The anticipation should have
been conveyed to the audience
his audience was observant to
his developing character which
allowed him to move through
obstacles to become the champion we
believed him to be
Movements that are fluent and
convincing: pose to pose
Never overlapping the staging
In sequence spares those who
marvel performance over character
drawing lines to speak the story told
Spoiling the audience with familiar
Moves and exciting them with
difference in opposition to
boredom with a reality of self
preservation under the
guise of being extraordinary
stands a sporting
professional eager to be
seen as best !
Written by:
Talus Jove Masculinta
Of Aria,Aria
Circa When Inc.
Jazz Composition
Common Verses Free
French Free Form Overature Jazz
5th 3rd overature
Circles. 2 twice trumpet
Haunting 3rd brass instruction
From further below
Than rise
Chirps measure
Blackbird is the altered blues draw
Birds chirp in a paired 3 verses 3 top measure of 2 in line
Over 3 verses 3 verses 3
Bottom measure of 3 in line circling waters break in flight
3d's in a separated pair
Second pair drifts in to flight
Bottom row
3 b's lilting right lift
3 p's
Inverted taking notes
Hanging for eyes dear last measure
Forty five angled plight swoons seating oft
Canary yellow wings of warmth oil a canvas
Scattered sparks
from my soul,
Scatters on white paper.
Through collision with you,
flash,
like the sky splits open.
Need your ink,
time and steady hands,
to catch,
what falls from
cracked clouds of my brain,
poems spilling
like sudden rain.
Just listen to the nightingale’s song—
you will know God’s compositions
are flawless, without error.
No earthly force can drown its melody,
woven with beauty and complexity,
for every ear to savor.
Its voice never cracks nor falters,
a gift no man can bestow.
Whistles, trills, and warbled phrases,
unwritten, yet always pleasing,
teaching us that music
needs no single tongue.
Hence it is often said:
music has no language.
Songs can stir the feet to dance
without a single word—
as the birds themselves have shown.
The wind too hisses its song,
yet it charms the earth.
Trees, shrubs, and grasses bend,
swaying back and forth
to its rhythm,
delighting in the dance.
Nature sings without instruments,
its melodies whole and pure.
We copy and claim them,
yet God never claimed a copyright
when He composed the first songs.
Through nature, God is the teacher:
the flight of birds in aeroplanes,
the sailing of fish in ships,
the motion of beast in cars.
Nothing we sing is truly new.
What we call song composition
was already in His creation.
All beautiful songs are first His,
for all good things begin with God.
The noise of the day
has subsided and folded
into a quiet
under the soft covers
of a July evening.
The eyes seem to resist
the particular and instead
focus on nothing
but the sum - the glow
from shore lights
smudged on water,
the dark sky powdered
with translucent clouds
and the faint filaments
of stars strung out overhead.
Tonight, I don't want
the granular detail of things
to steal my attention
but to enjoy the blending,
the stand back meld
of colors, of each stroke,
forming a picture transcending
its parts. I want to feel
the evening being
put together
into a boundless whole,
to be beyond
the smallness of myself
and be absorbed totally
into the mystery
of the composition
Her hair dances like the cascading stream,
murmuring in the silence of dormant dreams.
It’s more than an element of graceful façade,
the curls carry a crown of style adornment.
The onyx hair cataracts elegance untamed,
swirls in the stream of longing squall
on the ivory template of her forehead,
engraves the contours of her charisma.
As the melting clouds drizzle on her,
luster flows on the shining strands of ebony,
rave rapture drenches her with surreal hue,
pristine pearls glide with the rhythm of symphony.
A bun flows with fluid finesse and engrossing charm,
a bob helps handle the workplace hassles with ease,
a pixie cut boldly highlights the facial features,
a braded motif plaits the strands of beauty secrets.
Whether worn long or short, curled or colored,
the hair composition isn’t just a fashion narrative.
It’s a powerful symbol of identity and self-expression,
a reflection of the persona statement of who she is.
My hair is a whimsical canvas my crown
It’s so versatile pinned up or flowing down
An expression of my natural creativity
Hair is a blessing of my femininity
Sometimes I let the pillow style it
Go with the flow wearing my wild wit
In this way my hair is a cocoa cloud
All soft and fluffy unruly truly proud
Sometimes the rain puffs it up
I don’t complain I just embrace love
If I wear a natural Afro style
Or twists with bliss will make me smile
I can never go wrong with braids
Long or short the patterns make waves
Take it down and enjoy it anew
Crinkled and wrinkled my hair is the truth
Even if I have had bad hair days
Can cut it short or even shave
Hair is an expression when I’m feeling chatty
Fine like vine thick like brick stringy or nappy
Start in slowly with a flute,
or an English horn to toot.
At a time most opportune,
consider contrabassoon.
A limerick-composing old man
Devised a most devious plan.
Rejecting convention,
I fear I must mention,
He fried all his verse in a pan.
Withered fingers
Cannot play anymore;
I drown in nuanced shades of blue,
Not seeing, in my plight,
My strings, wound tight,
Suspending me
Like a puppet,
Tethered to life.
I in my tattered clothes,
Blue like sorrow,
Torn like the heart that hopes,
Unable to keep out the cold
Or cover the secrets I hold—
I am the man who mopes,
Holding my guitar close
As it whispers its chords
Whilst I, cross-legged, ponder
Life in rags and cardboards.
Back to the old routine:
Awash in blue,
This song’s for you:
Echoes of a gunshot;
The click of a trigger.
my tears are like an ocean
i’m waiting by the beach
for people that don’t exist
and looking at the sea
catching the next flight
to a sinking island
under a navy jeans sunset
stars messing around
like splotches of white paint
from trying to erase the past
the tears and the beach
i wanted to forget that night
and drown you in the ocean
so that i could say for certain
that you’re not real
and you never were.
It’s all been decided for me
I was told to get up and go
To reap the harvests for free
Which I had no idea to sow
In a competition of fictions
The most plausible won
I bargained three new convictions
For the price of the cheapest one
I invested them in three essays
Which I was relieved to forget
I walked through the Roman arcades
I rested on faraway sand
I drank from the springs of wisdom
And ate from the plates of good
Almost lost my immune system
Survived though wasn’t too shrewd
I bet this plot is predetermined
It’s all been decided, you see
I gave my word to return it
But still I keep it with me.
Problematic punctuation
How could it be , mother dear , on my forehead , is it your Biloxi ? I had an entire morn, in good mourning, leaving for good, still it could! and in so many ways it is true, just know there to be true, at least to start somewhere, once again, forever, more!
I and thou, to know how, our buffalo in Henry Wordsworth Longfellow went on for an angling, to find them in two, to believe in threads, yes!!! we do!!!
And the pretty leader! here I come! He meows throughout a day,with his brightest may, as white pure as it can be, along the longest unbroken (frontage types of noises) along an once prevailing sea!
Tell him, mom, he needs to sigh, Bartholomew!
The day is done, wrap your unspoken words in clouds and shapes, with a blissful grace, and heal thy soul, through your biblical four!
The beloved unknown, went to fetch a ladder of stone, for no good reason, out from nowhere, came a big spider!
The evangelical holy water!
When stars ascend and illuminate moonlight,
he sits in the midst of childhood confusion,
bricks in ruby quartz, shape pearl-face of twilight,
crafting a castle from artistic vision
where secrets of his heart have unlocked windows;
letters and numbers, no longer mere shadows,
architecting comfort through mini figures
that masquerade ticking truth of lonely hours.
Dyslexic mind moulds an armored foundation,
lego became his true salvation through strife;
reflections of kismet, contrived with passion-
gilded courage framing the frailties of life,
tiny fingers breathe hope through rainbow colors,
whilst imagination carves profound pillars,
stacking the slanted canvas of dreams to rise,
as his strength towers beyond bluest of skies.
I feel the great dog approaching,
playing his rhythm on the usual sway
of the deck, a counterpart celebrating
the sky and water that holds us.
Beau, tongue lolling in tune
with temperature’s wand, has come
to lounge after his morning swim.
Settling next to me, he shakes
Damariscotta water on me, wedding
us to the rocks that enriched it
when this place was taking on form
that men would map and build upon
when the glaciers went their way.
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