"pinnacled" poems
I
From you, Beethoven, Bach, Mozart,
The substance of my dreams took fire.
You built cathedrals in my heart,
And lit my pinnacled desire.
You were the ardour and the bright
Procession of my thoughts toward prayer.
You were the wrath of storm, the light
On distant citadels aflare.
II
Great names, I cannot find you now
In these loud years of youth that strives
Through doom toward peace: upon my brow
I wear a wreath of banished lives.
You have no part with lads who fought
And laughed and suffered at my side.
Your fugues and symphonies have brought
No memory of my friends who died.
III
For when my brain is on their track,
In slangy speech I call them back.
With fox-trot tunes their ghosts I charm.
‘Another little drink won’t do us any harm.’
I think of rag-time; a bit of rag-time;
And see their faces crowding round
To the sound of the syncopated beat.
They’ve got such jolly things to tell,
Home from hell with a Blighty wound so neat...
. . . .
And so the song breaks off; and I’m alone.
They’re dead ... For God’s sake stop that gramophone.
5k
We met over 40 years ago. Floating buttocky halves
spooned into pastel fruit bowls, even drowned in
Del Monte syrup, love at first taste. Your flesh
a luminous hue, hovering on the border of cream
and August skies; your flavor pure as dreamed pleasure
grazing my waking tongue, a melting sweetness
streaming down my throat; your name, a single syllable
promising delight: pear, barely sound, mere parting of lips,
and hint of breath, apple-green p, the sweetest
diphthong ea, all the air in the world, closed in rounded rr‘d
finality. A perfect word, reducing your rumpled, pinnacled
self, to one gorgeous, Old English syllable: per.
Right now, six of you sit ripening on my windowsill.
A sky-blue towel shields bottoms against further bruising
from the wood even at birth you instinctively flee, hanging
off trees in swelling green-gold tears, yearning for earth,
or growing to maturity in bottled, olive-green light, your dying
breath suffusing aging liqueurs like the oldest I ever drank,
the summer I was 19, a century-old brandy served in snifters
the likes of which this working-class boy had never seen.
I tilted the giant crystal bowl; the fragrant liquid elongated
in mimicry of its remembered self and seeped into my mouth: a pear’s
ghost enveloped in flame lay down to rest on my tongue. We both
were saved, at least for that night. Pear. Look of women I love
but don’t lust after, I want to conjugate you: I pear, you pear,
we pear. Like raspberries, Mozart and love, for me, sufficient proof
of God’s existence. I trust you. Lead me by the tongue to heaven.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 12:19 PM UTC
It had been snowing all night
light slight white
almost invisible flakes
falling on the garden below
While you slept I lay awake
between startling dreams
adventures (with my children)
amongst pinnacled peaks
Should sleep in an unfamiliar room
so effect the unconscious mind?
Here you became a young adult
‘I lost my virginity’ (you said)
‘and it was messy’
I didn’t want to know this
but told you how it was
for me a beach at night
in Devon Tarka country
And so a tracery
emerges from the past
It emanates it draws together
intersects conjoins segments
a tessellation map-rich
by and through and which
(bathed in the snow-light
of an uncurtained morning)
together we move now too and fro
in this still-experimental passion
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 12:53 PM UTC
On a pedestal, you stand
With angels beside you playing trumpet and lyre
They'll sing hallelujah
When you smile and open your arms
And I'd say your name
A thousand times like a prayer before I sleep
Sing psalms on Sundays
Like a devotee, lifting my hands as I weep
But you were a mere god,
Pinnacled upon an altar that I made.
For a long time, I stayed
Only to be tricked and betrayed.
I once hummed along
With the angels as they sing
But an atheist came and uttered,
'Unvaried hymns are tiring.'
Mar 12, 2022
Mar 12, 2022 at 10:39 PM UTC
so once the flirting duo moved along to
the electric ballroom
down the road for some jiggy-jiggy wiggles
i walked into the world's end
and headed straight for the toilet,
started talking to a mate
while taking a **** ended up buying
him a drink, with the offer he asked:
are you gay?
no... i just feel like talking...
he further inquired: why are these barmaids
looking at you as if they know you?
so i replied...
i just have one of these faces...
people remember me like they remember
birthdays and Christmases...
so i bought a round, he bought a round,
but.... hmm... the whole encounter
pinnacled on: nothing short of a nuance
of a brief encounter...
music producers...
he asked me who i thought was
the best producer...
so i said, rick rubin....
he countered with timbaland...
because whatever he did with
justin timberlake &
nelly furtado...
to which i countered...
come on...
what didn't rick rubin
do with johnny cash?!
and there was nothing original about
it for most of the time...
just the covers...
we parted in good spirits
and... oh **** yeah...
snogging that girl...
i still don't know how i'm somehow
appealing, when i have the chance
to... charm.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 9:39 AM UTC
Do you believe in Cupid’s quiver?
If so, prepare you heart to shiver
From the bitter bite of constant winter
Within this world of go-getter and lone giver.
There is no “one”...
Only no one.
I hate to crush your embellished dreams
But reality is not painted with such beautiful streams.
The story of life comprises eschewed reams.
All you feel is not what it seems...
The shimmer of rings,
The angel chorus sings,
Love songs on wings...
Life is not made of such beautiful things.
No ma’am,
There is no magic man.
There is no Dapper Dan.
Beware the perfect man,
Beware the perfect dame,
Who can decimate a heart
With a softly-spoken claim.
You may find a beauty
You might find a beast
But you can’t create love
With a bountiful feast.
Neither a bed of caressing
Nor a bouquet of charm
Could protect your spirit
From devastating harm.
I’m sorry to shatter your glass castle from where you search
And wait for love from a pinnacled perch...
But no sir,
There is no magic woman.
There is no Wonder Woman.
Beware the golden lady,
Beware the golden man,
Who can siphon a soul
By holding a hand.
Aug 8, 2019
Aug 8, 2019 at 10:56 AM UTC
hey, lovesick child with the benevolent heart
hey, lovesick child from the pinnacled start
oh, how you’ve become such finespun art
au revoir, au revoir, to that which lays scars
but know each scar that you bear, sets you apart
oh, how you’ve become such finespun art
be well,
bcb
Apr 29, 2020
Apr 29, 2020 at 12:19 PM UTC