Best Crescendoing Poems
Robin Redbreast
Spring is here, and the robins appear
With morning and evening song in the air.
A robin redbreast perched in a tree
Sings a song for his lady bird-to-be,
Undeterred, as he awaits her answer,
Crescendoing to drown out the others.
His heart afire, his senses alert,
He preens his feathers between the chirps
And breathes deep as his chest puffs out;
Then, music vocals produced by the syrinx
Flow out from his bill, calling to his sweetheart
In refrains to arouse her curiosity.
And if successful, she’ll fly in his direction
To check out his worthiness and description.
I desperately gasp for you to save me,
as your indifference begins to remove all remaining traces of oxygen from my searing lungs.
Asphyxiation becomes more imminent.
Cortisol burns through tearing muscles,
ripping the marrow from aching bones, flailing to tread water.
Exhaustion floods in; saline-soaked clothing weighs heavier.
A siren’s call pierces through obscured waves,
crescendoing under a stygian sky,
tempting me under.
Dread replaces pleading.
Hope of survival is now beyond any comprehension.
Your voice no longer lingers;
it’s superseded by forceful whispers:
“If to love you, I must drown.”
Realisation hits like a tsunami crashing upon an unsuspecting ship.
To truly love you, I must love myself.
You were never my salvation.
So I must drown in this sickening sea of anguish,
let all the trauma pull me down into sheer oblivion.
Feel my body thrash as the light leaves my submissive eyes.
In order to be reborn, I must ascend way below.
We Are The Watchers
by Stark Hunter
Into the breach the multitudes surge,
Into the crushing breakers and
Beyond the sucking mindless tides,
Down down into the whirring, rushing confluence,
Precipitously we fall and slide,
Tenuously and tragically we slip.
We are the watchers of the wasted!
We are the watchers of the dancing dead!
We have seen them bring in the living.
We have silently closed our eyes to their madness.
We are the watchers of the delirious and of the distressed.
Falling, falling trying to seize a toehold,
Trying to stop desperately this inevitable plunge,
This meshing melting plummet,
This fatal succumbing to hate and ignorance,
This downward drowning into the watery abyss of anarchy,
This insane enveloping
This resounding de-evolution into one massive heartbreak.
We are the human machine!
That lurches and stalls in the swell,
Spewing bloody angst
And the sooty smoke of smothering fear.
We are the star climbers!
The mountain gazers!
We are the watchers of the wasted.
We are the watchers of the diseased.
We have seen them bring in the living
We have seen the fires of Armageddon!
Burning burning furiously in the firmament,
And we have heard the crescendoing cries of the forgotten.
We are the watchers of the wasted!
We are the watchers of the dancing dead!
I don’t need to be told what I’ve seen
whether it’s real or a sinister scheme
I need a world where I know the rules
which we call wise which we call fools
Where the lines in the sand are a lot less hazy
and people agree on who people call crazy
But the lines in the sand have gone every which way
from the truth of obscurity growing each day
We’re a nation of leaders who’ve lost their way
where all are consumed of crescendoing fray
skulking in darkness on weakness we prey
leaving in question what’s lighting our way
This dreariness some are beginning to feel
the mental fatigue of discerning what’s real
Confusion and chaos have run us aground
far from the winds in our sails we had found
I don’t need to be told what I’ve seen
but I fear what I’ve found that remains of the scene
folks with no compass no maps and no guide
colliding in wastelands of deepest divide
Where is the ground upon which we can stand
steady behind the lines drawn in the sand?
For what shall we fight still united as one?
For what shall we die when it’s all said and done?
~Jeannie Cronin
Antithesis
In May, the lion’s ear blooms immaculately,
As if the night sky is on fire.
It excretes a ravishing untarnished beauty,
A mesmerizing compelling beauty
Only the mad mystics and poets can discern.
Here, put on these rubber sandals;
The pair with the ostrich plumes,
For the walkway to my hidden tower is replete,
With thorns, bristles and stickers; the ladder there
Has splinters that anesthetize one’s toes,
Your plump white toes with the crimson polish,
Applied there like bloody footsteps on murderous floors.
There is nothing we can do to offset the numbing,
Except, pretend we never met or kissed that time,
When we decided to dare the gods of crescendoing passion.
I remember you decided unilaterally
To disrobe inside my ‘72 Land Yacht,
For fear of eternally disappointing me.
“Here, take my hat and cover yourself.”
Indeed, you are the antithesis of me.
But now, let us walk to my high garlanded tower,
A mile and a quarter from here,
Where we will sit naked on velvet carpet,
And rub thumbs in the candle light,
As Debussy music inundates our sated senses,
From speakers attached to the walls like bison heads,
Surrounded by insect-slaughtered window panes,
And glass bongs that spew atoms of electric sex.
Relax honey, it’s wonderful you’re so open-minded.
Relax, you will love the interesting insides
Of my tall and comfortable tower, where
We will observe the unfolding continuing tragedies,
Of dire human existence; it will be
Just like reading old newspapers from 1968, black print
Still greasy with unslaughtered fish, complete
With disastrous headlines no one wants to remember. But
We, you and I, will remember them, and weep a little,
When the mad dancing inevitably commences,
Here, inside and beside our grinding bodies.
Look over there, honey.
Do you see the lion’s ear blooming immaculately?
Do you hear their soft cries whimpering in the night,
Like virgin lovers squealing in the darkness?
Yes honey, we can hear their invisible sighs and moans,
From the top of my high
And comfortable tower.
in life you flow like a river
ceaseless without a quiver
endless giggling speedy and wavy
relentless bristling to the ocean gleefully
undisturbed attached to the moment pure
might glance up or fro fleeting sure
lights of virtues guides you not fear
or greed but love and compassion care
river flows unaware of the destination compare
not unconcerned dirt and waste flow
be a river then flow stagnant not follow
you will merge in the ocean crescendoing
uplifting the blissful waves decrescendoing
in the moment twinning life and death
The celeritous bodies of the hills and plains
Are a true wonder. Green fields stimulating
A world of living, with just as much depth
For the dead. Dulcet hills sing sweet songs of melody,
Crescendoing with tunes of enticement.
And although the plains can seduce fields of flowers,
Or hold secrets of infinite land, they are cursed
And deemed humdrum as they sit side by side the flowing hills.
These plains are a mere reflection of life itself.
The seemingly feeling of dragging on,
It never stops growing expansive and hopeful.
As if the universe were in our reach.
These plains hold poppy fields and sunflowers.
Dandelions constantly blowing into a faraway landscape.
Flying through the wind,
Into forests full of fragrant, froggy green
And mountains of momentum.
Swift dandelions wave to passebayers.
The trees of the forest extend each thoughtful branch
Towards the new visitor. Tingling little twigs and leaves,
Yearning for the knowledge of the foreign culture.
Each leaf wanting to shake hands
With the floating white mass, but only a few get the honor.
Looking back at the tall green trees,
Brown bark, outstretched limbs,
The dandelion moves on.
On to the arid desert, yearning for something to hold,
Something living, lively, flying. The deserts dry mouth
Too cracked to cry out for help.
The dandelion moves on.
On to the dense jungle. Deeper than the eye can see,
But the dandelion sees straight through it.
Weaving in and out of the green,
Vines calling out for the white fluff,
But never quite reaching it.
The dandelion moves on.
On to the melting pot of sea life
Of blue and dark, salted waters.
Where the journey of already known truths will end.
Not on to the next, because life drowns you out at some point.
I watched the endless procession of stalwart youth, resplendent in their panoply gathered, a
steelly passion filling resolute gait.
And I asked of them, "To what place does such noble assemblage march?"
"To the Temple of Ares, and Glory's Gate, to burn of names in Honor's book
That they may be reverenced by heroes," said they.
A thousand sundry banners danced in the morning breeze,
And the sun this day was no more radiant than hard Youth's gaze which beheld it.
Then, an eagle, portentious? burst forth from the sky's vast vault to augur their triumph!
But they could not see his tired tear, so far the distance...
And soon, unleashed, the gods of carnage with ghastly abandon sang their drunken
Practiced hymn-
Of young hearts cleft by musket or spear, "Oh, let swords, lusting, rage,
And thirsting deeply drink
As the glory of kings is yet again
By the blood of children authored.
Then walked I 'mongst the torn and sacred dead
Through a sea of gore and Glory served...and
Came upon a writhing form whom playful Death had not full claimed
As charred lips mouthed their sad entreating:
"Grant me, sir, some kind embrace, and a hand not raised in wrath-
for now I die, all dreams undone, as forlorn seas strong beckon."
And then, another broken form lied grasping a comrade's dead limp hand
Whose emptied eyes now stared afixed upon some nameless moment of Eternity,
Lifeless, cold, and sad, unknowing the touch of the lover's dying kiss
Collapsing, still, and quiet atop him...
A father stooped to lift the head of his precious shattered boy,
As with Grief's awkward tenderness his fine locks stroked,
And hoped some life to thereby confer...
And a crescendoing rumble filled the valley. For Ares laughed.
Then I saw a spectral legion and asked of their shadowed ranks-"Where do you march, of
Withered souls?"
"To the House of Death and Tears...alas, to Death and tears."
Behind them not too much afar, with the clamouring of bugles and the thunder of drums rose
once more the strident cry:"To Glory's Gate!" as in witness the Dead sighed and Ares bellowed
in his mirth...
Old Dame On A Footloose
She held on to the firm grip of the extended invite
Pent up desires vented out in the market site
Elasticity in the heart of the rumpled weathered skin
Coyly she smiled with hat in the air and stick clanging away
Tantalising onlookers at her rubber bends and silky shapes who
Adoringly were mesmerised at the symphony of music and her youthful heart
Contouring to the swift steps of her guiding young leader
Ultimate joy escalated with the rising crescendoing
Lulled silence and gaping mouths as she danced her first tango
Age no barrier for the old dame on a footloose
Redefining a ravaged body with music in the soul
( Earlier Janauary 18, 2016)
February 15,2016
Screwed 11
Rob Carmack
Winds batter the dusty house,
can you hear the creaks, moans, the wrinkles?
his hands,
glide up and down the worn wood of the aged rocking chair
this place is the essence of antiquity;
i feel ill-at-ease
his dull eyes search
for something, anything to pull him
into the past
the chair groans: once, twice,
a third time
i wait, impatient to depart.
he offers me a bowl of blueberries
politely, i refuse
….and then, finally he sees it:
that one, single object which
lights the spark in his lifeless eyes, and which captivates him
he beings to speak….
softly at first, then louder,
crescendoing in volume
i can see him reliving his worn-out memories, handling each with care, like a prized item
or an old, trusted friend
i watch him ramble and reminisce
about so many things
the war, the shine of her hair, the laughter of the children
he even tells me about the blueberry bush he
planted over her grave
i listen, and listen
hours later he is jolted
out of his reverie…
the jingling of my cell phone
i see
the sparkle dim
the laugh lines fade
….he slips away into nothingness
once, twice, a third time
the rocking chair groans
i creep away
down the lane and leave him
still sitting there
a solitary figure
surrounded by ghosts and wisps
of things that once were
they swirl around him,
caressing his wrinkled brow
with cool fingers
at home i open my refrigerator
and i eat blueberries
they stain my clothes, and
i try to get them out
but
they cannot, and will not leave.
The American Morning
We ride smoothly, deliberately, in this old cruising caravan,
Across the ancient American avenues and boulevards,
Of the once living, and now, the finally dead,
Of the once famous, and now, the finally forgotten;
Of tattooed memories applied in the American morning, cooking
In the back kitchen, with yellow-yoked eggs frying rapturously,
Like monstrous hoards of buzzing locusts, out to kill,
In black pans, sizzling and searing sensationally;
With mysterious, soulful realizations of disappearing time,
The heavenly odors of bacon fat, rising to the old-fashioned clouds,
We come here to turn the radio dial, in this summer of winning and losing;
But now it is all turning, turning as the shadows of life should turn,
For life is the now of when and why; and we all know now,
What ‘s waiting and lurking behind the curtained door.
“No, kind sir, you go first through the door, sir, if you please.”
But as we ride now through these blighted snapshots in time,
This creeping caravan from the American morning comes to a halt.
Through the windshield and into the American night, old eyes see
A crowd of black ballplayers, gathering in Harlem on East River Avenue,
Looking to get inside the big ball yard, with the Babe, the Yankee Clipper,
And the Iron Horse, hitting fungoes over the EL station, over there,
Dressed in over-sized pinstripes, dripping in dirt and tobacco juice,
Tipping sweat-stained caps to the roaring, crescendoing ovations,
Thundering upward and through the airy reaches of the big ball yard,
Somehow do not reach their ears; still, they run fast, as if being chased,
Run faster than all the dead baseball gods of the American morning!
But now it is all turning, turning as the shadows of life should turn,
For life is the now of when and why; and we all know now,
What’s waiting and lurking behind the curtained door.
“No, kind sir, you go first through the door, sir, if you please.”
Bolero builds in intensity,
the interplay of instruments
crescendoing; soft to loud.
Ravel’s music haunting my dreams
Chimera of swells crashing, Everest
ever-reaching for God’s palm.
The texture of a piece of art —
layer upon layer of a singular sunset.
A flute of tangerine, clarinet - cluster of grapes,
strawberry-bassoon, then the e-flat clarinet.
Add the solo oboe d’amore — life and love
from Eden ‘til now, the delightful garden
vaingloriously springs up trumpets of red.
Ravel’s music haunting my dreams.
Chimera of swells crashing, Everest
ever-reaching for God’s palm.
Shall I name them all one by one?
The crescendoing, the crashing,
each lovely creature has a name
and the symphony soars; we see them
climb up the stairs, into the stars.
One thinks Ravel’s still playing,
adding in the orchestra pit clouds,
for we must know there is
an ever burgeoning stand of instruments.
Ravel’s music haunting my dreams
Chimera of swells crashing, Everest
ever-reaching for God’s palm.
1/20/2020
Nursing my young child to sleep,
I pour my love out to him as I do
my milk. Thin and cold as a specter,
there is warmth only where his
innocent hands and mouth touch
my skin. Outside the snow
falls and the dogs bark in
crescendoing unity. In my head
I am already washing the next load
of clothes, readying to brew the next
batch of kombucha tea. In my head
I am buying cream for coffee, I am
telling my son and my dog how much
I love them, I am placing red jasper
and clear quartz on my nightstand
to help me remember my dreams.
I am sinking into a hot bath of
myth and moon travel. I am
reading Tarot cards for my sister
in her pain and her wisdom. Even as
I lie here listening to the dogs barking fading
into fog and snow like some forgotten deja vu,
I am in my head calling my love
back home to me, for my secret heart,
for the light in my home, for my
peaceful snoozing glorious young son.
Another sleepless night without you,
Yet I had another dream.
8 young children were picking flowers,
Or...so it would seem.
4 girls and 4 boys stood before me,
Each holding a small gift of love;
And though most refused, 2 didn't.
A gentle light shone from above.
Sunlight pierced my eyelids,
Causing my dream to cease.
And all around was silence,
Calm, and peace.
In the quiet something grew.
Something unfamiliar...
A crescendoing voice judging my life.
Was I just wrong the whole time?
"Were you just wrong the whole time?"
The voice had such power..
For I, in her still absence,
Met she who accepted my flower.
A symphony in two part sound:
the fiddler and the frog
played echo in the fog,
a lovely analog.
Crescendoing as they redound,
with none to inhibit
the bow or the ribbit,
they simply ad-lib it.
Then, absent of all jealousies,
acknowledging their need,
they oft exchange the lead,
and neither does impede.
Across the water melodies:
the fiddler on her strings,
the frog, the baseline brings;
delight is given wings.
—————
for The Fiddler and the Frog Poetry Contest
sponsored by Craig Cornish
a Paulo Comitatu: 8:6:6:6 with abbb, accc, etc.
written on 1/22/23