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Heavy Hearted Feb 2017
1, for the slumber that tumbles us round,
2, for the remedy, the musics bold sound.
3, for the tree that became your canoe
& 4 for the rain, it's ambiguous blue.

5, to escape, to a world we contrive,
6 for the tricks that I played to survive.
7, because heaven, is supposedly on earth,
& 8 for my mother, and her unknown worth.
9 for the failures, the faults & mistakes,
10 for the fears that keep us awake.

11, for my father, consoles me each night, whispers advice crystal clear, filled with insight- words on courage & kindness, love & delight.
12- when you wake but it's already night.
13 forever, with strength glory and might,
14 with wisdom, discretion, insight-
both numbers together sizing up every fight.

15, for my little sister, and all her turmoil,
15, for her spirit, the last one to spoil,
she and the world but water and oil,
15 for her soul, and like the mighty cobra it's coil,
deadly & graceful defends its home soil.

16 for the evil- the wicked & cruel, the endless hate they spin into fuel.
17, for reason, justice & art,
and all the other virtues life etched on my heart,
18, to redeem, to admit your mistake, to truly move on then perhaps to retake.
19 for that shame, always the same, so familiar it almost comforts my brain. 19, for the suffering, agony & betrayal.
19 true stories retold as mere tales- how they surpass logic and induce other's fails.

20. For my years. For the moment, for now. For to the past I salute, and to the future I bow; All with the hope that next year I'll know how

to do what everyone else can.
Nigel Morgan Oct 2012
It was a cold night for a concert. There was frost on the windscreen as we got into the car for the short drive to this city church. We drove because we were going to be late, and it was cold, and would be likely to be colder still when the concert was over. I had wondered if part one would be enough. Could Bach and Rameau be enough? Might the musical appetite cope with Mozart and Beethoven too? Were we about to sit down to a large meal, possibly in the wrong order. Can the cheese course be a transcendental experience I wondered? Bach to begin certainly, a substantial starter with one of the mid period keyboard toccatas and two ‘distant’ preludes and fugues, but then a keyboard suite by Rameau?
 
When I listen to Beethoven though I want to hear a work on its own, unencumbered round about with other musics.  A recent experience of several hours driving to hear a single Beethoven symphony has remained close and vivid, and an experience that brought me close to tears. So I imagine that I might only hear Op.110 to make that opening sequence of chords so ominously special. The introduction seems to come from nowhere and does not connect with musical past, except perhaps the composer’s own past. It is as though the pianist puts on a pair of gloves imbued with the spirit of the composer, and these chords appear . . . and what is there that might possibly prepare the listener for the journey that pianist and listener embark upon?  Certainly not the soufflé of Mozart’s K.332.
 
The audience is hardly a smattering of coats, hats and grey hair. There is another piano recital in town tonight and this is but the artist’s preview of a forthcoming concert at a major venue. Our pianist is equipping herself for a prestigious engagement and sensibly recognizes the need to test out the way the programme flows in front of an audience, and in a provincial church where she is not entirely unknown. I admire this resolve and wonder a little at the long-term planning which makes this possible and viable.
 
Now a figure in black walks out from the shadows to stand by her piano. Coming from stage right she places left her hand firmly on the mirror-black case above the keyboard. She looks at her audience briefly, and makes a bow, almost a curtsey, an obeisance to her audience and possibly to those distant spirits who guard the music she is to play. We will not see her face again until the next time she will stand at the piano to acknowledge our applause after the Bach she is about to play. Her slightly more than shoulder-length hair is cut to flow forward as she holds herself to play; her face is often hidden from us, her expression curiously blank. Perhaps she has prepared herself to enter a deep state of concentration that admits no recognition of those sitting just in front of her. Her dress is long and black with a few sparking threads to catch the careful lighting. Without these occasional glimmers her ****** movement would be unnoticeable. As it is the way the light is caught is subtle and quietly playful, though not enough to distract, only remind us that though in black she is wearing the kind of starry sky such as you might perceive in crepuscular time.
 
Thus, we already sense so much before she has played a note there is a firm slightly dogged confidence and reverence here in her approach to instrument and audience. And in the opening bars of the Bach toccata that is manifest; and not just a confidence born out of some strategy against nervousness, but a ritual of welcoming to this music that now spills out into the partially darkened church. The sonorousness and balance of the piano’s tone surprises. It is not a fine piano, but it has qualities that she seems to understand. There is a degree of attentive listening to herself that enables her to control dynamics and act resolutely on the structure of the music. When the slow section of this four-part toccata appears there is a studied gentleness and restraint that belies any ****** led gesture or manner. Her stance and deliberation at the keyboard remain determined and in control, unaltered by the music’s message. She does not pull her body backwards as seems the custom with so many who feel they have to show us they are stroking and coaxing such gentleness and restraint out of the keyboard.
 
As the final fugato of the toccata flows at almost twice the speed I’ve ever heard it, my concentration begins to disengage. It is too fast for me to follow the voices, I miss the entries, and the smudged resonance of the texture hides those details I have grown over so many years to know and love. This is Glen Gould on speed, not the toccata that resides in my musical memory. I am aware of missing so much and my attention floats away into the sound of it all. It seems to be all sound and not the play of music.
 
In this stage of disengagement I sense the tense quality of her right leg pedalling with the tip of a reddish shoe just visible, deft, tiny flicks of movement. She turns her face away from the keyboard frequently, looking away from the keyboard through the choir to the high altar; and for a moment we see her upturned face, a blank face, possibly with little or no make up, no jewellery. A plain young woman, mid to late thirties perhaps, and not a face marked by children or a busy teaching life, but a face focused on knowing this music to a point at which there is almost a detachment, where it becomes independent of her control, flowing momentarily beyond herself.
 
Then she reins the toccata in, reoccupies it; she is seeking closure for herself and for her audience whose attention for a short while has been, as the Quakers say, gathered. Gathered into a degree of silence, when breathing and the body’s sense and presence of itself disappear, momentarily, and musical listening moves from a clock time to a virtual time. There is a slowing down, an opening out, even though in reality’s metronomic time-field there is none.
 
There is a hesitation. With more Bach to follow, should we applaud? With relief after holding the flight of time’s arrow in our consciousness, just for those concluding minutes and seconds we acknowledge and applaud - the beginning of the concert.
mark john junor Mar 2014
heavy traffic
so we stash ourselves in the publix parking lot
and watch the flashes of the departing thunderstorm
she lays out on the buicks hood in a bikini top
a bead of sweat kisses her bellybutton
her thick dreadlocks spread like ropes
i pick one up and stick it in her ear
shes not happy with that

afternoon is all sunshine and watered down sodas
isles of plastic goodies and elevator musics
the old woman pushing her empty cart while dragging a bag
she goes to get her nails done
i push pebbles into parking lot puddles
and watch the sky drift in the reflection

she is half my age
she sticks her tongue in my ear
i dont mind
there are palm trees and lizzards everywhere
and pebbles in puddles
im a pebble and shes my puddle
shes all wet
im hard

we laugh in the forever summer sunshine
we dance in the parking lot puddles
of the fiveashes publix lot
and daydream the stars above
this is no ordinary love
this is passion's fire in the hearts eyes
shes my jezebel
im her poet
(alternate title "heavy traffic)
Millions of babies watching the skies
Bellies swollen, with big round eyes
On Jessore Road--long bamboo huts
Noplace to **** but sand channel ruts

Millions of fathers in rain
Millions of mothers in pain
Millions of brothers in woe
Millions of sisters nowhere to go

One Million aunts are dying for bread
One Million uncles lamenting the dead
Grandfather millions homeless and sad
Grandmother millions silently mad

Millions of daughters walk in the mud
Millions of children wash in the flood
A Million girls ***** & groan
Millions of families hopeless alone

Millions of souls nineteenseventyone
homeless on Jessore road under grey sun
A million are dead, the million who can
Walk toward Calcutta from East Pakistan

Taxi September along Jessore Road
Oxcart skeletons drag charcoal load
past watery fields thru rain flood ruts
Dung cakes on treetrunks, plastic-roof huts

Wet processions   Families walk
Stunted boys    big heads don't talk
Look bony skulls   & silent round eyes
Starving black angels in human disguise

Mother squats weeping & points to her sons
Standing thin legged    like elderly nuns
small bodied    hands to their mouths in prayer
Five months small food    since they settled there

on one floor mat   with small empty ***
Father lifts up his hands at their lot
Tears come to their mother's eye
Pain makes mother Maya cry

Two children together    in palmroof shade
Stare at me   no word is said
Rice ration, lentils   one time a week
Milk powder for warweary infants meek

No vegetable money or work for the man
Rice lasts four days    eat while they can
Then children starve    three days in a row
and ***** their next food   unless they eat slow.

On Jessore road    Mother wept at my knees
Bengali tongue    cried mister Please
Identity card    torn up on the floor
Husband still waits    at the camp office door

Baby at play I was washing the flood
Now they won't give us any more food
The pieces are here in my celluloid purse
Innocent baby play    our death curse

Two policemen surrounded     by thousands of boys
Crowded waiting    their daily bread joys
Carry big whistles    & long bamboo sticks
to whack them in line    They play hungry tricks

Breaking the line   and jumping in front
Into the circle    sneaks one skinny runt
Two brothers dance forward    on the mud stage
Teh gaurds blow their whistles    & chase them in rage

Why are these infants    massed in this place
Laughing in play    & pushing for space
Why do they wait here so cheerful   & dread
Why this is the House where they give children bread

The man in the bread door   Cries & comes out
Thousands of boys and girls    Take up his shout
Is it joy? is it prayer?    "No more bread today"
Thousands of Children  at once scream "Hooray!"

Run home to tents    where elders await
Messenger children   with bread from the state
No bread more today! & and no place to squat
Painful baby, sick **** he has got.

Malnutrition skulls thousands for months
Dysentery drains    bowels all at once
Nurse shows disease card    Enterostrep
Suspension is wanting    or else chlorostrep

Refugee camps    in hospital shacks
Newborn lay naked    on mother's thin laps
Monkeysized week old    Rheumatic babe eye
Gastoenteritis Blood Poison    thousands must die

September Jessore    Road rickshaw
50,000 souls   in one camp I saw
Rows of bamboo    huts in the flood
Open drains, & wet families waiting for food

Border trucks flooded, food cant get past,
American Angel machine   please come fast!
Where is Ambassador Bunker today?
Are his Helios machinegunning children at play?

Where are the helicopters of U.S. AID?
Smuggling dope in Bangkok's green shade.
Where is America's Air Force of Light?
Bombing North Laos all day and all night?

Where are the President's Armies of Gold?
Billionaire Navies    merciful Bold?
Bringing us medicine    food and relief?
Napalming North Viet Nam    and causing more grief?

Where are our tears?  Who weeps for the pain?
Where can these families go in the rain?
Jessore Road's children close their big eyes
Where will we sleep when Our Father dies?

Whom shall we pray to for rice and for care?
Who can bring bread to this **** flood foul'd lair?
Millions of children alone in the rain!
Millions of children weeping in pain!

Ring O ye tongues of the world for their woe
Ring out ye voices for Love we don't know
Ring out ye bells of electrical pain
Ring in the conscious of America brain

How many children are we who are lost
Whose are these daughters we see turn to ghost?
What are our souls that we have lost care?
Ring out ye musics and weep if you dare--

Cries in the mud by the thatch'd house sand drain
Sleeps in huge pipes in the wet ****-field rain
waits by the pump well, Woe to the world!
whose children still starve    in their mother's arms curled.

Is this what I did to myself in the past?
What shall I do Sunil Poet I asked?
Move on and leave them without any coins?
What should I care for the love of my *****?

What should we care for our cities and cars?
What shall we buy with our Food Stamps on Mars?
How many millions sit down in New York
& sup this night's table on bone & roast pork?

How many millions of beer cans are tossed
in Oceans of Mother? How much does She cost?
Cigar gasolines and   asphalt car dreams
Stinking the world and dimming star beams--

Finish the war in your breast    with a sigh
Come tast the tears    in your own Human eye
Pity us millions of phantoms you see
Starved in Samsara   on planet TV

How many millions of children die more
before our Good Mothers perceive the Great Lord?
How many good fathers pay tax to rebuild
Armed forces that boast    the children they've killed?

How many souls walk through Maya in pain
How many babes    in illusory pain?
How many families   hollow eyed  lost?
How many grandmothers    turning to ghost?

How many loves who never get bread?
How many Aunts with holes in their head?
How many sisters skulls on the ground?
How many grandfathers   make no more sound?

How many fathers in woe
How many sons   nowhere to go?
How many daughters    nothing to eat?
How many uncles   with swollen sick feet?

Millions of babies in pain
Millions of mothers in rain
Millions of brothers in woe
Millions of children    nowhere to go

                                        New York, November 14-16, 1971
Anonymously me May 2014
Drip
         Drop
                   D
                   O
                   W
                   N
On the other side|I look out and frown
of a car window. |theres a helpless
                               |pout on my face
Piddle, paddle P O P!
Kids fiddle in the back seat
When will this murky day stop?
Never I assume, so I sat back and listened to the musics beat.

The world is surrounded by a cloud
Diamond rain droplets fall politely
While making noise ever so loud
If this storm would just move over slightly.
Nodding, nodding 'pon thy stem,
Thou bloom o' morn; nodding, nodding
To the bees, asearch o' honey's sweet.
Wilt thou to droop, and wilt the dance o' thee
To vanish with the going o' the day?
Hath the tearing o' the air o' thy sharped thorn
Sent musics up unto the bright,
Or doth thy dance to mean anaught
Save breeze-kiss 'pon thy bloom?
Hath yonder songster harked to thee,
And doth he sing thy love? Or hath he tuned
His song of world's wailing o' the day?
Doth mom shew thee naught save thy garden's wall,
That shutteth thee away, a treasure o' thy day?
Doth yonder hum then spell anaught,
Save whirring o' the wing that hovereth
O'er thy bud to sup the sweet?
Ah, garden's deep, afulled o' fairie's word,
And creeped o’er with winged mites, where but
The raindrop's patter telleth thee His love—
Doth all this vanish then, at closing o' the day?
Anay. For He hath made a one who seeketh here,
And storeth drops, and song, and hum, and sweets,
And of these weaveth garland for the earth.
From off his lute doth drip the day of Him!
mark john junor Aug 2014
as the sky closed daylight away
her magic box came out
a few loose threads soon wound themselves
into carriages fleet of foot on the forever road
delivering love and quick boys with
with stout hearts and steel eyed resolve
a few loose potions spilled and away flew mysterious birds
loosed upon the bright eyed world
free to fly high among soft clouds
a few magical words spilled out too
and thats when i found you
you were complete from the very beginning
you danced delicately along the sweet musics
and then you smiled at me
knew i was yours didn't you...you weren't wrong
now look at us
an enchantress made us in some long ago
to be here together
made for eachother with loves thread
made with passions potion's
for eachother forever
fly away with me now
lover sweet lover
Of course I'm okay.
Fine actually,
I love metal music

What ****** me off
is the notion that because the musics loud
and the lyrics are different
something must be wrong

Metal music is a family.
its riff laden roots are dug deep into the roots of my family tree
when I crossed that muddy bank I brought all of me I could.
Except,
I forgot my family.

I couldn't bring them through the mud.
I couldn't bring them desert mountain air

So when I miss them just a little too much,
You can bet I'm gonna put on
Slayer or Megadeth
to drown out the pain of an empty house

That heavy emotion
resonates deep in my chest and it fills my lungs
drowning out the words I cannot say.

Words like I love you,
Words like I wish you were here
Words like I miss you.
Rhianecdote Nov 2015
Sometimes I put my headphones in
No music playin
Just to muffle out the background noise
Of all they're sayin ,
all the empty conversation
I'm secretly sat here craving
From Better days when
This paranoia wasn't constantly
Invading my brain and
I could entertain it
Sit here without fear
Cause I was going somewhere
With people I could call friends
Without questioning motivations

Unquestioning motivation
Faltered
Now sleign , altered
And warped by blame
checked into the Awk-ward
I wait in urgency
hoping This was no accident
And I'll imerge and see
The bigger picture
Fat-e
But for now I shrink
Violently
Weight droppin off of me
still feelin heavy
Propped up on this bus seat
Weighing up whether
I should miss my stop
Cause I'm not sat near the bell
And God forbid I ask someone for help

Cause then they'd have to look at me

But don't look at me,
Don't you dare look at me!
I can't face you today
I can't even face me
That's why I don't take a window seat
And you have to begrudgingly
Shimmy past me to take yours
Or walk past to the back
Silently cursing me

I wish you'd sing instead
I've got no music playin
Clear my head
lend an Ear-nestle next to me
Did I not earn your earnesty?
If I've got your back
Won't you back me?
Or will I turn round
Reach out
Only to find your shadow stretchin
Out of reach
Like a weary soul-dier
you take your leave...

I try to shake mine off
Anxietree
Break some branches,
Tryin to get free
Oh-live!
They Silently scream
But I'm struggling
To even make it off my seat
Go live
In three
But I can no longer perform
Go on without me
Forget me
Only thing on the way up
Is mum's spaghetti!
Need some Bob Marley
Get up, stand up
But my legs won't let me!
Musics off
So it's down to me
Get up, stand up
Used to be so easy
Get up stand up

Your bus stop is here

No music playin in my ear
But right now I could do
With a mellowdy
When ringing the bell on the bus  becomes a struggle! Maybe I should start carrying my own haha!
Fifty years ago this week
Sgt. Pepper he began to speak
Hidden deep just like a motley fool
Inside four boys from Liverpool

It took four lads as inspiration
to bring hope to a crying nation
After November's assassination
They grabbed us...we held on

John, Paul, George and Ringo
on Ed's Sunday Show
We sat back and watched them go
They grabbed us...we held on

They came and held the hand
Of a still in mourning land
A little skiffle band
They grabbed us...we held on

We were brought back from the dark side
We were on a rock and roll ride
With four young lads from Mersey Side
They grabbed us...we held on

They grabbed our hearts and souls
They expanded musics goals
They all had different roles
they grabbed us...we held on

In times...things were changing
The band was re-arranging
No more tours were staging
They grabbed us...we held on

Soon, they all went on their way
McCartney sang "Another Day"
John, he had a lot to say
George and Ringo...just played on

John was shot at decades start
It shocked the world and broke apart
Those who held him in our heart
The Beatles were no more

George died too, all things must pass
He always had a silent class
The parts aren't greater than the mass
The Beatles were no more

Is there anyone out in the land
Who will come and take us by the hand
I hope that you will understand
They grabbed us...we held on
Moriah Harrod Aug 2012
You called yourself a man, swinging on the lion with your frostbitten breath
But I anulled what you said, when I saw that the lion was but a mule, and the frostbite just the smoke from your cigarette

You said you hunted demons in the chasm going down, hunted demons from Hell in the chasm going down
But I saw you selling her things in the pawn shop down on East
Are the demons merely what her illness represents to you?

You whispered in my head that you could save me from this ****** bath
And take away the faucet that I want
But it’s coming back, another promise that you broke
Are those ashes of surprise blanketing the cancer that you smoke?
Remove your shoes at the door, leave her eulogy lying on the dusty kitchen floor

Go ahead and board the escalator; take your musics with you
You are not my savior, not the bargain that I asked for
Just a martyr for whatever cause you decide to **** today
Mitchell Duran Jul 2013
Tall tales of Death and misfortune
Appalachian nightmares of pearly rune
When the musics over and all is out of tune
Be sure to check out of the hotel
Before the clock strikes noon

Wear your plastic earrings and your shiny silk
Be careful when you open the fridge not to spill your milk
A heart shape tattoo in a burning building rises
No lover ever likes to see the other in ****** surprises

Touch the crystal fountain, but let not your hand waver
Horse tracks are aflame and no angel gives a favor
Green jade rests under clear rushing river savor
A father loses a son to a shot transformed to fever

After the vigils we cremated the afternoon in hand held pairs
The mourners pushed their thoughts out their minds and stared
Even the mountains and the trees and the wind made no sound - they did not dare
At peace a foreign thing for a family and friends who did so care

In time we are hurtling toward the end of life
Either to cease or to once again begin
All these theories of holy faith and sin
Falls to the wayside when a brother loses his kin

I give my thanks for the life that I feel around me
In my pores, my hair, my toes, my throat and eyes
Money, fame, power - these are material prizes
A friendship of love, respect, and trust is what binds me

We walk the trail
We read the signs
The road splits
There isn't much time

Do not fear to go alone
There will be others
Along this beaten road

Do not fear to venture forth
Into the foggy unknown
For all that will be sewn
Has been sewn before

You will always be you
Whoever that may be

Turn the coin,
The sapphire,
Mysteries laughter.

You will not be alone
Hear your own hearts tone
There will be many things
You'll wish to atone
Before you put down the phone

Head South, East,
North, West

You will know what is best
I ,
yes I the traveller have long seeked the moon ,
the stars and the sun ,
often they have slipped my gaze ,
now only a blanket covers my eyes ( blinded by the sun )

Have you met the story teller of the great ‘ I am ‘ ?
of his tales should I tremble ,
in his halls the lost do not seek ,
the sick and poor enter his halls with praise .
For even this Gods patience will one day like sand fall from his blood stained hands onto beaches castles were built  .

Now begone with you for even I must sleep ,
and find comforts no man should wish .
For the monsters of the deep have found me ,
Lust ,pride , bitterness and fear .

Look my jailer comes with chains you can hear that drag down the passage on this dark satanic night .

Sage if you see him tell him what might have been ,
and sorrows only purpose is love .

Are you still there ?
Dam what’s wrong with my eyes ?
I used to visit the fairground ,
Preachers like Wolves used to say ‘ come this way ‘
‘ come that for a shilling , for a crown ‘.

The musics stopped ,
I can’t hear the music and what of the great hall ?
The story teller I must find on this blessed night .

Now a chain mail of Norman men rise in my sea of despair ,
they like skeleton snakes rattle like memories in my head .
Surrender or capture the light ?

Holy Spirit my demons confront me and darken my night ,
for this must end in heaven or hell I bid it the light .
Off lone island bay,
Outlander waves are praying,
Curly in their white caps.

Cars and lorries are creeping
Into a village still sleeping,
Coming in from nowhere.

Stones have things to voice,
There are stars of rock fish
Deep in bays with the moon.

Beyond night dream are lochs,
Darks and colds of longings,
Mountains old as confusion.

Birds chime their mouth musics,
Churlishly sent over moorlands,
All questions ring unanswered.

On broke beaches are notions
Of days strung to faraways
And sands bleached ancestral.

Off lone island bay,
Simple comings, waves, goings,
After sly moon, sun has its say.
A Thomas Hawkins Jul 2011
Each rooms a little dimmer now,
each sky a bit more grey.
The sun shines not as brightly,
there's less laughter in each day.

The hours seem somehow longer
with each minute comes the pain
If I could have just one more day with you
to see your face again…

Into this world you brought me
taught me right from wrong
Your laughter was my music
your love, that musics song

I assumed you'd always be there
to share my joy and ease my pain
its hard to know I'll never
see you or hear your voice again

The sunshine of my every day
has now been replaced by cloud
but I know that you're still up there Mum
I'll do my best to do you proud
Follow me on Twitter @athomashawkins
http://twitter.com/athomashawkins
Emily Mary Jan 2014
Headphone to head
Music to Soul
Fills me up with a surge of compelling sensation
Musics a museum of emotion
A colosseum of expression
Taken back by its beauty,
It's a gallery of a never ending selection
Used to suppress the oppression
To repair the ones that can't bare
Music is a medicine that doesn't need to be prescribed
Side effects may cause healed hearts and better judgement

Music is fabulous
I don't know how to end this lol
James Wisp Sep 2011
go home
the musics
over
take cover
alone
not
forever
get ******
enter drone
run down
the list
of things
forgot
find
the zone
hits
the spot
taste
edge
makes sense
when
music stops
retrace
eyes
find
their stare
inside
the mind
kind
relaxed
void
slows
down
time
the musics
done
quiet
quite silent
echoes
off
skull sides.
A L Davies Mar 2012
the hand that rubs my body down
is soft: softly veined &
of a powder-white translucence; transcribed
from dover chalks to run down my
chest, backs of my thighs.

the hand that rubs my body down
curves in sweet musics 'round my soul;
the shrill but beaut'ous rasp of skin
on skin
-- of fingertips tracing strange poesias along my spine.

the hand that rubs my body down
holds in its palm a sacred oil;
anointing me at midnight hour. muted
bewitchments; burns the candle
down to a nub.

the hand that rubs my body down
calls for christ in attics of sunday
afternoon ...          crosses its fingers in
spiteful fits
of piousness.

the hand that rubs my body down
takes the shape of golden scarab;
sets aflame my eyes of beaming azure &
finds in me a willing servant.

the hand that rubs my body down
wakes me at dawn, partnered  
with an extension of pinpointed
warmth: the touch of her breath upon my cheek.
product of reading dylan thomas overmuchly
When a baby is born
When a baby came to into the world
When they came into existence in the true world
They came with joyous sound
Yes people say they cry
Thats a cry of joy
They came out singing for joy
They came out with different tones and musics
The lyrics of there songs is unexplainable
They music only defines happy moment
They sing and dont warry
They propagate and catalyses the happiness of there parents
The only true definition of the music is happiness


Oh the joy of a baby
As they are born
They dont know pain
They dont know sorrow
They dont know deciet
They dont keep malice for people
They had no enemies
They accept there parents for who they are
They dont care if they are rich or not
Tall or short
Black r white
Blind or not
Deaf or dumb
They came out with total acceptance
They are true definition of been innocent

All they know is sing for joy
All they know is smile
All they know is shout of joy
All they know is play
All they know is that the world meant happiness

They dont have any problems
But they are solution to a problem
They solve problem of barreness
They restore joy and happiness to there parents
They dont hate
Rather they love
They dont discriminate
Rather they accommodate
They dont course
Reather they bless the family

As they grow day by day
They got prettier,handsome and beautiful
As they grow
The joy of the family also grow
They sing with passion
They cry out with loud voice
They they cry out saying.....
Describing how beautiful the world is
The joy of a baby is the greatest joy ever

Sometimes i wish i could turn  back the hands of time and go back being a baby
Sometimes i wish i could go back to my mothers womb and be born again
Just to enjoy the feelings of been a baby
I wish i could turn back the rotation and the revolution of the earth on its axis
Yet all this are impossible
If am given three wishes
First is to go back as a baby
Second will be going back as a baby
Third will be going back as a baby
The joy of a baby is the greatest joy ever
AM Aug 2015
Both my ears
are hearing musics
with maximum volume
in this big dark room
filled with people
dancing and kissing

good thing I am
not able to hear
the sound of my heart
breaking
wm jones Dec 2011
dance, climb me like a tree-
stump.
rip my heart with sharp teeth.
Tth-thump. squish.

pick apart my embarrassments
like you'd pick apart my bones.
like vultures would.

i get to watch my own slow death,
you get to kiss me to death. slowly.
it's all the same.
distance suddenly makes sense.
Vivisection: i'm
sporadic neurotic
erratic ******, i'm
the smaller wheel on a tricycle, so
we get to go in circles.

i'm the fungus you can adopt!

cutting myself open, i can see what
makes me "frrrrrick."
heartache hopeful, i'm walking into
what i know are traps, what i know
is sure to hurt. i tell myself out-
loud, eyes closed, "THIS is gonna
hurt."

and i'm right. and i want more.
any and every relationship is more
and more masochism. it hurts more than
it ever heals, winds and wounds and
it musics me back to melody. hold me
hold me
hold me like
the car's gear shift, you only use me
sometimes.
Out on the breakers,
In early morning sun
We ran, making near
The villages at dawn,
Laughing in opening
Cafés, steaming with
Our coffees and teas
And broke for beach
The windings of sea,
Breathless of midair,
Brimming with gulls
Overheads and nip,
Love token musics,
Bathed us unto light
And the golden day
Was never endings,
Until next true song,
We sang in low grass
Above the sleepy hill,
Green stones, woken
Towns, we loving so
And so young, where
Birds ringing always
In the pathways brisk
Of newfound dream,
Sailing without to us
Into the Skye touches
We blew eyes of tear
Open, alive, held shy,
In whispered psalms,
Birthing into heavens,
Wings loosed, set free
Two silver cloudy birds,
We flew in old embrace,
My curved hand in yours.
Off lone island bay,
Outlander waves are praying,
Curly in their white caps.

Cars and lorries are creeping
Into a village still sleeping,
Coming in from nowhere.

Stones have things to voice,
There are stars of rock fish
Deep in bays with the moon.

Beyond night dream are lochs,
Darks and colds of longings,
Mountains old as confusion.

Birds chime their mouth musics,
Churlishly sent over moorlands,
All questions ring unanswered.

On broke beaches are notions
Of days strung to faraways
And sands bleached ancestral.

Off lone island bay,
Simple comings, waves, goings,
After sly moon, sun has its say.
mark john junor Sep 2013
her bare feet touch the cool surface
of the kitchen linoleum floor
soft sticky sound
a pattern set upon itself
with her one wrist wrapped gently round
the hard coarse thin metal
engaging its tension with a tender grasp
bending it
to the form she dreamed

carnival horse and wire wood fence
separate her from the thing she hears
she watches it with her minds eye
as she leans nervous into the encircling frame
leans with one bare foot in the dusty gravel
the broken weeds a thin line in the rocky soil
mirror her stance darkly
in miniature echoes of the intense soft lines
of her delicate face
her sorrow etched clearly in the unnatural sunlight

her voice echoes soft and trembling
a voice ethereal but rich with meanings
that she endures but
that she is alone in the false dawn
so to save herself she has bent the
convex of the lens
bent the pattern into her figure alone
and as she wraps herself in the thin metal
gauze of shallow breathing
she seeks to behold not be beheld
to mask her feelings
to leave the thoughts treading shallow waters
to leave the intense moment
in the open ocean of the linoleum
where her footprint leads to my gasping eyes
the swirls of sand with slight breeze
mask her passing
and leave little trace of her presence

but her presence remains
in this image
powerful and sublime
full of the imagery dark musics
filled with the scents of burning
this sharp clean image narrowed focus
like a shutters thick sound
in the silence of a lone fan's endless drone
which reveals a thick sadness
in the shadow slivers in her hair
in the soft line of her lips
in the casual line of her arm draped over the hoop
i sense her assuage her hot tears in the starlight
in the backwoods of a small town
from the edge of wooden bridge
her sounds echo in the kitchen
with soft edges to their thought

the archway door
its hard bricks lean into the wind strewn alley
into the the narrow gaps
between the perception of
what is and what she creates
with crafted line
with slow depth exploration
the wire wood fence hides all matter of beasts
their rabid shadows are narrowly seen underneath its edge
but their faces are only in my perception
are only in my vision of the images edge
Lyrics sink into my memory
Beat, into my heart,
Music, into my soul.
They stay with me uninvited
They mock me when I’m scared,
And torture me when I’m confused
Blocking out my worries
No matter how important they seems
They scream at the top of their voice
Without missing any dime of the track

Lyrics lures my mind into a lazy reputation
Sinking me deep, deep down into its ocean of scented water
Beats compels me to listen to the rhythmical sound behind the beat
Transporting me far beyond what I behold
Music dazzles the image in my mind causing them to multiply in tons
Thereby overcrowding my brain with maze of mystical ideas
Making it hard to marge up the mystical master piece.

Lyric steals my breath away
Music makes me lose my sanity
lyrics, Beats and Music makes me stop in my track,
And listen over and over again!...
Ah!... how I wish Al-Fruqon  will have the same wonderful eff
to the wonderful effect music gives me...
R A Sanders Oct 2012
The water pulls back and forth,
It's wild and calm and beautiful,
I want to live there,
In all of that controlled chaos,
I'm leaning against the golden rail,
The lights are shining behind me,
The musics humming in my ear,
People pass by me,
They try to interact with me,
But they don't interest me at all.
All that ocean air is wrapped in my hair,
It's curling at the ends,
I'm suffocating in the smell,
I swear it'd be the happiest death I'd ever see,
Now a hand is on the small of my back,
I don't dare turn around,
His contact against my skin
feels just like getting lost at sea,
His scent and the water,
The whisper of his voice against the wind,
My knees are buckling,
I'm on stilts a thousand feet tall,
Is my temperature really rising,
How does he do this to me?
I pull closer to the cool rail,
I use it to balance myself,
I try to seem calm and cool,
But everything I love is standing on both sides of me,
And I'm wanting to let go,
Falling rapidly into them,
But his arm goes around my waist,
I'm sinking into his hand,
I'm doomed.
He's right there staring into the water,
Leaning against the railing,
The boat has us both a little unsteady where we stand,
But I've never been so planted,
I've never loved like this,
The blue eyes I've came to know so well are shining against the waves,
Then they look at me,
For a moment I lose it,
I cling to his chest,
A chill runs up my spine,
But I'm so warm,
Right there in his arms,
I'm floating along,
I lean in to savor the sensation,
Then with the wind,
There his ghost is gone again,
I lean over the rail,
I did everything to be in his arms again,
Then into both my loves I go,
It's the happiest death I came to know,
Because without him I'm nothing,
Together we're a wave in the ocean,
The high tide on the shore,
Something wild and new,
Don't morn us,
Just look for the boat on the horizon,
That's where we'll be,
Together.
vircapio gale Oct 2015
pejorative memes remade unwise,
the natural artifice of slang;
and the mnemo-linguistic "advantages" of being called a ******...*

arbitrary signs..

chosen  reasoned    signs.

i don't remember history, living it as
predetermined amens sinking blind
profane in sacred incense dogmas polished
                 elemental airs of azure old allure
named aesthetics new and purely false
    unlike a snakeback break
    they realm of fear indulged--
placate artistries of loving touch to numb;
with medieval noose, blade;
          scald of iron pen and human metaphors for *******
    sent to human metaphors for hell before their deaths
to burn as scapegoats for immortal xenophobic herds
remade

this is a word's weight
  now,
  for all unhearing yet apologistic legend-churners earthling-bound:
one witchhunt grin and phrase
--legend or not, urban or pagan--
    will burn me here
    to face imaginal apotheosic
   dawn
   of bigotry complete
.
in long-yearned laughter, musics
     yet unleased to propagandist aims:
empty prayers undone as selfish grims
  i do without
  as any fairy might
        with dusty wave of hand
my wings are spillful everjoys
    of momentary vasts
          of ancient youths; of loves of
    glittered rainbow in the hush of sunfall snow--
escapes of real dismissed
   all
    real
       fiction-true truths
                                bearing living worlds of love
and labyrinthine strands? and twisted more, ripe!
      for shock and awe filled fuel
      sierra-cut at ranges incomplete as Tolkien Silmarils
                                i brace the let of leavings-be
sever severed links in inner chains of links
    to remake ****** moonbeam skirt
    of spectra cloud and starry breath
---the window opens maths of savor
        (apsaras! tulpas!)
        surveyed in the tones of healing buildings
        shaped of love

huddled shapes of perfect friends
                   all craning necks to common interstellar home

i could be clear and disagreement wright
but i am here to feel ineffables of ******* felt
fall  up    from anger
        into union's many-petaled rifting veils
and in a citrus spray of scattered mists unshared
a stillness swim of happily amused
    awake a zombie-language only Borges knew
        to burn a mark of joy on history's flesh
a hidden question-heart of sensuistic quest whose end is known
    and yet exclaimed unknown
    as glories only moving rainbows know
hang-glide words to shadow-stripe the eyes
                       and dash Mneumosyne another arching voice
"******; *****"

-NORTH AMERICAN informaloffensive
a male homosexual.

-early 20th century: perhaps from the obsolete sense of ***** ‘contemptible woman.’

-a bundle of sticks or twigs bound together as fuel.
a bundle of iron rods bound together for reheating, welding, and hammering into bars.

flamboyant

mnemotechnosophical pejoratives?

2.21.15

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