"plectrum" poems
Slipping into my apron,
Hungry in body and soul
Humming as a song played...
I grab my knife and chop-board
Unsure of what to cook
Strange inspirations possess me
Filling me with *****
My kitchen becomes a stage
In my hands- a plectrum and fretboard
Silver utensils- my live audience!*
As I play divine recipes
Strumming master acoustic chords
Chopping fresh, colorful vegetables.
I dash to the remote,
Punch "Repeat" and dash back on stage
Landing on E♭ minor,
Scaling impossible notes,
I slice with razor-sharp plectrum,
On onions and other root chords
My fret arrayed with colors,
Of spinach, lettuce, tomatoes
Carrots, potatoes, olives
Pepper, cabbage and cucumbers.
I hear a thunder of applause
As I ignite the cooker
Butter sizzling in the hot pan
A staccato of sharp notes,
*Ready to modulate innocent vegetables
Through spicy aromatic crescendos!*
I fight hard to suppress a sneeze,
No sneezing on-stage! Unprofessional!
Multitudes of seconds rush by and…
Voila!!!
I stand for a moment
Salivating, awed at my bravura!
Wishing I could hang it on my wall
Tis beautiful like art
But I can’t eat this cake and have it!
So I dig in…
Heaven and earth kiss for a moment
L U S C I O U S!!!
Luckily, it didn’t taste nauseating
Like my last attempt.
No time for ceremonies
I munch from pan to mouth
Pausing for what may pass for a prayer,
I relish every bite!
Not that I’m a foodie or something,
But nothing beats this combo-
Of good food and soul music.
And yes,
*Music is indeed food to the soul!*
I devour, in view- the next meal...
© Raphael Uzor
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
I want to be your guitar
Run your fingers over my fret board
Pluck my strings and give me my melodious avatar
Sing to me and play that major chord
I’m feeling your song through and through
You don’t need a plectrum, you’re a born original
Work your rhythm baby, let’s get on the groove
Your fingers are enough to create our music wholly attritional
I will reward you myself for how you release my tension
I will resonate our love song through longevity
You’re a prodigal performer, I can feel you in tune with locomotion
We will move from verse to chorus under no shadow of ambiguity
I want to be your guitar
Let my moans reverberate off your walls
A finer touch for our creativity – a sitar
Let’s Indioul our way through these musical waterfalls
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 10:07 AM UTC
i've always admired water,
its tendency to take the
path of least resistance,
gently eroding without
being openly abrasive.
and i've always admired
you, though our definition
of always seems to differ
and the [drip-drop] of
(water-clocks) has long
since gone out of style.
have you ever felt electric?
charged; ionic, or maybe
something not so particular;
that's the feeling of another
connection being made,
threads of elastic static
woven together on some
great unknown loom
somewhere -- or maybe
just by our own weary
fingers.
i digress, in that;
this isn't really about any
water, or electricity, or
some cosmic idea of how
we become connected, bound,
souls sewn with steel stitches.
i guess it's really just about
this one thought stuck
bouncing around like
a plectrum in a sound
[hole].
/i could carry your
heart, like other writers/
and you're the only one
who would appreciate it./
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 1:30 AM UTC
His heart sings Lady Gouldian Finch
Rainbow brings Australian pinch
Of endangered colors multitude
Serenading down under longitude
Aviculturist marvels her spectrum
Heartstrings plucked by plectrum
Weaver wonder family Estrildidae
Aurora avian ambit sub Passeridae
How he adores you each and everyday
Sets his eyes towards Yinberrie Hills
Sorghum sprinkles to petite shrills
Your song, his song vivid dye fills
Certain pizzazz environmentalists thrill
Colored curtain draws on man’s will
I know a man singing Lady Gouldian
Join him now as nature’s guardian
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 2:44 PM UTC
We know each other as History,
Yet we play in the unknown as Mystery.
Alone and along the path,
we are not apart.
The familiar essence in the sense of you,
yet such freshness of the forest as
I See You.
I can smell the stories of our past,
ancient eyes as I look at you through the void in vast.
Our spirits have dancing long before we knew how,
for our sacred meeting forms us to sway to the music that beckons the miracle shining our way.
This tune we know,
for this truth is ingrained in our soul.
Accelerating demons and angels of our dance,
Let’s let our creatures out as we enhance,
our movement motion,
depths of devotion.
Raising,
rising,
the frequency,
fractalising.
What began with a swaying,
melted into our praying
A sacred pray to the gods for our journey of togetherness.
Breathing between,
we meet as the eternal embracing,
exploring spacing.
Resonance, Reflection, Remembrance
Shared
Tasting the vibrant vitality in the air.
electrifying, energising, eternalising,
weaving ourselves through the many strings of our worlds,
Meeting as darkness and light makes love to sight.
The full spectrum plectrum,
Strum me baby,
For we are roaming in a field of dragon daisies...
And i can hear our Song.
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 9:50 AM UTC
I am all things,like the strings on a banjo,plucked
slow and easy,
making music to please you,
and you are the plectrum
that strums me
numbs me
and melodically I crumble at your touch,
did you know how much the music
means?
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 3:50 PM UTC
Like as raindrops plummet from yonder shore,
So hastily dashed him at love's behest,
Swifter than a hunted wild roving Deer,
With impatience like a raging tempest;
And by the most lustrous yet rare plectrum,
Heavenly tunes at his heart strings didst pluck,
That he beamed with colors of the spectrum,
Brighter than golden specks of the zodiac;
For her honeycomb, the taste of nectar
Distilled from all the flowers of heaven;
Hence swooned as the sea over light of star,
For love had casted her novelty boon.
"O what on earth so joyous than one's face
Whilst in arms of a lover's warm embrace?"
**©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros.
Jumeirah, Dubai. 5th.Feb.2018.**
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 6:58 AM UTC
*Fall afternoons are colored with black charcoal
on gray canvas with orange marmalade moons
Red tail lights divide the young night
Cool ceiling fan revolutions , artificial porch lights , well water and
tangerines , steady poetic resolve , security bulb luminosity
My religion stands ready , a plectrum , four forty tune , a chorus
has proposed marriage to its verse
Day is such a betrayer
I long for the night where I flourish* ...
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 7:44 PM UTC
Why did I forget that I am a mortal,
How could I just ignore that fact?
I am merely a mortal loving another,
Perplexed I am why she ever left.
Why should I waste my time,
On another immature person?
Either way I lose precious hours,
Should let her go and live on.
Remembering her is not worthy,
Edging each year closer to thirty.
Every day I realise my waning age,
Living in the self-made cage.
I had never foreseen her leave,
Not for that I was always truthful.
These memories are all I have,
On the dreary nights handful.
Most of the visions for future,
Interest waning away from life.
No, she wouldn't ever be here,
Ex- she won't ever be my wife.
Maybe I need to broaden my spectrum,
India is the land I took this birth in.
Now I live searching for a plectrum,
Exact fit for my life's good guitarin'.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 9:28 AM UTC
She put on a lilac ‘rinse’
And left it for only 10 mins
It went a deep shade of violet
She wished she hadn’t tried it
So she attempted to wash it out
But it was stuck fast there was no doubt
Then it faded to all colours of the spectrum
Now it’s green and matches her plectrum
It wasn’t her intention to have green hair
She wishes she’d resisted the urge
To dye it and make a right flaming mess
Now it seems in her head someone’s purged
So every day she scrubs and scrubs
With all manner of paint strippers
But the green in her barnet
just won’t budge
So she’s stuck with this colour it figures
Trying to match her clothes with her hair
Is proving quite a task
There’s only so much teal in her closet
And she’s bored with the situation though it lasts
Sick of the sight
When she looks in the mirror
She feels like shaving it all off
Grotbags would be thrilled
That she had an impersonator
Oh if only this girl could laugh
But it’s no laughing matter
When your hair’s in tatters
And no amount of effort sorts it out
All she wants to do
Is vanquish this colour
But she can’t and it’s stressing her out!
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 5:02 PM UTC