"soloist" poems
You have one headphone in the left,
the radio in the right
as a stranger drives measures in clefts of night.
Kiss him how your feet kiss sand or
a soloist breaks off from the band
until the pianist beckons him back,
tuning deft fingers to a single track.
Open your ears to sound’s wordless talk,
beats in a measure a half-step off.
Blue’s lips tactless, ******* you down,
Blue’s lips fastening ankles to ground.
Then sudden and brace;
a rock in the road,
an anchor thrown
as you're caught between verses and words you don’t know.
Then sudden, the break;
pianist's mistake.
Notes shift under toe as the ocean lets go.
May 17, 2018
May 17, 2018 at 6:53 AM UTC
#
This depressive choreography
of flames
f i k r n
l c e i g
consumed in the geography
of bodies
b i c k e r i n g
Tongue's embers licking
the innocent cheek
words like poniards
P R I C K I N G
leaving this dance at its
pique
Now left a s m o u l d e r i n g
soloist on the stage
a dance so sobering
watch this fire's rampage
burn his own pyre
I gave into the rage
burn his own desire
another illegible page
tossed to fuel the bellowing fire
the end of our golden age
#
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 10:52 AM UTC
Chop down the city lights of Paranoia.
Cathartic beads of sweat roll
off the horrors of your back
under the saggy breast lamps
in the pitched dreams where the nightmare kids
come to watch you sleep.
Somersaulting walls made of human tissue,
the love of your life overseas, and everything you say
comes out as water torture on hollow centers of hope.
poetry is dead.
Liars smoke ten packs a day,
social criminals stroll in marathons of perdition
across the rot of post-modern vices,
their feet stomp closer to watching faces under the bed.
'This is a story. A dream!'
Everyone sees the fire under the bed.
Watch-fires earthbound by every word
before it is said,
gagged in envy--brought to glow by spineless atoms.
Every sexless sun has a beard, a saved flirtation that singes
the vacuum of today's soul,
a dead dream because you didn't pull it from the brink.
No one has a name in poetry. A task. A point. An exit.
One bed-room apartments locked with pearls
visible only to soloist dogs.
No sorry for vagueness or shut-mouth or bleeding upwards. The meter is running....
to the pharmacy
because it could be pregnant with all the possibilities.
And the whole amphitheater wants to hear one line, the life changer you brought
--here it is: Forget your name.
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 1:47 AM UTC
The soloist closes their eyes and leans in to play their instrument,
an intertwined movement as the musician and their tool becomes one.
An ever so subtle look of one who loves to that which is intimate,
knowing the sentiment that was formed now may never be undone.
The dance is bittersweet as the moment has already began to fade,
a beautiful sight with the undertones of a melancholic symphony.
Even though the house lights stayed a lit and the music swayed
the musician could see the end coming of this moment so vividly.
This temporary music spreads out into infinity,
where all is left is the memories.
Notes and undertones that almost approach divinity,
where all is left is the reveries.
The house lights went out, the soloist left gasping for air.
Every delicate sensation overwhelmed but they didn't care.
Apr 6, 2021
Apr 6, 2021 at 11:31 PM UTC
we never finished writing our duet.
i don't mean that figuratively.
we were writing a duet
and we never finished it.
we had our two separate melodies strung
the lyrics were quaint but true
but we could never seem to piece them together.
you couldn't quite harmonize pleasantly
our voices didn't blend nicely
maybe i could have taken it as a sign.
we just didn't take enough time
didn't have enough patience
i've always been more of a soloist myself.
we never finished writing our duet.
it doesn't get more poetic than that.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 12:45 AM UTC
A woman traipsed with the whole company of ballet;
She was but only a soloist, a mere sujet.
Her companions wore clothes for traveling hard,
But our sujet, she dressed in dancing shoes and leotard.
Her head was upturned and her nose pointed
High, as if by a great saint she had been anointed.
With ease she stretched into each dainty pose
But no other ballerina saw the bandages wrapped around her toes,
Which she had to replace every other hour;
Seeing her bleeding sores did often make her cower.
To the other ballerinas she was dismissive and ****
But her oft-clenched fists belied the faltering of her heart.
Her chestnut hair she had dyed golden like the rest
And her curves became thin so she would dance her very best;
She had hidden herself inside ‘till her olive skin turned pale,
Believing if she fit in, at her craft she never could fail.
Instead of breaking her fast or supping at night
She practiced her art and took nary a bite.
The ballet troupe sneered while the sujet put on her airs
Yet I know she wept at the ice hardened in their stares.
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 9:08 PM UTC
I am a good person to the max
I am a good guy in Jesus' name
I am a brilliant young man
I am so handsome like Gretel
Wesley Willis
Wesley Willis
Wesley Willis
Wesley Willis
I am a rock soloist
I am a rock singer on the Wesley Willis Fiasco
I am a cityscape skyscraper artist
I am a working class dog
Wesley Willis
Wesley Willis
Wesley Willis
Wesley Willis
I am a nice guy in Jesus' name
I have a mean schizophrenia demon in my head
My demon racks me with profanity
My demon tells me lies and says I'm a **** a *** and an *******
My demon keeps me from joy bus riding by torturing me
Wesley Willis
Wesley Willis
Wesley Willis
Wesley Willis
Kinkos, it's the copy center
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 10:24 PM UTC
I had a coat
Made from skin
That was a goat.
My coat made me thin
I was a skeleton
and my friends
Thought I was torn
They worried of my trends.
I was born to poor
They mocked me of poverty
Tears,I could pour.
In me was genuine liberty
I summoned my few kids
And I told them about courage ,
For Holes in life had lids
And we had not to be discouraged
"we have to face it courageous
This life is ours to live
We,being gorgeous
This life is our beautiful leaf
We have to remain hawk eyed
And clever like non
To always live today
And hope for tomorrow
Our past to control we can't
Today,our future we can ruin
So my kids,
Let us work to our best of ability !"
That day,
I threw away my coat
I focused on life
And
In less than a year I had what I called mine
I grew better
Wiser and
Today,I see the change.
Hope is my song
Change is my rhythm
Determination is my guitar
Devotion is my soloist
And my dancer is perseverance.
I am on my way to my destiny
Further away from my coat
That was a goat!
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 9:06 AM UTC
I light a cigarette
and take a seat onto a damp lawn chair;
the smoke rises and billows
against the crimson colored shadows
like milk in water
and I watch as it goes up to the sky,
over my house where it leaves me to stare.
My mind is clear, eyes wide open,
ears dilate as cool droplets of water trickle down
with pitter patters through the leafy green stairs.
Some even skip from step to leaf top
as if to jump in a quick hurry toward its destination;
others fall in groups behind me
and morph into four legged creatures
that scatter across the moist ruffles
of old and weathered leaves.
Still, my focus is above.
This silent noise abounds from all directions:
a chirped song of a baby bird to my right,
the concerto soloist of a cricket in hiding below,
the bell whistle croak of a frog somewhere near by.
If my senses were a cup it would surely be full now:
Musky odors from a previous storm
that lie softly on the rich brownish-red soil
would rise like steam from its glass rim.
Inside, shavings of silver would gleam like diamonds in light,
and a cotton soft red wine would fill it
like the night does the sky.
And now as I sip from this natural perfection
I am reminded of your lips sweet interjection.
And as softly as the smoke had risen
toward the shadows of red light,
a kiss was lit and we both began to dance;
around your mouth mine had began to waltz,
slowly to and fro on tip toes being careful not to fall,
but you held me close and grasped me tight
like the red sky does the stars,
and like it and the wine that now fills my cup,
with you in that moment I was awe struck.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 2:56 PM UTC
A photograph, a raindrop on a rooftop
I want to see you again
You just kind of pop back in my life
Here or there
You're gone again
I'm just stuck in this quiet, stained
glass jar. No sight in,
I can't see out
Like a personal museum
De-loved.
a 24K lip-pump soloist
I wish, I wish, I wish-
A cassette, an old bouquet
I want to see you again
It's horrid and you're not mine anymore
Here or there
Now or ever
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 1:15 PM UTC
Melodious, luminous
a small plumage of sounds
Found you, fond of you
The first string laid across the back of Spring, you sing
till my eyes grow rusted and my limbs frost with moss,
you perch still upon the branches of my broken fingers,
missing not a beat, a note, a loss.
*
Sing for this sunken world continuously,
my one and only
soloist
Apr 13, 2019
Apr 13, 2019 at 1:01 PM UTC
Playing to the heartbeat
Tub thumping Drumbeat
Overwhelming Synth wave
Channelling the Bass slave
Guitar jams, room shaking
Screaming voices, larynx aching
Cello in the background
Violins make mellow sound
The Snare an unholy snap
A Tambourine a mighty slap
The Cymbals crash
A Tom Tom smash
Chord change impending
Middle eight unending
Digital and analogue
Recording in its final slog
Final verse is looming
With the Bass Drum booming
The soloist’s precision
Fulfils the final vision
Aduain
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 10:01 AM UTC
Velveteen butterflies sail into strawberry way , strike a pose against the meditative , sunny disposition of the coming May
Harlequin horseflies and Bumblebee jesters
Pear bloom ballet , Mayfly soloist , interpretive Ferns are quite dashing in the Alabama breeze , Wood Thrush dancers and Mourning Dove romantics cooing in the Honey Locust trees
Madame April's storybook of Springtide scenes
and fairytale dreams ...
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 6:22 PM UTC
Dulcet melodies came up
From the basement, day and night
The rhythm that fractured silence apart
And rained in my life prettily like rose petals
In the falling of the spring
Her tinny fingers danced gentle on these piano keys
Serenading my soul, laid at peace with thee
She called this place the heart of her serenity
With love she kept it warm and dignified
Sometime ago she went out for draughts. And driven away by illusional views
Perhaps down on the sea promenade, something attractive
Held her hypnotized and possessed
Ever since she left, only silence sings from the basement
She left indelible marks and love notes around the walls, and
No soloist ever bothers to go down there
And stay longer, perhaps, because of her luggage all over the room
And I’m afraid of disposal, if she may come back home
Or emptiness could be too much to handle either
My heart has become, but just an isolated confined basement
Full of gloomy memories, ever since you’ve been gone
It is quiet with sadness down here without you, and
No soloist ever bothers to come and stay longer
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 4:36 AM UTC
Last night, I slept with Ludwig; the night before, Wolfgang.
Tomorrow, Johannes has promised me a vigorous work-out.
Not for me the ascetic pilgrimage to the gates of good taste.
I must have passion, for that will point me to truth.
Last night I slept with Ludwig, so now I am ready.
Music-lovers of Chicago: watch me walk onto the platform,
shimmering but dignified in midnight blue diamanté.
Prepare to hear my translation of feelings into sound.
Ludwig's feelings.
Everyone's feelings.
Last night I slept with Ludwig.
Now, I claim my reward. After the final chord,
applause is compulsory. Louder! Louder! Stand up and cheer!
You are my people. Love me! Love me, why don't you?
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 4:56 PM UTC
it starts with you
sitting underneath the sun at dusk
the only noise you can focus on
is your languid breathing
while the scent of the hot wind
curls into your nostrils
in wicked streams
your slow and steady breaths
gives the beat for the rest of nature to imitate
her winds join in
offering a sweet and watery whisper
blending her breaths and your breaths in an airy duet
laying down the foundation for
the soft pitter-patter
of her plants and animals
her mischievous wind
knocks against the willow's branches
swinging her leaves.
their hollow ringing
is rhythmic and relentless
and then you hear it
the orchestral arrangement
that mother nature
has arranged for you
you become the conductor
of your movement
with your deliberate, languid winds
and when you take a pause in your rhythmic breaths
to savor the sweet scent of summer
as if it could be stamped on your mind
the kestrel's song plunges
into the orchestra
the shrill, sharp notes form a soloist in a flurry of feathers and beaks
completing the orchestra
as the moon rises, opening her pale eyes
as she sways to the rhythm of Earth's song
Aug 4, 2020
Aug 4, 2020 at 6:07 PM UTC
i don't know why,
in a litre, that's 250ml gone,
on the basis that, working from 40%,
i'm figuring, 40% - x = 37.5%,
add the half and then add the 2...
what do you get? 40%.
anyway...
these "hard" spirits
are perfect for mixers...
you get a perfect mix
of, say, *dark *** & pepsi,
to conjure up a sharpshooter known
as blackbeard; and that really is
a name for the most trivial cocktail.
and when i mean "hard", i do mean "hard".
ever drink habsburg absinthe?
that's nearing the 100% mark...
or what one might call:
the 10,000 indicator for: what wasn't
ran, but was drunk;
zeno's paradoxical centimetre or
inches or miles or kilometres come later,
or at least last...
but this is fascinating... % = double negation
given that kant said, 0 = negation...
it's like a denial divided by denial...
i know the symbol suggests more
omicron representation than a zee-ρ;
never mind... it's the perfect fraction...
like a golden ratio, % = the perfect fraction.
the thing is though...
i'm drinking this 37.5% dark ***
and thinking... if this **** was at 40%...
i'd be worrying about not mixing it
properly...
and this is a "hard" spirit after all...
it's not exactly habsburg absinthe,
or a plum extract that's know by the name
of śliwowica, common in the tatra mountains...
which, like habsburg absinthe, is
nearing the ten thousand mark;
but some strange reason 37.5% is the perfect
partner for a mixer... say... *** & pepsi...
whiskey & pepsi... ***** & pepsi...
at 40% you're thinking... posh whiskey,
drank lukewarm... like a brandy / cognac.
37.5% is a ******* mystery to me...
i actually can perfect the sharpshooter concept
with that balance... mingling 40% with a mixer
is... is... just ****** hard...
sharpshooter? excess of spirit and
a little bit of a mixer... a bit like... a shandy...
beer with a head of lemonade?
no? don't know it?
37.5%, and a litre of it?! and enough pepsi?
i call that a friday night... as a party soloist;
oh i did to the laundry wasted today,
almost anything done drunk is fun as ****
you get all autistic, making patterns out
of the clothes and where they should hang
on the washing-line...
red sock, blue sock... no... red sock red sock...
here! blue sock... tartan pattern blue sock...
no... ah! blue sock blue sock.... dangle here!
well... you know... people have their alternative hobbies.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 6:13 PM UTC
*Cold Sun with calling Raven
Morning soloist in the Cyan school tree haven
Wild berry blush , springtime zephyr maven -
relaying messages o'er crystal oceans of red wire grass
and brunette morning straw*
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 7:26 AM UTC
Luscious Spring is wonderful avian theater ... The cameo appearance of Bradford Pear , a fragrant , beneficial Chestnut Tree of April ..
Melodious springtime , 'Creations Opus stage ..'
Voluminous , arthropod soloist , capering
the riparian rivers , break the searing afternoons ,
sing to me , the cool blessing of night ...
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 7:09 PM UTC
*Insect soloist of enormous color brushstroke
the given day
Cobalt- silver windows laced with
mountains of billowing steam , coveys
of timid Quail spark an afternoon of vivid dreams
A whisper of hope to awaiting ear , the
saccharin flavor of love filling warm air
The living day of Wren , Sparrow and Chickadee
The very hour of Live Oak , Sugar Pine and Mulberry
Fertile , vivacious stream beds on course for Gulf waters
Rainbow infused land of Cherokee Fathers* ...
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
he looked at her
with distant eyes
his past flame
iridescent and loving
him just dying for her heat
still,
if she only knew
for monkeys fall now
on his life
swinging on his sorrow
those sneaks
his eyes stare at the moon
and his lips murmur why
to all the men out there
laughing, why?
for whispers heard now
for
she plays the fiddle
lone bed groans same song and dance
soloist's bow squeaks
how swell life turns
on bated axis
he finds a wall
and knocks his head into it
it hurts
not at her independence
and playing to her own beat
no ...
for all the men out there
facing, facing
closed doors
Logan Robertson
7/20/17
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 1:42 AM UTC