The emotions of a human
Can be lightly
Played and strummed
It can resemble the steady beat of a heart
The sound cannot be replicated
Repeated or duplicated
Once the disturbing melody starts

The highest strings
Penetrates the mind
Representing the sadness and anxiety
For now you are quite alone
The shrillness will increase in strength
But will remain dark in tone

The lower strings
They are the loss of hope
Relaying disillusion
These strings are taut
Specifically for you
In my composition
I will most certainly use them

To complete my vengeful melodies
The strands I pluck and choose
Shall be your life's situation
For you, my sly one are the harp
And I am the musician

I strum the strings one by one
In a familiar rhythm, you know
I am smiling at your rapid demise
As your heart implodes silently and slow

I will continue to play you
Throughout your life
My tunes filled with retribution
Have no doubt
We both know it is true
You are the harp
And I am the musician

The strange and eerie song I play
Notes chose for their intent
For all the damage you have caused my dear
The strings I choose will represent

Now I perform this song
For your blackened soul
Upon which there will be many lesions
Till the echoes of this music
Shall drive you into madness
For you are the harp my darling
I am the musician


This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby

Symphony No.9 in d – minor, opus 125

Allegro ma non troppo

The silence gives way gently
to quiet tremolos rustling
beneath the beckoning
call of distant horns.
A melodic cell, nascent in violins,
spirals down to the somber depths
of cello and contrabass.

A sudden cataclysm
shakes the hall like thunder
heralding our universal birth.
Gales of sonic force
splashed like turbulent waves
against the rocky shores.

Drifting sans glass or sextant
on a sea of expanding mystery,
we gaze to the heavens
in hopes for a glimpse
of our father’s aetherial dwelling.

Molto vivace

With hands intertwined,
we dance in a ring
to the capricious airs
of the laughing gods
with Zeus himself on timpani.
So pass the wine and kiss your neighbor
and fill your glass to the brim!
For today is yesterday’s morrow
and tomorrow’s history.

Adagio molto e cantabile

There is no greater and more healing light
than the candles that shine
in the eyes of a friend
or loving spouse -  
tenderly lighting our paths
through the storms and fogs
that cloud our lives.
Peace abides in a friend's embrace.

An die Freude

Against raging storms of
strife and sorrow.
we hear a healing voice
A calm cello hymn -
that migrates up to higher cords
of violas and violins -
breaking into joyous song
sung by trumpets, winds and drums.

Casting all shrillness of discord aside,
a baritone lines out Schiller’s ode -
and sings of Elysium’s daughter.  
Quartet and chorus enter in
proclaiming hope for the human family,

A tenor raises a stein to valor
in the company of his friends.
The quiet pulsing of horns and winds
ushers in torrents of ecstasy.
Arms clasped in communal embrace,
we gaze to heaven on bended knees
then rise with a majestic fugue
that illuminates our souls
like a blazing Alpine dawn.

In a cyclone of passion,
Schiller's words and Beethoven's notes
entreat us to restore
what custom has rent apart
that each of us may live our lives
as brothers in heavenly sanctuary.

May 25, 2007

I think yesterday is years away;
Between one and the other,
Between fathers and brothers.

So sisters and mothers
Blink feathery at their watches.
Hums like a hummingbird
Flails to a shrillness,
And a polyphonic fearing panic
Pulls us all back by chance
To the chancery.

Somewhere after grandfathers
Before grandsons,
Like Robert Frost being a modern
Not modernist—
There’s the last of the conceivable eros—

Conceived by sleeping
Resource and resourceful
Poverty with all the impressionism
of the gardens and allegories
at a dinner party.

Cast to the sea the ***** sought out the horizon,
Yet, no closer did that lifeline magnify.
While waves threatened to devour her very self.
Fierce, some. They pounded to **** her asunder.

The deep, bent on suffering her mind till it was pruned, soaked.
Bloating her limbs, not buoyant enough to keep her afloat.
Her tears locked, shut her eyes,
In a zip of salt and wounds.
Made them ready for the sun’s vicious fight.

Eyes could not be kept dry,
Seen paranoid shadows loomed under, over
And under and over again ~ awash, awry.
Haunting her in the shrillness of the current’s toss.

She dreamt of her toes scratching in the sand,
Of the waves giving birth to her onto the shore.
The struggle and fear of it all ~ pending the end.
She tore open her eyes to see still no view in sight.

Breathed she did, as if the waves were the hum of the oceans lungs,
Fought now no longer against the move.
Given to the law of the nature she was,
Floating and waiting.
But not going down, not going down.

There will never be a pause now
it is the season of the first song at last
the tremulous heart has found partner
in the world's quivering.

With growth and green fires, birds carry the wind,
shaking out the bronze into a shrillness,
warming and agitating every alcove.

And also from up out of each lost pond
comes the lilted piping of frogs.
There will never be a pause now,

The oldest news has gone through every chamber.
like a road unveiled between mountains,
The sun tightly wraps my seeking to you.

With all the beaming, ingeminate sounds,
with all the shaking green in us,  
there will never be a pause now.

The trees are stricken with a terrible illness
a certain shrillness that permeates
their perpetual stillness.
And I have seen them.
Their pitch dripped hearts buried underneath
Their brown and rough bark, our version of skin.
And I have cut them.
Looking for their sap, their form of our blood
Hoping to find it still sticky sweet with life,
Hoping it has not succumb to their illness
That is our men.
Men, with burly beards and chainsaws
That are the trees versions of sterile masks
And metal toothed needles
Chainsaw needles that pump poison into
The trees’ version of our arms
Their form of cancer that
Ravishes through what would be our
Organs.
Men with saws that are our version of chemo
Shaking off the leafs that would be
What we call hair
And I have seen them.
They fall down the same way we would
And are covered by our same dirt earth.

in cool piney shade
on squat bushes spread
wild blueberries grow
on soft, mossy bed

or under the ferns
among meadowsweet
on berms in the sun
but sheltered from heat

or on a bush rising
almost to my waist
so loaded with berries
it bends down and sways

I'm picking them
plump and cool with the dew
in dappled sun under the pines
morning turns into afternoon
I'm losing all sense of time

cicadas' shrillness,
a chorus of crickets,
the red squirrel's noisy chatter,
a crow's voice somehow reminds me of spring,
but time just doesn't matter...

Forest phantom imagery
haunting stereophonic instrumentals
from Murals
whispering     on in nights    fine tent
wrapt up in my sleeping bag and only hearing dynamite as clouds
pass into the afterlife and
the moon has blossomed
the ocean!
Whole Blue Cliff Record lit in here on a bright canvas,
trees can see me saving paper,
Asian telltales, poetics,
and Buddhist Zen philosophy
swirls in my Mystic/Sombrio harp-brain
vivid by lucid shrillness
(achey wakey!!)
Turn the pillow
snap a mental image of that modern monk,
imaginary in his waterfront Salvation Army and his
Glass Temple and his
blasted literature.
His tearful dreams, logical processes... so that it's okay (zzz) always (zzzzz) what's that up there, Shiva?
I am atom, you are ATOMIC
There's a difference here I promise (ASTRONOMICAL)

The waves demand their presence to be known by periodic lion-like clamor, my lips are dry from fireside cider and absolute darkness fills up this space like water, oh cosmic libertine! Snap their starless net to catch the sea and a luminous fish which I may be presented with like inky flashes of thought courtesy of the streetlight moon who's pale properties signal GO
to those willing to decipher it's surface from this far away..
All the quiet beat down trees murmur muffled truth.

This truth is only available to dogs and Christ,
but not me, not any normal soul who's mortal vision is too blurred to make anything out of yet..this Springtime tapestry just a fragment
to an ETERNAL NOISE
which may be faintly audible past the waves
who try their best to stamp it out of perception.
But I am feeling particularly meditative tonight!
I'll at the very least stroke the thin top layer of absolute knowledge
and do so with heightened, trained consciousness..
when the moment is right
which may not be now
(definitely not now)
quelled by flesh and sleepy daze,
onyx silk covering us in warmth..but I will get there!
An Everest for any to see but exclusive to those who can.
Climbing higher in years
emotional trials
loves and fears
or passing seasons where I signify the apparent shift with
a name
(Parade)
or
(Pendulum)
Out from under
But not yet completely unwrapped from
The Mosaic
to see it all stretched open,
beautiful and tragic.

She stands at the bottom of the garden
a smile of dainty goodness smudging her chin, and a bouquet of
somethings cradled in her white arms
and she's a statue
There must be a still wind coming from the west
well,
I'd forgotten the sound of Voice
until now, when dinner wafts me in simply
~
there's an external source across my senses;
I only get so far before habit breaks the adventure
and I know the shrillness of my bark arouses the deity from her somnulence
I feel blessed, then put the silly escapade down to dreaming
But although I get something for nothing, she, who stood laying clothes in parallel stacks
Recounting songs from a larger world, to me
perhaps only belongs there now

© Copyright David Bosworth August 2013

You are loud
And you are drunk
And I turn up my music
Try to mask the shrillness of your laughter
The bus is dark
And it is late
And I sit in my usual bubble of stillness
As if I am alone.
I hate that I can hear you.
Takes me out of my head
And into your world
Where I've got no power.
I sit and gaze out the tinted window at the streetlights
And a car passes- whoosh
Sudden like a knife
Its sharp slice of color through the blackness
Stirs my blood
And I check my thoughts
You are still
So ******* loud
And so ******* empty
Here
Take some of this
And burn with it.
See if you laugh then.
But I say nothing to you.
That is your place
And this
Is mine.
My heel connects with the grungy floor
And strikes a spark
Bang
Like a gun.
Bang
And flames lick the soft rubber of my boot
It smells like a car wreck.
I look away
Disinterested
And wherever I flick my gaze
Embers flare.
Fire races down the walkway towards the back window
Orange and
Breathlessly fast.
Long shadows dance on the walls
Glint off the windows
And throw your faces into sharp relief
Now you look
Like laughing corpses
Skeletal and distorted in firelight.
I like you better this way.
My coat catches
And I feel the heat as
The flames from the floor
Lap at my fingers
Like whining dogs
And I feel them blister
But they remain smooth and white.
I flex them, testing their new hardness
They are bone white
Bone hard
And they clink together
And the flames
Do not matter.
You are still loud
And drunk
And laughing
And you have no idea
Who you're sitting across from.

Rest, rest now beneath my feet.
Take comfort in your scarce heat.
The grey cross erected in your name.
Blackens now, and erodes away
Beneath this stinging rain.

Oh icy claw that grips your heart,
I long for my body torn apart.
Black crow, perched in tree,
For this I beseech thee.
I am no stranger to this bloodless air.

I, in shrillness, would scream
As my lungs did rip and tear.
I stand above your sodden grave,
And shall no longer by life enslaved.
Death, death do conspire;

Transform my black, funeral heart
And wilting sadist mind into my pyre.

You had them,
wore them like a festival
tiptoeing through
the roses of my mind
and the rush
of a running stream
overtook me.

I was awash
in your dreams,
screaming
for our deliverance.

O the tinkling,
the shrillness girl.....yes,
your bells,
your whistle,
this romance!

from a boy of bliss
to a joy to miss
regret and shame
mixed with a name
the prices low but the chips high
the crisis shows but the lips lie
it'll be ok a deep pool of uncertainty
it'll be today a beep a toll of serenity
close your eyes and wait for closure
open your thighs and take the exposure
metaphoric and diabolic
feel it in and let it go
real it in and let them know
everyday it gets worse
everyday hoping for a hearse
god why have you given me this curse?
no way to express the feelings of doubt
no way to impress the dealings I shout
I hate this I want it to stop
I hate this I want it to stop
crack a bottle and reminisce
think about the times when it was all fixed
a picture now broken
inside a house now woken by ashes
trying to sleep the image clashes
choices in a blurred sight of abuse
the voices just tying the noose
breath, another drink
believe don't just sit and think
she didn't mean it she doesn't go
she could clean it and make it glow
15 years and still in sorrow
another drink and it will be tomorrow
of the things that happened I can never speak
tolerance this month is at its peak
drinking to drown the mental illness
shrinking to crown the intentional shrillness
you win take your lap
you sin just to clap
applaud the horrid things scaring a life while
abroad the morbid things caring for a lifestyle
I'm done no sense to ramble
wish it wasn't my life you **ed up with a gamble
© 2 minutes ago, bob   adult poems

The butterflies inside of me have something to say,
        But I can’t let them speak.

They’re strung up in
        Some tangled mess of mesh
And mutter muted melodies
        From behind some scratching,
               Screaming screen
        Knitted from my fibers of fear,
               Or maybe manifested void of muse
                       And licked with the salt of uncertainty.

The butterflies inside of me have something to say,
          But I cut off their wings.

They sputter and swirl and sweep up
         Dusty remnants of chipped paint
                Inside my chest,
         But because I’m empty,
                Barren and dull,
                Cloudy and cold
        And cracked and crazy,
        Their tiny shrillness
        Of struggling wings
                And straining strings
                        Of voice tainted with winter
                Hits me without impact,
                        No pressure in their phrase,
                        No sincerity in their praise,

The butterflies inside of me have something to say
        But their colors aren’t bright enough to read.

“You look quite level”

Her dyed red hair was slicked back

And black eyeliner hid the feeling in her eyes



The man's white beard covered his mouth

Kept his words under a white blanket

Like snow covering over a crevice

Ready to fall through



She repeats most sentences

But adds the word "totally"

Adding dramatic effect by providing a level

Of fullness - totality.



Her laugh fills the room - totally.

But in no way with warmth

It’s sharpness is rude to me.



Those around ignore its shrillness

As if scared to admit their own

Inclination for negativity - to scorn a laugh.

There is this scream;
a voice that is loud,
but often incoherent,
yet powerful.
The walls of my mind echo
this scream
and pages are filled
with lousy reproductions.
For it is delayed
and smoothed out.
The raw shrillness
stays hidden within.

mathematics and mental illness
    the quiet, the questing, the thrillness
                      her anger and her shrillness ...

                                     37.

The poems can come from illness
Because life is a disease

The gentle ones (no shrillness)
Some future father for to please

Though death it closes all
I’ve been grateful on my knees

The moon so cloudy clueful
The sky is endless seas!

Cut down,
even as they raise me
and in remembrance
they'll bow their heads
to praise me.

Far better to bloom
in May, maybe June
and rest for the Summer
before the Winter strikes
with its terrors.

There is a shrillness to the
winds that scream,
I hurry on to hibernate
and dream
of Spring again,
the touch of gentle rain
to be raised again,

the cycle goes on.