Best Operatic Poems
In riming realms
of crystal contemplations -
frozen water-vapor meditations
and chilled flutes
filled with zodiacal-light musings
of ancient cosmic dust
dancing in the arms of Sol..
windswept operatic reveries
rise and fall
as her stirring soprano
tickled by the chanting of icicle chimes
gathers momentum
in strengthening sprays
of frosted musical notes adrift in broken chords
she bestrides
a clouded steed colored mother-of-pearl
flowing with fury
within which beats a blustery heart
surging at jet stream speeds
on the clattering beat of hailstorm hooves
from streamer-skies of the northern dancers
they fly aloft
on arctic gales of lyrical laughter
igniting the imagination
of her freezing fire
burning now with a blistering whip
and a frostbite nip
that sinks its tingling teeth deep
sailing
a supernatural stage
amplifying—
her aerated soprano soars
in polar vortex arias
as an avalanche of glazed trinkets
—descendants of her fertile femininity
skydive
in shivering sixfold symmetry
falling
in fierce flights of fancy
as she cyclones on consecrated currents
with wild abandon
escalating
in twirling trills
of glass beaded squalls
swirling her iced eiderdown skirts aflare
baring tempest thighs
storming with a Siberian sting!
..and as her electric eyes spark
luminous with lightning
she buries you in a blizzard
of opalescent mistletoe berries
and wanton whims.
I've never heard the sound of snow
nor dawning's oboes crooning light,
yet witnessed angels' trumpets blow
and chimings of the flurries grow
as alabastrine wings take flight.
I've never heard the sound of snow
when cello strings caress the bow
of morning at its burnished height,
yet witnessed angels' trumpets blow
a salmon cirrus cameo,
diaphanous and opalite.
I've never heard the sound of snow,
piano in the afterglow
of sunshine's brittle fahrenheit,
yet witnessed angels' trumpets blow
ebullient through the chorals' flow
across the operatic white.
I've never heard the sound of snow,
yet witnessed angels' trumpets blow.
"If you're really in love, appearances aren't important. The best house is the one you build in each other's hearts."
Jung Yu jin
Autumn's alliterations amplified an acoustic of death.
Stillness of internal instrumentals silenced my acapella.
Words like wildflowers withered in winter wickedness,
without voice or verse I vanished behind a visible veil.
I was like a lifeless crystallised burnt sienna leaf,
as bitter breaths froze my brittle soul's ink.
Fatigued fingertips trembled from numbness -
without a purpose upon a speechless stage.
Afraid of crisp crying rain, which fell like a refrain.
my summer eyes turned amaurotic.
Life resembled a blank music sheet,
among an abandoned piano covered in iced cobwebs.
In solitude my music remained unwritten,
as I slept in a shivery silent slumber - tone deaf,
finding fading apricity in stolen daylight.
Until a silvery silhouette appeared. - sparkling.
Placed my hands into her warm glove-like hands,
wrapped me in an emphatic scarf-like embrace.
Her rose gold lips echoed in Orphic tones,
reviving my somnolent mute muse.
Blessed with vibrations from her vision,
senses awoke to rhythms of her heavenly harmony -
strumming an enchanting lover's lullaby.
Were you a gift from an orchestra of operatic angels,
sent to place hymns of hallelujah deep into my heart?
As her mystical mystery began to unfold.
In union our lyrics amplified into a rhapsody of romance.
Vibrant tunes from her intimate strings composed a
seraphic serenade, as we drifted into a dream world.
Today,
as we dance under emerald velvet northern lights,
snowfall covers our paths like an ivory blanket.
Soft flakes, like pearls glisten under tinsel moonlight,
as we leave poetic footprints behind in soothing snow -
a chorus of constellations glow to the tempo of our glorious sonata.
Gary's Yard Sale, the story
Authored by Chuck Keys
Among the rustbelt cities of yesterday,
Along the edges of the Detroit River,
A short distance to the side,
Resides a slice of Victorian times,
Excesses exceeded needed,
Where age confronts time,
The day before meets the day of,
And greets tomorrow.
Those in the hood
And outside,
Meet and greet among
The scraps of forgotten memories.
Lawns filled with bygones of size,
Tables filled with important somethings,
Maybe everythings,
For important that evolved into history.
Where memories become linked,
Each to a stored thought,
Treasured, pleasured or disdained,
To a person,
Of late or present,
To a future of who knows what.
During the day,
The history-of and the future-of talk,
To each,
Of where they were,
And where they hope to be,
The dust is blown off with the wind,
From the east, west, north and south.
The yard sale, the graveyard of the past,
The arena of the present,
Life and death of the sale,
Dance together, coupled,
Where Mine, becomes Yours' while
Gary the Conductor, orchestrates to perfection,
The operatic enjoyment of history,
Buyer meets seller, exchanges
Are made. As is today.
Bravo! Bravo!
*This poem is dedicated to Gary and Ann Harris of Northville MI USA – May they and
their Yard Sales age forever!
© Charles H Keys, 2010. All Rights Reserved. V1.4.09252010
predictable pairing
like plans and lovers
two sparrows fly, flirt
wing beats hyped
to dull the scent of overcrowded news
in spring air, grinning
scrappy species
two birds that pitch and swoop
an operatic flow
their sheen of relatability
braided together
a courtship gallantry
in circled bolts
when two birds fly about you
suspenseful joy
like an untroubled sigh
re-directing thought
seasonal movement
a flight of promise
that opens to the sky
Easter brings back sad memories.
My mother died on Good Friday.
She was a bible scholar and quoted
Jesus's words every day to us kids.
I remember her love for lavender,
Her operatic gentle voice singing to us.
How she loved little children with joy
And what a great grandmother she was.
4-4-19
Writing Challenge 1- April, 2019 -
Its All About 8 - Poetry Contest
Sponsor Dear Heart
2. Elegy
1. Death's Cold Hand
I never knew I'd be in heaven
In the autumn of my years,
Or that I'd be immerged
In the brilliant art of words,
Or float above operatic notes,
Or view ballet through
My elated tears.
I never thought I'd meet
Inspiration face to face,
Or feel it rise within me
With a poet's surrendering grace.
I just know that I'm contented
As profound love keeps flowing
From my impassioned heart.
This is the gift that artists
Of this world yearn to impart.
8-3-2017 (rev)
What inspires you to write poetry Contest 3rd place
Sponsor Julie Rodeheaver
Would you enter my world?
If you imagine you could
You can spelunk the caverns
You might map out the woods
Allow my spirit to guide you
I’ll describe what it means
As you peer through my eyes
At the silvered hoped streams
Traverse the valley edge
While you taste the summers rain
A shower of suspended tears
Unsalted by the pain
Fix your eyes on hypnotic wisps
Sailing across the sky en mass
Rest in undisturbed infinity
Upon fields of mossy grass
Breath in the scent of cleanliness
Within this entropy of soul
Float on the notes of strumming bard
Operatic tales he unfolds
Do you possess that steely courage?
To embrace a shattered man
Sharing worlds of one another
Walking journeys from within
I have always tinkled
From a very young age
On the ivory dashboard
From the dots on the page
The musical freedom
Of the song never sung
The releasing of passions
On which I too readily clung
There's a beauty in music
Like a God given joy
From operatic piano
To the cheap plastic toy
It matters not anytime
Any place you can find
If you call out to music
It responds in a rhyme
Your heart will be full
From the start to the end
With a strange, mystic healing
Any fracture, can mend
CV
Where could you be tonight, Sinatra?
Love and Marriage
Love and Marriage
A chant I heard reverberate
As far away as the length of the waves
I rode indisposed
When I was bound
To a remote island
Named Buyukada
The permanent content of what you mean
Transcends me the moment I kiss your lips
And I know that meaning is produced
Only in an unexpectedly rambunctious union
Succinctly, I dissect everything
Looking for generic terms I left
Back somewhere in Kadikoy
At nine o’clock sharp near the theater
Where I heard a beautiful young voice
Lamenting Istanbul in operatic tempos
Barbarossa Hayreddin Pasha
Fatih Sultan Mehmet
Jalal al-Din Rumi
All proceeded towards Istanbul again
Alas! Nothing remains the same
Everything is only revisited once again
Even the empty sunflower fields of Kutahya
Detach yourself, postmodern Kerouac,
From the vicissitudes of a stuporous life
Isolate yourself from mundane places
Where nothing transcends the ephemeral
I know that I will meet a deadline
Just because life manifests itself
Unintentionally in those experiences I weave
I thought my days could end
On a ship to Prince’s Island bound
Alas, a Russian girl took me aside
To recount her Icelandic memories
To a dismembered Moorish heart
Where this time?
The pair makes several tries--
my hard hat, a can of nails, window ledge
all filled with leaves.
How do they judge
those inferior, this one prime?
It's predetermined,
I don't know how.
So too their songs--
he two-notes or three-notes,
and she chirrrs along.
Same songs, same positions,
morning in and morning out.
I wake to their repetition.
If they watch me, no doubt
they'd see my own routines,
but neither they nor I can find
what isn't wired in my genes.
Why does this human mind
hear Figaro, Figaro, Figaro
in his operatic voice?
Or is it video, video, video?
It's his song, but my choice.
I never really understood people until I took apart my old school chum Rick.
Now I know exactly what makes the human heart tick.
The intricacy of the human circuitry is Gods most artful work without uncertainty.
Like a great operatic performance accompanied by a grand orchestra, all our organs sing as one and all together.
To give such life as this in a manor of theatrical grandeur, but life comes at a cost however, this is something that we can not sever, for one soul to live it must take from another.
You see hunting a human is just like hunting any animal, you always track those that are weak and incapable.
I study those that indulge greatly in life's pleasurable sins, I always proceed to take them apart starting with their limbs.
To squander such a gift is a crime against those souls no longer living.
It is a crime that should be dealt with swiftly and unforgiving.
You may find my words harsh and cruel but punishment is dealt where punishment is due.
The scholars and gossips call me a Devil worshiper or a Satanist.
But I am an admirer of God and I dream to be like him, a great creationist.
To some I'm known as the mad doctor who haunts the river Rhine, but to my acquaintances I'm known simply as Victor Frankenstein.
"Radio"
Snippets of classic jingles ring diabolically in our brain
Converging good tunes for bad products
Their repetitive nature send shoots rattling and ringing
Over and over again, gee, have a little music with you commercials!
Morning shows ruled by the man/child
With bleeps and buzzers assisted by stupid honks
The horns that we hear on the road are secondary to this drivel
All good things must come to an end, but the bad things seem to live forever
Prattle comes to propose what they got is better
While their mothers actually cringe from embarrassment
Sensationalism is at its best as we hear it with frequency
Why can't they shut their damn clap traps!
Sipping our coffee, listening to the latest and greatest
Please hit me upside the head, yes, that's what I said
As DJ's can't play it enough, they are broken records
Or Disfunctional Jerks
The AM propagandists scrabble for words as well
Floundering for babble their mouths never go static
It's shameful to hear such political trash, too often recycled
Influential to the old folks who want to vote every day
I thought in many years of past, the radio was supposed to be harmonious
Giving choice singers the chance to put out euphonies
And pieces of dreamy pleasures in classical, operatic and such
Pianos in pianissimo, to revel in the somnorific sweets of Chopin
All I here nowadays is a bell
The one that tolls for them to stop
Because chatter and blather rule the air waves
I turn the radio off
Led to believe
you'd help me achieve
the grace of a ballerina
a voice operatic
from my usual asthmatic
cackle like a laughing hyena
Distaste despite
I endured your bite
the party with gusto to steer
true state of affairs
via video fare:
drunk, I'm a weirdo, witless and *****
Alone on my porch bench
abhorring my stench
I sit with my head on the pound
in hangover's claws
I glare at the cause:
scores of bottles strewn all around
"I'll drink no more
on wine declare war
as of now I'm calling you quits
thief of humanity
my reason for insanity
'cos of you my life's in the pits."
A-cuss and a-curse
I pick up the first:
"Say hello to the wall of the park
sing your last aria
afore I smash yer!!"
as with a discus fling a wide arc
"Nice tinkle I reckon."
bend for a second:
"You fiend, I'll smash you to bits
you dug me a hole
my life to control
stole the bigger chunk of my wit."
Tinkle-smash-tinkle
my eyes a-twinkle:
"Down with alcohol, scourge of society
to drink is absurd."
smashing a third
"You monster, you stole my sobriety."
"Whoa! Whoa! This one is weighty
unlike your mateys
with you I've never had quibble
in fairness to you
you'll lift my blues
for my woe I don't hold you responsible."
DELYSIA. FOR GIORGIO'S CONTEST.
INSPIRED BY:
"Dear alcohol, We had a deal where you would make me funnier,
smarter, and a better dancer. I saw the video. We need to talk..."
- Anonymous
Poverty grot and grime
Have existed throughout time
A place where intellect and truth cannot shine
All of this is embodied on Isle 49
Segregated due to types and shapes
Men acting like thoughtless apes
Not even allowed to eat the smallest of grapes
All of this is embodied in Aisle 49
The occasional safety rail
Offers no protection from the emotional hail
And the sound when Turbo starts to wail
All of this is embodied in Aisle 49
The convergence of two great areas
Starting the creation of diseases like Malarias
Reminding me of great operatic arias
All of this is embodied in Aisle 49
Oh Iku why have you forsaken me
All I ever wanted was to make you see
That I had one ready.