"leitmotif" poems
You find me.
In the church bells of a Hozier song,
the sheets that without you feel wrong,
you bind me.
.
You remind me,
of our sunny morning walks,
of our silly grinning talks,
when you find me.
.
You touch every thought,
my eternal leitmotif;
no such battle fought
as with you, my heart-thief.
.
And I want to write words,
tell you how strongly I yearn,
but my mind sees absurds:
so each letter I burn.
.
And I'm terrified, paralyzed with fear;
I dread your heart will cool,
that you won't love me, my dear -
that I've been but a fool.
.
Chasing dreams, all in vain,
as I wonder who warms your bed;
So far away, across the pain,
racing terrors in my head.
.
An ocean between us, worlds apart,
I crave desperately for your embrace.
Yet still I'm silent, intrepid heart -
a grave of sorrow, sans your grace.
.
Mar 30, 2024
Mar 30, 2024 at 5:18 AM UTC
Nobody mourn,
nobody get hurt
We just project
redirect the blame
and sink back
into interactions
with coping devices
of mass distraction
The artificial womb
of the masses
Tethered by an invisible
umbilical cord
feeding us way
too much
information
Like hungry ghosts
salivating
the next notification
We can’t run.
We can’t hide.
There’s a threat to survive,
But we’re so ******* desensitized
Seduced by the school shooter
we don’t hear him coming
singing siren songs
heart-beating shotgun blasts
That leitmotif
in sync with
The American Horror Story allegory
Just forget it
Too much in the queue
Too many new things
We can’t reject this reality
It’s really ******* broken
Em, I’m sorry we’re descending
Much Madness has lost its meaning
It’s just the means to
unlock an achievement
Emulate another scumbag.
romanticize a villain
amplify the bodycount
Like how many do you need to ***** out
before they give you the cover
of the Rolling Stone?
It's comedically-tragic,
Stranger than satire.
The Judge, the jury
Executioner cutie
cut all your losses for ya
cashed in your lil tax deductions
The most sacred snuffed out
before the light could become them
Get woke a-f,
This is enlightenment!
Come on get
your mind blown!
He’s the one who loves
to shoot his gun
But he knows not what it means
knows not what it means.
Do you know what it means?
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 11:02 PM UTC
drowned the Earth suddenly.
underneath honest light,
all
submerged. this cataract of feeling —
waters pursue beginnings. cradling them
to unknown ends, washed by the shore.
gluttonously the night swallowed
all — parliament of birds warble no longer.
midnight, the Moon
claws the supple skin of organized stone
displaced
where all the edges bloom
forth torrid froth of dappled light which kills no less than a brief life of matchflame. tenuous spar of wind on
the unserious twilight; bulge of death
in the stream — a body haul, rafting
in compost; stench of all topple like
resins held loose in vats. rat **** becomes
as inviting as moulding bread;
tantric music for no instrument, hoarse
cries unbeheld —
until the flesh no longer flounders
pressed against sleep-shaped youngness
hewn lissome in the hours of no succor,
modeling silence in the thrill of
this enthusiastic space,
hands scouring muddied
obscure, atremble,
shadowless hours fill stomachs with
the plump word of rescue yet none
of these fingers unwished the
ingenuity of dull gods — this twilight
nor twinight could ever grive
in forethought, striking bells to signal birds
to arrive again so we could feast
in silver fish, with bare hands scaled to callouses,
looking at it twice-over, this battered yolk
of whiteness, with deeds of the viridian
now atrill in new fragile woodworks
lurching and
ameliorating as we all
stutter and sing
haunts dabbing open
lips of small wounds that
wish to shut quietly, almost
every threat of gray or pummel of
wind startles the flyblown ornate,
hurrying us back to cornerless homes
where all photographs washed away,
very few hang
swayed by verdure
of the gradual throne of sea
curving perpetually the several stars
we have ignored for a while,
where everything quite begins
again to enthrall with a melodic
leitmotif of the most tender of
instances loose
in mouths
and in endless recall
breathless—
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC
A leitmotif of your average smug **** is a proverb here and there.
Spouting them off like the receptor has no care.
Their evidential naivety is blatant and almost impossible to bear.
As an audience member you can do nothing but hide your malevolence and stare.
******* in maxims that are apparently laced with benevolence and care.
You know the kind of oxygen waster I’m referring to.
The type of person that watches BBC 4 and likes tofu.
The kind that does the Financial Times So-fucking-Do-Ku.
Look I’m just saying that clichés annoy me.
I’m not asking you to love me, give me a reach around or employ me.
In fact you don’t even have to enjoy me as I tell you of things that matter not.
Suture yourself hypothetically to a geographically different mind. That mind being mine, oh that maverick-esque mischievous mind of mine, looking at this from my perspective.
In my transcendental endeavours to rid the clichéd ridden world of the afore mentioned adjective.
In the opposite of anachronistic times, we might successfully, surreptitiously rid the world of moral coated rhymes.
We can do this; all it takes is a few. One of which needs to be you.
Break out from being solipsistic, even the blind, the meek, the autistic, those that besmirch the edge of coffee cups with their lipstick.
Yes, I mean you. Here is what to do…
The next time someone spouts off a cliché, punish them, make them listen to an album by “Hearsay.”
If someone says “An Apple a day keeps the doctor away.” Then simply say, Steve Jobs had thousands and the here’s the definite answer, that consumerism inducer still died of cancer.
If a woman says “When I say jump. You say how high!” Don’t even cogitate to pardon her.
If the grass is always greener on the other side – shoot your ******* gardener.
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 8:03 PM UTC
I Sleep next to dreams
as lofty words on wasted reams
a miss used time
or ends to means
this mush of patience
restrains to sin
through will of mind
contained within
lay that to waste
what aspires to be
oh hidden fate
in elegancey
I close mine eyes
withhold thy needs
care not to cause
few misread deeds
whom only lead to spiteful seeds
Moon beams wane
and dissipate cross frosty panes
a gauge of time
ticked off by rain
this music made sweet serenade
a leitmotif of dreams past played
on morning comes & brings the sun
the brightest star
of Apollo's hour
and Ea's desire
though all I aspire
this union of fire
of earth well worth we wait within
deep sleep and reap our body's heat
oh perfect form
thoughts while I gaze
attention divided
open field fed by maze
-2006
Feb 11, 2010
Feb 11, 2010 at 9:26 AM UTC
Down the lawn's decrescendo,
on the curb, a blocky Mercedes,
older than sound. I pull behind it, drop my things
like kick drums to the ground. The door
opens: a chorus of
can I help, what can I take?
And the quarter-rests of a fight
interrupted. The whole affair like
a sore wrist.
He has a violinist's chin, soft but
pallid, pocked, from losing
a battle with teenage skin, and
here is the ochre noise of his voice
a can on rocks; my father's was a stone in
a guitar.
So this is the new arrangement.
A leitmotif that trails at her heel, that tears at
every quiet measure; the whole hall
hears her uneasy with the next note.
This is no melody, I know,
but it is the new arrangement.
When she is old and failed,
her conductor's elbow fallen mutely to her side,
what will she think of
the first song she ever made?
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 10:39 AM UTC
The fear has subsided,
Uncertainty melts into endless kisses,
The second movement begins
On a hopeful note,
The violins build with a confidence
And unity, powerful and harmonious.
The unstructured first movement
Simply a search for a theme
A leitmotif to progress from darkness
To light.
The woodwinds laugh,
The horns announce the news,
The drums are strength and power
Driving the rhythm of our love.
Writing the notes together
We flow like rain
Blow together like leaves
In a breeze so brisk and strong.
We are conducting this movement
In gentle caresses and playful interchanges.
A melody only the heart can hear,
Silently envelops our waking hours,
And urging us to surrender.
The orchestra plays as one
We float upon the ocean of sound,
Wondering if the symphony will ever end.
Let the musicians play on
We can dance till dawn.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 10:39 PM UTC
If there is a strong ideal
then wait for the graze ointment,
perhaps by then
I will never be caught.
If there ever was cedar shingle
that needed repairing,
three layers underneath
may never be enough.
Tomorrow feels its wear
perhaps my palms after all,
will not be pious ,
yet under the leitmotif
of the gilled
fish bucket
Life and I don't listen
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 5:37 PM UTC
Leathery skin
furling by
the hides
of ideas,
to impart
the coyest
We are searching for dismantled cameras
with the flashy leitmotif disabled
in a disbanded cinema
And in the dark you ovulated, murdered
under the thickness of rough tree bark
Haul trunks of
a honky-tonk
dismembering
remembrances
rows of seating
Squalling, beautiful voices
throaty, tonefully sinking
in tune with imaginary keys
located in grey, clinking
between stained ivory tiers
and scuffed ebony branches
rending the reddest of heart-drawls
then plucking each riveted contour
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:40 AM UTC
It is June. Plaridel is in sepia, or leaden – whichever,
this is the leitmotif.
Soon clouds with jettison a plodding swathe of
water. You will wear the petrichor,
While a ramshackle of a passing tricycle
whelms a throbbing orchestra of junk.
Here is the hearth that rears no fire:
a mother, children in tow – a troika,
on a cart not even close to ease of
a hurtling thing. Trees naked in vulnerable
green – the verdigris carried by a
miniscule Maya.
Here comes again, the neighbor peering through
the nuisance, is alarmed, eyes like a fugitive,
curses my mother – I grab the nearest, sharpest
object available that was my own hand.
Ingrained deep within, a root – or a stone, among many
other stones in me, this salt-well, a savingslight of turning wave
that is almost an approximate oceanview in me.
Gnarled over the longest time. In here we soothe by
gin, passing out in front of our gated homes,
singing whatever was available, close to our pitch.
Somewhere, Windsor has lost the poem / critiqued by
a mirror fecundating a smeared image, a blot.
A Rorschach was it, or just a day dazed they did.
Somewhere, this is scattered. Uncollected. To make remnants
of as evidence, not to investigate if true.
The 6th body of this is what I am speaking of in glossolalia.
A requiem leaves it stark and cold in this consummate weather.
Another piercing salvage of metal cuts the humdrum town
and unlike the sturdy mango tree, this is a collective of secret
encrypted lasting more than a life.
It is June. Plaridel has ripened from the expired summer.
Perchance the exquisite promise is sweet, holding all the bitterness together,
ready to fall, at last.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 10:22 PM UTC
Torrents of wind, strewn upon man and beast
an irradiant moment terses through the veins
howls bewilderment speculates,
attempting to overthrow the instant,
home is a short shrift distance
her only resonance is a leitmotif
that hail the late seasons repentance.
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC
We live in a society where a simple glance shift the way we are
Drowning the child living in our souls in a sea of prejudice and lies
Stifling his fearful cries in a whirlwind of deception
He re-appears as a 'man' like they say
A person who's leitmotif is security
Too scared to face the unknown ,
Too coward to fulfill his childhood dreams
The desire to be alike becomes so extreme
That he destroys what god gave him and made him so unique
Every single one of us is a part of the all mighty
Which makes us special in every ways
We are fruits stemming from various trees with a specific taste
Spurning that gift is like removing a part of ourselves
Admitting that we are weak within
Stand for it and you'll become a source of inspiration
A well moisturizing uncountable souls about to faint
Don't be afraid of what they think
Be free
Be you !
Mar 4, 2010
Mar 4, 2010 at 11:01 AM UTC
In here everything attempts
to be infinite – that when utterances
free themselves from mouth’s dungeon
it may all be but locutionary.
This is your leitmotif. To have your darkness
breed flaxen hair,
and in a split-second your eyes in their
deep epistaxis of blackness
follow me with the drone of such machine.
This unmethodical severance; something
drastic by necessity, but does not strike
with the same accuracy of necessary haunts.
Back when I was young, I had no picture
of ravens. You, screaming all across the yard
of your rawness, fracturing the morning.
The trees with their shadows strode
in stilts – the span of such winged vestige,
I thought, on the sterile concrete
was the virginal image of ravens.
Even the rain is able in that awning fount.
The sound of tranquil is the water pipe left pouring,
draining itself of its entirety. Fire hydrants
inflamed, grow jealous of such catharsis.
The bus, running over a pile of garbage, is never off-tangent.
I do not know if you have still the memory
of this place – if you look back too near, wide-eyed,
and surgery-precise, or if you are to trail back too far,
the settings will only pulse with a life you used to know,
and adjustments we are not inured to: if you are to take
this dream of fish out of sleep’s water, it will fade into a cathode.
It had in its forgetfulness, something still the moon is a raven
in a knell of silence. If you are to come back here, everyone
is stranger than they were when you left,
and that what used to pass on as answers are now
mauled into fustian of enigmas. The din of such
demeanor, electric and tense – so swell you can feel it close in
like some pain masquerading itself into
a close encounter with the sheen of pristine moment;
but pain is in media res and to look at you merely, a disappearance
or a terminal finish .
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 10:55 AM UTC
in the lighter steps of yesteryears come the name of which
I cannot remember insofar as I am awash with the delusion
of what a poem, or what to make out of a poem, or what use
is there, to heave out poems – I was then raw, supple if you
may allow, like dew on blade of grass, face front
against the blithesome matutinal, heart somewhere displaced,
beginning to look for something the inward expects,
as though things happen for the first time again,
with wisdom of what to look for – resigned, young,
inconsistent with the word, fetal in my hands: pen and paper.
a well-guarded secret
swaying in tune, curtailed by some sort of split-second inhibition,
trying to save face and give this blandness a whole new meaning
and arrive at two intersecting points where the lost self will be
redeemed in finding – monologue of sorts, dark it was,
dampened by such bleakness, this leitmotif;
all around me purged of sound, strip to rogue without
senses, suddenness at the tip of my body, lunging at any
feat of light that succeeds to champion this behemoth of blackness,
to complete this impedance, a singular impetus to fruition ekphrasis,
yet not quite, deep in the study again, as though
yesteryears are all but the days starting to disintegrate
into tiny segments to wreak something devastatingly vague, as in,
a language curled in the tongue, relentlessly flexed against the wall
of me, losing yet no little piece.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 7:40 AM UTC
figurined affectations
weary on their pedestals,
high-pouncing in their
formless wind,
whimpering in their places,
like a woman imagined
in leitmotif - chords
outstretched to symphonic wrestle,
lissome fingers touch
gossamer ground
lips wovenly shut to figure
out in silence, its language.
this is a showcase of longing,
yet, wildly it goes
with its urgency, into the
unrests of my cerebra,
imprisoned there, slumbering there, thieving and thriving there.
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 2:16 AM UTC
*Sympathetic comfort, peace -a harmony of perishable Liberty! Such dying love, was never my leitmotif; and I will not foolishly go about haunting the town -seeking from thee, that deplorable Pity, of which you deem me • as tho renowned • fond of once -as unsightly Greed is to debts! as heavy-laden gluttons add another pound and ounce • on the go • are to Gluttony!
And oh! Ye fiendish dunce • I am here now, (how soon she forgets.) And I stand above -above the hunts. So many once fetched, lest yet I deem no more necessity. But rather I mourn, mourn now • an Ode to Death, (owed to Death.) And also I grieve the loss by severed head, my mighty steed -and I wept. Oh! how I wept.
And I lay flowers upon this, his departed spirit. Of which I had foreseen to naught offend thee • the dead • who'd grin & bear it: but due for his long service to me, I offer him • the weary • solace from your offence. I shudder to mention it • even now • I swear it! And do send you a suffered lyric -to confound your pretty head.*
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 2:45 AM UTC
Psyche soaking wet with devout atheism,
this lifetime skeptic now tenuously
linkedin with Unitarianism
attests, said upbringing proffered,
mine credo, gestalt,
leitmotif, sans abstractionism
eludes elucidation, delineation, clarification...
some readers might
dismiss as absurdism
defying established dogma fixed absolutism
millenniums, would be hashtagged heretical,
and such cavalier blithe
apostasy, declared alarmism,
now - twenty first century
extant accursed as alcoholism
within various non
Western statecraft enclaves,
barely tolerating agnosticism
no fool to *********
proclamations antithetical opinionism
where condemnation to death
(I obediently, humbly, and gladly accept)
inadequate punishment,
cited on par relegated to alienism,
amoralism, antiestablishmentarianism...
never does this anachronism
loosely cabled with pioneerism,
(when ****** forests bedecked America),
a veritable wilderness, necessitated
quintessential self survivalism
knowhow long since forgot,
which dependence on consumerism
finds yours truly afflicted against capitalism
commercialism, conformism, cultism et cetera
more aligned with reliance on individualism
nearly an extinct species,
where anti materialism
betrays, cavils, and discourages ecocentrism,
versus profit motive maximization,
though of late environmental dynamism
aggressive representative thank you
Greta Ernman Thunberg regarding criticism,
nee opprobrious global ecological terrorism
mandating staunch defeatism
as stave bulwark
against criminal determinism
to wreak irrevocable traitorous dogmatism
predicated on tenets of egocentrism
brewed, steeped, and
galvanized in exceptionalism
of **** sapiens and expansionism
exclusive to said primate
that requires serious assessment,
asper bracketing craven
doctrinairism edified fundamentalism
granting humans unfettered expansionism!
Mar 23, 2019
Mar 23, 2019 at 3:52 PM UTC
god's plaything -
what is the colour of rain
that paints this city
with the havoc that once
trouble wreaked over
our sorriness?
god's no god
until he is god
in someone's throne
and i may be a fool.
he is a cool cat rolling
thunderously over the silence
of our homes or
perhaps a soldier
marching his way
homeward amid
the tatterdemalion
of days.
god's temple
is the body and a body's
oblivious of this -
god knows no "sigue sigue"
nor "sputnik"
nor piercing the helm
cerebrally
god's no fool to goad any gambit
or watch the wane of old solace.
or is it that i am
a leitmotif and my peccadilloes
are a path's adagio towards contrite?
god voyeurs over the
windowless hours
of my sanity's eclipse
and soon, when all of my prayers
turn to ash and
no sound of me is heard,
in the evening of this tide
is deliverance
and i have slept.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 9:40 AM UTC
digress from this river that flows into a straight line. the following here
will be that there is another body waiting at the brink of
another figure lacking in speech: brook as excursion.
this plaintive leitmotif this afternoon. everything smells
of old furniture. something this is trying
to preserve wrung out of suspicion, shorn out of air
and unrest. when I begin saying it, and when I become
what I want to become, I will fold you in a manner
of houses. tell me of the footfall before I plunge.
outside my home you will be waiting
for a question because you liked the idea that
askance is the heart of all assertions.
and I will slowly begin to realize that imagination
as machine, has not failed me.
when moved by the sight of you,
gradually dissipate.
when halted by the inching step of
your basis,
take a moment as evidence
and use as ground for furtive contest.
when there is evitable cipher of silence,
I will phrase gestures into something like a metaphor
would induce
when there is meaning, there is the moving away
and coming unabashed, pendulum your way into two walls
as weathered as this house. Your face, a thousand adorations.
your heart a truism in the heat
of naivety in place of a wild embrace.
your hands this evening, tremulous, nervously seeking
to be one with my measurement: this thing that has nothing to do with me,
except we have such fondness over allowing sorry states.
that we have use for what we have no use for. This thing,
a fragment so foreign to me,
like hearing my name disintegrate, as if a thing
of obsolescence, as everything is.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 10:26 PM UTC
Nothing like this assault.
In here you were gradually
introduced. The keen sense
for identity realized,
the distance that was a sullen
word for madness, a tender
perimeter established.
The calm wind as not-so-distant.
You in your plain clothes this afternoon,
lost in a commute of phases.
This weather schemes to be
your leitmotif. This is of no
identical ownership but breakage.
In here you were met with constant
delimitation, yet always you are
as you always were, perhaps,
quite unsure of the next face
dislimned past the delicatessen.
The barkeep yesterday wiped the glass
clean as I watched from the edge
of poor furnitures. You, sudden,
of no warning, no clear word
for objects, has objections for marvels
made clear still opaque in the eye of you.
That when you were brought
into the world, I had you coming as
soft blow in the wilderness
hardly tractable, all by yourself
as I witnessed everything, past dead
underfoot, being all necessary
to yourself, as you always were
in various settings and adjustments.
You were sure of the unsure and I
am in the middle of things
feeling the winding of it all, the breaking,
and the passing.
Nothing like this assault.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 3:00 AM UTC
the rest of the lights before you
slid into erasures. we have become
everything the city is in its precocity;
from the wind that gallops, the dog
howling into a crossfade, even underneath
the already dead lampposts that give
in to the velocity of such departure,
a divisible line. a border I cannot cross.
I dip my body into the thick dark
and become bendable light through
the crevice of doors. the gnawing silence,
your leitmotif. something the wind is still
all beautiful things passing and I become
nothing more but a dank memory in the muck
of forgetting – whatever it was, that I conversed with,
stars their dereliction, all across the flagrant void,
I am beating with more life than ever,
dancing around your leftover moon.
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 11:15 PM UTC
carve you, me,
made godly a being from
kink of Earth when all
hands and the leprous
sneer of folding pavement sway
swing a swift embrace,
bringing a face
when you read me blind,
crooning a tune
when you reverberate me deaf,
touching me warm
when you swarm me coldly,
fevering me a saltine sweat
when you chase around
a fleeting image,
preening through the impedance
or was it a dance
when you move me, limbless—
leitmotif lures
to nets of waiting
when you break the hue
of an adjusted format
telling no lost piece; oh, you,
i, our strangeness, our fondled ways,
our being taken away to care
for only rogue night. our
having chanced upon each other
in between mellifluous slowness
of paces and our frequent sojourns,
looking for something
unfamiliar.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 2:41 AM UTC
everything in life is tech-ordered,
in this age of mega-multitasking,
the brain poorly functions, so in its defense,
the brain leans on learned reflexive behaviors
she, on the couch, cashmere blanket covered,
the Tv platform reconstituted as a drone,
a politician in front of a camera pontificating,
while she scans the Ipad, and both me and god,
don’t know what more she might need (to buy)
so when I stroke her legs, to give
added heat to her fiber-edged warming,
I do it more than once to test my theoretical,
she responds repeatical, unhesitatingly “hello my love”
after the fourth or sixth testing,
she looks up, ears perking, sensing,
knowing, something is afoot (a-legged?)
quizingly asking, “ok, what’s up?”
I smile, and explain most rationally,
that in furtherance of my current poem,
now underway, I was testing my leitmotif,
that even love benefits from proper training
<>
*no, I will not show her this poem,
lest she show me in return,
her new self-improvement,
her recently-learned-at-home,
mindful, meditative training in*
kickboxing skills.
Apr 14, 2020
Apr 14, 2020 at 12:10 PM UTC
i love thee
poetry.
whose hands, steadfast,
catatonic waters past
end freely in dusk,
carrying me over
life's ferocious waters,
if not death.
whose slender body is
to make love, make fire,
sinking in a leitmotif of
seraphs unknowing sepulchers,
which ails me so in the night
drunk without stars shall i seek
the dharma burning in the bone,
the fanfare of mind berserks
the thorough ablution of
the mind's useless wanderings,
i love thee poetry,
its rescue, its curse,
its waysides - i love them all
nothing but shorter lifelessly,
a brief night ended in the
bat of an eye.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 11:27 AM UTC