"prelude" poems
Your smile.
.
endlessly,
my heart searched
for a vibe on another
heart with which to
resonate and found none.
finding none, it wandered endlessly like
Infra-red rays seeking a
suitable tempo upon which
to strike an interference.
i wandered in search of a fertile
land in a heart upon
which to grow seeds of
love, my head burrowed
deep in a shell of
restlessness...
.
but on that fateful day,
too-good-to-be-true was
your smile--- it caused
my eyes to twitch,
borrowed a beat from my heart, transforming my
thoughts to an ode-- a
prelude to better days
.
i still see that smile,
lucid--- your lips opening
like windows of love,
revealing shiny white
louvres of beauty (teeth)
which opened to your
tongue-- a valley flowing
with sweetness as it
goes down your palate
like a parting curtain
welcoming love... then
you said "hi".
.
this friendship began with a smile,
it deepened with the " hi"
.
i have tapped from the
happiness let out from
the windows of your heart--
your smile..
my heart no longer wanders, in your smile,
it found rest
.
my greatest wish is
to make this smile mine
someday,
plant a kiss on your lips,
the happiness that
dwells in there becoming
a remedy to my malady.
.
.
Chukwudera Michael
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 8:14 AM UTC
Spring is the awaited child,
seeds to plant, plans to explore,
conjuring promise and renewal,
That awakens our soul.
Summer inspires with long
sunny days basking in the
embrace of green crops growing,
relief from heat under leafy trees,
leisurely nights of clean skies,
bright stars on high to infinity.
Fall comes as a warning beacon,
days of long shadows,
cool nights with chill breeze,
bedecked trees
in reds and yellow.
The report of hunters guns
from the depths of the forest.
Winter's a prelude to gloom,
short days, low sun when it
appears, wind-chills that burn.
Snow to shovel, ice to befuddle.
Conjuring envy and impatience
for the return of Spring.
So the seasons flow
one into another,
while every year lived
the cycles grow shorter,
with no guarantees of
how many more may follow.
Jul 2, 2018
Jul 2, 2018 at 12:00 AM UTC
She had some weak spot; between her legs, in her chest, in her mind. Others, smaller ones, all over her body; Hidden, in places she had forgotten, or never knew existed - all over the place, some of my favorite places. One by one - we found them. I enjoyed taking my time. We didn’t **** that’s easy. I made our bodies come together, we didn’t have ****** we shared one. Don’t get me wrong, I pulled her hair, made *** there, and over there. Whispered disgusting things into her ear, while pulling her hair- went from kissing her lips, to ******* her tongue; to licking down there. Turning her on, then giving her hand, getting it done. All of that, was just, the prelude, to us becoming one...
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 11:58 AM UTC
An Epithaliamium
So Man, grown vigorous now,
Holds himself ripe to breed,
Daily devises how
To ********* his seed
And boldly fertilize
The black womb of the unconsenting skies.
Some now alive expect
(I am told) to see the large,
Steel member grow *****
Turgid with the fierce charge
Of our whole planet's skill,
Courage, wealth, knowledge, concentrated will,
Straining with lust to stamp
Our likeness on the abyss-
Bombs, gallows, Belsen camp,
Pox, polio, Thais' kiss
Or Judas, Moloch's fires
And Torquemada's (sons resemble sires).
Shall we, when the grim shape
Roars upward, dance and sing?
Yes: if we honour ****
If we take pride to Ring
So bountifully on space
The ***** of our long woes, our large disgrace.
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*Before I lit a match,
I turned on your light.
Before I bought a book,
I took you into my arms.
Before I had her printed
on my skin,
I knew she was you.*
It was night. There was
nothing in the sky—not
even black. The world
was a pale gray, and the
bats—the color of smoke.
Then you came—a woman
from space, dusk
with yellow armor. The
moon resting on ocean. Your
halo, a burning wreath of
gold. You, finally. You who
I’d been waiting for—the girl
who sneezed the black, the one
who said, “goodnight.” You,
my moon and stars.
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 11:28 AM UTC
Dear Poet Friends, Here is a poem by a young Canadian poet named Darien, which I found while browsing the Net! I would like to share this with you as a prelude to my poem about the 'Rise of The Third Reich', - which I hope to post on this Site shortly. Thanks, - Raj Nandy, New Delhi
World War II - ADOLF ******
by DARIEN, Aug 21, 2006
Austria raised a man so vile and vicious
His life was dark, callous and malicious
Passions of hatred engraved in his mind
As he plotted to create his own mankind
A soldier for Germany in World War One
War to end all wars had only just begun
The National Socialist Party appeared fast
Their numbers grew rapidly as time passed
Charismatic oratory and propaganda his tool
False promises made, people he would fool
Were Nazis the one to bring hope? Perhaps
Without their help Germany would collapse
The Reichstag Fire would be a stepping stone
Germany's President died, he took the throne
He became the fuhrer leader of all Germany
And would start the worst war of the century
War had been started with a Nazi-Soviet pact
Together with Russia, Poland they attacked
England and France were not ready for war
Marching of Nazis soldiers was not ignored.
Mussolini became his ally and supported him
For all other countries their chances were slim
Many countries were defeated in a few days
the Fascist and Nazis would give him praise
Blitzkrieg was a strategy that worked most
In defeating all his enemies he came close
The Nazis would spread all across Europe
But it would be at Stalingrad they would stop
Communist regimes were one group he did hate
Yet it was the Jews he would try to annihilate
In all cruelty, bloodshed, war would soon end
There was still so much for people to defend
On V-Day he saw all his armies demolished
****** and fascism in Europe was abolished
World War Two ended the areas were secure
From that evil, monstrous beast Adolf ******
- By Darien. (Canada)
..........................................................................
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 11:11 AM UTC
__Body__
Let me love and care for the art piece
of your body- every pulsating touch of your
spasms. Jumping wildly; while washing
me in your spring water on top a mountain
of passions. I’ll spurt within you, from its tip.
And in kind; let the wetness of your lips
sooth my skin. Kissed by your sensual soul, as
it echoes every word of thirst, running down your
throat; chasing after every breath we lose in
a moment.
_Still, let us not love in haste._
__Amazon Queen__
I gaze at you, as my sprouting rose in
bloom. But not something so delicate; she is
tall, shapely, and sturdy— my Amazon Queen
that keeps me in the centre of her rainforest.
As she lets my words water her floret by
their tip- its warmth and gentleness spoke of
a love so deep and fulfilling.
__Foot fetish__
Oh, how she stimulates my eyes,
as I make out with her eye’s persuasion;
my mind often rehearses how I’ll love her
in it’s imaginations- my mind’s perfect
simulation;
For our desires are much sweeter,
by every bite of her smooth chocolate skin
I adore her more than I would have
yesterday- to quietly bless each step
she’ll take tomorrow. And a reason for me
to kiss her feet.
__Moist__
Surely as the night is washed by the gentle rains-
I have these saturated thoughts, pondering how
she’ll drown me over another night’
As she could never
have the most without I in the middle;
her underwear feels so moist.
__Climactic Prelude & Conclusion__
Would you love to experience a climactic
prelude; a middle so sweet in its time;
While my eyes ripen at the sight of your
ripening fruit,
Oh, so sweet in its time, let me capture
and savour that juicy fruit,
For yes indeed we had fallen in love-
but let not that fruit eventually fall;
From its tree, to rot off its vine; let me bite
you as mine- to taste your heaven’s ecstasy;
In this climactic prelude; I promise the middle
is filling, and its conclusion won’t be short lived.
Jul 1, 2024
Jul 1, 2024 at 8:22 AM UTC
in a world where we pray to be united
within the grasp of wholehearted humanity
standing tall
we sink in the dirt beneath our feet
and holding our heads up high we sing with the utmost pride
a song of which becomes a chanting notion
setting the tone for revenging entities
growing weary of the unwanted waste we toss our visions in the sea
without daring to take the promising chance
how are we to stand together
in a castle built to crumble in its past?
and yet we become the fools
lost in the fight and lost in our grieving
we walk the streets with our banners and our anger
without understanding what we are feeling
let me take you back to nineteen sixty three
when we marched on Washington
and we were lead by a King
what merely started as the seed of a dream
became the prelude to never ending history
yet with each milestone comes adversaries
and we still cry the tears of our fallen fathers
we still cry to be free
but remember my brothers and sisters
to be mindful in your actions
for blood does not wash blood away
and because the tongue can be a sword
be mindful of every single word you say
the whole world is unjust
be emotional if you must
but the time is now to be reflective
to be knowledgeable
to be respected
because the hearts of our sons and daughters
still need to be protected
the sun my still set orange
and they moon may still shine white
the day may still end at quarter to
the moment everything is night
and in each passing day are you going to become the change that is needed to win the fight?
are you going to do what's right?
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 6:35 PM UTC
365Nectar #46 The High Priestess of Soul
Fri. November 8, 2013 10:38 P.M.
Deep in the distance
dancing upon the horizon
a deeply distinctive voice
defies definition
bending genres to her will
clearly breaking boundaries
an exiled priestess wails louder than ever
silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues
Little Girl Blue
lettin' it all out
with a wild as the wind
Sinner man
just tryin' to feel good
absolutely refusing to be misunderstood
a strong-willed priestess turns tempermental tunes
into blazing beautiful harmony
putting a revolutionary spell on you
belting emotional songs of freedom and spirit
Peace of Heart
Nectar of Truth
just in time
to do what you do...
an exiled priestess wails louder than ever
silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues.
Born to a preacher handyman
and housemaid minister
a gospel pop fusion diva
emerges from the Glory of Love
a strange volatile fruit
blossoms into young, gifted, and Black
spitting storms of spiritually smoldering Black Gold
from a silky soul
that scorches the earth
an exiled priestess wails louder than ever
silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues
Masterfully mesmerizing
Black rock
Blood
and Candlesmoke
a fiery flow of
tangy, tantalizing and titillating
under a fog of duality
genius bears two heads
vibrant and intricate
a saucy songstress swings with passion and honesty
an empowered diva
breaks down and let's it all out
just energetic expressive jazz
injected with well composed folklore
live at Ronnie Scotts
an exiled priestess wails louder than ever
silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues
From Newport to Baltimore
an exiled priestess feeds forbidden fruit
and hypnotizes the masses
with tantalizing love me or leave me alone torch songs
a powerful
Four Women
high on Lilac Wine
blush from Broadway Blues Ballads
in Baltimore
See-line woman
goes to hell
to save Little Liza Jane
and shelters in Barbados
Cotton-eyed Joe feeds
Brown Baby controversy
behind Blue Prelude
Did it move you?
Yeah...
Hell yeah.. it moved me too!
Mr. Bojangles wave bye bye to a Blackbird
in chilly winds that don't blow
while willows weep something seemingly
symbolic of soothing
to an African mailman in Central Park
and an exiled priestess wails louder than ever
silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues
The High Priestess of Soul
caged but still singing
shivering sensations
from stubborn sweetness
under sweet strings
that sharply spill and scatter strength
to the sorrowful
that daily dine and devour
silky, soulful, and spicy
Pastel Blues.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 11:51 AM UTC
Well-tempered
As Bach's staccato joy takes hold
Of Book 1: Prelude No. 3
A clavier so mild, calm
Lagavulin-scented air
Peat moss, weather fair
The happy harpsichord
And the placid piano
Join in my glass
Mingling, giving the whisky
A nuance
Of elegance
Balancing the burn
Excellently
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 4:38 PM UTC
On the East Coast of England there’s a small resort
Called Cleethorpes, where I happen to reside.
And out towards the Pleasure Park
A short way from the shore
There is The Boating Lake.
I love to go there on a still, sundowning evening
When the parking is free.
To walk those walkways around the lake,
Dreaming I’m on Starfleet Academy Campus.
Walkways flanked by lawned hillocks and shrubs.
The lake is fringed by red-flowered reeds
And punctuated by ducks and geese.
Families and couples roam about
As I sit in meditation
Watching and listening
To the central fountain play.
Such a tranquil scene,
Far from the madding crowd.
Go over the bridge and cross the mini-railway line:
Before you reach the saltmarsh and the sea
You’ll find a stretch of shrubbery and trees
A haven for the birds
And for me,
As I walk my favourite path.
The lake is thus a prelude
To some splendid growth
As nature does its thing.
Serene and tranquil everything
A spiritual feeling
As I meditate
Beneath multi-layered clouds
Under endless sky.
Paul Butters
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 6:21 AM UTC
Silently the social media hero strikes again
The swift and ruthless keyboard warrior
Crushing political correctness
Debunking liberal drivel
Overpowering the opinions of the obsolete
He grows and grows
With every post
And tweets make him feel
Like the torrent of thoroughness
Raging through a landscape
That needs to be cleansed
Outside lies a hostile world
With prying, judging eyes
Online, a world of possibilities
Where virtual battle cries
Are the prelude of a rally
Between the devoid and the deluded
But through his own gaze
Focused on the reflection
On the computer screen
A social media hero rises
While outside, the world passes him by
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 5:26 AM UTC
we're always lending out a hand
a hand that asks why
we're always lending out a hand
one asking why is it I want to die
we're always lending out a hand
a hand that leads you to surprise
we're always lending out a hand
saying what happens if I cry?
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 6:56 AM UTC
Ko Ko to Go Go
a prelude to a kiss
dance with Chubby Checker
lift a slo gin fizz
Head bobs to Be Bop
flip the B Side now
mellowtune in monotone
two ears for stereo wow!
Wonderment of Duke and Miles
swinging kool birthin boplicity
urban crush the hipsters rush
jazz joints cross the city
Firery sax emote a clash
strain ears of credulity
Lester leaps creative heat
nips harden on my *******
Max taps exotic wax
Django's quick pickin
finger snaps flip my lid
lips deliciously sippin
Eurozone a Zen zone
a blue infinitive smokin
big peeps dig don pink wigs
fat spliffs hot token
My new suede shoes
walks west end blues
Pop's cornet got me tippin
his open blast first to last
I like cornbread, barbecue
and fine home jazz cookin
jbm
Oakland
3/12/10
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 6:41 PM UTC
The trouble with writing a
relationship through technology
is that the bygones are never gone.
Why do I pour a drink in your absence
and settle to re-read our old fights, heartbreaks
like *********** lips parted, heart racing?
I shudder through those weeks where you petted me, darling
but could scarcely afford to feed me the same heart
being doggedly masticated in the maw of another
I trace over my retinas the lines where you didn't,
wouldn't, couldn't love me, they scan me
for my identity.
My mug shot, beside
hers.
After how little it meant, how can you possibly love me now?
I could edit these now, you know, you're able to do that.
Everything I wish I had been and said.
The pages left blank, I should've painted red.
In the spaces, hiatuses, I recall your ill-suited suitors
I can't tell whether I feel grief, jealousy, or ecstasy.
At the time, you know, it was like falling upon
The Secret Garden
unbefouled by poison nor passion
to inhale the heady scent of white rose
and discover the brim of someone else's hat beneath the foliage.
The place wasn't secret. Oh, it wasn't mine. Never ever was mine.
I'm ahead of myself. Oh, for want of technology.
We courted on Facebook and Gmail,
it was a convenient torture, given the circumstances.
Now my mate belongs where I do.
Loving, tenderly, wisely true.
I cannot start loading the page for the future
so much as delete our archive,
a prelude to love
written in diminished chords,
sung by the jilted and ghosts.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 1:00 AM UTC
You should know
That I don’t normally do this.
Words come easy
and shape does not.
I know the purpose, though,
And have felt the effects,
a flowing melody
a short prelude
A bowstring across a violin.
I’m sorry.
Sorry that the river rushes
at the wrong times and,
sorry that I haven’t warned you
of the waterfall.
Sorry that I write
in pulses and not lyrics,
sorry that the sun sets too early
over somebody else's mountain.
Sorry that I can’t start again -
the suspense of pause
has already leaped from my lips
and the fluttering that is suspense
has melted into the river
and all that remains
is the value of silence.
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 10:50 PM UTC
It is so measured that rising arpeggio, only to fall and rise again in quicker values, through the dominant seventh to the heartache moment of that minor ninth, a very apogee of dissonance. Then it goes higher still to the fifth, holding to that Phrygian harmony before returning to the tonic minor and a measured fall in the bass. This is a deliberate descent to the sub-mediant, and Bach’s touch of magic, the equivalence with the dominant minor ninth. But then he gives us hope: an extended and joyful play through sequences that rise and fall within each bar, to rest finally on the mediant’s echo of that opening, that measured rise and the quickening fall. We have hardly smiled with relief when Bach pulls us back into the insecurity of the dominant of the subdominant, that V of IV acting like a bridge to a long, long discourse in the dominant, a pedal E holding firmly to itself whilst rising arpeggios and falling decorations and sequences pull and pull through innocently related keys. Longer and longer play the rising passages until short motives of imitation interrupt, treble to bass, tenor to alto, until: a first inversion arpeggio of the dominant seventh measures out the opening rhythm. This happens twice in short succession, as though holding the progress of the music to account. A questioning perhaps before a four-fold sequence asserts the dominant and a chorded caesura. There is a pregnant, though faintly resonant silence as Bach spins the dice of tonality and chooses the subdominant to bring the music towards a waiting Allemande. The music moves through a play of subdominant to dominant, minor to major, the mix of flattened fifth and flattened ninth. It is those intervals that determine Bach as the father of ambiguity in the 20C school of jazz harmony, Arpeggio then a falling scale, and repeat and repeat again, but moving ever higher by sequence. At last five chords – merely a shorthand for closure via the expectation of a right display of the performer’s improvisatory prowess. They prepare us reverently for the tonic minor before the stately Allemande leads the music into the elegant steps of its walking dance.
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 3:13 AM UTC
Mayan Poetry Translations
The Receiving of the Flower
excerpt from a Mayan love poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Let us sing overflowing with joy
as we observe the Receiving of the Flower.
The lovely maidens beam;
their hearts leap in their *******
Why?
Because they will soon yield their virginity to the men they love!
###
The Deflowering
excerpt from a Mayan love poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Remove your clothes;
let down your hair;
become as naked as the day you were born—
virgins!
###
Prelude to **********
excerpt from a Mayan love poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Lay out your most beautiful clothes,
maidens!
The day of happiness has arrived!
Grab your combs, detangle your hair,
adorn your earlobes with gaudy pendants.
Dress in white as becomes maidens ...
Then go, give your lovers the happiness of your laughter!
And all the village will rejoice with you,
for the day of happiness has arrived!
###
The Flower-Strewn Pool
excerpt from a Mayan love poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You have arrived at last in the woods
where no one can see what you do
at the flower-strewn pool ...
Remove your clothes,
unbraid your hair,
become as you were
when you first arrived here,
virgins, maidens!
These are my modern English translations of ancient Mayan love poems. Native Americans were creating poems and songs in pre-Columbian days; Mayan and Aztec literature may date back to the first millennium BCE. Unfortunately the Spanish conquerors of South America destroyed all but four of the thousands of pre-Columbian books that probably once existed (according to translator Michael Coe). Mayan hieroglyphs remain far from fully understood and dating what remains is difficult. However, the best poetry is timeless and I believe we can know our Mayan brothers and sisters a little better through their poems.—Michael R. Burch
These are my modern English translations of ancient Mayan love poems. Native Americans were creating poems and songs in pre-Columbian days; Mayan and Aztec literature may date back to the first millennium BCE. Unfortunately the Spanish conquerors of South America destroyed all but four of the thousands of pre-Columbian books that probably once existed (according to translator Michael Coe). Mayan hieroglyphs remain far from fully understood and dating what remains is difficult. However, the best poetry is timeless and I believe we can know our Mayan brothers and sisters a little better through their poems.—Michael R. Burch
Keywords/Tags: ancient, Mayan, poetry, translation, translations, love, virginity, *** marriage, joy, happiness, flower, flowers, deflowering, clothes, hair, ****** nakedness
May 5, 2020
May 5, 2020 at 4:54 AM UTC
I can write no stately proem
As a prelude to my lay;
From a poet to a poem
I would dare to say.
For if of these fallen petals
One to you seem fair,
Love will waft it till it settles
On your hair.
And when wind and winter harden
All the loveless land,
It will whisper of the garden,
You will understand.
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Yesterday, clouds gathered in the sky
Covering the sun,
Yesterday, I saw the ravens fly
I saw the squirrels run.
The wind stormed on the walls in rage
Her fury knew no bounds,
Violently she rattled the cage
Of the hell hounds.
She flew from tree to tree
Unsettling its leaves and flowers,
A hive that sheltered a swarm of honeybee
Fell in the pond, for the frogs to devour.
A thunderclap echoed from a distance
A prelude to what is to come,
Shattering everything in existence
Leaving everything numb.
Enveloped in darkness
The canvas was coloured grey and black,
It had an air of stillness
Yet, there was something that it lacked.
And then it started to rain
On the brown soil of the small town,
Easing the pain
That was hidden behind the smile of a clown.
Tanay Sengupta, Copyright © 2019.
All Rights Reserved.
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 3:33 PM UTC
Mists of beauty
Sprinkles of rain
Rain-covered leaves
On the beautiful trees
Raindrops on the green grass
Raindrops everywhere
Raindrops on the lacy ferns
Raindrops everywhere I turn
Pines and evergreens
And lovely cedars sweet
Saturated in raindrop kisses
Such a lovely prelude
The misty forest
Is enchanted
This I say
This forest
Is enchanted
No matter what
This is where Fairies live
This is where Fairies dance
This is where their wings flutter
In the ever blowing breeze
This is where the harps
Are played
This is where their songs are sung
This is where the Fairies harp
Plays nocturnal melodies
And graceful notes
This is where my Fairies live
~Marian~
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 3:41 PM UTC
Last week we decided to just be friends
Even though I like you and you like me
It’s clear that now, friends is all we can be
Our union is something no one recommends.
We’re too polar, for even our own pretends
Your Aquarian audacity
Coupled with my religiosity
We just don’t mix well, there are no “depends”
As we share our brains through books and music
We also share philosophy on life
Though to be “together” would prelude strife
Our contrasting faiths may seem ironic
But such conflicts will bode cuts like a knife
'Guess I rather would keep this platonic.
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 11:45 PM UTC
Gauging the time on my ever ready
Timepiece, I would be vacant without it
Guessing the minutes that miss out
As the second hand moves smoothly
Locking onto with its demonstration powers
How to mark time successfully, second by
Second, a prelude to the minute minder
Merging in with the big guns, the 'On
The hour Brigade' of salutes and silences
Schedules and deadlines.
The.....gong
The chime
The clang
The beep
The moment to be woken from our sleep
It's a curse at 'times' (excuse the pun)
The engagements starting point and
Finale. I wonder what time it is right now?
Would we lose ourselves scurrying to find
Our 'timepiece'. Do we pick up our redundancy
In favour of technological time and motion?
Even though the 'Wonder World' has not dreamt of....
And cannot conceivably equate.....powerful potent
Possibilities of fake time in an unknown spatial
Rhombus, conspiring recklessly to promote individual
Unreality; time spinning out the hour, through
The minutes, towards the last seconds.....
of our unreal lives
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 1:43 PM UTC
Acknowledge the drum's whisper.
Yield to its velvet
Nudge. Cut a slow air-
Curve. Then dip (hip to hip):
Sway, swing, pedantically
Poise. Now recover,
Converting the coda
To prelude of sway-swing-
Recover.
Acknowledge
The drum-crack's alacrity -
Acrid exactitude -
Catch it, then slacken,
Then catch as cat catches
Rat. Trace your graph:
Loop, ellipse. Skirt an air-wall
To bend it and break it -
Thus - so -
As the drum speaks!
2.8k