"orchestration" poems
I've never been good at
Being touched.
Though the fingers
Of endless suitors
Have traced incomparable
Lines of affection,
They all stroke
The same wounds.
New hands feel like
Recycled lullabies,
Humming promises
Of a new melody,
Singing a remedy for
My impassivity.
Whether words fall
Passionate or
Fearful,
Endearment lines my lips
With an expiration
Long enough to convince me,
But short enough to leave me.
Reminding me:
The disintegration of
Indifference
Remains
My prerequisite
For destruction.
So before you
Touch me with
Promises of a new
Orchestration,
I'm already marking the
Days until you leave.
Because my skin
Is tired of
Intruders hidden
Behind momentary
Infatuation.
So keep your hands to yourself.
Jul 11, 2017
Jul 11, 2017 at 12:24 AM 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
"Surreal skeptic, cynical cryptic! Licentious lecheries fabulist façade fantasias. Wild eyed spectral serene. Dream of catenary concoctions, ethereal salacious conjugation, bridge the gap in metaphysical mystique. Erotica erectile errantry’s exserted protuberance is a kinesiology kleptomaniac with his embark embargo extraditions and his eventuation evocative execrations, a positive amalgamated anathema android of a terminus thrall. The shadow in the shade of the silhouette sojourn. The bailiff’s rakeness rails incarnate, unicorn railway nails and all. He will paint mirador bartizan panorama tableaus all over your proximity parameter perimeter peripherals. Force the enmity to acquiesce into impunity.” “Why this is not but an ogling ogre of an oligarchy omelet” she shrieked as he continued to tickle her. “Down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugueness,” he said. “Positive orchestration renditions of transpositional interlude.” “Come here,” she said “let my clambering clamorous clangor write you a wield wile treatise expose’.” “The legions of Chinga da are battling the hoards of Gunga din saying ‘kinetic supremacy temporize tractive fluent’ , it’s sheer genocide. That plasty goop nosed Gumby ****** Gunga doesn’t stand a chance. Coax cacophony clout, catatonic phonics, grizzly grotto grouches all”, She squealed. “Now you’re gumption dreaming”, he chimed. “Chutzpah panache spontaneous generation complicity, gambit alluvium aloof succor.”
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 7:17 PM UTC
Fertile earth’s seductive sorcery
Like ephemeral effulgence’s effluent effusion
Can lead you to believe that it’s not a travesty
Like life’s visceral intuitive eternal is not lost in subtle evasive confusion
Life’s virile translucence reflects this glow
Like an aorist ensemble of interludes transposition
Can lead you to believe that you’re in the know
Like omnipresence presages omniscience’s ubiquity is existential exigency’s peroration’s exposition
Corporeally preternatural metaphysical mystique
Like a mirador bartizan tableau panorama
Can inspire us to rise above its critique
Like spatiotemporal’s telemetry incarnate is creation’s vivid intrepid cyclorama
Spectral verve’s liaison’s consortium
Like eclectic synectic’s conclave’s fatidic
Can leave you lost in germane compendium
Like terminus thrall’s apriori inclination is transcendental accession’s endemic mnemonic
Monad’s transitional majestic splendor
Like residual harmonic vibration’s resilience
Can autonomously evoke and vicariously render
Like rubato’s actuator’s prospectus revealed is orchestration rendition’s intriguing brilliance
Eidetic preterit’s aesthetic amendments
Like protractive analyses’ dimensional delineation
Can lead to cogent salacious enticements
Like phantasmagoria’s fantasia fantastication’s magniloquence is sultry solace’s ostentatious ideation
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 8:07 PM UTC
Is it sounds
converging,
Sounds
nearing,
Infringement,
impingement,
Impact,
contact
With surfaces of the sounds
Or surfaces without the sounds:
Diagrams,
skeletal,
strange?
Is it winds
curling round invisible corners?
Polyphony of perfumes?
Antennae discovering an axis,
erecting the architecture of a world?
Is it
orchestration of the finger-tips,
graph of a fugue:
Scaffold for colours:
colour itself being god?
2.4k
i’ve let ghosts grow
inside me for too long
in a greenhouse of self-deprecation
i fed them sunlight in the
form of grief, water in the form
of tears, and tilled soil with heartbreak
now, i will cut them at the root,
tear at the stems with my voice
until my hands are bloodied by thorns
i will no longer be diaphanous,
i will let my limbs stretch
and take up space
i am human
i am an original orchestration
of carbon and screams;
i was made to survive
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 9:18 PM UTC
walking from A to B,
no this is not geometry,
but it might as well be,
as with your eyes, see,
well what do you see,
unless you live in BC,
you won't see me and
I in turn won't be free,
to see you.
with your eyes, that first glance,
take a risk that is hazard's chance,
don't step closer or bend down,
log it away in your card file brain,
before it is washed away to the drain
or picked up as treasured claim.
use your eyes, with that first glance,
no glossing over, might miss romance,
call it flirtation, or orchestration, you
are the maestro and the other, the ensemble,
well, conduct yourself accordingly but tumble
safely.
those eyes so beautiful you have, can find words,
to clear the tears off your cheeks with the
new merino wool sweater sleeve and
that intense emotion that has
you locked and loaded as
someone goaded you
again,
and again,
and again, if this was *** that would be fine,
but it is not and your vexed
at how poetry rocks
your world but
also rocks the boat,
whenever you take
the time not to memorize by rote (that would be too staight forward)
take the technology out for a walk,
instgram your photo of your poem and share it on facebook, and
twitter while showing your interest on pinsterest, how is that *******
working out for you?,
or dot those eyes and cross your teas,
take ink or graphite, and write about
your sorrows, your joys, your day, your dreams,
what you saw,what you thought saw, like a puddy cat,
you did, you did and that Bugs me I forgot the color or was
it just me and invisible over there?
You get conflict, at that first glance at your notepad,
or keyboard or mumble "I need to write this down,
before I forget". That first glance you take, all else fades to black,
until you write.
©DWE012014
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC
Teetering on the edge of insanity
Trying to find a center of Gravity
Cutting off my circulation
in order to make this declaration
about my queen-born ability
to walk with such fabulosity.
Though this gown's a monstrosity,
my hair a curiosity,
there's much about this lofty gait
that I did not anticipate.
Like how the swinging of my hips
counters the sway of my fingertips.
Who knew there would be such an orchestration?
A body in concert - a standing ovation!
And every step another encore,
deliriously shouting, "More! More! More!"
And suddenly, the world is new.
I've never seen it from this point of view.
Amazing the difference a few inches can make
to change the reality which I now create.
And though my feet are squeezed like stumps
into these six-inch stiletto pumps,
a testimonial I must profess;
How wonderful it is
to be a boy in a dress.
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 1:44 PM UTC
~
*Poor deluded brute
he waves his sword
in orchestration
to a ruthless symphony
played for miserable centuries:
the running of the bulls
"sketches of pain"
some monsters come
decked out in hat and cape
inside the arena of his pride
where he hears the chant
within the arts of
cowardice and cruelty
where he envisions
the feathered crown
Gala! Gala!
"how to see the toreador"
lost as San Fermín
pricked by hairpin
pierced by ragged horn
suerte de la muerte (luck of death)
foreshadowing Hemingway
turns into the troubled sun
and underneath his muleta
a deep red
blood alchemy
his fame spilling out
in drips and drabs
as the crowd sings
'Pobre de Mí (Poor Me)'
to the mystic stab of church bells*
~
Jan 12, 2022
Jan 12, 2022 at 11:46 AM UTC
Millions of specks
Millions of people
Scattering
Scampering
Ever moving towards the light
Is there light at the end
Or is there only dark
Hearts keep beat
Breath keeps time
Our body
A finely tuned orchestration
Ever crescendoing towards the finale
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 10:41 AM UTC
I want to be Paganini
I want to be Alexander the Great
But I'm only Pagliacci
A Faustian soul in sorrow and hate
And this is not a surrender
I will never stop fighting this war til I die
But passion is burning my heart to embers
Smiling wide hides the chaos inside
Aimed for the stars
Just to crash upon the moon
And reconstruct my broken pieces
From the ashes of my doom
I am reborn through death and madness
Scion of Nihilistic Sin
In my wake, I leave a trail of sadness
Soon all will hide inside THE GRIN
Choirs of Damnation!
Your Maestro has arrived at last!
Majestic Orchestration,
Barking dogs and shotgun blasts
The sound of frenzied feet as they pound the city streets
It's a symphony of victory against the riot police
Fear me, heroes
For I am near thee
Come one, come all
Hear ye, hear ye
The Jester dances on your Graves
the Joker wears the Crown
And the man who has the final laugh
At last will be the Clown
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 8:05 AM UTC
paradoxes under tables
walled open doors
back alleys, woodwork streets
all busy, all morose
rat podium picture maze
my arms are gelatin
affixed in spares
left to be eaten
windows with glare
the arches of Rome
panels of glass
the musical sheets
orchestration aligned
trumpets on my right
tubas on my left
the open door
let the rats in
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 9:29 AM UTC
Eyes are blue gleaming diamonds,
words concealing gold dust
are sealed between the lips
that avidly taste thunder,
expression of my hidden hunger.
Hands bind me closer til
rib cages say "No more"
Like nibs, nails on my back
write ****** verses direct,
forcing one to spread eagle
as the orchestration moves to crescendo
itinerant eyes emit sizzling light,
the cloud that engulfs , caresses every inch,
a bamboo grove in wind
dances whispering love, in many tunes,
tells one to lie under it's canopy, I submit,
hear my songs from a secret center,
eyes speak the lingo of love, light spills
heart beats against heart, in mad frenzy,
we need no words any more.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 11:29 AM UTC
"Surreal skeptic, cynical cryptic! Licentious lecheries fabulist façade fantasias. Wild eyed spectral serene. Dream of catenary concoctions, ethereal salacious conjugation, bridge the gap in metaphysical mystique. Erotica erectile errantry’s exserted protuberance is a kinesiology kleptomaniac with his embark embargo extraditions and his eventuation evocative execrations, a positive amalgamated anathema android of a terminus thrall. The shadow in the shade of the silhouette sojourn. The bailiff’s rakeness rails incarnate, unicorn railway nails and all. He will paint mirador bartizan panorama tableaus all over your proximity parameter perimeter peripherals. Force the enmity to acquiesce into impunity.” “Why this is not but an ogling ogre of an oligarchy omelet” she shrieked as he continued to tickle her. “Down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugueness,” he said. “Positive orchestration renditions of transpositional interlude.” “Come here,” she said “let my clambering clamorous clangor write you a wield wile treatise expose’. The legions of Chinga da are battling the hoards of Gunga din saying", "kinetic supremacy temporize tractive fluent" , "it’s sheer genocide. That plasty goop nosed porker of a Gumby ******* ***** monger Gunga doesn’t stand a chance. Coax cacophony clout, catatonic phonics, grizzly grotto grouches all”, She squealed. “Now you’re gumption dreaming”, he chimed. “Chutzpah panache spontaneous generation complicity, gambit alluvium aloof succor.”
Dec 14, 2017
Dec 14, 2017 at 1:26 AM UTC
Fertile earth’s seductive sorcery
Like ephemeral effulgence’s effluent effusion
Can lead you to believe that it’s not a travesty
Like life’s visceral intuitive eternal is not lost in subtle evasive confusion
Life’s virile translucence reflects this glow
Like an aorist ensemble of interludes transposition
Can lead you to believe that you’re in the know
Like omnipresence presages omniscience’s ubiquity is existential exigency’s peroration’s exposition
Corporeally preternatural's metaphysical mystique
Like a mirador bartizan tableau panorama
Can inspire us to rise above its critique
Like spatiotemporal’s telemetry incarnate is creation’s vivid intrepid cyclorama
Spectral verve’s liaison’s consortium
Like eclectic synectic’s conclave’s fatidic
Can leave you lost in germane compendium
Like terminus thrall’s apriori inclination is transcendental accession’s endemic mnemonic
Monad’s transitional majestic splendor
Like residual harmonic vibration’s resilience
Can autonomously evoke and vicariously render
Like rubato’s actuator’s prospectus revealed is orchestration rendition’s intriguing brilliance
Eidetic preterit’s aesthetic amendments
Like protractive analyses’ dimensional delineations
Can lead to cogent salacious enticements
Like phantasmagoria’s fantasia fantastication’s magniloquence is sultry solace’s ostentatious ideation
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 2:47 AM UTC
12/18/24
I choose fingers,
among the array
of many wonderful
parts on offer,
the other sensory emissaries protest,
but the multi-fluency of fingers,
fluent in all Romance languages,
nay, in every dialect, tongue,
tippling the balance in their favor
for the fingers are wonderful conversationlists, trumping the
cooing coyness of sweet wordy
verbs, fingers defy nouns, pronouns
and are fingers the finest conjunction
that was ever conjured ot conjuncted?
the ears hear poorly when upom it
a long slim finger casually traces outlines
slow~sensually and the eyes shut tightly,
reflexively, the tongue froze to the
mouth roof, muted into inaction
even the the sense of smell lies powerless
should we block the nostrils with but
two fingers, and breathe mouth mightily
we do not diminish the orchestration’s
totality, the blending of sound ‘n sensation,
but the blind and deaf all must bow before the power of fingers speaking to
every part of the bodies totality
Dec 30, 2024
Dec 30, 2024 at 2:01 PM UTC
I am the who hides like a hermit at the shell of my typewriter
With the sound of bells and rings to each of my lines
I am well aware I was born at the wrong era of time
I know that my soul is much older than my mind
I make mistakes,
some worse, some better,
than we all make in life
It’s a crumble, a throw-away
Another paper to replace
As I start fresh with my chin
and shoulders held high
Unplugged to the noise
that comes from outside
Fingers placed delicately in line
As they wait for the command
of my thoughts arranging in order
Composing the keys that pound
against the ink ribbon
Chick-chick-chaw-chick-chick-bing
An orchestration of the typewriter as my mind begins to sing
I am moved by the utterance
of my own typing
Fingers dancing to every beat
And for that reason I will always be writing
In a room
with grey walls
sitting on a wooden seat.
Sep 8, 2017
Sep 8, 2017 at 6:33 PM UTC
From dream awakening
To perfect storm
With silver lightening
The sky adorned
Molecules in excitation
Trees bow in supplication
A perfect dissertation
Exclamation
Illustration
Orchestration
Revelation
Stimulation
Transformation
Veneration
From my 0300 weather station
r ~ 22Feb14
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 8:19 AM UTC
just a glance sets my mind into retrograde
no one ever questions the orchestration of an undeclared love
cover your tracks, maintain composure
plan scenarios in your head until you feel like a broken record over and over again
i like you i like you i like you i like you
but then?
reality.
I see you in blaring technicolor
and it's more than i asked for
for there is nothing worse
than truly seeing you as you really are
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 9:43 PM UTC
Morning mist frames her face, the contrast, he couldn't miss
a wild flower fresh, bathed in dew drops, she becomes fulfillment.
A bee, as usual seeking honey,without being aware what awaits,
sleeps in her chamber,couched in her love the whole night,
he stole her heart, she whispers, he keeps it as the fragrance
and the pollen smeared all over his being vowing never to remove,
a love it is, in essence different from all that he has hitherto known,
as if in a dream, stealing her heart, he flies up to the ultramarine sky
all abuzz with love tunes , orchestration of nature, intoxicating,
his heart is full of light love fills, now this bee is even ready to die.
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 10:05 AM UTC
We shall dance
In the darkness,
When the moon is low in its brilliance
Allow our shadow less graces to advance
Amongst out figureless traces
Embrace what time won’t allow
Soon, we will dissolve into pleasures of romance
Tired from our mysterious ritual of instances.
Breathe your seducing treasures upon my
Sweet gracious fortitude of chaos
Torment my mind with limited words of affections
While I tease your persona with restricted symphonies of
Lyrical versus
Shall we remain wordless?
Dark roses fill our lungs
Singing mindless praises
Into the sweet alluring air of seduction
With no introduction
Mend back my broken art
As I repair your broken heart.
We struggle under our weight of
Hushed passions in rushed fashions
Fearing the passer bys will acknowledge our
Unorthodox orchestration of tempered frustrations.
I float on volcanoes
He wallows in nucleus graces
Featureless faces express a thousand rhetorical Bases
Words unknown to the English language…
Enveloped in bliss, sealed by your kiss
I miss the earth’s stable grounds
Waiting to depart from Venus,
The goddess of love calls my name
I ignore her, blue, holding my breath
In vain…
Quickly. Quickly
Swiftly. Swiftly
We paradise
Jun 24, 2010
Jun 24, 2010 at 7:03 AM UTC
If I was to read for you, My queen that glow,
A poem of beauty, as only few words could show.
Like Picasso as a writer, let me paint your body,
A whisper of grace and elegance, without noise of gaudy.
You posses a twin of eyes, an immaculate glitter of beauty,
From which life receives its absolute lenity.
To glow in such light of orchestration, Like a crown on the head of time,
Whence bliss takes its origin and befitting prime.
Your alluring smile, a linger of unstinted comfort,
To the stars in tender darkness of the universe, glumming in discomfort.
Each of which humbles at your engrossing presence,
And glows in congruence to the light of your radiance.
Your arms like shields,protective armoury that gets soul lifted,
Touch of your fingers, ten cradle of breath taking sweetness, heavenly gifted.
Each a perfect blend of liniment and mystic power,such,
To impel dead heart to once last beat at thy touch.
your smooth bottled neck, over your soft shoulders,
Holds a face of coherent beauty, eyed in all beholders.
A beauty indescribable by far, as only few words could tell,
How ethereally lovely it can be ; perpetually graced with the touch of angel.
Your walk of indefinable class, a lucid rawness of orchestrated elegance,
So much elegance that the angels gasp in the wake of your presence.
To dance into ecstasy,from which heaven's purity is formed,
In but of your light of all light, they all are conformed.
Those smooth long legs spread like the wings of a flyer,
Inner thighs speak a truth that would mute a liar.
And drip sweet smelling nectar that excites a man's desires,
Like an addictive drug, that makes him only want to get higher.
Beautiful seasoned lips even angels could not grace,
Like two ***** of icing sugar, leaves me breathless each time our lips come in embrace.
And the pressure they do impart,
Have the power to break the devil's heart.
Your two cupped breast,stretch the stitches of your blouse,
As if swollen with milk and honey, my flame only its water could douse.
The most tender of all cleavage,had touched my palms with finesse,
Which contact makes me frozen; a sweet emblem dancing to impress.
If I was to read for you, My queen that glow,
A poem of beauty, as only few words could show.
Like Picasso as a writer, let me paint your body,
A whisper of grace and elegance, without noise of gaudy.
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 3:33 AM UTC
It never felt quite right...
Yet never really wrong
Pretending you're alright,
When you know you don't belong
All at once the Demon
Masquerading as a God
Perfectly imperfect
Magnificently flawed
The quiet desperation
Sweet silent isolation
Now all that I can feel...my own violent soul's vibration
That sordid celebration
That terrible temptation
The shattering of tender hearts...My downfall's orchestration
The final walk through paradise
The waterfall of tears
The bastion of loneliness
The sum of all our fears
The tiger crouched behind you
The bomb that's ticking down
The iron ball inside your throat
You choke on as you drown
The dusty corpse of yesterday
Crumbling to a pile
I think I'll sit here all alone
Just breathing for a while
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 12:59 AM UTC
Medicine induced hallucinations,
body quivering with ache,
and I'm hearing the sweet chime of bells
In this hour of pain my mind orchestrates.
The next drop from the IV,
helps even greater than the last,
a constant drumming in my head
a beat which was not meant for dance.
The others around me dressed in white
say I'm doing fine and that I should rest,
but when there's music pouring into the room
Sleep is what I must detest.
Can they not hear the wondrous sounds?
The vibrations that reflects my pain?
Those invisible waveforms move visibly
or have I just gone entirely insane?
There is no music, they tell me.
It must be a side-affect to the medication.
The ambiguous tune that rattles my brain,
is death knocking, it is by my orchestration.
But who is to say what I hear
is not real?
The tune in my head I wish to transcribe
but I'm weak,
and barely clinging to life.
So no one will hear this stirring melody.
This is the song I hear towards the end of my life.
In these last precious moments
laying in my seemingly sterile bed,
the tune haunts me 'till I shut my eyes.
but the tune is my comfort, I do not dread.
So take me with you, oh humble melody.
I welcome your amplitude with open ears
Let's take a listen to what you're telling me,
I dare you to move me to tears…..
The warm blanket of the strings comforts me,
the brass section: a foundation, a rock.
Oh, but hear the timpani? It taps to the beat of my near-ending biological clock.
The woodwinds, a sympathetic harmony that aides my despair.
Their aloofness like the machine by my side, filling me with air.
*The main theme speaks to me directly, and I've been worn thin
but I swear the main line is "I've fought valiantly, but this battle I could not win."*
I do not have to open my eyes to see,
that the director of this symphony is myself.
I've created this music on my death bed,
and it was not meant for anyone else.
When I close my eyes this final night,
take a somber breath and leave.
I'll have my tune in my head,
and nobody for me to grieve.
Goodbye to this world around me,
now the nurse come to medicate.
One last final wave of my arms.
This song I hear, mine alone, I orchestrate.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 11:02 PM UTC
My quill I rise in vertical stance,
letting it flow with Divine orchestration.
Its feather posture drifts as if still on birds wing,
spiraling in graceful form.
Words turn into sentences.
Sentences phases
as vellum explodes with visions.
My quill instrument vibrates
in scripted form dancing
to make waves cross ocean-like sheet.
Moments melt away.
Words become lines that
carry bubbles of thoughts
meant to float into other minds.
Sentences become bench posts
that corrals a perspective
as images collide on page.
My quill remains vertical in mind
at all times
as writer merges with moment.
As day evolves with more fuel
to push pen.
As page glistens from sun of heart.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 8:17 AM UTC