"untuned" poems
My piano sits against the wall
Hardly ever played at all
Things are stacked upon her mantle
Where once was music now just shambles
Creaking and clicking keys are everywhere
But no one seems to care
Who could love a piano untuned
My piano will fall apart soon
I look at her from far away
And my piano seems to say
*you too dear, are such a sight
for you see, you and I are just alike*
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 2:42 AM UTC
Strumming the untuned strings, he stares drunkenly into the setting sun of yesteryears songs, sung of lost dreams and the birthed ambitions of the dark, dark days to be.
Happily, he tears up in the fortunate tragedies, of the reclamation in his dreams, as he seethes out the damnation of his steeds, galloping gallantly through his being.
All seeing, in the finite fleeting when he sings, of strummed dreams to the rhythms of heart beats lost, embossed on the epitaphs of kings.
Sad songs of dreams once had.
Be glad for that, which does not **** you, only to bestow upon you, the gratitude of the weirding ways, in passionate display for us all to play nice.
Shake these dice and jump aboard this bus of wandering poetry, from the porches of poets singing to the sun.
From the morning Moet, to the afternoon beer run.
we sing of dreams
of better things
we blaspheme
and spin the scenes
of our murdered dreams
and just clean the guilt away
I am so awesome as to be devoid of fault.
I am a god that cracks the asphalt.
I am the angel signing the clause, of deserved harm.
I am the indentured servant sounding the alarm, with the charm of a Trojan horse, forced to adhere to the most righteous path.
The first
The last
Laugh of inevitability
Honing in on the ability to capture the longevity of dream warriors, in the lock of predators, in the employ of a senator, from the center of the heart, to impart on you the fear from thieves caught in the plight of those fraught with the graces of an exterminator, exterminating the pro-creators of your world. Soldiers unraveled in the lavished gavels of real criminals drowning in their own subliminal theories of the self imposed heresies of intention.
Free will
A fragile blessing
I cracked, all so long ago, as i gently bestow my belligerence upon your innocence and **** it all away.
I'm the ******* son
Strumming for the only one.
Once.
Before the lore of the storm.
Born of the swoon of a gun.
More than one.
Once.
As the day faded into night, his strumming turned plucking, as he slightly eased from reprise to silence, in the whisper of nights words, easing him into the blur, of sleep.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 3:46 PM UTC
I am he
who blistered and
purpled his aching
fingers, upon playing
the saddest, dissonant
melodies out of
his old, untuned
guitar, whose strings
of somber used-to-be's
he ceaselessly strummed
and plucked under
the dullest starless
night sky; and
sing of his
weeping heart the
poetry of melancholy
notes half-composed.
It is me--
the lone guitarist
on broken avenue
who never stopped
playing his love
song of rue
since you left--
whose only lyrics
is your name
and your words
he dearly kept.
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 3:45 AM UTC
i am the frostbite
spreading through the frozen fingers of your new lover's
hands, transferred body heat
burning the skin.
i am 3 am drinks in the
pouring rain, swerving onto
oncoming traffic.
i am the ship lost at sea of our love.
i am a broken bathroom mirror.
i am an unidentified purple bruise
on the neck of your ex-lover.
i am the fork in the toaster.
i am an untuned guitar in
a filthy venue.
calloused hands against soft skin.
slam the whiskey shot down on your neck. wash the blood off in the kitchen sink.
broken blinds forcing unwanted sunlight into your nightmares.
i am the definition of breakup *** i am the
aftermath of self-hatred and one more go around.
**** just for the fun of it, just to ****
pretend you are making love. pretend this matters.
i am late night emergency room
visits for rope-burned necks.
i am the car alarm blocking out your
one night stand's profound moans.
organize your bookshelf to spell out my name in the titles.
every song on the radio
will sound like goodbye.
i am the perfect time for a first kiss. swollen lips. swollen throats. inevitably calling your name on my deathbed.
i am under-the-bed-shoeboxes filled
with ripped photos that
still smell of his cologne.
i am one more dose of ambien
to get you through the night.
overdose on love, starve your lover.
stop.
rewind.
i am the first glance in a coffee shop.
play.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 8:20 PM UTC
by a crackling fire
with an untuned guitar
as the sun makes its way to its bed
just a few friends
and a bottle of drink
as we discuss all the signs we misread
the uncertain future
regrets of the past
we ask how the world keeps on spinning
from friends to lovers
and lovers to strangers
we're desperate for our new beginnings
so we stop all the talking
and find a way out
you pick up a guitar and you strum
we sing and clap
and knock our drinks back
as our minds begin coming undone
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 5:46 AM UTC
Her prayers are
Breathy I love you's,
Warm and pained against your skin.
Your body is her altar,
Her temple,
The cathedral surrounding her
In her heartbroken worship
As she unravels,
Crying,
Shaking,
Clinging to you with
Everything
She
Has
Left.
The shattered pieces
Of her heart are the broken winged swallows,
Flocking in fluttering storms
In your bell tower,
Nesting in your rafters
Alongside the owls you've let be
To this point,
Content to allow them to roost.
Her hands are your bibles,
The creases telling a thousand stories
Of the girl who weathers the fiercest storms,
But falls apart at the seams
For love of you.
Your laughter serves as her hymns,
Ringing through the expanse of you,
Singing in her ears.
Sometimes she tries
Laughing alongside you,
But her voice cracks
Like an untuned piano
Whenever she opens her lips
To add her laughter to
Your songbooks.
You each find a different kind of heaven
In the stained glass windows
Of the other's eyes.
Hers are the ocean,
Deep and stormy,
Only ever calm
Just before lightning shakes her frame,
Rain and froth
Pounding
Against the glass,
Breaking it's way through,
Trying to flood your halls
As the tempest carves new legends
In her outstretched hands;
New biblical stories to lose yourself in.
She finds summer nights in your gaze,
Bonfires dappling damp grass,
And a boy
Laying on the hood of a run down car,
Staring too intently at the stars
To truly register their fragility,
Their mortality,
Even as they plummet from the sky,
Bursts of white light
Reflecting gold through green glass.
The comet-light ripples,
Climbing to the rafters,
Startling the owls from their perches,
And you can feel them thrumming,
Beating their wings against the ceiling of your ribs.
k. f.
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 5:57 PM UTC
perfect girl
in reverse she moves like the minute-hand of the watch wound
up down through
pilot all in leather crash into the steel
ocean and eat the seaweed until
emerge looking like hubcap trash
fifty tons of water weight you move home
covered in barnacles and
flotsam out of the driftwood
you built your house
where the dogs come to eat dirt &
grasshoppers
beneath the foundations lie the
carcasses of chewedupspitout cockroaches
you killed when you were young enough to think that
racing greyhounds meant
chasing them across state borders
you and the peeling paint reading the tea leaves they say time to rip the
oil pastel wrappers off so you can't tell which color is
which and then draw draw everywhere until
you cover the world in color that can't be washed out up
off things are no longer crayola clear
in the sun you turn on natural lights to **** the
wolftooth glare of photophobia
sun sneezing out into the porch do you dare
doubleyou dee forty these hinges someday man, do you really
want this house to have the last word?
so that when you cover the fire pit (no stone unturned)
and roll over to the
cold side of the bed you realize
that the pipes are only leaking in your head
that the dresser did not collapse
that the broken glass & the ants on the floor are not the cause of the
blood on your heels
cracked like brazil nut shells all along the
corridor
(perfect girl runs
skirt flies up in the back hair whips neck turns
hips like a rose in the honeyed dew
melancholy untuned viola strings improve the flavor like
hints of saffron in her eyes--
she is taller than you remember)
the bats
(moths between teeth)
watch you curiously
as though you were standing
right-side up
cacophony caused by
one too few chairs at the
dining table.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 1:36 PM UTC
Evening hours of playing
peekaboo with the sun
And i lay down lavender words
loping and longing in my
journey to you
Crossing infinities of time
Chiding my days
And chastising my ways
For you to return
When you retreated like a soft
murmur
Like gentle untuned ripples
Like the melancholic wind that
blows and draws in through
my window
Addressing my pages and
leaving without reciting my
rhymes
Like the fumble fuming puff
hailing then slowly fading and
failing
Foamy and fluffy with the
froathy cream yet not
savouring the flavour
Calling yet not caressing
Rhyming yet not flowing
Leaving me like a vagabond
With a foramen self
Grappling ,gripping and then
giving the grave,
the soul you gave
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 1:43 AM UTC
No Inspiration
"Throw me a word. Any word. I need some inspiration."
"Bleeding strawberries."
I thanked them.
it was nothing earth shattering, mind blowing, or beautiful.
I wanted to ask for a another word.
I wanted a second toss at this word scrabble.
I didn't ask.
so I just used it.
I needed inspiration.
Bleeding made me think of crimson. and crimson made me think of colors.
colors made me think of pain.
strawberries made me think of The Beatles.
Strawberry Fields.
strawberry fields forever.
'let me take you down…'
I thought of endless fields back home. before I
moved to New York.
endless prairie's
fragments of sunlight
colored the masses of moving, breathing grass
my fingertips traced them
I climbed the tall tree
the tree in which I had laughed in.
cried in.
carved my name in.
the tree felt my presence
and remembered me by name.
I asked the tree if I was living was alright.
the tree responded.
The thought of home made me feel empty. so I purged the thought of it from my mind.
I focused in again on inspiration. I needed inspiration. though I had none.
A girl in the next room is playing the piano.
the piano is out of tune.
I wonder why she is playing.
maybe she needs to hear some sound
I need to hear words of inspiration
I begin a train of thought.
the piano is so out of tune.
I lose my inspiration.
I was alone in a room full of people. who threw me words of no inspiration.
colorless words.
that led to nothing inspiring.
bleeding strawberries
had made me think of color,
and The Beatles.
which had me think of music
or the place I had once called home
a piano player lost me
all to which led nowhere.
'Nowhere man, don't worry,
Take your time, don't hurry
Leave it all till somebody else
Lends you a hand'
Nothing inspired me.
no one inspired me.
I searched for inspiration.
yet found none.
I asked for inspiration.
I was thrown unusual words
which produced no inspiration
So I wrote completely uninspired.
with meaningless words
with deep feelings of homesickness
with the music of The Beatles
with an untuned piano.
All without an ounce of inspiration.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 8:11 PM UTC
I am a dust laden untuned guitar in a corner.
Come toward me and wipe away all my loneliness and tune the untuned strings in my life with your warm hands.
Chat with me the way you sing melodiously along with your guitar's melodious tunes.
Beat my fears the way you beat your drums.
Read , understand , remember and love me like your books.
Listen to the noises , voices , whispers and sounds in my silences.
Give me an eternal space in your poetries.
Spent such moments with me that gets carved beautifully on the walls of my memories.
Get lost in my love the way you are into the melodies of your violen and piano while playing them.
Love me above the boundaries of ether.
Embrace me tightly in the arms of your soul and coalesce me within your soul.
And take me away in the ethereal cosmos with you.
Aug 6, 2020
Aug 6, 2020 at 11:37 AM UTC
Purple skies and wounded hearts
Leaves drifting away
Growing trees and yellow planes
Night turning to day
Untuned cellos, crumbs on sheets
Grass blades in between toes
Aerosol cans and crooked shelves
Snowflakes that stay on the nose
Purple you and wounded me
Us drifting away
Growing you and yellow me
No one wanting to stay
Untuned me, crummy you
Two scarred, translucent souls
Aerosol me and crooked you
I'm dying, but nobody knows.
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 1:07 AM UTC
There’s no point in going to bed
Or closing the shutters on my eyes
Because I believe that sleep is for the dead
And rest I don’t prioritize
There is no American noise
When everyone else is quietly slumbering
One of my favorite parts about three AM
Is peace and tranquil wondering
My brain is like a pair of eyes
And the optometrist is changing the lens
Conjectures and notions are out of focus
Here and there and back again
My mind is an untuned radio
Thoughts, an endless garble of static
I’m swimming in between the airwaves
And my body functions are automatic
Languor sometimes hits me
Like a wave crashing on a shore
But soon enough it has dissipated
As if it was never there before
Count the circles ‘round my eyes
Like the rings on an ancient tree
How many sleepless nights am I at now?
Because melatonin is an escapee.
My spirit is miles and miles away
Wandering where it wants to
If only someone would bring it back
Since sleep is long past overdue.
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 6:56 PM UTC
The Devil is everywhere
He's the telemarketer who calls during dinner
He's hiding in your untuned guitar string
Hell last I heard good ole beelzebub was down in Georgia
But where's God been lately?
We used to talk everyday
Now I can't even get a one worded text
I've been to his many houses but no one was home
Just more like me hoping to catch a glimpse of him hiding in the shadows
I call and act like he's listening but I know I'm just getting his voicemail
And I broke the machine by leaving one to many messages
Maybe he's behind on his phone bill
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 11:45 PM UTC
In a corner
a quiet corner
he passed by every day
it stood
unnoticed
solemn
proud
in silent dignity
unobtrusive
content
intact
Until by chance
the light of dusk
skipped off its latch
and caught his eye
He paused
and turned midstride
without a thought
unsure of why
and then amongst the shadows
its silhouette appeared
familiar lines and shapes
like voices in a dream
that drew him close and near
He paused again
and wondered
if he dared
to touch its shell
He paused again
and wondered
if he dared
to reach within his shell
And then he heard a melody
played so long ago
a tune
too simple for a symphony
a song
too beautiful for him alone
But there was no sound
only a memory
of a time that used to be
only a memory
of someone he used to be
He closed his eyes
and held his breath
his hand outstretched
Until by chance
he found its latch
and opened
its protective case
he peered inside
and saw a vision
he once knew
blushing in the fading sunlight
glowing from its inner hue
He reached inside
and cradled softly
its slender neck
then raised gently
its graceful body
to rest beside his neck
he found its bow
still loose and supple
without tension
held with ease
and then he stroked its hair
on strings untuned beside the bridge
as fingers rose to dance
on strings untuned beside the bridge
Feb 4, 2010
Feb 4, 2010 at 12:51 PM UTC
lack of rhythm keeps the music from flowing,
keeps the anger wrapped tight
and unleashes the screams of anxiety.
It's such a simple thing to want
such an easy thing to do
until you break down in tears
realizing just how pitiful it is.
I just want to play a melody
something beautiful,
hours each day
of nonstop practice
each ending with
the smashing of the keys
and the screams from my throat.
It all ends with tears
as I do not understand-
spending years on the same melody
yet it only follows one tune
How much longer will it go on?
When will this need to play a melody stop?
for until then
those sweet tunes bring tears to my eyes
in the knowledge
that I try every day
week after week
month after month
year after year
and those different tunes only blend
to a jumbled mess of one
due to my shaking
aching hands.
I just want to play a melody.
Why is that so hard?
It's the same song over and over
and though I try my hardest
it comes out the same
each time
and ends with
my screams and tears,
due to these shaking hands.
It is a never ending turmoil,
that breaks my untuned heart.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 5:52 PM UTC
somehow yesterday's air seemed cleaner.
the sky seemed clearer and the grass greener
and the singing of crickets was like the chaos of an
untuned orchestra waiting to play, and there was dew
on the violins, and the cellist forgot his bow, but it was beautiful anyway.
so how has everything that seemed
so untouchable, so without blemish, so innocently complex,
become ruined, in a night?
how did the sky fill with clouds and the air fill with ash
that builds up in my lungs with no relief from the gasping -
grasping at straws -
but there's dust on my fingertips and i can't keep hold
there was once something beautiful in the things that one could not see
but hear and one could not touch but believe, only faith doesn't
seem to get you anywhere these days, now,
and that's all i have.
they can't take that from me, or at least that's what i hear,
but you can't believe what you hear - you can't even believe what you see
you have to have faith it isn't all just fake
which is ironic, because if faith didn't get us anywhere we wouldn't be able to believe
anything anymore
because this reality has clouded skies and
complicated lies disguised as
simple
misunderstandings, because everyone wants things
their way but let me tell you something,
the world isn't a burger king -
it's a giant glass sphere with dew covered
orchestras that just want to play you to sleep,
but you can't stop to listen because you can't even breathe.
you're under six feet of sand that rose up from the
ground to drown you in your own
smug sense of self righteousness,
when sin was just as close to the surface
as all that kindness you wore as a mask.
if you can dig yourself out
by all means, be my guest -
but if I had to take a guess you'll be there for a while.
let the image of that cloud filled sky and
that leaden feeling in your ash
filled lungs ruminate -
let it make up the half of yourself that you somehow
left on that clear skied day that seems to have been
an eternity ago.
the half of yourself that wanted to hear the
dew covered cricket orchestra and contemplate the silence of the star filled sky.
and if you ask really nicely, maybe the rain will erode
your sandy tomb and you won't have to dig
yourself out.
maybe you won't have to
plead with a million granules of self doubt.
but i wouldn't count on it.
so if i were you, i would start digging.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 3:00 PM UTC
April is a month of forgotten dreams,
That began to fade away in February,
And drew their last breath in March.
Missed opportunities wax poetic
As the tumultuous spring wind pushes empty
Ideals into a realm of something not quite there,
But present enough to be felt over the roar of
Cryptic resolutions and half baked goals.
April is a month of resurrected love
That has already grown rotten and putrid,
Decaying under the warm, dirt ground
Built up over the heavy hopes of December.
Memories full of partial truths and "I love you"
Twist and pull at untuned heart strings,
Until a sad, sordid melody sounds out,
Almost completely evaporating before it reaches
Anyone brave enough to write it into reality.
April is a month that sometimes isn't really there
Until the middle of May, when a distinct pang
In the chest gives weight to its existence.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 11:34 AM UTC
~~~
It is all around us
a realm we cannot see
but unlike this weighted world
there we can be free
It is never subject
to senses yet untuned
it is like a vapor
lit only by the moon
another dimension?
perhaps this will explain
but you will surely know it
as an unseen rain
though it has all knowledge
it will only tell
those who practice wisdom
like the music of a shell
but you must place that cockle
to a patient ear
those who are impatient
perhaps will never hear!
you won't see see it glowing
with a human eye
but it is ever present
as real as you or i
though it is very lovely
through spirt-eyes is seen
it is the real world
our own is just a dream.
SoulSurvivor
(C) January 20, 2015
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 2:12 PM UTC
I saw the world through different eyes today
There was no clouded judgement, fake, pretentious nature
I could laugh at anything
Be anyone
Pity anything
Yet the moon still carried on shining
And although we squabbled over art I realised
Art is nothing but a squabble
For sobriety restrains the person I can be
And the person I am
And those restraints keep me in a place I don't want to be
They lock me down in fear and in shame
For the person I can be is caged
It screams out
Opinions which deter people and denounce
And as I see you run through the streets
Ever searching for a place to fit in
My ankles become weak
They buckle
They cannot carry me
For I find no easier place to fit in
Than my very own skin
The place of an outcast
An ungrateful brat
Who drools at the thought of an empty mindless space
Where no judgement, snobbery or scoff is placed
For the idea of a flee ridden rug,
A broken kettle,
A piercing mattress,
An unread journal
It SCREAMS to me freedom
A natural scribe,
A just life
An unjustified rhyme
It calls to me
It calls on and on
But tomorrow I will be the person
The world destined me to be
An untuned symphony
Beating away with a monotone rhythm
Because doubt rears its ugly head
Churns a putrid dread
Which I carry to my empty cage of a heart
And I carry it on
And on
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 1:21 PM UTC
We make peace with closed fists
and sing poems to our children
about war;
“It only happens once in a while.”
We spray everything red and cry in our hands,
we crush our heads in our palms.
Shake tambourines for spare change,
and claw at untuned unfinished guitars.
Daylight fades, and darkness stumbles in,
alcohol on its breath,
a mix only sailors and their widows drink.
It’s harassing someone for a **** or a fight,
because it longs to be touched and feel it,
to shed some ****** fluid
and feel drained of the pressure
of desperation.
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 10:37 AM UTC
How to break an addiction. Decide to live.
What can I learn from my pain. Danger.
And friends are merely friendly, live on independent
of your injury. You will not be missed in church on Sunday.
Grass. **** broccoli, burrito, stink, *** skunk.
I'm talking blue grama, upland bent, smooth brome,
riverside panic, wild rye, fowl meadow, spike muhly,
sweet vernal, salt marsh, bristly foxtail, little bluestem.
****** is unhealthy, opens lesions in the brain,
wormholes into hell, yet should be legal. I'll vote that way.
It may ease the pathos into non-existence
well as meditation, bird watching, last will and testament.
Each joint hurts, rib joints, spine joints, skull plate joints.
The head and hip and heart will hurt, all three.
Insomniac I like the way bones crack and clack like
wooden wind chimes, an untuned piano, a tree rack of wornout
shoes.
Never forget, the mind is the body paying attention
to what it's doing. Without that connection, each finger bent
or toe smashed is just added to the collection
of anonymous body parts of holocaust victims
in their mass graves. Better when every life saved
or lost is a front page story, an illusion of shared
sacrifice or joy, but that expresses only the surface
of our emotions. I'm mostly relieved to have survived.
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 9:32 AM UTC
If music is love expressed
Then I'm nothing,
But an untuned guitar,
Which gets tuned for a while,
And then the beats
Turn the keys,
Back to where they were.
The whispering music,
Goes on for a while,
Soothing my messed up mind,
Stretching my frown into a smile.
The waves of emotion,
Dance in air
And the major chord,
Dominates the despair,
Ensconced deep in our hearts,
Invisible ,
And with the songs, rare.
But then the fingers
Slip to a minor,
And the pain it lingers
All around our sober heads
The trance slowly slips away,
As the song goes off tune,
And our hands that once together swayed
Are now still and apart.
If music is love expressed
Then my song has already ended,
Even before it started,
But then that day
Isn't so far away,
Even though the journey to reach it is long,
When in the gamut of covert tunes
I'll find my perfect song.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 11:19 AM UTC
to err is human, but it feels divine.
i am human
so human that i can taste it
feel the bitter jealousy in my throat
taste the deliciously toe-curling want that seeps from my pores.
i make mistakes, they fall from my lips and my eyes and my heart like the jarring notes of an untuned guitar
etching themselves permanently upon the eardrums and minds of errant souls.
it does not feel divine.
it burns, shrivelling up my insides bit by bit, step by step.
my soul smoulders like a cigarette, scattering ash on my mind.
mistakes.
we all make them
some are worse than others, some eventually turn out to be for the best.
some people are smart, they learn from their mistakes
then there are people like me, whose mistakes define their very lives.
you are my personal mistake.
the reason my lungs have shrivelled into smoke
the idea behind the erratic thumping of my graceless heart
the reason jealousy burns like bile in my throat when I see you look at someone else.
you're the punk in my rock
the salt in my tears
the tar in my lungs.
mistakes.
sometimes they just happen, and you have to get up and go
scattering ashes in your wake
leaving your tears to flow like a river in your memories.
go.
grow.
you are strong.
you are beautiful.
you are not a mistake
and never will be again.
i will not let you define me.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 1:38 PM UTC
He was the blue sky
She was the rain
He was the sunshine
Who took away all her pain
She was the black sky
In the middle of the night
He was the brightest star shining Reasurring her
That it will be alright
She's an old untuned piano
With dust on the keys
But he sits down
And makes beautiful music from her
But she never ever will see
He was the smell
After the rain
She was like the seasons
Always eager to change
He tastes like cigarettes and jack
She is at war with herself
Ready to attack
He has the universe in his hand
The world in his palms
She has nothing to live for
She sits alone writing song after song
His soul is full of awe
His eyes are filled with wonder
Her heart is much too cold
Down her life it plundered
He is like a warm summer breeze
Setting all souls at ease
And she is like these cold december nights
Always
Chilling
Always causing a fright
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 6:25 PM UTC