Joy, empathy, compassion
On an upward arc
An effervescence eternal
Causes bliss ignition to start.
Octaves of Love 5-15-26
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`````
Octaves of Love
Between the lines and staves
Touching the finger of eternity’s sacrifice
Pure sounds blend
As the breath of bubbling joy
Vibrates
With clear notes
In unison.
Clad with compassion
And trembling in frequencies of empathy
A new identity surges
In untarnished affinity
Into auras of flames and winter moons
And shared sunsets
Not trapped but breathing
In this fluttering portal.
Ascending scales sound
Stretch from one rhapsody to the next
Reaching into
A hollow between hallowed resonance
And the space where breath births
Rising in chromatic intervals
Toward consummation
In grace notes and evolving hues
Of perfect fifths.
Molten moonbeams
And swirling wind stars
Refine the motifs of the ageless composer
That coax the vagabond
Into harmonious vibrations
From a seed of irritation
Into a pearl
Of sheer transcendent transformation
Andante released
Into eternity’s resolution, delicate syncopation.
It’s 6.43am,
I’m awaiting my train.
I tune into the station,
Listening to the invisible spring birds
Belting a Beltane call and response;
A syncopation in freewheeling jazz tracks.
Dipperty-dee, dipperty-dar,
Dipperty-dee, dipperty-dar,
I alight the shining lines,
Slide into my seat.
Watch the sun seep up and over rooves,
The rumble and tumble of the dustbin lorry,
Barking dogs,
People in a hurry,
Mobile but fixated by scrolling truths -
Reels of what's new, what's circumstantial,
And rolling news of worlds financial.
Woo-ah woo!
I'm borrowed fleeting glances
Of dolls house windows of toy town houses,
The click and flick of kettles
As the busyness of the new day blinks in.
Full steam ahead!
Clickerty-click, clickety-clack,
Clickety-click, clickety-clack.
Then a pause.
A beeperty-beep, and a whoosh of the doors
As they slide open.
An improvisation of passengers board,
Spilling into the carriages with costa-lot coffees,
Half full.
Commuting, suited and booted into the city.
Electricity!
With a murmuration, they're away from the station.
Dipperty-dee, dipperty-dar,
Dipperty-dee, dipperty-dar,
Electric frogs call:
hospital monitors beep
in syncopation.
A life of rhythm makes a song
a signature of time, that's strong,
will make us brightly sing along -
the sentimental reason -
a quarter note, each season.
A year goes by, we count a beat.
For youth it is a special treat,
but years and breath's supply, deplete -
our sweet, melodic treasure -
four beats per single measure.
A promise, kisses and bouquets
as lovers ever fate obeys
and measures make a music phrase.
Now dig that syncopation -
a whole new generation.
The first verse, we are just a child.
Our crazy, funky beat goes wild.
We looked like Grandma when we smiled,
and though I may be dissing,
like Gramps, whose beat was missing.
But, soon, we're old women and men
and fondly we remember when,
and wish to do it all again.
Though we've been through the ringer,
we praise the song and singer.
And now that it's almost complete.
I still want to tap my feet.
I want to go to Virginia
With a girl named Virginia.
Feel the sullen breeze cross my face,
Surf over the knobby contour of my nose,
Then whiz past my ear as I hold Virginia close.
Her honeysuckle shampoo
Permeating my brain.
Both sets of our eyes gaze riverward,
Wondering if the dream had started
Or is this the magical reality
We forever wished for.
With my phaser on stun clipped at my side
We kept on along the water’s edge
Hand-in-hand. Our skin dry, warm,
And glowing, with our heads full of
Miracles and our hearts
In serene syncopation.
“The octopus’ tender tentacles tinkled like pomegranate bells ---"
Cut, Cut Cut! What the 'H' are you talking about?
‘Tender tentacles of an octopus tinkling.’ Have you gone mad, Max?
Try again now. Remember this is a H-O-R-R-O-R flick, ok?
Roll ‘em, Madman…
The sugary-sweet sensation of the syncopation of the sonata of the vivacious
vulture ---”
Cut, Cut, Cut! You HAVE flipped, haven’t you, man?
O, yes. For joy. For joy. And, of course, the spread of culture...
And I appreciate the honorificabilitudinitatibus, Dan.
_________________________________________________________
The Gandaberunda is a legendary two-headed bird in Hindu mythology.
That long word in the last line means: 'the state of being able to achieve
honors.'
'I think, therefore I am!'
I write to bang and clang,
to play with words, cast spells.
Wrangle and entangle readers,
with thoughts dredged from memories,
resonating, reverberating within selves,
aligned on shelves, waiting to join in.
An audience of thinkers shaken not stirred,
by the clang and jar of poetic,
rhythms, rhymes, images and ideas.
Rendered with razzmatazz and syncopation,
in the written words rendered,
improvised, and concocted in a group session.
On a stage, on a page,
of prismatic selves,
jamming and jarring,
banging and clanging,
jangling with Mr Joe,
in worn out shoes.
Afraid,
that no one is listening, or
that no one,
really, truly, bluesy cares?
Let the eye see, through clear, clean lenses
Not a wilderness of mirrored reflections,
Echoing biases of misconception,
But, with true perception, rid of self.
The sound I hear from out there,
A call of bird, a ring of bell,
Is not a story, memory nor a spell.
It is improvisation in staccato, syncopation.
The taste of a raindrop on the tongue,
Is not, sweet, bitter, old, nor young.
It is what tantalizing tit bits can become,
When the nose is held tight with a thumb.
When we touch with our eyes closed,
With ears muffed, befuddled,
With nose congested, blocked,
We feel what's real and selfless.
'The deaf, blind, dumb kid,
Sure plays a mean pinball'.
When the self is silenced, subdued,
Windows are opened, mirrors are shrouded.
Jazz on a billboard,
a flash of notes,
Urgent beats, syncopation, improvisation,
and impromptu solos but why jazz on a billboard?
What’s the hap’s on that?
Man, what is the impact of the word jazz on a billboard anyway?
Syncopation is alive,
solos breaking free,
and a temporary show,
but is jazz here to stay?
Does a billboard for Jazz tell us about all the arranging, playing, composing
finding a paying gig, radio spins, music reviews,
band members quitting to get out of the jazz life?
Cars whiz by, faces turned,
who cares about the sound of jazz anyway
The tenor horn says
"Listen up, Listen here
Jazz is everywhere,
and like nowhere to be found
So, dig this
Every jazz note,
every gig, every miss,
and every jazz player who lives jazz behind
Jazz shapes your life with a heartbreaking rhythm.
So, here’s to the journey,
to hip beats and downbeats
Jazz is life on a billboard,
is hip for some passers-by to see
to feel, to groove, to feel where you're at
To come alive, jazz is for real
and that's my dance in life
Just Another Bird I Met
Spasms of Feathers
Cheering in Syncopation.
Fresh, Rewarding, Rain.
-Gray Squirrel
11-11-2024
It seems there’s a certain melodious beat
discovered reusing these metrical feet.
You can’t help but tap it
first slow, and then rapid:
an odd syncopation that brings ears a treat.
H/T to Ostrich Learning to Swim by Clive Culverhouse
In my recommendation of my syncopation
Gathering of humanoids rhythmic sensations
copulation dramatization rescape Rufus reggae beats
Ginuwine Drumline rat a tat tat
attack on this yet you're all that
Blilighten crest muscles flex
myself being sweet to myself
I can release by myself
when I'm by myself
I am the glory of the rhythm person above and below dancing in the streets walking
Attuned yet sleeping awaken in summers dream
I witness
as I write this
Boom a bout' a bing drum beat
Tis beat mi rhythm my
Mine boom ta bangity crept
As I, write a beat to myself
Booya
Saddness helps, and joy distracts
It is not depression
From the both sides of each act
You get mixed impression
That’s how sun confronts the rain
With complementation
It goes over and again
Kind of syncopation
I have lost my tail of dues
Due to my conviction
If its needed, I will lose
To your malediction
I don’t mind, if you agree
Or in case you won’t
That’s how things I tend to see
From both sides they’ve got.
festivals flare up
in July’s fever
cooler instruments prevail over time
snare-drums’ syncopation
grass skirts' gyrations
blank verse douses their rhyme
Life is a song,
incomplete, yet soothing—
lullabies lulling the world to sleep
with its balladic lilt, gently swaying
to the depths of its nomadic
syncopation.
Where I can subdue archaic
hieroglyphics in hues of
rose gold notes, invading my
tentative aura, glistening upon
tragic horizons,
for the wandering seekers,
freely waltzing to arias of the moon,
escaping unsung passages to
desolate wastelands,
where fiends roam in spite;
surviving the clusters of
rain drenched clouds,
draining the life out of
sunken nocturnes,
lost in cataclysmic paradoxes
overshadowed by waves of
monotonous soliloquy.
Yet I crave the aphotic harmonies of
its flesh and bones,
cocooned in the stillness of
shadows that align,
stonewalling the
world so bent on exposing me—
finding my true element,
inhabiting where life meets its end credits,
resuscitating sentiments long forgotten,
enabling me to breathe.
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