Bothersome
The black kitten on my desks bookshelf
In my poetry meditation is small
Only as the poem
Undiscovered
And without
To push the book down
We will not
Only because you stranded me here
All the writing requests
Is simple socks
And travelling coffee's
Yet spectacles bets
Vetting my mystery netting
Tara took me to school
To find her bonnet
Tara Gendron and Kevin
Go to piano
Read Rupi
Rupi
Tic of knock
As sitting drop
In road tin say
Melting kettle lay
Hat and pat
Greatly treasure sap
Long in ago
Settle bets with go
Stepping Foot
The young limb
Clicks out of water
Grasping the dreary weather
Porcupine painful painting it's sun
The mirror of moon
Conquers the files sands
Landing in return of lust
Teaching the fawning shame
Wood plucking a feathers painting
The romance of wind and winter
Iceberg and seal
Feather behind harp
The foot eats the porcelain fingers
Building the painful yawn
Of concerts
The birds chirp invented from a voided life
Alone ousted without sound
Haunting of meaning
The flying fortress is found
To sound is sound and bound by ground
The harpsichord is hidden
In waters snap
O parachute, thy rider.
How to keep one aloft?
Spread thy edges to defer!
He who squatted coughed!
Unity, sing in unison.
Each louder than the last?
Vittle, side with venison?
Legs in traction plast!
Thus refuted, O my rock?
Lines around in chalk.
Broken is the bowl, O block.
Corn, thy tattered stalk.
So you've been feeling stifled?
Just flicker as you fall.
Soldiers, how you rifled!
O banshee, how you call!
Ghoulish was the repast grim?
Crater, nurse thy rim.
Light of harpsichord, draw dim.
How about her or him?
Rain on us, O lightning!
O thunder, now to roll!
Fain would it be frightening?
Soak in gin, my soul!
The cone or the caldera?
What kind of choice is this?
Ergo, O my era...
O death gods, blow a kiss...
or the spoons
but read it accompanied by something
the French horn
the harpsichord
the balalaika at the bus stop
the burping of a favourite uncle
on the runway as passenger planes take off around you
the Saturn V rocket launch was a clanger to the metal munchies
i mean i could go on
but i won't, because going on would be going on
the soul, the guest of the body,
needs nourishment, and calls for a poptart dad;
but i will go on, because this poem, read, as in a reading,
would be good to read out loud, accompanied by or standing alongside
the eruption of Krakatoa
Generation, slide like land?
Fall into the sea?
Toil, tamarind! Much is planned!
So then, file my plea!
Weather, looking bad of late.
Volcanic my hate!
Cross the world or just the strait?
Better set the date!
Thunder, roll above us all!
Floodwaters to rise!
Fate and Fortune, fill the hall!
He who seeks the prize:
Here is one last riddle!
Nothing is to last?
Play, O second fiddle?
Goblin, ghoul, and ghast.
Yellow as the sky on Mars?
Get them when they come!
Flicker, harpsichord! Thy stars!
Deadly beats the drum!
Wall atop the northern waste?
How bad does it taste?
Nighttime women, staying chaste?
Turkey, long for baste?
Calibrate! Do not be late!
Suffer from it first?
Garment white as powder! Bait!
Plans of foemen burst!
Spark, sail into flame. Never again.
Melt into miracle, common stuff of roads.
Light, transcending is sorrow.
Cold, seize my heart. Love, consume.
Once, dream, talk in waves of sound.
Stars of the harpsichord, fade me away.
Body, become darkness. All I was?
Could have been nothing in a vision sought.
Museums, fail to admit. Unwelcomeness, be.
Riddles, thy meaning hide. Eyes, see nothing but blue
Winter wind, watch for me like a widow.
Paupers, thy potter's field. Wait, O time.
Breaker point, anoint with pain.
Dealers of doom, hold each of my hands.
Fields of asphodel, black ash trees, receive.
Subterranean, send message of lost hope.
Hell, be kind to a sinner. Heaven, burn me up.
Ladder and rope, fail, and let me fall.
Name, mean a blank slate and respond no more.
Legend, be my prophecy. Goodbyes are death.
Breath of dark matter, blow a kiss.
Aim dead center, O aeon!
Era, this is now.
Ergo, O my stern scion;
Come to anyhow!
Looking-glasses are like wind.
Reality grinned.
Terror, tiger, tamarind!
Sacred til he sinned...
Gaunt the gambrel goblin?
No smile a-face today.
Whirling dervish, loud the din!
War, be on thy way!
Grey of the nebula pond;
Why is waiting good?
Yellow-speckled viper yawned!
Gone but understood!
Kingdoms are like prophecies?
Yes, in this context:
Rife, roil, rampant, rare! Disease!
Hell and Heaven, hexed...
Sort it out, O sordid sigh...
Do not ask us why?
Sylvan silver, art thou shy?
Bargain basement buy?
Syllable, unleash thy wrath!
Letters, break the chain!
Poems, place us on the path!
Language, take the lane!
Young is this old harpsichord?
Harpy, use a sword?
Bull, matador. Which gets gored?
Folly gets you floored.
Holly. Mistletoe, thy doom.
Poison, flow like wine.
Ivy, rune, ice, ancient tomb.
Cyanide strychnine.
Cataclysm, disaster!
Calamity, come!
Fate of mankind, I, master!
Doom and Death, thy drum...
Gore upon the altar?
Somebody needs to go.
Nerves within, do not falter!
Cease, heartbeat, post slow.
Tunnel subterranean?
What in there was planned?
Hell and Heaven, sane again?
Orders countermand!
Yellow skies in harpsichord?
Fall not on thy sword!
Every matador not gored!
That's who holds the fjord!
Volcano, thy lava red;
What feeds on the dead?
Questions such about thy head!
Countenance and cred!
Shrine on top of highest hill?
Wasteland, have thy pill.
Burn the bodies, file the fill!
Giant, duress? Kill...
Spill, O blood of heart! Solve? Start.
Take the human part.
Deadly dawn upon the dart...
Terror tastes a-tart...
Thought, with intelligence? When?
How about the proof?
Setting fire to where and when?
Devil, art aloof?
Fire inspiration, thy pun.
What to do for fun?
Good sense, laddie, and reason!
Fly not close to sun!
Cold fusion, thy harpsichord.
Crystal glass a-flow.
Demon -sultan, fife and sword!
Hell and Heaven, row...
Toil and turmoil, tamarind.
Dappled roes a-fly.
O Reality, how ye thinned!
Grinned the gangrel Sly!
Water of the chasm deep?
Haunts within the sleep.
Void, abyss, around step creep!
Dragons, time to reap!
Vampires, paint thy eyes black!
Do not face the day!
Spend thy life holed not in crack!
Poisonous to pay...
Coals of dark fire, sing in me!
Fling, O fancy-free!
Dynamite and destiny!
Stay awake for she...
Harpsichord in heaven?
Cubic or spherical?
Bread, O baker? Leaven.
Just flicker as you fall...
Dancing lights apace in space?
Watch them in her face.
Ghost, vanish without a trace!
Gold, case, carapace!
Desert floor in winter?
No more than one inch, snow.
Shredder, got a splinter?
Tormented, O my foe.
Panels, dance about the night!
Sparks in porcelain!
Falcon, gather wind in flight!
How we'll meet again...
Yellow eyed priest, bid the feast!
Shepherd, are ye fleeced?
Squire, page, are the wheels a-greased?
Only if they're pieced.
Connect, O my fibers!
Build high the city walls!
If they're born to jibe, sirs;
They're bound for taking falls.
Tyrant of the borderland?
Show them how we stand!
Crush them in thy hardest hand!
Order countermand!
Silence in the place of whole?
Remotely control.
Ye gods, what is mortal soul?
Golden light a-bowl.
Harmonious is not a horrid homogenized concoction,
pulsed and blitzed in a blender mixer,
until the notes and flavors meld and gel set.
Instead it is a polyphonic pitch ensemble,
a juxtaposition of notes in counterpoint.
Chords, sounds, glissando's and voices
all intermingle as individuals,
balancing consonance and dissonance
in harmony.
When your world goes way out of tune,
discordant in cacophony,
clanging with noisy chaotic strife!
Get your harpsichord re-tuned afresh,
to sound notes of love, true blue, not bluesy bent.
Then your soul can be harmonious again
in rhythmic syncopating jam sessions,
adlibbing with your soul mates,
in a potpourri of flavors, savored
harmonious.
Long nights
transcribe me into a clacking music.
Harpsichord bones and broken keys,
nailed to an out of time tune.
A somnambulant self-winding
pipe-organ, whistles
as it pushes moments around
as if time could be saved
for later use.
A mind-locked keyboard
is stuck in the middle
of a revolving thought.
I lay down in the back row
of a horn belching bedlam;
wave weary hands at the ceiling
conducting curse words
in the dark.
You maybe my fiancce
But my wedding plans
ain't with you
I am that whore you
Imaged
Surreal but it's true.
The es of your
Conversation
The cheater you
Made into
The whore that you
Loved
The trick you turned me
Into
The hawk, when
I was a dove
If I am a Bytch
Than you are
A dog
You're ah husband
Of ah Butch
Ah
Husband of
Ah bytch.
Tell you're lover
I wish to be
Pregnant.
Turn them tricks
Some where's
Else.
Tired of being
Lonely
Can't do this by
Myself.
He played Moochie ah priah
On the harpsichord
With a five string
And percussion band.
"The sound of earth is the Music of my Soul"
Songs of the Earth will fill my ear
and bathe my soul in colors sheer.
Tender music of distant shore;
waves remind of time gone before
then lap gentle tunes against pier.
Enchanted music soothes our sphere
Soul relaxes as songs appear
tiny notes surfing on downpour.
Songs of the Earth
Earth sings of night, her gifts once near
Harpsichord songs wake lazy ear.
birds croon night music, tales of yore,
breeze hums the dreams it keeps in store.
Wees sigh on beds of gossamer.
Songs of the Earth
August 2, 2022
Let Your Muse Be Inspired - R Form Poetry Contest
by Constance La France
howmanysyllables.com = 8
A Second Place
After a long walk
I transcribed myself into piano music.
All night a harpsichord
had been jangling nerves,
rattling the same baroque concerto
over and over again.
I count I-100, then start over
counting and walking,
a clockwork organ
self-winding, always
pushing a moment before it
as if time could be saved
for later use.
The morning is mellowing out.
multiple fugal states row
in and out of salty ponds,
see-through-gulls rest
on opaque waters.
A powder wigged accompanist
pinches snuff
rams it up both nostrils
turns to an invisible audience
bows, sneezes, then farts.
Tight corseted lungs flap loose,
reveal a forgotten voice in a ribcage,
sad songs come out of its catfish mouth,
then laughing monks arrive
to dine on tongue and saffron.
The keyboard is stuck in the middle
of a thought,
a thought so long
that it pants and coughs
trying to keep up with itself.
After a long walk
I lay down in the back row
of a concerto and wave weary hands
at the ceiling
conducting next words
from tissue thin scores
and unfinished endings.
The child within us weeps at marble headstones
pallid wilting flowers dark plume wreaths scatter
harpsichord of heartbeats waltz on grey day plot
wind chime soul petals float past afterlife clouds.
Contest : A BRIAN STRAND SHORTIE
Sponsor : Brian Strand
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