In the tuneless world of mine
There I get a ring
Maybe just an ordinary ring
But from an extraordinary source.
The call from the one
It’s not just a call, it’s a moment
Similar to the first ray of sun
Entering through your window.
My once silent heart
Finds its rhythm again
In the sound of a voice
That knows how to reach me.
It isn’t the words
But the presence of someone
The breath of someone
On the other side of the call.
And suddenly,
I am reminded
That joy doesn’t knock loudly
Sometimes, it just calls.
Of all the songs
You seem to be
The tuneless one,
Less subtlety.
God's orchestra
Has dealt a hand—
More toneless rasp
Than golden strand.
I wonder if
You long to be
A star
In morning's reverie.
Do tears well up?
Perhaps that's why
You paddle more
Than flit and fly.
And yet…
I see you
Standing proud—
Such confidence
In every crowd.
You waddle round,
For pictures pose—
Such character
Without a nose.
You dress with style,
All brown and green.
There's pride in how
You peck and preen.
You're grounded,
Yet you float and glide.
No treetop nest—
You strut with pride.
So maybe I
Prejudged your tone—
Less violin,
More slide trombone.
In that, the panoply
Of life
Requires such confidence
Amid the strife.
To show us humans
Not to compare—
Just be yourselves,
Be fair and square.
And when life gives you
Orange sauce,
Puff out your chest…
Just stay on course.
O beloved Sun, that gently warms my soul,
with soft strings of saffron and golden shine,
I write this poem with symphonic stardust,
when euphonious memories soar above
clusters of sapphire butterflies,
when rainbows reflect a glow of nostalgia.
Allow the inked verses within
these maternal veins~
remind you to close your sleepless eyes,
and listen to your evergreen heart.
Fear not the unknown that veils your vibrancy;
there’s a song that lingers amidst tuneless skies,
with every note inscribed with your dulcet name,
for I pray for you in sanguine silence…
You will always be the lyrical light
guiding me to the reveries of redolent lilies.
You are the poetic reason,
I breathe phrases of hope,
when the orchid moon melts into orchards of nothingness…
Love always and evermore,
mother….
I once wished your praises to pen
O in our exclusive love den,
But most of such dreams—nine of ten,
Oh, buried were ere they began.
Poems are now bereft of words,
Our den, nestled by no more birds,
Before blossoming died have buds,
There’s no alibi to meet you.
I tried to distill me from me,
To filter my fair will from me,
And go uphill along with you,
Alas, it’s too late to meet you.
There’s darkness under a lamp
All undergrounds far too damp,
Now that I’m used to my camp,
It’s too late O to meet you.
I once wished brightness of Sun,
All shadows in life to shun,
From very Self I now run,
It’s too late O to meet you.
Flowers have lost old fragrance,
From steps hast gone usual dance,
Betwixt us two, no romance,
Far too late O to meet you.
I still carry old tuneless harp,
Old memories no longer sharp,
With life’s mixed-up woof and warp,
I wish no more to meet you.
_________________________________
Inspired by a Gujarati Poem by Rishabh Mehta
Quatrains (rhyme and refrain) |06.03.2024| lost love
Song of the Four Seasons 2-16-24
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Song of the Four Seasons
Jagged steel gray skies
Compose barren bough sculptures
Midnight days, Orion nights
White fire crystal symphonies.
Spring wriggles adagio toes,
Sunbeams thaw tuneless meadows,
Daffodils dream yellow melodies
Blossoms burst fragrant ballads.
Downbeats of summer rainstorms
Silver sonatas of moonlight
Heat rises in crescendos,
Cool waves soothe sunburns.
Scarlet scatters leafy notes,
Crisp sapphire skies motifs,
Harvest chorales of harmonies
Harbingers in orange transitions.
“What hurts the most was being close,”
remembering us as we were,
though I'm not feeling the sage moon,
nor pearl raindrops that kissed my soul.
Now I waltz to tuneless songs as~
what hurts the most was being close,
while failing syllables of love,
and “I can't find the words”to rhyme.
Maybe,”I couldn't make you see it,”
how stars in my eyes sang your name.
What hurts the most was being close,
but, drowning in your lake of lies.
“Your heart was glass, I dropped it,” so
here I swirl beneath skies of tears
forlorn memories and I, as
what hurts the most was being close.
Songs used;
1- what hurts the most was being close ~ Rascal Flatts, what hurts the most
2- but I cant find the words ~ Lady GaGa , remember us this way
3- I Couldn’t make you see it ~ Lifehouse, Blind
4- Your heart was glass, I dropped it ~ Taylor Swift, Champagne problems
Drought Orphans
Homeless clouds,
Orphans of drought,
Tattered
Wispy shreds of
Misty tapestries -
Infertile,
Rain spent
Vagabonds -
Solstice
Silent sighs,
Dry foundlings
Drifting aimlessly -
Stray itinerant waif
Clouds
Float on tuneless airs
12-8-22
Contest: Writing Challenge – Yalto Form
Sponsor: Constance La France
Syllables checked with www.howmanysyllables
The Pretty Ones
The Pretty Ones glitter
Though they are not gold
So many secrets they enfold
Within the confines of their cold
You will not resist them.
The Pretty Ones shine
By no reflected light
Their lips are silent as the night
Their eyes will put your soul to flight
You will not condemn them.
Their breath is like a Summer's eve
- Hear them laughing up their sleeves -
They will have you as they please
And you will welcome them.
The Pretty Ones await
Down in the dark:
They know their prey, they know their Mark
And to them it's all a lark
But you will not avoid them.
The Pretty Ones beckon
In soft deceit;
Time to go now, time to eat...
You will respond to their entreat
And yes, you will enjoy them.
Their touch is like the hand of Death
And even as they steal your breath
You will lay down upon the heath
And gratefully receive them.
The Pretty Ones sing
Their tuneless song,
And be it right, or be it wrong,
What's True is True, and all along
You knew you would believe them.
Autumn Chant
Grey autumn oaks chant sad airs
In the east of darkling day;
Dirge winds blow through barren boughs
Tuneless symphonies.
10-2-20
Writing Challenge - Dodoitsu
Constance La France
tuneless piano
silently singing
the truth of silence.
broken keys fallen
in the rounding path
of stiff ticking clock.
sun of love once perched
fingering the hearts
joined the joke of life.
He's on the road in his semi again
driving from two in the afternoon 'till ten
Raindrops rapping and tapping on his windshield
firmly belted in his seat and sealed
Off, he and his musings inside
as the wiper blades hum and they glide
A tuneless melody on his windshield --
to their hypnotic trance he does yield
********
Wake up sleepy head from your slumber
from the dense fog of 'drive-by-the-numbers'
Succumb not to sterile hypnosis
or to dreamless, futile neurosis
Rise up and answer life's clarion call
~ Time's too precious to miss out on it all
As a Storm Rages Past
Rabble rouser, a spring storm lets out a golden shaft
that pierces through the sky and with a loud clash,
rousing me from peaceful slumber, shatters the night.
The house heaves and sighs a powerless response
but I fear no storm, dread no tempest, and defiant
I clamor inside: ‘Let my heart sleep storm, sad flames
you will no longer stoke!’ Nothing though will still the
unsettling rumble that thunders now deep within
the cavern of my mind for a ghost I clasp and tuneless
it sings of love. But then I hear music’s many strings
pulling at my heart that rejoices knowing it may
no longer fly high on the wings of love but it will
drink from melodies that peace and joy bring.
So scat storm!
Your time is done!
And I hear its low rumble as it gently growls away.<>
GATESHEAD MUSIC
Not a storybook place of rhymes and chimes of bells
My childhood England was dark and dirty,
And instead of the skirl of bagpipes or the weeping fiddle,
There were factory sirens
And clashing steel loads on trucks to the docks.
Caught between black coal and brown ale,
I searched the streets for music and found nothing.
One day I never returned -
And note by note forgot their tuneless heritage,
Now in the silent moments of creeping age and grown children,
The steep pitch of streets down at the waters of Tyne
Draws my mind and probes the waves
Where the sound of coal dust still echoes -
And always will.
And I hear again the empty places, dark places, the places singing
My name in dialect I have long abandoned.
Somehow their music is not off-key;
And my inner melody
Seems to merge into that blackened score.
I hear its siren song and cannot shake free
Its bass notes from the balladry of my life.
Madness be a delicious cocktail with a harmonious
Hilarity of laughter ADD spices with merriment All day long.
Madness be a city in joyous turmoil expanding at the
Borders where everyone belts out a tuneless song.
Madness be in defense of insanity knowing something's off
Key.
An overwhelming wonderment about life on the other side.
Smash the bottle full throttle.
Madness be an ocean without life in its sea.
It be a world without sea on its earth.
Madness be the sun without the rain which ties the bow.
Madness be the DEATH OF LIVING life alive.
Most of all madness be madness with reason to exist.
It must persist.
FROSTY DAY IN THE CITY
Wetless day, birdless trees,
Witless denizens of metropolis
Long await the bus into
The delights of Manchester.
Townless bus waiters -
Their earphones are essential
For Deaf Man’s Buff -
Tuneless music.
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