"timbre" poems
Hear the bass, grace notes race all over the place
Cymbals paced, hi-hats chase, weaving between the bass
The piano - chords struck with wide spanned hands
Poly-rhythmic, multi-layered sounds in strands
The timbre of reed vibrating against warm metal
Precision; a sixth, a ninth and an eleventh interval
A major, a minor scale; a frantic modal sweat
A small sound for mankind; but a truly giant step
Each note slices through the eclectic beat-drop
Singing and whispering this post-modern be-bop
Multi-phonics scream, like controlled feedback
The seductive saxophone – this weapon of attack
The boundary is stretched, new ground broken
The holy saxophone has never thus spoken
And I pay homage, all my deepest respects
Go to the man who made those giant steps
Aug 22, 2011
Aug 22, 2011 at 9:25 AM UTC
the ebb and tide of diamond waves slosh in the most serene celerity.
it is then that i know i am safe.
i lie in the ocean's arms,
and become a grain of sand,
until your song is sent my way
and i crystallize.
oh i am a pearl, born from pain.
your timbre plays melodies on my heartstrings, siren.
your beauty shadowboxes with my soul, siren.
i am not yours to keep, siren.
i am the tidecaller and i have a place.
but oh siren, why must you sing when i want to sleep?
why must you sing when i want to weep?
oh, siren, take my soul to keep.
no longer my sea.
sea of sirens, sea of song.
your song always lets me know that i mustn't tag along.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 10:34 AM UTC
synergy in the mist
of creations' breath...
multitudes croaking so loudly
drowning in eventide dew,
all the wind's timbre
is hushed;
overcome
by earth’s
communing symphony,
creations’ living
pulsing thrum..
alone in a crowd
proclaiming
the glory of now...
whelmed,
and i wishing
i were a frog,
and unalone
in the throng
maybe evolution
as this—
is reversing...
ouroboros
i need to search
for an intimate kiss
metamorphosis,
another incarnation
that will turn me
back into a frog—
a speck of stardust
in a sky full of stars
seems better than
feeling like ashes
a burned out candle
muted
by the gypsy choir
*the call of the wild
sung in the wind*
wild is the wind © march 2016
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 2:16 PM UTC
Against the saturated
Horizon of dawn,
Loitering in the dark timbre
Of emerging consciousness -
Dissipating somnolence
And preemptive despair,
Tacitly adumbrate the
Yawning abyss.
Chastened by the cunning and
Lubricious nihilism,
Igniting fermented provocations,
Silent subterfuge; death,
By mirth - the inane;
Lament of the mundane.
Fallow paradigms, accretions of
The last gasp -
Evaporating empty liturgies
Of suspicion;
Charity and equanimity -
Lost in confinement,
Triumphant avarice bearing
Descendants
Of intransigence;
Wielding imperious
Schemes of orthodoxy.
Pollard fragments of
Silken tapestry,
Miasma draped depression
Abridging;
Conversely,
Permuted flurries of anxiety
Dislodge
The vestiges of meaning
That abide
In brazen equivocation.
Tributaries of dogma reach
Their confluence,
Watershed moment,
Numinous effusion
Streams naked epiphany,
The precarious vision -
A gesture of providence,
Certainty and contingency;
Gratuitously derivative, life
Equals choice.
Verdant branches of intention;
And opportunity the vine,
Live forward -
The pen, my voice,
Piquant conduit pouring,
Exuberant wine.
Footprints found in givenness
Underline,
Penumbrae of my soul;
Mirrored silhouettes,
Thoughts and words engender;
And in verse adorn
Fecund soil, Line after line,
The cosmos altered,
Continuum of permanence -
Artist’s art articulating
Essence of my imagination,
I proliferate, I design
Phrases unique,
Participation mystique.
Words creating world,
The apparatus of infinity
Heidegger, ontologically precise,
Language -
The house of Being,
Ineffable, Promethean
Literary devise -
Envisioning possibility,
And abundance to allow,
I occur
Inhabit
Manifest
Future phenomena
Experienced as now.
©2008 & ©2011 W.S. Warner
Sep 16, 2011
Sep 16, 2011 at 2:02 PM UTC
lover old voice
bed bug boy
timbre distinction of
man vs. boy vs. baby
raspberry at the lips and
bubble beaten air
boy in bed clothes
locked
rolling
sad sad boy down
the steps in a
laundry basket
weathered hands and makeup
prongs boy
you’re cute
let me buy you
a drink
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 6:50 PM UTC
Her smile can break
A lot of hearts
She's left a lot of hurting
But that hourglass
And that pretty as....er angel
She's already glad
You're flirting
If it won't last long
It's all okay
You can find another pasture
But for that much gain
It's worth some pain
So go ahead and ask her
Cause a perfect ten
In the eyes of men
Makes a sweet night to remember
And you can hope
She'll hit high notes
With such a pleasant timbre
That, that whole scene
Arranged perfectly
Will be a memory for the ages
Or with a microphone
You could make a song
To climb high on Billboard's pages
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 12:11 PM UTC
Sing for me, angel
Lull me to peace
Let the timbre of your voice
Tremble me to sleep
How lovely is your voice;
How the air sits still when you sing
And how the people cheer in joy
With the blessing your voice brings
Yet, however beautiful your voice might be,
Your soul is more radiant,
More brilliant,
Your laughter a testimony to that shine
Sing for me, angel
Lull me to peace
Give me that angel voice
Let's be best of friends eternally
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 9:43 AM UTC
i feel the water pulling me down
drowning drowning in the lack of sound
i can see the moonlight shimmer
reflecting the weight of his voice’s timbre
i smile the water gushing between my teeth
never again will i have to hear him speak
I see the halls and the turrets of the father
finding me finding me other places to wander
i see him talking to a crown of stone
the teeth eyes and lips mine alone
Pulling me down in the lack of sound
as in my love i start to drown
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 11:30 PM UTC
Flavored hukkas are passed around,
Alcohol and paan bring the mehfil alive,
The Ustad ji sits down and flexes his fingers,
He knows he’ll be working all night.
Dha dhin dhin dha, dha dhin dhin dha
Na tin tin ta
Ta dhin dhin dha,
Move the Ustad ji’s fingers on the tabla.
While with a veil on her face,
And feet dipped in and henna-colored,
Lips in cheap red lipstick covered,
She unfalteringly, gracefully enters.
Her steps are matched by the chhan chhan
of the ghungroos tied around her ankles so slender.
Eyes set on her, feast on her youth,
Just right for the taste of all her customers.
Bejeweled hands placed on waist,
She stands at the centre of attention,
She lifts a foot, readies to dance,
And begins the nightly convention.
Skillfully, perfectly, sensuously move
Feet well-trained since childhood days,
Harmonizing with the timbre
That the Ustad ji creates.
Tin tin na dhin na dhin na
On the tabla, experienced fingers beat.
Chhan chhan chhan chhan,
She dances, repeating the rhythm with her feet.
Metal bells strike against one another
And chhan chhan chhan-a chhan she goes,
Making breaths prance and jump,
As she strikes on the ground her heels and toes.
Then suddenly she stops and gasps,
Over disgruntled, impatient groans she tries
to hear the sound that flows in, only to her ears.
Several rooms away, a baby cries.
Naach! A voice booms,
Arey naach! More join in.
A glass of wine is shattered by an irritated one.
But she stands still, clutching her chest, frozen.
One sways up to where she stands,
For the veil covering her face, his hands dive.
He uncovers her, but is blinded by the sight of her beauty
And her tears that fill her kajal-smeared eyes.
She’s shaken back to reality as she looks all around.
Her sparkling pall is off her face.
She sees all those drunk men who’ve paid to watch her dance.
She knows she has to make the sound of the cries fade away.
So she stomps her feet on the ground till it hurts.
Hair flying out of braid, bangles clanging,
Anguish replaces her innocent loveliness,
The music in the air is now shrill, jarring.
Her steps match with the tabla’s rhythm no more.
But she dances, planting her feet so hard they weep.
She silences every sound with the noise of her ghungroos,
Praying that the night will lull her wailing son to sleep.
Jun 22, 2012
Jun 22, 2012 at 1:11 PM UTC
**** they say
comes naturally
a movement of the hips
a movement of the lips
the timbre of the voice
you can’t just train that
**** they say
is no talent
is a breathtaking gasp
the heart double-dutching
bounce, bounce
**** they say
is a gift
Feb 21, 2012
Feb 21, 2012 at 2:06 AM UTC
if ears had lips
mine would gladly tell you all the things
they can and cannot comprehend
they would explain the difference
between hearing and understanding;
just because they hear a sound
doesn’t mean they know what it is
or where it’s coming from
just because they hear a voice
doesn’t mean they discern words
they would ask you to please speak louder
and tell you that even though volume is their friend
if you take a jumble and turn up the juice
sometimes it becomes clearer
other times it’s just a loud jumble
they might tell you that writing things down saves time
or that texting works better than voicemail
they would tell you how much they miss
the rain’s incessant song
the wind’s sweeping whistle
a dropped pin’s pinging ping
earthy crashing blue green wave sounds
a lover’s soft whisper
eavesdropping’s noseyness
distance’s subtle sounds
footsteps’ proximity
a fire’s warm red orange crackle
freeway traffic’s rushing background noise
a phone call’s lively conversation
a tv show’s clever, non-closed-captioned script
a radio’s soulful catchy lyrics
live performance’s vibrant voice
the timbre of each note in a chord
as I strummed my guitar
they would tell you
how the ringing tones inside my head
compete with your words
they would speak of their frustration and indignation
when you ignorantly accuse them of selective hearing
they would apologize for asking you to repeat
and laugh with you at my disability
they would thank you for dealing with me anyway
they would smile in appreciation
for your exaggerated syll•a•bi•ca•tion
if ears could see
mine would overlook your rolling eyes
and exasperated sighs and expressions
they know it’s not your fault that they don’t work good
and hope you know it’s not their fault either
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 3:21 PM UTC
Darling you know i love it when you play the black chords
Let them echo through the house for a long minutes time
and show me the god in your fingertips
a lover's hand you have with that percussive beat
rumble those strings with a heavy heart
give the dead ivory a taste of your lip
the ecstasy, the thrill
the trill and timbre
the infantile touch of a player's soul
strumming through that sweet sound
It is my youth, my zenith, my dying wish
my every happiness
to hear your musical singing string,
'till the very end.
Feb 7, 2018
Feb 7, 2018 at 8:01 PM UTC
.
•
sing to
me a song
so melodious...
•one of sweet so-
unding timbre•let it
•• capture and numb
•• me senseless•
•• take me to a
•• place and
•• time so
•• fami-
•• lia-
•• r•
••
••
••
where fond ••
memories linger free•fr-
om all worldly constraints•
where our ears can see•the
passing bliss in heaven's
godly paint•
.
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 11:40 AM UTC
The snowy lilies gird her pith - in wake;
bejewelled love reposed in truest sleep
as Floras' wreath outdone by sorrow's make,
then thought; what comfort worth are stems - to weep?
Could petals glint upon her sombre plume
and sorb bereaving rain - of mourning kin,
or priestly Latin's timbre out of gloom
and Schuberts' toned refrain - a lighter hymn.
Although, a striking; flowered plush pervades
as fragrance spliced with copal - yields in heart
and over each an ashing pyre cascades,
begotten times and seasons - death not part.
Embraced the blossoms, now upon her lay;
a sweeten lilly - kissed by loves defray.
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 1:05 AM UTC
my hand touches
yours
wild in wind
flesh and
insect
a plume of rapid
so pink and
gorgeous to the
biochemist
within my timbre
I sing your
praises to the moon
eighth note
yellow-tipped
flat-cupped
cord and
piano blooming
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 10:42 AM UTC
What have I done?
A calamity has befallen me.
My heart lies impaled by a blade of my own design, beating in agony.
Across from me I see her, huddled over the blade, her hands crimson from its edge.
Her tears descend upon my heart like broken stars, burning into the flesh, down to its very core.
What have I done?
Amid her shrieks of pain, I speak words of remorse.
Amid her words of sorrow, I try to mend what has been broken.
But I have exhausted myself. I haven't the strength to lift my heart off of the blade.
In the midst of my struggle, I see a figure, one who I believe at first to be the Solitude, come to torment me with my failures.
But it does not speak.
Where the Solitude mocks me, the figure remains silent.
Where the Solitude glares harshly into my soul, the figure merely gazes.
It does not show its face, but it breeds a sense of familiarity.
A Spectre, in my own image.
With ease, it lifts my heart from the blade, but with its touch, the heart turns black.
It is devoid of any other hue, engulfing the cracks and scars that plagued its surface, it is unified by darkness.
It is beyond recognition.
The Spectre extends the beating void to me, in silent offering.
But I refuse.
I shall not allow myself to succumb to the cold absence it will bring.
I would rather endure, if only barely.
Yet, as I turn away, I see her. The one who once held my affection.
The one who tore down my fortress. The one who showed my future in her eyes. The one who left laughter and serenity in her wake.
With another.
Turning back, I take the creation of the Spectre, without hesitation.
As it takes its place, I hear the echoes of all the tender words she once spoke to me, yet they carry a harsh timbre.
I feel the fire of passion I once carried, yet it creates only ice.
I see the memories once cherished, but they have become pale and morbid.
"What is this feeling?" I ask the Spectre.
I cannot see its lips, but I know it smiles at the inquiry, before uttering a single word:
Hate.
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 2:34 AM UTC
Lying with you in black and white,
I wonder the significance of a mouth,
hands, fingertips.
grazing skin. mere body mechanics,
or a vessel for a spiraling kinetic?
how we become weak to emotion, seemingly pathetic,
clinging to eachother
leeching off one another's need.
I stare into your eyes
unabashed. I smile.
I wonder how it is that I stare on
and be ever taken by the arrangement of your eyelashes,
the curve of your lips. My lips are wilted leaves,
cracking against the flow of your rejuvenation.
my eyes feel heavy and dry but I stare on,
alive. the shadows take away hesitation
as it shades your words
black and white, sepia, blue.
your hands of ginger, hot and sweet,
melt the frost clinging to my back
created by the rush
turning my gut
as I ache toward dark whiperings.
I want to utter the same, but I know
I can never replicate your dulcet timbre.
I sound so plain. Instead I trickle my lips across your face.
My soul cries out,
Ours are made for love antique
In an instant world.
It pains me to budge
from this bind.
I wonder how fingertips may convey
what in the light we scarcely can define.
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 10:58 PM UTC
*
I flash seven colors of your LOVE
The rainbow above my sky
Crown over my heart's being
When in your LOVE - I remember
We are so limited in our senses
Forgetting that when are we going to unite
Is just a matter of fate
Because now when we are 1000 miles away
Still at nights - In darkness and loneliness
We are always with each other
Why your LOVE colors are
Jingling bells within my heart beats?
I often gossip with your colors
Intimate musical tunes to your LOVEz
Let me congregate colors of your LOVE
Within a packet of my heart
And return back to you my SOUL
Cognative multi-color spectrum of LOVE
Though I'm not there with YOU right now
My LOVE will remind you of my colors
And like me, YOU too will stay awake
Most nights my BELOVEDz
Every breathe within beats
The timbre of your LOVE
Renders me hopelessly devoted
With your seven colors of LOVE
Always chasing me like a rainbow dew
Outside, within and around me
YOU know...
Now a days I fight with everyone I meet
Many think, I have become arrogant
It is just that I seek perfection
From everyone - to be as "PERFECT" as YOU
Belovedz,
One thing YOU did good to me
Thumb printed my name on
Your blank heart's canvas
To surrender my ETERNITY
That's how...
YOU made me YOURS
Unconditionally forever
So that YOU can
Paint on / in / within me whatever
SOUL-COLORS of your LOVE
Not a single aspect of my life
Is not untouched by your colors of LOVE
We know our LOVE will remain
Existing longer than our life-time
Our glances rains better colors palette
Better than thousand emails, letters, prose & poems
So please do not ever say
I do not know what "OUR LOVE" is
This is what
Remains of YOUR Colors of LOVE in me
*
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 11:27 PM UTC
There is a melody that sings,
of a dream lost in time, with music
that fits the space
that can’t be filled.
She is as real to you,
as the wood in your hands
and at night, beyond the timbre of your guitar
that murmurs melodies about a world
too many understand.
What once was elegant boulevards
in Madrid, are now
a melodic strain
of fleeting moments, trapped
in colorless discontent.
Nov 29, 2019
Nov 29, 2019 at 9:06 AM UTC
Hasta La Pasta!
She stands in the doorway
As is her wont,
Bidding adieu to the retreating figure
Who spent the night in
Adoration of the Magi,
Her charms, her hair,
Her serpentine figure most fair,
And scribbling on Hello Poetry
Till his eyes said, no mas!
The retreating figure that be me,
Late for work at 7:20.
Over the shoulder I exclaim,
Hasta Mañana!
Which is silly because
My return is faithfully guaranteed,
Every eve for as long as I live!
She laughs and replies,
Hasta la Pasta!
Stop in my tracks,
About face and in woeful Italian,
Do exclaim, in a deeply serious timbre,
Hasta la Pasta?
Basta!
(Italian for "that-does-it")
You can have my love, my soul,
But leave to me the labor of poetry.
Loving you with words is
my domain, the speciality of my terrain,
So no more hasta la pasta if you please,
And by the bye, I would love some
Tonight, say around eight,
At a restaurant where the moon is
The only light illuminating our faces.
7:45 AM
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 8:05 AM UTC
It’s been a long day
I’m sitting in the recovery room, waiting for a late evening case to start
The PACU nurses tend to two patients at opposing sides of the room
Familiar cacophony of sounds – monitors softly speaking, informing the staff about their charges
Heartbeat, pulse oximeter timbre, quiet respiratory alarm
It’s my 7th case, I’m starting to fade
The sounds are relaxing, soothing.
All is well
Suddenly I hear the disconjugate beeps of the two heart monitors
Draw together, until
For just a few precious seconds
These two total strangers
Completely unaware of one another
Share a pulse – their hearts beating in perfect sync – the two sounds indistinguishable
A beautifully symmetrical moment, almost lost
In the next second, as if it hadn’t happened, their hearts diverge - once more strangers
one to one another
unaware of an incredibly intimate moment shared
Sitting there, waiting for the case
I imagine
An instant in the course of history
Where, for one fleeting breath,
Humanity’s rhythm converged
Billions of hearts in time, a nerve impulse propagated across the planet
before scattering to the winds
A potent event, possibly one of many that even
In our modern world, still remains in the mystical
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 12:39 AM UTC
If my world's a bakery
in an endlessly large country
you descend upon my city
we pass at the stale loaves
eyelashes flutter, aghast
like I'm an insect assailing your glasses
I watch you smile or grimace
Run your tongue, checking for guilt stuck in your teeth
"Oh! Hhey!!"
Your voice surprises us both
it is the same timbre in which I render
words more decadent than your courage
to spit at my living person
when it stands all but 5'6 and breathing in front of you
washing up bottle messaged on the beaches of my awareness
***** jezebel, ******
-her-
See, I've been receiving your cookies
in brown paper parcels
Little birds didn't want me to miss out on the flavor
I see you, small creature
how quickly you frost your hate
with buttercream icing, your loathing is cake
you devour and feed to anyone who'll taste
You have laid your field fallow
and let me assume disgrace
I want to tell you you're wrong
I want to push you with my mind
I want to throw sprinkles at you
I see you, small creature
with scrunched up fists
and I taste your poison
like grand marnier
it spoils everything
The recipe was followed rule for rule
The souffle rose
***** though you may
I'd almost rather hug you
if it would squeeze out your wretchedness
a flouncing whirl cupcake summit
so we could be tin-pan square
and may our pastry never mix again.
Apr 15, 2012
Apr 15, 2012 at 5:19 PM UTC
Music sleeps.....
In my un strummed chords
I wait for the touch of skillful hands
To turn it into flowing melody
A lotus dreaming to see the sun!
How long can I remain silent?
Oh touch me, shake me
Wake me from my slumber
Make me into a throbbing rhapsody
Set free this prisoner
To birth soothing chimes
Note after note in tiny wavelets
Let my vibrations carve circles
Growing bigger and bigger
Oh, give me the timbre and tone
Let me sing once more!
Let the music drizzle down
In healing murmurs
Lifting troubled spirits into calm repose
Leading them to a quiet fold
Free of all fever and fret
Let my soft rhymes
Fill the empty cisterns of the night,
Wooing the hearts
Weaving mystical spells
Let it rise and sink
And finally fade into a soft breath
A hushed whisper
A faint vibration
Over a gliding stream!
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 9:36 AM UTC