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| Abstract Rhythms
Posted: 12/21/2006 11:14:45 AM | | Lifesoilder, that's a very unique rhythm you have going there. Thanks again! | |
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| Many expressions, but no destination!
Posted: 12/21/2006 10:55:17 PM | Lest I vanish in self-illusion, I explode in conveyance.
Alas, I have pushed past the limits.
You have been to me my soul.
My hand was gripped tightly, through the whole process of birth.
Those pangs I held solemn sanctified in my minds visions.
I now drift.
You are my root.
But just as deadly as untillaged pain.
I escape you, just as father did.
I return.
You gave to me a new friend;
My now cultivated past destruction.
I give you credit, you closely destroyed me.
Just as the root attempted to, my off shooting branch, anciently detached.
But I’m always reborn to thy tomb; this life, my labyrinth womb. | |
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| Many expressions, but no destination!
Posted: 12/21/2006 11:21:44 PM | A season of joy for some;
A season of misery for others;
I’m often at a lost of words when it comes to this very discussion.
But my discernment is keen. So I mirror you,
Opposed to being forced to suffer you, in agony’s portrait;
What doth he speak upon?
Only time shall tell!
And one day you too
May be lucky enough to embrace this Truth,
Opposed to existing hell;
I am merely a vision.
Here today, here tomorrow
But never completely present in thought;
Though always with us all in heart;
Seeing as we do when the third eye beckons anew;
Sometimes wondering where has the innocence journeyed;
Longing to be at that exact locality;
For unless it’s completely pure in its gesture, I have a difficult time smiling in return.
How about you?
Thus this ringeth true?
All of these tunes spoken in riddle.
Such coquettish souls we have become
Familiar with it all; therefore it all remains unchanged
Unless blessed with a child to spring life anew. | |
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| Abstract Rhythms
Posted: 12/22/2006 12:11:04 AM | I love nothing, nothings lovely
Ain’t it lovely to be something
that’s a total lack of something
a canvas blank
let’s paint some war
put a rose in the middle
let them ask what for
a splash of ego
no picture lacks
a train the focal point
steady on its tracks
the paint’s not pure
dust in the air
do you see the picture
or cynically stare | |
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| Abstract Rhythms
Posted: 12/22/2006 8:48:16 AM | River, Light, Tapestry
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Not sure as to be jubilant or saddened
As I see your conflicted ways, a haunting of the soul
Within one measure, your spirit tumbles down
Tumbling from your purple and violet tapestry
To the conscious rumblings of an orange river of feelings
Then hath been lifted once again through paths of self introspection
Whence again reaches out to satiate through a bright blue light
From the pages seen in telling through words, a song, a unique vibration
The struggle to leave this place is daunting, fearsome, and immobilizing
You drearily fall off to slumber, not with any vibration other than her vex
"Ah!", to then awaken without her sound, you seem captured, defeated!
But the iridescent glow of her orange river cannot be denied
So I watch you spinning through your rhythms, burning all the while
Wishing to slow you down, to cause your message to be seen clear!
Only in connection of the river, the light, and the keenly woven tapestry!
Tenz~ © 2006 T. Scott | |
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| Abstract Rhythms
Posted: 12/23/2006 3:12:21 PM | I am but a Shepard.
In journey of the Bishop of this soul;
In search of the one that holdest the scepter of eternity.
This is what I’ve sought; and this is what has embraced me.
I drink the wine of the condemned.
Condemned to this freedom; accountable for my actions;
And I’m a young lion without a harem.
Who can but prophesy my terror?
I climb this last mountain with this breach is my wave.
I swim through this last current backslidden without warrant.
I affront the tide; awaiting proudly retaliation.
The virgin has fallen; but no tears of repentance therewith;
And no wedding chimes to redeem the first Blood.
The prudent shall but keep silent;
For the king saith thus, “I doeth what is righteous.”
And that righteousness is froward to written law.
What hypocrisy!
Might is made to be reckoned as right.
Wherefore must I perish of this third curse?
While nonetheless he liveth! | |
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| Abstract Rhythms
Posted: 12/23/2006 3:18:26 PM | Lifesoldier! I like that paradoxical rhythm. It’s amazing how Truth will burst free and reveal a piece of us to ourselves. I thank you for posting here.
Intenze! Though you speak in abstracts; you sprinkle the audience with hidden Truths, just know that I hear you; and I thank you for what you bring to my thoughts. | |
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TiMwM
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Joined: 10/3/2006
Msg: 83 | |
| Abstract Rhythms
Posted: 12/23/2006 7:21:08 PM | rhythm.......
chewka chewka
rhythm.......
chewka chewka
rhyme..
chewka
in time
chewka chewka chewka
bowm bowm bowm
twang....
chewka chewka chewka
bown bown uh..ooh.....
chewka chewka chewka
me 'n the band we got rhythm....
chewka chewka...
sorry for the babble but thanks and happy holidays man | |
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| Abstract Rhythms
Posted: 12/23/2006 8:19:44 PM | Oblique conversations
Deceiving this heart
This scrupulous sometimes double tongue has me led astray
Double-talking with such a credulous masterpiece
Enchanted
By this bittersweet
My virtuous
Intangible bliss
I’ve desired ye since the birth of our proverbial kiss | |
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| Abstract Rhythms
Posted: 12/23/2006 10:25:37 PM | Topic to topic
To once embrace me in innocence
Forsaken me not now
I yearn for that morning star
Beckoned, “here I am”
Resounding in that inner heart
This soul
Forsaken not the mercy
Falsehood she was
Subsisting with a blemish
How we yin to purge the past
Though blinded by shadowed cravings
I beckoned ye late
But months prior she crossed over
My purest memory
Threatened by corruption
Grant redemption to the dead
Some were just deceived
I thank thee
For bringing destiny home | |
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| Abstract Rhythms
Posted: 12/25/2006 8:51:33 AM | Shepherd
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am but a Shepherd
One with many lambs to shelter
In love, mercy, and fortitude
Always firm like steel
My staff is mighty, I parry
Always vigilant and able to shield
Cross winds blowing from the east
Mounted upon the crest
Surveying the countryside
I gaze hand shielding the morning sun
In the distance I see them now
Traversing across the terrain
Moving slowly with deliberation
Inching up the mountain
I watch from the distance
To see four weary travelers
On a long trek to Sinai
Let it be seen of their resolve
Light I offer for the journey...
Tenz ~  | |
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| Abstract Rhythms
Posted: 12/25/2006 7:47:38 PM | En passant (casual)
This could be the last trumpet.
I must face reality now.
Though I still plague the valleys for all that is mystic.
My one last plea, my fiat!
Hear me now; how many dare listen to the whispers!
I possess this penchant desire for all the answers.
Ye hear me not.
I feel entelechy awakened.
My last afflatus warning;
“This could be the first trumpet.” | |
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| Abstract Rhythms
Posted: 12/25/2006 8:56:14 PM | All In My Day
With speed, my fingers fly across this page reflective of the hours that have sped before this time when I dashed between cars and rumbling taxis and buses filled with those in a hurry to begin their day, or end their night, jostling with bags and packages and the NY Times, and they mirror the drumming, pounding of my blood.
The jet plane overhead soars high and yet it is not fast enough for those who find the Concorde becoming passé, & who dream of Rocket ships hurtling through space, that make them hope they might someday be in two places, at the same time.
With swiftness my notes flew to distant places today, and landed with a hollow click upon an associate’s screen that she might quickly print it and fax it off to yet another, impatiently waiting, as the second hand raced by.
I jammed my lunch into my stomach as I hastily followed it with a cola that spilled onto my desk and papers, and made me waste time, time, time that was not going to wait for me today.
I mopped up the mess with anxiety ridden tissue, as my Timex remained a constant reminder that life keeps on ticking, ticking, ticking - scurrying away like a mouse with a forbidden piece of crumb tucked into its cheek with a red & yellow tabby hot on its heels.
Five o’clock bursts onto my digital, flashing, quartz movement display, a gift from a thoughtful friend, that sits upon my desk, set there to remind me, remind me, remind me of all I had sought to accomplish today, and yet failed to.
I matched pace for pace the rushing throngs scattering in all directions as they poured forth from the buildings & whooshing elevators. I sat on my bus mentally urging it onward much as a chariot master urges his steed, as it needled its way through traffic and spinning bright lights.
With refuge in sight, I flew up the stairs taking them two at a time, spilled myself into the room where you waited – Patiently. quietly, waited, waited, waited.
I felt the seconds s l o w, ticking, ticking, ticking and finally tickling my ear, and the staccato of my heart began to match the rhythm of the grandfather clock that hides in shadow in the corner of the room– Steady, steady, steady - a rhythm unnoticeable at first, almost foreign, as I sought to catch my panting breath, before it finally ended in a sigh.
It was this sigh, I thought inaudible over the now hushed beat of my heart that drew you close to me, to gently touch my cheek, and tilt my chin in such a way that your eyes met mine and glowed with soft whispers that I struggled to hear, hear, hear yet knew the meaning of instinctively.
The slowness your smile, as your finger leisurely traced a stray hair on my forehead & found its way down my nose to my lips, to linger there a moment or two, or three, stilled me. Your mouth parted and then met mine, as if you knew all along that this was what I rushed through my day for….longed for…hoped for...yearned for. What gave me away?
D.R Feb/ 2006 | |
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| Abstract Rhythms
Posted: 12/25/2006 8:58:27 PM | Listen to my heart
It speaks of the beat & staccato & rhythm and the hard tattoo of feet upon asphalt; of honking horns, & noise and of neon in colors that a rainbow would not recognize and Crayola has no name for.
It speaks of tunneled, rushing trains and hailed taxis manned by Abdul, or Chan, or Krishna, and of double decker buses, stretch limousines, and of speeding bikes & horse drawn carriages.
It speaks of dull street lights, bright flashing lights, police strobe lights and of stately oak trees reaching for errant sun light.
It speaks of store fronts in December decked with blinking lights and of noses pressed against the glass to watch the mechanical wonders brought out only once a year, in their entire garish splendor.
Listen to my heart
It speaks of park benches laden with aching feet & lovers whose eyes are oblivious to all as they gaze only at each other, and of old newspapers that serve as night time blankets against the damp chill of spring- for those that call this bench home.
It speaks of three card monty that lures the wallets away from tourists as their cameras snap and their necks hurt from constantly looking upward or glancing down at street maps bought for $5.00 at Duane Reed.
It speaks of mobile luncheonettes where, for 2 bucks, you can dine on dirty water franks smothered in red onions or hot, salty pretzels or prized roasted chestnuts- all the while barely losing your stride.
It speaks of quaint little streets of brownstones and elms and of soaring steel, glass and brick, gargoyles & spires, and of the lonely little church that is squeezed in between the peep shows and sex shops.
It speaks of statues that shout the history of long forgotten heroes and serve as cold chairs for pigeons that tire of walking as they peck at the crumbs inadvertently dropped, or perhaps tossed there purposefully by some soul that is uniquely grateful for their incessant cooing.
Listen to my heart
It speaks of dog walkers and dog fanciers and canopied buildings where capped and epauletted sergeants at arms will prevent you from opening your own door, for a generous tip at year’s end.
It speaks of money talking and bullshit walking and the well placed tenner getting you an envied table ahead of the restless queue of hungry throngs that want to see and yearn to be seen.
It speaks of show stopping melodies, forgettable numbers, The Met, Carnegie, Lincoln Center, the symphony, and of street serenaders who hawk their talents for a bit of spare change and scattered applause.
It speaks of art galleries & museums and spray painted graffiti created by would- be Picassos and Rembrandts and by those that just need to leave a sign that they were here.
It speaks of wannabes, has-beens and of never-would-bes, of colorful bag ladies, and of ladies with colored bags that announce Gucci, Cartier, Sachs & Bergdorf to all that will listen.
It speaks of the Dollar Store & Radio Shack and of Sidewalk Specials at whose tables $30 will get you a Rolex or a Vuitton handbag that have never once been seen by Wilsdorf or Louis.
Listen to my heart
It speaks in Greek, Italian, Spanish, Russian, Korean, Swahili, and in Chinese, Yiddish, German, and Gaelic & in the many languages of Ellis Island, and of the huddled masses yearning to be free.
It speaks of ship yards & Fulton Street, Mott Street & Canal Street, the Diamond Exchange, the Flower District, and Wall Street. It speaks of Fifth Avenue, Madison Avenue, Broadway, Times Square and of Chelsea, the Village, Hell’s Kitchen, SoHo, Harlem, Bryant Park and Central Park and Washington Square.
It speaks of crowded but silent elevators, of curt nods & averted eyes and invasion of space.
It speaks of muggers & street gangs, & children that are lost - on purpose and without a purpose or just stolen away, and of $1800 a month studios, million dollar penthouses
& 25 bucks-a-night flop houses and free for a night shelters.
Listen to my heart
It speaks of strength, and hope & a phoenix-like resurgence to rebuild bigger & better from the ashes & the shattered glass & twisted iron. It speaks of survival, of treasured days, of gifts not yet opened, of tomorrows yet to be, and of creativity and imaginations not yet shared or even thought of.
It speaks of humanity… at its worst….and at its best.
Listen to my heart
And hear New York.
DR/Dec.’05 | |
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| Abstract Rhythms
Posted: 12/25/2006 9:31:43 PM | Fiat!
The achromatic existence of a warrior;
Driven by the chroma of this one-sighted cause;
I’m a rebel.
Can ye envisage this soul’s mimetic adventure?
“If you’re not living good I beg you, travel wide.”
“You must be blue.” | |
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| Abstract Rhythms
Posted: 12/25/2006 10:08:38 PM | Wow! This is a most vivid and enthralling poem, BronxSweetheart. And I thank you for posting it in this forum.  | |
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| Abstract Rhythms
Posted: 12/26/2006 11:36:10 AM | Riddles
“You place Spirit in a tomb.
First to ravish Souls from mother’s womb!
This is not the will of God.
Bear witness of the manifold riddles.
From the bosom to declaration!
I confess I am not the Christ.
I merely was summons to this path of affliction.
Show me a man of no guile.
Baptize me in lies!
Beguile me surmised.
Wash me in thorns.
Drench my mother’s visions in blood.
I bear record.
Thou shall see great things.
But who can know the heart.
It rattles to its cultivated chant.
Feel the water pots with water.
He fell into sudden trances.
And the scribes repeated his words in script.
But how much later was that particular derivation.
And now ye scorn the latter!
I know all man.
I know what is in man.
Rabbi, thou art a teacher.
How do I enter the second time?
Can a man cometh from his mother’s matrix twice?
Bear me witness.
My joy is now fulfilled.
Receive this testimony.
Give me not the Spirit in measures.
Drench me therein!” | |
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| Abstract Rhythms
Posted: 12/27/2006 12:05:23 AM | I slow down mentally
Sipping this tea, wisdom’s leaf that is
My heart gradually is galvanized
The spirit’s energy is amidst
And I dearly know the source
My most intimately reliable source
My stem, my sanity, my vision | |
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| Abstract Rhythms
Posted: 12/27/2006 2:05:38 AM | "i slow down mentally"
that feels very good
i read this to myself over and over. Now i feel calm | |
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| Abstract Rhythms
Posted: 12/27/2006 5:14:19 AM | Sip on your tea my love
it's a seed you create
I dare not taste
in lust I will not waste
Grow in my heart
with keys
choked in irons
galvanized in shape
you know this heart?
Spirits
run wild
in peace
is all I ask
nor control I have
I wish I knew the source
for then I could converse
damn me
and dame you
I planted the seed within you
now grow my dear
with a stem I ask
beauty in your growth I bleed
for no colour I still see
the flower within
yet purity of love...in enternity
give me a color?
I see love in purity
show me
otherwise
another color
I dare
without a spell
no thoughts
just in purity
no dare my luv
I'll find my own way home
like you did in spirit
my arms
open wider than all you know
voices in insanity
whispering
welcome home
my sister
u meed not ask
I will be your rock
without the edit
just free from heart
he never ever asked
do you uderstand? | |
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| Abstract Rhythms
Posted: 12/28/2006 11:14:57 AM | Alwaysdraming2006! I mused over this poem very gingerly with eyes keen as a fallen dove.
I realize that what’s written isn’t always the same as what’s received by the reader.
I find that an artist is moved, thus we compose; sometimes without a telic thought in mind. I find that this is the beauty to it all; to compose a work of art unbeknownst to ourselves.
Every poet here in these poetic forums has accomplished this; and it’s a moving revelation to be part of this Mystic Mystique.
I thank you for this art of magical movement! It has moved me into the next pleat of creation! | |
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| Abstract Rhythms
Posted: 12/28/2006 11:16:22 AM | Lifesoldier! I’m humbled! But I realize that what we see in a poetic composition is the spirit’s motion reaching out to others through the vessel summonsed to compose.
I’m pleased that a common moment to us all can be placed in script and therefrom bring the latter comfort.
Happy New Year… To One and All!
NaiveandWitty! | |
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| Abstract Rhythms
Posted: 12/28/2006 11:17:19 AM | Ephod’s Esoteric Surrealism!!!!
Hearken to the voice of these Chaldeans if ye dare
A private muse in troth, strength lost
And the Assyrians move in haste, the bloodiest chase
The down fall of Nebuchadnezzar has arose prophecy
For nothing otherwise than blaspheming what’s holy
“To whom is the arm of the Lord Revealed.”
This indubitably is an esoteric muse concealed
Offend me not!!!!
Number me not with the feckless that fain deceive
The present surely is a desolate city deceived
“My thoughts are not your thoughts”
There in witness is only a deteriorated pile of salt
“Incline your ear unto me.”
“A root out of a dry ground”
No comely-ness is found therein the ethical!!!!
NO DECEIT IN HIS MOUTH
Then destroy him!!!!
Who planted such this seed of iniquity?
Stones have been laid with precision
“No weapon formed against thee shall be able to prosper
Hearken and thy soul shall liveth
O thou afflicted tossed with tempest and not comforted;
Unto thee even the sure mercies of David”
Ephod’s Esoteric Surrealism!!!! | |
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| Abstract Rhythms
Posted: 12/28/2006 11:31:03 AM | BronxSweetheart, I just reread your works. Wow! You have a mind that captures each moment in picture perfect detail. Those writes are shockingly amazing. What I now hear in my mind is, chase the passion and never quit!
You have the gift! | |
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| Scream it unto Self!!!!
Posted: 12/28/2006 11:42:35 AM | Ah! A triple unction I beseech
A quadruple anointing to teach
Despite the wounds that leached
I thank you Jehovah for enclosing them in peace
Hearken to this channel Ephod
This, mentally echoes in the loudness of still audible force
Wash me pure, I AM
Purify me clean with the mind of Christ
Let us reason together
Has Jah not opened ye up a window
And poured ye out blessings
And ye befoul the holy with Satan’s tease
Ah! I fear that soothsayers hath blinded thee
Pray to the Father directly
Even the Greatest humbleth themselves
Hear that small still voice
Ah! A triple unction I beseech
A quadruple anointing to teach
Despite the wounds that leached
I thank you Jehovah for enclosing them in peace | |
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