Beaming eyeballs,
and orbs,
from first blush,
offspring frolicsome,
as they dot,
geosmin odoured pavement,
whilst shrieking impishly,
with infectious,
cuddly cheep,
parents shepherd,
yet they exude,
at bounce captured,
cordial conducive,
in electrifying,
picturesque swathe,
orange-scorched oriole,
with coal-black plume,
on urban shade tree,
townscape as hub,
endowed cosmopolitan,
brimful brio, ginger, dash,
kundalini wakened,
as sultry vault,
vigilant ambience,
ample alignment to,
ice tea mint gust,
aroma mediating,
splash of amber sun wash,
neath navy welkins,
that taunt and sketch,
wooing ambit,
extracts of,
aroha’s
indigo index
Turn
around
walk away,
don’t play with me.
Sharp throws can rebound,
watch the tone that you take.
The outcome of your next move?
I’ve already blocked a clear view.
Crackerjack with their brio at stake,
you’re dressed in deluded dissertation.
An object with faces six
A combination of values and variety mix.
A part of game,taken as challenge
Played for fun,not revenge.
Every roll of the dice
Needs some trick and attempt, wise.
The face with one, has a value small
Helps one win,stands tall.
The face with two has a pair
The credit both,equally share.
The face with three is a trio
That shows up ,with the right brio.
The face with four has two pairs equal
With two and two,that make a sequel.
The face with five,has a member odd,
Yet,is strong,oh! my God.
The face with three pairs is a six,
All in one frame, together fix.
Each face has its significance
That really makes a big difference.
The fate of a player depends on the dice roll
One needs to play wisely, to reach the goal...
The lustrous perfume bottle
avec neck spritzer and bottom caudal
With hexing brio it holds her captive
Pure rapture is sexually attractive
A woman’s torso a glass statuette
dressed in a golden chic corset
An old hippy scarf suspends on the wall
Her ‘Eau De Joy’ is kitschy after all
Shimmies into mid-calf western boots
She rifles through sequined body suits
Last touches of an aromatic scent
she deems the fragrance extravagant
Lurid lemon zest smacks of old school
Blithely vivacious leads them a drool
Juicy sweet notes from cleavage to chin
A whirlwind of hazy mist he’s in
Wild at heart with beats that throttle
A burning desire from a perfume bottle
One glorious, sun-drenched, thirsty December day,
I sat, numbed with the agedness of a visitor, and
Fumed eloquently with joy for the benefit of the
Seine – the ointment of Paris.
Somewhere along the gritty line laid bare by sere weeds
Of winter,
A restless tranter eulogised:
“Ce est Paris!”
From the whistling, grating metro to the navel of
Elevated Eiffel, the tall, metallic maiden,
I saw frantic beauty.
I inhaled the peace of the atrium, sighting
Our Dame....
“Ce est Paris!”
The voice, girly, and with the earnestness
Of chivalrous youth, came again, cold and soft,
Just the way of a sprightly winter.
Turning, I saw Paris in full nakedness of her beauty, like
A priceless fresco hanging from the sky.
“Do you need company?” The tranter anglicised her French.
In one gulp I swallowed the pride of Paris.
“Hmmm!” I grunted, wincing loudly from brio,
Counting my woes should I plod away to the red light areas,
“Give me Shakespeare and Company”.
This is when the old and the young,
beasts and confraternal drunks
damn the consequences of death
lying porous on crossroads upon
bifurcated paths, fractured junctions
and ceremonial cul-de-sacs...
The time is immaterial,
so long as the traffic lights — the veggie-green,
the claret, and the urine-amber —choose their slow
blinking and rapid-eyelid movement carefully.
And moon might decide not to power its own light.
Tenebrous tracks then fill our eyes with the age of
sea monsters blinded by charcoal waves.
Need I hail the neon signs of bordellos!
And the city’s restless constellations!
They sparkle with rage and with the brio of rioting stars,
thus adding celestial films to our already overloaded eyes....
But that’s another story.
C’mon... we are no Deer or Asahel descendants!
Closely related to sloths, millipedes and snails,
we drag our feet, which in turn drag the volumes of
stupidity in us, aggravated by drams and midnight parties
held between a flowing weekend and a stagnant Thursday.
Foppish fringe flutters..pianist tendrils tinkling..
Flitter finessing leathery fruits..
Caressing..stitched dreams tickled & tailored..
Swing..swerve in clandestine cahoots…
Curve…voluptuous velvety verve..
Wobble seam serendipity tempts..teases..
Sliding across creases..angle architect gliding..
Heaven sent tyro riding blazing trails..
Hellbent brio…Waggers & Trent..Timmy trio..
Touted trinity…selector trifecta..febrile fan affinity..
Tim’s timber hoicks topple Toblerones..
Schadenfreude stats sips.. Oiks suggest Timmy..
Ersatz Test imitator of Jimmy…
Naysayers…tut tutters spew from trolling gutters…
As Yoda may say…"Devil may care..unfair..flair in the air..this bowling pair share..'
Muffled murmurs of the goat..Hadlee float…gracing grassy notes..
Timmy..go on gimme one final shimmy…
Dare to dream…it will end.. as it did begin..
With that boyish grin..just beam..old friend
Once the memories starts to crawl back there
It feels more unbearable to stand alone here
The sudden laughs we shared with no reason at all
The moments we felt with holding hands as a whole
The everyday circles of talks, peps and plans
Moments we earned the sense of victory with our proud hearts
To be honest I know,
I know that the days I'm dreaming to have
Just like the days we used to have
They are not going to happen anymore
Though I secretly cry, pray and mourn
To have more of them for the rest of my brio
Why can't we have more of it
Whose fault it really is...
When none of us want to be apart but we have to
The world is cruel that way, and for that I hate you
So alas! we keep telling ourselves "our friendship never dies"
Though I sense its' painful dying breaths, trying to pretend
"I never die"
Now, everybody has started to say
That all of us have to move away
Away from the joy and the feelings that we shared together
To have them collected and protected, to have more with strangers
Strangers one day, will become otherwise and collected
Well, here I am speaking out loud, that I’m never going to own
Some fine dusty Albums.
Comando
Na corrida
de meio de mês,
toma o comando,
com muito
menos, mas
sempre
faz mais,
nas metas
de vendas,
o sucesso
se
constrói.
então,
rompe
as metas,
vence o desafio,
cada venda
é um novo brio,
e o sucesso
é o reflexo
do faze com
menos,
mais e mais.
Lady Melanie with silver locks
Loved her bonbons, bagels, and graved lox.
Curmudgeon geezers viewed her a fox,
But she loved them less than chicken pox.
Melanie kept free as best she could.
She allowed no time for coquetry
Or Penelope-style stitchery.
But three bores persistence understood.
Trini, a jet jockey CEO
Lived his life allegro con brio.
As his lovely red Lamborghini,
His love raced too fast for Melanie.
Claude, a failed nebulous maunderer,
Gossip, post-modern philosopher
Believed everything in life was free,
Which made sweet Mellie his property.
Her third paramour drove flat-bed trucks.
When Bo misspoke, he would say “Aw shucks!”
And then, hands on, wordlessly switch gears.
She cast him off leaving him in tears.
Single she may wait until too late,
For a blissful bridal altar state.
Should her three bores e'er face a hot date
At least she shall stand at heaven’s gate.
I am attracted by
Virtuous notes
A capable sound
From a Steinway & Sons grand piano
A mighty orchestra
Unknown melodies
A child prodigy at the keyboard
A Gift of Peace
The hammer that strikes golden strings
Of a grand piano.
Bravo. Hurrah.
A Laurel, a performance hardly heard
Attentive spectators rejoice
The vaults of the concert hall
Reflect corpulent sounds
Gershwin’s Allegro or Lento
'Scherzo Con Brio' without hardship
The child pianist
That angels also listen
Of a talent that inebriates like wine
And the key to a distant remembrance
It is now a choral
Then a horn sound
Of at an Imperial Andante
Then the violins all around
Fiery Rondo. Dreamy adages.
Arpeggio and a madrigal
Finally, the Grand Finale
Without hesitation
All Quiet On The Frontal Lobes
A battle was fought: his Medulla oblongata versus an electrical socket.
The electrical appliance distributors made a racket. So did his screams.
But its pure, scientifically certified - who am I to besmirch and mock it ?
From now on his ol' rumbustious spirit won't be harbouring q.u.e.e.r. memes.
It'll be pliant, malleable, ductile. The vibrant brio, fizz of magnetic emotion,
Will have dissipated with the deafening circuit of cerebral electrocution.
They'll be no more fuss, no mayhem from his once truculent warrior soul;
The trenches are filled with the fallen, but walking graves no longer howl.
Aye admit, an author's adept
and adroit mastery
to link words together subtly crept
(expressing contents
in a matter of fact
understandable fashion, except
for dissertations and/or kept
jargon for exclusive specialty)
posits, that my wordy verbosity,
revelation, viz "EUREKA" suddenly leapt
administers cerebral, harmful
offal psychological usury
verdict I accept
fomenting gobbledygook concept
might create notion, yours truly inept,
plus incorporating confessional backswept
facets of writerly person,
as sigh nearly wept
(drafting previous poem,
sans book review
like an emotional bit torrent windswept
"And I Don't Want
to Live This Life" anchored in concept,
qua raw maternal did severely intercept
the motherly bond Deborah Spungen
felt toward zombified miskept
incorrigibly, horribly, grievously...
tormented first born
or momentenous insept
begetting impregnation and early labor
Nancy Laura Spungen since birth,
perhaps seeped when aye slept
into nooks and crannies of subconscious,
though one could breeze thru said book
such evocative anguish left
me numbly bereft, yet acutely aware
to vicariously experience devastating agony!
Play
it
slowly
adagio
slow, ma non troppo
play it in the time of a slow waltz
“music is the best means we have of digesting time”
And
now
play it
andante
at a walking pace
alla marcia, in march time
“music is the best means we have of digesting time”
Play
it
in time
a tempo
e ben marcato
animato, giocoso
“music is the best means we have of digesting time”
Sem-
per
singing
dolente
con passione
amoroso, cantabile
“music is the best means we have of digesting time”
Then
con
brio
vivace
a piacere
all shall have fun making music
“music is the best means we have of digesting time”
Outside new rose buds contemplate
the future, should we bloom or no,
and tempt our own vermillion fate?
We are not winter's afterglow,
they muse, but amulets of grace,
consider buildings stacked in place
without decorum or brio!
Which is the greater of the two
in March--intentions must not mar
the garden cloister--to eschew
the world or flutter like a star
or horse manes lilting in the breeze?
Remember thus: our pedigrees
grant entree to a love's boudoir!
Iambic Tetrameter
aba bccb ded effe
3/3/18
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