"tuning" poems
My mind is abuzz,
Like a hummingbird does.
It can't be still,
And it was my will
To make everything so,
Because how will I know
The outer limits of my essence
Without spiritual lessons?
Self-taught, fear not,
Happiness is sought
Through a curious burn.
The lessons I learn
From engaging my mind,
Is that I am not blind
To tuning into frequencies,
And avoiding delinquencies
With each new experience,
Learning to control delerience.
My inner being thirsts
For a gift labeled a curse.
I want to break these chains,
Be more than insane.
I want to be free
To be the real me.
Every great individual
Has ideas that are sensational.
So say what you will,
I will have these spiritual spills,
That shakes where I dwell,
And brings me out of my shell.
I have the right to engage
With my mind, uncaged.
Hummingbirds die
If they are caged inside.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 9:26 PM UTC
Oh no
it must be *****
After we ******
a bit
and she
said
I ****** at it,
deflated
I wandered off home.
But I realised much later
she needed me to cater
to everything.
Shaft me side on
with a tuning fork
she's long gone,
destroying some
other
poor soul.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 1:12 PM UTC
It's been months since I played it,
The guitars have my exams in their way,
They miss me at Karnal just as I miss them here at Rohtak.
The strings crave to be played - to be touched by me,
It's high time that I played it so the tuning must be long lost,
The hollow & the pickups feel lonelier in my memory without me & strings missing my touch.
I must hold them in my hands and write musical notes with them,
I will make the strings my pallet & strum them in rhythm while I sing,
I will apologize to my guitars for having ignored them knowingly.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 7:31 AM UTC
I just don't understand
why so many Guitarists,
and moreover Musicians,
so disdain drop tunings;
Just because that technique
may well differ from yours
does not necessarily mean
either is inherently inferior.
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 11:02 AM UTC
it's all a buzz inside me
cotton fluffed between my ears
and ceaseless crickets droning,
like a tuning fork that never ends
but always holds the pitch
of time and undivided space.
an empty shell peering out at life
stuffed with eternal noises
of neurons crackling.
where's the fun in cotton candy
when it's stuffed inside my head?
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 5:12 PM UTC
a quote of Bernard-Henri Lévy
~~~
the divers’ recovery, diverse,
shipwrecked salvage from different locations,
auctioned to the highest bidder,
tho the excised excerpts are exceptional,
none come to do the bidding,
for the provenance of words
belongs to all, and to none
~~
“so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction”
“the addicted pleasure words granted to we privileged few,
like every enslaved soul to the mind, which I am, I am,
evening dreams, midnight thinkings, sunrise seeings,
how can I infect and thus protect the young to the liberty
to love the crafted content of our human essence to better
comprehend that a moment caught on tape of our shared
words is a holiday, a celebration for the ages...and every molecule,
becomes a human tuning fork in concert, in pitch identical, in blood tainted with the simplicity of we are all the same, only words, this will transmit”
“murmur me, with soft downy charms,
these words discovered
recoursed and intended well to
pointedly offset and contradict
their very own tumultuous discovery uncovering,
tear tongue me
with calming, lapping word wages,
hymns harmonious and fine homilies,
a call, a request,
a bequest
to sedate my shrill life
“some cells, microscopic, preserved digitally,
aged to imperfection, thrash my eyes,
making me speak in tongues I do not recognize,
but fluently possess, no wonder there,
the memory place fairly empty,
room aplenty for passerby's and the imagery
of the vaguest of dearly departed
skin is not the only mot shed,
sloughing of woeful words”
“speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor these words at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them”
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 4:55 AM UTC
We all want to feel like flashing lights
but we're just stained silverware:
rusty, dusty, *****
old, unappreciated,
hidden deep inside the closet.
We're only good for certain occasions
when we're brought out
handled with care, doused in vinegar
scraping the age of our backs
bringing us into Life, anew.
Yet some sets fit certain settings.
Appetizer? Main Course? Dessert? Dish Washer? Dropped on the floor?
Sometimes none at all because
we can be "made in china"
or from fine china.
*And I hated the feeling I got
sitting in the middle of the table like a tuning fork
where everyone was passing food around
and I was just vibrating in their rhythm and sound.
I've been through many sets
much not quite like this.
Still life repeats itself like history
speaking of which, is actually me.*
*I've been held but never used,
maybe I have but not in the right way.
I was made to look like a fool
and I feel*
**just.
that.**
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
The light is slowly fading from the sky.
There is the steady hum of cars passing by.
The birds are tuning up for their evening symphony,
And as a plane flys by it takes the lead.
A dog snuffles around the corner looking for something to eat,
Or perhaps a bunny to chase then she looks at me.
A beautiful evening no rain autumn is coming in.
Another day is done again with evening creeping in.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 9:36 PM UTC
*Onward, soldier.
Onward.*
That’s what they all
tell me, but
let me
slow down for a moment.
There’s a little something I gotta
say,
Thank you.
To that swing set in Greenhills Music Studio
San Juan City,
without you,
I’d never have learned that sometimes
it’s the other way around—
feet in the sky and head on the ground.
Mrs. Arambulo, the swing set’s owner,
who made sure I was well versed in
sonatinas and arpeggio scales
before I found out they’d already made
a piano that didn’t need tuning, and
Ma, who’d test my memory by
asking me if I
could recite
whole paragraphs at age four,
she’s why I remember things like
the smell of pilmeni,
the color of our first house’s carpet,
and nine page spoken word poetry,
to everyone behind that old kids’ show, Bayani,
watching it in my
second grade HEKASI class
would bring me to tears each time — no kidding,
you all paved the way for my homeland’s history
to make its home in my heart,
my English teachers from
sixth all the way to eleventh grade,
who all believed and still believe in the words I put down on paper
and spew out on dark stages armed with imagery and the Spirit,
you made me fall deeper in love with the way words can be waves
or flames,
Dad, who taught me
to climb mountains, to read books,
to let myself run free among the nations
but to always remember to leave a part of my heart at home,
to the four little boys I met in Hong Kong,
if we meet again, I owe you a better explanation to your question,
“Why do you dance?”
thank you for asking me that, and I’m sorry for my cowardly answer back then
but I’m braver now, and
I promise it’s for more than just fun or exercise,
it’s for this God I hope you get to know,
and to every Philippine history teacher I’ve ever had,
keep teaching like that,
we need more young ones who’d be willing
to die for their homeland,
you taught me that there is so much more to this country
than its own people tell me, so
burn on.
and make sure they catch fire.
*Onward, soldier.
Onward.*
I’m not sure where I’m headed,
but I’d rather be uncertain of the road ahead
than forget
where
I started.
I’ve told you mine, now
tell them yours.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC
There was a fly who only had one eye.
He lived a simple life on the River wry.
One day the fly with only one eye began to cry.
I'm very lonely he said to himself, I feel as though I've been left on the shelf.
From out of nowhere an Elf appeared, an Elf who had only one ear.
Your not alone the Elf did shout, come on over let's hang out.
The Fly with one eye flapped his wings and said loudly so the Elf with one ear could hear, I'm going to try to fly to the other side of the river wry.
The Elf with one ear said do not fear I'll be your eyes and you'll be my ears.
But half way across the Fly with one eye gave a big sigh and said to the Elf with only one ear, I do fear that I will not finish the ride to the other side of the river wry.
Do not fear said the Elf with only one ear. With my perfect eyes I can see that half way across in the middle of a bog on a log are a frog and bee, surely they will help me.
The Elf with only one ear shouted loudly to the frog and bee, can you please help me?
The frog and the bee shouted back "gladly". But the Elf who only had one ear could not hear the reply from the middle of the river wry.
The Fly with one eye heard the reply and shouted as loudly as he could muster "the frog and bee have agreed gladly to help you and me"
The Elf with one ear was relieved to hear this and set about outlining his plan.
The Fly with one eye would flap his wings and start his trip across the river.
The frog would jump up and down on his lily pad and make a noise which sounded like ribbit, ribbit, the Fly with one eye and the Elf with one ear would use the frog for direction, tuning into it.
Once the Fly with one eye had passed the frog by the bee would set about buzzing loudly, the fly with one eye and the Elf with one ear would follow the buzzing to the edge of the river.
The plan worked the Fly with one eye gave a shout hip hip hip hooray.
The Elf with one ear gave three cheers and the frog and the bee clapped merrily.
Hooray said the Fly with only one Eye and the Elf with only one Ear, let's get all our friends together and bake a cake to celebrate.
The Fly with one eye looked at his friends and knew that life would never be quite the same now he could count on his new found friends, the Elf with one ear and the frog and the bee were like one big family.
Sep 2, 2017
Sep 2, 2017 at 5:40 PM UTC
First,
Thank you for this poetry, precious intellect.
For employing each muse, under no objection--
Working hard so that the words in my head can sing their celebrations
As if without effort,
And take their leave in abstract
Unity.
Second,
Thank you for my pain, you lying ************
Every time I fall under the spell of night silence,
Unencumbered by those solemn realities,
Somehow, still, I long to be bound in the ribbons of mental garrulousness.
Because ****
It'd sure be hard to write without any words--
Without the consequences of this troubled mind.
So, it looks like you’ve found a convincing way to pitch the worth of suffering.
And Darlin’, I suppose that
I'll be the buyer of your generic brand of heartache--
Never cared for that top-shelf quick n’ done despair anyway.
I must just have a pallet for lingering bitterness.
Third,
Thank you for this herb, mother nature.
For the improvisational song that it sings in my veins,
Tuning out prosaicism’s drone.
For the rocking motion of my psyche
That starts when the rapid and the slow converge,
And the configuration of the fourth dimension warbles me to sleep
In a chorus of veins—
Conveying each of life’s cadences,
All in vain
Of what I myself
Ordain.
Feb 17, 2012
Feb 17, 2012 at 11:33 AM UTC
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
Two birds flying at night crash into each other
and as they spin falling from a cloud of feathers and starlight
they are reminded of a time before they learned how to fly...
Will we fold into each others secrets
would we fit each other like a spoon
won't you take my hand and chase stars with me
we'll catch them if they fall
and bury them in the backyard of our childhood dreams
so we can always find our way back there
Chase the shoreline
fly with a flock of airplanes
we'll signature the moon
as we dance our footprints upon the clouds
swim with me through an ocean of bed sheets
and Sunday mornings
and we'll chase dinosaurs from our bedroom
The warmest place in the world is next to you
let me sip coconuts in your arms
won't you plant my name behind your tongue
that it may bloom in a garden of your smiles
We'll find a beach to name after our children
and serenade the ocean as it refuses to stop kissing the shore
we'll use toothbrushes as tuning forks
fake a limp at new years eve and ride the elevator to the highest floor
and dance with me above the skyline
'cause if you sing me a lullaby of forgiveness
I will keep you from all the broken promises
we can finger paint sunrises on each other skin
Be orphans with me
so that we can name each other
the way we once named the stars
as if the constellations held the promise
we could find our way home
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 2:56 AM UTC
There once was a garden where everything died
Even the birds had flown off to hide
The mighty oaks had lost all their branches
As for the flowers , long ago had they all of their chances
Even the sky turned black as it flew by
Then all of the clouds had to cry and cry
The floods could not wash away the pain
Those who lived there died or went insane
Laughter had been banned years ago
The crow's kaw kaw , was never a show
The only sound that was to be heard
was the wail of the missing violin's words
Under moonlight , by shadowy night
The strings cried blood and tears for sight
Even the moon overcome lost one dusty tear
to the life missing after all of these years .
One day the cry of the music stopped
The last string had now finally popped
The violin laid down in the ground
and there was never again another sound
And years had now gone on by
No one living then was left alive
There had been a revolt or so
Flowers once again started to grow
Trees sprouted out and began to bud
You could once again feel life's gentle nudge
The grass carpeted the woodland floors
and happiness returned to all once more
Now all had forgotten about the violin
But sometimes if you listen to the midnight's wind
You can hear it while it goes about tuning
for all it's sins had now long been forgiven
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 1:24 AM UTC
Vision
is a molded masterpiece
from the Almighty Maker,
an optical order
from the Divine Creator,
becoming sight for we who do not see
Sent to each visionary
to believe
in the simple truth
we possess
Vision
is to glimpse God,
the artistic nature
that His mighty hand has left
Obvious details about us,
even if focus is found
through failing sight
With a heavenly pair of lenses,
looking at what we cannot behold,
we can imagine eternity
Vision
is a tuning device,
a fine violin
rupturing the eardrum
of mediocrity
An untapped well
in refreshing water
designed to leak and splash
and spring into potential
upon the souls and minds
of mankind
Vision,
a prerequisite to each breath,
a telescope to uninhabited skies,
a stethoscope to the desires of the heart,
is Godly intent,
the gut of greatness,
as we mortals
any purposeful plan
conspire
creation
Sep 3, 2010
Sep 3, 2010 at 6:26 PM UTC
Tuning into my own nature now
I find myself rolling this ball
Around my head
Of this possibility
Of a feeling
Like this silver ocean swan
With a baby blue mouth
Flying in front of me
Skimming the lake
From the sight of this being
With a different conscious
I can imagine what it would be like
To roam the Earth
Without clutter in the mind
Wings cutting through the wind
Bound to the present
And clarity of what IS
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
How long will I roam
with this homesick syndrome?
Oh deep blue sea
of vast opportunity,
I am tuning in
and tuning out,
nothing matters
but everything counts.
Can I quit Time?
Can I quit Space?
Can I pack my mind
and leave this place?
Oh Infinite distance
of my vast Existence,
I see through the delusions
of all these Illusions,
but the smarter I become
the less I feel as One.
Can I quit Feel?
Can I quit Think?
Can I pack my Will
and let this ship sink?
Creation takes determination
but no motivation in my imagination.
My only desire
to return to the Higher.
My souls longing
for a sense of belonging.
I chose this course
but I long for the Source.
How long will I roam
with this Homesick Syndrome?
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 6:50 PM UTC
*A cacophony
Of instruments tuning up--
Birds in a willow*
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 5:15 PM UTC
A day will certainly come
As sure as we breathe
When our creator will ask of us
What we did to aid the oppressed
On that day
As surely as who created you
Created me too
It will not be about religion but humanity
When carefully planned and organised jets
Launched rockets
To bomb populated refugee camps
Schools and apartment blocks
At a defenceless opposition
Without an air force or navy
Heavy weapons or artillery
Command or armour
**That's not war
It's ******
It's cold blooded massacre**
As a woman shot in the stomach
Gives birth to a cold blue baby
And a world across oceans changes channels tuning in to the next world cup champion
It was never about taking sides
Israel vs Palestine
There is a truth
To which we must remove the blindfold of ignorance
Searching for a voice of right
Amongst the cries of pain hatred and anger
The sign in a city
Where there is too much to see
Finding peace amongst people who are not ours
Because I see hypocrisy of nations
Who stand for human rights
But only when the human shares a matching ideology
I see hypocrisy amongst media
Where a million wounds and shades of blood
Are inked into black and white letters
Today I read 'An Israelian was killed whilst a dozen Palestinians died'
They turned humans into numbers
Quantitative data
They couldn't possibly de-sensitize it any further
I mean look at the verbs in which they phrased that
I see hypocrisy amongst Muslims
Who stand equal and united
Yet they too turn backs when the interest is not beneficial
And the pitiful nation falls divided
Whether it is a prayer
A strike, a boycott or vigil
A protest or petition
Maybe even a donation
There's a thousand ways to help
But very few who do
So what did you do?
Was it out of sight out of mind for you?
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 11:04 PM UTC
•<>•
*the addicted pleasure words granted to we privileged few,
like every enslaved soul to the mind, which I am, I am,
evening dreams, midnight thinkings, sunrise seeings,
how can I infect and thus protect the young to the liberty
to love the crafted content of our human essence to better
comprehend that a moment caught on tape of our shared
words is a holiday, a celebration for the ages,
scar of pleasure, a forehead Cain mark, scarlet letter of pride,
for this reliving of our stories retelling is the skipped beat
of our connection not born from practical reason,
but from truths we own equally and though reason says
mine, it is not, it is only to be yours when the sharing
resonates resonates resonates resonates resonates
and every molecule, becomes a human tuning fork
in concert, in pitch identical, in blood tainted with
the simplicity of we are all the same, only words, this will transmit*
July 4th, 2017
•<>•
"If you spend enough time reading or writing, you find a voice, but you also find certain tastes. You find certain writers who when they write, it makes your own brain voice like a tuning fork, and you just resonate with them. And when that happens, reading those writers … becomes a source of unbelievable joy. It’s like eating candy for the soul."
And I sometimes have a hard time understanding how people who don’t have that in their lives make it through the day.
David Foster Wallace
Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 10:47 AM UTC
lonely lonely,
you leave me so,
inside out watching
the stars burn out
in an emptying
of cosmic sorrow..
and tomorrow I know
the sun will smile at me
your kisses will taste
like honey and
the birds will romance me
with slaughtered butterflies
and sweet lamentation.
But today,
I've been tuning radio static
to white noise and
flashes of Chopin,
trying to recreate a feeling
from shadows and memory.
don't leave me lonely,
dear, make love to
me in the hypnagogic
stare of the rising sun.
play me soft as buttercups
and foxgloves;
piannissimo,
gentle as death's
watchful eye.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 12:19 AM UTC
My brain is a finely tuned A string
Plucking and picking itself out of tune
And though out of tune itself
Molds and bends to be in tune
Relative to others.
My skin like a mahogany fingerboard
Is constantly pressed
And squeezed and slapped
—Abused by my own hand.
My mouth and tongue are f-holes
Through which my inner vibrations
Are released into the air.
My heart is a bridge
Keeping my thoughts
In their rightful place
But also connecting
My body and mind.
My bones make up my sound-post
Holding me together
And providing the structure
Necessary to speak.
My feet are an endpin
Grounding me
And connecting me
To my surroundings.
Occasionally a bow comes along
Forcing me to do or say
The opposite of my desires
Moving me
And playing me
Like an instrument,
A toy.
I am a cello
Here to say what I want
How I want.
Though my strings need occasional tuning,
I decide how they sound
And when they sound.
Although I am sometimes used by others
For their gain
I am always in control of my expression.
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 9:36 PM UTC
A Bountiful Sky for Foolish Old Men
early up, haunted-stoked~woked by a multilingual sky,
an impish childish creation of an immature god,
inconsistently incapable, of making up his moody mind,
whiny then smiley, cloudless besotted, morphed
into crystalline blue of a well behaved in Sunday best,
warming the souls of the begotten and the misbegotten,
the hardened and the poetic souls, tho he laughs at
himself, for he too is both, curmudgeon and a mr. softee,
whiny child in rapid aging body, wearing of discovery
of new places for to ache, pains that don’t fit med scales
of 1~10, unless it is the Richter Earthquake formulation.
despite all, his eyeballs seethe, immaculate degeneration still
allows the seeing of broad brush paint strokes of the team of
angelic artistes that do the detailing of the palette above,
how!
they, love their big bold brushes that sky swipe atmospheric
residue into 31 Baskin Robbins flavors, with swirls of caramel
chocolate butterscotch that make the man’s complaints whisked
into who-cares-a-damn anyway ice creamery reverie and all
that other stuff disbarred from the aborning morning clarity of
“good morning ole man, where’s my coffee” diurnal tuning that
the women hums, reminding those in the earshot crowd of one,
that s’mores and chores, tasks and at lasts, dogs need walking, gardens watering, cushions plumping, evening dishes moving from dishwasher onto wallpaper-covered shelves, geese-away-chasing, and loving poetry
by a poetoftheway scribbling…
8:01 AM Frieday, Jun 30
Jun 30, 2023
Jun 30, 2023 at 8:32 AM UTC
Your **** is my favorite instrument
Strumming my fingers between your legs
Tuning you up until you’re soaking wet
Strings of your juices collect on my fingers
As you sing that sweet symphony from your lips
I won’t stop playing until the song is over.
Nov 13, 2024
Nov 13, 2024 at 1:34 AM UTC