"stradivarius" poems
¤==()()
*in the birdsong and the wind
God plays his violin!*
[10W]
SoulSurvivor
(C) 2/29/2016
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 9:27 AM UTC
I am curled upon myself in eleven
hidden dimensions predicted by Superstring Theory,
confident revealing my whereabouts
precludes guessing my velocity.
Paradox of uncertainty handed down by
Heisenberg, mental Mobius of mind,
tethers my strong nuclear force,
I am King of Quantum.
I vibrate in energetic strings
octaves below scale of Stradivarius,
seeking a unified framework
for the duality of space and time.
Like a black-hole event horizon,
where no thought escapes
this gravity of mind,
I ponder blinking out of existence.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 5:59 AM UTC
I sit at a piano
and at the right hand side of the orchestra
or maybe the left
I'm not sure
You sit there too
you sit on your high horse
Mr. 2nd chair
oh i beckon in the good days when
When you play your violin
Like a Stradivarius
And fill the practice room
Like a concert hall.
And i sit and listen
like a desperate girl
mourning the moaning
of cellos
and the loss of a good friend
maybe more.
I still sit on the right side
of the orchestra
with a hollow piece of wood
raised to my neck
where i want you to kiss me
and i drag bow across string
and make noise
and make music.
i refuse to believe
that this was a coincidence
but we are musicians
it's an occupational hazard.
maybe...
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 2:19 AM UTC
You don't look a day older than bad manners
Remember to let people off the Train first.
Old fashion common sense has gone,
we are generating our everyday Cleopatra
where the private is as imperative as the public persona ,
unbeknown nail polish is on a reconnaissance mission
for blase solvent effects,
and as for Gentleman I cannot think of a
suitable Mass observation survey yet,
but if i did,
there wouldn't be enough Stradivarius volins to avail.
Note too how bus drivers aren't generally slow
and bicyclists are veering militant
driving instructors take chances through the red lights,
city life is
not necessarily construed as a public safety issue,
but everything is considered less relevant
in the pursuit of balanced manners.
Nov 24, 2012
Nov 24, 2012 at 3:57 PM UTC
I say there is no physical beauty.
This skin, this flesh, this bone
are but the clay of which we make our beauty,
the instrument on which we play our beauty.
Witness the failure of funeral directors to please true aesthetes:
the dead Ingrid Bergman lacks the beauty of a living bag lady.
Tennis masters
given K-Mart rackets
win gracefully,
while the high-school violinist
playing a Stradivarius
fails to delight us.
Thus noses, lips, ******* have no beauty in themselves.
Perfect features are easily distorted by
anger, sloth, irritability, or conceit.
But in a rare few
energy, grace, composure, and sensitivity
are blended in such a quantity
that they overflow
and color with an exquisite beauty every pore of the body,
fill with a subtle music every gesture, every word.
I say there is no physical beauty.
This skin, this flesh, this bone
are but the clay of which we make our beauty,
the instrument on which we play our beauty.
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 10:24 AM UTC
I adore the way
Your form fills my mind
The way you kick open doors
Just for the hell of it.
Your smile is always a full on grin
With no exception.
Every time I see that expression
Fill your face
I am full
Of secondhand happiness.
I love it when you climb trees
Just for the hell of it
When you run into the woods
When you do what you want
Without worrying
What people will think.
When you wear forest green pants
And ignore the sarcastic complements
From the ****** girls
In the courtyard at lunch.
When you play your violin
Like a Stradivarius
And fill the practice room
Like a concert hall.
I adore the way
Your form fills my mind
And when I sleep
All I see are your idiosyncrasies
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 10:43 PM UTC
One could have a worse idol
However some are not so wise
Toy people, he says
Wound up and ignorant
Walking about and mucking up
The little, little images
The postage-stamp-motion-pictures
Don't they see?
Can't they see?
It must take a genius to walk about blindly
Which is why they all just stumble
But no matter; their staggering footfalls
Hold answers to which he must find questions
And the silly drunkards and incompetents
Ask the wrong questions for boring answers
Drown them all in the kin of Stradivarius
The singing quiets everything in the attic
That he may at last view the final stroke
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:25 AM UTC
Time drips slowly down kitchen cabinets
Like cello music, sweet and dark,
Spilling over the edges of fingerboards and eyelashes,
Arpeggios of stillness cascading through the
Silence that is really music reigning the gaps between each whisper of breath and tick of the clock and soft drumming of raindrops on the street, an ensemble of intimacy.
I love it here.
I love the way it's vulnerable and honest inside your walls of false, forte confidence;
There are no cliché expressions of love at first sight, just the words of your heart,
Like notes played on an old piano, each separate and round and the tiniest bit halting but beautiful nonetheless.
They are rough truths, a little out of tune and not in quite the right key,
But they are the truth,
And that strikes more chords in my heart than a perfect rendition of well-rehearsed Beethoven harmonies
Fitting too perfectly to my rhythms.
And the cadence of your laugher flutters in my rib cage like
Triple-tongued fanfares,
The brush of your fingertips on mine
Sending vibratos of warmth through my soul,
Yours eyes, honey brown, speaking as powerfully as a Stradivarius
Without even the smallest pianissimo whisper of voice,
My synapses firing in double-time, heart thumping adagio, allegro, presto,
Neither of us conducting, just riding out the jazz and operas and fiddles and symphonies of our love
I wish for books of blank pages to keep composing the
New melody of our lips, dancing along crescendos of
Instinct and softly thrilling secrets
On the gentle sonata of a rainy day in June.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 6:02 PM UTC
I've kept it inside too long,
too long have I silenced it.
I will explode, like a carbon bomb,
explosive tissue and bleating stars,
radioactive skin cells, crawling with energy,
the speed of light rolling through my veins,
like thunder in an Amazonian
night, cruxed with the finagling sunlight,
calling some nirvana-esque hipster
to forsake her existence,
picking flowers in the garden of
forever, checking the checkerboard
kitchen, black blood in the conducive mind,
******* out the poison of
coincidence, laying out a spider
without laughter, in the vague
definition of inevitable non-existance,
teach me! TEACH ME!
OH GOD TEACH ME, I AM
OPEN! I WANT TO KNOW!
But oh how I know! oh how the stones will cry!
O! how they will ululate in the night,
screech the keys upon their wooden airy instruments,
scream with all the effort of a Stradivarius,
O! the noises they will make---
if we do not.
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 5:59 PM UTC
There's a place hidden inside of us all,
we keep it to ourselves so that no one can see it.
You see It contains all of the secrets
that the heart contains.
Whenever it is seen by another person
we lose our control,we lose our Hearts.
It has happened to me just. Once.
Only once.
She was a cop
well not really
a hostage negotiator
the term I think is first responder.
I was sat on the edge of a high rise.
Twenty-six storey high building
the people below in the far away street
looked like ants.
But I felt like one.
I wanted to end it all
and dive into oblivion.
Sure I had a gun
but it was not to use on someone else
it was for my last resort.
That's when she appeared
about ten feet behind me.
She had a kind Consolation about her.
Tell me it's not about a woman she said.
How did she know that.
It's my wife she's leaving me
taking the kids.
Why she asked.
Because she has found someone
she loves more than me.
She pulled a beer out of her purse.
Want to share my last beer she asked.
OK but you have to sit on the Ledge With me .
She did
oh my god she was pretty for a cop.
Can I have you put the gun away she said.
It was my last resort but I gave it to her.
She joined me on the ledge
We cracked open her last beer.
She said its OK
my husband left me he
said I was a workaholic
It's true I am
I looked at her eyes they were beautiful
He must of been crazy I said.
She smiled.
Come down with me
she purred back to ground zero.
Only if you will have a date with Me
She smiled
so if I date you you won't **** yourself.
I I guess so.
OK we will do it
one date
Promise
Yes I promise.
I followed her downstairs
the cops grabbed me.
And I knew
she had played me like a stradivarius.
I got out out of jail six months later
It was ok
Three hots and a cot.
A nice guy shared my cell.
No one tried to *** **** me.
When I was outside the gate
A car pulled up.
It was my cop.
The one who shared her last beer.
I said what the **** do you want.
You just got me six months in the sneezer
She smiled that beautiful smile of hers.
Did you learn anything in there.
Yes I learned not to trust Beautiful lady cops
She said I am here aren't I.
Yes, you are why?
You wanted a date
And I promised you one date right.
Yes you did.
Well take me on one.
We went for dinner
It was great she was so great.
She looked at me
Have you got over your wife leaving.
Yes I have
We shouldn't have been together really
It was for the kids.
OK do you want to see me again.
I whispered yes I do you are lovely.
Two years later.
Our second child was born.
She will be as beautiful as her mother I hope.
My kids come to us half the time we got joint custody.
I got work as fireman.
I sit in my chair some nights
and just look at her
She saved my life.
She shared her last beer with me.
And you know
what they say.
If you save Somebody's life.
They belong to you.
Mar 6, 2019
Mar 6, 2019 at 9:51 PM UTC
She lies in bed her back to me, her sinuous curves exposed, like Stradivarius violin,
her flesh is marble statue, blue veined her skin.
Michelangelo in all his glorious moods, could not begin to sculpt a woman's figure
more lovely than these contours, the radiant dawn glows over her.
Shaped perfectly in early morning light, classical beauty for me alone to view,
she stirs, and moves, letting rosy hue in perfect harmony, her body to imbue.
Familiar face with timeless loveliness, lies in carefree sleep, her lip a curl of sheer delight,
her features gradually resolve, dissolving last vestiges of night.
My Creator, I can only state that there is nothing more wondrous in nature, or the Abyss,
than the female form, when observed like this.
Precious moments I lie watching, the beginnings of the day,
and then she turns, awakening, and I, still admiring her gracefulness,
give thanks for her making
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 4:15 PM UTC
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Eh1m3vCCGdA
Black Princess of the night chin strapped to her violin
she plays the notes from her memorable heart of blue
while the moon in her sorrow spills light upon the Quin,
she plays on, a Stradivarius interlude of thin soulful Adieu;
Arrivederci (goodbye)
Donna (woman)
Ingannato (deceived)
even the stars weep under her spell as her raven changelings
scatter like black ashes to the wind
Five seasons of partings five degrees of loss, still no light
bursts forth from a soot sky of ebon black
lamentations and moans
heaven groans
from the weight of her sorrow comes the eye of the storm
as she plays her last note of deep unrest .
Jul 9, 2021
Jul 9, 2021 at 7:46 PM UTC
Ante el acorde vuelo epistolar que orquesta
la Stradivarius Lila
el balbuciente arpegio tras la barbasordina
sobre las niñaslámparas
que tan celestemente alucinan tu sala
con su silencioaraña
sus sorbos de crepúsculo
y ese caballo muerto en el espejo
por tu arcángelrelámpago.
Noche tras noche y tardes
presencié el desdibujo prolijamente exacto de sus nublados
gestos musicales
y sus yacentes diálogos ante lacios retratos en siemprevela
ardida
y parpadeantes copas de fiebre alcohol latido
y una vez más
sin máscara de exasperante grillo conyugal Aristarco
quiero darte las gracias por la capota en llanto
los guantes esponsales
y el diáfano misterio que estremece tus hojas
de angelcustodio mío.
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