Long Crescendoing Poems
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We Are The Watchers
by Stark Hunter
Into the breach the multitudes surge,
Into the crushing breakers and
Beyond the sucking mindless tides,
Down down into the whirring, rushing confluence,
Precipitously we fall and slide,
Tenuously and tragically we slip.
We are the watchers of the wasted!
We are the watchers of the dancing dead!
We have seen them bring in the living.
We have silently closed our eyes to their madness.
We are the watchers of the delirious and of the distressed.
Falling, falling trying to seize a toehold,
Trying to stop desperately this inevitable plunge,
This meshing melting plummet,
This fatal succumbing to hate and ignorance,
This downward drowning into the watery abyss of anarchy,
This insane enveloping
This resounding de-evolution into one massive heartbreak.
We are the human machine!
That lurches and stalls in the swell,
Spewing bloody angst
And the sooty smoke of smothering fear.
We are the star climbers!
The mountain gazers!
We are the watchers of the wasted.
We are the watchers of the diseased.
We have seen them bring in the living
We have seen the fires of Armageddon!
Burning burning furiously in the firmament,
And we have heard the crescendoing cries of the forgotten.
We are the watchers of the wasted!
We are the watchers of the dancing dead!
Bolero builds in intensity,
the interplay of instruments
crescendoing; soft to loud.
Ravel’s music haunting my dreams
Chimera of swells crashing, Everest
ever-reaching for God’s palm.
The texture of a piece of art —
layer upon layer of a singular sunset.
A flute of tangerine, clarinet - cluster of grapes,
strawberry-bassoon, then the e-flat clarinet.
Add the solo oboe d’amore — life and love
from Eden ‘til now, the delightful garden
vaingloriously springs up trumpets of red.
Ravel’s music haunting my dreams.
Chimera of swells crashing, Everest
ever-reaching for God’s palm.
Shall I name them all one by one?
The crescendoing, the crashing,
each lovely creature has a name
and the symphony soars; we see them
climb up the stairs, into the stars.
One thinks Ravel’s still playing,
adding in the orchestra pit clouds,
for we must know there is
an ever burgeoning stand of instruments.
Ravel’s music haunting my dreams
Chimera of swells crashing, Everest
ever-reaching for God’s palm.
1/20/2020
Definitely beautiful
The most beautiful I've seen
Who could ever fathom
I'd know my girl of dreams
My sweetheart, she's so talented
She sings like no one can
And when I fall asleep tonight
I'll dream of her again
Sometimes my dreams get crazy
Scenarios afire
Crescendoing intensity
Fill me with desire
I stand behind my princess
My arms around her waist
I whisper that I love her
A gentle kiss is placed
She turns around to face me
Our eyes lock in a stare
Our lips are getting closer
'Til not much space is there
My name in sotto voce
Her signal says okay
Our mouths then lock impassioned
Let's stay this way all day
I desperately gasp for you to save me,
as your indifference begins to remove all remaining traces of oxygen from my searing lungs.
Asphyxiation becomes more imminent.
Cortisol burns through tearing muscles,
ripping the marrow from aching bones, flailing to tread water.
Exhaustion floods in; saline-soaked clothing weighs heavier.
A siren’s call pierces through obscured waves,
crescendoing under a stygian sky,
tempting me under.
Dread replaces pleading.
Hope of survival is now beyond any comprehension.
Your voice no longer lingers;
it’s superseded by forceful whispers:
“If to love you, I must drown.”
Realisation hits like a tsunami crashing upon an unsuspecting ship.
To truly love you, I must love myself.
You were never my salvation.
So I must drown in this sickening sea of anguish,
let all the trauma pull me down into sheer oblivion.
Feel my body thrash as the light leaves my submissive eyes.
In order to be reborn, I must ascend way below.
I don’t need to be told what I’ve seen
whether it’s real or a sinister scheme
I need a world where I know the rules
which we call wise which we call fools
Where the lines in the sand are a lot less hazy
and people agree on who people call crazy
But the lines in the sand have gone every which way
from the truth of obscurity growing each day
We’re a nation of leaders who’ve lost their way
where all are consumed of crescendoing fray
skulking in darkness on weakness we prey
leaving in question what’s lighting our way
This dreariness some are beginning to feel
the mental fatigue of discerning what’s real
Confusion and chaos have run us aground
far from the winds in our sails we had found
I don’t need to be told what I’ve seen
but I fear what I’ve found that remains of the scene
folks with no compass no maps and no guide
colliding in wastelands of deepest divide
Where is the ground upon which we can stand
steady behind the lines drawn in the sand?
For what shall we fight still united as one?
For what shall we die when it’s all said and done?
~Jeannie Cronin
Robin Redbreast
Spring is here, and the robins appear
With morning and evening song in the air.
A robin redbreast perched in a tree
Sings a song for his lady bird-to-be,
Undeterred, as he awaits her answer,
Crescendoing to drown out the others.
His heart afire, his senses alert,
He preens his feathers between the chirps
And breathes deep as his chest puffs out;
Then, music vocals produced by the syrinx
Flow out from his bill, calling to his sweetheart
In refrains to arouse her curiosity.
And if successful, she’ll fly in his direction
To check out his worthiness and description.
An idea whispers,
sneaking in on cat’s paws,
a sly grin curling at the edges,
as I sip morning coffee, unaware.
It dances on tiptoes,
skipping across my mind,
twirling, pirouetting,
a ballerina in a china shop.
My thoughts, the porcelain,
shatter in its wake,
crashing into shards of laughter,
a mosaic of giggles on the floor.
It tumbles through my synapses,
cartwheeling, somersaulting,
a circus of delight,
each neuron a ringmaster shouting, "Encore!"
Tickles burst forth,
feathers of fancy flitting,
an avalanche of absurdity,
rolling me in fits of frivolity.
Ideas sprout wings,
fluttering like butterflies,
their colors a riot,
a kaleidoscope of belly laughs.
I am a marionette,
strings pulled by whimsical hands,
jerked into jigs of joy,
my sides aching with mirth.
Words spill like marbles,
rolling across the floor,
slippery, tumbling,
each one a new guffaw.
An orchestra of hilarity,
crescendoing, a symphony,
each note a tickle,
a crescendo of cackles.
I am breathless,
tears streaking,
sides splitting,
the world a blur of comic chaos.
In this delirium,
sense takes a backseat,
as I am whisked away,
tickled silly by a notion’s glee.
Antithesis
In May, the lion’s ear blooms immaculately,
As if the night sky is on fire.
It excretes a ravishing untarnished beauty,
A mesmerizing compelling beauty
Only the mad mystics and poets can discern.
Here, put on these rubber sandals;
The pair with the ostrich plumes,
For the walkway to my hidden tower is replete,
With thorns, bristles and stickers; the ladder there
Has splinters that anesthetize one’s toes,
Your plump white toes with the crimson polish,
Applied there like bloody footsteps on murderous floors.
There is nothing we can do to offset the numbing,
Except, pretend we never met or kissed that time,
When we decided to dare the gods of crescendoing passion.
I remember you decided unilaterally
To disrobe inside my ‘72 Land Yacht,
For fear of eternally disappointing me.
“Here, take my hat and cover yourself.”
Indeed, you are the antithesis of me.
But now, let us walk to my high garlanded tower,
A mile and a quarter from here,
Where we will sit naked on velvet carpet,
And rub thumbs in the candle light,
As Debussy music inundates our sated senses,
From speakers attached to the walls like bison heads,
Surrounded by insect-slaughtered window panes,
And glass bongs that spew atoms of electric sex.
Relax honey, it’s wonderful you’re so open-minded.
Relax, you will love the interesting insides
Of my tall and comfortable tower, where
We will observe the unfolding continuing tragedies,
Of dire human existence; it will be
Just like reading old newspapers from 1968, black print
Still greasy with unslaughtered fish, complete
With disastrous headlines no one wants to remember. But
We, you and I, will remember them, and weep a little,
When the mad dancing inevitably commences,
Here, inside and beside our grinding bodies.
Look over there, honey.
Do you see the lion’s ear blooming immaculately?
Do you hear their soft cries whimpering in the night,
Like virgin lovers squealing in the darkness?
Yes honey, we can hear their invisible sighs and moans,
From the top of my high
And comfortable tower.
The American Morning
We ride smoothly, deliberately, in this old cruising caravan,
Across the ancient American avenues and boulevards,
Of the once living, and now, the finally dead,
Of the once famous, and now, the finally forgotten;
Of tattooed memories applied in the American morning, cooking
In the back kitchen, with yellow-yoked eggs frying rapturously,
Like monstrous hoards of buzzing locusts, out to kill,
In black pans, sizzling and searing sensationally;
With mysterious, soulful realizations of disappearing time,
The heavenly odors of bacon fat, rising to the old-fashioned clouds,
We come here to turn the radio dial, in this summer of winning and losing;
But now it is all turning, turning as the shadows of life should turn,
For life is the now of when and why; and we all know now,
What ‘s waiting and lurking behind the curtained door.
“No, kind sir, you go first through the door, sir, if you please.”
But as we ride now through these blighted snapshots in time,
This creeping caravan from the American morning comes to a halt.
Through the windshield and into the American night, old eyes see
A crowd of black ballplayers, gathering in Harlem on East River Avenue,
Looking to get inside the big ball yard, with the Babe, the Yankee Clipper,
And the Iron Horse, hitting fungoes over the EL station, over there,
Dressed in over-sized pinstripes, dripping in dirt and tobacco juice,
Tipping sweat-stained caps to the roaring, crescendoing ovations,
Thundering upward and through the airy reaches of the big ball yard,
Somehow do not reach their ears; still, they run fast, as if being chased,
Run faster than all the dead baseball gods of the American morning!
But now it is all turning, turning as the shadows of life should turn,
For life is the now of when and why; and we all know now,
What’s waiting and lurking behind the curtained door.
“No, kind sir, you go first through the door, sir, if you please.”
We’re spinning in circles, more of the same
induced to cut loose from this coiled regime
As our heads are enveloped with this unending earworm:
the land is burning, hope is going, when can we get out?
Dining on our daily portion of despair
suicides ripple through, crippling the status quo
We hear an ever-crescendoing whisper to a roar:
the land is burning, hope is going, it’s time now to get out!
Answer what informs your constitution,
Gain it back–traverse! And disperse it even more
Respite seldom hinges on overcoming what’s to come—
when the land’s burning and hope’s going, it’s the time to get out