"lilts" poems
✴
*in the quiet of stillness
I can hear a snowflake
gently land
upon my cheek
a flurry of gossamer
frozen lace lilts ~
peacefully
transforming
the ennui
of chilling silence
into a wilderness symphony*
✴
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 11:59 AM UTC
Fatima Latima
I had wished I had no gift of sight
That the worst I could endure is hear you speak
And not snapshot the footfall of your gradation
You may not be a thief
Nor **** daughter of the dayspring
But definitely my heart you stole
I speak of the daughter of Arabia
Aesthetically, she rocks
The queen of the pilgrim sands
And aeonian desert stones
Beyond the hijab
Artistically knead with consummate craft
Like the relics of Mecca
Blest by the prophet’s bones
The blessed
I see torches
Beaming with intelligence
Within those mascaras
Exquisitely trimmed and vibrant
A lulu class botany
She fixes a searching gaze
As she saunters close
And the stride and tread
Beats a drum entrancing
Soothed in her solacing spell
I give in, to her lullaby
She halts her perambulation
Stands magniloquent and stupefy
Like some pop diva magazine pose
Or Victorian secret shot
A tactical derangement of her gluteals
As she rests her palm in its cleft
I feel contractions, my dartos muscles
The blew of summertime
Gently beats her exceptional form
Her belt submerge her thigh crevice
Cleft by the sundered rift of fleshy fat
Built by the dainties and delicacies
Seasoned by the finest Arabian chef
As her silken dress slithers and gowns
Under the breeze bulging and blooming
Like a rose blossom or sunflower fore
As she bends down
To assuage the burlesque
The sun specula lilts her sensational
Her smile apologetic bids me stillness
I am caught staring
Guzzling down her scent and
Feasting on empty imaginations
Of What If that accentuate the mind and
Speed a hormone
And I pray I sin no more
Next time we meet and I see her again
For I am but a writer
Learning to use my pen and paper
And hope you but forgive
My linguistic impotence
When I make my confession
Employing too plain a language
When I say thus;
Her smile is classical
Her walk magical
Her beauty celestial
Her stride sensational
Her religion ethical
Her character spotless
And that leaves me breathless
And forgive if I step on broken toe
And try speak of the unspoken
Her ****** is sacred
Her being a type that dresses up
In the milliards of brutes dressing down
And shamelessly style it fashion
I must see a priest
One confession I ought to utter
And even vociferate abroad
For once I had fallen in love
With an Arabian Beautie
A ****** of Mecca.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 9:12 AM UTC
♡><♡><♡
on bare boards
the glit'ring gause
graceful gesture found
an arabesque
an aching pause
apropos to concert sound
lithe lustrous girl
scarce woman grown
pours out her beating heart
to stretch with every
muscle owned
in pain for love of art
pure grace she is
just as a swan
soft white and deepest black
she sways and lilts
her own will gone
on point with arch of back
a strong male
who leaps and soars
stately carriage bounds
to show his love
unto his core
and sweep her
from the ground
no person in
the world knows
the dancer's struggle, care
they only see talent bestowed
as he lifts her in the air
the grueling practice
hour on hour
the hardship and the strain
taxing body til it's empowered
the tutelage of brain
hour on hour
same movement learned
feet bound until deformed
to ache, oh yes, to hurt and burn
'til she has perfect form
but all this pain
which we don't see
is never all for naught
for the roses she will be
for the applause
she's fraught
for when this girl
is on the stage
she will, as a swan, fly
and with great grace
she'll turn the page
and then, as woman
die
soulsurvivor
(C) 8/1/2015
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 12:26 PM UTC
Clusters of lights like lilies,
Or like boiling craters in obsidian
The black is inky,
It could swallow me whole,
I'm thankful to be strapped in
The horizon scrolls back as the plane lilts
Like an image in an old slide projector
Suddenly the moon is below me
Icarus should have winged by night
I’d be god if I weren’t strapped in
Clusters of light like lilies
In this lolling pond we skim
Light strung like dew on spider silk
A flattened web to stretch the land
thankful not to be attached
Shimmering grids draw nearer
Enveloped in their seductive shimmer
thankful not to crash
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 3:52 PM UTC
The stink of fish on earthen streets
A hot wind blows from ochre hills
Black faces shine with brilliant teeth
Street market ***** doth cure all ills.
Redness in her plaited hair
Rhythm in her steady tread
A harmony of balance, she carries
Water jars on her head.
A market girl is singing
As she sits among bananas
The drama in her music
Is as dusty as the street,
It fills the air with magic
As it lilts above street chatter
In the atmosphere of Africa
Where new and ancient meet.
The goat boy herds his docile flock
Through camel trains and bales
The steamer tethered at the dock
Announces that she sails
With billowed steam and mournful wail
It echoes through the town
And the planter and his agent
Bargain with a harried frown.
The bleating of the goat herd
And the stench of fish and dung
Is as ordinary as Africa
In the searing mid day sun.
Zanzibar is spices, Zanzibar is Stone.
Club Zanzibar is whiskey on the rocks
Consumed alone
Or shared upon the balcony
In the shadow of a palm
With the turquoise Indian ocean
Reaching out beyond the arm.
Do you see the dhows are sailing?
Do you see the fishing nets?
Do you hear the oarsmen chanting?
Did you see black muscle flex?
Have you watched the dripping sweat
Cascade on alabaster brow?
Have you inhaled the scent of Africa
And allowed it to allow?
Colobus monkeys in the treetops
Narrow lanes in the bazaar
Dull white walls adorn stone buildings
And the rupee is by far
The favorite tenure of the Island
Since the days when slaves were sold
By Arab camel caravaners
Who traded coin for young black gold.
East and west collide in concert
Africa and Asia blend
The Sultan's mix of race and spice
In Zanzibar, beyond lands end.
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
3rd June 2008
Oct 13, 2009
Oct 13, 2009 at 11:06 PM UTC
ivory keys
seek the touch
of long-dead
fingertips
fluttering
flittering
elegant keystrokes
gracefully enchanted
bittersweet tunes
staccato lilts
incandescent harmonies
melancholy melodies
every heartbreaking keystroke
drips
with mournful,
dismal sadness
each life is a
unique song;
each has their own,
single chorus
some are a great crescendo;
some a lullaby;
some are a lonely tune;
some barely even brush the keys
each journey,
though,
has white keys of joy
and black keys of sorrow
*but
even the
black keys
make music*
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 8:51 PM UTC
An early, gentle breeze billows
the curtains and lilts a rose that blushes
from the memories of last night’s love.
A hush of air teases a white shirt
with a strawberry kiss on the collar,
still draped across the back of the chair
where it was carelessly tossed the night before.
Sweet sunbeams tug linen sheets and smile
warmly and sweetly behind the ears.
Good morning, love.
Safety and silence, slowly breathing
within an embrace in the only moment
that has ever caressed like this.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 1:27 AM UTC
we are two trees
lilts of speech
and
soft tapping tendrils played on
stringéd instruments
that is our water supply
intense lashéd eye contact
wrapping our long legs and aching arms around
each other's anatomy
that is our sunshine
heavy, breathy sighs
and long, slithering **********
that is our photosynthesis
grow with me
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 12:33 PM UTC
I am a musician.
I do not write.
I compose.
I can tell you the tempo of my heart
And how it shifts from adagio to allegro
When I see your face.
How the crescendo of your smile
Creates a symphony in my mind.
How the lilts of your voice are melodies
I will never forget.
I am a musician.
I am not a poet.
I cannot compare thee to a summer's day
But what I can do is compare you to a piece of complete harmony
And consonance.
I can tell you the names of the chords you strike through my veins
When you look me in the eyes.
I cannot turn words into poetry or love
But I can sing you love songs until my voice runs dry.
I am a musician.
I cannot write.
I can strum you like a guitar and make you hum.
I can make you sing sweet melodies when I run my fingers down your spine.
I can tell you how cacophonous my life is without you.
I can tell you how the melody in a monophonic composition feels
When you're gone.
I can feel the syncopation when we are in a fight.
I am a musician.
I am not a poet.
I cannot put into words how I feel about you.
But I can sure as hell try
In this word sonata of thoughts.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 8:03 PM UTC
over the phone you might think me
a kindhearted metro-sexual with a deep voice
that lilts and appropriately pitches
to accommodate your ear
and manipulate your conception of me
so that you wont put a frowney face
nested in the message that im leaving
for someone else
above any "i" that might appear
but this vocal spirit only disguises
the less-than-cheeerful demeanor
with which i walk around
when i deftly cut of all communication
with the people that need me to be
something that makes them feel better
not only about my person
but humanity as a whole too
i have a
love hate relationship with phone voice
it often feels like im acting
i wrote and approved a script
where a melancholy person pretends
to be the most pleasant thing
that you have ever known
"yes, HULLLOOO! im looking to leave a message for
....[puke in mouth] heather"
and when that dreadful experience
wains and vanishes
i light another cigarette
slam down a shot glass
and growl
ghrryeeeeaaaaah
me again
***** with tobacco stained fingers
happy [through ingestion]
but still not that person
never phone voice happy
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 12:43 PM UTC
Chanting lilts the woods,
Tranquil ensemble of leaves:
Forest symphony.
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 8:06 PM UTC
Strawberry sun
hot on swaying hips
a shimmer of skin,
sultry beacon of temptation.
Days smear in sweat
and grass stains.
Twilight carries dusty toes
a few steps further.
Legs dangling, lonely
top of rusted tower,
Moon whispering
“come and kiss me”.
Languid laughter lilts
lining ancient constellations
Space(s) [is] filled
By our separation.
Cicadas croon,
Biding elusive slumber,
dawn’s yellow tendrils grasp eyelashes,
rays morph into rivers of light.
Time, the illusion of a tether;
A notion of perpetual motion
Adrift an absent-minded sea,
Hazy, evasive sleep
Our ropes will fray
in wisps and waves of heat.
C.e.M.
31082016
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 8:05 PM UTC
Bathtubs don’t work for quantum suicide
But every time I take one,
A part of me dies
What was nice under the crescent aglow?
Drunk on stars, or the moon lit show…
Ash of night, cradled what was once mine,
The repertoire of ever-syncing- jawlines.
Puissant is the chalice, its exaltation shined so bright,
Bestowed liberation underneath the chatoyant light,
The open windows left niveous fogs-
Breathed -stained –air, against crystal *****
Alive and one, under the entire earthly tempo,
Together left her organic imprints of art nouveau.
Beneath the warmth and petrichor ground,
The Lord and Lady commence to be crowned.
...Tree roots sink as veins of gods.
The serpent whispers his mellifluous facade...
The sharp shove of love’s first arrow
Lover’s spit, a seed for cupid’s bucolic furrow.
Scripture of Solomon’s *** temple of doom
All within the nicotine-stained-blue-infrared-bedroom,
Velvet allure, bellies of vigor,
The cold point, the pulled trigger.
Dance of Thelma, ancient cults of non-lovers
Feasting north, under the Horned God’s antlers.
The concoction of the widow’s deviated lust
Skins alive, the excited wolf-mans’ husk…
The gun’s mouth ex hailed bullets of smoke
Piercing hot wounds became tender lilts in up word strokes.
Still, they brought, perforating ice knives through the chest
Catching fades perpetually, just until two came abreast.
The shadow dalliance and hair pulls leave those weary,
The anise flower seeds sanction the suffering query.
What was once so beautiful at night?
Forgotten, as I turned red-haired-heathen in morning’s sight
So I take my hot bath, inure in my offing.
Emollient paean of the porcelain,
...which is my skin
See you, my ethereal being,
In short time spring will be fleeting
May 8, 2012
May 8, 2012 at 11:43 AM UTC
For I to cherish soaked in sunbathe dream of freckles on cream and strawberries
For you to see and sigh and fill with warm fizzy pink water too sweet to contemplate
For you to see and sigh and long for long sleeved sheathed in jealousy spilling out in bright red syrup
For I to paint faces with my utterances fanciful making ugly alluring curious mysterious attractive
I can take my nose to be strength clever seducting wicked men and women to listen to my describes or look upon papyrus sheets
I can make my jaw a naive child stricken with blue veins translucent skin clinging papery like wings to brittle bones under eaves ready to snap
I can write my eyes wide innocent in first time headlights first time frosted firsts filled with empty antecedents of unclasped things and fifty fifty longings
I can make the ugly striking like a stinging snake cruel contemplating lashing smarts or make it sad sorrowful quiet longing new to life love mature but still a child
I can add grace poise to my stretched out neck make it stand tall of pride training because it's ladylike to do so and so I must and say my prayers every night too as I powder over my faintly drawn freckles
Boyish humour uncaring to my generous brows a baseball mitt bubblegum cards and a fetish for goths forever unrecognised as spit flies and at home haircuts compose a flyaway life
Embellish the hollows collarbones and detract the too-broad shoulders make the frailty proud and small shrink it down to fit in a girl big brothers to gentle and lovers to rough pinned wrists that near snap
With my words I reap the benefits of my own mindly kindling I wander through half made times in history and finished times two seconds right now
I can create myself and so I do my thirst to be is insatiably insatisfied like my attraction to bad grammar and lilts when you talk so I do I become each and every one
I create myself and it's addicting
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 5:41 PM UTC
...you stand surely to shipwreck.
all hands on deck.
accordion three-four lilts amelie
hymn hummed
beneath frenetic waltz of fingers
Rain-bitten and dumb
pirouette recessional to the sea
and such enchanting cobbled waves
how truly quaint rosy tempest in the square
pour down the dirge to murky drain.
throw in the bottle, the maps, the ropes
pirouette recessional to the sea
lastly heave-ho
i throw in me.
Feb 3, 2012
Feb 3, 2012 at 9:33 PM UTC
the ocean-floor in rainbow-lines
lilts over
heavy heat and surface-din
calm-vow under varied-waves
hums over
*bustle of activity in *****
susurrous-bower on moving-sand
shades over
clipped-voice in room
('I'd like to be in an octopus' garden.. under the sea..' //
S T - 1 december 2013
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 7:51 AM UTC
*embers drew to a shaded face, fragmented lips wept;
storms, feral and unabated, loitering in the combe of fires.
the ethereal visions of honey amber lights, faint and narrow;
ebony of my pupils dead, alike of shriveled meadow.
violence thrusted into yellow mouths of daffodils,
like tapestries like yarns of blue saccharine sorrows.
brimming with viscid liquids of blackeries and vains,
like silver mackerels, sleeping out of the abyss, on a train;
like subtle, maladroit shorthands and dewy black inks,
who lilts the fawnish plateaus and quaint alleys.
the depths of my shallow sleeps, glowing under
the burnt foliage, mellifluous sonatas gently play;
strawberries occur under bare walls of throat,
vanish on the morrow, like a dalliance—
so frantic and hollow.*
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 10:13 AM UTC
A poem dedicated to all true lovers of Jazz.
TRIBUTE TO JAZZ MUSIC
BY RAJ NANDY
I can feel its rhythm and beat,
Along with its pulsating pain!
Its music flows freely….
Through my arteries and veins!
Its beats always echoes,
Through the corridors of my mind,
As I get wafted slowly, on the wings
of mystic time!
Its music gets synchronized,
With my heart’s muffled beat,
As I try to keep time, -
With the tapping of my feet!
Each of its pulsating rhythm,
And all its background chimes,
With its syncopated lilts,
Jazz remains harmonized!
The piano players dancing fingers,
Caresses a rhythmic sway,
While the Sax’s deep-throated tenor,
Drives my loneliness away!
When I hear my old Jazz music,
And those golden classic tunes,
I forget I am getting old,
To time I become immune!
For it is then when I begin to feel,
like the old King Cole;
As this music tingles my mind,
and rejuvenates my soul!
- Raj Nandy, New Delhi.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 8:12 AM UTC
I am no...Annie Leibovitz
weilding frames per second
in an angled lens
while you tilt your head back
to laugh at whatever it was
that I said.
It's beautiful.
The sound of your laughter
filling in-between pauses
like music,
so sweet and so dear
but I am no Henry Purcell.
The Fairy-Queen lilts like a bell.
It's all so much like magic
how tragic it is
to have your eyes see mine
and still never know I exist.
I am no Girl With A Pearl Earring
I just find you endearing
how if Sandro had found you
decades ago
You would be Venus
and I would be Picasso.
Both so different yet striking
and maybe you'd know
You are my everything.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 5:38 PM UTC
When gunmetal streets begin to fade into jazz
My soul walks cool, unafraid into jazz
There are dissonant holes in the sky tonight
The world seems at once to cascade into jazz
The old district buzzing with ambition’s jam
Each dancer's alchemy turns suede into jazz
And the city lights stiff with rigor mortis
Revived into blues, then swayed into jazz
Windows begin flooding unassuming streets
First timid, the passersby wade into jazz
Some to their ankles, unconvinced of the rhyme
Others shun inhibition and parade into jazz
Their excitement displaced by a mellow groove
Miles Davis lilts above, casting shade into jazz
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 12:18 AM UTC
Strong music lilts over foggy hills
A bird flies overhead, it's tune being shrill
And with these words my heart seems to fill;
"This is your home. Your ancient home."
A tall, mighty castle rises over the moors
And a strong ocean's waves on the rocks are torn
Somehow, I know here my heart was born;
"This is your home. Your ancient home."
Strong Celtic music floats over the trees
A dancing in my heart just wants to be free
I whisper as I look at the tossing seas;
"This is my home. My ancient home."
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 11:01 AM UTC
Autumn clovers leave
The dirt it stays behind
Steelheads turn up the arms
I don't wanna stay, I see no thing but pride
That man he drowned. He loses everything.
Pinnacle ladies cry, they move up the yawn.
I shake the bed, until tomorrow's grieving.
It shucks our graves in two, splits the pupil's
Fearless cast. I can't run away, I can't make Friday.
The needle takes too long, the blood doesn't leave a trace. The opening is long to go, but
We wallow with it.
Each funeral is a thousand alms
They call to each other's arms.
They won't go astray, even if
You leave them.
Sorrow is my brother's lot
It takes up the head, and leaves us sideways-
Another whim lilts in two. The bridle makes the saw, that breaks down every god. It brands the flock, I don't look at anything.
This day grief makes it hard to go
Another man is bent.
My crooked spine, he shakes in torment.
Up upon the piste, broke down onto the knees
Nothing's there, but I can't look away.
Keep me to yourself
Like a secret you don't know
If I could just find a way
To live another day.
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 2:04 AM UTC
You gently pushed me
into a wall
with your frame on mine again.
A wall –
Painted so long ago you –
could no longer smell the volatile compounds
Acutely confined - my frame
between yours and its.
Palm frond muted light spilled
into imposing window
from New Orleans street lamp
Diffracted in dappled condensate orb.
Condensation drapes into pearls - collapsing
on themselves, and dropped
in unison
with – our - shifts.
Uneven wooden floor panels echo
our obsequious rhythm
of physical appreciation, settled
into their granular responsibility.
Your pulse
embodied in your palms and hips
lilts in soft gasps
as I drape my forearm over your shoulder –
sliding body forward - I dip
into the crook of your neck
finding your pulse on my nose.
I prop my chin into
your
Collar bone crook
glancing into
your deepening eyes,
and press my lips into the
grooves of your neck
as you arch - into
the delicate moment before reciprocation.
I do not wonder what it would be like if walls could talk;
I would love to see them show impressions
of those that have touched their surface –
revealed in smears of paint.
And feel
racing pulses echoed
within those who pressed
into these corridors --
listening to secrets of one another’s bodies.
Grind deeper,
the wall will record our pulse tonight,
and perhaps –
our next encounter
will entail
our bodies
in paint
telling stories we could never capture
in our eyes locked into one another.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:08 PM UTC
Your voice isn't like a song
Or a prayer.
It's more like a secret.
I am selfish and don't want to share it.
I wan't to catch it in a jar with fresh air and the scent of pine trees
A bottle to mix it with carbonated bubbles
An envelope filled with letters never written.
I want you shrunken down and curled up in the curved shell of my ear.
Whisper, scream, sing, laugh, mutter.
I have a seven-track mind and I'd like you to narrate them all for me.
Read me your homework, your favourite book, your shopping lists, the ingredients of your shampoo.
The breaths and lilts and stutters
Keep it raw and new and open
And I'm honoured.
Share the secret with me.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 4:11 AM UTC
Through the windows
comes the summer breeze
that cools our skin
to below zero degrees
and rubs my wounds raw
like a sandstorm raging
inside a cool oasis
The symphony of
Synchronicity
that is our pounding heartbeat
lilts as a murmuring voice
that gently sheds its layers
to lay, replete
in a habitual stasis
Given there is no air
for lungs to embrace
and no breath, to speak
nor shining beacon
in an empty place
Fingers connected, intertwined
captures a blistering wind
that laps upon
drops of tears
bleeding from skin
abused
and is trusting
that the mask
was the one and same
as the last that was used
The heart that has fallen
to land on the floor
is forever just a landmark
to remind me
I have been here before
Feb 10, 2012
Feb 10, 2012 at 10:11 PM UTC