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Mateuš Conrad Mar 2017
too many youtube punctuation akins before my voice comes through, like: hi! i'm child-minding chalrie! ola! oo! advert gives a ****?! you see that? advert gives a toss! well... ola! original lost to marsh potatoes mash.

like i was led by a solomonic harem:

we're buggered;

   to be honest.... hugh grant could have
said that better, and, would have facied him...
if he made that one film from my youth
about a damsel in distress... and the return
of charles II to england... the thing adam and the ants
imitated: highwayman no robin hood...
clean shaven like a daffodil in early spring frost
for the eye to peer into...

as it turns out, you write one great piece of work
and everyone applauses...
you write a thousand symphonies,
and everyone turns flame-eyed and forgets
your one spectacular moment, which
you take into hades and wish to forget given
the total output, when they mention that it
was all great, but so comes cousin critic and you
know that most of it was... a bit ****...
               and because of that:
they tend to do better... they?
   the ones that hit the banknote of a one song
wonder... and then receded into life,
and debated with gay peerage in some restaurant
akin to bridet jones' diary scenario,
and oh my oh my: the palpitations necessary
like make-up... i can almost see flamingos take to ballet!

and then it's back to *quack quack quack

of promenades in the park watching mallards...
  
original jealosy fades.... no, nothing else,
it just fades... which can feel a bit weird,
basically it, just, fades - i take to foot what people
take to: speeding down the a408 thinking
about tax; well yeah, i tax my feet with a mile, or two,
sometimes i take to the mile or two
with a different pair of shoe.
                                   you a rhyming rhino too?
              
you write pachebel's canon,
you're going to compete with haydn's 103
symphony...
similar to a question: how many eggs am i
carrying in my basket?

dear reader, like i child i never fathered,
or like a dog i never petted,
          or should i simply aim at: dear ego?
what unit i had and never thought with,
never mind the thought of?

the fact that you can't cry, is the reason
that you are depressed,
that's another statement that's worthwhile,
stating apathy as a misery
without tears
, the original melan- -choly...

listen, i don't care because i don't want to,
  i care about something that i want to care
about because thte things i would like to care about
i can't or don't want to,
   so i take the "metaphor" (which means
half my hans zimmer is gone) that keeps
haydn's symphony no. 103 almost floating
above pachelbel's canon...
      i'd love to miss out the second l...
and there, the ****** white, the doves,
     the church, and... hail! the marching bride!
that feeling of consecration...
    can you realise that newspapers are stink
compared to dust-affording books?
              yep... newspapers are ****
compared to book... i kept a week's worth
of newspapers in my room, i realised
that it stank as if a cat ****** in my room...
  when i listen to pachelbel i'm supposed to think
of kent, or devon, aren't i?
thumbs up essex oi oi!
                   halfway house out of 'ackney
  or 'eckham...
      oh right, right, like i was ever invited to a
marriage...
                     some 'un 'as to be the black sheep
of the family...
   well... i hope she divorces aged 40 and has a miscarriage
aged 35... if i really wanted to give a toss...
i'd toss, a cricket 'ard ball of
                mahogany cranium and make
believe that i was loved,
instead of receiving postcards from strangers...
living about a mile away...
    so there i see pachelbel with his canon in D....
and there i see mozart, laughing in steppenwolf
as is worth citing:
      i wrote so much ******* i just had to
tickle my ***** like a philosopher might ****** his
beard... if that answers your question:
they remember him for only one song,
and do so rightly,
   me? i'm not quiet sure why they remember
me for a hundred.
   it's like pachelbel is the *** pistols
        and i'm the ramones, or the offspring,
or stiff little fingers... or the dread, ****!
green day?!
                 according to noel gallagher
who did say that never mind the *******
was something we didn't accomplish with his
oasis albums... even though back in the day...
on the european continent, no one sang anything
apart from oasis songs... you went to paris:
oasis... you taizé... oasis...
yes, what was, once, france... or frau hans...
and then the exagerration on the f....
like an alo alo alo episode...
                 that's basically what it sounds like....
pachelbel's           pa-she-sha  l          fix it bell's
   pashelbel's               it's also half check in czech...
     but that's what noel said akin to mozart:
to be honest? i'd rather just (have) written than canon in D
and ****** off; if i wrote more than that
i'd be anything but that spare prosthetic limb
for that one legged man, dancing at a party in Versailles.
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2014
Below is the first of two poems inspired by this piece of music, this one from a few years ago, in the midst of my divorce. The second, the better of the two,  is:

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/pachelbels-canon/

The music:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kllZlF6mB2s&feature;=youtubegdataplayer
~~~~

Bereft of words,
one more time,
concussed by the hammering of
cacophonous silences
disabling my thought processes

In vanity,  
for when denied,
Le Poet-Poseur angrily asks:

Did not Mary  
have her cherries  
by command?^

But when the trees bow to me,
the collective of leaves mockingly
whisper sweet nadas, baby.
each leaf wraps my tongue,
in a sushi compote of sand,  
"hush-a-bye, baby boy poet"

June chilled.
But not chilling

Today, on a  overcast Saturday,
forces have mogged^^ me on,
transmogrified into a
Seventh Day Non-Inventist,
the creativity disrupters

Sadly,
Amazon doesn't sell,
original poems for redistribution

Pilings of papers,
variant demanders re my  
labors past and future,  
**** work-product of
teams of lawyers & harlots

Four years on, demanding now,
300 files subpoenaed,
need I say, they want me to re-tour my life my cuntry,
once more

Dummies!
these esquires ****** for hire,
my greatest invention,
my poetry,
they'll n'ere posses
cause I give it away,
domain denied

In need of a ****** shot,
drink repeatedly from the
Kanon by Pachelbel,
cannons of human-law
surmounted by the one divine

This note,  
the work product of
Pachelbel & Lipstadt,
harmony restoration,
a shared refuge,
a shared refute

Welcome friend to
a place that cannot be
bought, seized, sold

Pleasure thyself with each
note, scale repeated

Though the reign of the heavens  
doth suffer violence, and  
violent men do take it by force,^^^
peace and pardon,
earnest reward of  
poets who lived gently,
giving gentle, freely away
__________________________________________
(1)  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pachelbel's_Canon

^ Then bowed down the tallest tree, it bent to Mary's hand;
Then she cried: 'See, Joseph, I have cherries at command.'
Then she cried: 'See, Joseph, I have cherries at command.'

^^  Mogged means to have trudged along or moved away. (verb)

^^^ paraphrase of Matthew 10:7

My ex-**** wife lawyers got ever personal thing in my personal life, court ordered,  handed over to them looking for hidden treasure. I warned these *****, that they would find nothing except when I split an uneven amount, I rounded up the penny in her favor...which is precisely true of all the things they spot checked...what amazed me was that I had to go thru years of papers,  thus recalling our lives together, from the chaff came the wheat of poetry bread rising.
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2014
Please, please, first listen to this, if you are unfamiliar with this musical piece*

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kllZlF6mB2s


~~~~~~~~~~~
you thought you didn't know it,
but you did

somewhere a wedding, a movie
and you thought how beautiful

I hear it
each note distinct, unique and a
passageway to the next and the next

a transcendence
a generation
an uplifting
an arousal
a smoothing
a calming
a weeping

smithy of words,
I have read,
I have writ
words that gut punch me,
round my mouth into oh's,
cause me weeping endless


but this music
arrests *and
rests me,
miracle each time
I walk on its waters

how utter fools we be
to have "lost" this
for over three hundred years!

I rediscover it each time

somewhere a wedding a movie
and you thought how beautiful

for me, a funeral,

play it for me at
my funeral,

hold it in a
wedding chapel,

so with it,
upon hearing its invocation,
I may thee wed

thereafter, when you stumble on it
our vows be timely renewed,

and
though apart,
together,
we will weep, once more,
transcendent, once again,
ascendant, then and now
Jan. 12, 2014

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pachelbel's_Canon
His music was "lost" for hundreds of years.

I love George Winston's piano version.   Read about George Winston, fascinating,

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Winston

"So sad, that one might think a human heart
Brake in each separate note, a quality
Which music sometimes has, being the Art
Which is most nigh to tears and memory"
Oscar Wilde
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
i just don't some things,
i don't understand that under the pretense
of writing very little
being able to write a rhyme is enough
to suggest that you're toying with
an art-form...
   personally? i don't know how i got here,
but right now that doesn't really matter.
the whiskey is cold and a cigarette is
only 10 minutes away, gone is the macho
strive to impersonate the Kray twins,
or in that line of thought: blue for boys
pink for girls,
why is the transgender movement happening?
erm... could it be because of
gender stereotyping?
   it probably has nothing to do with
annexing the words from St. Thomas' gospel,
it could really be a rebellion against
                 gender stereotyping...
out comes a woman dressed as a nun,
then out comes a woman dressed in a niqab....
  curtain-sellers! i knew it!
                 what's pajamas in punjabi?
     chuckles?    chack'ah chuck chittering?
**** me and a throng of sparrows, land ahoy!
what i don't get is that there's a science in poetry,
poetry for its lack of volume gets this leechy
science of itemisation, this vague anatomy...
i don't think i write for an anatomy,
i ****** well hope i don't write something
worth an anatomy... i basically write to give people
a feeling of eating sushi, or raw red meat...
    i entrust them with the notion that it's a narrative
that needs to be there between having a glass
of whiskey... i don't write with the hope of being
itemised and stripped bare by some English students
equating a metaphor with liver...
******* bog-standards... i really do not understand
this whole concern for a hussle-and-bussle
that surrounds poetry: you have a ******* pelican
taming the skies, why invite a Mongolian beehive
to fill in the blanks intended with "notes"?
     it's to do with the fact that you don't need to
strain your eyes, *******, it's not:
i write sparingly so you have to comment...
           why note the ****** crap from four words
when you're intended to sorta spread them out,
and feel them over a spectrum of a few days,
so that there's no synonymous-amgiguity ascribed
to them, which means you can act upon
deviating from the idealism of words thought,
and antonym them within the realism of words acted
upon...
        i just can't stand people mutilating poetry,
they're not even performing a postmortem surgery,
they're hacking at a stump of wood
    in a forest, when there are so many trees to be
looted...
               again the point... maybe the transgender
movement is due to the fact of gender-stereotyping?
blue boy, pink girl, salmon fading pink of shirts on
metrosexuals? hey, Sherlock! i'm not the answer!
   what i'm bothered about it the fact that
poetry attracts bothersome flies...
who feel a need to make poetry into prose:
economically speaking, yes prosaic literature is
worth the money, with more words in a chapter than
in a poetry collection.. how's your eyesight though?
    then there's this girl, a Joe Pachelbel (sorta),
and she does the worst thing imaginable to poetry,
the educated norm...
              the bothersome fly bit...
              it's just narration girl, it's just narration
too lazy to invent characters fake schizophrenia
          and say too many words that don't appear in
urban conversations about a ****** or a juicy mango...
and that's why i think people are put off poetry,
the fact that poetry is like this magical artefact that
might give you eternal youth... that you have to
scrutinise it so much that you almost get sick of it...
you couldn't even if you tried put a question of metaphor
into a journalistic entry...
                      so why put so much science into
an area of the humanities?
            where's the feeling part, and the part where you
have to create volume from poetry for it to compete
for an existence alongside prose?
    most prose works these days don't even deserve
a campfire anyway... in the same way that poetry shouldn't
really accept all this excess of narrative,
it's like people who read poetry are characters in
    a prose novel, they're asking for the part of
lynching the narrator into suggesting less ambiguity...
   in prose the narrator is almost too easily discredited
from playing chess, in poetry the chess pieces gain
consciousness that they're being moved and subsequently
rebel and ask too many questions...
          what the **** dragged me into this realm?
the question serves itself...
   and even donning a cravat or a boutique corset you
suggest not talking *****...
   then off the donning attire gets ripped,
   and it's heathen sprechen in onomatopoeia of
knocking on a door to open, a flower to open in spring,
a ***** to get juicy, and de Sade coming home.
                i say fiddle with the idea of a river...
  end this bogus fly-trap of people playing surgeons
with poems like they might play doctor with dolls...
                 it's getting annoying:
it's written sparingly for a reason, the blank spaces between
the words is not a prompt to comment and vandalise
the poem, which they do; pristine bourgeois? you'd
think, wouldn't you... graffiti on some urban slum wall,
a comment in a poetry book: same ****, different cover.
i never understood why they needed to say
so much about poetry in order to make it
economically viable to compete with prose custard,
     i just thought: poetry and photography are akin...
say much more than the photograph endorses
and you've just started blinking...
         which to the photograph in-itself means:
  look at another if your eyes are watering with
            peppery tears that itch; and another... and another...
and another.
ThonyRome Apr 2018
The fingers run over black and whites,
while strings are drawn by bow in tights.
The ducts overflow as my heart swims
unto pleasurable heights that never dims.

The sound the Canon of Pachelbel brought,
a memory outside of time in heavenly thought.
A rhythm crafted by angels where harmony lies,
seared into my soul’s entity in euphoric paradise.

The harmonious instruments in waving chorus,
summoning the days when my heart is joyous.
The feel of her hand brushing my once little head,
the love that she cast upon me in words unsaid.
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2013
Then there are these moments

When your constant addition and subtractions,
Not finalized,
But put aside,
For the smallest of tokens become the
Largesse of life.

I am writing a long poem that is yet unfinished,
Of Richard II, Bach, and the death of a king,
King Ego, the battle infernal of vanity, insecurity,
And the constancy, the sense that one is never good enough.

Then sacked, for a loss, behind the goal line,
By the few, the kind, the genteel.

From nowhere, sought not, comes quiet thanks,
Appreciation that makes my angst seem
Petty and childish, smaller than small.

One draws a deep breath,
In no rush to exhale.

Then as luck would have it,
Pachelbel's Canon In D Major arrives,
An uninvited, most lovely, most timely guest,
and I am on the floor

Weeping unashamedly that the kindness of the
Few, the kind, the genteel lift me up and tissue my tears.

Unclear and unknown what I have done to deserve
Such affection, for all I have proffered are a few words,
An insight or two garnered from reading between the lines.

I understand less, emote more, and head spun,
I, poet, defenseless, for I am inadequate to the task.

I feel your hands upon my elbows,
Your arms around my shoulders,
I, am poet risen,
Words not insufficient, for
Words deemed unnecessary.

For I am poet risen,
Up, up, up by the
Uncompromising embrace of the
Few, the kind, the genteel.
You know who you are and I pray that as you read this, a gentle smile eclipses all, as my new minted  demeanor of laughter behind tears, has put this troubled day aside, for me.
samasati Sep 2012
just because I’m being cute doesn’t mean
you’ll forgive me.

just because I want to talk about what happened doesn’t mean
you want to share your feelings

just because I’m listening to Pachelbel doesn’t mean
I’ll get out of bed.

just because I’m staring at my ukulele doesn’t mean
I’ll write a song.

just because I tell everyone else not to fret the small stuff doesn’t mean
that I won’t.

just because you call me doesn’t mean
I’ll answer.

just because I’m with my friends doesn’t mean
I’m not lonely.

just because I said I ate today doesn’t mean
I actually did.

just because I want to see you now doesn’t mean
I’ll want to see you tomorrow.

just because I’m really honest doesn’t mean
I’m not a good liar.

just because I’m smiling doesn’t mean
I’m not crying on the inside.
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2014
early risen,
life's au courant
contextual issues
are all bad bus driver dream driven,
visualizations of sonograms
of erred memories,
road forks, unwisely chosen,
incorrect in retrospect,
look back notion thoughts,
and fears of the
good works in process
never finished,
these are all the best ****
too early,
highly reliable,
internal/infernal
alarm clock

waken only to plod the dark,
upon the cool wood floors,
without any slippered coverings,
closet buried unavailable
(no treasure noisy hunting
in the dark permitted,
while the party of the second part,
yet sleeps)

the floored bottom chills
do not succeed
in comforting a mind
instant awakened-enflamed
by a long lived life recalled recapped,
of inaction and interactions,
thrones lost by
choices guided by fear and not
risk,
that in summation,
too many debtors-in-possession
of rose colored
minus signs

so the companions constants,
these well-worry-worn floors,
now refuse me,
no more to repeat,
what all too oft
they have before,
wisely spoken:

too early, man,
too late, fool,
the answers
required/sought
upon our ashen wooden countenance
cannot be elicited nor derived,
go back to bed
there, perhaps,
find what you need,
somewhere,
between the day's rising orb,
the Lady Luck of
a woman's heat,
the grand canyoned
Pachelbel cannon,
the Bach adagios
soulful sweet,
the answers could begin,
the endings,
perhaps can find
you and show
the restart signs positively
new directional


yet obedient to the old nether-wisdom
of these inanimate intimates,
(that are classified now as
sourpusses &  ex-best friends),
off to
back-to-bed,
self-dispatched,
arriving amidst the departing darkness,
being infiltrated by new day
dawning light suffusions,
with coffee armed,
pillows plumped,
all done with
church mouse quietude,
lest I wake the
party of the second part

into bed returns
the prodigal son,

uh-oh,

the poem ***** stiffens

cannot be refused,
it offers me
this challenged relief and a challenged
pleasure:

Subtext

commandeering and commanding:

dispense what you cannot say,
but wish for all to understand,
teach them how to write the literary
subtext
of one man's life


his fantasies *******,
thoughts of world-over trips
upon which his poems trip,
thinking thoughts
of meeting you
first time and fittingly,
reunions of longtime knowing
mutual souls, the lovely perfection
of the guarantee of
better days past
and better yet,
of better days
yet to come,
of first embraces,
longingly overdue,
but happily
familial familiar
even upon initial conception

motioned potions notions
of what he would do
when that lottery ticket
comes true,
seeing hazy
visions of loined, coined children babes naves
as someday adults,
from a future past of
a collection of visions
happily well imagined

now in bed,
dancing (quietly) to a Strauss waltz,
all his sisyphean tasks unmasked,
and peace in his heart,
returning to supreme reign,
re-gifting it all forward,
in a subtext contextually
poem within herein

the coffee now cooled,
the mental dispensary instead,
has issued
a scrip
prescribed and commissioned

write yourself,
one poem,
overly long and rambling,
as always,
(knowingly he smiles at his own critique)
this poem
to be issued
from his ******-brain,
amniotic-bathed,
anointed and by appointment
to her majesties,
The Queen of Hearts
and the
Red Queen,
entitled:


Subtext

the scrip reads:
"take once a day,
life clarity should return
sooner than later,
which is to say
medically and medicinally
eventually,
which is far, far better
than never"

the meds imbibed
the coffee reheated,
and while
waiting for its effects,
the subtext of a man
who drinks drams
of lives of poetry
for all
sees his future dreams
and happily awaits
their completed execution
onlylovepoetry Aug 2017
a small craft,
barely deserving of such a compliment as
c r a f t e d,
a few boards, just enough caulking,
made quick, with no regard for artistry,
but sturdy none the less,
purposed for naught,
other than to get from there to
here

even, then, all the more,
as if time chose to reverse itself,
solidified it, this ships soul strength
rather than wore~warped
its character essential

unclear who was the wood
and who, the caulking glue,
but they held together in bonding so powerful

when strangers asked
what its purpose be,
this modest boat,
the locals
to a one,
always answered,
answered always consistent:

ancient and ungainly, not shapely,
purposed as if to be, simply
a reminder
that nothing
could ere
be graced more,
complimented, honored as,

seaworthy,
than this human loving crafting,


long-lasting,
maybe ever-lasting,
a tiny notional idea,
that two could get
you from here to
there

it  is in the more stronger strength,
of one thing
created from a loving,
two combinatory realization,
ruled and ruling,
this
craft
came to be
ruler of the sea of humanity



8/15/17 12:36am
born, falling, borne into sleep, to
the music of Johann Pachelbel
combined with a gentling snoring
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
alliteration
delving delusory,
a literati shun
thy commissions,
galore,
the line goes around the
corner

Entrusted.
write us a prayer -
as if I were thus worthy

t'is a delusion
which is worse than
Illusion
my fingers command me -
not I, them
I scribe inky,
they write what they deem
the most unfitting fulfilling

thy requests
more crosses to bear,
this Jew has walked the
Via Dolorosa
then, and again,
now

oh yes delve delve
with archaic *****
turn over earth unsubstantiated
long time un~disturbed

"bring us your truths
in whatever form
they spill from you"


Thus, they command me, Lord

"Go back to living,
like it used to be.
No more tortured soul
to slow you down"


Thus, they command me, Lord

sleep restful,
feet bathed,
Pavorotti  & Pachelbel
comforted,
let it go,
live the fleeting,
well,
drink the wine,
wafer, taste,
Jew,
but stay away from the confessional

don't
delve into your own
thesaurus
when opened,
one can vision
right through us

don't
delve in to the recesses
thankfully receding, eroding,
except for the enlightening flashbacks
that stone cold come with no
forewarning

don't
let the sin memories
of ancient words,
black gold bubble up
with the first striking of the blade

Delve
(excavate your soul deep)
Not

I did not come this poem to write
I did not come to repeat
Solomon's poem,
nothing new under the sun

don't,
daunting
wish to delve into my delusions,
my original sin
the deceit
the conceit
I am unique
I am original

but let us weave as I best could
diagrammed prayers
as the sun rises over my eastern river
for it the seventh day,
the sabbath day,
which the commandments
commend as the day to remember and

to keep it holy.
Six days you shall labor,
and do all your work,
but the seventh day is a Sabbath
to the LORD your God.
On it you shall not do any work,
you, or your son, or your daughter,
your male servant, or your female servant,
or your livestock,
or the

sojourner
who is within your gates.
For in six days the LORD
made heaven and earth, the sea,
and all that is in them,
and rested on the seventh day.
Therefore the LORD
blessed the Sabbath day
and made it holy.


no delving today
I will observe thy reader's,
all of them my teacher's,
commandments
rest easy,
spill no truths this day

but on the new born morrow
I shall fresh
delve and sin again
and write them
joyful hymns
to sing
on the profane workweek,
for my torture,
my spilled and soiled truths
shall be
re-presented
to joyous comfort

and then,
I shall sojourn among them
I did not cone to write this poem.
It came and I mere mortalized, transcribed it,
for it too,
just a sojourner.
Then after thus commanded,
the boy,
rested.
HB Feb 2011
When I read, I speak,
And when I speak, I read
Words rolling off my eyes,
Filling my tongue full of free--
Style rhyming and rhythm.

The canons of thought rolling out with a boom.
Pachelbel changing your direction of flow
Through some Perverse, Obscure, Rehearsal

Suddenly Reversed.

Back where you started,
Starting over again,
With a pen in your hand
The words crowding your head.

Gotta jump and tumble
To the jiggle and flow
Of the individualistic,
Unrealistic,
Even cannibalistic

Creations that grow.
From your stylus,
Rife.

Words.

They're the stuff of life.
Nat Lipstadt May 2015
from the beckoning nookery
a firework sign comes,
a warning bow shot
of summer commencing,
the ever present
natural elemental companions
sun, sky, water, earth and wind
in unison,
their voices commanding,
calling out

write!

poet has painted this vista~poem
so so many times,
all is as before,
yet nature's sirening,
   a compulsed fierce fire catcall
poet once more,
endeavor,

write!

poet resists
for all seems a priori,
impossible to change his older visionaries,
defending himself to them

"all is before"
(except for the poet)

the Nookery is
the poet's corner,
self-proclaimed,
in soul warfare taken,
oasis of composition,
truthfully, a
confessional
seclusion salvation place,
within it heard only
the voices of
twinning earth and water,
sun and sky
striking poet's fomenting
heart~throat beating chest

other poets have been invited here,
for their solacing arrival
this poet attends,
perhaps only  together he thinks,
two poets with luck,
in contra-unison can devise
new ways of capture of  the
unceasing harmonies,
unnaturally eternal
ripened to perfection,
a constancy of hope,
in the unchanging, island setting

river and bay breeze,
sun-warmed waters
bring to him once again as in the past,
Shaker Melodies of West Side Stories,
Air adagio's of rock and roll anthems,
Pachelbel's Canon

this, nature's subtle way
of edging him on,
beseeching the poet

sit, rest,
one more time
upon the Adirondack wood worn throne,
pluck poems from us,
about us

write!

the environmentals,
so persistent -
refuseniks of the tyranny
of the past shout

lay us down to sleep
on coverlets of refreshed verse,
ours to keep,
when to the must of the city,
you
must

the poet,
contented
with the written word of
what has long ago
been removed from him,
fears plumbing yet again
the unoriginal error of repetition,
a sin of cardinals and small minds

the unrepentant wind whips
insistent,
seering sun shines
consistent,
water waves lap speak
one continuous shushing sound
persistent,
all together
demanding, non-stopping,
new homages and sacrifice
deny past connectivity

all is not as before
maintaining, complaining
(even the poet)

poet sees
the elements,
sees that all appear similar
in last year's' form,
and the year's before,
lacking the comprehension
of subtle modifications

eyes uncircumcised
see harder, look closer,
perceive
new combinations of
varicose veined blue shadings
in the waterways and the
fresh waving-hello colored whitecaps,
updated saluting salutations
quite like those of
friends past, rewelcoming him,
more real
than the error of self-delusion of
unchained unchanged
all, nothing
is as before

these waters molecules
have never been here before,
newly flowing nouvelles arrivées
from the South Seas and Antartica,
the Yangtze and the Amazon

today's temperate breeze
so adamant,
boasts of having come here first time
from cold Canada,
or balmy Bombay,
melting as immigrants to his sheltered island

all speak now in
new tongues, new accents,
all a collective
here,
come to me,
all the same quest

write!

the sun same,
yet newly born daily
burnished with a forever glory
send fresh light
to the poet's eyes,
each ray politely suggesting,
this summer's novice poet,
pay them
poetic obeisance dues,
and

write!

all is as surface as before,
but all have changed,
new summer, new elements,
decay wiped away,
man~poet must now speak too,
using uncovered new verbal molecules,,
recreating the ineffable solace
of a new summer
brought to him in the guise only of
familiar friends

all of us
have changed,
though seemingly minimally surficially,
Poet,
self-taught,
acknowledges, he too
evolves

it is this tale then,
the poet proffers
as his first serving of
summer-only fruits,
owning up now,
though man and nature
revolve in planetary unison,
all things change,
even the poet,
when in nature's nookery,
his compulsion
is sun blood heated,
and
skin breathes differently
in the nookery,
his natural old time, revival tent

happily now, he weeps
in tenderest of embraces,
when old, familiar
changelings
charge him

write!

Shelter Island
May 2015
Craig Harrison Mar 2014
When you say I'm not a proper man, what am I then?
I read and write, I like poetry and I like romance
I might not like fighting or drinking like most men
but I'm not ashamed to admit that I have feelings and I'm not scared to express them

I like to watch ballet and listen to Opera
I like a bit of Mozart and some Beethoven
one of my favorites is Pachelbel's Canon in D
I think it's right when a man gets down on his knee

I believe in love, princes and princesses
I watch films like The Notebook and The Lake House
I like walks on the beach and watching the sun set
and I get scared when I come in contact with a threat

I like antiques and museums
I like art and shopping
So I might not be the same as other men
but if I'm not a proper man what am I then

I like football, I like fast cars
I want to take a trip to the planet Mars
I don't like cleaning, I've never had my nails done
I like women and I've always wondered what it'd be like to shoot a gun

So if I'm not a proper man, what am I then?
This is the second one, I hope you like it.
undefined Dec 2012
when Pachelbel makes me want to fly
and I never finished packing, but did burn
all my writing for heat last night
to make it through
just me, my guitar
and youth

if truth was what we seek then
I'd lie to you in breach with
words that make you smile
and ease a need for trials
like a preacher spouting
Van Gogh in syllables
I leave you
impressions
smilingly  
sunny
... just writing you
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
some people forget that writing into excess is never a modern sign of wavering... it sometimes means that there's enough for it to be exhumed... call it instant-archaeology... it's not about other people's conversation, it's about their company, and that far from being reached let alone being riddled...*

a letter to a lovely Ms. ***.:

hey! stop exposing your Nancy like a nun and poke back with a conversation - i'll sooner be dead than a monologue.... Florence Nightingale hear my plea - i love how the following "strings attached" gets attached... 3 thousand miles away, living in a cultural ferment of only youth included / exposed content... but no otherwise: curb the chances of oath and here plops a plumb punch... never heard of 5 o'clock shadow with such an explanatory shortening expressed with the least bereft: or right twitching buttock for a enamoured heart-attack heart: a clamouring clown said: if someone painted a Mona Lisa on my face... if someone... i'd ditch the circus and the claustrophobia antidote trick... so ** and no Santa... and ha and still no Santa... it.... it? it?! hey! hey presto al fresco! god, and i wrote this and i wasn't even fifteen readied for a cougar and: she's his p.r. / publicist... whatever the **** that means... they can and can like the wold and the three guinea pigs;
p.s. the wolf's advances are heaving packed, sure, but asthmatic: or three nights in Paris. you'll never write a book in London: everyone is being prescribed eternity with a timescale of 100 years max... and i do mean that retaliation to the question in Icelandic terms: test your d.n.a. sequence, stop frolicking over forced saints taking care of retards... or ditch the whole Darwinism; how many down syndrome kids does it take it take to chop a tree into firewood? one **** and a whip. see how far the joke goes? me Chimpanzee, me Panda, me me! forks and up yours! build that building of royal surgeons and public opinion -
autumn always auburn, chequers auburn with oak -

kingly European - that coming of winter -
                    Czech and the Carpathian mountains -
oh sure... now the Romance...
the Romance... now gone... fish 'n' chips...
                       i lived in England 20 odd years
the most romance i ever received was an A
at A-level history.
                                             i'm still asking you about
the sort-**** resolve though...
                                             i'll start laughing
when you get off the *** of rocking that
bellybutton girdle or curbbing.
                **** me, Hindu cows of ethnicity in
former Empire bound villages entrapped
by nostalgia;
                 sounds like the perfect breeding ground;
and it is, given the ultra glass like people
who feel the stamping of a mosquito dead
like they might feel a Serbian insurrection
into tonguing Ottoman:
but of course the English man engages:
because he "knows"...
                              just as long as he learned
the cabbies ref. i'd be
fine                            in championing
him on every turn...
                                   chappy ain't no
chappy to be a happy lad... so what
does that matter? i'm quasi 21st century
but actually trapped in 20th century.

                                                 i do love that
it's all happening in H'america...
                                                         makes the trivia
questionnaires a lot shorter...
                                           every time i think of
eating i think of a H'amburger rather
than              a H'entucky -
                                            because the inflatable
Juan with draw-on stubble
                 married a Chasing the Dolly wife -
                    and never mentioned Mozart once...
FAME = P + CANON
                        Pachelbel's Canon -
or... the nuance of the millionth plumber:
   y'er toilet made e burp?
                           hence the maiden at the aisle
and the ******* in the cot...
                    and the serenade of the Cotswold runny...
flapping flapping furore -
                         or the chicken grease off my cheek
in fully glaring applause: rather than i tattoo
a knuckle on some ponce Netherlander
spitting onto a Polish girl's cheek and some pseudo
Irish tells me that i need psychiatric help.
ENGLAND!
                         *******!
Handel grew fat and you grew slim...
                       Shakespeare wrote and you demanded
Emoticons!
                          Emoticons rather than emotions!

you can try to escape Europe, you really can,
but trying to submerge Poland as a colonial
country akin to the Africans will only demand a greater
rift in your little delusion,
                                   by god my heart is a kindred Scot,
nationalist...
                          and i will rip that bloodied cheek off yer
******* cheekbone the minute you say yer-nay-own...
                          play chequers an' tartans wit ye!
i'll make Jack into a stripper and the union into
haemorrhage George and jolly Andrew...
                           you make me into your little
Ethiopian herder i'll make sure that little
emblem of tourist insignia dies with it...
                        Spain is cheap... given the English standard...
Greece is too...
                                  the Alps are a cheap middle-class
**** and the Carpathians are Dracula...
                                          whoever gave these wankers
the Greenwich compass thought twice about the same
wankers... contemplating a trip to Mars..
                oi!
                              glaciers!
                 oi!
                                        the Mariana Trench!
oi!
                             ah, **** it...
oi oi... toe foe un luv 2 twin bananas!
*** yer bananas!
                                             yes, we employed a few
of those specimens to straighten the problem out:
none returned, all remaining became classified as:
with cannibalistic tendencies:
                                          stimulants increasing
deviating behaviour? synonymous rhyming:
                        crime
                                         slime
2 + 2 = bonkers...
                                  cannibalism
     altruism
                                   hedonism...
               soothsayer's saying:
                                if not a limb, at least a thought;
yum yum yummy.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS Apr 2021
I am one with sensibilities of an adagio. There are few things
I cannot describe with words. A beautiful adagio, I think, is one
of them. Its beauty is ineffable. All are musical poems, but one
is tinged with sorrow. I am thinking of Barber's ADAGIO FOR
STRINGS. PACHELBEL'S CANON, on the other hand,
is gentle and evocative, as is Albioni's adagio. You're sitting on
the sofa holding your sweetheart in your arms listening to
Bach's AIR ON THE G STRING as you give her a sweet kiss
on her neck. You dim the lights. Vivaldi's GUITAR CONCERTO
begins to play followed by Marcello's ADAGIO IN D MINOR
and then you give her another kiss, this one on her lips. It's
getting late, but there's still time to absorb the exquisite PAS DE
DEUX by Tchaikovsky from the NUTCRACKER. Now she
kisses you, not once, but many times. You slip in Beethoven's
MOONLIGHT SONATA, Debussy's CLAIR DE LUNE, Satie's
elegant TROIS GYMNOPEDIES, and Chopin's PRELUDE,
OP. 28, even though they are not adagios, but because they are
etheral. And before you and she go to bed to make love, you listen
to Rodrigo's CONCIERTO DE ARANJUEZ FOR GUITAR AND ORCHESTRA. No better foreplay exists.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Maggie McLeod Nov 2011
Only through
death
will your silenced words speak as
loud as you wished they would.
That's the only time people will
listen.
The message you’ve been
aching to get out
all your life
will only be recognized after you’re
gone.
It’s the
only way.
So maybe
that’s why people die young.
Although their voices are
already silenced, but in a
different way,
they realize that the
only way others will listen is through
permanence.

But isn’t it funny;
You won’t be there to witness your
recognition, your
fame.
Just like
Sylvia Plath,
Edgar Allen Poe,
Emily Dickinson,
Vincent van Gogh, and
Pachelbel’s Canon.
Look at all of this
recognition, this
fame they got.
All AFTER the tragedy of their
deaths.
Nobody cared to
pay attention at first.
But now that they’re
gone,
it’s all
so much more valuable.
Oh, the irony.

But I think it would be
worth it, at least for
me.
It would be
bittersweet, and it would be
tragic.
All of those people that
hated me, they would
finally feel remorse.
HE would realize what he
could’ve had.
Finally, people would
appreciate me.
Finally, I would be
loved.
Missed.
Noticed.
It’s all so
selfish, but
I’m allowed my
guilty pleasures...
right?

All I want is to be
loved.
No matter the cost.
Victoria Jun 2015
Intuition deciphers the kiss,
And a misplaced hand on my thigh
Conjures the nights I missed,
It's been two-hundred centuries,
And still, intuition deciphers the kiss

I know his kind,
He's the sort of boy
Who reddens white roses,
All the while, fifty-miles away (by train)
His "true love" supposes,

I recall the taste of summer,
And he tells me it's winter,
Through Pachelbel's Canon, I am ******-eyed
And he tells me I haven't realised
'Cos I have not been Spiritualized,

I know his kind,
He's the sort of boy
Who bores with unfathomable proses,
All the while, with him I stay,
As my "true love" supposes

The space between him and I,
Dwarfs the Grand Canyon,
It warps and shrinks then unfolds
Wider than ever before,
For every three steps I take,
It becomes apparent
That nothing has changed
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
and i will go to her,
either monday, or tuesday,
and ask her:

doctor...
what is the lesser
of the two evils...

drinking less,
or rather, not drinking
at all,
    and only being
able to find roughly
2 hours of sleep
in 50 hours?

or drinking...
ending up waking up
imbued with
a body odour best
ascribed
to a whiskey brewery,
and being awake
for about 14 hours
of the 60 or so available
hours?

     do any of these
hallucinations come
from sleep deprivation,
while all these
        omamy of a
      desperate tongue...
translated into
    a language of despair...

in the newspapers...
the opinion is:
    prison cells are not
schizophrenic hotels...
funny...
   i must be the oddest
variant of a "schizophrenic"...

i was mistook
   a police van for a taxi cab...
lying near to death
from alcohol poisoning
at a bus stop...
a passer-by called
the police,
we exchanged courtesy
with the police-officer...
he was pleasant enough
to put me into
a police van cage....
and he drove me home...

i must be an oddity...
   my reaction to psychotic
anger is like a turtle...

mixed opinion about
my experiences
with the police...
one cadet cuffed me
while i was on my knees
and shouted at me
for ******* in an alleyway
on drunk friday
in romford...
while i just refused
to get up...

          hand-cuffed
one minute,
   hand-cuffs missing
the next...

   it's either i was a good
liar, or wasn't a liar
at all...
  like: what sort of idiot
would lie about
being schizoid?
   for a meagre social
"allowance"
   of 120 quid a week?
**** me...
7 years later and i'm
stretching it...
stretched it as far
to travel to Athens,
through the Balkans,
Poland, Amsterdam
  and back to London...

hence my dissonance
when it comes
to the "question" of,
   "reality"...
             like i ever tried
talking "reality"
  on a scale of inquest by
the physics department
of Edinburgh university...

and then the radio
spews out:
  bruce hornsby -
i start thinking about
the neurotic cage
of the lyrics of
   2pac and the "stealth tax"
of... ******...
        we just borrowed...
and then my reply:
so when
is my chance
to play the tennis back?

   it was never
a harsh: plagiarism...
but in all honesty?
  i felt more free being
hand-cuffed
on my knees telling
a colt police cadet
that: as much as he
was going to scream
at me:
i would not stand up,
he'd have to pick me...
getting kicked
in the *****
at one of those martial
arts classes
for not shouting
HA my making
a martial law chop-suey
walk...
was easier...
   than all these mental
cages...
   fake *******
of saying: 'the "n" word'...
no...
   i'm pretty sure
those people
   are saying: 'the n- word',
   see...
i don't see the "air" quotes...
i see there's a hyphen
in that...
   so...
   it's a prefix statement...
of the already apparent
thought: screaming
for some retribution
of a past,
  which has not currency
for me in the present,
other than...
     bruce hornsby
                              ft. 2pac...
so where's my tennis
moment?

        coolio ft. pachelbel...
being thrown under
the multicultural bus...
    like:
   i might even want to relate...
but being born
into a very monochromatic
society...
  monogomous-in-ethno-centrism...
but...­
   police officer
care for no *****?
   in london,
given the knife crime
epidemic:
   it's more ***** care
for no *****?

    - but i'm cool with that...
white boy uncomfortable
    posit...
         can only ever become
a mental health patient...
who has never been
section, doesn't know what
a mental asylum looks
like...
   know how psychiatrists
employ false regression...
know the chemcial
cocktail...
             insinuations
of: "abused as a child"
   talked about in third person:
talked aloud...

i should have just left
this night with
gyöngyhajú lány...
but then this song came on,
this piano...
  and i thought
about my childhood
friend samuel...
  how i walk across
st. valentine's park
from my house to his,
and from his house to school...
and we'd spend about 3 hours
per day walking
and talking...
  we'd pretend to be
skateboarders...
   and all round
   basic ****-ups...

and seriously: some of the language
is just bait...
   such a base piano
originality...
    being taxed with
      so many words akin
           to 2pac's... sample;
just when when words
are polarizing,
and they're not philip glass,
or krzysztof penderecki,
   seemingly the:
      last chance script.

p.s. samuel,
who introduced me to
old jamaican cream soda...
and...
     how to not
    don a mohican haircut...
and...
           what is ever
come from within
   the circus of memory.
Claire Apr 2018
II.
He ambles up, plunks
his oxygen on the counter.
I notice his veteran's cap
when my eyes flick up to
greet him. He unfolds his
money with long, careful
fingers. "You like the music?"
He asks me. Pachelbel's
Canon in D plays softly
on the radio. I do, and
I tell him so. "Pachelbel,"
He says, half to himself,
then adds, "Only thing I
don't like about him is
when you've heard the first
few measures, you've
heard it all."
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2018
evil comes to the conclusion
that:
           if it's not a res cogitans...
then there's
a res vanus...
         that's in need of being
filled!

             only recently my
algorithm reach for encompassing
a touch-with-a-"history"
has been blockaded...

      i find it harder and harder...
to view a video,
beyond the 2016 and the 2017
arena...

     A.I. is what gave us, man,
in an S. I. environment
                (synthetic intelligence)...
something that composites
a continuum,
     rather a stable posit to work
from...

        the easiest route of
miscarrying, exploitation;

   what? existentialism wasn't about
the hyper-exploitation
of punctuation marks?!

      dumb dumb d' dumb
  drum roll...           expectation.

god looks at the use of language,
per se,
   not at language, used,
with a per se, and a subsequent
usage of,
             without a per se!
                            becauase, how on earth...
am i to make a humanist
statement...
                 by "over"-complicating
the said, use,
                       of using language?

can poetry even become a mediator?!
membrane!
                    well, **** me!
hands tied behind my back scenario?!
            tiananmen sq. "whoopsie"?

death by a riddle...
  or death by pachelbel?
    ****'s left to right right to left
when using the basic hand-"gesture"
of expressing a papyrus
          "tattoo" of a handwriting?

eek-onk?!
yes... becauase there are no
pigs in the desert...
  which i buzzfeed use
to offset a lack of salt...
       ******* copper,
brazen with melt choc. "aura",
sultry quacks of a melody
requiring a choir
             of transgender *******!

can't exactly look at a sunset
having "acquired"
the current socio-pathos
conformity narrative...
it's like watching
a really bad hopak aversion
to a take on performing
ballet...

    oh... so bad for the toes of
ballerinas...
    what about the cossack knees?!

never mind the handerchief...
what about chaos theory,
butterfly, hurricane...
                 and the sneeze?!

surely the world cannot be
unfathomable,
yet fathomable...
   within the confines of
a metaphor...
              a non-"literal"
      ascription of: losing count
of the number of given examples...

A.I.?
  what? the argument to express
putting a ****** on
a circumcised phallus?!
   i don't mind...
but owning a phallus not
circumcised...
   stop basing your intellect
on me jerking off...
      S. I.: synthetic intelligence...

       ha ha...

  putting a ****** on a circumcised
phallus...
          
              i like that...

  no wonder the ones with
circumcised *****...
  do not know how to express
pleasure from a ****, jit-jitty-jittery
one-off with jamaica in mind...

to always require a woman?
must be painful...

             learning from my
grandfather... and the *****
of a mouth that constitutes my grandmother?

            go through that one
with me, one more time...

                 so...

                no *******?
       and you wear a ******?
      and it's not latex in being wholly
****** clad in it?

                          guess only the ones
with an intact ******* can
play the part of an audience...
and even, remotely, enjoy
the dutch spectacle of watching
***** without a Cain-induced
grievance...

                             harsh though...
circumcising...
    and even remotely,
      implying a second tier of an impetus
to miscarry
the original:
     well... i hope i'll receive
an epitaph "marred" by an inscription
set to stone....

          any argument from
the non-circumcised party of women
wondering about my final
statement on the relief that
comes with: no. 1, no. 2... and no. 3?
f.g.m.
   is probably the only "answer"...
you'll ever, get.
hey island girl! whoop whoop! why do i feel like such an island girl? why does Matthew want to own the bricks and mortar? dunno: he calls me up and says such a beautiful lie of life: like: d'uh: i still luv U... hi-makkah-makkah sing the island girls: Gauguin! Gauguin! where's Israel on the map? why are Palestinians the Israelis allowed their flags the Ukrainians? why so Russophobic? why so Russophobic? why so Russophobic?! STANZ RUSKICH! NOWYCH WYKINGÓW! why so Russophobic?! you Islamo-Fascist fetishist?! why so Russophobic?! *****???? WIOT! NAM ŻE! WIO! KIELICH! IDZIEM! WOJ! bij brata skurwysynie!          nie, naprawde: trzeba: serio...

a diet upon entry:
i find myself
admiring Picasso's cubism
and i find myself in
a garden:
of my own making:
I am the Reincarnation of Adam
and i have toddler Cain
on my shoulder in the mark
he left me: by being born...

Pachelbel's Canon in D Major
of the sweetness
nothing such this absolute
so absolutely...
this definition of the divine:

i'm an artist: i'm a genius
i see the universe cascade
rather than expand:
my god oh lord
to no thrill the jealousy
of modern *******
and the **** of the crucifix:
i was born tonight
in the night
i heard orphan cats
and Cerberus' calls to:
please can someone shut
these dogs:

i sample time with drink
i sampled space with food:
i demanded earth
i got and begot air
and i smoked and i drank from
the rivers:
and as a reincarnation of Adam
a dam: i will give the vowels
in *** while F
Eve will give the consonants
and i became a we
and mother
and father

choo choo, gentle choo choo:
angels can have wings
but can't have mouths:
monotheism in the mythology of polytheism:
the joke choke
of plucking the Eye of a Cyclops...
the Olympics: his favorite event...

going back to basics:
i hate interrupting myself
but i sometimes do
just checking...
Roger Roger Stewart Steward:
my house,
is a house


              my house,
              is a house
              is me
              is my studio
              hero of ink

i ink i don't tattoo:
i'm an artist, composer,
creator:
i'm not: i am no: entertainer...

so why i felt so stupid
wearing a Bruce Springsteen
t-shirt: worked... "worked"
the gig: no, i wasn't attendee
rare event:
transcendental: no ejections:

so i was walking to the supermarket
and overheard...
shirtless men
with seasonal vanilla of *** scribbled
without pen...
the conversation was just banter
one man in the digger telling a joke
i am an artist:
not an entertainer:
the king asks:

                  where is my jester?
where is my entertainer?!
i will keep the disguise of artists
for a while:

crescendo Charles!

                   i am not a journalist:
z: with
            .
z: zzmałiwonia!

ł - Wikipedia
en.wikipedia.org › wiki

insert ctrl p/c/p/c++++
=
             =

adam is the sole archetype of reincarnation:
he's the father of polytheism...
the antithesis of monotheism...

one would have hoped for Islam:
not becoming the next monotheistic failure
by succumbing to schism...
just like Christianity is a poly-schismatic
monotheism-polytheism Chimera...
one would have hoped for Islam:
there's the Arab Pure
and then there's the Turkish Islam...
there's the Egyptian Islam...

but there's the Arab Pure:
like there's a Latin Pure
because Athens is a Democracy
and no Theocracy is invited!
long live the Byzantines!
long live the Byzantines!

but i felt so defeated:
just walking past these men...
their language was so
pure and pristine and stupid:
the sort of language that
doesn't make you
want to drink and smoke
and explore the night
unlike the mantra of the performance-coach
to keep the people: a people
via:
entertained...

Picasso's nightmare with all
those attempts to glorify the face:
i am not an entertainer:
i am a grittier sentiment
of mortality:
where there was once science fiction
there is now
friction fiction that's autobiography:
i can assure the little liar
became a dragon
and the child in him took to
collecting insects:
or at least: had a fetish for the reproductive
antics of worms outside the son
of us:
no serpents to behold just slugs
and earthworms...
and dragons: can't miss those...

and why oh god didn't the Bible:
mention:
archetypes of women
equivalent to Cain the Vegetarian
and Abel the Cannibal...
but why aren't the Daughters
mentioned:
some sacred text!

no wonder the confusion!
there are simply no archetypes of women
for both men and women...
there is no Jesus Woman
there is no Moses Woman
there's the hideous Female Einstein...
there's the ridiculous Female Newton:
but there can't be
a Elijah Woman:
there was simply Joseph
Moses and Elijah as denoting:
male given names:

you can give a chair a noun
and a noun is aggregious =
aggregious:

   in grief: ****** of!                                 f

   but then: why do we call girls:
Layla and boys Richards?
why? why bother this first hurdle so much
so buckle springboks buckle:
at the Olympics:

we all know it:
everyone wants to **** the female
gymnasts...
i know i do:
but i also want to walk away
with a scent of flowers: IF...

if, maybe, somehow:
she still loves me:
i'm either difficult or dangerous...
i can't summon the:
which is which

COLON TO BE THE NEW
COMMA
and don't go mad on the hyphens
and semicolons
when cascading
and not making money writing
in paragraphs...

— The End —