In spring’s quiescence she waits
Misplaced and dreaming
Until the whisper loves her
Chopin’s Etude in E
Gathers her as other girls might blossoms.
In the fresh green scent of summer
Her raucous passion mingles with a rustling of trees
As Liszt’s Consolations run through
The dark tang of turbulence and notes disconsolate
Gather her as flowers might other girls.
In autumn’s receding light
Stripped to a kind of essence
The girl wanders timeworn and bloodied
A Brahms Intermezzo in B flat
Gathers her like fallen leaves.
Even in the exile of winter’s Golgotha there are notes
Where your song-making stars are visible
And she’s yours
A wayfarer who’s always grabbing her hat
Tripping along behind
Trying to keep up
The desperate lover, a child wanting to follow you.
copyright Kira Tsen 2019
Woe-betide your viperous whispers
your caffeine-enriched expletives
as our parlous rumba rant begins
ah, but you are a grand dancer
sovereign half-pint of illogical moods.
Next up, a counterweight
an upsurge of well-honed
wooing sans warning
erupting in haloes
of cherubic footwork
as your cheranga changes step.
Now here we go
both honeyed and tart
we swing our mambo combo
in infinite variation
as I am undone
in festoons of tears
sobs of laughter.
And every unwieldy saltation
is a whirling gift
for our fleeting mom and boy mambo.
More Poetry at Author's Den
She’s obsessed with him
as we watch
her favorite man in literary history
it’s a very well made production by the way --
It excites her that his character is Aspergerish
has this fast way of talking, just as she does
and isn’t it so funny that no one can keep up
with him, or her, no one. Not one.
But I’m Watson, I can see that as I watch
her face, her amused bemusement, to her
I’m the commoner slow speaking
made-with-all-the-ordinary hinges and bolts
mortal, but she –
she’s able to memorize dates, hairs
on a pant leg or the Fibonacci series, prime number
calculations in her spare time
all the shadows, only taking what she truly wants
from the pantry or whichever cases challenge her
turn up the volume! I’m getting
old and I’m trying to lip read
Watson’s hot, I like Watson’s
sweet nature, but she
Copyright 2018. Christine Tsen. All rights reserved.
My poems are in THRUSH Poetry Journal, Vine Leaves Literary Journal, Requiem Magazine, The Bark, Utmost Christian Online, The Weekenders Magazine, Cyclamens and Swords, The Camel Saloon, Big River Poetry Review, The Artistic Muse, Poetic Pinup Revue, The Legendary Poetry Magazine, The Rusty Nail, Pyrta Journal, The Eunoia Review, Autumn Equinox issue of Mused, Broad!, Blue Lake Review, Defenestration, The Montucky Review, and Emerge Literary Journal.
A quivering in the dead brush, ghosting of a velvet flute
holds me close
scales up and down flickering wings through vanishing time.
Upstairs, a rock-a-bye atmosphere tinged with birdsong
my father in his soft shirt smelling of leaves and smoke
his song of wilderness flowing unfinished.
Mother is downstairs near a ruffling of curtains
rounding her shoulders at the sink, reddening knuckles
in her perishable world.
She worries as she hums, vigilant
over quotidian life and lump-free gravy
as my memory blurs into abstractions, a cigarette's final spark.
Here I lay
doubled up in the pitched tent of now, memories unfurling
captive to a glassy panache of my own Carmina Buranic notes
smashed flutes surrounding dammed up 'O Fortunas'
everything to experience in this precious life
driven into words of carnality
notes of love singing with such intensity
that there's no stopping the glass shattering.
Planets, stars, pulsars, fated in love
trembling within music's celestial bond
magnetized lovers in timeless unison
Echoes of ecstasy in creation's wake
mingling with lamentation for the dissolution of worlds
and of the souls that once danced upon them
A multi-dimensional Aria
intricately woven in waves of tonality
a breath-taking spectrum of quantum harmonics
deftly stitched upon the sky's sing-it-strong cloth
And as comets approach and neutrinos pass
the collective consciousness sings for joy
yet only angels and ancient seers hear such beauty
Our senses must immerse in ecstasy of the spirit
so that we too might hear such love
for this celestial music of the stars is also inward
in the radiant wellspring of the soul.