"violinists" poems
scouting for talent in the streets
(for the next Michael Jackson or Pavarotti
or anyone who can make me money)
I spotted there in the streets of Melbourne
a bloodhound and a puppy, each with a violin
and each playing –
the puppy a natural, the bloodhound indistinct
I spread out on the floor
the talent contract for a team
and the bloodhound signed with a grin;
but just as the puppy lifted its paw
another dog came running, picked up the puppy
and ran off with the speed of lightning
**** What’s that about?”*
I asked the bloodhound
“Oh,” said the bloodhound sheepishly
*“That’s his mum, my wife – she doesn’t want
him to be a musician like me…
she’d rather he grows up to be a doctor!”*
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 6:42 AM UTC
String pickers,
violinists
Poets
Bad Boys
The lot of you
We fall in Love
with you
a thousand times a day
We listen to your songs
poems
Voices,
over and over
Common thread in crystals
cloud bursts of feeling
that you each sharpen
daily
You
Bad Boys Of Poetry
You
cut we
black butterflies
and
dark diamond
poetesses
daily,
hourly
We butterfly bats
dance,
sing
write!
Yet,
you
Bad Boys Of Poetry
Still
Lie, there in
to your ownselves,
and say
"No one loves me,
I'm alone
Forgotten"
Well,
No.
We each see
as we wish
Pluck your strings!
Sing your songs!
But know,
you're LOVED
A thousand times a day
By black butterflies
and dark diamonds
Poetesses
~only a poetess
A
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 4:17 PM UTC
Everyone is watching,
As you float upon your toes.
You glide across the stage,
And your passion shows.
You dance the story,
Of the Prince and Odette.
You show the terrible tale,
As you pirouette.
You waltz, you plié,
And orbit the stage.
You become the music,
Violinists turn their page.
Your skeleton moves,
In intricate ways.
You jeté across the lake,
As the audience sways.
The tattered silk is leaking,
As the crimson starts to seep.
You smile, you push on,
You take the next leap.
You sauté, you soutenu,
The signets sing.
You fouetté, you fondue,
You enter the wing.
Mar 12, 2012
Mar 12, 2012 at 12:18 PM UTC
Run away to a foreign country, one with plush yellow green pastures. The grasses hiss soothingly as the breeze brushes them down this way and that. My home, a simple one room shelter built atop a broad and wise dark leafed tree who has welcomed me to its strong open arms. The skirt of my plain brown dress tickles the tops of my feet as I step down onto the soft soily earth.
There are no people here but I am not alone. The wind is here to lift the overflow of thoughts from my ever questioning mind and the water is here to soothe me and commiserate like an old companion purified from the complications of humanity. The dirt is my mother and my father, providing for me. Nurtures me with its succulent plants and cups its hands so that I might take a few small fish from them now and then.
A spotted sun perch hangs behind me as I perambulate meditatively. I see a few delicate vibrant blossoms on the side of my arborous home. They chime a brilliant tune that I will later compose onto a clay canvas. The afternoon is spent cleaning the small token and then toasting it over fire. I tend the patches of nearly wild vegetables and fruits. The most desirable ones plucked for my plate.
Guardian stars begin to dot the serenity of a dazzling dusk that demands my awe. I am aware of my tiny existence and its grand insignificance yet at the same moment I feel as though I was specially chosen by the cosmos to witness this perfect event. An intoxicating shiver grips me suddenly as a gust flits up my spine and through the back of my hair. Slowly it falls and the lulling chirps of a million violinists begin to play to one another. An admiring amphibian adrift the pond lilies relinquishes some commending croaks.
As the dark begins to settle in I climb to my aerial cottage to lie down. The rustling of my nest-bed reminds my neighbor owl of the time and she hoots appreciatively before flying off to begin her hunts. The splendid nocturnal symphony soon sends me to my dreams.
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 10:01 AM UTC
Brutality in symphony
As the blade slices skin
Like a violinists bow
Across the strings
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 8:47 PM UTC
Twelve eggs
or roses or cups of yogurt
or loaves
or kisses
is a dozen.
Twelve cents
is a dime and two pennies
a nickel and seven pennies
two nickels and two pennies
but there is no twelve-cent coin
if there was, what would it be called?
There are
twelve months
in one year
There were
twelve tribes of Israel
twelve apostles
twelve days of Christmas
and in my high school orchestra
twelve violinists
bending and swaying
to music shining from their quivering strings
There are
twelve minutes in
one-fifth of an hour, (an absurd amount of time
used by no one,
but quite tidy
--why don’t we
divide our hours this way?)
Twelve squared:
one gross.
an obsolete measurement
of days gone by
--when there were clapboard general stores
that sold pickles.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 7:34 PM UTC
Lovers become quiet
When their bodies are raging,
The most perfect silence
When entwined and becoming one.
They search eachothers soul
Because each is lost without the other,
They fight and abandon
That they might reunite passionately.
Their spirits are free
And lurk the earth finding others
But not themselves,
Led by the estrangements of the heart.
They are like crazy peoples,
Lovers are,
Because they fight battles alone
Against the world
And submitting to the moments
Of lustrous passions
And in pain because life
Does not recognize such enigmas.
Lovers can only love,
Led by strings of violinists
Who take them where they have
Never been,
Going and going back again
Into the ****** of music
That plays quick beats and sad tunes.
Lovers are perpetually hopeful
Always wanting and taking the
Next step in a ladder to nowhere.
Lovers make mistakes
And do not learn from them,
Or sadly love the pain so much
They go back for more.
Alone in their own darkness,
Lovers find eachothers
Like tiny embers of burning
Souls filling the vastness of the void,
They cling to one another like
A child to a mother
And then rebel like a youthful
Suffocation.
Lovers are not stable,
They believe in God
And dance with the devil.
Lovers are alone,
Because they need seclusion
So that when they are free from
Themselves they can find something
Else to love,
They are in inexhaustible oil
To the lamp in a dark ravine,
They count drops of rain
And save their tears like memories.
They are empty and full,
Philosophical fools that love
Even those who reject them
And chase the uncapturable bird,
Flexible hearts of desirous fires.
Lover are the truth of humanity,
Crazy beautiful things
And they go loving
And hurting the beautiful life.
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 10:12 PM UTC
*A violin is given life
when bought out of its
coffin. It's given a life
when held with tender
and care. It's not just
wood with strings. It
has a voice that can sing
and a pulse that beats in
the violinists talented
hands. The sound it does
while its strings are plucked
leave it's audience breathless
and gasping for air while
shouting for an applause.
A violin is given life when
you carry it around in the
light and fresh air. It's given
life when held in your gentle
hands* ~
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 9:03 AM UTC
I was laying in a small corn field
As the sun evanesced over the small hill
The sky was filled up with iridescent lights
The resplendent lights were all hues purple and pink
They danced across the sky as gracefully as a ballerina
Then the crickets started chirping,
quietly at first but then they crescendoed into a beautiful chorus,
like thousands of violinists smoothly flying their bows over the soft strings
The lights slowly faded away
And the crickets silenced
The day was now done
And a new had begun
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 12:41 PM UTC
Just moments after the eye stops staring insatiably at us
You can hear the flicking on of all those machines
As you walk down the flooded streets so slow
The violinists pull the strings, and on they go
One to the left of us, three to the right
Two in front of us, and none to the behind
The conductors swing their arms
The symphony clangs, alarms
Lighting up the homes and the tv screens
Chilling the musicians, and the shaky beams
Walk around some more, you'll hear one hit a low C
While you slosh through the street's home sea
Sep 21, 2017
Sep 21, 2017 at 9:59 AM UTC
He's clutching his cash
in the torrent of the market,
she's dreaming of friends
just to keep them in her sight.
She's getting to work
when the sun is non-existent,
he's thrashing in his sleep
the whole time before that.
He's talking to her
with one eye upon the cradle,
she's ordering wine
just to keep him in her sight.
She's dreaming of Paris
and the sighing violinists,
he's watering down
all the drinks at his bar.
He's a drinker most nights
when work is non-existent,
she's smoking all day
just to tolerate this life.
She's opening her legs
to the thud of empty guidance,
he's kissing her neck
to dominate the land.
He's looking at ****
and jerking off in bathrooms,
she's painting her nails
a deeper shade of lime.
She's fouling all her make-up
to cover tender eyes,
he's nervous in the aftermath,
he's playing out his time.
He's playing with her hair
as she's cradled on the couch,
she's covering her *******
from authoritative eyes.
She's hiding from her father
in the cellar of the house,
he's looking for his own creation
that has somehow gotten out.
She's shaking in the hallway
as he holds her by the throat,
he's laughing at the daughter
he claimed to love the most.
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
A good kid,
just caught up in the mix.
An inescapable situation turned into a monument.
With every fountain passed,
he trades a hard earned coin for a wish.
Just hoping for vacation.
A temporary relief from the horrible sound embedded in him.
The truth is a problematic ensemble of violent violinists.
He's tired of of hearing it.
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 8:35 AM UTC
he arrived in the darkness and broke through the sky,
i fell upon one knee as i kissed and i cried,
the violinists rhythm sped,
as i turned behind,
down fell the trees as clouds broke with a shriek,
down went the forest,
he stood mellow and meek.
i found myself floating upon a winter fog,
bisected between the beauty of the day, and the safety of the night.
i felt my hair recede, and my skin burn to the touch.
although all of my loves remained slaves to the light, i floated delicately, onto the darkness beam
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 3:02 PM UTC