"quintet" poems
A wave of elation hit me the second I saw you,
and through that revolving door you flew.
I couldn't help but notice the smile on your face
as we held each other in a longing embrace.
The scent of you flooded my lungs,
how good it is to be happy and young.
Hand in hand we walked,
all the way to Top of the Rock.
Admiring the city we stood in that space,
you wrapped both arms around my waist.
Still standing in the corner behind the glass,
I turned with a grin, and our lips met at last.
We strolled over to Bryant Park,
where we laughed until dark.
The times we stared in each other's eyes without making a sound,
made it feel as if no one was around.
We watched little kids play many games,
if it wasn't freezing we said we'd do the same.
Finally caught a cab to take us to The Met,
there we listened to a string quintet.
We sat at a small table with my dad and his wife,
where they talked all about college and life.
For an hour we stayed, in that beautiful place,
and secretly, our fingers were interlaced.
Back to the apartment with only an hour left,
we rode the elevators without a rest.
Foreheads touching, and mouths pressed together,
you soon had to leave in the cold frosty weather.
When it was time, we said farewell and goodbye,
then you ran back and held me for one last time.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 2:15 PM UTC
.*i can think of one cool job... a nighttime DJ on a radio station... anything more cool than being a DJ between the hours 12am through to 5am? honestly... can't think of a cooler job... all the song requests are gone from the classical.fm show between 3pm and 5pm... now one is telling you what to do... **** me... as a kid... either a veterinarian, or an owner of a music shop... now? an insomniac DJ... they would never play Christopher Young's Something to Think About in the afternoon... sorry... i'm a Hellraiser cult-follower of the first two movies... and that song? why? i just can't be bothered with listening to that Braveheart over-scratched Song of / for a Princess... it's good... once in a while... but, come, on!*
just one of those nights...
having listened to the scoops
from the alternative...
worried your to hell
about not having *******
enough concerning
the previous day's load
which would make the pleasures
of **** *** look tame...
perched on a windowsill -
solving a sudoku -
and listening to
Frank Zappa's occam's razor...
and wishing:
making sure it was never
hot in the city
by Billy Idol,
or Kiss' crazy nights
to usher in the night,
and the watchman...
why?
it's not your standard
guitar solo...
it's a medley...
big difference...
guitar solos are bound to
a strict return to the rhythm
section...
they are caged beasts...
composed of a restricted
time constrain in a song...
but a guitar medley?
**** me...
it's what obliterates
a need for vocals...
the guitar medley is
the vocals substitute...
and that aspect of music?
mm... gummy bears...
jelly in the knees...
which is why i like
the fact that jazz is the antithesis
of classical music symphony...
sure... i get the Schubert / Schumann
piano duets...
nice...
but jazz?
the breakdown of the quintet?
**** let me count...
piano, drums...
bass... horn... sax...
yep, a quintet...
that moment in a jazz
song? where each instrument
player gets his solo?
genius!
the same with a guitar medley...
neither solo,
nor the rhythm section...
what a beautiful opening
to what i expect to be,
a beautiful night:
as the watchman once said.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 6:34 PM UTC
365Nectar #8 Crescent City Blues
Tues. Oct 1,2013 10:21 P.M.
In the deepest attic
the thumping blues
paint pastel portraits
of the Crescent City
In burning ripples
words slap strangers
taking refuge in Armstrong Park
Slender, **** and Shorty
growl muted tones that ravage old bones
whip thru Mid-City
and saunter thru the Garden District
all just practice to sizzle in a wild tap dance in the Quarter
High steppin Indians
march toward God
and defy gravity.
Roaring second line
being led by woman powered Pinettes Brass Band
hold rush hour traffic hostage for days
belting greasy mingling tunes
in the eye of the dusty moon
A pitch black struggle
with the old moon
liberated old souls
entangled in soaked strings
and sobbing fingers
A quintet churns and
challenges the loneliness of pain
Strumming fingers
make out with
humming strings
under a starry blue grey sky
Stomping down long black Oak-lined roads
blowing thru shotgun homes
like winter cold howling
lifting heavy weights
from shoulders
like the sun shifting against bad weather
the blues lady
open the veins
of drunken roses
Lungs full of tears
Irma holla's, cries, and moans remedies
north south east and west of a street called Desire
Oh Etta
At Last
Dim Misty light
cast a heavy shadow
on wiggling spirits
as they cast off pain
Allen Toussaint
in smokeless blaze
tips the night air
Kermit blows
Dusty blues
seducing suffering souls
bounding them to each other in bliss
Whispering around town
in a perfect velvet midnight
sweet exhalations of song birds from corner joints
dance the Ruffin groove
fiery trebles wave at people passing by
Down right ***** blues
muzzles twilight
trombones,tubas, and trumpets
lay harmony
under the harmonious thunder
of the Marsalis Masters
and low down deep
in a musty sleepless corner
is the missing Bass-man..
hung over.
Copyright ©2013 Crescent City Blues
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 11:41 PM UTC
His lover has the saddest eyes
A misty grey under a heavy blue
And he’ll see her again at sunrise.
Their love some seem to despise
Thinking of it as a ****** taboo
His lover has the saddest eyes
Though no one seems to empathize
No one’s aware of their little rendezvous
And he’ll see her again at sunrise.
He knows she’ll be hidden under a clever disguise
But he won’t confuse her with just another heart’s statue
His lover has the saddest eyes.
You couldn't convince him of your lies
Of his leman his desire you could not subdue
And he’ll see her again at sunrise.
Love her until their hellos become goodbyes
From the moment he’d set eyes on her to his final adieu
His lover has the saddest eyes
And see her again at sunrise
Apr 6, 2021
Apr 6, 2021 at 2:36 AM UTC
Unbeknown to her, she was the other daughter.
The clairvoyant said she was born of water.
*“Your beauty is your saving grace,
for so admired is your cherub-face.”
“My dear child, hold my hand close to you,
& see here, a young girl; veiled in black.
Worshipping the moon, beside a wolf pack.”
“For you, are celebrating a Lunar New Year,
requesting the spirits, my dear
beholding the Universe in the palm
of your hands. In the shadows, a silhouette
is walking towards you; a woman of a quintet.”
"You hear the piercing tone of a shawm,
a choir of voices & women barefooted
whose anklets ****** as a ritual dance
begins. But you stay. A statuette in stance."*
© Sia Jane
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 12:33 PM UTC
In the light of your immaculate form I make the following declaration:
I will be your jealous cellist-
(I.)
And I will play you like a stringed instrument - then
When you make delighted whisperings
And finesse the fine music of the feminine, magnificent
Your heathen distemper
Distributed,
woman-like, goddess-like
Classic cello-shape
Draped in lilting silk
Then
I will fiddle and pluck
Cast broad swathes near and about your single tingling place
Your attuned instrument
And it's spruce wooded
frontispiece.
(II.)
You faux arabesque
(for faux is our shared domain)-
Your hands moving gracefully - you pause -
Feigning flight
Feigning fancy
Considering
My rising fire
Weighty desire
Shadows mingle with glimpses of
My thickness and length-
Veined skin and steel,
White - waiting, wanting -
And there's an answer.
(III.)
You are girl - such a girl
I am boy, only boy
My persistent mans eye view
Part pleased with the flashes of you -
Now in new
Near **** rhythm
This gilded exuberance,
Radiant
Hypnotic
Sets sparks flying
Tickling toward sky and stars
I would have you
My dexterous digits upon your supple, warm-
Fragrant fresh flesh fret board
I would squeeze you where
Your mystery resides and
Elsewhere besides.
(IV.)
Roughly - at first - needy
Determined -
I would play upon
Your duet of juice creators
Invoke the
Holiness of your
Secret sacred spaces
Doublet, Triplet, Quintet
Play on! play on!
I would have you
With my plugging piece
There! There!
Your open legs
Secretly seeking my carnival of thrusting
Inside your warm girls pearl
Antidote for collective loneliness.
(V. )
I would hold you, your sides -
Firm in my greed
Our lustful minuet in 3/4 time
Play on, play on - I
Kiss your neck,
nibble your *******
It's you, it's you
You arch yourself toward me
Warmly
Affectionate,
We hold hands, fingers between,
And dance.
(VI.)
This some time Summertime
Bright flame
We reach - how we reach-
Our mouths, our tongues -
The very words we speak- yearning for -
longing for -
Connection
Each to the other, and
Our connection to God
"Rightful sin -
Come to us again
And again - and again
Satisfy our minds!"
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 6:26 AM UTC
Lisa was carefully pulling a strand of cotton candy off a paper-coned “barbe à papa” - winding it around her finger while absentmindedly gazing at a carousel. She seemed hypnotized by its white horses, trimmed in gold, with their brassy red and blond manes, as they hopped, like slow-motion rabbits, in circles beneath wreaths and garlands of colored lights.
My watch jiggled me awake, mid-dream. I was bemused. It took me a moment to orient myself. I groggily pushed the sheets off and performed a big stretch. It's Monday morning, I think. “Alexa, what’s today?” I ask, to be sure. “It’s Monday, April 25th,” she says.
A beautiful, if cloudy spring morning was going to bloom on the other side of my jacobian glass windows - any minute now. At least according to my weather app. “Alexa, good morning,” I say, to start my rattling, sputtering, steampunk sounding coffee maker.
College time is warped, measured more in deadlines than minutes. There’s no plan other than your class or test schedule and let me refresh you on the rules – there are no rules, I’m free to do whatever I want. I actually chuckle at that thought.
College is transformative but there’s a hoary sameness to it. Read, discuss, review and test - wash, rinse and repeat. This morning is reserved for test review. I have a final this morning - well, sort of.
Some classes have a quintet of tests instead of a big midterm and nerve-racking final. It smooths out the stress, but you still have an almost forensic exploration of ideas, and you want the answers queued-up, ready for easy access.
I quickly washed and donned my workout-wear. A glance at my watch told me I was right on time. I’d loaded my shoulder bag last night, with my book, highlighters, my phone, Air-Pods and a water bottle. I grab it as I head out. I’ll do my review on the treadmill.
Anna opens her door just as I do mine - perfect. We’re off to the gym.
Apr 25, 2022
Apr 25, 2022 at 7:13 AM UTC
I know what it was before
it became what it is
I’m at a disadvantage perhaps
and must forget its ****** state
its absolute condition of whiteness
the purity of snow untrodden
unmarked except for the lines
woven in warp and weft
I don’t know how to look at this piece
if I had it in my hands I’d turn it about
this way that way upside down
even to lie on its diagonals perhaps
otherwise it appears like newsprint
smudged but I think for me its best
on its side so there are columns
not stories floors horizontal separators
There - now it has something of that
Annie Albers City Skyline
a tapestry seen together
on a January day you
blue-skirted with winter boots
grey-cloaked with stripy tights
a sketching bag on the shoulder
a camera in hand and I entranced
by every move you made
As though seeking an image
in a cloudscape I view a quintet
of panels on a painted screen
a Chinese landscape Han dynasty
stark trees slow fields low hills
rising to a darkening horizon then
a river flows a valley forms and I am
smitten by the accident of invention
as always my love as always
gathering myself into the pleasure
of it all dear artist of weave and print
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 3:36 AM UTC
for the Webster University Jazz Quintet
A tripod of piano, bass and drums
was spread across the stage
weaving chords and counts
into finest sonic cloth.
trumpet and tenor intersticed between,
dazzled the sound-scape
with vision and calculated risk.
Solos poured out like fountains
with swaying, clapping and bobbing heads;
Eyes closed to let the light of imagination in.
With colors as sharp and vibrant
as the cut glass windows behind them,
they painted memories of Miles
back-lit by Solar flares
and took a pleasant hike
in Shorter's Footprints
to the jazz realm's distant borders.
Having journeyed so many Miles,
we paid them sincerest thanks,
steered our engines homeward
then slept – tapping our toes in our dreams.
April, 2007
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 11:46 PM UTC
In the conclusion of this war
I do send you my best twelve
don't tell me you love me
as I deny you, safe in my temple I dwell
Your quintet so mundane just annoy me
yet they were rather nice to consume
you better meditate a better way
if you want to be rid of me
Do you think after all these many years
did you think you would be rid of me
think again my mother and father
I stay my sword, just to **** you off
I mean to defend till the end
I will make many of yours with me
for you will never have your way
of taming the wild and free
You made this world of hell
you the lord of mighty *****
and as the gibber your lies
I do laugh and gloat church side
Enjoy the demise of you
feel the loneliness of rejection
watch your temples fall
as mine are built on your ruins
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 2:56 AM UTC
Once you did try to run my heart aground
Yet, you did not seem to understand how I operate
Since you abide, begun to confound
My heart, a quintet of tidal streams, off hand oscillates
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 10:31 AM UTC
The Quintet in my head do not harmonise.
They theorise and jeapordise.
Sep 17, 2022
Sep 17, 2022 at 6:48 PM UTC
which you can find traces of
in the heart of desolation
how many have weathered the stormof sand
we stayed now roasted faces
under the most severe conditions experienced the most painful stories
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 9:26 AM UTC
For the CBC Anchormen’s Quintet
Take the keys (of C and G), call a cab
Take the ‘phone from the moaning baritone
Bury their sheet music beneath a slab
And chase from the bass the inverted cone
Hot coffee to purge demons a capella
With fervent prayers to our merciful Lord
Please save each and every harmonic fella
And free them from the ringing chord
Oh, call a priest, call a mom, call a cop
Because friends don’t let friends sing barbershop!
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 3:11 PM UTC
they breaks the glasses too
as a result of anger
a bleeding hand
it won't change anything
throwing gasoline on a fire
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 11:51 AM UTC
life is graveyard of efforts
don't tired waste yourself
you can not comfortable
if unless you benefit alerts
if you leave the network it is attached
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 2:46 PM UTC
the door leads us to the light
footprint is guides for we
secret language all real
everyone draws his own painting
our place affects our view
Jul 11, 2017
Jul 11, 2017 at 8:25 AM UTC
all of your days
behind giant walls
for sure drawn borders
you can't pass
live up to your power
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 6:33 AM UTC
listening to singles is inevitable,
you're bound to listen to singles,
but... for the most part...
they're overrated anyway...
i found that i have a much larger
attention span to digest
three songs worth 3 minutes a pop,
i'd rather stick to the progressive
rock / jazz quartet / quintet
behemoth of... say... 9 to 12 minutes...
just like i found with
the valley of the sun EP...
for me EP is the way forward...
because it fits in nicely between
a single and an LP...
it just tickles the atmospheric
feel of an LP, but offers you so
much more than what
the single is... a footnote,
a snippet...
an erosion of the mind...
with the valley of the sun
EP?
the last track...
butch... and i don't mean
lesbian butch... i mean - butch...
grizzly butch...
but that's the beauty of the EP...
it's a generous sample...
3 minutes turn into ~30 minutes...
the last track summarizes
the whole pouch of sounds...
but you only think this,
because you think the last
track will be something mellow...
like the lullaby track
on *dry **** logic*'s debut
the darker side of nonsense...
goodnight...
most last LP tracks are fadeout...
or thereabouts...
but an EP last track?
a absolute corker...
riding and dunes?! come on...
but you don't appreciate listening
to this one track...
the idea is to listen to
the EP back-to-back,
and let the last track surprise
you...
that's what's great about
an EP... the element of surprise...
and the variations throughout...
with singles you have to pack
in several... have a playlist
and what not... a ******** carousel
a carnival of too much
variety...
and it's like watching
American football... but instead...
you know... you're listening
to this constant... stuttering...
there's no smoothness of either an
EP or an LP...
stop, scrum, shuffle...
throw ball back, throw ball
forward... one lucky ***** catches
the ball... runs on...
or doesn't catch the ball...
ball hits the ground... repeat...
eh... singles are overrated...
obviously it's inevitable that
you'll come across them...
but i hope the EP makes a comeback...
if it hasn't done so already,
at least for me it has.
Nov 11, 2018
Nov 11, 2018 at 6:59 PM UTC
Passion-- a lesser word would blemish
The glory of an autumnal afternoon
The melancholy of Schumann drifted through the music room
It made the heart weep and swoon
And life's poignancy never seemed more real
Than every celestial note from the master's quintet
That which is beyond the limits of words
Is the soul of music: this , this was a moment in time I would not forget.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 8:58 AM UTC
Afeather falls quietly
It does not bother anyone
the last point to be reached
quiet,calm,must be peaceful
life feather fall like
Jul 11, 2017
Jul 11, 2017 at 3:55 AM UTC