"vaughan" poems
I chased the first rays
of an autumn morning
but to my sorrow
when I arrived at
the urgent place
the sun had
already
risen
breathing a
crowning glory of a
seasons brilliant
splendor
alighting
the glowing amber
of golden woods
shining like gleaming
constellations of
dazzling morning
stars...
though I
desired to find
ascendent beauty
the ubiquitous glow of
transfigured leaves
immersed me in
a divine chrome...
as I traversed
the woods, my
solitary steps found
companionship
with a sullen
mistress singing
a sad rustle
of dry fallen leaves
and as the drone
of cars faded from the
receding road
I searched myself
for courage and
found resolve
I pondered truth
and discovered
the wisdom
of resolution...
yearning to
realize a
deeper faith
I hiked
further up
the wooded hill,
visiting the gay
playfields
of my youth
and received
an epiphany
of wholesome
closure
opening
new
timeless
doors...
still questing
for more light
a prophetic wren
whirred a pliant
secret into my ear
she bespoke
a symphony
of avian
improvisations
conversing in
a thousand
luminous tongues,
relating a sonorous
elegy teaming with
the brightest
joys of life
raising bold
proclamations
celebrating a
seasons radiance
imploring me
to join the chorus...
though the canopy
of the woods still
boasted boughs
of green
the
infant hues
of spring had
run its course
the glory of an
expiring season
strewn on the
forest floor
covering the
mouldering stags
inching back into
the compost of life
breeding blankets
of furry moss
feeding on the
primal organica
of seemingly
expired flora
here, in this
darkened moment
I realized
the transcendent
miracle
the loam of life
incubating
churning
in concert with
the turn of
seasons...
to my sorrow
I missed the first
rays of the morning
the first
peeks of light
a breaking day
gracefully bespeaks
upon a sleeping earth
awoken in new light
yet I am filled
I am transcendent
I am the first ray
of an eternal light
I am the first ray
of my earthen
gloaming...
on the morrow
the best of me
is in the marrow
of all who loved me
and all whom I loved
these rays of me
will forever rise
in an eternity
of dawnings
For Joey
Godspeed Beloved
Vaughan Williams:
Lark Ascending
Oakland
101313
jbm
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
Had I ador'd the multitude, and thence
Got an antipathy to wit and sence,
And hug'd that fate, in hope the world would grant
'Twas good -- affection to be ignorant;
Yet the least ray of thy bright fancy seen
I had converted, or excuseless been:
For each birth of thy muse to after-times
Shall expatiate for all this age's crimes.
First shines the Armoret, twice crown'd by thee,
Once by they Love, next by Poetry;
Where thou the best of Unions dost dispence:
Truth cloth'd in wit, and Love in innocence.
So that the muddyest Lovers may learn here,
No fountains can be sweet that are not clear.
Then Juvenall reviv'd by thee declares
How flat man's Joys are, and how mean his cares;
And generously upbraids the world that they
Should such a value for their ruine pay.
But when thy sacred muse diverts her quill,
The Lantskip to design of Zion-Hill;32
As nothing else was worthy her or thee,
So we admire almost t'Idolatry.
What savage brest would not be rapt to find
Such Jewells insuch Cabinets enshrind'?
Thou (fill'd with joys too great to see or count)
Descend'st from thence like Moses from the Mount,
And with a candid, yet unquestioned aw,
Restorlst the Golden Age when Verse was Law.
Instructing us, thou so secur'st thy fame,
That nothing can distrub it but my name;
Nay I have hoped that standing so near thine
'Twill lose its drosse, and by degrees refine ...
"Live, till the disabused world consent
All truths of use, or strength, or ornament,
Are with such harmony by thee displaid,
As the whole world was first by number made
And from the charming rigour thy Muse brings
Learn there's no pleasure but in serious things.
2k
Borrowed Time
I wouldn’t say I am one for sitting on bar stools
in empty ***** bars studying time, but here I am/
all alone/ staring out a stainless glass window
watching life happen and wondering about
the sublime.
So many heartbeats out there strive for greatness;
so many dreams colliding while searching
for possibilities hidden inside shells of moral
capabilities. Some lead with eyes wide open/blind
to the finely crafted ******** of rhetorical motivation
and some are the followers who waggle
just slightly behind inspired by historical innovations
and there are some, who drink alone/like me,
who search for truth in a half empty glass
of optimism slightly buzzed.
It’s funny how when you are drinking everything
makes a little more since.
Sometimes you need the alone time
to hear what your thoughts are saying. Sometimes
you need to be away from everything out there
to understand the true ideals of individualism
because we are fascinated by difference
even when we think we are afraid
of not fitting in. We seek shelter in handcrafted
cliques just to delay the inevitable of standing
on our own.
We all embrace that maybe tomorrow entitlement
of procrastination, that daily hesitation that makes
everything around us happen….eventually
and maybe I’ve just had too much to drink/swirling
around ice in a empty glass once filtered by Tanguary
and a twist of tonic while still studying the sobriety
of a drunken society of hopeful prosperity.
Life makes a nice drink
because it is a bunch of nonsense we intake
until we’re intoxicated in the mind and stumbling
just to stay on our feet/stuck in time; a time that ticks
slowly when we’re in pain
and fast when we’re entertained
but at times, like now, it does pause
reminding us that we are on borrowed time
sipping on life with imitations of the sublime.
© 2012
Tarringo T. Vaughan
http://www.tarringovaughan.net
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 11:59 PM UTC
Son, I have but a few words for you
and it is only going to take a few minutes of your time –
Boy as I look down upon you from the heavens
of my new journey’s horizon, I can still feel the joyful pain
from the day I released you into this world. The many hours
of excruciating labor gave birth to a miracle
and from the very moment you were put into my arms
I knew
You were special and you still are special
and just because I’m not here now
I will always be that presence in your heart.
Now son, I don’t want to see any more tears
because as I now look into your eyes I see a journey
of determination; I see fight, dedication
and a belief in yourself that has made
you the fine man you are today, but don’t you go thinking
that you would stop ever being mama’s little boy
because no matter how old
in years you get; no matter how independent
your life has become; no matter how wise
you have grown; my memory will always be those open arms
of warmth, nurture and protection. Although my physical
presence has left you, that bond
is a connection that will live on through the genetics
of your soul. You see son, the day I died, I gave birth to you
again. I watched you cry, survive and grow
internally. I watched you succeed, release your fears
which has lead you to be freed
all the pain you have grieved. As I leave you,
I just want to take these few minutes
to let you know I am here
and that you will always be
mama’s little boy – as I now rest free and filled with joy.
© 2012
Tarringo T. Vaughan
http://www.tarringovaughan.net
http://www.flexwriterscreativenetwork.net
Jan 21, 2012
Jan 21, 2012 at 3:03 PM UTC
(Song title from Sarah Vaughan’s catalogue,
by Walter Gross and Jack Lawrence)
Tenderly and soothingly,
I lay my head to rest,
Tenderly and soothingly,
I wish you all my best,
Tenderly and soothingly,
I put my pen away,
Tenderly and soothingly,
I kneel on down to pray,
Tenderly and soothingly,
I listen to the songs,
Tenderly and soothingly,
I know where I belong,
Tenderly and soothingly,
I look up to the sky,
Tenderly and soothingly,
I close my eyes and fly,
Tenderly and soothingly,
I dream so tenderly,
Tenderly and soothingly,
I invent history,
Tenderly and soothingly,
I sing my lullaby,
Tenderly and soothingly,
I bid you all goodbye.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 11:48 AM UTC
Sometimes you can forget
where you came from, but that somewhere
will never forget you. Memories triggered
by glimpses of familiar faces. Smiles I once knew
and eyes I once recognized
repainted a portrait of childhood
over twenty years aged, but never faded
on the canvas of yesterday’s past.
They were reminders of who I used to be,
just a child exploring the playground of life, unafraid;
filled with laughter, much to be taught
and together we all learned
how to grow and how to fear, how to fail
and how to care
on the street’s of yesterday’s past.
Together, we were the reunion of innocence
as I looked into each eye. I was reminded
of how we each wanted to reach the sky,
some of us never left the ground,
while others fly high.
But we will always be connected,
each of us a product of a place that will
never forget our name, a place where each of us
is a vision of yesterday’s past.
© 2010
Tarringo T. Vaughan
http://www.tarringovaughan.net
http://www.flexwriterscreativenetwork.net
Jan 21, 2012
Jan 21, 2012 at 2:21 PM UTC
Sarah Mclachlan - Plenty - the one time you told me
i was Eastern European, of long-forgotten Europe....
and you were Irish, then i knew.... time to breed
a knuckles's hello.... should i really mind reality?
you, godforsaken paddy skin-head?
throw a ******* paddy / potato
at me i'll get clued in at where
Chelsea gets tribalism of Hammer-smith...
oh lucky you, the Irish tentacle...
maybe the next Irish in me ought
ti dance the ******* leprechaun dance
for new years'... cos' that had to be minded
in newspapers...
i'll the be ****** of goth to mind
enter the dragon, starring the ill fated Brandon...
an you be the anonymous *******
pardonable journalist with angst prescription
when mommy ****** the
milkman and daddy said: huh?
or shave my head and become a fake *******
or the atypical Irish-head...
some said Celtic, but some said: Sale-tick-ticking-blah...
the meat-heads bashed their heads together...
wedlock northern:
every Mc-Noodle.
later read Mac. tosh
or Celtic
in the Glasgow curriculum, as said: Mac. arched Ranger...
for the clover leaf brigadiers
aye... spoon the
shovies! banknote worded:
two pence a punch...
some call it a London mo-cheese-sum
(mohican - heir to a higher phrasing: cannot but
will do) - and so the Australian banknote came
sooner than the migration points system:
as ever, plastic first, spooning baked beans
and later the "trouble": as Glasgow estate shimmered
the saying: concrete does two blues,
Hertfordshire horseradish:
alter. marketed green slime: or: guacamole...
god, i wish i was soppy sometimes...
at times when it was least
explanatory to mention Vaughan Williams...
perfectly now...
snotty curiosity ever went as far as
a hanky... or later read: a chappy chopping
wood with echo, blistered with
e-oh e-oh and the faked yawn, done, repeatedly,
for purpose of a masquerade:
or Apache tribalism etiquette
saying: oh... h'allo'h h'allo'h h'allo'h;
pompous blues and said Peter to mind
while some geezer did the beat
for the slang while regurgitating an attack
of the Zeppelins.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 11:20 PM UTC
4 enclosed walls of liquid
in a fluid web i want you
the veiled ivy shadows
in a crowded headspace
the saint of dilated seas
met
the princess of abandoned oceans with daughter
on moonrise cheeks of spilt milk
in the lobby of the chelsea hotel
through 40 days and nights of rain they swore
on a bed of clotted blood and see through chinese silk
her black widow memories lit a flickering path
from attic jets
to basement trickles
20 years before
when the saint lost all trace
where did you go that day?
after our butterfly fields
(sarah vaughan and dinah washington and ella fitzgerald
gathered) a crowd
around you
all wondering where you came from
and where were you going
that day
when Jesus rolled back the stone
from a juvenile womb
the populace of a billion worlds
inside a temporary tomb
the shallow points
between childhood legs
don't add up to what God paid Satan
for your devilblack eyes
the princess' daughter
i
dripped from plasma
source such of
inner working lips
the DNA of the cosmos
in my mother's hips
unending lines that never touch
parallel dividers live lives like
my born father of the full eclipse
as i
make mine this pilgrimage
deep to the overlapping ages
undercurrents rest in tidal pools
the shallows smallest stages
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 8:53 PM UTC
I Heard The Blues In Her Eyes
Her tears only dripped when my eyes closed.
I pretended not to hear them
but I listened,
I listened to the clutch of her heart
whisper an apology asking for the forgiveness/of my hunger.
I wasn’t mad at mama,
she was younger;
younger than most mother’s.
Twenty-one years of age
standing in welfare lines
reaching
for free cheese and powdered milk
to go with the half empty jar of mayonnaise
and three slices of bread
sealed with a rubber band
to protect
from the rats and roaches.
I didn’t like when mama cried
because I knew how hard she tried
to hide the desperation that strangled her;
to fight back against the deep kicks of poverty
that was like a bully on a playground
laughing and tripping
until she was just tired of falling --
but she kept strong for me,
because a five year old didn’t know
the strange man at the door
was there to shut off the gas
and a five year old didn’t know
the rent was two months late
because the fifty seven dollars
worth
of food stamps just weren’t enough
to keep food on my plate
and a five year old didn’t know
his daddy was just a ***** donor,
more like a dead beat cloner.
I didn’t like when mama cried
but She did
and didn’t hide her tears
to well…because her eyes
always would sing to me
the blues
andt they told me, with a soft voice,
that things would be alright
and they eventually were
because my eyes were enough
to give her the lyrics of strength; lyrics
which created a song still echoing
and spinning on the turntable of life
I’ll always remember mama’s tears.
They flowed to give me a future;
a future built off struggle and commitment
and those tears were the fuel
that energized our survival
but still,
I didn’t like when mama cried
because even within the silence of her smile,
I heard the blues in her eyes.
© 2009
Tarringo T Vaughan
www.TarringoVaughan.Net
Jan 31, 2012
Jan 31, 2012 at 8:56 PM UTC
In last November 2015 a friend of mine named Bridget died and
Her partner sadly misses her
And on August 12 2016 Bridget
Was reincarnated as Michael Townsend son of Alice and brother of Toby Townsend
You see it is my work as Cronus to bring Bridget back into the world as Michael Townsend
And another mate of mine that died last year was Steve Grigor
And September 6th 2016
Steve Grigor was reincarnated as Ethan felix Vaughan
You see as soon as Steve died
Bridget took him by the hand and they shared many a methane smoothie together
So their bodies can improve the quality of their life and now
Bridget's mother is Alice and Steve is son of Tamara and Henry
Here is a welcome to earth song to Bridget and steve's soul
Welcome welcome welcome
You drink your methane and you have a lot of fun
And now you have been reincarnated into your new life
Death isn't the end
It is a new beginning
So let's party with Michael and Ethan
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 9:29 AM UTC
they can't even write while being sad,
because they can't write while
entrenched in sadness when beauty
overcomes them in moments to which
an extension of beauty being prolonged
can be ascribed, such is Einstein and
loss of Newtonian causality, such that we
can be easily fooled by dieticians,
we are now being taught a lost pendulum,
a cause: no effect, move that colon slightly right
and you get ratio that's also likewise suggested:
cause : no effect
or...
no cause : effect...
otherwise
a cause : an effect...
prim me up into a bow-tie suit readied and booted
if i think this dynamic is ********
you ever cry over vaughan williams'
fantasia on a theme by thomas tallis,
or ola gjeilo's northern lights... or anything
hauntingly Celtic? no? oh...
imagine a fraternity
party at an american university with an encore:
***** or
**** i.e. **** and hence the acute e...
not posse... but **** É!.
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 8:43 PM UTC
To all those I chanced upon in past realms I recall
every one of you, needless of effort as hoard
your encounter within me completing the oeuvre
painting my essence, portraying my existence.
To you my kindergarten friend I wonder
what you have become. Golden curls enveloping
your round freckled face I took you by your hand,
dragged you everywhere I went.
Do you still trade leaves for pine nuts?
To you my circus man, counting stories of a second
World War comradery as we walked the morning hours
with your two white fluffy poodles through Roman
squares helping painters put up their stands.
Do you still wear your leather cowboy boots?
You they say one never forgets. We grew together
on summer holidays in Greece until you grew a passion
for hunting dogs and with the clumsy excuse
of taking them for a walk took me to the woods
on a moonless night for my first kiss.
To you who stuck with me through thick and thin
showering me with affection always a master
in making me laugh, epicurean philosophies to live
a happy life. Eloping fantasies neglected until we parted.
Did you ever make it to Australia?
And what about you my blues musicians, guitars
in our hands carelessly seated on the ***** floors
of San Lorenzo, we used to dance exchanging
our experiences for beers and shots of ***
Do you still play notes of Vaughan?
To you my old-time street stranger homelessly
keeping an eye on me along my nocturnal returns,
when singing birds announce colours and odours
of the dawn as we shared warm croissants at four.
Are you still alive?
To all those I chanced upon in past realms I recall,
You are oh so many blessed gifts of life to me,
I thank you for completing the oeuvre painting
my essence portraying my existence.
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 5:47 AM UTC
Inquire of my opinion of the maligned , I'll feed back like an amplifier pushed to it's limit , strike a power chord heard a mile away , stretch a note at the twenty fourth fret that would make Stevie Ray Vaughan proud , hand out a blistering improvisation of jazz , fusion , old school blues with undying reverence to the masters in heaven , watching over us , bemused at our folly , having secured their place in liberal thought and audible pleasure !
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 10:05 AM UTC
Benny liked music;
even as a kid
he liked music.
They had a wind-up
gramophone and six
78rpm records,
one of which was
Green Door
by Frankie Vaughan,
his mother's favourite.
He used to wonder
what was behind
the green door,
and what his old man
thought of this Frankie guy.
Benny went to the cinema
with his old man
to see jazz films
like High Society
or The Glenn Miller Story
or The Five Pennies.
He made a paper
and comb instrument
to make fuzzy
trumpet sounds,
and pretended to be
Louis Armstrong
**** singing.
Benny liked music so much
he thought a black guy
on the old tram
(as a kid in London)
was Louis,
smiling at him,
without his trumpet.
Some things
he can recall
and never forget.
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 11:36 AM UTC
i only tend to cry listening to classical music... ralph vaughan williams... fantasia on a theme by thomas tallis... can you explain to me, why i cry, every time i hear it?! when "not"? i'll tell you, when "not", when they're ""not""" with women. men don't cry in bathrooms... they cry when unfathomable beauty surmounts them...ingests them... eats them...
RE:
Nat Lipstadt
Do You Know Why Men Cry in the Bathroom?
and what is it, exactly...
that women do not do, in the Bedroom?
i'm just...........
dying to know!
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 10:11 PM UTC