"orchestras" poems
It was electric.
A thousand things he never thought he'd feel again
racing down his spine.
Like a symphony of static, composed by this single moment.
Whole orchestras breathing in his mind.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC
There is magic in live theatre
It can't be understood
For even watching a bad play
Is really something good
The footlights and the curtains
The sound of actors on the boards
Of orchestras and the sound effects
Of cheaply painted swords
The theatre is a special place
It excites me to no end
It's a long lost brother coming home
It's a warm and welcome friend
Sitting in a theatre
Waiting for the overture
Is an illness I suffer happily
And one for which I wish no cure
Good theatre is transporting
Takes you where the actor lives
You sense it in the speeches
That every actor gives
You get lost in what's going on
You feel hurt and you feel pain
And when you get another chance
You splurge and go again
Live theater is hypnotic
It's a world that stands alone
It's a place inside your being
You learn how love is shown
It's where you listen to great music
Played by artists never seen
Where you hear the actor's heartbeat
Unlike on the silver screen
Live theatre is true magic
I can't tell you how I feel
when I see a live performance
I know exactly what is real
The lights are slowly dimming
I hear them closing the lobby doors
Shhhhh....the orchestra is ready
Here comes the overture.....
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
I hope you meet a person,
any person,
who makes your heart beat
in tune with your favourite song.
I hope their laugh becomes
your favourite melody,
and that their breathing
turns into your new lullaby.
I wish for you the amazing miracle
of meeting someone that makes you
feel like you have orchestras
in your chest.
I hope you have the privilege of
finding a person,
any person,
that gives you a reason to sing.
Because right now there is someone
who's looking at you
and they're busy having an affair
with the music that you are.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 3:36 AM UTC
THIS is what love is.
banana bubblegum and magnetic poetry
the crickets on my front porch at three in the morning
making origami cranes out of butcher paper
even when I forget whether it's mountain fold or
valley fold and my crane turns out looking like a
seamonkey in a blender
wildflowers!
striped button-down shirts and plastic dinosaurs
singing Juanes at the top of our lungs
(Gah, you know
I can't speak Spanish.)
laughing at the serious parts in movies
having the patience for when
the words don't come out
and I have to stop
and think
(for a very long time)
and half the time it doesn't make sense anyway.
impromptu dance sessions on the side of the road
doors flung open, radio up
chocolate chip pancakes
out-of-town adventures
mailboxes. LOTS.
balcony raves with lots of glowsticks
and let me borrow that top!
just letting me sleeeeeeep
the smell of new pointe shoes
of New Orleans
of bluebonnets
telling me when I look awful (please)
making me eat things that I don't like
SNUGGLEBUNNY TIME
drive-thru people who hate our guts
That's What She Said's.
praising Buddha naked
dysfunctional kites
paying in change at Chicken Express
late night phone conversations
when I sound drunk
(but I'm not,
I'm tired. I just would rather
talk to you
than sleep.)
silence.
cupcakes, uniform closets
not shaving our legs in the winter
shadow puppets, rap songs,
Slumdog Millionaire
making once-in-a-lifetime faces
looks that speak oceans
pecan pralines and symphony orchestras you'll
never play with again but for that night
you're family
and you'll never forget it.
matches (aren't always for candles)
thousands upon thousands of candids
and the not-so-candids
saving kisses in your pocket for later
Neverland, Disneyland, cats
yellow dresses and stage make-up
watermelon Jolly Ranchers
saying my name like it's wrapped in blankets
and knowing that
even though I don't say it
as much as I should:
I do.
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 1:51 PM UTC
The Coronation.
Weightless stars drop silently like petals
From a distant place way up far beyond the night sky.
Winter flowers blossom and fly away
Landing like moths on the night, turning to petals, then rain.
To shower you in love over and over again on this majestic day.
Distant orchestras come together in a cyclonic, deafening crescendo
Commanded by maestros flailing wands from the peaks of the highest mountains.
Roll great drums! Make music for my Queen violins and cellos!
Ring through valleys and across deserts
Sweep up all the world’s musicians along the way!
Fireworks ignite the darkness with day.
Rainbows burst, more stars, come petals
Saturate you in light.
And shower you with my love on this,
The day of your Coronation.
Great Gods have come to celebrate
Smiling down they send their angels
To drench your glowing torso in rose petals
And kiss you gently as they settle,
While my tied hands yearn to give you a fond caress.
Every creature in the universe has attended the grandest ceremony in time.
Each gleefully holding a single rose petal
To weave into your hair.
My bound arms reach across continents carried like breath on the wind
To deliver you my heart.
Close your fist and make a wish
What would your soul like to find inside?
True loves lay sleeping snuggled together on the bed of the universe.
Calm is the Queen
With her single red rose.
……………………………………………………
Sun rises and all the petals have transformed into snow.
Still soft, still comforting.
But with an eerie emptiness of a dream that has yet to be told.
Joy is frozen in our hearts
For Love eternal was denied the throne this time.
Remember my sweet darling
You are now my Queen of Roses.
And in a palace somewhere,
As far away as near
I am your King.
(Gerry Aldridge)
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 4:55 PM UTC
If you close your eyes
Inside your mind
You'll capture your prize
No telling what you’ll find.
There is a magical land
Just waiting to be explored
Available on demand
A guarantee you wont be bored.
Maybe inside your dreams
There are castles and moats
Strawberries and creams
Yachts and sailing boats.
Caves with orchestras to observe
Listen and relax and drift away.
Maybe a beautiful nature reserve
To watch lion cubs at play.
Maybe there are chocolate waterfalls
And the rocks are made of fudge
A tree where a kingfisher calls
Or where nobody can criticise or judge.
In your mind are flowers made of silk
And last forever and ever
The cows produce flavoured milk
Cold with ice for whoever and whenever.
You can visit these things any time
Just close your eyes and you are there
No rivers to cross, no hills to climb
No parking ticket required, no taxi fare.
It is a free service, provided just for you
Just close your eyes, enjoy what you see
See your fields of green, your skies of blue
Your rivers of chocolate and a butterfly tree.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 3:03 AM UTC
Over the horizon, lost in confusion,
came the sad night, pregnant with stars.
I, like the bearded mage of the tales,
knew the language of stones and flowers.
I learned the secrets of melancholy,
told by cypresses, nettles and ivy;
I knew the dream from lips of nard,
sang serene songs with the irises.
In the old forest, filled with its blackness,
all of them showed me the souls they have;
the pines, drunk on aroma and sound;
the old olives, burdened with knowledge;
the dead poplars, nests for the ants;
the moss, snowy with white violets.
All spoke tenderly to my heart
trembling in threads of rustling silk
where water involves motionless things,
like a web of eternal harmony.
The roses there were sounding the lyre,
oaks weaving the gold of legends,
and amidst their virile sadness
the junipers spoke of rustic fears.
I knew all the passion of woodland;
rhythms of leaves, rhythms of stars.
But tell me, oh cedars, if my heart
will sleep in the arms of perfect light!
I know the lyre you prophesy, roses:
fashioned of strings from my dead life.
Tell me what pool I might leave it in,
as former passions are left behind!
I know the mystery you sing of, cypress;
I am your brother of night and pain;
we hold inside us a tangle of nests,
you of nightingales, I of sadness!
I know your endless enchantment, old olive tree,
yielding us blood you extract from the Earth,
like you, I extract with my feelings
the sacred oil
held by ideas!
You all overwhelm me with songs;
I ask only for my uncertain one;
none of you will quell the anxieties
of this chaste fire
that burns in my breast.
O laurel divine, with soul inaccessible,
always so silent,
filled with nobility!
Pour in my ears your divine history,
all your wisdom, profound and sincere!
Tree that produces fruits of the silence,
maestro of kisses and mage of orchestras,
formed from Daphne's roseate flesh
with Apollo's potent sap in your veins!
O high priest of ancient knowledge!
O solemn mute, closed to lament!
All your forest brothers speak to me;
only you, harsh one, scorn my song!
Perhaps, oh maestro of rhythm, you muse
on the pointlessness of the poet's sad weeping.
Perhaps your leaves, flecking by the moonlight,
forgo all the illusions of spring.
The delicate tenderness of evening,
that covered the path with black dew,
holding out a vast canopy to night,
came solemnly, pregnant with stars.
2.5k
High synth notes
Japanese thunder
you amaze yourself
Walk with headphones
through grass patches
and brightly lit streets
heavy petroleum clouds
nigerian gutter feast
of trash and telephones
prepaid cards
litter homes floors
in cardboard sandals
shuffling past pubs
London clenched ribs
teeth breathe heart beats
Kick old orchestras
through instrumental mixes
modernity insanity
kinyopoetry.com
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 11:55 AM UTC
I sent it
At three AM
On one of those nights
Where silence gets violent
And I'm alone in my head.
I told you about the
Tiny pink pills
And how
If I took eight
I would sleep forever.
I gushed that
They were hidden
Under the toothpaste slathered
Countertop
In my bathroom.
I told you I loved you
But that
You weren't enough to stop me anymore.
I did actually consider it.
It was one of those nights.
But at some point,
As I laid on top of my comforter
And shivered under the fan,
I realized that
You weren't going to wake up
And convince me out of it.
I also thought
About how my mom was
A light sleeper.
How the floorboards would sound like
Orchestras
And the cabinet
Would be the symbals
To her.
I fell asleep
Numb,
But naturally numb,
And woke up wondering
What you would say.
You didn't say anything.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 10:32 PM UTC
It's as if someone has stopped the music
and no one has noticed but me.
This quiet is ugly, inside and out,
and smells of rotting orchestras.
That is a theatrical lie,
and an attempt to make you miss me.
The truth is, everything looks the same.
I hear the familiar jaded hum of living
and it smells like coffee and cinnamon.
I am hating the thought
of fading into a life without you.
Break my heart quickly
or love me 'til death
brings that quiet I lied about hearing.
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 2:07 AM UTC
I was staring at the wall in choir today,
and I realized that people are like orchestra’s.
You can’t know someone completely
by simply listening to them once.
You have to listen a thousand times,
pick out every instrument individually.
And once you do that,
you have to memorize every single cue, note,
and crescendo.
I want to know what his orchestra sounds like.
I want to hear the cello, the clarinet, and the violin
floating along in clippets.
The sound of brass, string, and percussion
all combining in perfect harmony.
The problem is, how can I listen to an orchestra,
when I am too scared to enter the theater?
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 10:36 PM UTC
Lay with me, darling
Within the New York summer
And hand me softly, a Gershwin kiss
Under celluloid sky.
We will dance, you and I
Beneath the bridges of central park
And we will sense
The Broadway skyline.
Frames pass by unseen
With imagination and ideal
Burnt into their core, as
The music of a thousand orchestras
Start our fandango
As we fall in love
With the freedom of tomorrow.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 2:22 AM UTC
Toad sand and frog pebbles,
warted rocks kicked and toed.
Tease the ocean with chocolate dipped feet,
spiced and salted teas.
Taper off mid-sentence, paragraphs tepid
long arms and zebra stripes, a crosswalk tepir.
Tocsin alarm clocks poison innocent bystander’s sleep,
slipping things in their drinks, filling their ears with toxin.
Tie a scarf around the forehead
of the middle child. Teach them beginning syllables of Thai.
Throes and spasms of overachievers
motivate for longer strides, faster throws.
Tense shoulder muscles
hide in sleeping bags, badly pitched tents.
Told injuries snuck in when the door opened,
we heard the miniature silver bells as they tolled.
Ticks count every second second, punctuated by tocks.
With each, a twitch, conscious nervous tics.
Titan tool boxes hold spare screws,
on Coeus’ threaded axis, we spin and tighten.
Terne sardine cans filled with mercury,
pollute our science tests, killing tern.
Tied red string around our pinkies so we don’t forget
when to go to the beach looking for clams at low tide.
Tacks pin talented teens to cork boards,
alongside instructions on regretting the harmonised sales tax.
Tire prints border the country,
left by jeeps that never tire.
Tails directing orchestras,
swarms of swan swim, tattling and telling tales.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 12:32 AM UTC
I'm dreaming beside the creek
I'm dreaming of skies with aurora hue
I'm dreaming beside the ocean
Of angels singing and playing their golden harps
I'm dreaming in the forest
Of fairies dancing on the pine needle
And moss carpeted forest floor
I'm dreaming in the woodlands
Of a place where time is eternal
And where wishes come alive
A place where dreams, fantasy, and illusions exist
I'm dreaming in the meadow
Of a world to call my own
Free of pain and sorrow
Where nothing bad or tragic ever happens
And where everything is sheer bliss
And pure magic
I'm dreaming in fields of flowers
Of true love that lasts forever
With no hearts ever broken
Or no tears ever shed
I'm dreaming on the mountain
Of a friend who understands
One whose always there to hold my hand
And tell me it's okay
The one who puts their arms around me
Or offers me a shoulder whenever I cry
I'm dreaming on the shores of time
Of orchestras singing me lullabies
Whenever I feel sleepy or tired
Or perhaps playing a tune to calm me down
Whenever I feel panicky because I'm scared
I'm dreaming underneath a tree
While the sun slants it's rays across my cheeks
Dreaming of everything pretty
Of life calm and cool
Forever tranquil
I'm dreaming of all the things
That make you and me happy
The things that are so pleasant and cheerful
I'm dreaming about you as well
And when I wake up from these
Happy and all-too-short journeys
I wonder, are you dreaming about me too?
~Marian~
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
When do we change?
Is it now?
Or in ten years time…
Is it in 2999?
Is this a sign or an unseen shrine?
Can we travel lightyears of compassion to finally reach what matters?
And join the orchestras of our hearts to form a cacophony of beauty that grows to other planets, admitting how lost we are…
Or are we hate first, death burp, old church…
Starving billions yet again just to prove a point -
Just so we can light a joint and oink -
Why must we parade, not permeate?…
Escape but stay safe…
We could evolve from the inside now, freeing every structure of our being…
Procuring our loving spout, rather than drowning in doubt…
When will you decide to step into the liquid mirror, joining timelines of past and future -
Upon which - being that every-creature; you see through a lensless camera…
Can you embody the real virtue and meaning of captured existence, and in doing so outshine death by becoming life itself?…
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 6:17 AM UTC
Let me write my love
On every wall
I will paint entire
Cities with your name
Every metaphor a
Thinly veiled attempt
To describe the stars
In your eyes
Let me compose symphonies -
Conduct orchestras and choirs
To sing your praise
Every note an ode to
The way the moonlight
Caresses the curves of your face
Let me put brush to canvas
And I will command
Every hue
Every brushstrokes
To reveal the secret
Of your smile
And if you let me
I would dedicate
my entire life
To master every art form
If it meant I could accurately convey
The feelings you stir within me
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 5:51 PM UTC
i mean, who the hell needs an individualised
orchestra? Mozart doesn't, Beethoven doesn't,
Chopin and Liszt is all piano
so never mind the punk renegade violinist...
how the Indians or the Chinese orchestrated
a population of a billion is staggering,
western powers ********** blanks by comparison,
it's like a body and a virus, translated
with optometry the way we say things,
Sanskrit or the Beijing Ouija - looking at it
is like ingesting the Swiss champagne miracle - nausea
or alternatively lysergia -
it's ******* me up acquiring this tongue
given the history of celebrated colonialism -
proof of the Hackney populace being solely
Caribbean - what a desecrate groundwork to begin with,
maybe Irish maybe Scout maybe Scot,
on the word of honour dynamic pledging
conveniences with the Vatican - look
no further, we're naturalised sadists, football matches
and the sickbed eventualists rather than
evangelists, former nonsense reductionistists...
so they preached their Darwinism exactly against
the theologically roundabout of the pyramids
and the celestial intervention - but expected
nil barbarism... kingly kindness was at least
the expected norm, but if you preach Darwinism
you'll hardly convene on kindness as
the standard norm of expression -
track 12 of the beach boys' pet sounds is elevator music,
i'll be honest... pop music drama of
the band... you never hear of it with orchestras;
the point of genius: you're not really there,
absentee, you do the sacrifice, and make others
make the dough for the bread that's a house and
a family of four, e.g; and just by petting
cats i learned that all animals, petted or wild,
are naturally / intrinsically autistic.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
I try to elucidate your gaze
from across the room
What do you think?
What do you see?
What events replay in your
memories?
I want to explicate your movements
as you shift in your seat
A worried bite of your lip?
A sigh of fatigue?
How would you act
if you thought of me?
I steer my thoughts back to something
more germane to the subject
The Union loss at
Antietam Creek
But then you open
your mouth to speak-
And I think of orchestras
the instruments and sounds
moving, flowing
together
I think of night
thousands of stars flooding
the sky
I think of poems
that I can't begin to understand
but all so lovely
I think of wolves howling
flowers blooming
waves receding
I think of the wind blowing
between my fingers
while my hand rests outside
the window of
your truck
And I think of you.
I always think of
you.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 10:22 PM UTC
loss
and rainbows where two edges meet
orchestras of cellos (purposely out of tune)
shallow gasps manifested in rest notes between the spaces of off-key melodies
mosquito bites and your suggestion that my blood must be sweetest but I can't take you as a compliment;
this is not a time for threats, my darling, nor is it a time for deaths. it is not a time for spaceless thoughts nor for confessions with political motives under white garments of smiles and spices and seductive entices
the breath gets deeper even if only for a moment and then the gasp returns:
the window blinds my glasses
the windows blind the masses
the windowblinds conceal the sun from me which hides my sanity and peace behind the instruments and their voices but it is probably to be found in the rests where the bars meet each other at the edges, where the silences collide and burn as substances react to oxygen and oxidized carbon and I don't feel god and that is startling,
it is starting to sound like a long bar of rest notes
or a mind which deciphers like stars out of their constellations
out of their occupations
out of their spheres
like stars unaligned
like lies out of signs in the open blinding sun shining minds sparkling like water after a chemical synthetic process (like most of our bodies) and my condescending opinions on all who give in to fabrications and useless surgeries and drugs to feel
or to stop feeling, or to reverse the effects of
our sadness our misery our traumas and dramas
without seeing them face to face, eye to eye, because to turn around blindly is
so. much. easier.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 10:05 AM UTC
you liked
red nail polish &
the smell of gasoline;
the molecular structure
of oxygen.
you liked orchestras,
dinner candles in empty bottles,
the sound of moving trains, you
stole
cheap ballpoint pens
& you father’s new cigars.
you played philip glass on the piano,
put too much ice in your whiskey,
only ever cried in the shower.
you only owned one DVD.
you used newspapers
to light fires in flower pots but
never read them —
you got the news from the radio
in the car, when stuck
in traffic. you ran red lights,
balanced on the edge
of the universe as if
life
was a tightrope
or some nihilistic punchline.
you had the courage of stars
and wildfire eyes — I tried
to find myself
outside of you.
you called me ‘baby’ and burnt
my lungs
with your perpetual cigarettes
&
I cannot
forget
you.
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 4:34 PM UTC
Looking up at the sky so beautiful tonight.
Feeling so much love in this time and space
so right.
The symphony plays of harmonious chords,
while writing my thoughts with poetical words.
Seeing the stars twinkle like diamonds of
jewellery.
Sparkling, magical, feeling happy.
Wish this feeling would stay and never end.
As the sky drapes its paintings of orchestras,
beauty, to lend.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 1:46 AM UTC
Some nights as I fall asleep,
There is music that plays in my head.
It is soft and melodic and sad,
And it is never the same.
Upon waking, sometimes I find
The music is still there, lingering
On the edge of my conscious memory.
But I can't make my hands write the notes
down.
I'd sing it for you but
I cannot sing for an orchestra and
It would not be the same.
I compose unwritten symphonies
In the back of my tiger mind, conduct
Strange and ethereal orchestras, become maestro,
Master of the music, queen of the opera,
Of the stage of the whole world if I want,
I can become anything, anyone -
I am a pirate on the high seas, I am a dragon
Soaring over Albion, I am a snowflake,
A child, an action hero, an astronaut,
I am beautiful and powerful and strange
I am hideous and weak and sad
I am all, and none, and the music reaches it crescendo,
The seas of my subconscious roil and churn,
My story reaches its fever pitch and
In bursts the dawn.
And all that was created is destroyed,
The music lost to hand that can't write it down,
A throat that can't sing it out.
Some nights there is only the sound of my breath
And the sirens in the distance as I fall asleep.
But some nights, I hear music.
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 5:44 PM UTC
according to you, love doesn’t like hot weather and
sweaty palms and cheap beer
it doesn’t hear any orchestras or go
to any movies and buy popcorn and soda
and defintely does not agree to
feed the birds at the park pieces of
a leftover subway sandwich
according to him, love does not fancy astrology or
icecream sandwiches and it never
gets it’s body wet ( let alone it’s hair)
in the swimming pool at a party
it was never invited to
according to the anonymous
love likes to sit
love likes to smoke
love likes to watch reruns of all
the television shows your mom had
a digusting addiction to
it loves boring routines;
the 9 to 5
and it doesn’t mind
being mentally drained
and unprepared for any
emotional stability
but according to me
love just likes to hide
in peoples clothes,
in lacy underwear and size 32 jeans
it likes pretending
it’s not there and it enjoys
convincing you,
it is
not
but no matter what is said;
there is an undeniable
light in that room,
as he slides his body over
yours
weightlessly in
the dark and
it starts in your stomach—
escapes through your mouth
and it becomes the moon
above the both
of you
take my advice here—
always look for
it before
it notices you
doing so and
completely
disappears
because love isn’t
half as bad as
it’s been told to be
all you need to do
is learn to
cover your ears
Jul 27, 2011
Jul 27, 2011 at 8:03 PM UTC
I need a sedative.
Desperation never looked good on anyone.
But when I show a little skin and do my make-up just right,
I can make it more than passable.
I can make them fall in love with the way my body becomes music, and my hollow gaze, and my photo-shopped smile...
All before they even know my name.
Not that they will ever care to know it.
My emptiness is unbearable.
And my heart is running away with my mind,
So they can live in train cars
Or abandoned warehouses
Or maybe a nice treehouse somewhere.
If they're smart, they'll see the world before settling down.
Meanwhile,
What's left behind is walking along the streets in quiet neighborhoods,
Humming sad songs that sound like hallelujah and empty orchestras,
While the rain melts me into the cracks in the sidewalk.
I'll be nothing at all by morning.
I'm not a real girl anyways.
I'm a memory box.
Keep your best of times tucked away in me.
I'll gather dust in the garage, or the attic, or the basement.
Or maybe, if I'm really lucky, a shelf in your room,
Where, at least occasionally, you'll glance at me and smile.
But even that is aiming pretty high.
Jan 7, 2011
Jan 7, 2011 at 10:07 PM UTC
A jump rope lisping
Through loose gravel and rhymes.
Resembling orchestras and rapidly
Scratched-out novels,
Evolution of an indifferent ******
Delicate lacework stitched
Beneath the youthful
And frail. Disintegrating
Like a bird’s nest, once
Air conditioning expires.
Scampering between markets,
Wavering while waiting
In redundant lines, as you
Carelessly caress outerwear that you
Waited in line for yesterday.
Placing yourself professionally
On seats, beside plainly colored
Briefcases. Quivering arms
Tingle, as the blood
Relinquishes.
Wordless entities fill
Empty rooms, as pressure
Builds from the exterior and in.
Tarnished sneakers sink and slip,
Amidst cunning quicksand.
Mangled and thrashed,
Fabrics that used to be
Accustom to merry-go-rounds, and dry
Eyes. Gently laced hemming,
Lacerated at the seams.
Stroll down whimpering sidewalks
That sting for vibrations, fixed
By a stranger’s oblivious feet.
Jerking outerwear closer
As no emotions pass.
Synthetic joy overcomes
You, when droning
Minds think alike.
Wriggling and skulking
To cease the crunching of time.
Jan 30, 2012
Jan 30, 2012 at 12:40 PM UTC