"viola" poems
please be impatient with me for I am Female, Age 19 Please be impatient with me. Three quarters woman in a body, a quartered quartet. The crying viola, off tempo, present but unavailable. The boys want me. The men, more, more. The women most of all. The American Girl dolls on the shelf dusty, witnesses to all my demander’s impatience to take, to own, possess & desire my poses all to pleasure them, wanting many morsos (small bites).
Then, when discarded, my body reeks of
con-f u s i o n. A perfect conjugation, an imperfect conjunction; Conning my mind into letting my body be-fused.
The dolls weep real tears in the city of my mind; flipping out, they too, are impatient with me, and flip me off for they have no good words to express their utter chagrin.
May 16, 2018
May 16, 2018 at 11:27 AM UTC
In the hands of someone talented
The strings of a violin
winds of a flute
keys of a piano
can move you to tears
Just closing your eyes and letting the music flow
you can hear them all
Cello
Viola
Violin
Flute
Clarinet
Saxophone
Trumpet
Harp
Piano
In the hands of talent
you can be moved to tears
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 8:13 PM UTC
the magnolia was a bit of a *******
(as far as trees can be ********
and like very many other things—
like japanese candy from the Fugi Mart in Greenwich
(across from the McDonald’s and next to
the music shop where I got my viola)
and like pokemon cards and nintendo gaming systems
and like Avril Lavigne’s “Sk8er Boi” on a pink CD in a Hello Kitty radio
—that ******* of a magnolia was a distinctive taste
of the years I spent growing up in my house at the end of Wyndover Lane.
the ******* thing was almost perpetually in bloom.
it barged into both spring and autumn
(it didn’t give a **** about timing)
those pink and white spongy petals padding the ground
and at first you think it’s ******* beautiful
sitting in the crook of the trunk where it split into
two large
separate branches
tilting your chin back to catch a glimpse of blue between fat blossoms
then the petals start rotting
water-retentive little *******
and you can’t sweep ‘em away because they stick to the patio
brown clumps slipping under rubber soles
my dad lets loose a string of curses
and the magnolia shakes with laughter
I tried pressing the petals in a notebook once
while I was in that naturalist phase it seems all little girls go through
when you make fairy houses out of bark in the backyard
and put flowers between the pages of books because it feels
oh-so-much-more significant
than picking a pretty thing and showing it to mom
but the magnolia seeped through my spiral ring
and when I opened it up a month later they were dry tan papery things
not at all velveteen and rosy
and there were garish pink bloodstains all through the ten pages
on either side
magnolias don’t preserve well
except, honestly they do don’t they
then of course there’s that childhood tragedy that everyone has
when your dog got hit by some soccer mom’s suburban
or your teddy bear was lost in an airport
or maybe you just liked to cry because some things
were just really worth the tears at the time
but when I came home and found out they cut down my ******* ******* of a magnolia
I bawled
there wasn’t
even
a
stump.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC
******* in you nose can do that,
This is the rosebush, the fuschia,
the striding spiderweb of summer.
Your trees from the ocean and sky,
and sepals turned sences.
A spindle-spinning wheel,
turning sunflowers to liquid honey,
yum - yum - yum !
Oh the tastes of nature,
hidden in burrow holes,
with small mice chittering their teeth,
through chestnut temples!
A crucified sunflower, soft-spoken ochre,
the pumpkins turning fields to dust
and growing seeds of castles.
Three blades of grass in
tasseled soil.
Three green-squash faces
among the fields burgundy,
growing eyeballs.
Viola splashes wave,
Palo Santo fragrance,
Filling the nostrils with
Happiness!
Day-to-day ecstatic twirls
Twists and twirls,
a steep staircase to
the waterfall's epicenter.
The soul of the falls tumbling
across the sealed creek,
oiled with the feathers of soils.
The queen of frozen loganberries
gazes with approval,
watching seperate streams congeal, spiral,
and form starry nights
beneath the sky.
Lime scent comforting
the ☀ of rivers!
Written by: Lotus and Simon
May 27, 2012
May 27, 2012 at 4:16 PM UTC
he spends his time
rowing through the
rugged, blockaded channels
of my catharsis,
the bitter staccato
of ****** habit.
his love
can be as jagged
as gashes in an
Elvis Costello record
thrown against the wall--
the frayed words of the last love song
Billie Holiday ever uttered.
he is two
exclamation points lit on
fire, kerosene pumping through
tautly wound muscles and
caressing our funny bones with
sandpaper.
he is
dulcit woodwind melodies
and jilted viola strings,
epic poetry and grindhouse theaters,
McQueen gowns and thrift store bargains,
the kiss on the forehead
and the nudge for a *******
he is a double helix.
he is the beginning
and end of every sentence.
Sep 4, 2010
Sep 4, 2010 at 3:45 AM UTC
The ellipse of a cry
travels from mountain
to mountain.
From the olive trees
it appears as a black
rainbow upon the blue night.
Ay!
Like the bow of a viola
the cry has made the long
strings of the wind vibrate.
Ay!
(The folks from the caves
stick out their oil lamps.)
Ay!
4.6k
in memoriam Woodrow (Woody) Rifenburgh
The soft purr of a Piper Cub
drifted over Italy's southern hills.
Soul stirred by the landscape’s song,
the young army pilot gently spoke.
“It’s mighty peaceful up here.”
Touching wheels to the tarmac,
Woody shed his flight suit
for an engineer’s desk
and placed a viola beneath his chin.
For three score years
Woody molded horsehair and wire into string song
steadying the orchestra’s midriff
with the vibrations of his spirit.
On Christmas Eve he played for the coming child,
fell stricken and flew his last flight
on instruments at Memorial.
Early New Year’s morn one could almost hear
the faint soft purr of a Piper Cub
as it banked to the right around the moon
and merged with the waiting heavens.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 9:37 AM UTC
If I ever had a pedal harp
You'd be the first
I'd play it to
You'd be the first
To hear me pluck
My harp strings
May your heart strings
Play the finest melody ever
And may your life always be
The most surreal orchestra
I hope you don't leave here
May the Fairies dry your tears
And wipe your pretty blue eyes
If I ever had a viola or a violin
You would be the first to hear it
And I would teach you how to play it too
But since I don't have those instruments
All I can play for you is the piano
And I admit, I am not that good at it
If I ever wished a million wishes
And all of them came true
I would share them all with you
You are the world's greatest Dad
And I love you
And so does God and all of His Angels and Fairies
I hope you awaken to bluebells kissed with dew
And fields full of blooming flowers
And red crimson sunsets
Overlooking the beautiful ocean
That I talk about in my poems
Surrounded by palm trees
And gritty sand
And sandy seashells
Breezes tasting like coconuts and salt
I hope you awaken to sunrays
Glistening on the forest floor
And shining across that sequestered path
Take my hand and walk with me
And I'll wish you the sweetest of dreams
Dancing ferns, and lacy-green palms
Waltzing Fairies, and flying birds
Adorable Flamingoes
Mossy islands
And beautiful waterfalls
Bubbling creeks
And tall, tall mountains
Like the finest patchwork quilt
Singing rills
Sparkling snowflakes
And beautiful ocean treasures
All of it I'd wish in your dreams
The song of the pedal harp lulling you to sleep
Along with the majestic songs of the double bass
I love you, Dad and always will
~Marian~
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 9:24 PM UTC
There is a boy Ash Ketchum
He has a buddy named Pikachu
They came into the Kalos region
So ash can try to be a Pokémon master
They landed in Lumiose city
Where they met Clement and Bonnie
He tried to challenge the gym there
But got kicked out because he had no badges
He’d saved a Garchomp
Because team Rocket tried to control him
He then went to Santalune city
Where he met viola and Serena
He challenged the gym but lost
Because of the moves viola’s Pokémon had
Then he trained with viola’s sister
And her Pokémon, Noivern
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
I am a sheet of music
I start quietly building on the quartet of Strings
the Violin starts a shimmering sound
backed up with the viola
the solemn sound of the cello
and the ground breaking bass
united in harmony
There is a rest a break in note
I am part of a Symphony an overture
out of the heart of the music
a quiet roll
the timpani building in sound
full orchestra building in amazing ******
Fireworks, Percussion, Brass, Woodwind, Strings
Combined together in unity
performing to the quality levels of sound
the amazing Tchaikovsky in 1812
Creativity and Imagination
shaking the core of the earth
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 1:01 PM UTC
Like a violin,
only a little bigger.
The darkness of a cello,
the sweetness of a violin.
It sings a lullaby
to the child in the crib.
Loud and soft,
harsh and gentle.
It's the middle,
it's the best of the four.
Though it's not as popular,
it's still what I do.
It's still sings the song
that I want to sing.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 12:40 PM UTC
Across the ice a baritone
Projects his notes of steel,
A tenor’s harmonizing
Adds that melancholy feel
And the glory of the voices
Flows out through alders bare
And the listeners weep for Russia’s soul
And the tragedy found there.
The tragic melancholy
Found in every Russian heart
Liberated by the sadness
A fine harmony can impart.
Of the monolithic yesterdays,
Those forgotten fields of dead
And that fire within the *****
Which numbs the agony of the head.
Dark stains along the timber wall
Wood fire’s stones make steam
It fills the room with stifling heat
Which sweats the bodies clean.
Red wheals raised on shoulders
Birch branches whip the back
Whilst companion tones of maleness
Speak in vectors women lack.
Red larches in the foothills
Gold lantern light on snow,
The vastness of ancient steppes
Of Central Asia grow.
A viola’s velvet passion
Sighs beneath a cottage door
And the sadness in sensation
Brings grown men to weep once more.
The vastness of the terrain
The hardness of the land,
The bitter cold of northern wind,
Each freezing winter spanned
By Siberia’s lashing gales,
White snow is metres deep
And turquois ice as hard as steel
Beneath which... rivers creep.
Dostoyevsky,Kruschev,
Rasputin and the Tsars,
Great Lenin, Marx and Trotsky
And the swords of Horse Hussars.
Gorbachev the great redeemer,
Poor Yeltsin’s pale white skin
And the ****** found in Stalin's smile
Span the politics of sin.
This great Russian melancholy
Lies deep within the soul
It’s a legacy of yesterday
Of her history's brutal goal.
It’s a product of the suffering
Inherent in the past
Endured by legions of the people
Then dispensed with…
With a laugh!
Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
13 April 2009
Jan 27, 2010
Jan 27, 2010 at 10:46 PM UTC
Laughter,
Rib Punching,
Bone Popping,
Innocent Laughter,
The Purest Form Of Happiness,
Jarred Inside My Soul,
Packed For A The Trip I'll Make Someday,
As I Go Up A Yonder,
I Will Release This Music,
Like A Million Balloons,
Sound Made From The Cello Of Love
Smiling,
Eye Squinting,
Cheek Bursting,
Perfect Smiles,
The Purest Form Of Any Type Of Love,
Slow Motion,
The Strings On The Violin Of Life,
Strum A Steady Heartbeat
Thinking,
Head Grasping,
Stinging Thoughts,
Swarm My Mind,
Our Future,
Our Path On This Ever Stretching Road,
The Bass,
The Harmony Of Our Actions,
The Layout Of Our Life
Words,
Peacemaking,
Heartbreaking,
My Drug,
My Addiction,
I Love Hearing Your Voice Responding To Mine,
I Can Pick Your Voice From A Crowd,
If You Are Afraid To Be Loud,
Whisper,
I Can Still Hear The Viola,
The Viola Of Life's Orchestra,
Each Word,
Each Note,
Deciding The Fate Of Our Song
You Are My Companion,
My Family,
You Are The Music Of My Life,
And I Never Want To Hear,
The Silence,
Ever Again
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 10:12 PM UTC
~
Your beauty sings harmony
with a cantata sunrise,
euphoric melodies in viola
and piccolo lingering
‘pon a lavender haze
of periwinkle whispers,
symphonic poetry
afloat of dawn’s breezes,
ecstasy in tangerine desires,
wafting concertos of passion
as I listen quietly
to my day once again
beginning with the perfect
lyrics of your smile
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 6:32 AM UTC
Viola and Shakespeare...
Love you till craziness...
Love you..carved it on the moon's cheek...
love you..and need you in spite of the difficulties and the dangers...
love you..and i confess in front of all humans...
love you..and adore you ,o my fate and my luck...
love you..hug it and play with it at the string...
love you..you are my Viola and i am your Shakespeare...
Viola mine...
your Shakespeare came again...
came to you from the heaven...
because he got bored from the heaven...
the heaven its not a heaven when you are not there...
came Shakespeare to you,Viola...
to give you a life's kisses...
to wake up you to his world...
to play with him the same story love at a same theater...
and to share the new love world with you...
come Viola...
come to me from among all humans...
come and don't hide again...
come and be the lover...
come and don't be afraid...
even don't afraid from the queen...
don't afraid from all others...
i came to you from the heaven...
to make a new heaven here with you...
come Viola, come to me...
your soul waked up me...
Viola...
we will not hide our love anymore...
our love which started there...
from a first kiss on a theater's wood...
come Viola...
i will create a new theater to our love...
only for you and me...
to learn all lovers,how should a love be...
Viola..sweetheart...
your Shakespeare came to you...
came because of and for you...
you are Viola...
and i am your Shakespeare...
love you Viola mine...
here and there and in our lovely heaven...
yours now and forever....
Shakespeare...
by hazem al jaber ...
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 2:40 AM UTC
In purple checked dresses we are confronted
Behind a piano sits ‘Miss Creak’ head of house
She has one bad eye, unfixable from childhood
But plays beautifully perched on an oakwood
And fabric stool. This is our secondary school.
On the wall above the piano is a framed print
‘Madonna of the Meadows’ by the artist Bellini
I pushed a drawing of a couple intertwining
Under ‘her’ door knowing she never would have
But a boy may have felt affection for ‘that’ affliction.
Here we all ate meals, did fashion shows and sang
I was glad my dress was purple not orange or red
Went better with my blue eyes and blonde hair
The rest of the school diveded into coloured checks
To represent Shakespearean female characters.
Just opened in Wandsworth a new comprehensive
Serving all abilities, behaviours and nationalities
Cordelia, Beatrice, Juliet, Katharine,
Portia, Rosalind, Olivia, Viola a rather unsuitable
Vision for such an uptake of adolescent froth.
Miss Creak was, kindly, I wish I had always been.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 10:59 AM UTC
the pages of my notebook are probably more lovelorn than i'll ever be
idk
i never longed to be a tree burying my roots deep into Her soil, moaning
okay maybe i did because sometimes i only exist in crumpled up shreds of graphing paper between my awkward handwriting and
things i wish i'd have told you,
residing at the bottom of the ******* bin
(we're all writing about somebody)
fundamentally, i only exist between the blue lines and the margins
i want to be a tree again
Mother Earth is a **** (i mean, dang bruh, she's beautiful)
want my roots reaching as far into her as they'll go / want her attached to me in every way possible / want her in every way possible
i want to stay here forever
if i fall alone in the forest **** right i'll make a sound:
symphony of the lovelorn branches in C-minor except it's not really a symphony i'm just giving an impromptu solo to my ******* bin,
i have played the viola since 6th grade and
heartstrings since 7th
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 2:48 AM UTC
Take the strings off the viola because
That's where the music is.
Take the nails from the floor boards because
That is where the pain is.
Remove the support beams because
That is where the strength is.
The uselessness
Of these objects
Is determined
By where they are placed.
The fire.
The warmth.
The burning reflected from
Your face
Is incomparable to the destruction that has taken place.
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 10:42 PM UTC
Before I saw you,
I thought that angels didn't exist.
Before I saw you,
I thought that hope was just a empty word, with a meaning that was ripped out of the dictionary in my mind.
Before I saw you,
I was lost, confused, wandering off the road that everyone at least, seemed to be on,
Seemed to know what a road was,
Even if they were on the "wrong one" as my preschool teacher used to call it but I think I was the only one who raised my hand in class and said-
"Teacher! That doesn't make sense!"
Before I saw you,
Music was just notes on paper,
Something for me to hum and string along on the viola.
Before I saw you, stories were just stories,
And not keys to worlds beyond my fairest imagination.
Before I saw you,
The key to the word "love" was locked
Thrown somewhere on a ***** train track that you fearlessly went on and saw and you brought the key back to me saying with a smile on your smudged face
"Here. I think this is yours."
Before I saw you,
I think I was just living life for the sake of living, just eating for the sake of surviving,
Just studying for the sake of pride,
Until I met you.
When I met you,
The world had color.
A fierce rouge for sunset and lipstick for women
a dark hue that wasn't exactly "black as night" as they called it
A gleaming, neon green that was the color of the hideous jumpsuit you wore for track just once
When I met you,
The word myself had a different meaning, and the broken dictionary that was in my mind fell apart.
When I met you,
I learned the meaning of catching all the Pokémon in the game Pokémon Emerald that I always borrowed, but never returned, but you didn't care, did you?
(Oh look the word Pokémon is in spell-check)
When I met you-
I learned how to write poems-
Mainly because you dragged me to that poetry writing class that you always went to.
When I met you,
I thought, beautiful
Infallible
Unbreakable
**Until the day when you left me
Here alone in the dark.**
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC
I woke from the deepest of daydreams,
my eyes focusing after being long glazed over.
It’s late in the afternoon-- the light pours through the window—
it draws across above my left shoulder.
The tea kettle whistles
like a freight train in the background.
She’s in the kitchen, but I can easily see
her veiny hands dropping the Earl Grey tea ball
into the scolding water.
—her hands, like old softly crumpled white paper.
The same routine, every day since
great granddad passed in 1961.
Rock forward, rock backward.
What time could it be? Was I out for long?
Fresh cut grass, the familiar smell of lawn and moth ball
I so readily identify with this old Victorian house built by my family.
Evermore, the scent of kerosene dances
with the freshness of bologna and tomato sandwiches
on lightly toasted pumpernickel bread.
Where’s that 1000 piece puzzle with kittens in a basket?
Long gone?
I guess it’s been over a decade since me and my sister
last conquered that puzzle and strategically placed
connected and sectioned chunks
back in the box for easy assemblage on future rainy days.
Rock forward, rock backward.
Her first step from kitchen tile to wood planks
sets off a chain reaction of creeks and moans
that only wood of this age and wear can produce.
She enters the sitting room, puts the tea tray atop
the white baby grand piano: “tea time, honey,”
she whispers with a crooked smile and sad eyes.
Rock forward, rock backward.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 11:55 PM UTC
Let me walk you through inside a writer's mind.
Aren't you curious?
How can someone write like that?
How can someone have those sick emotions?
How can someone be so dramatic?
How can someone be that suicidal?
How can someone be so sad?
You know what?
Being able to write about those things is a privilege.
If I have no one to talk to,
if I have no one to vent all my sentiments,
poems are going to slap me with a pen and a paper.
And i'm all good.
Once i've let go of that burning pen,
the moment I read what I wrote into that ****** paper.
My diaphragm finally relaxed,
I can finally breathe.
And when a writer doesn't have any inspiration,
that soul must do all thy take to feel everything and anything in order to fill those pages, those ****** pages.
You must value every word you read inside a poem or any kind of literature.
Because you didn't know what emotional ride that living flesh took just to serve you those burning hot raw words.
But aren't you curious?
Don't you want to know what it took?
What it took to serve those emotions to you?
A writer...
Scream, screamed like a mad sicko.
A writer...
Cry, cried like a new born baby.
A writer...
Laugh, laughed like there's no tomorrow.
A writer...
Burn, burned in their own oil.
A writer...
Slit, slitted thy skin and...
A writer...
Cut, cutted thy flesh and...
A writer...
Bleed, bleed until there's no more left.
Bleed until that living soul can write something.
A writer...
Is empty.
A writer...
Is a lost soul who can't find it's way back.
A writer...
Is dead... inside.
Then, viola!
A burning hot literature is served.
And that, my friend, is what inside a writer's mind.
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 12:42 PM UTC
*The eyes of the luthier are fixated
on the degrading and poorly fitted Dejacques bridge,
a small piece of wood that arches
at the top of the damaged instrument -
a prized 18th century treasure
originating from Brescia, a city in Northern Italy.
With a napkin in hand lightly
soaked in an oily substance,
he unhooks the piece,
then takes a replacement bridge
perfectly fitted for it. He cracks a smile.
This viola d'amore has seen better days,
with usage and prolonged handling
wearing the value of the instrument down.
Only an expert can bring a worn-out bird
seeking its once gracious and hypnotic voice
back to life with care and precision.
This luthier is a* surgeon,
*a master at installing a sound-post replacement,
without gouging or harming
the quality of the instrument in the process.
This luthier is a* listener;
*as he retrieves and dusts off a case
filled with a spare set of strings,
he installs and finely tunes them
but never over the desired pitch.
Tense and crucial,
like the rising crescendo of a string quartet,
he strums the new strings for evidence of life,
listening to and directing the cry of each one,
like a composer.
This luthier is a* healer,
*repairing the cracks of the violin
by implementing a tactic he learned
on his many trips to Crawley, England,
where his teacher had once trained him;
by using cubic, wooden studs and small clamps,
he gains better control at closing the cracks just enough
to lace the opening with an adhesive
with little to no force or pressure.
This luthier is an* artist,
*repairing the instruments
that yearn for the sound of music,
their very raison d'être.
His string and wooden patients
scream in agony for healing and peace
with voices unheard to the people,
but deafening to him.
He leaves his signature on each new patient
as their once damaged and lifeless souls
dance to the tune of his work,
healing them, promising the advent
of a future performance.
Let them rejoice. Let the music soar once again.*
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 2:29 PM UTC
*Walter, I just want to sit on my *** and **** and think about Dante.*
—Samuel Beckett
All this fractures the Wolf. The ancient leaves
amid the ancient woods, wind riffling wind
in eddies she can see but she can’t hear,
the braying of a fatted calf which she
could eat, if she could hear thy call, O Wolf.
The tympani pretend to be a thunder roll,
the crashing cymbals mean to simulate
the distant lightning, all the strings—cello,
base, violin and viola—play the
pizzicato of rain commencing…
The Wolf sits to watch—what?—the floodlights fill
the stadium? the baton poised? the crowd
about to have their daily dose of not
quite silence served up yet again? She hates
that they have come to watch a prophecy.
It’s raining full blast now, the Wolf’s exchange
for music, how things balance out, how rain
fornicates in the forest, with its pools
and puddles, how it tenders lakes and rivers
and shadows… It can’t be! Ahead she sees him.
She sees Dante, the poet of the prophecy,
the one she has to drown. It’s why she’s deaf.
She will not hear him wail. **** him so he will rot
in hell before the other poet comes. **** him
and spare the world another poem about
another world. The rain and music grow
so dense around her soul. She is so quick,
too quick for him to flee. She drags him still
alive, drags him to the lake of his heart.
Sink and die. In Paradise only bubbles rise.
The tympani pretend to be a thunder roll,
the crashing cymbals mean to simulate
the distant lightning, all the strings—cello,
base, violin, viola—play it soft,
so soft, as if the rain is about to start…
The Wolf and I walk the slopes of hell.
When Farinata and Cavalcante
rise up to ask her, ‘Who were thy ancestors?’
and ‘Where Is ***** she howls. O Wolf.
O Tuscan. She howls.
Aug 25, 2010
Aug 25, 2010 at 5:51 PM UTC
Falo com Deus em Sentimento,
Rogo a Nossa Senhora do Rosário.
Perdeu-se o Sonho, meu lamento,
Tiveste teu calvário.
Douro e Tua sem altiva voz,
Descendente de meus avós.
Videiras sem uvas amadurecidas,
Paisagens queridas.
Sonolentos dias que amanhecem,
Flores que florescem.
Vida que sofre com quem tanto labutou,
Vinha que seu filho amou.
O sangue nas veias doridas,
Noites esquecidas.
O amor do Pai que nos assola,
Violaõ com toque de viola.
Cordiais Cumprimentos.
Victor Marques
Dec 14, 2010
Dec 14, 2010 at 10:27 AM UTC
I’ve begun thinking
In terms of music.
We are a decrescendo,
Falling from forte
To pianissimo
As the clock ticks
It’s rhythmic warning.
Your voice is always
In crescendo,
A cello when you laugh,
Mournful viola for those moments
Your strings are wound
Too tightly.
The way your fingers
Glissando across my rib cage,
Playing con amore upon my skin.
You taste like a symphony,
Brass and woodwind,
An opus on my lips.
Some days
You make me forget
How playing someone
Can be bad.
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 12:02 PM UTC