"octaves" poems
Yellow is
a high-minded mood
the extravagance of sunlight
to be touched--
before long
by colors of play
____________
It is of hair
tendering golden sun
brown pennies for lemonade
____________
Yellow is
bumping into the screaming end
of a lit
cigarette
_____________
Yellow is
dripping from the eaves
onto an empty soup can
_____________
It is
spindling sparrow song
from highest perch on roof
his pitch can aspire
_____________
Yellow is
in rattled doorknob
an infant's sweet
voice wanting – in
Reciting menu
above mattress
edges into sleep
two dark eyes
plead
for yellow
waking
Mother into morning--
“juice.... eggs”
Yellow ____
is
opening a car door
at the shore's
unmistakable!
Smells of life
warmth and breeze
touching strings
those kites
of sense
harmonics
above the tone
octaves of excitement
to see to hear to touch to taste
to know
again –
the ocean of my mother
as she calms the waves,
ignores the pouts of us
with stuff to lug out to the beach
the towels, pails and shovels
Picnic basket, cooler
lotion, comic books, her magazines
Mom looks out
She is a good swimmer
Her glasses, dark
Preside
reflecting beauty –
“Take your sister's hand.”
Yellow are the squeals
Feet thrashing sand
of cannot wait
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 10:06 PM UTC
bring your hammer and mutes.
temper my just intervals and
i'll beat a sweet harmonic series.
stretch my octaves,
correct my dissonance,
fine-tune my enthusiasm,
i'll play you some smooth sounds
Oct 11, 2011
Oct 11, 2011 at 2:16 AM UTC
The equilibrium of the ecosystem is challenged by the rites of the 11th Century Norsemen. Smell the pine in the forests of North America where the dream catcher swings in the branches of the misty Boreal forest.
We must never forget in our futile plight for supremacy, that the roots of trees are deeply connected to the annals of history where contemporary grandiosity is a mere mirage of what we call sophistication.
Toccata and Fugue in D Minor is where Johann Sebastian Bach communicated his message as clear as the cries of those who were slaughtered in the Highland Clearances. Parallel octaves of our Viking ancestry are firmly established and will never be altered despite the quests of the New World Order.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:58 PM UTC
still be on my feat
oh Joni you showed up at my door once more, Saturday morn,
blonde bangs and ***** voice, two octaves below shrill,
right about where the register intersection of
heart piercing, me humming, memory smiling,
poetry inspiring, yeah memories crying, that too
together, we have had more than many,
one case of you, a million sips, and I am writing
to see how you're feeling and to let you know
I never drank a case of you that left me,
being still, left me standing on my feat
my feat?
drank de-feat like it was the sea, boundless but not soundless,
sweet waves repeating, sea tears tinged with bittersweet cries of
Tupelo honey,
cause you were one of my angels,
lifting me higher when love was saying
not!
this time kid,
place, babe, not this peculiar particular apparition,
wrong rendition,
and at last, finally, long time later, sheepishly, sweetly only,
what was her name
your voice stood me up, your words still slap my face with
cases of kisses upon my neck, tune-turning prophetic notions of
what's next still be only just around the corner,
waiting on a new, simple twist of feat,
another song, poem, lover, and yet another,
case of you, so we can always see both sides,
and when I think of you Joni
my mind seesaws,
and I, still be on my feet, and thanks to you
ready for my feat
<•>
10:59am 10/28/17
Oct 28, 2017
Oct 28, 2017 at 11:00 AM UTC
I was young when I learned to sing
to the rhythm of fists
flying through the air
like birds too angry
with the season to call.
I was young when I thought a tune
could drown the sounds
of my mother’s sobs
crashing through hallways
in tidal waves and monsoon misery.
I was young when I carved
songs in the wallpaper
and into my delicate skin.
I turned bruises into syncopated beats
and scars into major scales.
My stepfather hated music
but I was an ornery child,
and I sang of joyous things
just to see if his soul could dance,
but instead,
I got two left feet in swift kicks.
When I was was young I was afraid of sticks
because I thought my body was a drum
to be beaten and battered
to a punishing rhythm.
I was young when I learned
that the taste of blood on my lip
was merely the flicker before the intermission;
the finale would be a grand display
of pomp, punch, and unlucky circumstance.
My mother was a tone-deaf drunk
who never learned to sing.
She belted begging in B flat octaves
like it was the only note she knew.
She wept an ocean of sorrow
as I sang my S.O.S.
“God, save our sinking ship.”
“God, save our sinking souls.”
“God, save our sorry stepfather from himself.”
And when I thought to cry,
I sang my little heart out instead.
I sang of devil's meeting end,
and I sang of daughter's finding love,
and I sang of mother's finding
strength enough to leave,
and I sang to the happy families
that only existed in sitcoms,
because my stepfather hated music
but I hated him far more.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 12:15 PM UTC
Music is my Deity
and so benevolent is it!
A mystical Tapestry
woven upon Silence and across Time,
what about that is not Divine?
Music doesn't divide, it unites.
It attracts expressive minds, creative minds, empathic minds, logical minds.
It creates an abstract temporal psychosocial middle-ground;
You don't have to be a virtuoso
to drum along or dance or vocalize.
You don't have to be a virtuoso
for practice to reap it's rewards.
We speak with Music:
Language is a Musical thing;
it employs Rhythm and Pitch and works through Time.
Music is a Linguistic thing;
it communicates things that otherwise cannot be said
while also having room for Language itself.
Music is no singular aspect;
Music is not defined by medium,
nor is it defined by orchestration.
Music is wholly Abstract,
relating only back to itself.
Music is defined by context;
Music is a matter of perspective.
Footsteps are music, in 2/4 time.
Heartbeats are music, in 3/4 time; this defines "swing" feel.
A Clock is music, in 1/1 time at 60 beats per minute.
A year is music, in 365.25/1 time at 1 beat per day.
The duration of the Moon's orbital period and Day are a Unison; 1:1.
The four Galilean moons of Jupiter orbit with the resonance of Octaves; 2:1 ratios of wavelength.
The ratio of the lengths of Mercury's Year to it's Day is nearly a Perfect Fifth; 3:2.
Music is implicit.
Music is mystical.
Music is a Metaphor manifest,
for the nature of the Universe;
even the very word "Universe"
means "The One Song".
Music is truly intrinsic;
I am a Shaman of Music.
It is an Honor.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 2:03 PM UTC
Being deaf is ecstasy,
You may think it quaint,
But I do not fight destiny.
A man who knows his place,
In the scheme of things,
Sits back to watch,
The struggles,
In fruitless tiles,
Of the quilt laid in fate.
To see and not be deceived,
By the lies of other’s words,
To judge solely on action,
And never on what you heard.
To never be afraid,
Of that ever beating roar,
The ticking Heart,
A sign of life,
That I could care less,
For.
To be deaf is agony.
I dread it every morning.
To be judges so completely.
By one little malfunction.
I walk to school alone,
And even surrounded by friends,
I am but an unknown…
To never hear the birds chirping,
Or the beautiful octaves,
Of singers from near and far.
Or to hear my sweet lovers whispers,
Deep inside my ear.
To not know the pain of a radio on high,
Or to be able to live my life, completely devoid,
Of an inaudible sigh.
But, by now you’ll probably have tuned this out,
And that’s something with which I can empathize
May 24, 2010
May 24, 2010 at 9:41 PM UTC
If you really like music,
there is a tambourine in my chest
and I am almost always shaking. Let's hang out
and study each other's octaves while the sound-waves
travel in and out
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 4:00 PM UTC
*Afternoon octaves from a Raspberry arbor ,
streaming with Honeybee delight , fledgeling
Cardinals hopping from branch to branch ,
Rubies pause then pose , streak away in zig-zag
flight
Bluejays crack acorns on cobblestone drives ,
Red wasp , Swallowtails and Cuckoo bees dance
in warm light , Cinnamon coated fawns dance
the forever fields of soybeans , Sugar Magnolias
stand tall in Purple clover dreams*
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 2:43 PM UTC
Did anyone ever thought
about this fraternal oneness,
why we are all in this universe
and so profoundly related.
Did you know that beneath
the differences of different
people lies only one man nature.
One world and one people.
Different beliefs but one source.
Varied culture and tradition
but one humanness.
Drinking same fountain of water
from above and below the earth.
All breathing same air,
what one breathes out,
another takes in.
We blend and merge together,
resonating in synergy to bring
desired octaves in response
to a beautiful and blissful sequence,
with different forms and
different wavelength Interwoven
holistically in wholeness.
As one sleeps the other awakes,
in different geographic areas,
sharing the same sun and moon,
as the stars shine daily bears witness,
though it is only seen in part in accord
with whoever is in the light or dark,
it's brightness is shown in the dark
only when the moon shines,
and hidden in the brightness of the sun,
as one is in the light with the sun,
the other is in dark with the moon.
We still shines as the stars in the
sky even though we don't know it.
Don't mess up what is so important
in your life just because you are
a little unsure of who you are.
Be truly your neighbors keeper,
for we are all related.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 7:19 AM UTC
...
['ärbədər']
ar·bi·ter <noun>
*Winter's favorite judge.
Trial is held with the witness.*
⌭ ⌭ ⌭
⍤ Trustworthy ⍤
"Do you know what month it is?"
December growls in seven octaves
"Growls?"
In demon tongue
"About who?"
The she wolf of porcelain night
"The She-wolf...?"
Can't you hear it?
"Hear what?"
The ashes on the walls
"What ashes?"
Sinful choices that need to be cleansed
"Why do they need to be cleansed?"
They drunk my last cup of gold
⍤ Confession ⍤
"What happened to the wolf?"
She chased the seventh house of Cancer
"Cancer?"
The traitorous stars in heaven
"Why?"
She loved him more
"Who?"
The man who could talk the sun into setting
"So she left you?"
Among the valley of mirrors and chess
"Mirrors and chess?"
So I could see I was a pawn
⍤ Treason ⍤
"Did you lover her?"
Down to the wreckage in my bones
"I don't understand."
My soul has fallen ill
"Are you sick?"
Of that blue sink
"What blue sink?"
Look over there, in the corner
"What about it?"
My reflection on blood is quite frightening this evening
⍤ Rectify ⍤
"Do you understand why you're here?"
Father winter needed a suicidal witness
"How did you know?"
The oaken spider prophesized it
"A spider...?"
On the lips of candor and death he spoke
"What was his prophecy?"
Three treasures summon the ill-spirited wolf
"What do you mean?"
One bite from the golden fruit is tragedy
"What tragedy?"
Two drinks from the fountain of youth is treason
"You're not answering me."
Do you know what the third treasure was?
"Enlighten me."
The last breath of the moon
⍤ Final Judgment ⍤
"Do you regret anything?"
The pity screaming from those volcanic eyes
"Pity..."
Her apologies left marks on my willow tree
"Are you ready to accept her punishment for her?"
Yes, I owe her a favor
"Any last words, Alunakira?"
Tell her to never forget
"Forget what?"
How the truth killed me
⌭ ⌭ ⌭
*Execution; Successful.
Mark the wolf's sin as resolved.*
['ärbədər']
ar·bi·ter <noun>
...
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 11:26 PM UTC
Wonders of the world
is too insignificant to
what you will experience
in your life for opening
your heart to receive the
fairest impressions of God.
You are the best gift life can
ever give to the universe.
Infused in you are the
unimaginable seed of greatness.
You are for signs and wonders.
Created and endowed with
enormous and immense abilities
to subdued and have dominion
over all things created.
Your words and thoughts can change
situations and make things manifests
from something for nothing cannot
give rise to something.
Thoughts are definitely something,
and your words are powerfully alive,
you only need to properly project it
into being to give it form and bring
it into your reality.
All things resonates to you,
whether positively or negatively,
depending on the platform you stand.
Everything responds to the octaves
of your vibration within the wavelength
of the rhythm of the pendulum swinging
circumspectively overly around you.
You can do anything you want to do
if you really want to do it.
But you have to learn how to do it differently,
because you are definitely differently configured.
You are an absolute dot stretched into being,
vitalised by the power beyond the ordinary
and full of grace of the divine light.
You are the light of the world.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 7:24 PM UTC
To walk a thousand miles
To take a thousand steps
First you have to be born and take your first breathe
No praise just don't scream
Directly at me at a thousand different octaves
Please see the id that requires asprin to aspire a better passion
To alleviate the headache
To know true love
Is to experience 1000 heartbeats
In 1000 situations
All at once
Few can only hope to feel that
What can feel right
And what can't be struck 1000 times
Three times the life with 333 in mind
Minus the 6 that didn't count
Plus the 12 that really mattered
And take off the 5 that will be forgotten
Maybe the rich one
Or one of the slums bums
Can question this one time
Of an aspiring poet
To write 1000 lines
But still they mean nothing
Nonetheless something
Will still push
5 by 20 incidents in a infants eyes
That will eventually happen 10 more times
And If you accept the challenge
You have a 1000 tries to win
This is the last for the time being
1000 and done
To the last poem
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 6:54 PM UTC
I am curled upon myself in eleven
hidden dimensions predicted by Superstring Theory,
confident revealing my whereabouts
precludes guessing my velocity.
Paradox of uncertainty handed down by
Heisenberg, mental Mobius of mind,
tethers my strong nuclear force,
I am King of Quantum.
I vibrate in energetic strings
octaves below scale of Stradivarius,
seeking a unified framework
for the duality of space and time.
Like a black-hole event horizon,
where no thought escapes
this gravity of mind,
I ponder blinking out of existence.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 5:59 AM UTC
*A bittersweet mixture of agony and ecstasy
Found in the lone voice of a piano
Painting colours in harmony
That leave my senses reeling
Flying through the air like an arrow
Shot from cupids bow
An electric arc in the atmosphere
Piercing my soul with forgotten longing
Balancing in timeless beauty
Pirouetting chiffon billows elegantly through the notes
Defying gravity
Suspended in animation
Music that compels my body into
Configurations that delight and thrill my perceptions
An exquisite pain of my own making
I lose myself in abstractions
Octaves fluidly creating shapes
Resembling cursive script
The author of symmetry
I hover on the edge of a lost dream .....
I once stood on my toes
Until the day
Fate took it from me*
(C) Pixievic 2016
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 10:12 AM UTC
Her tone,
Crispy like new pair of headphones,
Screams when I finger down her G string,
Love hearing her moan,
Get over here and lay on my lap,
One hand down your neck while the other's ready to smack,
She's a brand new model,
My pick up line was immaculate,
Coke bottle modelling body,
Fuzz pedal throttled and jacked you in,
You fret all day and no one to hammer your strings,
******* Brew** in Chili Peppers but I'm willing to make you Cream,
So lay across my leg and let me do the rest,
All that phat bass and no one to properly make you wet,
Rubbing across your curves making sure your knobs are turned,
Steel strings tight and ready to give this spanking you deserve,
Tease and deceive till your ready to sing,
Slip my fingers down your A and I'm ready to B,
Playing your scales,
Hitting that tail,
Your mahogany curves scrumptious as hell,
Maybe I'll stand up and ****** my hips,
Into that back of that phat bass while loving the notes you hit,
Strap you on because the way I like to hit it is hard,
Octaves ****** and quiver on my fingers,
Your heart,
The shape of that wide, seductive and sumptuous ***
All that bass you have can make any guy..........
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 6:45 PM UTC
Rapture, growing voice around the corner.
Crisp new diphthongs, sorry rounded vowels
unrehearsed. A twanging reverb. Certain
loosened phrasings shock the doorknob, like
'Clara...octaves...failings'. When I lift the
latch it's broken trailing consonants
streaming past the ceiling; bassy treaties,
sighing falling clothes and chord-crushed feeling.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 11:32 AM UTC
I find some sort of satisfaction
getting under your skin, taking a trip
along the train tracks of your blood vessels
just to see how much you can take before you snap.
Maybe I'll look for some gold while I'm there,
since everything gold does not glitter,
I'm sure your shadowed carcass
will do me some justice.
I'll kick the soils of your tissues,
possibly dig holes in your pores
to find a nerve you
never cared to show me.
I'll paint mosaics and tapestries
on the pasty walls of your bones,
then smash my creations into pieces
to find the secrets stored in your marrow.
I will scratch at the layers
to remember where I'd already made my mark
and run through your bloodstream
to find my way around.
Then, I will bathe in the fluid,
changing its colour from red to
crimson, in hopes you'll
waste your blood on some actual effort.
I'll make music out of your ribs,
punching them with a flux of force,
trying to find the right octaves in creating a scale,
or maybe an étude.
I'll play them over and over
until they get tired of the noise;
get tired of being used for pleasure
in favour of my own ears.
Then maybe, just maybe,
I'll finally reach your heart
and I'll jump on it like a trampoline,
roll down its slope as if it were a hill,
switch its ventricles and slide down its arteries
aiming for some sort of reaction,
just so I know a heart so bitter might just actually work.
- g.d.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 10:03 PM UTC
The seasons are not dissimilar to laryngeal ******* where dark reptiles slink into the undergrowth of humanity, beside our deep intercostal deviances.
Are you registered? If so, then what is your range?
Perhaps a shotgun is incapable of reaching those harmonic octaves which rise above the shores of Neptune.
I beseech you, my lonely patron of inertia: let us meet in the middle of the Fertile Crescent where our ideas can blend into a kaleidoscopic vulnerability within the tents of promiscuity.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 12:15 AM UTC
Poetry is not frozen.............
Still surged in poetry
A stream stemming from the crux
An energetic reflection
An external of internalized intuitions
The flow of the words
Attuned and harmonized
Umpteen snow, melodic tunes
Visualized dreams mending arts
A bursting imagination
A word behind the beats
A free energy of octaves
Pulses of natural architecture
HP our home of anonymities
Acquainted monikers broadcast
Poetry strum through the universe
The singular tones attached
Poetry a scaffold of true expression
A design encoded to amuse
The beauty silhouette on plinth
Hollowed ice with steaming warmth
Poetry the distributed condenser
Sliding from 126hz to 136hz
The domineering kingship
Posing the echoes in words
Keep going everyone at HP, you are all beautiful!Lets the words dance
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 12:24 PM UTC
Soft padded sheets with a chalk-white fade
Contours from repeated pressure illustrating a familiar shape
Indented rivets in the overused cushion where you tried to hide
Red-turned-brown spots dried, markers of where you failed to keep it inside
Timid stains of salty moisture once fallen from your eyes
Now just a faded gravestone to the bliss simplicity brought before your fight died
Deaf ears and the pleas that pass through their shallow halls
But the sound changes octaves as it bounces off the thin beige walls
And so it echoes unheard as it falls
One too many close calls to accept the sound that emulates from it all
Trembling bones under heavy skin clutching the bed-frame with an iron grip
Second only to the pressure your upper teeth have on your lower lip
Revolving doors unhinged, flooding your thoughts as they race
Tired eyes stay bolted open, not recognizing the shape of your own face
in the jagged glass that now lays fractured and stained from the image you tried to replace
But it still didn't go away
“This is it,” you say
Cavernous holes,
Once whole,
Now just hollow shells you used to call home
Empty of all heart and all hope
And you brace for the hit, the moment where it finally all goes black
And the silence will finally answer back,
telling you you've ****** it up, it's all rotted through, you didn't fight hard enough and now you're done
And every single time you're still surprised when that moment never comes
And despite the tremors and daggers, your stubborn heart carries on
So find the narrow sliver of air where reality and your mind meet
And take in all the oxygen like it isn’t always free
There isn’t much too it,
You just put your head down and breathe
Because if there’s only one thing of which you can be sure
It's that these souls were designed to endure
And "this too shall pass" will become true once more
Let your heart and its resting pace made amends
Once the shaking stops you can finally stand
And wear that smile until courage finds you again
Somewhere inside you always knew this isn’t how it ends.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 5:52 PM UTC
i'm still in love with the way your voice skips an octave when you get upset
you used to love my poetry beyond anything in the world but now
you blocked my poetry account i used to write poems about you but
you'll never see them the way you used to
you say you don't care you say you're scared of nothing but I know you're scared to admit it
you're still in love with my mind
the way i'm in love with yours
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 8:22 PM UTC
Scholastic escapades of theft and the smearing of stools are a sure janitorial surprise in suburban utopia.
I have scraped dinner off my plate, onto the floor.
So, pick the tar which slowly drools down the shaft of wooden telegraph poles in the height of mid-seventies summers, whilst classic rock resounds her commanding octaves throughout the snow in summer.
I have always respected those who are elderly and have given thanks to solidarity whilst sausages spark in the frying pan.
Look at the crows as they maintain circular flight above the stony church steeple, and rebel against authority whilst you wet your bed.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 12:41 AM UTC
In the morning
before the day gets too distracting
your piano’s at its very best.
Say Hello! to it with a scale or two.
Nothing quite like the harmonic minor
(in contrary motion – 3 octaves please)
to get its hammers hammering,
the pedals pedalling, and those
black and white keys
to skip under your fingers.
Bach today or shall it be Brahms?
Gershwin maybe, or just a little Grieg?
No matter what, they’re all your friends.
Nice people composers, no trouble to anyone.
All they do all day is sit in their studios
and dream about music.
Sometimes they write it down,
carefully,
measuring every note and rhythm
for your piano to play
before the day gets too distracting.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 2:07 AM UTC
I saw your hands
brush against my fingertips last night
and stared while you carefully knitted your digits into mine
as if I were a birthday balloon
given to you at school
that you showed off with excitement and pride
I saw you stare at me last night
while I floated in the corner of your room
slowly sinking as the hours passed by
talking in a room full of helium
your voice rose octaves
my eyes never left you
I woke up this morning
touching nothing but my own floor.
Popped by reality.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 4:05 PM UTC