"ivories" poems
Who
threw the silver dollar up into the tree?
I didn’t said the little
lady who sews and grows every day paler-paler she sits sewing and grow-
ing and that’s the truth,
who threw
the ripe melon into the tree?you
got me said the smoke who
runs the elevator but I bet two bits come seven come eleven mm make
the world safe for democracy it never fails and that’s a fact;
who threw the
bunch of violets
into the tree?I dunno said the silver dog, with ripe
eyes and wagged his tail that’s the god’s own
and the moon kissed the little lady on her paler-paler face and said
never mind,you’ll find
But the moon creeped into the pink hand of the
smoke that shook the ivories
and she said said She Win and you won’t be
sorry And The Moon camelalong-along to the waggy silver dog
and the moon came
and the Moon said into his Ripe Eyes
and the moon
Smiled
,so
19.3k
The ivories' sleeping is like a lonely black piano.
Beautiful, small girl quietly fight a dusty, misty bench.
Hello, old friend. Did you miss me?
Ah, life!
Running loudly like an old hammer.
Banging hard on the ivories.
God, action!
Piano keys are only black and white,
But sound like blue birds singing ,
On a bright morning's day.
Oh! No!
Where are the noisy keys?
Never love a broken string.
Exhaustion, noise, and love.
Never fight a hammer.
Lord, anger!
Piano, why are you angry with me?
Copyright © Ronald J Chapman All Rights Reserved.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 6:17 AM UTC
Goth Child nursed his mother's tattooed *****
Snapped **** with teeth
Then grizzled grin at me and spit up
I poked at my chile relleno
Twisting hot cheesy sludge off prongs
Tour jete with fork finishes in arabesque
Between my own fangs
I spit back scalding ****
Goth Child points, says, "Pawpee, that man is scarewee"
Pawpee turns his tattoo tears to see
Flashes his gleaming grill
I sink in my seat behind sightline of salsa squeeze bottle
Chattering ivories
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 2:19 PM UTC
Such passion flows from fingers
that scale the controlled embellishments
of Chopin.
The melodies swirl in your brain
as you try to imagine caressing
the ivories with every female voice
that Chopin encountered.
Expressing profoundly the experience
of Chopin's work cannot be described
on paper.
It must be felt.
Only then will you find passion in its raw form.
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 1:01 AM UTC
Draped in fresh-knitted pearls
we traipsed
into saccharine peach orchard
The summer heat loped about our dew-kissed ******
****** - appropriated from dawn spent on neatly shorn plantation grass
Ambling into the knotted palatial arbor
we sat each in our own tree crux
behinds nestled upon ashen bark
Juice dripping in our grip
down our cast nets of flesh
sprawled about the branches
inset with gravity-defying liquescent orbs
dusted in translucent mink
painted with smears of
citrine, coral, amber, and ichorous
clinging to brass stem
The rondures secede to mandible
taut between palms pull and polished ivories
- torn-
Fluent in dulcet discourse
We cloak ourselves in provocative juice tatting
Until such time that our congealing garments
were found mapping the bark's topography
A saccharine map to the breath of soil
Bloodstone ants found our map
and had begun traversing - portent
to seize our treasure
We surrendered our jewelled cages
and took flight
to the sun-drunken lake to bathe
and swim
until heavy lids kissed moistly
heavily supped on the draught
sleep - beckoned transience
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:48 PM UTC
i am the moss that hides
in the crevice,
the forest dreaming of
wood-elves and
white clouds,
the ivories of
the stars.
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 11:45 AM UTC
Round, strong.. beautiful pair of eyes.
One of their brilliant confrontation,
Their deepest stare leaves you in confusion,
at times thinking, wondering and oh the mixed feeling
But what matters above all, they're just there by your side..
always by your side.
All the sleepless and dreamless night,
what will I do? How could i turn off the lights?
watch your cat to sleep and bring them to their space.
their purrs are your lullaby..
and very soon everything would be fine.
Play them a song, tickle the ivories.
They'll hop along and lay on the keys.
their presence will not stop you from playing
you'll improvise the notes,
my dearest cat, you're all what I'm saying:
With a simple touch of love,
Cuddle them every now and then,
every hour, minutes and seconds..
Stay with me and don't leave me
they're the sincerest companion among all.
Much love to my dearest cat : whitina & tutut
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 3:17 PM UTC
Her fingers caressed the ivories
So very lightly.
The tunes that played
Echoing sweetly.
*Nuvole Bianche,
Ludovico Einaudi*
The title, she said,
means white clouds.
To her,
this song
captures the feeling of utmost sincerity
that exist in the purest
of her heart.
To be able to stay soft,
even after passing through cruel hands of the world.
To be as kind as you can,
even if the world will not pay you back.
To go out of your way for others,
even if it will never be enough.
To be genuine until the very end,
even when the whole world is against you.
To be soft in this cruel world
might just be the strongest power
a human can possibly possess.
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 2:47 PM UTC
******* at tickling the ivories,
at inducing the jet buttons
to chortle, say, in a concerto ;
but I do strum and flirt
with those amazing royal,
88 unrepentant loyal
keys for Jupiter and Saturn,
for Mars and Neptune,
making a blank bland tune
for extraterrestrial beings for fun.
On the cosmic moors
the moon's whirling feet
cease for my discordance.
What a slurred entrance
by F in D major!
Only a novice--an amateur.
I'm no magnificent pianist,
O majestic Mercury.
Summon the stars the search
to lead for a supreme virtuoso,
one of no incongruent ingenuity
like this dilettante--a pseudo
music polymath, counsels Thebe.
A Mozart, Beethoven, or Bach?
Any of the greats scored above, as well
as geniuses like David and Handel.
Impressario fly! Flee thou away
and go get a classic maven.
Otherwise sleep there forever at Erebus,
never dream of waking up in Eden.
Circuitous world stops: strings break off
at the Earth's axis--
the Sun's panels pause
and darkness' movement begins
its own obscure notes to improvise:
apace demented melody
is released,-- bathos of symphony:
tinny wine of concord
settles on the lees of discord.
Asteroids hooting some ***** calls
when into the grand chrysolite chamber--
in her tailor-made blistering gown--
strolls in the coruscating Venus
in the sturdy arm of jaundiced Uranus,
garbed in his glistening stomacher.
Like a ball, all eyes are bouncing
hither and thither, up and down,
googling and ogling,
once more at them leering,
gaping at the irreplaceable paintings of
da Vinci, Picasso, and Van Gogh
cavorting upon the weightless walls
to the romantic performance of Strauss
in the palace orchestral of Bacchus.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
His Key Unlocked Her Door
As the piano man plays her song
The ivories of his eyes dance along
He plays on her keys
The sweetest melodies
Rising onto his pitch her heart twang
Logan Robertson
6/07/17
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 10:00 AM UTC
ivories that are made of letters
grey skin, blackred hair, word babies
gigantic mirror, blackly glowing
psychedelic nature like 1968
apartment in the projects
hallways full of dust and spiders
uncle is smoking the daylight away
his walls covered with bulletholes
red and tired eyes, no smiling
uncle's wife killed in a car crash
dead goons are torturing him now
the memory of her dead body, stuck
past encounters like smoke in the air
red frost covers uncle's body, glaciers
a button to turn back time, fantasies
melting hours for god's sacrifices
Jul 10, 2020
Jul 10, 2020 at 9:58 AM UTC
Hope!
In the far off land of Dae-han-min-guk, on a brand new day.
An angel's fingers dance and prance on the ivories.,
So confident the way she plays.
Like magic! Sending the gift of music to me flying though time and space.,
The music flowed out of the piano like birds singing good morning new day,
Amazingly!
Thousands of piano notes,
Filled with elegance and charm travel to my ears.,
This angel sent to me a gift of hope today.,
I have never heard or seen such a wondrous thing,
I must be traveling through a beautiful dream...
© 2014 Ronald J Chapman All Rights Reserved.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 3:13 PM UTC
Sudden came the fall in temperature
that evening on the hillside
just me and the giant rock
on the hillside looking east
We chatted about her wonders for hours
he told me he missed her as much as I do
I grabbed his hand and to told him not to cry
looking into his eyes I told him, all of us do die
I did beg him please dear friend
do not let me shed tears for you again
please don't fall this day
as our inconceivability did
So I told him in quiet and old songs
the time when trees were like baby shrubs
when they sung hymns from the outside blue
for Primrose Molly was our only true love
Always was she a woman of good joy
a glory for all to behold
her eyes sparkled sapphire blue
as sunshine turned her hair gold
She would dance each day in parks public
with the summer wind caressing her hair
and with fragile hands of opal and ivories grace
did dear Primrose Molly do her utmost fair
So me and the rock sit here
here on the hillside steep
and in good thoughts
her soul we will keep
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
By NeonSolaris
© 2013 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 9:30 PM UTC
The green combusts, the cherry sclerotized mask dances above
the invisible paper carapace.
Stuffed full with Rotten skunk innards and burning,
tongues of heat sweat away its crystalline hairs.
Aren is hunched and crooked, all teeth and lungs,
under the mixed halogens of suburban porchlight,
being bathed in bluescale waves from the
strobe of the neighbor's telescreen.
Ropes of smog pour from the slats between his picket fence ivories and get frayed.
I drink the filth, choking down the viscera of the vermin.
It doesn't seem to get easier.
Stumbling inside, my feet detach and I throw myself on the door
until I've locked out the sickly tide pool light of dawn,
and I'm rolling toward his bedroom.
Jolting and sputtering, and
grasping at the hands of the clock,
listening for the steady metronome to
count me through.
And then numbness.
I know the feeling, and next come the
pins, digging into my
fingertips and the pads of my
toes, and then I'm all body and silent prayers.
And I'm whispering sick thoughts to Aren -
*"Those adrenaline demons
will do me in,
and if only I could relax,
and my dear mother
used to have a stalker,
and I almost got run down
by a car on the highway when I was five,
and asthmatics are five times as likely to have a
generalized anxiety disorder."*
The adrenaline demons gather my tendons in pincushion palms,
tugging at the strings,
panicked arthritis and my fingers are
twitching and curling backwards
while I glare on with shallow breaths and cataracts.
The organs moan in the cavern of my body,
with thick wet air pouring from the opening.
I'm standing now,
a fetishized devil doll,
shaking out the pins
and the needles
and the sick splinters of glass
and the long holy skewers
and I'm breathing again
and I sit and
I breathe.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 3:05 PM UTC
Come on over,
and we'll craft a new key to the kingdom,
all I want is to cut the seams,
pulverize the patterns,
rewrite the Hamlets and all the works of Hemingway,
what are you doing now?
nothing?
great.
Come on over,
I have a handle of SoCo,
I know it's your favorite,
we'll shoot the **** and
chitty-chat about how
it's so easy to drink.
Come on over,
and brilliant minds
will strum guitars,
**** ivories,
croon with weary pipes,
all in plain sight.
Come on over,
this world wasn't made for us,
so let's force it into submission
with controversy and batshit revelry.
Let's lay on the carpet,
and swoon to the love that courses
in our veins,
let's help me to the tile
when the evening's endeavors come back up,
let's write a new Odyssey,
let's sing a new American anthem,
let's light the apartment on fire,
let's talk about how badass my girlfriend is,
what are you doing right now?
nothing?
great.
Come on over,
and I'll be your slave.
Whip me with criticism and fright,
I'll give comfort and brighten
the corners,
mix you a drink,
play you a Monk tune,
dance like I invented it,
and make you nostalgic for the 70s
like I lived each millisecond of the decade.
What are you right now?
Nothing?
Let's scare the ******
the politicians,
the folks keeping scores,
the drunkards down the road,
self immolation?
Great.
When you hit the bottom,
come to me,
your world-savvy
Midnight Man.
Jan 1, 2011
Jan 1, 2011 at 8:01 PM UTC
i made me some writer friends,
mistook the mistake,
tore the gate,
ate a ghost,
************ a ******
slaughtered a village to gain your attention,
when you wouldn't look,
i painted myself black,
when you wouldn't look,
i told you i was a shepherd, you were sheep,
and you were going to get
eaten
by some gelatinous being
with very fine teeth.
all my writer friends,
they're all at my throat.
all my writer friends,
they sink claws, scream in my ears,
shove, shove,
tell me i need to love god above.
i made me some writer friends,
tricked the truth,
bent my back with compliments,
strung my neck with friendly kisses,
wrote all my writer friends a eulogy,
wrote a fuck-all note to my mom and dad,
but i didn't buy the right stamp,
smoked a bowl,
baked a cake,
called the goat an *******
poured a shot for a 15-year-old girl,
tickled the ivories until they stopped laughing at me,
discovered that all red-headed girls bite lips,
thanked danny elfman for scoring my bedroom scene,
continued working on an epic poem that rips ginsberg off.
all my writer friends,
tell me to stop distorting reality,
stop drinking,
stop dominoes of summer girls,
all my writer friends,
they are handing me bibles and pistols,
and i give them a nod,
a blanket,
a cup of coffee,
positive reinforcement,
and set myself on fire every night
to hear myself howl.
Oct 5, 2010
Oct 5, 2010 at 10:41 PM UTC
Shakespeare, I'm writing you an emo poem.
Tyler cuts his wrists and plays piano 'cause he's so depressed.
You can tell it's not an exorcism though, since you can hear his lisp.
I don't play piano anymore (the ivories no longer tickle my fancy)
and I never really cut,
unless you count the symmetry,
or lack of it;
besides, I've always had a father.
Do you believe in demons, bard?
I'm not familiar enough with your works to know;
English didn't interest me much beyond the grammar.
Maybe that's a possession in itself, or an obsession at least,
since I don't think I could do the Devil justice--
and I'm none to bring light from darkness.
Do golden glittered gowns prove earnings or entitlement?
A different wealth perhaps, the philosopher kings of old (Do you know of those? I can't imagine otherwise, such a trove of inspiration).
I would not hold it against you if you didn't;
your productions sold for pennies,
and in the very least you were a man (or so the rumor goes).
All facades aside, I would inquire about purpose.
Were you satisfied with life? Were you not?
Did you desire a longer lease?
Would you say I should?
My outward walls are painted very gaily,
gayer than yours in all likelihood, or my boyfriend would say as much.
(I can't speak for the fashion of the times.)
Yet when I suffer loss, it seems absolute, one end and the other.
Do you approve of modern day's catharsis?
I expect a proper follow-up.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 2:32 AM UTC
Six Straight
The old cowboys of TV fame,
Were straight shooters,
Who carried six shooters,
Sometimes two.
When I grow up,
I want be a six straight cowboy too,
Six straight hours of sleep,
Or dem bad poems all dressed in black,
they're a gonna shoot me, holy dead.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The youniverse is getting smaller
The you-in-verse is getting smaller,
My poems, shorter,
Hemingwayesque, see!
Why use two words,
Whenonewilldo.
Warmer, too,
Somehow tho global heat
Ain't reached my woman's
Hands or feet.
When you touch my GPS,
It stands ready, at attention,
Always opens up with a prayer,
Directions to Home,
Like I said,
The you-in-verse is getting smaller.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lend Me a Tune
Wish I knew how to
Compose some love lyrics,
But can't carry a tune,
It seems that the music
Must always comes first.
So with conceit and disbelief,
Wrote words and shot 'em into space,
Hoping they'd pass thru galaxies,
Maybe a comet tail,
Find a Songster who will strum them
Into perfect, into complete.
I ain't unhappy that all I got
Was the lesser gift of
Humming words to myself,
Ain't dissatisfied, but wish they
Could be ratified, by the music
Of a voice reading them to me
Or fingers tapping, happening them
Upon the ivories upon my chest,
The chest that needs exploration.
So let's make some music
Finish these lyrics jointly,
When all finito, pointedly
Take our co-sing-song,
Dance to it with our bodies
Sing words the whole night long,
And please baby,
Don't tell me to shut up so you can sleep....
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 6:28 PM UTC
darkened shadows grow
fingers dance across the keys
ivories sing quieted melodies
haunted lyrics fall from soft lips
notes tear at memories
strangling the weaken mind
chilling, despair shivers
frozen down to the marrow
brittle bones break
struggling to turn away
backwards tiptoe
fallen prey
awakened mechanical gears turn
tirelessly rewinding time
prisoner to cruel nightmares
viscous claws reach
pulling another string
twisting again the marionette
poised, taking center stage
a broken lullaby echoes
quietly from within her cage
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 6:28 AM UTC
Lend me a tune
*(For Robert C Howard,
One of the lucky ones)*
"But I'll know my song well before I start singing". Bob Dylan
Some of us poets,
some of us musicians, and a few,
A very blessed few
Songwriters and lyricists,
Poets in sound and words,
Both.
Wish I knew how to
Compose some love song music notes,
But can't carry a tune,
Seems to me,
Comes first the music,
Must music comes first
So with conceit and disbelief,
Wrote words and shot 'em into space,
Hoping they'd pass thru galaxies,
Maybe a comet tail,
Find a Songster who will strum them
Into perfect, into complete
I ain't unhappy that all I got
Was the lesser gift of
Humming words to myself,
Ain't dissatisfied, but wish they
Could be ratified, by the music
Of a voice singing them to me
Or fingers tapping, happening them
Played upon the ivories upon my chest,
Where the lyrics are aborning,
The chest that needs
Music to be whole, and word-completing
Wish I knew how to
Compose some love notes
But can't carry a tune,
Seems to me
Music,
Must come first
So let's make some music
**** right, together,
Finish these lyrics jointly,
When all finito, pointedly
Needed your music, my darling,
Music to make them soar,
Take our co-sing-song,
Dance to it with our bodies
Sing words the whole night long
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 8:38 AM UTC
sleepless under that blanket of monsters,
trembling in the heat.
the medications you're taking are helping her sleep,
when the night comes and your heart-shaped hit
flows through space time
to pursed lips behind which jagged ivories grind.
01101100011011110111011001100101
flowing freely across
a woven circuit board of smiles and wires.
words surfing along radio waves,
slow and gentle, strong and deep
a lullaby to which finally sleep
can take a hold across stiff shoulders.
relaxing the pace at which she runs through the slew of
gunfire and ****** and fear;
intravenously
pumping clouds
across
her closed eyes
fields of vision turning from broken glass to meadows,
thoughts from lost kittens to the same warm blankets
under which she curls.
hum a lullaby, so she'll sing a lullaby, the buzz of noise
in her mind so clear yet so far away;
dancing on clouds to keep you smiling.
dancing with this glow
illuminating everything she touches,
let light lead this lovely lullaby tonight.
sweet sugar rains send sticky waves
from the clouds,
now everything is sweet
and the songs on the radio waves
send waves of peace flowing through aching bones.
slow and gentle, strong and deep.
a lullaby to which finally sleep
can take a hold across stiff shoulders
Jan 22, 2011
Jan 22, 2011 at 7:40 PM UTC
there's that safe place between cold sheets,
the shivers welcome the dreams that harbor this unknown peace..
so close your eyes just this time and we'll let the substance sing us to sleep
pulsing through twisting veins as we're counting killer sheep
savage teeth rip animal instincts across your outstretched arms
and there lies a broken promise, you're no longer safe, raise the alarm;
these claws are killer digits, these fangs are sniping rays, so softly sneaking through curtains of hair;
their lights pierce through shades of skin, turning you
black and blue as you begin to pale
and now i'm singing siren songs, melodies to lure them in
one by one, my massacre begins
and all these morbid metaphors mean just one thing
i speak of that healing that time is supposed to deliver
and as my limbs curl under these sheets, gathering folds of fabric
while my mind's velocity reels under a veil of false awakenings
i'm just waiting for those shivers
for those god **** shivers that rack my spine, turning my lounge into fetal position
leaving my jaws open in silent indignation, letting quiet sounds drain my emotion
i jolt awake, leaving cries on the stagnant air of this summer night
and clack together these sharp rays of light
grinding these ivories down to soft keys again.
the stars hide from me in their shroud of fossil fuels, saturated, decomposed on the heavy air.
when i open my eyes, you are still elsewhere.
and i close them again, just to be sure you're not a ghost, but here they come again, those god ****** shivers.
Jan 22, 2011
Jan 22, 2011 at 8:24 PM UTC
Mr. Ivories
entertains with elan,
daily during cocktails on the mezzanine level.
Jolene always orders a Black Russian,
mine is a Dewar's and water.
We drop a fiver in his basket on the Steinway,
along with a request for "Ebb Tide",
Jolene's personal favorite.
He conjures an image of Fred Astaire at keyboard,
his tails flipped elegantly over the piano bench,
like long black raven's plumes.
Jolene points out two announcers from CNN,
seated opposite. Makes us feel
important by mere association.
Our waitress asks, would we like another round
before the hour's end, as we speculate
about Mr. Ivories' musical propensity.
Time escapes in moonlit harmonic vapors,
leaves us already longing our next soiree.
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 12:07 AM UTC
for some
their sexuality
is intimately tied
to curves and licks of pain
and their own
abject destruction
trussed, ornate
for a brutality
that accentuates
****** lucidity
in the dark caverns
of a perforceive mind
and o so willing body
which
like bruised piano keys
in a triumphant concerto
of ecstasy
aspires
to be played hard
like Rachmaninoff's
beaten ivories
finding immense pleasure
in constant crises
stretched
between the entwined
demand of desire
and the need
for a
a depraved ritual
of exquisite subservience
imposed
by an idyllic master
sweeten the world
my darling
honey machine
industrious slave
bend my beloved
like the weighted ridge pole
are you ready to break
oh princess
of cruel inflictions
that intoxicate
with onerous dark thrills
the sway of your writhe
where pleasure is piqued
by perfect suffering
blood glitter paradise
she beckons
from hells shadowed doorway
enter my love
enter
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 2:25 PM UTC
bask in the
11 PM
humid June air
with me,
our skin
soaking up the ivories
of Luna's glow
and the stars
sinking into your pores,
leaving my hands
scorched
from their touch.
silver clouds
rising in the sky
holding back their tears,
husky grumbles of thunder
in the distance;
these storms
are nothing,
compared to the things
you start in me.
Copyright © 2015 Alyssa Packard
All Rights Reserved
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 10:01 PM UTC