Best Harpsichords Poems

Oh captcha squares, oh captcha squares
What are these objects in your frames?
Oh captcha squares, oh captcha squares
Why must they gotta be the same?

    Cars and busses, traffic lights
    Bicycles and motor bikes
    Crosswalks, signs, and steps...

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She lay on a black velvet bed,
With black roses engulfing her face,
That face so pale as moonlight, her lips red,
A mirage she is, waiting for his embrace,


So silent, a shadow, he enters the chamber,
With silent whispers, so sweet and so deep,
He walks up to her...

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Villanelle: Crooks leaders and louts do they sing the same tune

Crooks leaders and louts do they sing the same tune
Does he who strums vocal chords show them the ropes
Whoever wields the baton sure calls the tune

The sergeant-major pulls rank when opportune
Though captains and majors aren’t...

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Like most everyone,
I meet at times a task
that I regret--one that I
with passion will embrace
but soon must face instead
my nagging lack of skill
and fortitude.

I sit. In self-indulgence
meditate upon injustice dealt
to souls such as I. I do not cry
but do envision flashbacks
of an insight that still...

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THE BIRTHDAY OF A BABY KING 

Fairy stars twinkling in the sky so high

Banishing the dark clouds, who leave with a sigh

Lacy snowflakes form a white cloak over the earth

In readiness for a miraculous and heaven sent birth.


A baby King born in Bethlehem

Not for him...

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Walruses play mostly happy tunes on harpsichords but melons cannot dance in tight fitting dresses. Beats which are benign are neither breaking nor booming to a ghostly gibbon. Whose antics in trees are marvelled at by the passing geese. Carnivores eating on the banks of...

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Serenade a song bird then. Go on. It's great. Sit in trees or on rocks. Very pleasurable it is. Thank not a tank. Think not a tripod angling in with money. It is never wise to eradicate pollen. And pole axing at discotheques should only...

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The memoirs of an ashtray should be written by the giggling pot pourri for pot pourri are neither properly printing nor are the proficient professional photographic petals. How exciting is the table today? Not very. For it is very difficult to discover a tabletop when...

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Clatter claws cascade downward into listening drums. 
Pigeons are the worst. Rose bushes sit quietly all summer
then only after they have lost their heads
do they scratch and squark nightly.

Toilets that are not in your home haunt and taunt.
Dry joints crunch down - listening synovial cartilages
stick...

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you always had a way with words
like Amsterdam
whose running rhymes
of bicycles and harpsichords
and bridges over canals caused
us both to steer each other's hold
to mouths whose distance
was decreasing, 
slowly through museum pieces
though I always hoped to linger
nestled inside yours...

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Some sounds are
sinewy toes scratching drum skins,
a pigeon shuffle-dance on unseen roofs,
a clatter in the flap and coo.

Rose bushes are mute,
until they have lost their heads
then they squeak and squawk.

A soft-slap of junk mail onto an empty hand,
paper wings falling in an overheard flutter.

Some sounds...

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When alone in a quiet space
still the distant slamming of doors, 
or the rattle of castanets
confirm that the world is not shut out
but just moving from room to room,
soon it will burst through paper-thin walls,
skeletons will make love on tin roofs,
harpsichords will rattle amid
the bedsprings...

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inside of twenty takes
dirty filled frames
no resolution
to me the family
that a ugly
call me
cat purrs on approach
welcome spat
too literal 
gotta reclamation
eye's cried so much relief
brushes is dusty clean
practice strokes at the gentleman's table
romanticism, adjatate, harpsichords
classified and credentialed
white ink's a tank thinking
'I remember", "he"
distract the trap, autumns...

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O emptiness of space, thy harpsichords. Whole?
Panels out of place, looking-glasses smashed.
Bitter winds, thy frost. Sickness, dole, O soul.
Chaffy grain beneath the tired thresher slashed.
Turmoil, tamarisk tree. Toil? Thunderbolt.
Hated are the days of life gone dry. Why?
Reality thinned, then forgot how to fly.
Happy thoughts, lost....

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clatter-claws scratching drum skins.
Pigeons are the worst. Rose bushes sit quietly all summer
then only after they have lost their heads
do they squeak and squawk all night.
Dry joints crunch down - listening synovial cartilages
stick shift and slip out of gear.
There is the slap-smacking juggle of junk...

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