"piccolo" poems
Nagising mula sa maingay na telepono
Tinig na bumabati ng isang maginoo
Maligayang kaarawan saad ni Piccolo
Bumangon ka na riyan at pumarito
Katawan ay nakapako pa sa higaan
O, bakit ba kay lambot nitong aking unan?
Ang bumangon ay tila palaisipan
At ang panaginip ay nais pang balikan
Ngunit tatayo na upang mundo ay harapin
Sa labas ng pinto katotohana'y malagim
Sa likod nito ay papanhik pa rin
Sapagkat ang tumanggap ay natutunan ko na rin
Sa lugar kung saan ang lahat ay gaganapin
Lahat ng handog at pagbati ay tatanggpin
Ngunit tila nasa gubat at nag-iingat pa rin
Sapagkat maging sa mga banal ay may ahas pa rin
Sa wakas ang araw ay natapos na rin
Bulong sa sarili na tila ba aantukin
Ang araw na ito'y tiyak na lilimutin
Nang taong sa tiwala'y may suliranin
Feb 20, 2019
Feb 20, 2019 at 4:55 PM UTC
Pilsner cap switch blade
tie dye and piccolo
greasers and freaks
with platform feet
muscling in
on the bow legged hoofer
tapping
Bursey Hill Tram
Diamond tuft console
mullets n' ****
angels and saints
(unrestrained)
appropriately trimmed
as 3 mile wreaks havoc
on the nickers and
fighters of penn
Bangers and home boys
hookahs and sheiks
hostile geeks
breaking knuckles and jaws
on the caners and skinners
who are locked
and grinding the root
Desert boot foothills
boardwalk jeans
rainbows and sea fairs
and psychedelic dreams
(the platinum queens
jamming it hard
on the jade room floor)
8 tracks
and fender packs
the hottest summer days
psychedelic haze
center hall, graffiti scrawl
(sinister yet refined!)
covering the subtle
yet striking third ****
Brunswick cues
and red man chew
350 blocks
(on a solid Chevy - stock)
monkeys and beatles
and laugh in scenes
pastel dreams
from the long and coveted
velvet scroll
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 12:39 AM UTC
~
Marigold melodies whispering soft
Harmonies dream on the wind
Scented illusions of days in the past
And those about to begin
Blooming of music in shades tinted yellow
Sweet as the day you were born
Penned in the key of to never forget
Symphonies cast off the storm
Beneath a sunrise of violin vistas
Precious this garden of song
Petals in piccolo choruses beaming
Hoping you will sing along
Listen as heavenly arias play
Now as the music does start
Find every note is performed just for you
Composed of the love in my heart
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 7:46 AM UTC
Standing in the August sun,
Your skin soaks up the light,
And saves it for November,
When clouds occlude the sky.
The gentle breeze softly coaxes
The folds of your paisley dress,
To gather up their courage
And ask your hair to dance.
Silent finches straining to hear,
Her soaring, piccolo laugh.
The waves cresting to see,
Her pure and radiant smile.
Like stars that come to speckle
The navy nighttime sky,
Each morning a brand new freckle
Appears below your eye.
Adorned with grace and charm,
With patience and joy complete,
Dare not to look away,
None other can compete.
Grumbling fingers,
Untying scarlet ribbons,
White banners to unfurl,
And forfeit to the beauty,
Of my gorgeous summer girl.
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 12:01 PM UTC
~
Your beauty sings harmony
with a cantata sunrise,
euphoric melodies in viola
and piccolo lingering
‘pon a lavender haze
of periwinkle whispers,
symphonic poetry
afloat of dawn’s breezes,
ecstasy in tangerine desires,
wafting concertos of passion
as I listen quietly
to my day once again
beginning with the perfect
lyrics of your smile
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 6:32 AM UTC
The soul rises
inspired
by paintings
colours
shapes and tones
harmoniously juxtaposed.
A bird soars
towards the sky
floats
then swoops.
The melody
flows, swells
surges then fades.
An intermezzo
with solo clarinet
or perhaps a piccolo.
Linked words
in a poem
flow like piano notes
rhythmically, melodically.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 3:02 AM UTC
*Will you stroll with me
This path of Autumn leaves
Crunching underneath
Both our melodic feet
Said the Harp to the Six String Guitar
Come walk with me...
Will you dive with me
Into the open sea
Together we will swim
An enchanting melody
Said the Mandolin to the Violin
Come swim with me...
Will you float with me
On this cool night breeze
As fireflies flicker on and off
To our quaint melody
Said the Piccolo to the Saxophone
Come fly with me...
You can hear the melodies
Playing free
From one end of the other
Sea to shining Sea
As the instruments are all beckoning
Come play with me...*
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 7:31 AM UTC
1. If you aren't moving your hands while telling a story, it's a boring ******* story. Add in something to make it exciting, like a chance encounter with a tiger. So what if no one believes that tigers walk down 5th avenue, at least your story doesn't **** any more. You know whose story ***** now? That ******* who doesn't believe a tiger can make it in the big city.
2. Make bad mistakes every once in awhile. How will you know that you don't want to be part of a Colombian Drug Cartel unless you try it out for a few weeks? Who knows, maybe you'll find out it's your true calling. Maybe you'll stage a coup, take over the whole thing and get the hot girl in the red dress. But no, you're sitting at your computer reading this. My point is, drugs are bad ok?
3. Don't be that guy who thinks he's better than everyone else because he always "does the right thing". You know why he's never made a mistake? Because he doesn't have a real life. His life is as real as a Ken Doll's unmentionables. Yeah it's all smooth and shiny, but he can't have any fun with it. What's the point of having a life that can't be potentially ruined by terrible decisions?
4. Take chances. and I don't mean by putting "Piccolo Pete's Face Burning Tabasco" on your hotdog. I mean walk up to the next girl you see and give her a passionate kiss the likes of which she hasn't had since 3 days ago when she drunkenly made out with some random dude at a bar. Yeah, you may feel like you've just been kneed in the groin and/or maced multiple times in the eye...but you know what? You just made out with a beautiful woman, and you've got a good lawyer.
5. Don't take advice from people you don't know. Especially some random person on the internet, those people are just shady.
Jun 6, 2012
Jun 6, 2012 at 8:02 PM UTC
the Internet sets
higher aspirations
a teaching guide,
on how to
go beyond and deep into
the fast lane's curved and wide,
stretching
the straight and narrow
longer than lasting,
lasting no longer than
memory feelings
blurred overlapping burnt edged video recordings
pores pour oil and noise,
differentiating little between
beginning ending continuous
in the mind, from the walls,
Santana Rob sings "Smooth,"
but it is
the guitar wailing controlled penetrations.
a national anthem
of driven perpetual needy fomenting
outspoken physical truths
you don't care how you
got there,
where you are,
anybody's name,
high octane high performance
*** today,
is not for
the shy and the retiring, sissies,
we all got the necessary expertise,
with violin accompanist of pharma teaching aids
recalling first time tumblings,
exhaling
deep down throated rumblings,
rushing
fumbling ********* an ****** innocence
rushes of surprise and discovery,
success of feeling successful,
the shame of miscommunications
think I'm gonna watch me
a romantic comedy,
write her a love poem,
come up from behind,
caress her *******
kidding kissing her ear lobes,
then entering her entry point,
her neck
even when she is
armed
but forgiving,
busy chopping dinner's vegetables,
make them make them
give up the hidden
soft atonal squealing
like a
piccolo on steroids,
high pitch teasing,
pinched by air ****** intaking
I'll play the bass,
hitting those low notes,
********* my own strings,
deep ooh's and aah's
diode emitting,
the drug employed
is unadulterated
wanton but wanted
desire
this won't be the poem of the day,
no mind,
it already is was and
will be...
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 7:27 AM UTC
Si può o non può avere sentito un po 'di qualcuno di nome Kelly Clarkson sono sposati lo scorso fine settimana .E il suo matrimonio?Total .TOTALE .Svenire .Le nostre LBBers talento ultra dietro Archetype Studio Inc. ha fatto gli onori di catturare il giorno e stanno dando a noi anatre poco fortunati una sbirciatina a tutti la bella .
e dire la verità .un piccolo sguardo a Tennessee fattoria matrimonio di Kelly è tutto quello che dobbiamo sapere che siamo con tutto il cuore in amore .Non siete d'accordo
?
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Prima di testa fuori nel fine settimana .abbiamo pochi vincitori super speciale !
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Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 9:24 PM UTC
The timpani crash of thunder
The gentle side drum beat of autumn rain
While violin and cello echo the gusting wind
The Nightingale sweet sound of the piccolo echoes in the dusk
Early morn and the French horn mimics the pheasants call
And the well played flute could be the blackbird on the wall
But this can't be
Because man can never truly compose natures music
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 2:08 PM UTC
Echoes of the rain
bouncing up and down
rolling off of me
The closing of summer
is beginning its journey
Droplets cleansing to
zoom in on our intentions
of what the new year
will bring to us...
What happiness can
we hope to internalize
as our tans wash away?
Our peaceful spirits
flowing through the
celestial piccolo of love
from the Source
Happiness is our right
let it blast through the
seasons - in different
melodies, harmonies,
improvisations and
synchronizations
The summer fun leaving
for the lightness of the
dancing angel
let there be joy, wishes
dreams coming true,
star gems, moon dew
drops, friendships, and
soul mates
We shall fly through
the year with ease
and simplicity -
the bursting flowers
that reach up and
expand outward,
each tree standing
positive and steady
filling us with the
greenery and life
of our
true joy and
purpose
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
*
Your beauty sings harmony
with a cantata sunrise,
euphoric melodies in viola
and piccolo lingering
‘pon a lavender haze
of periwinkle whispers,
symphonic poetry
afloat of dawn’s breezes,
ecstasy in tangerine desires,
wafting concertos of passion
as I listen quietly
to my day once again
beginning with the perfect
lyrics of your smile*
Jul 15, 2016
Jul 15, 2016 at 11:31 AM UTC
Piano, piano, soft as moonlight
silken fingers on ivory skin. Glissando --
run your hand up my thigh
plucking every string. Arco, arco.
Softly, softly, the clarinets breath in, breath out
arms envelop me in the tune up,
four notes each fifths apart. Your voice
chimes lovely, the conductor flicks start.
A symphony, a symphony, a whole opera
house inside this bed. Observe me through
small binoculars, roll back your eyes into your head.
Violins slow crescendo, your sigh
an answering phrase from the cello,
listen to the tuba and the piccolo
and the mounting tension. Crescendo, crescendo,
forte, forte. Presto boy, presto. Ritornello.
Fin. Dream with me. Belissimo.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 7:30 PM UTC
under this gray suburban sky
being like a white pencil
who wants to write on a white sheet
and insisting
between beginning and end, on this single page of life
white pencil on a white sheet
it is difficult although that's how you draw a little line of freedom
that maybe nobody sees
but that your heart knows
-----------------------------
sotto questo grigio cielo di periferia
essere come una matita di color bianco
che vuole scrivere su un foglio bianco
e insistere
tra inizio e fine, su quest'unica pagina di vita
essere
matita di color bianco sul foglio bianco
è difficile eppure è così che si disegna un piccolo tratto di libertà
che forse nessuno vede
ma che il tuo cuore sa
bajo este cielo gris suburbano
ser como un lápiz de color blanco
que quiere escribir en una hoja blanca
e insistir
entre principio y fin, en esta única página de la vida.
lápiz de color blanco sobre hoja blanca
.es difícil pero así es como se dibuja una pequeña línea de libertad
que tal vez nadie ve
pero que tu corazón sabe
...................
sous ce ciel gris de banlieue
être comme un crayon blanc
qui veut écrire sur une feuille blanche
et insister
entre début et fin, dans cette unique page de la vie
crayon blanc sur une feuille blanche
c'est dur mais c'est comme ça qu'on trace une petite ligne de liberté
que peut-être personne ne voit
mais que ton coeur sait
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 5:26 PM UTC
There's a soundtrack stuck in my head.
A whispering, quiet melody.
Flutes and violins take center stage
As cellos and clarinets round out the sound.
The soft plucking of a harp shades and fills in
With the gentle support of a French horn.
And so the basses and the tubas grow louder
As the melody swells
Like a leaf blown higher on the wind.
As it begins to crescendo,
I can feel it in my fingertips--
The emotion of it all.
There's a symphony in your smile,
An orchestral accompaniment
To the twinkle in your eye.
Your laughter is the thumping of the timpani;
Your chuckle the plucking of an upright bass.
Your soft conversing is a harmonic woodwind;
Your finely crafted wit, a lively piccolo.
And your hands gently taking mine,
Cradling them and never wanting to let go,
Is the soft caress of a singing violin.
And when you say, "I love you",
I realize it was you all along.
You are the music in my head,
The soundtrack to my life.
And like we used to do in bygone days,
I would play this music cassette
Over and over and over again
Until the film is faded and cracked,
And there is no more cassette that can be played.
Then I would sit and close my eyes,
And recall it in my memory,
For the music of the heart never fades.
Just like your "I love you's"
And my "I know's".
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 10:25 PM UTC
She sends pictures of a very happy self
Her two kids in Miami and of course, herself
She loves Cuban food, the warm weather, the wine
In fact, everything looks quite fine
It's nice to see her happy right now
She lives in rainy Oregon, so why not go South?
She was the Homecoming Queen, it was quite a big deal
For us, just kids in high school I stood on the field
Standing in a band formation, I was holding a piccolo
I watched her be "crowned" and "her life will be perfect," this I know
I was very wise at seventeen
If I could handle what I was presented with, I thought I was keen
I really had no idea what it's like to be alone in life
I got educated, worked hard, even became a wife
But I always expected a rocky road
And I got it--some things did just plain explode
But what of it? That's just me
But my perfect friend, it is different for her, you'll see
So now where is the father of her beautiful kids?
Not there with his family, you can be sure of this
He didn't want to be with her anymore
So, he just left, didn't want to work it out, just said "no more"
And if it could happen to her, is anyone else safe?
I guess the answer is no, and I guess I'm figuring it out pretty late
I had more in common with the homecoming queen than I thought
Now I give her encouragement and kind words, to help her through this lot
So many stories of men on the run
To really think about this, no this isn't fun
I was so naive as a girl
I thought the love of a man was lasting, like a pearl.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 8:42 PM UTC
a velveteen grey cat
crossed to Las Palmas
and chose a corner table
basking in a tsunami of
Sunlight
while piccolo birds and
winter water gardens
sent morse code warnings
through the air
reporting on the
bombing of Wilmington
sinking of the Titanic
assassination of the Archduke
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 2:43 PM UTC
Alone in this small
town. I have come to believe
this is my future.
solo in questa piccolo paese,
sono giunto a credere
che questo sia il mio futuro
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 10:38 PM UTC
Domenica! Il dì che a mattina
sorride e sospira al tramonto!...
Che ha quella teglia in cucina?
Che brontola brontola brontola...
È fuori un frastuono di giuoco,
per casa è un sentore di spigo...
Che ha quella pentola al fuoco?
Che sfrigola sfrigola sfrigola...
E già la massaia ritorna
da messa;
così come trovasi adorna,
s'appressa:
la brage qua copre, là desta,
passando, frr, come in un volo,
spargendo un odore di festa,
di nuovo, di tela e giaggiolo.
La macchina è in punto; l'agnello
nel lungo schidione è già pronto;
la teglia è sul chiuso fornello,
che brontola brontola brontola...
Ed ecco la macchina parte
da sé, col suo trepido intrigo:
la pentola nera è da parte,
che sfrigola sfrigola sfrigola...
Ed ecco che scende, che sale,
che frulla,
che va con un dondolo eguale
di culla.
La legna scoppietta; ed un fioco
fragore all'orecchio risuona
di qualche invitato, che un poco
s'è fermo su l'uscio, e ragiona.
È l'ora, in cucina, che troppi
due sono, ed un solo non basta:
si cuoce, tra murmuri e scoppi,
la bionda matassa di pasta.
Qua, nella cucina, lo svolo
di piccole grida d'impero;
là, in sala, il ronzare, ormai solo,
d'un ospite molto ciarliero.
Avanti i suoi ciocchi, senz'ira
né pena,
la docile macchina gira
serena,
qual docile servo, una volta
ch'ha inteso, né altro bisogna:
lavora nel mentre che ascolta,
lavora nel mentre che sogna.
Va sempre, s'affretta, ch'è l'ora,
con una vertigine molle:
con qualche suo fremito incuora
la pentola grande che bolle.
È l'ora: s'affretta, né tace,
ché sgrida, rimprovera, accusa,
col suo ticchettìo pertinace,
la teglia che brontola chiusa.
Campana lontana si sente
sonare.
Un'altra con onde più lente,
più chiare,
risponde. Ed il piccolo schiavo
già stanco, girando bel bello,
già mormora, in tavola! In tavola!,
e dondola il suo campanello.
1.1k
For let us once
uncloak ourselves,
take this seriousness off.
As if the world would end
on such a missing note.
Just one less frantic tune
to complete the symphony.
Surely one might miss the piccolo
or an oboe, but in the greater scheme,
the concert will go on,
without or without
one missing serious-instrument.
So, strum on
in a vibrant key,
let yourself go
from all your troubles.
Play an uninhibited harmony,
blow a sweeter tune,
one of gaiety,
one of lightheartedness,
one of gentle tenderness!
For fellow word-musicians,
this composition
is much too short,
to play out of tune
most of the time,
as well.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 7:29 AM UTC
He can’t sleep. He can’t speak. He just whistles. The wind works its way through his tight teenage lips, disrupting the subtly silent suburb. Frequencies fluctuate. In the distance a dog barks. Then another dog barks. The piercing sound of high pitched whistling doesn’t stop. Aside from his holey jeans, old flip flops, and smelly green shirt, whistling is all he has. The sound resonates with everything he is.
He whistles with the lost hope of love. There is a soft undertone of sorrow. His whistle is as beautiful as a piccolo. It is more fluid than a flute. Farther in the distance a mournful howl echoes in response to the whistle.
The night carries him onto a bus. One stranger stares scowling viciously.
Another strangers growls, “Shut the **** up.”
However, this pied piper cannot. He refuses to stop. The whistling continues.
Up and down, it is a haunting sound. Fifteen minutes of whistling while the bus carries him home, to nowhere. Here there is an empty alleyway with a metal grate giving off waves of stray heat. He works his way to the one dumpster occasionally stocked with the days rotten left overs. To some the stench would turn their stomach, but to him it is sweet salvation.
An officers asks him to stop and show his I.D, to no avail. The request is repeated carrying a hint of arrogance and anger. Even so, the whistler is unable to stop. A hard hand grabs his wiry arms. They struggle, another officer joins the fray. Somewhere along the line a foot smashes against his ribs. He whistles for them to stop, pleading with his pursed lips. Steel toed shoes smash his gaunt face. The whistler finally stops.
The cops do not. Years’ worth of rage works itself out on the young man’s body. Inside his skull the whistling continues accompanied by a ringing. Pain singing and singeing his brain, leaves him breathless. This is nothing new. It is no worse than his history. The red welts, the black bruises, the damaged ear drums, and the broken larynx, all the scars from previous violence.
Violence meant to silence. Beatings that stole the words from his breaths. Speaking through the wind was all he had left. A secret language he kept to himself. The dead tell no tales. Instead the wind whistles back at a broken corpse.
May 8, 2019
May 8, 2019 at 12:00 AM UTC
He's a strange boy
Dusty hair and cobwebs in his ears
Musty clothes and rusty bones
He doesn't wash
He doesn't even brush the grit from his eyes
So when he blinks little trails fall his cheeks
He sinks into old black boots
Always moves with the wind
Like he's pinned to it
Grinning glint of the sun warms his cold face
As he floats from place to place
He cries but no tears come
Instead some tiny spiders come sliding
And devouring each other
Retreating to weave webs around his head
He hears the wind whistling through them sometimes
Tries to learn the notes
To play on his bone piccolo
The Spider Web Sonata
He'd call it if anyone would ever listen
But it doesn't seem to be the type of thing
That would ever happen to him
Not in this life anyway
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 8:08 AM UTC
Vedo la luce di un lampione,
lì in fondo alla strada.
La vedo dal secondo piano. Dall'alto.
Non la voglio lasciar illuminare la strada da sola.
Non riesce molto bene. Non sembra serena.
La luce non è fioca, ma non è viva.
È gialla, ma uno di quei gialli che non sceglieresti
tra i pastelli colorati.
La strada che illumina è familiare,
ma non è amica.
Non deve esser molto contento quel lampione.
Vorrei potesse andarsene
da quella staticità.
Da quella strada.
Da quel nulla
///
I see the light of a street lamp,
there at the end of the street.
I see it from the second floor. From above.
I don't want to let it light the street by itself.
It doesn't work very well. It doesn't seem peaceful.
The light isn't dim, but it isn't bright.
It's yellow, but one of those yellows that you wouldn't choose
among colored crayons.
The street it lights is familiar,
but it isn't friendly.
That street lamp must not be very happy.
I wish it could go away
from that static.
From that street.
From that nothingness
Apr 17, 2025
Apr 17, 2025 at 4:35 PM UTC