taunting until it becomes my new song
That is, until it happens again and the new melody will quickly replace it
Feb 1, 2012
Feb 1, 2012 at 4:19 PM UTC
Blueprints of future eloquence
drawn up in the mind.
Manufactured moments played out in real-time.
Accidental actors
improvising memorized lines.
None can be the wiser to the grand design.
It's all for nothing if it feels too contrived.
Make sure to leave enough room for all those little
unknwons in life.
When it pans out how it shouldn't,
when just the right amount of things go wrong,
it all comes together in one incredible instant.
Profound.
Beautiful.
Gone.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 10:32 PM UTC
To know you,
I have forgotten my impetuosity.
Silk reeling off from cocoons,
layer by layer,
as I spend every second unveiling
your happiness,
your stumbles,
things you despise,
things you love,
and things you live for.
I've gone from being infatuated
with your smile
to falling in love
with every facet of you.
Even the most ethereal semantics can not conjure
the lovely wishes we share:
maple-tinted sunsets,
heart-shaped pancakes,
kisses on the neck,
sporadic dances on the kitchen floor...
You strum the strings of a guitar
carelessly,
improvising a lovely tune
we heard
as we passed by the record store.
An enthralling picture,
how I long
to lay my eyes on you
for a lifetime.
One day,
I will show up in your city
wearing my prettiest dress
with all my butterflies
and dewy flowers
and fallen leaves,
searching
a destination for all my wanderings.
I hope the breeze
caresses your eyelids like velvet
when you gaze into my eyes.
Irregular heartbeats,
interlaced whims,
entwined arms...
You smile.
Suddenly,
the world fades.
Suddenly,
stars align.
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 4:57 PM UTC
This side of things.
Something in the towering urban structure seems collectively
Demonic, maybe my mind is looking for origins of Death.
I'm a vagrant tucked into a cranial shell
Improvising theatrics, painting the halls of reality
With pigments I've garnered along the way.
When spirit formed me the Satan must've pushed out like oil in water
Hid on the other side of the Universe, in black holes
A deep wound incorrigible to sweet Raphael
Black and slimy Satan craving admission
That I have black slime in my blood.
I try to offer my mind an example of a quanta of Gabriel,
an example of mostly Raphael, a purely Satanistic idea,
a time Michael won. But everything rotates like the four-sided figures
described by Ezekiel, and everything is God. God, God, God.
Or whatever vocabulary you choose to express this feeling.
Because this feeling comes from my concrete thoughts.
Thinking, "The new surveillance state sure changed culture sociologically
and psychologically"
Always results in thoughts like, "Yeah but it seems like people generally balance the equation when there's a need for it."
And then the negative, "Yeah but in some instances this really ***** for some people!"
And then, both considered, "Well, it's just another arrangement of matter,
and it'll be deconstructed and something new will happen, and that is good."
Or something like that.
And over and over again I have that ...caboose at the end of my trains of thought. That's the caboose.
Ha ha, I'm going insane. Maybe I need a pharmaceutical.
Observations need to collapse to occur. So maybe before I turn this corner, there are angels and demons fighting it out, deciding
what i'll see when the waveform collapses. I mean, in a way, that's true.
And did you know about quantum decoherence? That kind of thing is really interesting. i am capable of understanding this wide variety of things. i'm endlessly curious. & I could totally be socially normal and everything
but right now i'm just writing, and whatever
i do it because it's fun and it feels good to write
for some reason i'm not a celebrity yet
kind of dumb if you ask me, but okay
and for some reason where's all the ladies
like **** that noise! lonely af
it's just complete nonsense, and right now i'm just writing. **** it. lol
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 3:17 PM UTC
Rising time ,light is the test
organizing evening without a fight
Midnight quest, midnight quest
Improvising with your ability
Recognizing every day matters
night time or daytime
All will harmonize for equality
Lights fill each day with hope
Midnight quest makes a way for patience
Sight of everyday filled with vibrant hues
Night time love I thought I'd never find
It feels so right to be beside you
When I close my eyes and awoke I saw you
Midnight quest rising time is the test
Light is the way of hope
Midnight quest,
Mar 27, 2018
Mar 27, 2018 at 5:19 PM UTC
In each moment, each pursuit
Improvise.
It’s nothing more than living Now.
Of course you’ll f---k it up at times:
Mistakes belonging to a human
As does dust upon a mirror.
In each moment, work or pastime
Improvise, extemporize.
You have encyclopedic knowledge
In your little life-so-far;
Gifts and talents, skills, capacities;
Experiential knowledge
You absorbed the moment you took breath.
If you do what I advise
You see patterns that transmogrify,
Patterns that will make you wise;
Patterns when you make each minute your device.
Despite anomalies,
Quirks, and incongruities,
This the key to bring to light
The star you are,
Becoming brighter with each gesture.
Make a pact with you yourself
Put old habits on the shelf of things gone by.
You improvise,
You start to fly.
By and by
You are the sharpest, deepest, most profound and visionary
You alive.
Improvising Your Way Through Life 8.5.2017
Definitely Didactic; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II;
Arlene Corwin
Aug 5, 2017
Aug 5, 2017 at 8:17 AM UTC
I blame you for making me write all these sonnets
I tried to make the best of it, but five?
How in the ******* world am I supposed to write five?
Doesn’t each sonnet take the course of a week?
And it definitely seems that we don’t have five weeks
To write five pristine perfect sonnets
I’d rather read fifty poems than write five of these stupid things
I’d like the meet the man who decided these poems
Had to be fourteen lines, stylized rhymes
I’d say, go to hell with you and this torturous format
Instead of making me write these many poems
All in the same style, all droaning on in my mind
Like an endless treadmill of poem-writing
I say I’ll do better on the next assignment, but truthfully
I’m improvising
Nov 26, 2017
Nov 26, 2017 at 10:07 AM UTC
my hand in your hand is jazz
the knot of our tender looks is poetry
and rage sometimes
all details germane,
this fluidity of desire passing through
the unexpected like sheets of rain
the kiss on my shoulder
the lightness of your soles
a love without name without shame is improvising
and you say come and I say round until I fall into your shadow
and when I fade away you open the door of a song
in my palms the forgotten synesthesia when
I listen to the intensity of cells, to the sacredness of dreams
I wear the boldness of the earth for you
I swear the freedom in the core of mirrors
May 17, 2023
May 17, 2023 at 10:40 AM UTC
*I set my pen down
To watch the sunrise
Staring at me through folds of clouds
I glimpsed visions of my children
Dancing along the horizon
Like butterflies across the meadow
I felt a kind of humming
Deep within my chest
Made of baritone and brokenness
And soon, the realization set in
That my softly-beating heart
Was simply strumming at tight strings
Creating melodies of yesterday
Improvising the pain yet to come
And saving room for an encore
So, I picked my pen up
From the cedar-scented table
And once more, spilled my broken soul*
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 2:17 PM UTC