"staccatos" poems
Friendship
Friendship is not a jewel or a coin or a gift
Jewels and coins and gifts don’t die
Friendship is not a flower or blown glass;
Friendship is not fragile
Friendship is not a poem or a melody
Because friendship cannot be forgotten
Friendship is a symphony
With grand overtures
Melodic harmonies
and unforgettable phrases
punctuated
by
Attacking staccatos
Vibrant arpeggios
then peaceful interludes
And sometimes
rests
Followed by thoughtful segues
All held together by a coherent structure
called
Respect
Apr 11, 2021
Apr 11, 2021 at 8:55 PM UTC
*the droplets of water are singing a trail down the bricks of the houses
through the alleys of the glassy-eyed broken people with soft hearts, a pre-disposition for death
weaving a tabooed trail across the sidewalks that when gazed upon reeks of obscurity
and leaving faint lines on the creased skin of all the sinewy fatalities
the mildewed rain peaks across the rusted windowsill that sighs with familiarity
it sloshes against the children’s playground and slaps at the pavement with a sudden clarity
it empties itself into the spiked maze of the tree branch hoping the leafs will cling onto to it dearly
it mellows into a pond that breaks apart with sharp staccatos when mushy feet run down the street
and it hurls itself into the bitterly sweet lips of two frost-bitten lovers who will soon meet
it daintily steps into the burning embers of the flame, only to be flushed out in shame
it turns to the shower as a last resort, but whines in dismay when it’s slurped down the drain
it embraces the eyelashes until it’s shaken in misery and then watches wearily as it’s blinked away in positivity
it lumbers down the path of the bruised ego, a shattering of phrases that leaves the person’s mouth
and before it has the chance to drop it is scooped up and chastised until it moves no more
the tears and the rain drops wander listlessly for all of eternity
only to be hastily thrown away or brushed into cotton for fear of a restless divinity
it is never to reach a destination and only doomed to be forgotten
and so it seems dear friends, that raindrops are simply you and me*
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
I.
The pen
Taps
Against my leadened desk,
All reverberating echoes and
Roaring staccatos:
Something to keep the soldiers
Rooted
In the chalkboard trenches alive-
A cackling reminder of
Freedom.
II.
Peeled away is the blissful world of
Morphine-addled haze
And round edges
The smell of pine trees
And Monday Vendetta.
Up in smoke.
Offered to the gods.
The great big furnace in the sky—
I carry them with me in an ashen urn.
As the days pass
A rhythmic stutter
Lumps
At the bottom of my throat.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 8:35 AM UTC
His nose was Cairo’s Bent Pyramid or a pair of ergonomic pliers
And his loyalty was a slumped tower of Jenga pieces
And his skin was a film of thick oatmeal or cream of mushroom soup, coating the bottom of an untouched ***
His teeth, little tombstones sinking into the earth.
His logic was a pair of safety scissors chewing through corrugated fiberboard
And his insults were sharp staccatos
And his humor was a steeped tea bag or curdled milk
And his laughter was a Singer sewing machine choking on tangled thread.
His eyebrows were gargoyle wings
And his hair, a bushel of dry bear grass
He sang, and it was cough syrup
And his beard was a soiled litter box.
His fingers, dried seaweed
And the palms of his hands were month old dish sponges.
His spine was a curved dipper gourd rotting in the sun
His grin was a snagged zipper
And his temperament pad-less brakes or a wasp in September
And his kisses were apple cider vinegar and radishes
And his eyes were two bottomless stone wells, foaming with moss.
His gait was a vulture scrutinizing its prey.
His chest was the backside of a dung beetle.
His insight was a cataract ridden car headlight lost in a curtain of fog
And his knees were skulls
And his touch was a snug pressure cuff
And his compassion was a guillotine
And the last time we spoke, it was crucifixion.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 9:09 PM UTC
Festive friends
We flourish in a flurry
Of stellar staccatos.
Crescendo of chemicals
Starlight suspended
Marvel at moonlight
Dance of dust
Airborne arrhythmia
Lachrymal lust
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 4:09 AM UTC
*imagine being me,
when the echoes of silence
turn into the carrier of words
falling
landing
shattering
in the form of stucco
hearing the great craziness
Beethoven heard himself,
staccatos of adjectives
describing the great escape or
the parallel tragedy within a beautiful death
and a morbidly immaculate love,
or even being immersed into a palette
of empathy,
splashes of your blues
while we grey with age,
imagine being me,
while I am managing to do that.*
-S.J
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 9:14 PM UTC
Silver
is a lot like the night when the gentle moonlight shone through my windows
and I swore it was perfect for a slow dance —
those kind of dances when you feel every molecule of your twirling and swaying;
those kind of dances when you dance to your own music –
legato and occasional staccatos during moments
when you close your eyes and feel the world beneath your feet skip to your beat;
those kind of dances you swore that you could win the title “best dancing couple”
even if you were dancing alone
because your best accompaniment is often yourself.
Silver is a lot like when we wished on that 1111 moment together and
you said you wished for me to be happy,
it may have just been a simple wish but
it sent this tingling feeling down my spine
and I could feel my heart thumping (lub dub lub dub),
pumping the pure essence of happiness into my veins.
Silver is a lot like the day when we first met,
when our eyes first met in this 2 second glimpse
that made the little butterflies in my stomach go crazy.
It’s what I remember my dreams to be.
Sprinkled with glitter
and how I woke up to the freshness of the previous night.
Silver is watching darkness engulf the place where I took a little stroll,
I remembered the crickets chirping to the dampness of the air,
I remembered how the wind caressed my face with it’s soft touch,
I remembered the trickling of the river water
which carried with it so much potential and brilliance.
I remember.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 10:22 AM UTC
tap, tap, tap
my toe hits the linoleum
I'm caught up in bouncing knees
and quivering hands
involuntary vibration
punctuated by staccatos
slicing through the silence
"It's coming," it says
I mutter, "how soon?"
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 2:42 AM UTC
Beneath a fading purple sky,
Papa sits here gazing high,
warmly smiling as I say
my name again to him today
though not an hour has since passed by.
Sunlight sinking, vision fails;
and selfless warmth now leaves the vales.
His voice which once was strong and pure,
staccatos now and speaks words fewer;
A phantom with a loved one's face.
And yet the words he finds to speak,
though murmuring voice is rasp and weak,
hold truths from many decades past,
told vividly with spirit vast;
nostalgia from a dear antique.
He dreams within a castle air,
with memory as the mason there.
He sometimes looks out past the vape
at shadows gathering there to gape,
but can't assail his foggy lair.
Inside, his vigor unbereft,
his chronicles are lined and kept
on shelves of moments come and gone;
and cherished loves long since passed on
within this dream have never left.
And there my papa wanders free -
his paradise of memory.
And though I dearly miss him so
when him to this silent fortress go,
the phantom there is I, not he.
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 9:38 AM UTC
-Light-
_Darkness_ pours into me
in shimmering rivulets,
-Is-
thrumming in staccatos
of carnal dour;
-All-
begging me to yield, to burn,
to drown in its mercy,
-That-
But it knows not that
a flicker is all it takes
to _light_
-Remains-
Nov 15, 2020
Nov 15, 2020 at 10:39 AM UTC
It took a few years to find ourselves.
In that time, my hair grew out,
and your height grew tall.
We grew like sunflowers.
All the other girls wanted crowns,
along with a Prince Charming,
while I took up fencing, and learned
how to shoot a basketball properly.
You learned the arts, how to
play sharp staccatos and paint pastel skies,
while the boys your age were
breaking windows with baseballs.
Your performances stunned the crowds.
Your fingers moved mountains.
You came to my competitions.
My saber moved faster than light.
From a distance, was how we grew.
We were the sky and the sea,
watching each other from a distance.
So close, yet so far apart.
Jan 11, 2020
Jan 11, 2020 at 9:32 PM UTC
your words lead the staccatos in my heart
a symphony starting gentle and soft
teasing to the richest crescendo
and it stops. at the ****** of two highest notes.
your voice is a soothing tune
a reminder of how our bodies entwined
moved in soulful harmony -
the sweetest sonata of our time.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 2:37 PM UTC
I’ve hated you for quite sometime
since you’ve been gone
playing staccatos into someone else’s heart.
And I blame you
because you left
and promised to stay in touch—
that’s why all of your replies are
disgusting slurs of
h’s and a’s.
But I never let myself forget
that I was a double-edged sword, once.
It was that afternoon when you were leaving
and you covered my lips and my cheeks with
stars
and wrapped my body in your
sunlight
and your eyes
burned
because you were unaware that
I didn't know how to accept happiness.
And I looked into your eyes and smiled—
I bet I looked like the devil
before he slashes your soul and
sends you to eternity—
and said, "this is silly".
You agreed;
so you covered my lips and cheeks with
thorns
and wrapped my body in your
twilight
and your eyes dimmed with embers and
ashes.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 4:12 PM UTC
Lacking imperfection his un illuminating
yarn woven secrets speak spilling
silt that doesn’t even exist.
Inseperable the meta voltaic charged touch
of her skin against his blemished soul leaving behind
marks of polyphony with staccatos hanging by a pine,
gathering gusts of wind and rocking his unsteady soul
on the swing set into a leap into the depths
of the blue oceanic sky and diving deep
into her love
that binds him together
forever more.
Ever again her calming wind
shakes up the roots of the evergreen trees
in the movable earth of his body.
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 2:15 AM UTC
Dew and birdsong
are two of the words
that came to mind
when I woke up blind
to clouded sun
slivers through slits
of the parted shades
following fits
of fruitless sleep.
The wetly kissed paths
with lines of living
or withered grass
and robin cardinal
whistle, hopping
limb to branch
wondering if walking
isn't so bad though
I've never been on a plane.
I would have seen
the sunrise this morning
but clouds and trees
obscured my yawning
eyes and so did
the crows, staccatos
in skies that are really
pretty pretty anyway.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 12:50 AM UTC
She was a rest in a bar full of staccatos.
She was the note played pianissimo and the key that didn’t sing.
She had no forte in her soul, her steps were slurring phrases.
This girl was the music of a broken string.
Hers were the fingers stiff and cold; and the lip plate never kissed.
A metronome of self-doubt always ticking in her ears.
Never allowed a change in tempo, never shown to spread her wings.
Singing lessons from the deaf for 15 years.
The other was a pickup note, anxious to play the tune.
The dancer skipping steps up ledger lines.
The crescendo of passion, the diminuendo of a lullaby,
This girl no blaring trumpet could outshine.
But though her eyes were made of stardust her heart pulsed slowly, portato.
No accompanist, no duet, no conductor to keep the beat.
Her cheeks stung from the disguise, her worry slowed her, legato.
Compensating for loneliness with quick tempo deceit.
But, like broken triads, fate had it the two would somehow fit.
Drawn together as tied notes, destined to play their piece.
One so controlled by the orchestra, the other yearning for a duet.
The enchanting harmony within them had always burned to be released.
They played as one instrument, arpeggios overlapping in a heavenly key.
Swinging in synchronization, the melody swam magically through the night.
No longer controlled by metronomes, no longer stuck singing solo,
Forever, together, their own sheet music they would write.
- p. winter
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 7:42 AM UTC
i pulled the trigger
leaving sonic staccatos
and clouds of gun smoke.
silencing all unheard screams
with the tyranny of moral men.
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 1:15 PM UTC
Her Music
Her music is a siren’s melody that stirs my lust within me.
She stirs my desires from my mire’s into chamomile tea.
I poke and **** to understand what I have on hand,
To understand what makes me bend so to that band.
Is it the counterpoint of chest and waist that draws me into delightful harmony?
Is it the peak of each sloping lick that entices my ear and makes it perk up?
Does the dotted staccatos of her face draw me away from the affrightful monotony?
Is it so wrong to try and demand what makes her so desirable to me?
But as I poke and **** and pray and prey upon her contemporary anatomy,
Will I **** the joke of the frog that made her such a fantasy?
As I hope and have and hate and harbor such feeling on her,
Will I find the joke on the frog was always just inside her?
Do I want her music for it stirs my tea,
Or do I want her song for it makes me happy?
Do I poke and **** and prey and pray for her melody to be within me?
Or do I poke and **** and pray and prey upon her for her contemporary anatomy?
Chamomile dreams help lull me to lay,
To avoid the night of thinking about the day,
To once again hear her melody,
And fear her coming into my sleep.
A dream of beauty played by a lyre,
As my tongue snakes the song of a choir,
Bind her music and mine together,
Blind the melody of her forever,
Can she say yes, no,
Could be mine and mine alone,
Don’t take what isn’t mine,
Dissonance grown as harmonize,
Everdream break and eyes align,
Every sin made again mine,
For Eve is not Adams’s rib,
Fraught with the thought of glib,
Got nothing to give,
Giving love to nothing she is,
As the key of C is a simple beauty,
No flats nor sharps or blemishes on the tarp,
With an infinite possibility,
For a finite amount of humanity.
Yet mine is complicated with dismay,
Enharmonic with six symbols,
Found,
Two-ways.
For her melody is C,
The great.
She is my tea,
And strait.
And mine is grey,
The dead.
A pale sway,
Of dread.
As I poke and **** and pray and prey and hope and have and hate and hate the music,
I wonder if 7th can be rounded.
As I poke and **** and pray and prey and hope and have and hate and hate the music,
I wonder if my 7ths are rounded.
As I poke and **** and pray and prey and hope and have and hate and love her music,
I wonder if tea dreams.
As I poke and **** and pray and prey and hope and have and hate and love her music,
I dream about a new key.
As I poke and **** and pray and prey and hope and have and hate and hate and love her,
I wonder if I’m right.
As I poke and **** and pray and prey and hope and have and hate and hate and love her,
What if I’m not right?
Feb 2, 2022
Feb 2, 2022 at 8:06 PM UTC
There was a feeling at the back of my throat
that I just couldn’t swallow
I lived with it
the way that I live with a song
that gets stuck in my head
Then it began to migrate
to my eyes
to my stomach
to my knees
I could taste it
every time I tried to breathe
my chest would shake
My throat vibrating staccatos
as I exhaled
I needed somewhere to lay my head
until I could choke it down
or cough it out.
The feeling was a little rubber ball
It had no color
It had no name
It bounced around in my head,
much more dangerous than a song
This rubber ball was mine
and it might never fade
If I couldn’t sing it out
or give it to someone else
I’d be stuck with my rubber ball
until they take it away
When no one is looking
I throw my rubber ball
I smash it on the rough concrete
outside in the street
Sometimes
I aim it at the bare light bulb
high on the ceiling.
My rubber ball is bruised
and scratched
and burned.
This rubber ball that is mine
doesn’t count. I don’t want it.
They will take it away with
the feeling at the back of my throat
that I’m not big enough to swallow
May 15, 2021
May 15, 2021 at 4:10 PM UTC
From my big black button eyes,
I have experienced the world.
The colours, threads that make up this fabric
One which can only be seen--and observed
From the corner of a room,
My corner,
The one under a piano, home to
Abandoned playthings and
Languishing crotchet notes, and staccatos.
From the corner of her bedroom
I watch her laugh, mouth agape,
Hacking out unintelligible sounds, and feel
Feel how the air rejoices at her mirth,
How it allows waves to travel--
Announcing her joy for all the world to share.
And I watch, watch her leak,
Leak her troubles, heartbreaks, hurricane of
Emotions
All into a puddle, tiny as it is.
Watch her face remain steadfast, strong even as
Inside, she dissolves, like white paper in acid.
Burning, burning...
And I experience all of her,
Her emotions, fiery temper, icy demeanor,
Warm hugs, cool attitude, everything,
Like the seasons of the earth.
With my big black button eyes, I stare,
and I understand,
This entire world that has slowly been revealed to me,
The ball of yarn inside a person, waiting to be
Unravelled.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 9:26 AM UTC
a girl nervously swinging
her legs, fingers drumming
on paint-stained tables, rocking
in a broken plastic chair, curling
her short brown hair around her
index finger as if it could somehow
anchor her to the classroom and not
the thousands of thoughts that cluttered
her mind.
a girl who slept through class,
unable to be roused by her
well-meaning teacher; a yawn
stuck perpetually in her throat,
head nodding to a lullaby
composed of multiplication
tables, laughter, stories spoken
aloud, rain that hit the
windows in stuttering staccatos.
a girl who never learned to
study, who couldn’t understand
how someone could open a
textbook and read it—how
someone could set out to do a
task and not feel like their mind
was a jungle of vines and pitfalls and
quicksand, full of venomous, life-draining,
beasts. “how do you tame them?” she asked,
only to be met with wolfish laughter.
{silly girl, you can’t tame something that
doesn’t exist.)
a girl who felt failure in her heart--
in the way it quivered like a hare
caught in a trap whenever grades were
given out, as if the number at the top
of the page was a sword to fall upon;
better to fail without trying, to settle the
point of the blade just below her sternum,
to choose a painless death then to risk
trying and experience an even greater
sense of failure—to become the
disappointment she feared was
her only birthright.
{silly girl, stupid girl, lazy girl, “stubborn as a bull” girl,
girl without manners, girl born impulsive,
girl in a cage, girl struck by lightning,
girl without a future, girl that became an animal.)
a girl with a Sisyphus-shaped
hole in her heart, pushing her
burdens up the infinitesimal
steps of academia, jealous of
the ease in which her classmates
walked up the stairs, their
burdens as light as a few notebooks.
a girl with answers, decades later,
still struggling, but unlearning
helplessness—stepping out of
her cage, one hesitant footstep
at a time, the beasts in her head
whining softly, circling her heels,
always a lunge away from sinking
their teeth into her flesh.
she regards them with pity, stroking
their soft fur, gazing into the coal-black
eyes of her greatest fears—and thanks
them one by one for the pain, for the
tears, for the loneliness, because while
they taught her many horrible things,
they also taught her that she could
survive.
Aug 17, 2019
Aug 17, 2019 at 9:18 PM UTC
Mix cobalt and grey,
Circling crows, black staccatos,
Rain streaks the canvas.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 1:11 PM UTC
You see, I'm quite the forgetful catch.
It'll take me an hour to remember the chart of scientists that
they claim to have contributed to the understanding of my evolution,
oblivious to the fact that I have evolved in many ways when exposed to
sound touch scent taste and sight
It will take me the entire day to count the bobby pins I've lost, and the
pieces of paper I've magically vanished; maybe even a year of
long drunken laughs to memorize your birthday.
But it seems I've found an exception.
Your body is like a canvas:
entirely used to replicate sheet music in its originality
and intricate messages hidden behind staccatos and fermatas.
See, I've memorized the back of your head like a tune on the radio
replayed over and over and over
until it was the only melody I began to hear from morning till dusk
(with the occasional masterpieces that leaked its desires)
(and romantic words past my subconscious)
(and into my dreams)
I'm a forgetful catch, darling.
I'll forget the day
we first locked eyes, but
remember the hour you carved
h o l e s
into the bark-like exterior of my
heart and outlined your name
with a needle.
I'll forget what you had told me
you had for breakfast, but remember the
minute it took for you to fill my stomach with
b u t t e r f l i e s
that late autumn afternoon just by the baritone
of your laugh. Sad to say, I'll probably
even forget your birthday.
But I will always cherish that extra second of serenity
the last time you held me tight within your arms
[and fought the urge to let me go]
[but you did anyways]
gd
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 11:06 PM UTC
Sepia thoughts fade to black in my mind.
The hope I held on to lies withering,
Rendering staccatos of asthmatic breathing
Like the dying lion of Lucern,
Shedding one dew of tear that takes
A million years to wet the universe.
Shalini Nayar
© 2005
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 9:13 AM UTC
Songs bear the light of poetry,
But, though Augustine states singing sprouts spirituality,
“De-compose” the composed
And read the words as though
Reading any other book, and feel the light of Augustine’s mantra
Heat before witnessing growths of ember.
Does not the meaning, rather than the importance, of poetry resound more at first glance
From reading in plain concentration
Than with music
That can steer attention to reaching the note
That staccatos along the textual truth,
That leads the mind in common-time land
Like a stone drumming along a still lake?
Is truth behind words important enough
To lay the foundation for impending music?
The truth sets free
Before a sweet melody!
Apr 27, 2018
Apr 27, 2018 at 6:06 PM UTC