"serenaded" poems
I watch the prom Dance,
In an awkward stance,
my friends walk in with dates,
and the excitement Abates.
Alone in a corner,
I mope like a mourner,
With no partner to dance with,
No gentleman to prance with.
Amidst the mirth and cheers,
My eyes fill up with tears.
I rush out into the open air,
And by Jove! I see Voltaire!
With his satirical charms,
He draws me in his arms.
As I sway to the beats,
I'm waltzing with Keats.
Causing my funny bone to arouse,
Enters P.G. Wodehouse!
Using nonchalant wittiness,
He acknowledges my prettiness.
And then walks in Shakespeare,
Who wipes away my tear,
And my senses curdle like curds,
As he showers me with words.
While I repress the excited child,
I'm swaying with Oscar Wilde.
I'm rendered helplessly mute,
With his phrases so astute.
With a proposal so verse-y,
I'm serenaded by Shelly B. Percy.
And before this fantasy can spoil,
I fox trot with Conan Doyle.
And thus literally seduced,
into putty I'm reduced.
I am platonic-ally smitten,
By the genius of what they've written.
The dating circus can’t make me cry,
because a host of paramours have I.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 3:20 AM UTC
I want to go back, back to my New Orleans
This place that I call New Orleans is actually Louisiana
But still, the gorgeousness of this dirt and grime
The live oaks stretching over the 6-lane wide streets,
Touching leaftips, making a canopy over the passerbys
Crepe myrtles showering streets with lacy pink faerie dresses
Smells of beignets and seafood fill the French Quarter
Intense, consuming, warm, loving sun burning through your shirt
In New Orleans to say horses sweat, men perspire and women glow
is to be ridiculous.
In New Orleans everyone sweats like pigs.
As for the grime I mentioned, this exists mainly in
the sidewalks cracked by live oaks which make an adventure of every walk down the street
And in any semi-deserted street
To have a Mardi Gras or St. Patrick's Day without a parade and citywide party is to toss aside traditions and the New Orleanian way
The New Orleanians are welcoming, hearty and heartwarming, tough and unafraid to talk to a stranger on the streets.
An old black man once greeted me with 'konichiwa' as I walked past
A middle aged white man once struck up a conversation with us as he realised we had shared the same ferry earlier in the day
An old asian woman conversed familiarly with our family at Cafe Du Monde simply because we are Vietnamese as well
A teenaged white boy waved at us as we drove past him jogging
A different old black man stopped and serenaded my siblings, mother and me with his trumpet just because we smiled
Several young mothers and women have stopped my mother to gush over my siblings and me, usually when we were very small
I, myself, have given directions to a tourist or two, lost near Cafe Du Monde or the levee,
And I hope that the warm smiling spirit of the Big Easy will remain forever immortal.
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 7:33 PM UTC
The singleness of mind
as the pavement lobotomizes you.
No forks in the track
at any point.
from point A
to point B
Employ your limbs or you might fall asleep
as you are serenaded
by strange music
from universes
just discovered.
Some universal truth tough to explain.
How every galaxy
in every glint
on this desert road
is, with precise frequency, interrupted
by that yellow stripe
running in intervals down eternity lane
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 6:15 PM UTC
Counting stars (edited October 18/13)
Looking at the night time sky
Staring at the stars
counting all that we can see
Serenaded by the cars
clouded sky and rainy nights
full moon and sometimes none
I cherish counting stars with you
You are my only one
Making wishes on the shooting ones
Knowing what we see is gone
In the twinkle of an instant
Their light may now be done
In the darkness of a moon filled night
Lying, counting stars with you
It doesn't matter how high we get
we may even just see two
I know we can not count them all
If we stay here 'till we die
The thing that is important
Is that we just give it a try
Each night we begin again
The stars come out to play
Counting stars each night with you
My first wish comes true each day
Imagine, if there's someone there
Counting stars, and we are one
That they look at and imagine
On the far side of the sun
thinking, what is going on
Way out there in space
counting stars, like I with you
brings a smile to my face
Lying here just holding hands
And counting stars we see
Just knowing that this point in time
belongs to you and me
counting some we do not see
A speck in outer space
Lying, counting stars with you
this is my favorite place
I know we can not count them all
If we stay here 'till we die
The thing that is important
Is that we just give it a try
Each night we begin again
The stars come out to play
Counting stars each night with you
My first wish comes true each day
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 11:19 AM UTC
Love and paradise
met in the red room
when starlight sang
the waltz of time
the night was set
a million years ago
when warmth and affection
were brightly born
"softly" said love
to the rim of pleasure
as they danced
serenaded by a trillion stars
"when we are old
let men say
love and paradise
came one night
and left us joy"
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 5:21 PM UTC
Looking at the night time sky
Staring at the stars
counting all that we can see
Serenaded by the cars
clouded sky and rainy nights
full moon and sometimes none
I cherish counting stars with you
You are my only one
Making wishes on the shooting ones
Knowing what we see is gone
In the twinkle of an instant
Their light may now be done
In the darkness of a moon filled night
Lying, counting stars with you
It doesn't matter how high we get
we may even just see two
Imagine, if there's someone there
Counting stars, and we are one
That they look at and imagine
On the far side of the sun
thinking, what is going on
Way out there in space
counting stars, like I with you
brings a smile to my face
Lying here just holding hands
And counting stars we see
Just knowing that this point in time
belongs to you and me
counting some we do not see
A speck in outer space
Lying, counting stars with you
this is my favorite place
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 6:35 AM UTC
I watch as the sun dances on the water, under the bluest sky. No twirling clouds in the breeze above. No shadows block the sun. Twinkling stars in the afternoon hang around to dance all night. The sparkling onyx water takes the hand of the moon and is serenaded by the night sky in all its illustrious splendor.
**Fluttering lights sway
Music unheard leads the dance
As heartbeats keep time**
In the heat of the day through midnight shades of navy, the ocean laps the shore. Beckoning ever so gently. With each passing joyous tango, the force rises until it demands your company. Until you learn to dance in all your glory. To be one in the night and be bare in the sun. To reflect the good around you and let it shine down and make you free. Still, I sit and watch the water dance.
Jun 16, 2010
Jun 16, 2010 at 7:41 PM UTC
she writes of the falling days
- knows them well, one can tell
simple things like string
and wrappings
autumn and swallows -
hollow places she has seen
in boxes and photographs
and so it is - the falling days
the number of birds at my feeder are fewer
no more humming, no painted buntings
-only my homies come now, my vato birds, my mijas
the cardinal, both red and green
the nuthatch and chickadee, the titmouse-
all three
the wrens and finches, too-
and the blues still like to bathe
in the pyrex baking dish sun warmed
on a sunny day-serenaded by the mocking
one hopping from grub to worm below
- my usual feathered friends
not caring about the weather-fair or foul
and in the pale blue, a gull still laughs
at the folly of it all-
leaving goes slowly-
a spiraling, a gust of wind-
days slowly graying
shorter, lightly fading
- friends, they go
the falling days, change and leavings
leave me - well, you know...
i see the simple things
that soothe, like string
and wrappings, swallows -
- autumn, you know?
r ~ 10/6/14
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
Behind the evening's golden glow
The skies are hiding early snow
The road leads homeward toward the glow
Day is done, it's time to go
The gold shows ending of the day
The clouds show snow is on the way
Time to ride and not to stay
I've got to put this one away
Amber fills the autumn skies
Signalling the storm behind it lies
It's time to say our fair goodbyes
And be serenaded by coyote cries
The golden sheen is the sign
Your day is done, as is mine
I'm heading west along the line
Back to the ranch "The twisted nine"
A golden glow before the clouds
filled with snow, a winter shroud
I know the wind is getting loud
So I am off to beat the crowd
Behind the evening's golden glow
The skies are hiding early snow
The road leads homeward toward the glow
Day is done, it's time to go
Aug 23, 2015
Aug 23, 2015 at 9:02 PM UTC
Atmosphere pervades this place:
A subtle, spiritual background
So surreal.
Far from haunted manors
Or flashing disco halls.
Soundless surrounds ****** my soul
As I’m serenaded by serenity.
Peaceful plains becalmed:
Punctuated only by gently rustling trees
And the distant twittering of birds.
I cannot feel any force
Except some sublime emanation
Of peace and tranquility.
Satisfaction soothes my mood
As I make the most of these lingering moments.
So good to chill out in the snug
Of my local pub.
Paul Butters
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 6:34 AM UTC
The giant moon lit up the night.
The early June air cool and crisp.
We drove my mother's car through the woods
Up Forker road to the place she was staying.
The Eagles serenaded us through the static of the radio and
We kissed for the first time, bathed in moonlight.
Her smell, exotic and unknown and wonderful.
The giant moon lit up the night.
The early June air moist and perfect.
Cars raced across the downtown bridge overhead.
The night wind and the sounds of the city, our soundtrack.
Graduation was over and we left our friends behind.
Graduation was over and our tongues were intertwined.
I'd never been touched there before, and have never felt like that since.
The giant moon lit up the night.
The mid-August air warm and still.
We parked my beat-up old Ford truck in the middle of God knows where.
She thought she was going to look at the glimmer of stars,
She found a diamond in her sleeping bag instead.
We cried together in hope and excitement.
Her warmth next to me could have sustained me forever.
The giant moon lights up the night.
The early June air cool and restless.
I drive the same beat-up old Ford through the same corners and the same woods
Up Forker Road, thinking about them all.
Not about all of the things that would eventually go wrong
Or the nights when my very soul would ache like no other pain in life,
But of the nights when that same summer moonlight
Poured mercy out on our hearts;
In those moments, life was new and sublime.
The nights not like this one, when the moonlight guides me home to emptiness
And that curious mixture of longing and trepidation
That pours out from a freshly broken heart
And a giant summer moon.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 3:52 AM UTC
i am the piper
cept my pipes are
a bit rusty
out of tune
melancholy
its too late for monthly checkups
but you never seem to mind
but you see the only reason they are
so worn out
is because i sing my melody
as loud and beautiful as I can
every time we do the dance of passion
no, they can't be rusty
because
i've serenaded so many other women before you
that can't be
you,
your melody is sweet, pure, harmonious
but of course, you've only just started
you make me feel like an old man
whose pipes have seen generations
i almost feel bad serenading such a pure heart
but i know what will happen
you will leave me soon
yes, I know from our passion dances that you
love me
but when you find another whose music is sweeter
more pure than my coarseness
i promise
you will love him more
its only a matter of time...
Apr 12, 2012
Apr 12, 2012 at 1:29 PM UTC
Blood-stained sheets of paper littered the floor, like
the mind of a depressed author. And you picked one up, looked
me in the eyes and said this is a dead man's idea of good-bye,
where you got them, I didn't know, but I listened
to the way your voice softened as you read and sang and
wallowed. I'm sorry it had to come to this you read, I just
don't think I belong here anymore. There's this empty
hole in my chest where I loved you once before. And baby,
don't cry, you did everything you could, but sometimes
everything just isn't enough. You never said who the author was
and I think that meant a lot. I remember the night you serenaded
me with lines from suicide notes, and I remember how it was not until
the end that I realized it had been yours.
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 4:38 PM UTC
It is the same garden that holds,
Prickly rose bushes,
Healing basil and spritely marigolds.
It is here the bees fly, birds rest their wings,
It is here every morning the nightingale sings.
It is here the hare scampers, the squirrel scurries,
The snake slithers, the rodent hurries.
It is here the gecko hides, the worm crawls,
The bat flies when darkness falls.
In the mud and the dirt, the soil and the gravel,
In coarse little stones, smooth little pebbles,
In topaz skies, in waters azure,
In a lotus that blossoms in a world impure.
In the siesta of flowers, the fiesta of leaves,
In the dance of raindrops serenaded by a breeze.
In summer's golden glare, autumns russet finger
In the green breath of spring, the white hand of winter..
Beauty in His creations, in every season,
In every color for a rainbow of reasons.
Each special and each rare,
Each, in a bough or burrow,
Has a niche somewhere.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 9:12 AM UTC
Is this not what it's all about?
Waiting in the wings,
stretching, turning, churning,
anxious and adrenal,
living for the dream,
wishing for the dream,
being
the dream,
dancing on beams,
beneath the streams
of lights and fans,
arrayed like a bird
in tulle, crinoline, silk, satin and linen
white plumage,
acting only on command,
the music soft and flowing
their frail, slender figures
take to air,
arms and legs,
torsos tender,
slender necks,
wisps of downy hair,
melding colours,
sights and sounds,
the stage a pedestal of fate,
their beauty
captured
in gilded cages
for all to watch and see,
recaptured yet again,
by the artist on the easel'd window
of his canvas,
a maestro of sorts,
tapping his baton-brush,
coating the blankness with sweet
inspiration,
like angels heavenly
brought to earth,
serenaded by strings,
life from the blankness begins,
covers the void,
bejewels the mind's eye
and beckons the ballet
rehearsal to begin,
yet shall in oil paint now
and for all time
never cease to be...
"Art is not what you see, but what you make others see."
Edgar Degas
____________
Inspired by the painting by Impressionist artist Edgar Degas,
The Rehearsal.
--to view the painting:
http://www.ibiblio.org/wm/paint/auth/degas/ballet/degas.rehearsal.jpg
Sep 3, 2010
Sep 3, 2010 at 3:24 AM UTC
Bathed in the shade of
a rubbery rhododendron,
I sway imperceptibly,
Lulled by nature's rhythms,
A silent, sleepy visitor
splayed on a ropey nest,
Serenaded by an aerial orchestra,
Chirps and trills
and throaty warbles
spiral downward,
Atomized in the languid breeze
like a Roman candle,
A staccato riff,
Jack-hammered into a dying birch,
Urges me back from the edge,
Where dream and dreamer part,
A gauzy memory of a melody lost,
Performed for the oblivious,
and a dozing, grateful
audience of one.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
we did what we could that night
and a supernal being is ashamed.
this is the drift of thought
in the vast ocean of gilded gold
frothing at the edge of rotund:
giving back a silenced enigma,
spewing the answer in an exhaust
of white rancid smoke
dharma burns plastered to cigarette.
burning and burning, afloat are the high-pouncing embers looking for fleeting shades and dagger-ambulations
of a shadow's swagger in tectonic soiree.
we did what we could that night.
like a flash of lightning at the back
of hoarded hills,
or say, something brutal and brash with
modern sensibilities we never jell —
we come not with softness or life
peering out of our eyes like little girls
serenaded by mad men in the eve of
forlorn nights. we did what we could
and some god cringes, winces away
like the erratic dance of candleflame.
the leviathan black spreads its parasol
and we are no strangers.
when our veraciousness starts to pierce
the veil, the populace should start
to worry of their trapped conditions.
we came here for something:
be it flesh, be it wisdom, be it plain inebriations — we will never flinch
at the squalor of tomorrow's sobering.
keep in mind, kaibigan.
it's all levitation and transcendence.
the darkness wept as the car
groans near the end of its immaterial life.
i flick the last cigarette into the grey-faced pavement.
all oceans drowned,
all shadows burgeoned,
all fires emerged plump,
this silent radio rivers
through the wave of this ephemerality,
the onomatopoeia of strangeness,
the thud
of the senseless head of metal
on the body
the clackety-clack
of hours thereafter!
ayeayeaye! the streets sing no mild
appendage. the solstice is lost
in the length and precision of all things.
bringing ourselves to the brink of absence,
our pallid selves set ablaze, emblazoning
the quick life of matchflame or rumble of
thunder — the steady phoenix of
that night! this is learning
to breathe again, o, what currents purloined in vicious swarth as we keep
this river flowing into our throats,
jamming our souls to compelling music.
remember kaibigan,
it's all levitation and transcendence.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 8:03 AM UTC
there was a cemetery day
in the heat of july
when the shadow dreams called
and i fell in love with you.
there was a cemetery day
when i walked tight ropes
when we serenaded the birds instead
and made grass angels.
there was a cemetery day
when we threw stones in the quarry
thought seriously about diving in
and promised to one day.
there was a cemetery day
when the cicadas sang high
where silk flowers caressed the graves
and we danced like children often do.
there was a cemetery day
when we stood between our cars
anticipation under the haze of the streetlight
and you almost kissed me.
there was a cemetery day
when my head was reeling
realization breaching my skies
and i didn't want to go.
there was a cemetery day
when we drove until we couldn't
sunlight scattered in our quiet
and you thought about our fingers interlaced.
there was a cemetery day
when we lay out on the dock
the one that floats just off shore
and you caught me as i fell.
there was a cemetery day
in the heat of july
when the shadow dreams called
and you fell in love with me too...
Jul 22, 2011
Jul 22, 2011 at 7:14 AM UTC
countless generations of bards and preachers
and poets and sages
and honorable and revered members
of our respectable societies
countless such generations
have spoken and declaimed
have sung and serenaded
on goodness and cruelty and avarice -
and yet put them in power,
and scrutinize their lives
and their words
become thin
and their lives shallow
and their songs are cherubic lies;
a long line of saints and philosophers
and prophets
and mild-mannered selfless carers
ah such holy stewards
a long line indeed
has nurtured humanity, its sick and downtrodden
and radiates love in all directions
but oh scrutinize their actions and
their motives
their lives are but comic contradictions
pathetic self-delusion;
ah, let me not seek to change the world
but see to myself first
rather than jump into
hot-air sermons and vain exhibitions
Oct 22, 2010
Oct 22, 2010 at 2:14 AM UTC
He was sleepless that night, the buffoon
Who questioned himself if he was a loon,
For he desired so deeply to compose a tune
Inspired by the darling moon;
Similar to those who died so soon,
Immortalized all by fading rune.
Across his desk, did lay the rune
interpreted by this buffoon.
He realizes in it far too soon,
That he was like the other loon
Who fell in love with the lovely moon
And also wrote a rhythmic tune.
He began to hum his heart's humble tune
And began inscribing his personal rune,
praying that he'll be loved by the moon.
He is quite a fool, this valiant buffoon;
For he never did care if he was a loon
And either if he would be gone all too soon.
Seemingly, somehow, so soon was soon.
The buffoon had sung his final tune.
There goes the buffoon who was a loon.
He lands on the pavement, made it his rune.
That was the end of this loving buffoon,
Who jumped off, thinking of flight to the moon.
There hangs the modeled, magnificent moon,
That was never too early nor never too soon,
That was died for by our busted buffoon,
That had been dedicated several tunes,
That had been depicted in plentiful runes,
That turns gentlemen to lunatic loons.
Tonight was the night of demise of the loon.
of the man who died for the love of the moon.
The moon's loon becomes part of the runes
of men who loved Luna yet died too soon,
of men who serenaded Luna with their tune,
of men who we may call "buffoon."
The loon became rune far too soon,
The loon who wanted to be of the moon.
He sleeps at last, the late buffoon.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 7:58 AM UTC
Oh Joy, Oh Great Heavens Above,
How I like to lingeringly slaver o'er
The fartleberries hanging humunguously
Out of your **** cleft like bunches of mouldering grapes,
And to gaze upon the lusciously stale shitstains
Decorating your hirsute **********
You so rarely wash and your dumps are omnipotent
And you are too mean to buy any **** wipes.
You moan quite loudly in colonic ecstacy
As I plumb the Stygian depths of your sit-upon place,
My nose diving daintily like a woodpecker's beak
Smeared with poo-bits, seeking Nirvana
In your ****** paradise, brown love-tunnel
Serenaded by the poets since Time began!
Nowhere in all the Hershey Universe can there be
A pongier rimmee than you, O unshaven beauty of mine!
My probing tongue is covered with nutty brown paste,
Your sweet excremental delight makes me drool
In joy, as I personhandle myself "down there";
Ignoring the most elemental rules of hygiene.
But sadly there is a fly in the ointment
Indeed a whole ******* barrelful of them:
Not only will I get a very nasty E-coli infection
But I'll have bad breath tomorrow at chapel.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 1:45 PM UTC
*After enough heart breaks
I finally found a perfect hypocrite
who loved me "supposedly" unconditionally
our days were full of light
felt like moon was a little closer
like a flower we blossomed
we emitted a heavy fragrance
haters choked on it
each day we fell more and more in love
woow to that love
it was crazy and adventurous
while I bought her guns and bullets
bows and arrows
she got me flowers and chocolates
wrote me heart quenching poems
and at night ,serenaded my heart
I painted her staircase pink
and got her ***** dresses
her walking upstairs
the view I enjoyed
But sigh!things just changed
its dawn, sun is up and the moon far gone
Medusa turning me into a stone
would have been merciful
maybe I did overdone something's
believing I was cementing our fragile relationship
after all
the road to hell is filled with good intentions*
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 12:35 PM UTC
I became unexpectedly aware
of a
magnet in my chest.
an anchor under my
breast bone.
soft, quiet, almost
unnoticeable.
until later pondered alone
in a dark room.
your polarity,
being opposite naturally,
drew me slow
through the aisles in
the theatre
past people carrying
jackets
into a park
where city stars
were streetlights and
our human discoveries
were serenaded
by the spring song
of homeless men pushing
carts up the street.
As our magnets gradually
synched
I felt the heavy slide and click of
understanding
coded into songs and on the fronts of
cards
and when I let you-
I saw colours in
your kiss,
noting that some matched
your eyes.
I found home in
your arms.
like a final orientation...
like being on a road trip my whole life
without even knowing.
Became afraid.
Because really,
who understands love,
when they've never been properly
introduced?
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 10:52 AM UTC
Alyssa moves like she’s being watched
and watching me,
but the white-walled room, despite her husband’s presence
is empty.
Everything echoes.
Alyssa and I have serenaded the dead and dying weekly.
Today is no exception.
She performs, I just sing–
are my songs really any emptier than hers?
We and the dying clasp hands in a circle
and mimic a psychic raising of the dead.
Alyssa and I have sat through the same
cut-and-dry
hour-long condemnations
all our lives,
but she bought in and now moves
like she’s being watched,
at which I scoff.
Alyssa is not allowed into Business Meetings
because of sexist Paul,
and I make this known to a friend
I trust now more than Alyssa,
now happily chatting with the guy I was eying.
Alyssa’s father takes me aside
for inquisition.
I confess of my sin, but I do not repent.
Alyssa found out, and now my existence is ***********
Jul 28, 2012
Jul 28, 2012 at 2:38 AM UTC