"pitchy" poems
Just like Goddess Kali
I am feared when not
understood
my enemies know my loving passion are my kids
those demons slander me
fearing the mother
goddess in me
I gave life and inadvertedly heartbroken waived it
I give life
birthed my children
against all adds
motherhood apeaces me
injustice enrages my dance
I am Goddess Kali Karijin
~~
Precious daughters
Elena Rose Jeanette fear not
I save I protect I write
it's my frenzied dance
surounded by demons ferocious
you and me won many a
gruesome wars
to protect you three your
children alike my light
I have deamed
Remember Mother Kali
I love you miss you
more and more
and for you my life I lay
~~~.
The goddess mother
(excerpt)
~estranged from kids ~
~~~~~~
"The stars are blotted out,
The clouds are covering clouds,
It is darkness vibrant, sonant.
In the roaring, whirling wind
Are the souls of a million lunatics
Just loose from the prison-house,
Wrenching trees by the roots,
Sweeping all from the path...
The sea has joined the fray,
And swirls up mountain-waves,
To reach the pitchy sky.
The flash of lurid light
Reveals on every side
A thousand,
thousand shades
Of Death begrimed and black."
love & motherhood apeace me.
~~~~~~~
By: Karijinbba
inspired
by Hindi ink Durga-Kali
Shiva Lord's Wife
revised 06-5-19
~~~~
May 31, 2019
May 31, 2019 at 11:27 PM UTC
A man was driving in his car,
Or carriage, on the road the runs,
Where with his wife and little ones,
His horse did stop
On mountaintop–
Over the vale of Chappaqua
Black as night without a star
Came pitchy darkness on men's eyes,
And then great hailstones from the skies
Rattled around
And with rebound
Drove creatures mad in Chappaqua
The awful grandeur of the scene
Impressed him so it made him clean
Forget himself,
His house and pelt
And all his goods in Chappaqua
Thank God, they're safe! One did debar
Destruction on the road that runs–
To him, his wife and little ones.
Tornadoes pass,
Green grows the grass
In the valley, aye, of Chappaqua.
The New York Times. 5/13/2016.
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 2:17 PM UTC
The fleeing clouds have cleansed the tawny earthen meadows
Migrating sun doth steal away waning light of summer’s glee
High atop fir boughs bow in wind whispered homage
To the sapience the coloured leaves hath gleaned
The sweet scent of auburn brindled pinecone clusters
Ooze of glistening pitchy resinous fruit
Sticky figured squirrels chatter while they gather,
Stashing a survival cache of acorns and spinner seeds,
For another moment in sleepy winter tide dreams
A swirling eddy of spiraling leaves whirl beneath the tall timber
Fluttering gracefully with a gravity only falling leaves embolden
Enchanting like the evanescent timbre poignant piano notes decay
Writhing silent as summer Jasmine’s fragrant final bloom
Dandelion wishes soaring higher to kiss the fleeting winged skies
Lazily adrift up and over Cascade Mountain Crest
Fuzzy treetop flyers ascending far beyond darting dragonflies below
The sliver of golden harvest moon’s blossom aglow ,…
While wishing upon a shooting star's paling gleams
Serendipity sown about whimsically in the blustery wind
For to sow the will of untamed heart’s desires
A festive troop of Chickadees clinging like tiny acrobats
Foraging on ripened ginger hued fir-cone seeds
Wings to the sky wave goodbye to the deciduous cadence
Softly wafting with a pungent Lavender potion scented breeze
There is a secret place where memories go to hide deeply alive
Amongst the wild wood and impending leafless trees,
The only place on earth I've ever understood a sense of belonging
Where Autumn coloured leaves whisper in the gentle breeze ,…
“I would do it all over again”
Come September ,..when the leaves come falling down
© ... September 15th, 2016
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 10:47 AM UTC
( Written as a rejoinder to my friend's poem: "Poem written to a buxom young Lady")
You’re very tall
And painfully thin.
Your bust and waist
the same.
Your voice is high
and pitchy.
To hear it causes pain.
Your wardrobe,
much like Superman’s,
lacks all variety.
You’re an unfit
***** mother
you’ve neglected
poor sweetpea.
Yet two men
battle over you.
It strikes me
a little strange.-
but in your cartoon universe
You are the only game.
I think I’d side with Whimpy
And watch the others fight.
I’ll gladly pay you Tuesday
for a hamburger tonight.
May 19, 2012
May 19, 2012 at 11:18 AM UTC
Oh! God knows how much I enjoy being in a train
The first experience is always the best
When the train is packed and you could observe other people's behaviour closely
The pitchy sound of the train tyres colliding with the railway
Trading smiles with strangers
The sulking sound of a baby
And in that moment you could feel everything that you've been longing for
As if your mind is finally free from being tormented.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 11:26 AM UTC
Heinie Manush Rag
playing the Heinie Manush rag
your piano's out of tune you *********
the rhythm is all wrong
the chorus too long
it's like listening to my grumpy wife nag
dancing is not your thing either
watching you is like inhaling ether
you have two left feet
you can't stay on beat
I'd rather watch leave it to ******
please don't make me hear you sing
you make my ears burn and sting
I don't wanna sound ******
but you're constantly pitchy
maybe you should give monkhood a fling
Gomer LePoet ....
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 7:29 PM UTC
Lost the key
I dance in desperate movements,
stepping on toes as I go
Spinning out of control as faces grimace in my wake,
changing scenery like mirrored ball illusions,
tiny reflective squares blinding as they move
Still you stare, questioning gazes,
not making eye contact
but sensing my heart through the song…
playing in steady repetition
Fingers in your ears for fear
that it might touch you
in rhythmic hypnosis, shining pendulums
swinging in reverse tempo, challenging these feelings
you hold but still can not admit the lyrics
Prideful walls of bricked fortitude
built around your emotions sing of
locked entryways and barred windows
and it seems I have lost the key
Misplaced along out of tune wavelengths
while pitchy corridors of doubt
fill in the shadows of this that I desire
Still I extend a hand, “would you care to dance?”
Dark eyes squint as you focus, looking beyond the bandstand,
finding mistakes of the past playing in three quarter time,
heading towards the stage door exit,
tapping your toe in cadence with the drummer
who now stops…along with the beat of my heart
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 12:25 PM UTC
Did you know tans are anti-cultural.
The whiter shades of pale are chic.
Black skirts and dark shoes
Will highlight your commitment
To culture.
White's the new brown.
The Jazz Singer is pitchy.
Oh, Mammy!
The shade's wrong.
Apple peels of burned skin,
Unbroken, curly:
Who can skin the longest
Down to the fresh, unburned dermis.
We didn't know about culture
As we watusied across the sand.
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 8:24 AM UTC
Hey there,
It's been a while, hasn't it?
Well, I'm writing this, to tell you how I wish this could end,
How I wish I could make you feel,
I'm saying this, because I'm sorry,
Because what else is there to say?
I want to be able to tell you how I feel,
Over Coffee and Ice Cream,
Do you remember?
How we used to drink the Bittersweet, kiss of milk,
Top it off with crisp, creamy ice, chocolate syrup sifted ontop,
I remember,
I remember the excruciatingly warm feeling,
Such a bubbly, delicious emotion,
I remember how you'd smile and grin at me,
And the tempature would increase,
I remember how you'd cool me down,
With spoon fulls of ice cream,
I remember how you'd laugh through chattering teeth,
And a scalded throat,
You'd sometimes spill the Coffee onto your pale skin,
Stare at it, Giggle,
I remember the pitchy laugh,
All that I adored,
You'd giggle and say, "I'm perfectly fine,"
And I'd smile and giggle back,
I remember the day, when I became curious,
As to why you spilt it on yourself so much,
What it felt like,
Why it looked like you planned each step so precisely,
I remember the curiosity leading me into a clutsy state,
Spilling it on myself, Splashing it onto my skin,
Leaving behind a tingly feeling,
I remember you watching carefully,
Mimicked emotions, as if it wasn't fun anymore,
And you'd smile forcefully,
And giggle again
I remember how much I loved the time we spent together,
Those moments, Touches of ice cream, Sips of Coffee,
Your touch, Your laugh,
But then, I remember,
I had to leave,
I missed those cups of Coffee,
And those tubs of Ice Cream,
For, it was unhealthy,
But, please, one last time, can I see your face?
Reflecting off my steaming hot coffee?
And can I stare at you a while?
Because that'd be enough,
I'd raise my mug, shout, giggle,
An impolite action, but I don't mind,
Your smile would be enough,
I'd probably embarrass you,
My selfish desires taking away moments you dream of,
I'm afraid none of this can happen, My Dear,
Because I think you'd try to cool down my Coffee,
And I can't stare into your big brown eyes,
That's why I cannot share it with you,
For, this'll be my last cup of Coffee,
My last tub of Ice Cream,
Staring into the steamy abyss,
And then?
I'll pour it over my body completely,
Feel the burn, the warmth, the tingly feeling,
I'll let the stinging cascade over my body,
relieving chills, Coloring my body red,
Make me Evaporate,
And I'll think of you,
To comfort the end of my own fate.
So, I'm sorry I couldn't possibly share that last moment with you,
As you requested, Because I know it's unfair,
Because, even then, sharing that moment with myself wasn't fun,
I didn't giggle, or smile,
Because I couldn't move,
But, that doesn't matter now, does it?
Because, in the end, nothing is left, these actions do not exist,
There's nothing left,
But, an empty mug of Coffee,
And a half full melted tub of Ice Cream.
May 9, 2018
May 9, 2018 at 11:41 AM UTC
.
My lute doth sound
With music soft and sad this pitchy night,—
A plodding ground
Largo e sostenuto play'd by a wight
Long dead, and living yet to his despite.
He gins to sing.
His voice is strange, and ghostly is the tone.
The song, a thing
Witless and wordless, compos'd is of a groan,
And a long, drawn-out, agonizing moan.
About his *****
The plaintive melody painful is to hear.
The song recalls
A time long-past—a very distant year—
When they were clipp'd to please a sadist's ear.
A throbbing pain
Resonates, sounds in every sombre note;
And like a rain
Of wept droplets from a sad fountain, mote
Forever be the weirdness in his throat.
O.O
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 9:11 PM UTC
Shall I compare thee to a dying cat?
Though art more helpless and more deafening:
Rough winds do shake the tassels of your curling mat,
And your piercing voice hath all to high a range:
Sometimes too loud the voice of torture cries,
And often his mute button is left in pieces;
And every hair on the back of your neck begins to rise,
By fright or by pain increases;
But thy pitchy voice shall not die,
Nor loosen it's grip around my throat;
Nor shall death come as you moan and cry,
Even when you start to quote;
As I lay me down to sleep I pray thee lord my soul to keep,
If I should die before I wake I pray thee lord my soul to take.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 8:19 AM UTC
filled with pleasant praises, add to the noise
outsiders merely hear a clanging gong
misguided stooge, highest priority poise
broken, segmented; melodious song
pitchy, discordant, strident, jumbled throng
cackle, not laughter; like nails on chalkboard
screeching halt, hacked lung, dissonant ding-dong
novice strum, harsh ring, disagreeing chord
overpoweringly awful, not dexterously ignored
discrepant dichotomy, add worldly confusion
you learned disciples, jarringly shored
bash uncomfortable jangles, chime the delusion
like the bells in your tower, you inharmonious bunch
wanderers offput by your lazy, Sunday punch
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 1:00 PM UTC
Shoulders Sunken by Gravity ,
Music's what fuels me.
Ears blared by pitchy strings ,
And drum beats ,
And screams that speak,
To the girl that's weak,
music is what fuels me .
Hope held by a string
she Feels one word .
Scream .
Music is what fuels me
Dezearea n. parisi
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 1:56 PM UTC
Here I stand on the ***** of my feet,
Watching as the time passes by.
The day fulfilling the dreamers,
The night exhausting the lost.
Why must I move on?
Why must I go?
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
Here I sit under a stately willow tree,
Accompanying me with its hospitality.
It droops as it stands so mighty,
It rises as it slumps in humility.
Why must the tree persist?
Why must the tree grow?
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
Here I lie in a box of plastered wooden veneer,
My eyes encumbered by pitchy darkness.
I breathe my gratitude of this quietus,
I cry my despair for my own creation.
Why must I wallow in my regret?
Why must I now feel this woe?
Now I know.
Now I know.
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 9:12 PM UTC
I love the way your hazel eyes dazzle when you look at me
I love the way those same eyes wrinkle at the edges when you smile
I love the pitchy way you hum when you have a song stuck in your head
I love the cute way you tilt your head when I say something that you like
I love when you text me just to tell me you love me and miss me
I love the cheesy little hearts you make with your hands when you send me pictures of yourself
I love the way your eyes open wide and te way your voice gets a little louder when you speak of your passions
I love how you pay attention to the things I like and don't like, and take advantage of that just to make me smile
I love how you can push away all of my sad and scary thoughts at night without even trying. All I need is to think of you and I feel like I'm glowing
I love the way you say my name, and all the other nicknames you give me
I love how you notice all the little things I do and say
I love the curly, messy dark hair of yours that you hate
I love that you opened my eyes and showed me happiness when I was lost for so long
I love that you taught me how to smile openly without hiding it
I love your dorky laugh
There are so many little and big things that I love about you, but my favorite thing about you,
Is that /you love me/
For exactly who I am.
Thank you.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 3:33 AM UTC
Like time, are we found through serendipity.
Minutes, a mere tick to unfounded revelation.
Past, are the days when we go subtly by, dissipating into the night sky.
Like time, our corporeal spirits aloft into the pitchy sky.
The tender kiss, a gentle stroke, nuanced by the caressing love of the lunar above.
Like time, are we imprisoned in our own conscious. A mere abstract picture, blown into the winds, caught adrift, and veered into the dark streams of reality's heavy rift.
Like time, we are ethereal wayfarers: youthful beings marked by ephemeral nature, merely to trance the universe's wake.
And like time, our departure ticks till the last grain meets, and the sand flipped, to start all over again, and again, and again.
Oct 26, 2019
Oct 26, 2019 at 5:53 AM UTC
“Call it not love, for Love to heaven is fled
Since sweating Lust on earth usurped his name,
Under whose simple semblance he hath fed
Upon fresh beauty, blotting it with blame;
Which the hot tyrant stains and soon bereaves,
As caterpillars do the tender leaves.
“Love comforteth like sunshine after rain,
But Lust’s effect is tempest after sun;
Love’s gentle spring doth always fresh remain,
Lust’s winter comes ere summer half be done;
Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies;
Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies.
“More I could tell, but more I dare not say:
The text is old, the orator too green.
Therefore in sadness now I will away;
My face is full of shame, my heart of teen;
Mine ears that to your wanton talk attended
Do burn themselves for having so offended.”
With this, he breaketh from the sweet embrace
Of those fair arms which bound him to her breast,
And homeward through the dark land runs apace;
Leaves Love upon her back deeply distressed.
Look how a bright star shooteth from the sky,
So glides he in the night from Venus’ eye;
Which after him she darts, as one on shore
Gazing upon a late embarked friend,
Till the wild waves will have him seen no more,
Whose ridges with the meeting clouds contend;
So did the merciless and pitchy night
Fold in the object that did feed her sight.
Whereat amazed, as one that unaware
Hath dropped a precious jewel in the flood,
Or ’stonished as night-wand’rers often are,
Their light blown out in some mistrustful wood;
Even so confounded in the dark she lay,
Having lost the fair discovery of her way.
And now she beats her heart, whereat it groans,
That all the neighbour caves, as seeming troubled,
Make verbal repetition of her moans;
Passion on passion deeply is redoubled:
“Ay me!” she cries, and twenty times “Woe, woe!”
And twenty echoes twenty times cry so.
She, marking them, begins a wailing note,
And sings extemporally a woeful ditty—
How love makes young men thrall, and old men dote;
How love is wise in folly, foolish witty.
Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe,
And still the choir of echoes answer so.
William Shakespeare
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 1:20 AM UTC
it's another loud party,
filled to the brim with loud music, loud people-
i stop breathing for a bit because even that feels deafening.
i look at you,
my beautiful girl
and think about how we can never truly touch
that our cells will never know one another
as I have come to know you in my heart
and to them, the building blocks of my mortal form,
you are just another stranger in the night
passing on the street, heading home
or maybe to a bed that's not your own.
but that's a thought that the drink in my glass won't stand for
be happy! it calls to me,
its forlorn gaze of burgundy, begging to seep into my pale skin
and make me pretty in the soft light
of this absurdly loud party,
i look at you,
and i see your bright, blown open eyes
like gaping wounds into your soul
that pour the light of your life into someone else's glass
he doesn't care, he doesn't know i plead silently
but maybe that's the bitter song of my downed merlot
nipping at the fray of a battered mind
it's been a while since i've sipped at your passion,
run your lust and desire across my tongue,
savored the sweet grace of your soul brushing mine.
you always did so well to paint the inside of my mouth
the most breathtaking array of kaleidoscope colors.
now, i know only the sloshing, regretful red in my glass
and the black, pitchy smoke of my burnt out heart
oh, my beautiful girl
the soft benevolence that keeps the crescent moons painted beneath your eyes-
i could never forget how much you yearn for salvation
that which lurks within your own being
is it selfish of me to hope that, at least one of the keys
to unlocking yourself
may be hidden under my tongue,
for me to give to you, or for you to find?
is it selfish that i wish to play some role in your life
other than a quivering hand to hold?
for lest we forget, my love
we two can never truly touch-
so what good does hand holding have?
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 2:15 AM UTC
The rich brown
soil clutches
at the earth
the bare trees
splintered wood
waiting in the gloom
the birds singing
in a hum
worthy tune
the pitchy
water
clashing with rock
with a little painted boat
wrenching from an ocean's
cold lock
the scene
coming together
like a drumming band
that creates a sight seeing
painted land
and what a perfection
for all it's
worth.
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 3:19 PM UTC
His large and clumsy fingers fumbled
with the clasp of a leather strap.
He fed it around my neck, then
twisted the red pendant that hung above my breast.
“It’s a bird caller.” He said,
as a pitchy squawk startled my ears.
He dropped it into my smaller hands
And I pinched the vessel
Finger and thumb, finger and thumb,
I too released the pent up call –
Each trill received an echo that answered from the trees,
I willed a conversation that started with the spring.
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 11:09 PM UTC
It is undeniable, when in the embrace of the great pipe *****
At the venerable old Episcopal church on Third Street,
Or wholly encircled by Tiffany-issue stained glass
At St. Joe’s in South Troy (ostensibly the “ironworker’s church”,
But gifted with its invaluable windows
Through a mixture of noblesse oblige, piety,
And a certain venal pride)
That there is a presence, a corporeality when the tune rises
From the pipes, be they iron or wholly human in origin,
Which is steadfast and implacable in the certitude of faith.
I’d heard the tune on another occasion,
Some half-dozen blocks north of the gaggle of churches,
Emanating from a squat, red-brick edifice
Which seemed a bit unsure of its own solidity,
As if the trust placed in mortar and block
Was somehow a bit presumptuous.
The voices were reedy, a tad threadbare and careworn,
And the accompaniment was unprepossessing
(A single guitar, perhaps, or an ancient and wobbly Casio
Rescued from the beyond by some kindhearted DPW worker)
And, though the voices were pitchy
And the harmonies a half-step or so amiss,
One hopes that it would constitute an acceptable offering,
Even not having fully shed the cloak of reticence
Which can be so difficult to unclasp on the road to devotion.
May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 10:02 AM UTC
The deep, dark pit
holds me tight,
Though my arms fight
with all my might.
Its pitchy blackness
filled with gloom,
Every hour
spreading doom.
On and on, I try to flee,
knowing well its not to be.
Feb 6, 2020
Feb 6, 2020 at 7:24 PM UTC
when we get out
when i get out, i will dance with my eyes closed and my heart full
with my friends
we will sing songs
excited and pitchy and a little too loud
like our heart beats
tone deaf, but in sync nonetheless
we will hold each other like never before because now we know that at any moment, that string that connects our hearts and minds could be cut
when i get out i will take you to the moon, we can hop from star to star until we find what we are looking for
i will drive you to the edge of the earth just to hear your laugh and feel your warmth for as long as i can
we will spend hours trying to figure out how to fit our thumbprints together like puzzle pieces
we won’t stop until we get it
when i get out, the sun will
shine a little brighter than it had before
when we get out you will feel my love in every breath, deep or shallow, long or short
puffs of air littered with a trillion swarovski crystal hearts
just for you
Apr 24, 2020
Apr 24, 2020 at 10:21 AM UTC