"octave" poems
New Year's Day 1:16 AM
and my body is weary beyond
time to withdraw and rest
ample room allowed me in everyone's head
but community calls
right over the threshold
drums beating through the walls
children playing their truck dramas
under the collapsible coatrack
in the narrow hallway outside my room
The TV lounge next door is wide open
it is midnight in Idaho
and the throb easy subtle spin
of the electric slide boogie
step-stepping
around the corner of the parlor
past the sweet clink
of dining room glasses
and the edged aroma of slightly overdone
dutch-apple pie
all laced together
with the rich dark laughter
of Gloria
and her higher-octave sisters
How hard it is to sleep
in the middle of life.
10.8k
Just a crack in the brick wall
A red rubber ball
The last time you can't remember
When you stood tall
The monotonous hologram
The seaside hotdog stand
The regrets piled higher
than any mountain can
Four stringed guitar
Home in an abandoned car
Courage in a bottle
Wishing still on the first star
Still he caresses the neck
Presses down the frets
Sings three octave blues
On life's reef of wrecks
He's free lost in the chords
The music opens doors
The pathway is as bleak as sin
While inside he reaches for more
He goes off to sleep
He has his dreams deep
About a paradise for losers
And a five string guitar
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 10:12 PM UTC
You choked on chariots raw. Red egg yolk suppers, churned of the milk oceans this morning you kept.
The lintel of stone turned toward dusk. Some great dynasty of submissive spirits catering your morning
Out on a cart of muse, forms of heaven cannot even hear you. You are a soporific knot in the tale of your Old womanhood. In this infinite Tuesday morning your small black eyes, like an oil tanker toppling over The intense azure sea- shipwrecked, and lost.
Departing from your childhood you slurp Coca-Cola from a silver straw. From the corner store and inside Winter yawns. There is no face, only strikingly beautiful black hair. The body under you is at home in all
My hand's fingers have to fill. All the clothes that you could carry for the two-way adventure. There are
Never enough bubbles between your lips and the glass bottle you have. Only the score of the whistleblower. And the poor symphony you had prayed for into the dial-tone phone, the deep Wilderness, that stiff forever-ago budding from your coffee cup. Neurogenesis lifted from your Fingerprints and emblazoned into this lump of human ingenuity. The hopeless octave that cut us all short.
Every short story that was left untold. There are the brief deaths recoiling in your spiritual architecture. The ****** of morphia has bourn me awake. Inside you are often unscathed, vanishing as some of Tonight's parts assemble you, on you blue is a beautiful color. The sweet retreat that gave you life or the bountiful deaths that counted you too cutely by your side. You are the sun in my black coat. Here is my sea, your sea, you'll see.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:34 AM UTC
Crescendo at the pitch ,
the touch of the octave,
the slide of my ribcage.
Put me on the overdrive
the feel of the rhythm,
beautiful eyes in glimmer.
I can't believe we are back,
on the track and split laps,
the untimed togetherness.
At the start of the race,
where heat and mist rose,
steams in the gush of the ****
Poised passion rose to the skies,
wetness and action felt so right,
the torrential evaporated rain.
My future lies in your bed,
on the blue walls with graffiti,
away in a continent afar.
Inside the cocoon of a time-space,
irrigated by sprinkles of growth,
where we hum through civilisation.
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 6:07 PM UTC
However this Stag Tradition breathes thus far
Which works in all cases of Merriment
That Ring is no Joke; And Youth points a Star
To where your Heart will land in Sentiment
He only Encourages, Dreams and Promotes
As no Singer sang such Octave before
Mark him Stranger; Not a Contest he connotes
To challenge what had been Promised once more
Such tell, that Woolen Strings are Postulate,
A Theory already penned into Law
That Fixed Hearts are veined in Mutual Rebate
And Cupid signs both your names into Straw.
Go to Her. She has sung Poems better Written
This Bard resigns; Knowing he was Beaten.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 3:18 AM UTC
It is nothing,
a mordant of the soul,
an elixir, a panacea, a placebo
for my lesions, there in the thistle, grows
our drastic garden of red posies and hyacinths,
such little things, on the verge,
lilting as the decorum begins to bobble
and slump sideways, and murmur,
on Mondays I can swallow the octave
of your absence, tendrils and all,
red quince limbs parting from the deluge
and in its wake, the wreckage
of black pumpkins and purple corn, hanging
pendulum at our door,
the Autumn lights summon a lavish song to harvest,
thirty seven colours in the brocade you gift me,
tangled and heavy the years upon my bones
begin to spur and flower
into cunning disruptions,
and stratify upon my body like rinds of ricepaper,
vellum for another wish
in the complacent burial of mango flesh,
listen,
as my song liquefies,
drowns you, inundates
each alveoli, and our love
in the swallowing gush, perched,
begins to shudder,
devoured by its symmetry,
stem cells all akimbo
in the shallow pitch of days
bound in a nostrum of wine and liquorice
it is nothing, really,
a mordant for the soul, a tulle filament
twitching in a raincoat of lightning....
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 4:35 PM UTC
Dad’s blood vessels
wrap around my ankles.
His numbing sclerosis infects my toes.
Mom and Dad sing I alone love you
in an octave with the front-man
on stage.
They cry together,
subdued through flickered smiles,
and I understand what it is
to be devoted in
the way a fire fights to
cling with candlewick.
I can feel it coming back again,
he whispers near her ear lobe.
The arches of his feet tingle
as mom’s veins tangle with dad’s,
his spine reignited by the warmth
of their flame.
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 4:05 PM UTC
Harmonica and strums sail my shores
Tell my whole clan sonny, he ain't good
That I met a troller under a sycamore
He passed me all the love as he veiled
We walked around,camouflaged by leaves
Tell mummy he was a preacher's son
A soul that was open and hid it's stick
Unharmonised in accapellas I drowned
Swingers of melodic stormy strings
Tell sassy to keep her tassels tucked
To calm her tussles and noisy gongs
Shake on the octave of the beats
Whisked dreams of the lost yesterdays
Tell Jimmy to listen to her heart raise
Tie her down, bring her back home
Liberate and let her fly like a wild bird
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 6:42 PM UTC
She let the tape go—
on record
one evening for an ordinary hour
Five years later, we play it back
for laughs after dinner—then as now
“Remember how the stove door screeched
at the house on Olive Street?”
And our voices!
Phoeb’s, lighter–tired
wrapping the nine’s tables in elastic yawns
like flash cards in a rubber band
“Phoeb, your pitch changed so—
while I turned...”
to run water in the tub
lamenting the **** of Two
in frenetic escape of hands
Unruly!
Running rebel taunts in Time’s strict face
who would not dare disturb her dawns
only mine—
Roused by the first round of another day’s
ring of twelve
digits that insist
like uniform with apron waiting
on ironing board that’s never folded
Now the **** of Two cries out
Exultant!
of success in *****
Then, Oratorio for Soap!
The splashy version
with endless bubblings of “Rocky Baby!”
and obbligato of “Where’s Shampoo?”
in jubilant glissadal plunge
an octave through vocal whoops!
…I had not thought
she hardly talked
but sang and squealed or whined in tunes
Her voice lay open to her soul
a roost of piercing humming birds
small of words
but filled with sweet and want
incessant wings and things to say....
How could we have forgotten?
“Are these your boots?
Your clothes laid out?”
From sound and talk, we still can hear
frost phantoms
in winter window rattles—then as now
And Phoebe remarks how one voice
didn’t change though—
“Still talking to herself”
We laugh
and let the tape go....
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 12:31 AM UTC
1003
Dying at my music!
Bubble! Bubble!
Hold me till the Octave’s run!
Quick! Burst the Windows!
Ritardando!
Phials left, and the Sun!
2.7k
When I hear a concealed clock ticking,
I think it's some shouldered past jello grenade
ready to chastise my fletched thumbs.
Like the last time Sandman drew supper with his knees,
and decided to fling cherry cobbler at my nose,
I realized this homeless perfume actually belonged to Mother.
Her pearls redeem her complexion,
milk marrow of silk against her nose--
three strikes dawdling their tongues
from underneath tin necks.
Steady, rinse, exfoliate:
but those are difficult to do
when your rib cage cracks
like the last octave
of a reddening audience.
Brother thinks the tree skirt is soft,
coddling his pats and rabbits
below a ranch full o' pine scented apples.
Sister wonders if she should bring new girl home,
(met at 1:33 AM on 23rd Street.
Apartment documented to smell like baby powder)
but friends are friends are friends are friends,
just friends as furrowed Daddy repeats to himself.
Even "Hallowed be thy name..." confuses the CCD out of him.
"Cancel Alabama's trip this year;
the bees will be humming in their own candle wax.
Besides, who wants to hug Nana
when her breath doubles over in grilled salmon?"
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 8:22 PM UTC
I have a hard time writing about anger because ...
Anger is just sadness in a lower octave
Anger is a knot between the shoulder blades
Anger is a loud voice in an even louder room
Anger is a distant daydream gaze
Anger is a fire sustained by silence
Anger is hearing your voice in another body
Anger sounds a lot like "Sorry, I've been busy"
Anger is realizing busy really means uninterested
Anger is thinking you are in charge of your reaction
Anger is knowing you're a breath from bursting
Anger is breathing shallow to hide the shake
Anger is saying things you don't mean
Anger is not saying things you do mean
Anger is a fickle thing
Anger is just heartbreak wearing a cowards face
Apr 12, 2018
Apr 12, 2018 at 5:21 AM UTC
The night grew darker and the babel hushed,
To their beds, the orphans rushed.
One by one sound asleep,
While through the curtain slit, Peter Pan peeped.
He crawled into the hut, silent as a grave
Played a melody, with an unusual octave.
That night had been quiet ghostly, odd and peculiar
Yet strangely enough, the orphans sensed no fear.
The melody chimed like a beautiful lullaby,
Frosty December cold seemed to have vanished, and it felt like warm July.
The misery and sorrow appeared to be ending,
As though time had stopped and reality was bending.
Soon it was morning with the crack of dawn,
But the hut lay silent, as if the children were gone.
With no guardians to search for the stray,
Lifeless bodies left on the floor, stiff and grey.
The little ones fell into a deep slumber, one with no breath,
A slumber that was led by the angel of death.
However, beneath the bed was a note that read,
“Off to Neverland, we now head”
-Yashaswee Das
Sep 2, 2020
Sep 2, 2020 at 2:09 AM UTC
Acquiring the libel of critics
Internally at times I bleat
And snarl, brow furrowed
Like an actress when filming a major motion *****
“Originality bid us farewell” screams my advanced intellect
Nothing more than a social outcast who lacks a catalyst
(though thankfully the universe is an object of open ended philosophy)
The voices of such a generation fail to carry notes
Beyond the octave range
Only Canis lupus familiaris feces, in its rejuvenated appearance,
Delivers abstract imagery
What was once honorable has dissolved into media sewage
Virginal darlings now dissolved into marionettes
Shall my poems alienate the public
They shall at least demonstrate bravery
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 10:53 PM UTC
born 1900
when Austria was still a monarchy
that did not know
it was approaching its end
growing up as the daughter
of the mayor of a little district town
big fish in a small pond
educated accordingly
as a ‘higher daughter’
be a home decorator
do needlework
be a gourmet cook
play the piano
be a respectable member
of the community and the parish
when she turned 18
after the end of world war I
the social order for which she had been prepared
simply disappeared
her father became a disillusioned monarchist
the town’s republicans elected a new mayor
she married a railway engineer
who left her after her daughter
my mother
was born
she managed to survive world war II
as a single mother
watched her daughter
fall in love with, at Christmas 1946,
and marry in April 1947
a guy who had just escaped
from a Soviet POW camp
looked like a walking skeleton
my father
AND
was the son of a communist
who had survived world war I
as a POW in Siberia
strange bedfellows
they used to play cards together
once a week
with great gusto
class warfare
morphed into social entertainment
both my parents were working
grandmother led the household
on the side did bookkeeping for local businesses
to bring in some money
practically raised me and my brother
cared for us when we were sick
taught me to play the piano
was always afraid we would not get
enough to eat
for a while, as a little child,
I slept in the same room with her
and learned that she had
a wondrously melodious snore
going over an octave & some such
when, after grade school,
I had to leave at 5.45 am
to catch the train
pulled by a sturdy steam engine
that took me to the high school
50km down the road
she was concerned when I
rushing out the door
just grabbed parts of the breakfast
she had so lovingly prepared
when I left home for university
she was not happy
when I went to the USA for a whole year
she was disconsolate
she did enjoy her great-grandkids
when they visited, though
too much distance for too long
from the place of her birth
made her uncomfortable
in her later years
she needed a familiar place
that came with its familiar things
to do and know
she lived to be 87
I saw her last
after a second stroke
had mostly incapacitated her
a tiny woman
curled up
waiting to leave us
for a world that finally might heal
the pain and disappointment
she had so bravely mastered
throughout her life
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 6:50 PM UTC
You expect me to dance when you stare,
But in fact I sit still as a rock and just stare back.
You think I'm completely silent.
In solitude.
But no,
I'm analyzing every curve
Of your face,
Every octave
In your judge mental tone.
Every fiber of your being that
Makes you who you are,
Wether I hate or love you.
I analyze you to see you as your emotions.
I see through your skin,
To me you're transparent.
I see what's inside,
And that should scare you to death,
Because it does me,
Fore I am transparent as well,
And if you really looked,
You'd see me quite easily.
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 10:19 PM UTC
roaring fiery flames
fill the empty void
inviting colors of ambers and golds ablaze
the room animates
different atmospheres of coziness
sitting back in retrospection
flickering fire entertains
with each crackling octave
creating peacefulness and calm.
whilst the flames aglow
playing Chopin
sipping cognac
burning scented candle of pine and rosemary
watching the felines and canine
congregating together harmoniously
mesmerized by flames
coruscating shadows on the walls
flames succumb catatonically
embers retire for the night.~~lorilynn
copyright*lorilynn 2010
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 6:23 AM UTC
Let’s stay as long as we can
And not worry about the end
But rather, enjoy the time in the middle
As much as we did the time when we first began
Show me your hand
Slowly unravel your fist
I want to memorize the contours of each fingertip
And the way the river of your skin flows down to your wrist
Oh god don’t let me forget this
Just this
Let me at least just keep this
I know the nature of our lives could never let this last
But nobody told me it’d slip away this fast
But even if this is all the time I get
And the rest just ends in heartache
I swear to whatever’s above; it was well worth it
That you were the one truth I couldn’t break
I think I always knew the color of your eyes
The way the light bends in the corners like the edge of the sky
Even if appearance is just a lie
Something behind the confines of your soft blue stare shook my soul awake inside
It's only time and a name we can't carry through
But this beautiful shape, we'll never lose
Our hearts are already too intricately intertwined
And if even if those bonds bend they'll always be realigned
So I’ll picture the way your head feels on my chest until it all goes black
With the hope that the moment I see you again it all comes flooding back
Even if my mind can never find the time we stayed up all night studying the way our bodies can burn
I’ll stain my soul with pictures of fire and bones until I find you all over again and learn
So slow down….please
Sit down with me and watch the sunset
It doesn’t matter which one of us it’s for
Let’s just watch it end
And then ripple throughout the pond
Creating waves big and small that stretch on and on
Through different times and spaces across different lives and places
Until all the movement comes back together in the middle
And I can remember every first time I saw your face
Even if we can’t stay right here in this moment
I’m not quite sure that means we have to forget
Let’s carve memories into our hearts and fingertips
So that the next time they meet they’ll know exactly where each finger fits
And even if I can’t stay right here with you in this song
I’m not quite sure that means I have to be gone too long
So come find me when you fall asleep
I promise to leave the lights on in case it’s too dark to see
I’ll shout so loud my voice will echo across the ages
So that when the sound bounces back the octave changes
And even though my words occupy a voice you’ve never heard
I promise you’ll remember the song’s words
But I can’t promise this won’t hurt
And that our hearts will always be able to mend
I can only promise that each time the tide resets
I’ll make my way to shore and find you again
Someway
Someplace
Someday
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 10:26 PM UTC
Salt breezes through the door
Swish, swish
sings the shore.
Your glass is raised
Your conscience bare.
Sweet fidelity fills the air.
Floorboards creak,
Louder, then softer, a meek
Pitch you recognize
An octave beneath your demise.
A ****** aftermath of flowing wine
Fills those eyes, the scalp, those ears
His ****** wine were once your tears.
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 9:58 PM UTC
I do not think much my place upon this earth,
I am second, and you are first,
and when your voice is louder than mine
it is a familiar for me to sink and recline
into my chair, wilful to listen
to your unappealing, witted opinion
and programmed flair -
from which your talent glistens,
and has always been there.
Oh to be part of your vision.
I walk comfortable in high heeled shoes
that inscribe me a waggling soft tongue,
and when your pace is faster than mine
in brogues, and trousers that are looser,
I am simply undone,
at your ease to summon as the prime task-caster
of more tasks to come.
Your achievements are set with a slapped wet plaster.
Oh that you share a crumb.
And when you laugh, it is a big bellied echo
that chimes in my throat to strike and produce,
a small bit of fruit, just for you.
As I mimic your billow in an octave but lower,
that feels like part of the very same tune,
but my chuckle is actually a choke,
and what I could say would only provoke.
Oh you laugh much harder than me.
My almond eyes are softer than yours
and in the day you lock them only for an answer,
to some chore which requires a limited goal -
don’t get me wrong – I am no prancer,
my shoes are far too tight, and I’ve been taking the toll
of your papers, your personal sciv, your faxer.
A sniffing, weezling mole.
Oh I could dig deeper…
You **** much harder than me.
And when you *** you look in the mirror
at yourself in white unbuttoned shirt, heavy brow, so chipper
that when your sun sets it does in a vulvonic decree,
but you do not know that when I go home, I secretly scissor
in a way that would make your morning clippers shake violently.
Oh I love much harder than you,
I am better than you,
but somehow you are better than me.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 5:23 PM UTC
you are the draft
of my poetries
that I have kept hidden.
you've taught me how to render
all these feelings to be unspoken.
you are the song
by which the octave
of my voice can't reach;
and yet I still try to sing you in secrecy.
you are the art
that my simple mind
can't seem to understand
but it's okay, because I feel you
and that's what gives these emotions
an infinite ampersand.
you are all these,
and yet to me, you are still nothing.
because in this life, that is all we are, and is all what we are ever going to be: nothing.
Jun 8, 2018
Jun 8, 2018 at 12:11 PM UTC
music through my veins
polyrhythmic synapses
firing in 3/2 timing
stuttering triplet rolls
around my thoughts
octave to octave change
quicknowdoubletime
overdrive of emotion
s l o w s t o h a l f t i m e
q u a r t e r t i m e
e i g h t h t i m e
stop these shaking hands
this staccato heart
a note from the end
a measure too soon
a crescendo to nothing
discordant - anti-climatic.
was the song to my life ever on beat?
May 8, 2012
May 8, 2012 at 8:01 PM UTC