Walls breathe insistent hunger,
red as the inside of a split pomegranate,
richer still where the tallow has melted,
slick as the fat from a burnt offering.
Scarpia does not eat.
He savors—sounds of gristle
snapping in the next room—
—low, wet gasps—
body writhing beneath unseen hands,
a melody of muscle breaking.
Tosca stands, spine locked,
as he drinks from a goblet brimming with the color
of a mouth left too long in the sun.
He watches her throat move,
slow, careful, like a deer
scenting iron in the air.
A scream glissandos through the walls.
Scarpia wipes his lips.
His fingers, thick as butcher’s twine,
gesture toward the door—
an invitation, a demand—
a sermon delivered without breath.
Tosca does not kneel.
Not yet.
But the feast has begun,
and the host holds the fermata.
(note: this poem was inspired by a scene from the opera Tosca by Giacomo Puccini)
Categories:
glissandos, anxiety, character, corruption, creation,
Form: Free verse
Emilia In Romagna
Somewhere a lost little girl
Is crying in her bedroom closet
Because she can’t hear
Her mama
Moving about anymore
She can see dim shapes
Mama stored stuff in here
Luggage scarfs tennis racquets
Croquet mallets
Boxes of old photographs
Useless
Rubbish
Apparently not water or food
She can hear the ancient
Transistor radio
Mama always kept on
Pavarotti is proclaiming
His love for another faulty insecure woman
In an opera that makes
As much sense as this
Her disconsolate glissandos
Ravaged juddered weeping
Rival the maestro
For now
Until later
Categories:
glissandos, absence, allegory, art, aubade,
Form: Free verse
Glissandos
with a twist of tangy lime
arpeggios
in starched cuffs and gleaming buttons
sparkle from the ivories
of a Baldwin baby grand
leaving the root notes
for the double bass to play
It's honey
in be-bop
pure rich amber honey
with a cinnamon stick
and a drop of syncopation
blending in soft beats
of a hi-hat
gentle brushes on a tom
A second round
of drinks arrives
as conversations hush
and candles flicker
Our new favorite diner
with smooth live jazz
on Wednesdays
Categories:
glissandos, music,
Form: Free verse
I looked out on the gloom of one dark day
as rain poured down. Glissandos my ear caught!
What joy streamed forth from sweet chords I heard play.
The source of them excitedly I sought.
My searching eyes at last beheld a sight
most marvelous! Amidst loud thundering,
two angels strummed on harps! And from their light,
flowed hope profound when they began to sing!
They sang a song that filled my heart with peace
because their lyrics told the story of
a time when animosity would cease.
Beneath a rainbow then, I felt God's love.
June 23, 2018 for Vermillion Scythe's Angels in the Rain Poetry Contest
Categories:
glissandos, angel,
Form: Quatrain
Viola Fuller
1879 – 1909
For it is written in solemn Chinese ideography,
That two women under one roof spells trouble.
For indeed my life found trouble
And death quite early due to influenza.
I spent my leisure hours in China Town
16 miles to the west in old Los Angeles.
Spent hours in the mildewed shops and the seedy cafes.
Finding culture, romance and ruin in the moody moonlight!
Finding spontaneous spasms in the back musty rooms.
It is true Roscoe Settle found my inner source.
He probed for the truth of my deep hidden springs.
Riveting moist springs of passion and sexual majesty.
Together, as like intertwining tied ribbons,
We embraced the spectral fireworks of a multitude of shooting stars!
Embraced the soaring glissandos of life and love!
But in the end
I decided to kill him dead.
I could not bear for one more minute, the other woman,
That other thing named Lottie Gordon.
But it all backfired on me.
For instead, I killed his father,
One Marcus Settle: late of Whittier Town.
Forgive me Providence, for I have sinned.
But in my sin,
I have found eternal rest from my nagging jealousies.
Found eternal peace from the tortuous kisses
Of one Roscoe Settle!
Categories:
glissandos, death, life,
Form: Epitaph
Like tremolos and glissandos in music,
those crescendos and decrescendos in volume;
there’s observance of discipline and yet,
at the same time, there’s sense of freedom.
similar to life how it’s gonna be lived, so far.
Inroads within the wake of comfort zone
a melange of options shown for actions;
it gives an engaging answer to learn
in pursuit of love and openness to wounds.
Signs and wonders in today’s world,
reveal the message that God still cares;
though some people don’t look at this way
given that gift of faith in countless situations.
Now that modernity becomes superior,
in every way of living or communication;
with computers and electronics technology,
iconic symbols of the so-called Information.
But with higher gas and consumer prices,
along with recession fears and job layoffs;
there’s a call to be productive in every measure
to make ends meet and be really held accountable.
It slips to the periphery of life’s business and tests,
like a race in the battlefield where one competes;
wrestles with woes and sticks to what life holds,
with sense of freedom and God’s meaning to all.
Categories:
glissandos, faith, imagination, life, music,
Form: Narrative
Carefully her inner eyes glistened
As the music proceeded with utmost preference
The swift glissandos had cured and decorated her existence bare
Naked, she looked all alone
Beautifully stunned in awe appreciation of the “musical dew of silence”
The food of renewal for the soul
And as the chords rose
She was in no doubt lost in-between intertwining rainbows
While the orchestra proceeded
Blindfolding her visions in missions of star lights,
She appeared color stunned
Now I know that she had understood the essence and relationship between music and colors
As the waves and ripples brought her a gift of soothing relief from every form of grief
What some never achieve
Her inner self gradually awoke calm yet in crescendo with the music
And as the music descended
It unfurled with tears of understanding humbly from all eyes in diminuendo
Further magnified by the resounding applause dispersed in thunderous appreciation
Sealing the finale with a wholehearted emotional and heartfelt release ….
Categories:
glissandos, on writing and wordsmusic,
Form: I do not know?