colors and sparks
her eyes were changing
drinking deep love’s
endless sky and sea
do i still believe
my life will be glorious
as when i was young
looking out to my self
The vulnerable honesty of a poem connects the souls of its creator and reader. It thus forms an essential tool of emotional communication.
stuck in caged morasses
makes hard to sing of flying
then again it’s all some have
i write my best
but then i rest
most of your loveliness
cannot be spoken
dream of a byzantine city
shared lights and delights
of long-faded beings
leaving them mornings
i too share their death
none of the angels wore wingtips
grownups displaying
directness like children
banned from societies’ make-believe
where are the forests
where fairies danced
or at least our imaginations
when the heart sings
all the earth rings
i write my poetry at night
with nobody listening but i
don’t tell me this is our song
because we’ll get sick of it some day
Consciousness is a neural network’s awareness of separateness from observations.
good poetry is a stirring
to the wind chimes of our minds
the poem proved
a bridge too far
he fell through a ceiling
while reaching its star
in musical landscapes
of wallpaper patterns
it’s almost a relief to hit our shin
on an ankle biting coffee table
he wants to go back
to hearing the music
that years ago stopped
playing in his heart
in wayward dreams
she is still with him
doing the things
she left him for
she doesn’t understand
my music
too loud
too weird
too everything
the leaves were this color
that you would not know
since you only look at them fallen
we think that we know how to live
because we watch it on the screen
we just don’t get around to it
because we watch it on the screen
what if machine guns
sang happy tunes
instead of screaming
attackattackattack
the smell of
undead fish and sun
clean sand
washed every fifteen seconds
he wondered how sun
would taste on his tongue
or rains felt in his veins
if toes were roots
and fingers were leaves
and life and nature were one
A good song for me starts with words and their meanings - to which I then give more aural expression.
i know all is one but i am not done
paddling hard to get in the flow
that’s what i need to focus on
his life’s goal was
to manifest love
so when he died
it would still carry on
you are if i go
that’s all i want
because i’ll be in your mind
guitars won’t sing
without strings attached
hearts in a fling
are in a way matched
carrying reverberations
listening to cuts
of many years back
embedded they open again
i often think
where mankind would be
if no one were willing
to fight one another
your folds unfold
to let me dream on steel
i know now bed
why you have rolls
but not a steering wheel
how can i not sing
of my love for her
and live it every day
she makes me
so much better a man
than ever i hoped to pray
the moon made me rise
and want to be wise
about our life and love
some day we’ll sing
to different moons and suns
entrusting them with similar wants
he never knew
whether falling silent
or jumping right in
was what beauty called for
few feelings as raw
as a plugged-in guitar
to play with her tension
share screaming attack
feeding back
to the hair on my neck
my heart cannot read
it just looks at pictures
my poems come with pictures
but i try to build them
in readers’ minds
la lune est le fond
d’une bougie allumée
the moon is the bottom
of a lit candle
To me, Beethoven is the father of rock. His is the first music that aspires to and benefits from being played on “eleven.”
spare me the drama
he thought in the theater
i’m merely here to be seen
blameless you are
for craving escape
fairy tale dreams
and visions of beauty
yet soon return
and face the ugly
lest you be eaten by life
poetry is a dance of words
dance poetry without them
not all poetry
is spun gold
some is more
like string cheese
Before one can write worthwhile poetry, one must understand the difference between imagination and pretense.
some guitars
resemble women
this one’s a blonde
in tight black leather pants
In poetry, we must resist the temptation to assume that mellifluous words equal truth.
dreaming her say
i’ll be there
when you need me
i cannot wait
to wake knowing that
you follow my fingers
play the baby grand
what i play next
is in your mind and hand
© 2013-2017 BY MARTIN JANELLO