"trilling" poems
♪♫♪♪
Your beaded snakeskin loincloth
strung beneath humid palms
cool rippling breeze that calms
our hammock hung under thatch
what a catch . . .
your Amazons running into my Congo
lost track of my bongo
back about one mile
from the sources of the Nile:
your jungle smile.
Restoring all celestial things
deep within your tropical clearings . . .
flowing slowly, going loco
at the mythic mouth of the Orinico;
shake your nut-brown biospheres
and banish all my worldly fears.
Dusk is nearing — clearing the hill
insects trilling a sinuous thrill;
the yuca half-mashed in the clay ***
the witch doctor hungover in his hut
while our little fire smolders
near the mountains of the moon
—or are they only boulders?
Come soon
Jesus, Lord of the Jungle . . .
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 9:22 PM UTC
I always suspected electricity
Ran rampant through my veins
To make me dazed and dizzy
But unable to sit still
It made me prone to flights of fancy
So I left giddy trails of sparks
Blazing proof of my restlessness
That once brightly caught your eye
Once your gaze had found my own
My moods came in swooning flares
And you crackled alongside me
Filling my aching, empty silence
With shiny, blessed noise
We burned so beautifully
With my electric fire
And your trilling declamations
Light and sound intertwining
Like thunder that had finally caught up with its lightning
It seemed like Nature's order
A completion of the whole
Two halves that followed each other
Unthinkingly and automatically
So one day when I found silence
It felt like Earth itself was splitting
Panicked, I burned more brightly
Stoked the fire just in case
I feared that I had dimmed
And been the cause of this new quietness
So when I still heard nothing
I thought my efforts insufficient
And I ran my highest currents
Until my wires nearly melted
Thinking the sun and I were comparable
And anticipating a response
And still I heard no trilling
No crackling at my side
So I wondered if perhaps
I had shined beyond your limits
Swiftly, I contracted
Reined in my flares and doused the fire
Thinking sudden darkness
Might just shock you into sound
I finally heard the faintest popping
Not quite the rending that I wanted
But a break from quiet all the same
Afraid of spoiling the moment
I leashed my electricity
Kept myself dim so I could hear you
Though I felt the writhing beneath my skin
It finally became unbearable
So I flashed like wild lightning
Lashed out and struck the ground
Hoping for your thunder
A dark and roiling storm
Swirling raindrops and clouds colliding
And deep, ugly noise
All I wanted was your thunder
But in the end
It was only me yelling
Screaming out for downpours
Alone
Listening to my own echoes
Waiting for you to harmonize
In the end
I was always waiting
Wondering when you'd chosen silence
Wondering why I'd let you dim me
Wondering how it was we'd ever burned
Nov 27, 2010
Nov 27, 2010 at 1:45 PM UTC
Crumpled on a ***** door mat,
left by the cats -
the owl is just a loose bag
of feathers now - empty talons curled,
and one fierce eye turned
over its shoulder.
"What soft flesh enticed you to the ground?"
Lifting the mat, I remember
waking at night to the trilling call – a silvery vein
wrapped in the dark energy of hunger.
“All things die and too soon...” I say aloud,
my own eye sinking into that inky well. The
vacant perch leaning over my shoulder.
"What is to become of my flesh, my soul?"
"It's the waking that counts," I think, "and the meeting."
For a moment I wake again - grateful for the living.
Tom Spencer © 2017
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 7:44 AM UTC
Sweet tamarind pods stick to the warm black tarmac
where fortunate doves wander about in the shade,
trilling to themselves, and each other.
Either something strikes them as funny,
or they just love their easy lives.
Certainly, they sound so different from their
modest cousins, cooing sadly in colder places.
Born here in Paradise, these birds wear blue
eye shadow every day, and not just on weekends.
Late afternoon finds me in their lazy midst,
hair wet and curling, sand stuck to my bare, tanned feet.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 4:28 PM UTC
Spanish
La princesita hipsipilo, la vibrátil filigrana,
—Princesita ojos turquesas esculpida en porcelana—
Llamó una noche a mi puerta con sus manitas de lis.
Vibró el cristal de su voz como una flauta galana.
—Yo sé que tu vida es gris.
Yo tengo el alma de rosa, frescuras de flor temprana,
Vengo de un bello país
A ser tu musa y tu hermana!—
Un abrazo de alabastro…luego en el clavel sonoro
De su boca, miel suavísima; nube de perfume y oro
La pomposa cabellera me inundó como un diluvio.
O miel, frescuras, perfumes!…Súbito el sueño, la sombra
Que embriaga..Y, cuando despierto, el sol que alumbra en mi alfombra
Un falso rubí muy rojo y un falso rizo muy rubio!
English
The amazonian little princess, a vibratile filagree,
—Turquoise eyes sculpted of porcelain, little princess—
Called one night at my door with her small hands of iris.
And the trilling crystal of her voice was like an elegant flute:
—I know your life is gray.
I have the soul of a rose, the dew of budding flowers,
I come from a beautiful country
To be your sister and muse!—.
An arm of alabaster…then, in the sonorous carnation
Of her mouth, softest honey; in a cloud of gold and perfume
She surrounded me, brash horsewoman, like a deluge.
Oh honey, freshness, perfumer!…The sudden dream, the shadow
Which intoxicates…and when I wake, the sun that falls on my carpet
In a false ruby very red, and a false ringlet very blond.
3.6k
The old oak tree grew at the edge,
of an orchard where little ones play,
and there lived a mage,
who hears trees on a windy day,
Rushing wind rustles leaves,
on that one day brilliant and bright,
With amber gold autumn grandeur on display,
singing tuneful songs delightfully light and gay,
Apple trees trilling events as mysterious as night,
Of love found and lost last May.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 8:12 AM UTC
I saw you today
under a bright sunless sky.
You,
bathed in green,
by a demure waterfall.
And you
moving
to the peacocks' calls
trilling,
through the leaves
that enshrined our midst.
You moved without care,
and you knew I was there.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 1:39 PM UTC
it was like waking up to all white fume
or a long washline — masturbatory, feeling something stiff like a hand gliding
over a monsoon of emotions, the affect
jazz and the crunch of fragrance
forever like sandalwood;
on my way to Dumandan, i conjure an inward miasma of thrill, unfurled yesterday, today, or was it before when our eyes were fixated on the passing of things in myriad ways without any relevance to what has died, say wilted,
like a flower going away in closing seasons,
children in hurtling speeds at twilight,
gates welcoming a resounding sound of
rusting hinges,
slow rise of night, its vertical climb,
shadows collapsing on the Hibiscus
and the Poinsettia from the Cordillera,
dreary men taking out ******* throwing
them into metalloid beasts, verdigris
painted, grisly caravan of steel and
worthless scraps —
past neighborhoods thinking about
the simmer of onion and the hustle of
the feral over rooftops, clinking wine bottles undulating full to empty — both
unaware of acumen and only dizzying
ourselves mirroring each other eye
to eye and bridging this unclose-enough
a gap in between,
because you need it,
and i want it, or simply in reverse,
a sidewinding thought through dunes
of afterthought.
because you have to walk my side
of the Earth and I have to meet you
somewhere halfway where we can both
lounge at each other's steady presence
while the flyblown dry air ravishes
the piquant morning, all-telling what
this distance meant from its
peak up to the very last
traceable steps where i found you
and you found me, trilling in the neighborhood like how void
stills itself into all the mood of the Earth:
all moony and
fretting in the disquiet.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 2:38 PM UTC
Satan plays the violin; the same shape and tone as mine.
The devil passes time in Hell by playing fiddle,
and if I had to guess; I think that's the reason why
he knows the answer to life's riddle,
because its trilling's the only feeling filling
enough to get away with that beautiful lie.
It drowns the screams of the ****** that died;
and briefly
tells us we are still alive.
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 1:27 AM UTC
She eats words seasoned with moonbeams
When she goes she leaves behind dreams
Where she dances time no longer exists
She’ll steal all your stories off into the mists
From her sparkly toes to the tips of her wings
To her voice sweetly trilling as she softly sings
To see her is to love her with all of your soul
To love her is to let her devour you whole
Good night, sleep cozy, dream of falling in love
Dream of dragon pirates plaguing the stars above
Dream of heists, of adventures, of running away
Of anything, everything, except that you’re prey
NCL May 2019
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 5:08 PM UTC
billboard's calligraph --
past the haze of Manila infested
by car sprawls and belching machines.
magnanimous treatise of tarpaulins,
people chin-up asking God
with askance
something like this
"o god make this bearable
like a mound of fresh fruits
from ****** labour."
maniacal sensurround:
earth-shattering frequency
of footsteps trampling the mouth
of monolith shadows - the peak
of this quake is our complete silence.
rain's catharsis in effect
sousing us in the blood of unreal light.
this diastolic shrinkage
jamming the beat of constricting vessels.
the adrenaline surges
within the dermis of this pretension.
a collective of tired beings heeding
the recherché of voice metamorphosing
into form, a dagger-butterfly
paring us skin to bone, cranial
to visceral, soul to nothing -
catapult of a trajectory spit
plummeting in eased-up pace
from Taft Avenue flyover
to a subjugated wagon of scraps
and empty wine bottles.
today's paper reads:
"Palace hits hiring
of **** dancers"
fancying to fall right in the
spanked curved of this
insatiate melodrama - something
prayer could not save from
this land's mutinous ignominy.
we resume to fulfill our madness,
hundreds of tack-headed people
rolling down the streets of Makati,
drenched with rain's trilling aftermath.
squinting to look at
no sun, only the grieving of skyscrape,
thumbing down unidentified objects
in the depth of loose pockets,
desperate for home.
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 12:39 AM UTC
lazy afternoon
meandering through the canals
gondola and gondolier both a touch of the romantic
wanting to lose myself
in the belly of this beautiful city
get so lost i could never get out
bottle of vino, a couple of delicate wine glasses
eyes only for you, but my ears are Vivaldi’s
or just the trilling notes of that old Hindi tune
with some Italian verses thrown in for good measure
poetry flows here not water
the ghosts of Byron and Browning haunt them
*** time must stand still for me
as i explore this fantasy***
-Vijayalakshmi Harish
08.10.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 12:52 PM UTC
Piano trilling
Drums thrilling
Bass pumps straight through your heart
Guitar screams,
Keys dream,
Vocals piercing like a dart—
Mist shifts
Mood lifts
Hot chills electric down your spine
Crowd yells
Colors swell
Lift your hands, lose your sense of time...
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 7:04 PM UTC
Rita heard the doorbell go
A-DANG-A-DONG-A-DING!
She put aside her favorite book
And ran outside to take a look,
But at the door, well wouldn't you know
She didn't find a thing!
She went inside and sat down
And then it went again,
A-DING-A-DONG-A-DONG-A-DANG!
The doorbell chimed, the door bell rang,
She ran outside and looked around
But once again in vain!
Rita felt so very cross,
"I've had enough!" she said!
Instead of rushing back inside
She looked for somewhere she could hide
And found a patch of comfy moss
And made herself a bed!
It wasn't long when Rita heard
A-DING-A-DANG-A-DONG!
And there upon a fluttered wing,
A hummingbird began to sing,
Such beauty in his trilling words
That Rita joined the song!
When the chimes came to an end,
The hummingbird looked glum;
He gave the bell a mighty clang,
The door bell rang, and then he sang!
And Rita laughed at her new friend,
She'd never had such fun!
Smiling still, she went indoors
To read the next few lines;
Short-lived was her tranquility,
And solitude was not to be!
She giggled as he played once more
Those humming door bell chimes!
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 8:18 AM UTC
*Chitter , chatter chirrup
Three birds of a feather
A friendly chummy posy -
in perfect morning tide pleasure
Trilling , thrilling , touring Thrush's in the noon palmettos
Chiming sweet refrains in the -
broomcorn meadow
Musky , dusky weary
Gold songsters in a bush
A huckleberry trio in the-
nighttime hush*
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 10:25 PM UTC
The warble frocks and debutantes,
Soprano trilling nightingales,
The extras dressed as elephants
And tenors with their penguin tails;
They mingle at the opera house
With canapés on silver trays;
Then dine on pigeon, goose and grouse,
To reminisce their finest plays;
When Romeo found Juliet
The crowds were on their feet for days,
When mighty Caesar’s end was met,
The press regaled with highest praise;
Such fine upstanding citizens,
So crisply draped, so brightly gowned;
The marvel of these denizens,
So rarely seen, so well renowned.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 2:29 AM UTC
A bush lark in the Greenwood forest sings.
She sings all day long near the mountain springs.
Is she trilling in notes so plaintive of her missing mate?
Unleashing her heart of its doleful weight?
Or easing the pangs of a heart that starves
For a soulmate yet to come for whom she craves?
Or sending a missive through the aerial route
Sounding in every ear a low melancholy note?
From the covert of dark leaves, her song percolates.
Through the sinews of my heart it permeates,
Striking a cord between two souls equally deprived,
Stirring in me an inarticulate ache, never once divulged.
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 12:17 PM UTC
do you know
how much light you have to have
to play in the dark
ask the lady of the moon
my trilling lover of comatose dreams
**** queen dressed in fallen roses
on her knees
her head a cocked jaw
throat; a giraffes
for shirts of skin and magic wands
she prays to be broken
split saliva jewel
kink clutch
little crying angel
hugging her ball and chain
shawled *** a trussed cathedral
bound in silk
a vomiting flower of *******
her feet bound
puddled black crimson
crumbling at every teasing cuddle
and darkened bite like ghost fire
flame on flame
her ****** buttered Kasbah dark fruit casaba
i take a bite
red teeth and stretched tongue
adorn the hood of lust
and sink flying
into blood scape's womb
she screams hooked on satin's *** nail
wailing; hideous mirth
and folds sweet and sour
siracha tang
her mouth a gagging river
of ***** and oleo tubes
eyes gazing globe video games
**** brewing perfume's of delirium
**** star ships at apogee
riding the glitter rim
my ****
a rabid swoon of towering babble
is full tonight
brimming with white blood
red and trembling milk
to fill your mouth my love
and the bitter honey of my soul
Jun 3, 2019
Jun 3, 2019 at 12:07 PM UTC
Oh! How like you, I long to be a singing lark
Who among the fleecy clouds like a tiny speck
Remains hidden, drowning the air with music sweet
Rising higher and darting up with movements slick
In our ears, falls your song like peals of chiming bells
In clear, crystalline notes on this radiant day so bright
Why do you stay unseen in the far fringes of heaven?
Oh! Come out from the veils that cover you from our sight!
Are you warbling of love in inextricable lays
Or chanting hymns to the God of greater heights
Diving up and down like a mysterious sprite
Are you trilling of the charms of enchanting sights
Soaring and swaying like a flitting dot of light
You ascend higher and higher to dizzier heights
I guess your wings brush against the sailing clouds
As you reel round and round in ecstatic flights
Have you bade farewell to the verdant groves beneath
Have you flown for good from your woody nest?
Why do you dwell in the heights, solitary and alone?
Have you made the firmament your haven of rest?
Hovering over unseen, you pour out melodies sweet
That fills our gloomy hearts with euphoric delight
Sweeping away from weary heads all sullen thoughts
And flaming our souls as ever blazing beacons of light!
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 10:30 AM UTC
Shh… Shh… Shh…
Shh… Shh… Shh…
cars hush by pale sod mounds of urban fields
odd Sirens sing while small plush bits of skin fall again
autumn brings the tree-cricket trilling in
and roads of dead asters in brown brush…
Shh… Shh… Shh…
Shh… Shh… Shh…
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 6:39 AM UTC
listening to spacial music
notes resonating with wind chimes tinkling quarter tones
tranquility filling my space with wanton serenity
visual sounds of cascading crystalline streams
birds trilling their innocence in the air
willow trees swishing soft breezes
scents of fresh cut dewy grass
with misted sparkling drops
from morning’s fog
aromas of lilac
sweet jasmine co-mingling
enrapturing my breath
cocktail of exotic gases
at day’s end
evening welcoming
the distant crescent moon
stars dancing in complete synergy
lighting the sky while stilling the night
thundering with complete calm.~~lorilynn
copyright*lorilynn 2010
Oct 17, 2010
Oct 17, 2010 at 10:49 AM UTC
Nothing is more chilled
than slanted sunrays through pines
trembling with want
Nor nothing worse than
the young cardi’nals trilling
out to the white trees
Voices unfalt’ring
answered only by echoes
of forgotten spring
Cold, thick powder snow
blithely reminds us of the
small, white spring hen eggs
that, forever lost,
cracked among the shit-strewn straw,
oozing into earth—
and I think of you,
whispering back to the birds,
just as lost as they
waiting for pre-spring
dew to unfreeze from the grass
that you may lap it
with painful blue eyes
like black-stripped and impish jays,
looking down on all.
Nov 8, 2016
Nov 8, 2016 at 3:18 PM UTC
Sitting down by the pond the other evening,
Taking in the sunset and listening to how nature puts her children to bed,
I happened to notice my amphibian friends.
Now, I love sounds, loud ones, soft ones, booming, and whispers.
Got a right fetish for listening to nature.
As I sat there entranced, my ears started picking out different frog calls.
You know, them boy frogs trying to sound all handsome and friendly to get a wink from their girlfriends.
And not just the frogs either, ya know, there's some toads out there too.
I was hearing big ole Bullfrogs, boomin' louder than a drum in a parade.
Tiny spring peepers, with their loud high pitched sharp peeps.
There was Fowler's Toads out there too, sounding like ole Henry stuck a knife in his wife's chest, and she screamed for her life.
Them there grey tree frogs, well they are somethin'.
Chatterin' like a monkey missin' his bananas.
And don't get me started on those green frogs, boy howdy, they can twang with the best of em.
Right funny if you don't mind me saying.
But, that trilling those American toads do, out shining those short trillin' Western Chorus frogs evra time, is somethin' else.
Why they can hold a note pert near a full three minutes.
Never can tell how rich wild life is around ya til ya sit a spell and take a listen.
You may not see 'em out there, but shore nuf, life's a going on.
Oct 1, 2010
Oct 1, 2010 at 3:58 PM UTC
Home was
the sound of the djembe
As the beat of the cowbells
Joins the grooving melody
Filling the world
Black girl braids
Flying
And jiving
Feet bouncing and flouncing
Create a music of their own
Home was
the timbre of the chop saw
As the purr of the transformers
Joined by the flare of the drill
Screamo blares
Loving
And teasing
Voices filling up the room
The family dinner song
Home was
The Bumble bee tuna
As sung by tone deaf voices
And endless refrains
Fill in the void
That was never open
A harmony
And chorus
Of Wandering pitches
Home was
The aroma of a chai latte
As fresh air hit our faces
Joining the snickerdoodle scent
a lunchtime escapade
music blaring
heat blasting
laughs trilling
(Stanza Break)
Home was
The feeling of love
As you walk into your family
Join those you
love
those you
cherish
and feel
safe
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 10:14 AM UTC