Fugue Poems - Poems about Fugue

Epochal courses a tamed countryside, Spectacle sparkles glowing trees and boughs, Pedestal weights and measures counter slide, Sensible enshrine flexible reigned bows. A sentinel taps chords and ivories, The typical lose blues and notes the muse, The miracle resonates mute carries, A mythical being awaits its dues. As Bach spirited his classical piece, Some brought heart and soul, yet their ears came first, Has God...

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Thinking about us I come undone Looking back I don’t know Whether we lost or won Voices in my mind That I just can’t translate But I know I’ll learn to appreciate I’m not laying blame I’m not keeping score I just wish I could find Who I was before All was taken And more was lost A dissociative fugue Cost us the lot What am I supposed...

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Abbiamo bisogno di persone creativ persone che voliono creace e avere successo nel creare Abbiamo bisogno che le persone studino i terminie mettano in relazione termini della scrittura riuniscano le persone e creino balli che le persane possano trovare facili da fare epoi trovine professionist che stessi suoni per creare una scena moderno disco Ispirale affainche perfetta mente davanti a un mondo...

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pound and flaten one large turkey breast place 12 slices of cottage bacon inside in a bowl add 1 cup of feta cheese 1/2 teaspoon of cumin 1/4 nutmeg 1 cup of spinach (Strained and chopped) 1 tablespoon of garlic 3 Tablespoons of dehydrated onion 1/4 cup of cooked bacon One tablespoon of cayenne pepper 1 tablespoon of lemon zest 1 teaspoon of mace 2 tablespoon of...

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Light crashes sounds like brittle glass Slashes shards across my worn aching eyes The colors reak of deep rot like blues Creeping green burning acidic sounds In my ears like the Smell of some dead deity The tang of the streets are bright gay they clash with the screaming red halls of my inner cell walls the...

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A contrapuntal harmony made from pure singing mathematical light. The music cannot be denied, it flows on like a silk dragon over rolling savanna. The hairs in my ears begin to dance, the notes are calling out prismatic stars, not the ones we see but suns born in the shadowy cells of our own fallen angels....

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The music cannot be denied, it unwinds like an articulated dragon through a metallically ringing void. Then there is the silk serpent hidden in the driving engine the closed-eyed coiling. The hairs in my ears dance; the notes are calling out stars; not the ones we see, but dark stars born in the disheveled rooms of fallen angels....

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At the deep end of night when all that can be seen is the digital clock and the light under the corridor door, we slip out of our personas - a fumbled attempt at drowsy love-play; the plethora of giant pillows hiding us from ourselves. The hotel elevator takes us further into a story we have already written. Day 3 blurs, sight-seeing pictures long poured from...

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JUXTAPOSITION 1 Prelude for a Dying Loved One Faces stricken, painted in grief, peer through the glass barrier into the room, as ventilators is removed from a loved one, and last breaths are expelled. Mother Earth awaits, her arms opens to embrace and cradle her child. Fugue for a Newborn Infant Faces, wonderstruck, painted with excitement, peer through the doorway, into the birthing room as a newborn infant is laid in...

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Todesfugue ("Death Fugue") by Paul Celan loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk; we drink you come midday, come morning, come night; we drink you and drink you. We’re digging a grave like a hole in the sky; there’s sufficient room to lie there. The man of the house plays with vipers; he writes in the...

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Tucked in the gray mob, safe, sound and asleep. An eternity of time never marked. Dimly recalled eon of forest deep. When all else is still, the whispered voice, “Hark!” Restlessness dances between heart and mind, Throat clenches tightly as the yearning wells. Stolen window glance from my place in line, But nose to grindstone, now, duty compels. Yet yearnings boil blood in...

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an orchestrated night glitters to the wand wave of the maestro unborn sweetness licks on liquorice sticks fingered on silver keys the moon melts like a honey drop as sopranos sing in harmony the coyote calls base notes cajoled by passing horns meld as cicada rub the reeds legging each sharped phrase with intonations of delight...

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I’m no one so I held him I kissed him I killed him now I have no place to go except the space between spaces the consolation of seeing the colors he stumbled over colors....

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Some have passion and Dreams in their hearts That weave in and out Beyond the edges Of small places Their dreams may be only words to some But to them they mean everything. And others, Just as young, Run off With no plans No ideas And never a second thought. The dreamers and the aimless Eventually meet In the East Village Center of the counterculture in New York Birthplace...

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Long lost daydreams- forgotten flights of fancy...

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