Best Valves Poems
“I know my heart will never be the same
But I'm telling myself I'll be okay”
Sara Evans
My heart no longer
beats the same,
as I’ve wiped away
tainted tints on
vain valves.
Bleeding out
shattered dreams.
Colors of fallen
needle-shaped leaves,
emanate shades
of memories,
lost along a clamor of
fragmented pieces,
where linchen-dusted lies
confused my
flower-patterned spirit,
adrift in a pastoral
landscape of melancholy,
scumbled in roseate oil,
calligraphed from
the fragrance of
forget-me-nots,
but sunflowers no
longer bloom,
although I still
see a thread
of salvation
surfing through the
airy breeze that hides
behind green
grass across
untouched,
yet butterfly nested
water mountains.
I chose to be
content alone,
with me and my
heartbroken bliss,
over passionate
petal-like serenades,
that caressed
my midnight blues.
So, forgive the stars,
named with our love,
as I bid
farewell to half-adorned
illustrations
of a perfect sunrise,
stolen by the past
that always punished me,
with trust issues,
obscured in somber clouds
that follow my
silhouette, faithfully.
How much can i be vicious?
How much can i be worst ?
If i stop forgetting and start holding..
The devil whispers in my ear
Heart started to sink .
Lets just forgive
Then here comes villainous voices
From my heart .....
Which strangles me and says..
"I wanna kiss his face
With my broken heart.
I wanna paint his face
With all my scars.
I wanna get him back
To give him heart attack
I wanna feel his death
From all his heart .
I know i m being dramatic
But that's only left to imagine.
I just think what he owes?
Should i tell his mom ?
That his son suckkkss
What he does could proudly hurts."
Then i just swallowed the evil
But heart hurts deep .
He kept knocking .
Knocking on my valves.
Till it gives me heart attack.
Don't rip your heart open too deep
(All they'll see are the valves and the veins)
Don't puke out your guts in one heap
(All they'll smell is the rotten Chow Mein)
Footnote: I decided to enter this as my worst poem because it really stinks and makes me want to throw up...
His hand is strafing the castellation on his trumpet, the valves moving up down up down like deranged pistons under the random machine gun fire of his fingers. Each note is a projectile that concusses the air, chases the one before it, nudges it from behind, bleeds into it, and is itself tailgated by the next one, all the way down the line in unrelenting succession, until all the distinct notes fuse, compacted into a single, furious, careening soundscape that leaves the ear always half a beat behind, struggling to catch up, out of breath, high on an overdose of heard adrenalin.
sounds supersonic
air graffitied with contrails of soaring notes
solo flight
Still they come, the notes, jostling and pouring from the bell of the trumpet glinting in the small cone of spotlight, the man’s puffed cheeks like a magician’s hat from which all kinds of disparate, crazy things - playing cards, rabbits, ribbons, doves - appear and instantly cohere into a hyperventilating sonic dream. You’re caught off guard by every note: you never heard it coming, then you hear it, and you’re snatched by it and all its brethren, and carried into the kinetic night.
ears beguiled
vibrations collide, collude, segue
harmony
your love ~ my muse
your voice ~ my prose
s l i
p
s and sails in the sky ~
stroking the silhouette
of
snow-kissed mountains,
mirroring memories
of moon-flames
seized like picturesque
Polaroids of a spirit
that stands still &
firm
held by the archived songs
of seaweed sentiments
where
mists of thoughts
tiptoe
t r a i l i n g
the skin and scales
of serpentine w a v e s
c l a w i n g
through the throat of nothingness
pressed in the
frozen
salt of silence ~
mujo’s murmur
bathed in lucid blues,
like air of angst,
clouds of t e
a
r s
if only the wind could grasp
the water-weed wilderness
ebbing and flowing
within this mind ~
for the heart
is a chaotic odyssey
ferrying footprints
in distress
allowing the currents
to be the sailor
beckoning and betraying
the seekers
in search of briny bliss
w e a v i n g wishes
reweaving desires ~
never settling ~
wicked, yet carved
with starry reveries
pushing and pulling
valves of the ocean
held in the cradle of
endless hope...
but beneath the c r
a
s h
i n g crystals
&
cacophonous crests,
floats fragility ~
anchored in healing,
drifting in hurt ~
an ephemeral effervescence
an inescapable embrace
breathing and b r e a t h l e s s
unmoved by the
tempests of time…
as the sky recalls
the taste of tides
and the tide feels
the pulse of the sky ~
resilient &
relentless
amidst the restless rhymes
phantom phrases
and the clamorous
cadence of delicate life…
You spoke a new language
of rarefied air
guided nonchalantly
through curving channels of brass
Conduits of cool
juries of jazz
floating past soulful valves
harbingers of what will come
Slender fingers
improvising storylines
magistrates of melancholy
bailiffs of bop
Miles from the mainstream
a milestone of
modern modalities
kind of blue
I saw a dazzling rose,
Whose red petals cast blinding hues upon me.
She shot her cupid arrows from the Kabaka’s backyard,
And punctured the cocoon of my innocence.
My heart burnt for a feel of her spangled petals,
My ferocious passions lost their sturdy grip on restraint as
I, like a pollen-famished bee, sniffed her whiff;
I gorged on her rosy scent, like a Don Quixote.
Then, I plucked her off the tribal bough;
And navigated the Nile River with her,
Tacked in the valves of my heart,
For a cross boarder allogamy.
What a welcome from my kinsfolk!
Furrows ridging the faces of my kinsmen,
Spittle of disgust masticating the hungry soils,
Grey beards wagging and waging a silent war;
Alien!
Arising, splits the purple nuclear sky,
Rends the dark valleys with light,
Spills along footpaths and alleys,
The glory of morning, ending of night.
In sanction, closing of the chaos,
Soothes the hot valves with dragon-heart balm,
Beams with serenity and salves,
In silvery moonlight, infinite calm.
Above, my ascendant sun and moon,
Arc-light searing and platinum white,
Adoration eternal and endearing,
My wondrous morning, my glorious sight.
The land of my fathers lays waiting,
Dispelling the lonely, the welcoming fields,
Whether industry savaged or verdant,
The hillsides of poets, their treasure she yields.
A is for Accordion, squeezing air with bellows
B is for Banjo, five strings plucked by bluegrass fellows
C is for Clavichord, keyboard with a metal sound
D is for the Drums which percussionists will pro-pound
E is for the English horn, using a double-reed
F is for a brass French horn, three valves is all you need
G is for Glockenspiel, metal bars arranged in rows
H is for Harmonica, both in and out she blows
I is for Ingoma, on which skins or hides are drummed
J is for Jinghu, just two strings that are bowed not strummed
K is for the Keytar, keyboard guitar held upright
L is for the Laser harp which plays on beams of light
M is for Maracas, their rhythm shaken by pros
N is for Nguru, Maori flute blown through the nose
O is for the Oboe with a mouth-piece that looks bewitched
P is for the Piccolo, a half-sized flute, high pitched
Q is for the Quena, a notched flute from the Andes
R is for the Rattle, maracas for the babies
S is for the Shofar, a Jewish horn hard to blow
T is for the Tuba, largest horn and tough to tow.
U is Ukulele, four-string Hawaiian gee-tar
V is Viola, a fiddle tuned a bit deeper
W is the Washboard, just for rhythm, understood?
X is a Xylophone, a glockenspiel made of wood
Y is Yotar, a guitar with four strings grouped in threes
Z is Zither, played on the table or cross your knees
This alphabet of instruments just breaks through the top
The're hundreds more to know, but Z's a good place to stop.
March 11, 2013
Allright Poet's ABC Poetry Contest
Mrs. Lightfoot had taught music at Talbot Elementary School for years.
A couple of her pupils excelled in music but most became engineers.
She sat at her desk to muse upon the past after another trying day,
Recalling events that had contributed to the 'dyeing' of her hair gray!
She remembered concerts when the cacophonous din made her wince,
And Mrs. Lightfoot approached such musicals with foreboding ever since.
But beaming parents saw their prodigies destined for musical acclaim.
(Only one she knew strummed a banjo at the VFW with a modicum of fame!)
Tubby Aruba wrestled with his tuba, ever out of step in the marching band.
Sissie Pyaner tried to emulate Liberace but she battered the concert grand.
For some reason one of the valves on Clyde Crumpet's trumpet always stuck,
And the trombone players could never harmonize - such was their bad luck!
Pat Claret could never adjust her clarinet reeds to eliminate the squeaks.
'Tyke' Biddle fiddled with the bull fiddle but never mastered its techniques.
Hubie Crums thought he was Gene Krupa and went crazy on the drums.
And when it came to playing the French horn, Sydney Corne was all thumbs!
Many times Mrs. Lightfoot thought she'd chosen the wrong speciality path,
And oft' wondered if she should have majored in history or maybe math.
In a couple of years she could lay down her baton one last time and retire,
To reminisce about fatal concerts, bleating horns and inharmonious choir!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
IMPRISONED (collaboration)
by~ Jun-jun Villanueva
Urbane cavalcade - flaunt in gaiety
Warbling hymns in ego - cyclicity
Jigging gracile moves in vivacity
Relishing in zest in this gravity
Kinsfolk in flamboyant fete - oh its fate?
Smiles, elation in face delineate
Like nothing's wrong makes me exasperate
No one cares? No one adores? it's too late
Recurrent nightmares peeve me in sublime
Making incubuses remorse in rhyme
Bequeathing qualm, fright and fear - death like crime
Kith and kin in laughs while I'm in grave time...
by~ Poet Destroyer
Twittering chime parade of glee
Unspectacular weed flowing trough me.
Boxed in a box like a tick or flea.
No one understands- what they can't see!
Outside myself holding my breath-
Or should I say what is left?
Trapping torment with false courtesy.
Preexisted past, without certainty.
Locked in a sanctuary grave of ivory ribs,
My life in a vault- trashed crib.
Feet lashing against my skin.
Twirling the rootless valves of sin.
No one cares! No one adores!
My prison trash coffin brought ashore.
A collaboration with * Jun-jun Villanueva
My collaboration contest
They said I was an “old fart”
But I hardly think that’s true
My boobs were done in ‘75
But my teeth and knees are new.
And since my eyes were lasered
I have 20/20 sight
Though I like to sit on 50 k
And hate to drive at night.
All in all I object to “old”
But “fart” is another matter
For I think the valves that seal the gas
Now leak as I’ve got fatter.
To add to the indignity
And make me feel antique
Sometimes when I sneeze or cough
I spring a little leak.
So if you’re feeling young and smug
With a body like brand new
Just remember in 30 years
This figure may be you!
Some are shiny
Fuel injected or carbureted
Hands washed after work or grimy
Green lights anticipated
Some are small block
Bored out pistons roar
Pride, nothing stock
New valves, what a chore
Overhead cams pushed to the limit
Rocker arms at full extension
Gears a ’grinding, spin it
Timing belt at full tension
Intake manifold a ’breathing
Camshaft spinning
Exhaust seething
Races, if lucky, winning
Linear forces generated
Altered chemical synergy
Fuel incinerated
Glorious mechanical energy
Problems many of which are not getting solved
not because I'm not resolved but because I delay
to savor the day, the moon and the season
which is why I'm a non-person under the eye of eternity.
Except for my unpaid bills. And iambic pentameter.
Aaron fails English. Is there summer school?
What an *******! I want to slug him, but also
his teacher, Mr. Fisher, who's probably
a nice guy, just doing his job and raising a family.
Then there's the catheter from my last surgery
I was so sick I thought I was dying. The out of network
pathologist and radiologist have declined my insurance
and charged me to the hilt. Like I had a choice
face up in the emergency room. Facing doom, you don't ask questions.
Now that I've rejoined the living I've got to raise a million bucks
to save organic farms and endangered species I'll never see.
Perhaps none of this matters and chanting's the answer, Buddhist
precepts,
or as Dad would say This too shall pass.
Life is a back and forth game but baseball is zen meditation,
you're in right field, nothing's happening, nothing's gonna happen,
but you can't let your attention wander for one second.
I should clean and oil my trumpet for Saturday's gig
or the valves will stick. And leave early enough
not to get stuck in traffic. Other lives, other quilts.
A guy who takes the subway to a dead metal desk
and the boss who fires him with the cold hard eyes
of one who accepts the rules entirely. Actually
we're fortunate to have rules because otherwise
child soldiers armed with AK-47s would be shooting up
the village and setting fire to our thatched roofs.
Instead, under the rule of law, when snow falls
even old roofs look like problems with proofs.
I am just a beating heart
red from the start and damned with a dream
a spiking scream upon the Hope and Hell seam,
the world passes through me, revealing suffering and the heavenly,
I make a scene, as I put together my pump, thump and bump melody
a feather on fire for the fortune of creativity, for you, my vicious vitality,
Just a beating heart I am
bleached bright by the balm of calm kisses,
quickened by the kick of Passion's lick, thick on the senses,
I get fattened on fast lust, valves bulging, arteries divulging my truest wishes
drenched I am in cherry jam, as Love's current cracks the dam
the gush and rush, pooling plushly, a sweet span
learn to share I know I can,
Just a beating heart I am
wrenched by the warfare of savage offenses, demonic curses,
a pillar of flame in the face of Hate's hurricane, avenging abuses,
of lies and lynchings I have no use, with a Rebel beat I use no ruses,
for all I've done no sham excuses, totally loyal to my Divine Muses,
I have survived artful assassins and the gravest depressions, felt how anger bemuses,
of others' I have punctured and captured without desire to harm,
and I have been ruptured, fluttered and raptured by the sexiest charm,
I am a beating heart, like you,
wet and red, defying dread, blessed with you, Beauty full fed -
J.A.B.