"virtuoso" poems
The desire to become
a virtuoso and prove
that I am indeed worthy
of traveling in the pursuit
of my passions
or in the pursuit
of you--
commendable cogitation
or
fool's errand?
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 3:07 PM UTC
Brilliant, this day – a young virtuoso of a day.
Morning shadow cut by sharpest scissors,
deft hands. And every prodigy of green –
whether it's ferns or lichens or needles
or impatient points of buds on spindly bushes –
greener than ever before. And the way the conifers
hold new cones to the light for the blessing,
a festive right, and sing the oceanic chant the wind
transcribes for them!
A day that shines in the cold
like a first-prize brass band swinging along
the street
of a coal-dusty village, wholly at odds
with the claims of reasonable gloom.
3.3k
Smooth, strong, deep, therapeutic.
Hands playing on my skin like a virtuoso pianist.
Stroking, kneading, pressing.
With every stroke, his hands melt my stress.
Sooth my pains, physical and mental.
My anxiety fades. My mind rests.
Stroking, kneading, pressing.
His hands are sensual.
His eyes are closed, so his hands move on their own.
No distractions. Just natural. Instinctive.
Stroking, kneading, pressing.
I’m open and vulnerable, self conscious.
But his hands even sooth my flaws, and imperfections.
Press against places I keep covered.
Unflattering angles I would rather keep hidden,
But somehow his hands seem to find beauty even in that.
Stroking, kneading, pressing.
Dang....the hour is up.
May 19, 2019
May 19, 2019 at 12:08 AM UTC
Can’t you hear the reverie of trumpet calls?
Lion’s roar inside your blood?
Horse drawn buggys of unrighted wrongs
Jack Hammers
Carving another niche in their belt
Of brawn and steel
Daggers
Driven into hearts of man
Shrapnel
Burning, Stinging
Earth howling in her *******
Blossoming in respite
Man, woman barred from hearts merging
In the forgotten tale of reciprocity…
Gun powder laced with melodic virtuoso
Absorbed as a distant chant
Sound waves meandering into War Zones
Ghostly sounds of the living, the living haunting the soon to be dead
Personal vendettas in the guise of fighting
Man, woman barred from hearts merging
In the forgotten tale of reciprocity…
Oct 19, 2011
Oct 19, 2011 at 4:33 PM UTC
Music is my Deity
and so benevolent is it!
A mystical Tapestry
woven upon Silence and across Time,
what about that is not Divine?
Music doesn't divide, it unites.
It attracts expressive minds, creative minds, empathic minds, logical minds.
It creates an abstract temporal psychosocial middle-ground;
You don't have to be a virtuoso
to drum along or dance or vocalize.
You don't have to be a virtuoso
for practice to reap it's rewards.
We speak with Music:
Language is a Musical thing;
it employs Rhythm and Pitch and works through Time.
Music is a Linguistic thing;
it communicates things that otherwise cannot be said
while also having room for Language itself.
Music is no singular aspect;
Music is not defined by medium,
nor is it defined by orchestration.
Music is wholly Abstract,
relating only back to itself.
Music is defined by context;
Music is a matter of perspective.
Footsteps are music, in 2/4 time.
Heartbeats are music, in 3/4 time; this defines "swing" feel.
A Clock is music, in 1/1 time at 60 beats per minute.
A year is music, in 365.25/1 time at 1 beat per day.
The duration of the Moon's orbital period and Day are a Unison; 1:1.
The four Galilean moons of Jupiter orbit with the resonance of Octaves; 2:1 ratios of wavelength.
The ratio of the lengths of Mercury's Year to it's Day is nearly a Perfect Fifth; 3:2.
Music is implicit.
Music is mystical.
Music is a Metaphor manifest,
for the nature of the Universe;
even the very word "Universe"
means "The One Song".
Music is truly intrinsic;
I am a Shaman of Music.
It is an Honor.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 2:03 PM UTC
i’ve long dreamt
of black flags in the streets
tonight i marched beneath
the shadow of their wings
shoulder-to-shoulder
in hope and solidarity
an anarchist professor
with a climate change activist
an independent journalist
and one of my students
as mid-November winds tugged
at her pink-and-brunette hair
she lifted a hand-drawn sign
of a gigantic sneaker
smashing a ****
and i felt
for not the first time
an enormous sense of pride
how humbling to at once
inspire and be inspired by
an eighteen-year-old
punk and artist
who asked to borrow
The Moral Imperative of Revolt
two scant months ago
then took to the streets
to oppose and depose
a twisted fascist virtuoso
for two whole hours
we hundreds owned the streets
we marched down Rosalind
Central and Orange Avenue
as protest slogans rang angelic
we raised hell and found heaven
in liberty equality and solidarity
but then the pigs closed in
cordoned to Lake Eola
to scream acquiescent rhetoric
at the fish sleeping
blissful in their innocence
beneath the jet black surface
a half-dozen cops in riot gear
astride horses loomed
ominous before us
backlit by the headlights
of the aggravated motorists
our march had forestalled
as the people abandoned the streets
we’d won so easily
i felt my chest wilt beneath
the weight of forsaken opportunity
my eyes scanned the remaining crowd
four stood strong
rooted to the concrete
by the world's weight
anchored by conviction
an anarchist professor
an independent journalist
a climate change activist
and a freshman college student
i heard the professor whisper to his student
i heard him say she'd put herself in harm’s way
that they'd lost the day when the marchers
turned their backs and walked away
but she didn’t flinch or move an inch
she stood silent and vigilant
shoulder-to-shoulder
chin held almost as high
as her Nazi-smashing protest sign
and her matching middle finger
and in that moment
i could’ve died
smiling
Nov 12, 2016
Nov 12, 2016 at 12:07 AM UTC
She's never been the type
that loves large crowds and
booming parties;
the stress of conforming
weighs too heavily on her
sensitive heart,
and quite frankly, most
people don't fall on the same
end of the color spectrum.
Everywhere on this earth is
home to her, and Mother
Nature is her muse.
A black sheep born with a
wild heart; an indigo
child infatuated
with change and fueled
by tranquility. She is the
virtuoso of her own authenticity.
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 4:50 PM UTC
treacherously torrid and torrential torrents of totally tangential tumultuous tortuous ; tyrannically torturous adjunct viably salient seethe.
procrastinating pandemic plenipotentiary prosthesis ; prosaically pragmatic parenthetical predication predilection premise prognostication
panoramic tableau preternatural propensity proclivity prestidigitation gesticulation :
gyration guidon ; ghastly gruesome grotesque hideously horrible horrendous heinous
grotty gnarly
diabolically maniacal dementia brusque macabre abrupt
awful
amalgamated anathema analysis agnate aggregate aberrance
somatalogy virtuoso cognate obduracy
worse
rudiment ebullience , confluence effluent effusion affluent , prolific profusity opulence , cogent fecund secular secund , recondite redolence abstrusely obstreperous mesomerism resonance resilience
protractive perpetude futurity
blither blandishing blabber burnishing boresome blahs
lithe blithe jabber prattle chatter tithe
morose morsel moribundness
stolid stoic
stalwart bastion bulwark
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 5:45 PM UTC
you see,
well rather ironically
you dont...
or at least i dont
(...my mistake)
(that was my perception/projection of "you" based on "me" because we (again sorry or/ sorry again) can only see the world egocentrically)
i lost my glasses last week
havent seemed keen
on finding them on the streets of
O, (Oh) (OH) how i keened after them (IO)
driving on a mirror this morning, mourning, before the sun, a rose, arose.
i finally noticed them gone.
the acid lined upper middle class road from my
(socially speaking)
lower class acid ridden
(economically speaking)
upper middle class mind
had dis(re)appeared^(infinity)
all time was lost
and for the first time in my driving career
i found myself, spending more time looking at the street than at the road
shooting stars of red streamed after taillights
as if always trying to catch up
greens joined in from lights above
...but did not muddle the stars
like the perfectly controlled watercolor artisan
what Virtuoso, what Perfectionist, what Letter-dash-letter of a being
could create such an immaculate emasculating picture (lack of question mark)
i am humbled.
p.s
i gave up looking for my glasses
my vision seemed perfectly clear
so was yours (Sorry)
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 11:00 AM UTC
One day, a decade ago, I came home from school,
And instead of starting my homework,
I showed my grandmother the picture I drew,
And my grandmother Edna said to me,
"Bran, you have one big imagination."
I grinned and shrugged, replying
"Sorry Grandma, I can't help it"
*She knows who she is....
And I think everyone knows where I'm coming from...*
Like all naive lovers, I imagined a happily ever after,
But Aphrodite discovered that i'm a functional disaster
Sort of like what happened when Wendy met Casper?
Silly, I know,
Well at least I tried to capture a little laughter.
I imagine her name as the name of a virtuoso band.
I listen enthusiastically to the band play,
"Eat your heart out, eat your heart out."
Yes, she's a band-aid.
I've imagined attending the salmon church with her,
Even though I don't believe.
Still I would do that for my Desdemona,
"I will deny thee nothing."
I imagined us getting married at an altar,
The honeymoon would be on the moon weeping honey.
Three years later, we have Harmony, our daughter.
My imagination is wild,
Maybe it's too far out there,
Where the wild things are.
Isn't it true that before you make something happen
You have to imagine it happening first?
Something like a self-fulfilled prophecy,
In time we'll see.
One day I came home from Mount Olympus,
And instead of professing agape,
I showed Cupid this poem I wrote,
And Cupid said to me, "You have one wild imagination."
I shrugged, replying, " I can't help it."
Cupid smiled and said, "You have a romantic one also."
Originally written 5/17/11
Revised 10/24/14
(c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
******* at tickling the ivories,
at inducing the jet buttons
to chortle, say, in a concerto ;
but I do strum and flirt
with those amazing royal,
88 unrepentant loyal
keys for Jupiter and Saturn,
for Mars and Neptune,
making a blank bland tune
for extraterrestrial beings for fun.
On the cosmic moors
the moon's whirling feet
cease for my discordance.
What a slurred entrance
by F in D major!
Only a novice--an amateur.
I'm no magnificent pianist,
O majestic Mercury.
Summon the stars the search
to lead for a supreme virtuoso,
one of no incongruent ingenuity
like this dilettante--a pseudo
music polymath, counsels Thebe.
A Mozart, Beethoven, or Bach?
Any of the greats scored above, as well
as geniuses like David and Handel.
Impressario fly! Flee thou away
and go get a classic maven.
Otherwise sleep there forever at Erebus,
never dream of waking up in Eden.
Circuitous world stops: strings break off
at the Earth's axis--
the Sun's panels pause
and darkness' movement begins
its own obscure notes to improvise:
apace demented melody
is released,-- bathos of symphony:
tinny wine of concord
settles on the lees of discord.
Asteroids hooting some ***** calls
when into the grand chrysolite chamber--
in her tailor-made blistering gown--
strolls in the coruscating Venus
in the sturdy arm of jaundiced Uranus,
garbed in his glistening stomacher.
Like a ball, all eyes are bouncing
hither and thither, up and down,
googling and ogling,
once more at them leering,
gaping at the irreplaceable paintings of
da Vinci, Picasso, and Van Gogh
cavorting upon the weightless walls
to the romantic performance of Strauss
in the palace orchestral of Bacchus.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
Awe-inducing presence
Beguiling beauty
Calm after the storm
Delicate and divine
Effervescent being
Flames dancing in the sky
God-fearing
Heart unstained by impurity
Interstellar
Joy in the midst of misery
Kind, too kind for her sake
Lovely smile
Magnetic woman
Never says never
Oblivious to love
Pure white
Quick-wit and sharp
Rain during the drought
Starry, starry eyes
Thunderstorms
Unwavering love
Virtuoso
Wholehearted
Xenon, gold, and neon
Yuletide happiness
Zigzag feelings
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 1:08 PM UTC
the only boy i ever loved
is awake while i am sleeping
the tinman boy lives upside-down
but in my tongue i keep him
while screens have saved us tenfold times
i still sit and mull your visit
those days spent tangled in your hair
i won’t admit i miss it.
you drove stick-shift but held my hand
jumped guardrails and pythons and nerves
painted me with waterfall clay
and careened around my curves
your tongue is strings on violins
and i am no virtuoso
each rusted joint creaks heartless songs
while my will swings to and fro
you’re tension like a tinder box
or a match-head ripe for striking
i can’t speak freely of your hands
but found them to my liking
i hope i am not novelty
or distraction wrapped in ennui
i, for one, am enthralled by you
and how you can’t sing on-key
raggedy thoughts bite (just like you)
of distance and futures and you
sentences always end with you
except when you want them to
the only boy i ever loved
is spiteful and tragic and sweet
the tinman boy lives far away
at least until next we meet
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 7:27 AM UTC
I secretly despise you
For your forced rejection of status quo
Your fascination with death and crows
Even though it's clear death frightens you
Your incessant opinion that you're a virtuoso
So loud, the ear begs to be free, says Van Goh
Yet, you act and strut around without a clue
I secretly hate you
For you disregard tomorrow
Focusing solely on your ego
I secretly envy you
Because at least you're good
At playing this game
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 2:40 AM UTC
I have a friend who plays guitar
I've worked with thousands ... but none quite like him.
His chord choices, the melodies and the riffs that he plays
They can only come from within.
He's been out living as a big rock star
But that's not quite the world that you'd think.
It's a rugged, rough struggle of perseverance and passion
And your life flashes by in a blink.
He isn't a shredder as are many these days
Never cramming notes where they don't belong.
He is tasteful and creative, a sound so original
His strings envelop the songs.
He has no need to display some arrogant plumage.
He doesn't show off with any thousand-note solos.
He doesn't do intros that are way too long.
His moody style transcends virtuoso.
He is my friend and proven it so
Once guiding me through a valley of black.
Not with his music, although that helped.
He did so with his hand on my back.
A music teacher once told me that
"Music is the silence between notes".
If that is true, then his silence is golden
As I love every song that he's wrote.
So all you pickers, players and shredders
in garages or with gold albums on the wall.
Take a lesson, from this humble man
You needn't over play at all.
But don't think that he is timid or without some flair
Don't make boastful quips that you think are so witty.
If the mood and the moment strikes him just so
He can make that guitar sound like Godzilla destroying a city.
I am so proud to call him my "Brother"
Such a musician, such a friend.
His music and his camaraderie have both touched my soul
and I hope that neither see's end.
Mar 12, 2018
Mar 12, 2018 at 7:41 AM UTC
Playlists of broken thoughts
Cobwebs and keys
Slanted in uniformed dissatisfaction
Notes smeared on fingertips
Melancholy mu-sick
Vibrato virtuoso
Bending strings and pushing pedals
Smashing baby grands
Into bite sized pieces
Feedback flashbacks
And the band played on
While the pianist was shot
Between the eyes
In an off key massacre
To a standing ovation
Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 8:34 AM UTC
*The way a candle weaves its light through darkness.
How a snowflake trickles down from heaven above.
A virtuoso plucking guitar strings masterfully.
Your glamorous eyes, delicate face, memorizing body.
You sing an enchanting song, full of zealous love, and I cannot help but lose the breath from my lungs.
The fireflies dance and twinkle with grace, yet they are put to shame by your marvelous beauty. Each twinkle of the stars is a testament to their jealousy of your resplendent soul.
This must truly be an angelic dream!
Your voice carries across the air smoothly, eloquently, serenading my unworthy ears. Would you reward my boldness if I were to trace your lips with mine?
Take my weak hand and dance with me. Dance with me under the fairytale night. Step by step, hand in hand, unlock the fortune of this tragic heart. Hold this tragic heart. Love this tragic heart.
You are full of grace, a bewitching vivacity in the recesses of your heart, deeply entrenched and guarded. It is why I admire you from afar. Why these words spill from me to this page. Because of you.*
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 6:37 PM UTC
I saw in you.
what I see in her.
The color of hope.
He finds himself hanging again,
By a spider’s thread
manipulated by a master,
A master puppeteer
She caught me, bit me
time and time again, and again until
She left an intoxicating feeling.
As he looked up, he could only marvel,
at the lustrous thread,
an assortment that ran through him.
He didn't care about pain.
He didn't care how he was used.
Huh. It was all narcotics to him.
As he looked up, he saw her daggers.
they were dripping with ecstasy,
as she bit into her lower lip
He just couldn't get enough.
Their soul’s resonance kept the thread strong,
through it, she could feel him.
and he could feel her; Everything.
I knew what she was after
he didn't mind. He has what he wants.
She filled her hourglass with,
the red pigmentation of my blood.
After a long sleep
he saw morning dew on the thread
and the line snapped.
an almost empty shell remained
He landed on the next spiders thread
She was happy
and so was he,
virtuoso at all times.
As they both shared the nectar of life.
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 4:10 PM UTC
Take your pills, go to therapy,
Take your pills. go to therapy
“get better”
Take your pills, go to therapy,
Tell yourself you’re getting better
“You’re getting sick again ariana, we will raise your dose”
Take your pills, go to therapy
“Am i getting any better, am i healthier? do i look sick?”
Take your pills, go to therapy
Take your pills, go to therapy
“Why are you doing this to yourself Ariana?”
Take your pills, go to therapy
Take your pills, go to therapy
help
“how do i get the maggot thoughts that crawl into my head and tell me i’m inadequate, trifling?”
“It’s all circumstantial, and that is what we need to mend and patch”
Give me your mental diagnosis-diagnonsense
Go ahead, tell me what you’ve espied when you sat oneself down and perched your virtuoso intellect in my head
“oh yes, you comprehend
you understand
Everything.
You know me deeper than i know my self”
“We are getting somewhere, we are moving forward you are progressing!”
Take your pills, go to therapy
Take your pills, go to therapy
You must be pleased as punch you’re finally fixing me
dismally i disinform you, i lied
Why you may inquire? Not one can understand ones speculations or thoughts unless they are legitimately situated in my chamber of a lugubrious trench filled with distasteful maggots which leave dolorous contusions-bruises and thoughts that leave me questioning reality, questioning my essence, questioning myself
Take your pills, go to therapy
Take your pills, go to therapy
If i were in deed reviving from the sorrow i would no longer have these god awful scars and bruises
You can’t tell me i am not out of ones tree
when
you
scarcely
know
me
At times I’m not sure if i even know me___________________________________________________________________________
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC
“Julio is sweet
Julio is smart
Julio is a sweetheart”
Julio is Julia’s love
Julio and Julia both are Portuguese
Former for namesake, latter at heart
Julio’s America born
Writer he is but no ordinary
Languages French, Portuguese, German, Spanish
All flow through his soul
Virtuoso is the word they use to describe his artistry
And it was for one of his poems that he won Julia’s heart
Poem was 'Meu Coração'
Recited it was in Lisbon, Portugal
Near a beautiful eye catching lagoon
On a sunny busy day; Julia vividly remembered
Today was the day they stole each others' hearts
That is what led to this decision
Of trying a poem for her beloved
But the catch was she was trying to write in English
Her English was even worse than their old Spanish janitor
But she was not one to shy off from challenges
So she tried one more time-
“Julio is sweet
Julio is smart
Julio is a sweetheart
Julio makes me smile
Julio makes me laugh
Julio makes me blush
Julio makes me warm
Julio is my love
Julio is my heart
Julio is my heart”
The poem to her seemed terribly plain but effective
And no matter how hard she tried
It felt as if the words were stapled in her brain
And then she jumped like a kangaroo
As the doorbell rang
Put on her slippers and hurried towards the door
Opened it and leaned forward to kiss him gently
She always knew when Julio was at the door
He was her Julio, her desire, her dream
Smiling at her, his eyes home to the bluest sea
They kissed again and this time more slowly
Letting the magic settle in the air more properly
Julia went to the kitchen and brewed some coffee
While Julio went to shower and as he removed his shirt
He saw a paper on the bed, bent he to hold it in his hand
And the lines on his face smoothened and turned into a nostalgic smile
Julia was busy making espresso Julio’s favorite
When Julio entered , the somehow, roulette shaped kitchen
With a paper in his hand on which stretched Julia’s curvy handwriting
“Oh! Wrote that poem for you I titled it ‘My Heart’
Not very flamboyant, simple like you
Hope you’d appreciate my hard work”
Said she, as if the words were sewn in her heart
Then all of a sudden both erupted into laughter
Laughter filled with a sweet secret each beheld
Lucky enough I was to have known their little secret
Years ago, similar words had crusaded Julia's heart
Near a beautiful eye catching lagoon;
On a sunny busy day in Lisbon, Portugal.
~Manu M.
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 12:46 PM UTC
Sisyphus compelled to roll his boulder,
the poet who attempts to reconcile
what he knows with what he feels,
sensing even in compulsion
his stony effort no match for gravity.
Knowledge transmuted into feeling,
feelings obverted to some new knowledge,
a seismic process that rolls in waves,
peaks of insight, troughs of mental block,
all to foist a new perception upon the world,
squeeze perspective from the driest fruits.
What devilish irony to be admired,
for verse most often misunderstood,
philosopher and virtuoso to a tone-deaf audience.
Camus concluded Sisyphus
was happy with his lot in life,
but a poet continues to paint strange landscapes,
never content with color schemes,
ever niggling for that undiscovered pastel.
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 5:38 PM UTC
Anticipation tiptoes from table to table.
My Jelly Roll Soul
Sets sail for Alice’s rabbit hole.
In front of a hushed, hip crowd,
The music condenses into a scarlet cloud,
And originality speaks aloud.
A trumpet sounds,
A subway car rumbles underground,
Signaling all the cool cats
That it’s time to get down.
A virtuoso teases black and white keys,
Shaping notes with subtle expertise.
The closest I’ve ever seen, man come to mastering machine.
Slowing the frenzied, fractured step of the East Village above,
To E’s. Legato ease.
Optional Z’s
Leave many without sleep,
For who could snooze
At times like these?
The alto-sax
Is bending C’s!
Just listen in, on that wailing bassoon,
Who howls to the moon.
It might be noon,
Up there.
But that’s up a flight of stairs,
And I’m enjoying my jazzy state of affairs.
There will always be time for Nostalgia in Times Square.
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 2:57 PM UTC
Bursting out of me,
like waves,
crahing against a distant shore,
my voice cascades wildly;
trilling and thrilling,
as it enraptures
and captures
the emotion of the tale yet to come.
Warbling,
and wavering,
the story unfolds-
a love concrete,
a life complete,
while time doth fleet,
and flitter away.
My passionate notes startle
the birds nearby,
silencing thier meager attempts
at music.
I am no virtuoso,
no child prodigy;
but the raw power
of my heart unrestrained
will put feathered tails
to the north
at the sound of my soul unleashed.
I sing;
not a question
or doubt
in my mind-
there is no audience to impress,
no friends to shame me into awkward silence.
I sing,
because I must release the fluttering creation
caged inside my soul;
unaltered,
it must emerge to outshine the stars,
to chase away the shadows that linger
in a waking mind.
I might offend with my noise,
my off notes,
and slaughtered choruses,
my silly screeching
that grates upon the ears;
but I am merely a vessel
containing these words and emotions,
unfortunately unequipped to perform justice
to these thoughts trapped within.
I sing
to empty myself
of these creative burdens,
these ideas that have a life of thier own
straining and pushing
to escape the walls that hold them here inside.
I sing-
because I can.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 11:47 AM UTC