Best Keyed Poems
The lightly touching tinkling bells,
Shimm'ring, babbling, laughing in the breeze,
The ever-merry tapping bells,
Who now has these?
Low, slow, iron bells;
Deep, still, lead bells.
Bells. Bells. Bells.
All gladly-sounding glowing golden-bells,
Lilting, lighter, brighter yellow bells,
Mightier-yellow even whiter bells!
Ivory-keyed I-concerto-bells!
Striding proudly in the breeze
I have these!
The bells of thoughts serenely dear,
Planning, looking, finding---here!
The hand that reaches for the loved bell's face,
Then touches, almost, the perfect place.
Low, slow, iron bells;
Deep, still, lead bells;
Bells, bells, bells.
Bells. Bells. Bells.
All terrible-sad mad rebellious bells,
Brazed, swinging-fast Goliath bells,
Stronger, harder-hearted mountain bells,
Caught! Smelted! Recast!
Now joyous-sounding royal-loyal-bells,
Silver-lovely radiant treasure-bells,
Sure-as-morning's darling pleasure-bells,
Sledging! steady! ready! wedding -bells! Bells!
All happy in the breeze,
We have these!
High, soft, snapdragon bells;
Kissed, whisp'ring, thoughful body-bells,
Bells.....bells.....bells.
Lavish locks sprawl pillowed in peace this morn.
Gently whiskered cheeks hint of last night's lipstick
Tensions banished blue grassy fiddling lingers
Let's take it easy
I'll make the omelets
while you get a shower, dear.
Oh? You'd rather play some more?
Alright, eats postponed.
Pounding rhythms drumming heartbeats
Satiation lullaby.
In stillness your breath meanders its way
through the vast concert hall of my naked
vulnerability cooing minor
keyed assurances of something finer.
Rifts while integral to the theme render
our phrasing discordant at times yet
your hard earned skill in handling your fender
is spawning a wisdom I don't quite get
but it soothes and smooths, warms and relaxes
us both and though still stressed out by taxes
and injustice, fear and idiocy
frustrations from others unable to see
we remember our gift of harmony
and sing our twin souls free of enmity.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The three forms used to construct this poem are Sapphic Stanza, Sedoka, and Sonnet.
I’ll bet you think you were unseen….
Invisible like a ghost.
Well, guess what?
You’re not as sneaky as you are stupid.
Were you really that mad about
Being beaten to a parking place?
A place she politely waited for and rightfully earned.
And, she had two little babies with her…
While YOU, a big strong guy, were by yourself.
I guess I could tell the whole world your name…
But, that won’t be necessary.
Don’t worry…
I won’t call the police.
Those who know will keep the secret well.
And,,,You’ll NEVER need to worry about them.
They would never hurt you personally, that is.
They wouldn’t key YOUR car,
Put sugar in your gas tank,
Knock on your door at 3 AM
After toilet papering your house.
They won’t scatter Pramitol over your lawn and shrubs.
I made them promise not to hurt you in any way.
So, you’re safe,,, for now.
But, next time… Remember…
I know who you are!
And, you don’t want to know me….
Ebony and ivory, noted for sound,
Digital playback, sleight of hand.
Songsters echo, vibrant pound,
Upright, organ, cottage, grand.
Strings attached, taut with suspense,
The Master Key hammers home
Letters of note; chords of tense,
Past and present; timed metronome.
Naturally played with flat and sharp
Sweeping the board. Ayre of nonchalance.
Orchestral manoeuvres performed with harp
Brass and wind; counter balance.
Peddled depression, ayer lingers on
Distant wave; caressed...pianissimo.
Emotive conductor, under the baton
Chorused voice harks, keyed to the piano.
The Long Trail © by Trisha Sugarek
The Circle Heart brand on the wet rump rippled
as the horse shivered with exhaustion
the sun lost its battle with night and
dropped behind the far peak
Chaparejos, worn thin and soft fit his legs
like they had grown there
Dusty spurs jangled as he trotted into the sleepy town
A saddle that had seen a thousand miles creaked
and complained as he stepped down
the crown of his hat was stained with sweat
from the hard ride
Reins dangled in the dirt
The horse hung his head, relieved to not
be moving anymore
A drink or two to wash the Santa Fe Trail dust
from the cowboy’s throat he stepped up onto the boardwalk,
turned and gazed at the town
and the mountains beyond
the color of old blood as the sun lost its glory
He pulled a cigarillo out, and with one smooth
movement wiped a match on his pants, the tiny
flame igniting
He puffed and blew smoke into the night air
watched the town close up for the night
Across the street a cur scurried around a corner
a merchant keyed his shop closed and
lit the gas lantern beside his door
The work had been good at the Circle Heart ranch, the grub even better
But the trail was his siren, always calling him, luring him over the next hill, down the next wash,
up the next canyon
sleeping next to a small camp fire,
staring at a billion stars
wondering if someone, something out there
was staring back
He wanted to settle but he hadn’t found
the right place
the right woman
the right time
Flicking the smoke into the street, he turned
and entered the saloon,
honky-tonk piano music played
The doors behind him whispered back and forth
The patrons saw another dusty, tired cowpoke, looking
for a few hours of pleasure
some music, some whiskey, and if he could afford it
the soft arms of a woman
The cowboy saw weak town folk,
forever saddled to their days
the bit in their mouths dictating their lives
wary of any stranger, their gaze sidling away
Set ‘em up and keep ‘em comin’, the cowboy barked
Show me your coin, the barkeep growled
His days were numbered
the boys from the Circle Heart ranch would find
him and the horse
They would take their horse and probably string
him up to the nearest tree
Soundscape Strata
Did Bach know to what end
his harvest of melodies-in-parallel would become?
Scholars agonize
Was creation of counterpoint
musical destiny
a hybrid fruit of beauty
knowing no boundary
bewildering those of first look
given musical staffs
voicings and manuscripts
always conformed to traditional confinement?
What spurred his palette of sound
to become one with the elusive rainbow
providing independence through marriage of numbers
allowing prolonged courtship
sanctioning destinies to verge
converge
separate
return to coalesce?
And so
From guitar
to clavichord
string quartets
to symphonies
counterpart airs were discovered
became melodious architecture
challenging new musical frontiers
voiding tundra's boundary rules
reducing history's brass survey monuments
to mere reflections of past memory
Popularization of Bach's invention
soared beyond the artistic elite
for in '55 "Picnic" graced movie screens
initiating the unsuspecting
elevating emotion with layered melodies
Moonglow playing under the love theme
Bach's kaleidascope of synchronous colors
reached the century's romantics
keyed into a music major
minored ala Brubeck
scat-a-tized via Ella and Mel
and
made unity of opposites a given
Thus
From Bach's synthesis of two dimensions
musical ironies evolved
influencing writers' language
line upon line
stanza to stanza
chapter to chapter
making magical
the double entendre
metaphor
subtext
contrapuntal imaginings
all translated into
infinite language-in-progress
With applause knowing nowhere to go
except to acknowledge the roots of prodigy
a high five to the man
who pioneered so much of our soundscape
taught us all the numbers of romance
ironically created attraction to opposites
arpeggios with many colors
intimacy amidst chaos
Encore Mr. Bach
Encore
My future captures my imagination
as my past succumbs to memory.
I imagine winning this economic game
by competing with everyone
and continuing to win unsurpassed
to finally arrive at my goal
alone
no one else anywhere near my self-inflicted finish line,
behind locked doors within my own keyed-up competing mind.
Each day invites my reincarnation
of yesterday and each day before.
Each year reincarnates the prior year,
but now a year older,
and seen from diverse nuance perspectives.
Each life reincarnates prior DNA unfolding lives before,
but now a generation older,
seen from diverse sensory systems across species,
cultures,
languages,
degenerating and regenerating
decomposing and re-integrating.
Each new millennial generation invites resolving reincarnation,
as this trans-generation completes our global energy sharing network,
learning together how we each cooperate our hope for Earth,
for our children, and theirs, and theirs...
for ourselves,
regenerating this Common culture sensed and woven together
more synergetically than possible
on any pre-millennial Earth
Time gravitates toward my future images
and past rememberings
of co-arising confluent discernment,
as Earth's time flows backward
in personal memory
and orthodox
Primal ReGenerative
Original Intent and Designing
Tao Codex.
Universal Uniting Intelligence
rediscovering ourselves
within Earth's ribonucleic elliptical mirror.
Permacultured stories tell of time and place
when and where and why metaphysics and math
were children of polyculture-rooted spirit/breath
development and design,
poetry and scientific revolutions,
dynamic open system ecological evolution,
self- and other-regenerative economies,
self-reiterating bicameral identities,
and seasonal changes,
and day's light warming
over night's dark-dream warnings
of cognitive dissonance emerging
by suboptimizing speciating integrity
of ego within all-embracing supereco
of Left deductive logic and Right inductive analogic
of yang-1 with yin-0
regenerations past still unfolding in generating future
within this Presence gifting now.
My lines ought to make people quip
easy to relate to and comprehensively equipped
achieving so many a quatrain
is a technical feet to attain.
Maintaining this, I feel queasy
nurturing the consistency is really uneasy
you can be an extraordinary Quasar
if its unlikely to be a normal star
No exact fulfillment doesn’t deserve the quibble
your light is also very much valuable
not getting it right may begin a quietude
avoiding this is a test of my aptitude.
It’ll be short, fitting a page in a size quite quarto
about its expressions, nothing really macho
Wow! All 4-lined verses seem quicky
And the target has been met with great success so low keyed.
“I open the door and cross the threshold of imagination”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lavish locks sprawl pillowed in peace this morn.
Gently whiskered cheeks hint of last night's lipstick
Tensions banished blue grassy fiddling lingers
Let's take it easy
I'll make the omelets
while you get a shower, dear.
Oh? You'd rather play some more?
Alright, eats postponed.
Pounding rhythms drumming heartbeats
Satiation lullaby.
In stillness your breath meanders its way
through the vast concert hall of my naked
vulnerability cooing minor
keyed assurances of something finer.
Rifts while integral to the theme render
our phrasing discordant at times yet
your hard earned skill in handling your fender
is spawning a wisdom I don't quite get
but it soothes and smooths, warms and relaxes
us both and though still stressed out by taxes
and injustice, fear and idiocy
frustrations from others unable to see
we remember our gift of harmony
and sing our twin souls free of enmity.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The three forms used to construct this poem are Sapphic Stanza, Sedoka, and Sonnet.
Written by Nancy Jones on the evening of August 6, 2011.
It was inspired by Constance La France ~ A Rambling Poet ~ and her contest entitled “Three Gems”
She went to a whole other
place today and guess what? I
took her there. She starts
screaming and yelling and
saying things out of character...
At this point I'm more confused
then I've ever been. Like what
happened to the sweetheart I
met 6 months ago???
Just bought a new car, she
keyed it. Flat screen tv, she
broke it. Some shoes I waited
in line for for 5 hours, she rips
the tongue off of them. The
bracelet I bought her, she
throws it at my head. This all
started because I wouldn't
watch her favorite romance
comedy. Like most men, I
should run like hell but you
know what??? I think it's
adorable. I mean it is my fault
she's like this. When she gave
up on love, I made her see
what she was giving up. When
she lost her first love, I helped
her find another one. When her
first time was horrible, I made
her last time amazing. I was
the one that gave her a cheesy
romance movie beginning.
Since she has never been
swept off her feet, I will be all
the broom she ever needs. So
to my psycho girlfriend, I
refuse to apologize because I'm
going to do you one better.
When ever you freak out and
go through an episode like this
one today I'm just gonna grab
your face and kiss you like your
going away on some very long
business trip. You know... The
kiss where your toes curl up
and your socks pop off. Yea
that kinda kiss. What can I say,
she's psycho because of me
and if if that's not the second
best reward to true love then
idk what is.
Up and down we go.
A depressive state but you seem to love the verbal flow.
You laugh and say my ornateness makes me rhyme.
I will leave you a kiss when I say goodbye.
Metaphorical you are.
You are the great philosopher.
High-strung and low-keyed is your talk.
I will be the first to walk.
It is just plain to see when love is not to be.
Although great as sex partners, I do not want to be free.
You seem to be objective to a f*** and not real to love.
When I say goodbye, no tears do I have to cry.
Of course, mountains I will climb.
Peak an incline to suppress my desires.
"Do we have a chance?"
I know this is a question you will never ask.
"Is it for sure that our partnership ends?"
I want more Jim.
____________________________|
PENNED ON SEPTEMBER 04, 2014!
This poem is based on the following theme:
"Leave you a kiss"
In the very warm May' afternoon,
I decided to take a stroll instead of being blue,
and getting a little adventurous was to discover
another pansy or violet bloom;
these flowers were the precious gifts of a little and frivolous lover,
who gave them to the prettiest ones who loved a boy in pursue:
and as the rain fell on the maples,
they giggled like silly kids hiding their dimples...
And who was listening what they were whispered?
The songbirds that watched them from the dripping, thick branches,
perhaps learning some of the human behavior from the tenderest ones,
who were quite funny and silly, and made great chums;
gitty was a word they did not comprehend,
but happily they chirped to make them glide and dance:
until their enthusiasm and frenzy did fray,
and they stopped, overcome by their fraility...
And would their sentinel's eyes move away and focus
on the unhappy butterflies that failed to flaunt their skills,
on the meadow of dandelions I waited to be chased,
but birds and butterflies flew away to warn me of a foul play:
with the fury of an impeding storm, they jumped on me
and began tickling my bare feet, to make me pay for my teasing;
delirious as a frantic clown, I laughed too hard to beg for mercy,
but they, the clever ones, ran off and left me screaming...
And as the rain fell on the maples, the haw-keyed Weimaraner
came to lick my cheeks, to give me comfort for my defeat,
and he barked and beckoned me to follow him to a nearby hiding:
there the brats were plotting their next michievous scheme
by water-filled balloons and a heap of shaving cream,
as they instructed one another how to surprise me in my retreat;
and as the rain fell on the maples towards early evening,
all their flabby plans came to an end, unable to outsmart their admirer...
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Das Ein Männlein
The silent echo reflects through the lodge,
Ein Männlein Steht im Wlade ganz Still und Stum…
Repeating itself in the young boys head.
He is not yet a man, but stands proud enough to be,
Coming back here to relieve himself of his past.
Crying out as he reaches the splintering and tilted door.
The memories of the cold, the blistering cold overpower him.
He spends time collecting himself as the moon moves across the sky.
He had been here with his family-
Says the toppled dining room table.
He also wasn’t the only child in the lodge-
Says the curled up paper dolls in the fireplace.
There was music- Ein Männlein Steht im Wlade ganz Still und Stumm…
Echoes the toppled ivory-keyed piano in the corner.
There was a war, as the Russian Graffiti on the wall complains.
The crashed bomber-plane with the seat full of bones assures that fact.
He came back to the rotting lodge in the forest
Back to the overgrown pile of shambles to find something
As he digs he picks objects out of the rubble, a boar’s head, jewelry, dog-tags,
And finally the thing he seemed to have been searching for.
A baby’s bathtub, with a scrolled handle, stares at him through the dust.
What happened to the other child?
She still has all of her baby teeth in her sweet little baby head.
She’s been sitting in that bathtub ever since that horrible night.
When she was boiled to death by hungry war criminals.
Mister Jack Benny was a funny fellow indeed
He played a mean violin, though a bit off-keyed
'Tis said that he was so tight with his bountiful purse
That to part with his moolah he was very averse
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Ring! Ring! The ambiguous sound always stays true
My last year implacable acquaintance is renamed as “who”
Perfidy to the fidelity is what who do
Ring! Ring! Driving to the next didactic coterie
I pass the car I will transcend, unlike poetry
Where the topic to be… who I see
Which didactic coterie is who in, unfortunately it’s mine
Since my car got a new engine and placed in a faster line
Ring! Ring! Who keyed my trunk and felt it was fine
Ring! Ring! Who I loathe to sit near
Simultaneously, those Medusa eyes should be fear
We used to drive together… as so I hear
Ring! Ring! Time to go home
The inhibition of hate is so close gone
Perfidy to the fidelity, who said it wasn’t wrong
Who wants to re-acquaint because my car has speed
Who was never a friend in need
So why should who be a friend indeed