Intonations Poems

Unintended Innuendo

So many ways to convey one's intentions -
word choices, actions, intonations -
what do I project?

Others have their own perceptions,
leading to unfortunate misconceptions
as, on me, they too, project.

Human communication is so hard.
What to take to heart, what to discard?
Who knows?

What do you think it would mean, 
do you think it is obscene, 
as I take off my clothes?

The only reason you see me in my skin
is that I am gladly trading in
my humanity.

No more voice box, brain case, opposable thumbs - 
I'm joining with my animal chums.
Goodbye, insanity!

Coming Home

Somewhere, long ago, I found myself in this world.
Since then, I've been here and there, or in corners, curled. 
I feel that I'm an intruder.  I don't belong. 
Nothing can be fathomed.  It's confusing, strange and wrong. 
I long for the day when I'll be coming home. 

I've never been ready for this place.  It's too big.  
On this long, rolling road, I drive a lonely rig. 
Everywhere I've been, I feel so alone and lost. 
Everything is transient in this land I've crossed,  
but there's a place for me, and I'll be coming home. 

Amongst the fake, I've always heard your voice that's true -  
sometimes gentle, sometimes strong, I've not forgotten you. 
Your intonations find me, in you there is no harm.
Pull me to your bosom and hold me in your arms.
Mother Earth, I'm returning to your fertile loam.
I won't leave you again, your baby's coming home.

RECITISTA part 2

simplicity
 caress
    the ear
momentary
  sounds
    &echoes
with
raw intensity
fused
in universatility
a dramatic
  paradox
in pleasant
modulation
exhuberant
  & harmonious
unique
  challenging
exploratory
fluidity
  of voice
to
  the
     inner
ear
treasures
of
  breath
emphasizes
  refrain
in
tantalising
finger prints
an
aural
  crossweaved
in
 a trace
resemblance
of
emotive
gaps
  &
    silences
mood
  & tones
variable
in pitch
of
subtle
  timbre
rhythm
&intonations
in
mutual
  equivalence
     revealed

Feelings Evoked

aIn an information culture,
evocation is more important;than
explicit saying  counts against us.
People need to be well
into believing
being educated is more
than information:
 the incoherencies
 what they’re saying,
the musicality
 of people’s voices
and intonations;
would get more
from them.
Effectively, psychoanalysis is
something other, not the coherences;
 it listens for words
that are saying more
It’s got something to do with  being;
it’s a form of listening,
not distracted by incoherence
but evoked by it.
Because it hears what’s underneath
Within or hiding.
Wanting to be found
But unable to get the words

The Inquisitor

Beyond six feet of distance 
and seven heavens of this pull of woods, 
I draw intensities of sounds and words to placements,
Calling me beyond the territories of these leaves.
My soul sought profiles of its songs 
While its proud emission and enthusiastic incision jingle,
In fields of consciousness, beyond access to semantics,
Submerging me 
in the author’s trance of phrasal phenomena; 
Telling me, “focus!” 
amidst mortal icebergs and immortal tides, 
Saturating undiluted pinnacles, 
on paths leading home 
from the author’s elements of creativity and  
Symbolism’s narration, 
by a series of innovative intonations, I have employed it. 
Yet, I am on volume one.

Frality Factor

Time place
scope and space
recover planning with
hazmat desires
actions by dissent 
proportions to unoutcomes
serial deliverance by
traveling non neural pathways
around psycho resilience via 
domestico-dysfunshun 
huma huma incestations fielding
familial inbred infestations
leading to blind intonations thereby
catapulting negative Ego equations.
Can we abide by selfless endeavors?

I Love You In 5 Languages

I love You in 5 Languages
David J Walker

How more than once 
A vestal dance 
A nights romance 
Gesticulates alone

Perchance we heard
The same music as we
Glanced through colored glasses
At the golden moon

Bowing in the ballroom
Vowing erotic promissory notes
Suspected but unconfessed 
In the street corner confessionals 

I love you said in 5 languages
While mocking  the intonations  of
foreign words and the
Meanings that one-night can hold

I will meet you in the
Abandoned public garden of
Lost calendars 
That only we can know

Flat Top Box

With fingers skipping 
across my flat top box,
an interlude echoing upon the air,
I am jettisoned into other worlds.
Acoustic tones of jazzy blues,
rings my ears and pacifies the pain.
Resonance of the wood sprite;
stresses the secrets I harbor in
the hallways of my mind;
intonations the colors of me.
Fingertips waltzing between 
ebony-floored frets;
revealing timbre that lay within, 
feelings read by cedar and spruce;
a treasured gift from the timber woods,
a altered spirit, is my guitar;
a miraculous flat-top box.

Muse Alive

No blood, no bone; 
no sinewy flesh can hide muse’s cries.

No muffler stifles; 
any trifles, of muse’s singing soul.  
A celebrant of life is muse alive.

Intonations paint, blue and pinkish skies.  
The greens and gold’s, 
of earth and time; 
how they revel in muse alive.

Muse upon her natural high; 
gifts us with her best. 
Expressions fly from muse alive.

The Tortoise Revolution

Talking softly as only a rock would do
 she rolls her tongue around then gurgles 
 leaving little ripples as far as the eye could see
 mesmerized am I 
 by a sunlit stream; 
 Squatting down I watch the little turtle struggle 
 with solid plastron and four chubby legs
 she crawls towards my feet 
 move , rescind 
 move , rescind 
 rocking her tortoise bulk up and down the stream, 
 she suddenly reminds me of an old father song 
 "Down by the lazy river "

 intonations vibrate into the lowly sky 
 leading me to a quizzical thought 
 how did the sun know where to climb? 
 I sense a kinship soul of like proportion 
 and know beyond a doubt 
 that this turtle in solidarity 
 knows me by name. 

March 26, 2019

the spiritualist spirit -

the ether is alive with oscillations
          pulsations and electric frequencies
              satellite and shortwave intonations
     invisible, yet carried on the breeze

neutrinos and photonic modulations
          infrared and x-rays, promptly spun
               ultraviolet streams and applications
     gamma rays and ions from the sun

ozone filled with radio transmission
          microwaves pass thru us constantly
               the residues of past nuclear fission
     all that we have yet perceived to "be"

I've always had an issue with believing
          the paranormal "ghosts" phenomenon
               yet, with all the atmosphere's receiving
     who am I to say what's here ... or gone?






~ 8th Place ~  in the "Ghosthunters And Spiritualists" Poetry Contest, Kevin Shaw, Judge & Sponsor.

Incoherent

Trying to understand:
in  an information culture,
evocation is more important;
explicit saying  counts against us.
People need to be well
into believing
being educated is more
than information:
less hypnotized
the incoherencies and
what they’re saying,
the musicality
of people’s voices
and intonations;
would get more
from them.
Effectively, psychoanalysis is
something other, not the coherences;
it listens for words
that are saying more,
It’s got something to do with  being;
it’s a form of listening,
not distracted by incoherence
but evoked by it.

A Fugue of Passing Fancies

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

For Grandma Carol

I'll hold fast, cling to the echo of your fading chime.
Remember the intonations of your wisdom, revel
in the moments that were a balm to my soul as it 
was young, and breaking free. 
Your blood still runs, in these veins..
alive in my journey. 
My heart beats in rememberance,
the song of my ancestors;
I'll hold it here, in this blood
that you gave and know 
that you are still with me. 
 
-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.

When Heidi Klum ( For Chris )

When Heidi Klum


Only the secrets of nights enveloping
Could hear the whisper
Heavy breath gasping
Heady whimper murmuring

The lover’s touch
A purring black panther 
Set all at once to devour her
In tender mouthfuls
Of the Teutonic fruit

The flush of blond
And flare pink-rimmed nostrils
Heidi’s lips shivered
On sensual words uttered

Had she ever known such a brute of tenderness
Such dexterous intonations
Of his finger tips
Fire by a language inscribed on his tongue
She softly moaned……. 

“C.h.r.i.s…s…s”.  

And coil un-twine to the heat of flesh
She tore the night from sleeping swans
And ragged by her arching back
To a lover of such brute tenderness
She scavenged each caress
In a German poem that made the night blush
For surrender

While the ceaseless wave took her
On the dark velvet of his skin
The beauty she was; held forever
In the press embrace of his moonlit shoulders
Such a lover she had never known
A purring black panther devours
When Heidi Klum

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