"warbling" poems
Arise! Oh Heart, from the catacombs of the dead
Shake off the dust, for Life beckons you like a buddy
Peel off the weariness that wraps you like a shroud
And walk to the open to perceive the light.
Arise! Oh Heart, from the dungeons of gloom
The dawn is at your door step, waiting to break
Sing with the koel, merrily warbling in the woods
Dance with the billows, wildly prancing on the deep.
Arise! Oh Heart, from the ghettoes of *******
Break loose the ropes that moor you to the past
Dart through the panorama of the cerulean blue
And fly high into regions, uncharted and new.
Arise! Oh Heart, from the citadels of hate
Listen not to the shrieking and howling behind
Drink from the goblet of conciliating love
And rejoice at the birth of a dawn with promises galore!
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 8:28 AM UTC
‘LOVE’ – What mystique power it wields
In what myriad guise it wraps!
At times a sweet ache so coy to reveal
Or a sudden urge, hard to unveil
Sometimes a deep sensation
A strong surge of emotion
Permeating every atom
Pervading from top to bottom
It heightens the pulse
And makes every nerve convulse
It has left kingdoms fall asunder
And many a mighty man - surrender
Often, like dew drops falling from above
Or the warbling notes flowing out from the grove
It leaves the heart go upbeat in prosody
Changing every sensation into rhapsody
As beams of silver cast by the moon
Or the cold touch of spray in the horrid heat of noon
It soothes, embalms and thrills the heart
Filling the void and leaving no dearth
Love sublime, sure like a candle lit
Consumes itself, and never dwindles a bit
It dispels the gloom and dissipates the fright
Invigorating the soul and healing every hurt
As brilliance to stars, fragrance to flowers
Music to flute or shade to bowers
Love is to Man, freeing him from all sores
Bestowing him the strength to meet all throes
Love can neither be beguiled nor disguised
Nor be stifled or be construed
Love puts all other things into place
And hems life with a lovely lace
Love is all we seek and too scarce to find
A magic thread by which hearts are bound
Hark! It is love that makes the world spin around
And cures all the ills that surround
Oh! Love thou virtues I will defend
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 8:57 AM UTC
1545
The Bible is an antique Volume—
Written by faded men
At the suggestion of Holy Spectres—
Subjects—Bethlehem—
Eden—the ancient Homestead—
Satan—the Brigadier—
Judas—the Great Defaulter—
David—the Troubador—
Sin—a distinguished Precipice
Others must resist—
Boys that “believe” are very lonesome—
Other Boys are “lost”—
Had but the Tale a warbling Teller—
All the Boys would come—
Orpheus’ Sermon captivated—
It did not condemn—
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Leaves
Murmuring by miriads in the shimmering trees.
Lives
Wakening with wonder in the Pyrenees.
Birds
Cheerily chirping in the early day.
Bards
Singing of summer, scything thro' the hay.
Bees
Shaking the heavy dews from bloom and frond.
Boys
Bursting the surface of the ebony pond.
Flashes
Of swimmers carving thro' the sparkling cold.
Fleshes
Gleaming with wetness to the morning gold.
A mead
Bordered about with warbling water brooks.
A maid
Laughing the love-laugh with me; proud of looks.
The heat
Throbbing between the upland and the peak.
Her heart
Quivering with passion to my pressed cheek.
Braiding
Of floating flames across the mountain brow.
Brooding
Of stillness; and a sighing of the bough.
Stirs
Of leaflets in the gloom; soft petal-showers;
Stars
Expanding with the starr'd nocturnal flowers.
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The warbling calls
of the peace and the calm
seem pacified and subdued
far from the ears of man
The shattered cries
of the cacophony and the chaos
too loud and incessant
close to the thoughts of youth
With blood spilled,
splashed over years
of adversity and trial,
we stand tired and stained
waiting for everyone
-else-
to change
To see the world through
a peaceful gaze
is to see the world in beauty
A beauty that is not often attained.
May 7, 2012
May 7, 2012 at 5:39 PM UTC
"Yoo Hoo! Excuse me!" she said,
Warbling with trepidation,
"I wonder could you help me,
Only I'm blind, you see?"
Her timid voice trailed off,
Lost beneath the majestic roar
Of the waterfall;
"Of course ma'am!" he said,
"Take my arm and pray
Tell me your troubles!"
"Well it's all rather silly," she said,
"But I'm not long now for this
Life, and I so wanted to see,
Or rather, to feel this place again.
I was here as a young girl
You see, and I have such fond memories!
My guide had to take
An urgent call, and now I'm
Afraid I won't have time for the tour!"
"Tell me," he said, "If I may be
Permitted to ask, were you able
To see when you were here before?"
"Oh yes!" she exclaimed,
"It was the most incredible thing
I've ever seen! The destructive
Force of nature, an endless torrent
Of foaming waters cascading down
Sheer cliffs, the living color of
Smooth rocks gleaming in the sunlight,
And oh so many rainbows
Blazing in the spray, Sir I could
Imagine no place more wondrous,
More beautiful!"
"Well then," he said excitedly,
"You'll be pleased to know it
Hasn't changed a bit!"
"Oh thank you, thank you!"
She said, hugging him tightly,
"You've made an old woman very happy!"
The guide returned and he bade them
A fond farewell, and then another
Woman approached him.
"Well there you are darling," she said,
I've been looking for you everywhere!
I've found a guide who specialises
In narrated tours for the blind,
Are you ready?"
He looked at her with unseeing eyes
And smiled, "There's no need my love,"
He said, "I've already seen it and
It's the most beautiful place in the world,
And I want to remember it
Exactly the way I do right now!"
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 3:36 AM UTC
Remember me in spring when blossom's blush
and petals flair a - light in morning mists
that'll haze a rainbow hue - of flowered plush
to portrait mine as every bud untwists.
Upon the birding bath as robins splay
the warbling chirp shall voice as tho' from me
for you my sweet, in springtime bloom of may
shall hear the larking flute of my decree.
The dancing leaves shall tap and Ivy's birth
and Snowdrop's bow as daisy eyes unveils
as fragrant, olive air shall scent of mirth
that once were lost, now shrines as spring prevails.
Vernal rebloom shall stream that pulse of mine
then seek that earthly glow, and there I'll shine.
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 3:39 AM UTC
Ach so! thou much-praised and lauded Milwaukee,
Thou delightful Wisconsin Stadt of boundless pulchritude,
Verily hath History endowed thy blessed name
With the noisomely beery breath of immortality!
And thank the benign Almighty in highest Heav’n
That thy delectable streets and arboreal squares
Doth remain heretofore untouched by unseemly civic strife,
Despite thy renown as veritable midwife to Sewer Socialism!
Yet, tear-inducing recollections have I of this dwelling-place
And herewith followeth heart-rending remembrances
Of what transpired when I inveigled a plump young Mädchen there
For a brief sojourn of untrammelled concupiscence.
Alas, alack, after gorging her impetuous appetites
On a gargantuan repast of mitteleuropäische delicacies,
Methinks her poor heart gave up survival’s uneven battle
And, warbling a soft piffero-reminiscent sigh, she expired.
‘Twas too tragic thus to depart this happy welkin in mid-prandials,
Emitting a final flatus, sweet adieu, from her rearmost aperture,
Leaving me, her poor forlorn swain, bereft and solitary,
Faced with mine host’s request for instant monetary rendition.
From that naughty place of my bereavement fled I,
Clutching to my ***** the contents of her silken purse,
Determined to partake in untrammelled ***** licence elsewhere,
Ere the chanticleer’s dawn croak wake the inebriated citizens.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 12:21 PM UTC
All sounds have been as music to my listening:
Pacific lamentations of slow bells,
The crunch of boots on blue snow rosy-glistening,
Shuffle of autumn leaves; and all farewells:
Bugles that sadden all the evening air,
And country bells clamouring their last appeals
Before [the] music of the evening prayer;
Bridges, sonorous under carriage wheels.
Gurgle of sluicing surge through hollow rocks,
The gluttonous lapping of the waves on weeds,
Whisper of grass; the myriad-tinkling flocks,
The warbling drawl of flutes and shepherds' reeds.
The orchestral noises of October nights
Blowing ( ) symphonetic storms
Of startled clarions ( )
Drums, rumbling and rolling thunderous and ( ).
Thrilling of throstles in the keen blue dawn,
Bees fumbling and fuming over sainfoin-fields.
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There is music at dawn in the song of the koyel
The tweeting, the chirping, the warbling,the cry
The medleys that float in the morning air
As birds sing a welcome to a rising sky
There is music in the span of feathered wings
The steady drone of the humming of a bee
As the sun revels on his throne at noon
While a brisk wind whisks leaves on willow trees
There is music in the silver drops of rain
A gentle drizzle or a thunder squall
Music in the flow of rivers and streams
And the sparkling cascade of a waterfall
There is music on slopes of lofty mountains
In echoes that reverberate of a water spring
In the soft rustling of a valley of flowers
Of blue irises and pink hyacinths
There is music in seas and oceans blue
Waves overreaching to meet the shore
Rippling in sounds of frothy ecstasy
Whispers of pearls and ocean floors
There is music at dusk when the day rests
The throaty croaks in a nocturnal sheer
As moths flutter drawn to light
'Tis music of life that I hear
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 9:50 AM UTC
The air is brittle this ominous, wintry night.
The slivers of a life you used to know still haunt you, as surely as you have permitted them to be a haunt to others.
Without question, it is those memories that spur your ruminations; that cause your copious circumlocutions; which compell you to stand on this somber boulevard in front of this crumbling, but once stately manor that now is a languid presence with the solitary purpose of looming over the vast grounds.
It is obligatory that you proceed along the avenue that used to split the yards that are now overgrown and chocoblock with twisted vines, and thistles.
You pause, to gather your strength.
One deep inhailation and then you hold your breath as you grip the tarnished handle and lock leaver.
With a perfect measure of strength your thumb recalls, the mechanism is undone.
Your arm pushes forward.
The silence is disturbed by a warbling creak as the heavy door is slowly opened.
You exhale, then before you lose your nerve you quickly pass through the ingress and enter into the foyer,
which is instantly familiar in the dim, flickering light and the long, slender adumbrations effected by the gossamer encaked voltives jutting from the dusty walls.
Though it has remaned unchanged
throughout all the time that has passed, standing in the ornate room affirms that the warmth with which you used to be recieved here has been abandoned to a frigidity.
You feel as if this room remembers you.
This is as far as I dare go with you, my friend, though I know you must continue.
I have listened to your stories, so
I know you have many rooms to search.
The closier that you seek is in a matter that is not my own.
I will depart upon rendering these words of warning:
When visiting the past,
As you daringly explore these often haralded halways,
Be careful what you leave behind.
Take caution not to lose yourself,
For a shadow lingers in the Suite Sublime.
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 6:59 PM UTC
Keep the fame
Keep the glory
But pass over the mike
And let me be heard
Over the din of chaos
The marching boots
The crying voices
Breaking headlines
And singers warbling about love
Let me be heard
For I am the Person
Who in complete anonymity thrives
Lives without the spotlight
The glamour, the money
Another face among a billion
Nothing too eye-catching
But pass over the mike
It is time for the Person
To be heard
Over the loudness of anonymity.
Aug 22, 2012
Aug 22, 2012 at 1:04 PM UTC
* * *
Fishing out words
From the abyss of hum -
Like Odin with the Runes...
Thoughts are sharp swords -
Unfriendly are their croons:
One instant - scattering like crumbs,
Another - warbling in tune
With mixed emotions
And elusive feelings...
Oh, how disheartening sometimes! -
Unveiling their peelings...
(c)kRu, 07.02.-09.02.06
Jan 30, 2010
Jan 30, 2010 at 12:41 AM UTC
Routinely lark, though this day depth therein
bemused as why the warbling fluter turned
instilled and sung laments, residing within
and perched unkind; that brittler branches - spurned.
Melodic angst has never sprung so dim
and tunes of fathomed trebles; parted love?
Perchance the ballad pours a swansong hymn;
and from aloft the skies - returns a dove.
If song an' bird be taken dazed with stars
beliefs contort and bowing strings apart
nor stealth be known as fervent dwells the scars,
though bleak the lust for any other heart.
O' feathered, pennate cherub play her whim!
Remain upon the sill and bygones swim.
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 1:33 PM UTC
lipdeep pour a gallon of fresh girlhips
full of boylips
easyof stumbling inept eating
saltness suddenly departs sanity
fitness and keenly bridles a whole throat's
distinct warbling pale voice louder increases
on quiet and increases into a lurid bruise
a slender violence of feminine mouth
Jun 30, 2012
Jun 30, 2012 at 8:39 PM UTC
In the hard and cold city
There were no
Two a.m. train whistles…
Sometimes
Window rattling hip-hop woofers…
The occasional
Tequila soaked domestic dispute… and the like…
Leaving me now
Laying in the darkened silence feeling
Vintage…
Imaginary whispers of Brook Benton
“…feel like it’s rainin all ova the world”
Subliminal theme music
Setting the ambiance for
Trying to think of something
Not cliché to say about the
Two a.m. train whistle in the distance...
Cuz I still
Often wake to the
Absences of
Warbling sirens of high speed chases … and
Fusion of passing dialects beneath my window
That I never really heard…until I didn’t hear them …
Replaced with
Fat plops
Of nocturnal rain drops…
Far away clack-a-lack of iron wheel on rail…
Silence…
...and that lonely
Two a.m. train whistle in the distance…
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 12:34 PM UTC
Pressed for a poem
he thought he’d write
to say he loved her
and quite right too
he thought that
love should be
a statement thick
with words so tender
true yet gentle
as that soft complaining
flute he heard
in Dryden’s slick
immortal ode that
‘in dying notes
discovers woes
of hopeless lovers
whose dirge is whispered
by their warbling lute’
Oh yes come you and I
let’s like music
untune the sky!
But my dearest this day is not
the feast of Sancta Cecelia
but of a Roman priest and martyr
beheaded by the Flaminian Gate
for marrying Christians in the street.
And when imprisoned by Claudius’ decree
healed the sight of his jailer’s daughter
Lucy – by leaving her at his death a letter
‘I hope your sight gets better in time’
and signed it ‘from your Valentine ‘
(with two kisses one for each eye)
. . . and it did
Such love can
make us see anew
can help us be
forever true and
gracious to each other’s
cares each other’s woes
and live in hope
(let’s really try)
to be together
always
you and I
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 7:53 AM UTC
Oh! How like you, I long to be a singing lark
Who among the fleecy clouds like a tiny speck
Remains hidden, drowning the air with music sweet
Rising higher and darting up with movements slick
In our ears, falls your song like peals of chiming bells
In clear, crystalline notes on this radiant day so bright
Why do you stay unseen in the far fringes of heaven?
Oh! Come out from the veils that cover you from our sight!
Are you warbling of love in inextricable lays
Or chanting hymns to the God of greater heights
Diving up and down like a mysterious sprite
Are you trilling of the charms of enchanting sights
Soaring and swaying like a flitting dot of light
You ascend higher and higher to dizzier heights
I guess your wings brush against the sailing clouds
As you reel round and round in ecstatic flights
Have you bade farewell to the verdant groves beneath
Have you flown for good from your woody nest?
Why do you dwell in the heights, solitary and alone?
Have you made the firmament your haven of rest?
Hovering over unseen, you pour out melodies sweet
That fills our gloomy hearts with euphoric delight
Sweeping away from weary heads all sullen thoughts
And flaming our souls as ever blazing beacons of light!
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 10:30 AM UTC
Can this be the time once more
Of utter giving up of our control
The simple folliwing of commercial madness
Our desire for the day when food and wine
Have to be gathered about us like the defences of yore
Headlong we run from mid-summer until
We are exhausted in body, spirit or credit
The desperate worry of what to buy whom
Or when to order the especially fattened bird for your table
The ridiculous overspending on presents
When time could be the finest present you could give
Yule tide is a special period for Druids and all pagans alike,
The wonder of simplicity of reflection of our past year
The elements of sleep as mother earth regenerates herself
Resting often under the warmth of a blanket of snow
Gathering of families and loved ones
Blessings of the solstice as the wheel of the year turns
Once more into the light as the sun begins it's journey
Returning to the northern hemisphere
Our birds and native animals preparing for the winter
Storing their food, digging deep as they look for vitals
Likewise the land is resting,
The soil teems with dormant life, every insect and worm
Every root, form and bulb
Slowing right down as the degrees fall to freezing
The frosty and rime ridden mornings giving the flora
A lift of white dusting and sparkling light reflecting
The weak, beautiful winter sun
Heaves itself onto the low glancing position
Just making it to the tree tops before retiring once more to sleep
Leaving glorious swathes of orange and red
Painting the sky as it falls and rises.
Yule tide comes as all seasons, times and periods
But once a year in our short lives
The earthy sounds, the images and emotion
The smell of the newly fallen snow and woodsmoke
The foraging birds and squirrels
The warbling and tuneful song of the blackbird
And the tut tut of Mr Robin resplendent in his
Bright red waistcoat bobbing around in the crisp frost
Our lifetime of Yules is a wonder to enjoy,
I know as I look from my window where my heart is
As the distant tree bare in it's winter shroud speaks
To me as a friend and anchor within this beautiful planet.
Dec 17, 2017
Dec 17, 2017 at 5:22 AM UTC
one morning, Jack awoke with a distinct feeling
that something was not quite right.
as he peeled his eyes from a crusty sleep
his suspicions were further aroused by a marked loss
of sight from his right eye
as though he was peering through
a thick charcoal jungle
he clutched his hand towards his face
and was alarmed to find
a rather substantial lock of hairs
protruding from his right eyebrow.
wondering if perhaps he might
still be in a world of waking dreams
where one couldn’t really trust one’s intuitions,
he wandered over to the light switch,
flicked it on/off a couple of times.
having reached the conclusion that
he was definitely not dreaming,
and that his retinas
(or his left one, at least)
were definitely receptive to fluctuating light levels
he made his way to the bathroom
to inspect his face, with one hand
bemusedly fondling his recently grown eye-brow fringe.
in the bathroom he stumbled
across his wife sitting on the toilet.
on catching sight of her hairy husband,
she let out a deranged scream.
"darling, you'll alarm the neighbours" said Jack.
but his wife, who did not seem
to be sufficiently worried about
alarming the neighbours,
or anyone in her resident universe
continued to make strange warbling noises.
so, Jack instead decided to study
his growth in the kitchen sink.
although not made from
exemplary reflective material,
the sink was able to confirm
his impression that his right eyebrow had,
overnight, been subject to an alarming rate of growth.
his wife appeared in the doorway.
“I’m sorry for screaming.
it was only because I thought you were a pirate”
she said. and though he knew
that this was just one in many
of a long string of inter-marital lies
that bounced between them,
he let it pass. a decision having
been decided upon in perhaps
not the most democratic manner possible,
Jack's wife fetched the kitchen scissors
from the drawer by the dishwasher.
as she snipped away, chunks of black
fell soft like feathers from sunburnt wings
and landed on the Lino.
Jack felt inexplicably sad.
they went off to work as usual,
and no one noticed
the jagged edge of his once pirated-eyebrow.
Apr 19, 2012
Apr 19, 2012 at 5:11 AM UTC
"O son, hark ye to the rainbird's call." Said father to son as the golden light spilled out the fireplace, casting their backs into darkness. "O son, hark ye to the rainbird's call, for when the rainbirds are a-comin' the times are a-changin."
Son's wide eyes soaked in the golden fireplace light and the sound of father's voice.
"O the rainbirds, they's a-comin'. They's call ain't like the call of no other bird. Yer a familiar with the warblings and the cawings and the baying's and the singing's of other birds. The rainbird, he don't sound like that. When the rainbird a comes a callin', you best be knowin' his sound. For he don't warble or caw or bay or sing, on no, he don't warble or caw or bay or sing. He's a makin' a different sound all together. O the rainbird, when he comes a callin' you'll a-know its him."
Father puffed long on a clay pipe, his voice accompanied by the sounds of a thousand night critters a-haunting the outside world with their chitin wings and nightmare fur and ebony eyes, shining through the night. O yes, father puffed long on a clay pipe.
"Son, when the rainbird calls. He drowns out the other birds, ya wont be hearin' no warbling or cawin' or bayin' or singing. When the rainbird a-opens his beak, all ye hear is a marked silence from the other birds. O they is still singing, mind you they is still singing, but that ******* the rainbird, he dun drown them out with his silent call. Son. That is how you know the rainbird's callin'."
The golden light kept a-burning, and the fire was a-crackling as the night was a runnin' over the valleys skies. And father kept a-talkin' and his pipe; he kept a-lightin'.
"Son, that is the sound of the rainbird's call. He don't call much round here in the valley, but when he does, you hear the times are a-changin'. And when the rainbird sings, o son! When the rainbird sings! He BELLOWS! And he SINGS! And the valley will shudder with his song. When he sings, the valley will shudder and the darkness will come, for he be callin' on all dem other rainbird's. And they be comin' and the sky will darken like night and they'll a come, like a cloud, they'll a come. And they's flappin' wings will a-shake and a shudder the valley, and they'll a **** lightning and his brethren, his brothers will a-light down and they be filling the valley with their rain and their **** and the times will be a changin. Oh they be a changing."
Son's ears heard the tale of the rainbird that father told him, son believed the tale father told him. He believed, for the night birds did suddenly fall silent all through the velvet darkness outside the shack, and the air was a markedly different thing from what it was before, and the fire sputtered as the rainbird called. It sputtered…it sputtered…it sputtered.
Nov 10, 2011
Nov 10, 2011 at 11:01 PM UTC
She gets lost between piano notes and
Champaign bubbles
I swear her eyes are always just a little
Too far away
But she sings that it won’t matter
In a million years
So I forgive her
She still gets lost between piano keys
But forgets to play them these days,
I catch her staring at the notes
And there is something oozing from between knotted heart strings
she whispers that the chords are too tight
so I just nod
There are clinking glasses
And the quiet hum of dishwashers
But I don’t think her smile
Even flickers anymore
Someone told me
She still gets lost sometimes
Forgets which road takes her home
Probably because her Home was between the notes
And there was nothing
Even there to begin with.
Someone told me
she uses beer cans instead of wine glasses
and I didn’t even know she had started drinking
wine on the weekends.
I don’t think her cheekbones
Can stop screaming
But she still washes the dishes
With the bubbles all overflowing
In the cold metal of the sink
I guess there wasn’t much left to
celebrate
after the going away parties ended
She is pretty lost
Sometimes I catch her and beg
But there is no point to her madness anymore
I think she got lost between
Straight ideals
And
Bent chords
Forgotten words
And everlasting thoughts
I catch her in the street sometimes
Singing --
I secretly love the way she says the word music
Because she never speaks
These days
She only sighs
In the warbling mutter of someone
So far away
She is
Just the muse of a hundred musicians
With Champaign bubble eyes and
Track marked heart leading nowhere but hell
I think she begged them to stop
Serenading her sadness
But there’s addiction on her lips
I never kissed her fears away
Sometimes I think I’m sorry
but all the bubbles popped
and it was time
to go
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 12:52 PM UTC
big black bug,
bled black blood.
crunching carapaces,
caught, crawling contentedly.
magpie's morning meal.
warbling, wistfully,woefully, wanting, weighty worms.
grabs, grub greedily,gulping.
magpie makes much, munch.
click, clack, clack, black beak.
famished family, finally, filled.
***** flies.
finished, foraged feasting.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 4:50 PM UTC
this very fall reckoned
everything loses its meaning under the
strain of redundancy.
I know this to be a perfect truth
but I still revel
in the images I keep sacred behind my eyes,
with all my autumns boiled down (a bare bone),
to a single one for me
that was warm crisp and altogether virginal-
my last one, as long as I live
for it is replayed as each monarch rests in my sight
and with each bird arrowed south-
and I tongue things spiced to remember
so I can go down with memory’s ship
willingly with collapsed and stunted lungs
tenderly warping it into something it never was
bleeding it dry of auburn reds and gold,
my attempts at keeping myself loved-
young.
but now what do those moments mean?
there have been many falls since that one,
nothing but I love yous on walls-
played back so many many times,
like warped vhs, warbling and clipping
the inherent meaning gone or completely scrambled.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 1:00 PM UTC
the anthem of an empty soul
a shell crammed full in nothingness
absolutely nil to this choral tune
vacancy's note played by one sole pan
there's a humdrum to its pitch
packing's plump the missing ingredient
always with an absence of ingredient
starved was this emaciated soul
not having the richest cloven pitch
inside infinite quantities of nothingness
ever the void sound to its pan
a totally scooped out dull tune
zero being in the husk of the tune
this cavernous space possessing no ingredient
like that of a dead hearted pan
as it had but the blankest soul
completely useless this bare nothingness
lacking of an ample vessel's pitch
such was the hopelessness to the pitch
its essence so poorly of tune
deprived this barren nothingness
the inner pith hollow of ingredient
all taken from the lifeless soul
where they'd be a destitute pan
an aimless chord in the pan
containing not a wholeness of pitch
the desert abiding without soul
insolvency was its lasting tune
so hungering for that ingredient
to quell the wretched nothingness
an interior gulf replete in nothingness
needful of feeding with a brimming pan
craving much for the ingredient
that ever opulent barrow of pitch
a human warbling a pitiful tune
this ballad so dismal of soul
ingredient not present, a vast nothingness
soul much overloaded, in an unfurnished pan
pitch harping the strains, of a unfilled tune
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 9:03 PM UTC