The Violinist

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(You Should Have Listened)

Strings
yielding its lovelock waves against tides of pompous exertions of strums. Flooding the depths of introspection, twisting and bolting the desires of the heart.

Strings
hurtling the loins of purple lit prophecy of flowers, the foaming scent kneading the light of crisp winds to a calm that descends surging in fattened valleys.

Strings
whisking twigs to fetch thin gold embedded in breaking grounds to match the rhythm of silence and nature’s orchestra. Formed from mighty songs.

“God, we formed oceans of blue parrots …”

Words mould melodies as whispers from the winds,
The ghostly bolt of a strange voice,
Forming hissing cyclones of a tepid familiar rain.
You’ve stopped to stroke almonds of hymnal verses,
Painted the dim song with shores of hope,
Never stopping at kissing the eyes of love.
Yet the furtive boughs of twilight awakening,
Have reined on sun-speckled grounds in yonder.
You’ve sprang and recounted sighs as a drank parrot,
Because the few moments of happiness are what we live for.

 

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Refrain:

“I sit on my cold patio gazing at the stars, Hoping they’ll teach me the art of selflessness. I watch oblivious of how streams join to form rivers and rivers, oceans,hoping I’ll learn to let go to acquire.
I stand atop a smoldering rock in the morning and watch the earth cuddle before embarking on its duties, hopingI’ll learn to love by the agility of freedom.”

The lyres of solitude stood flamed at life’s plate,
Having known the music of burning roots and whining shoots.
Grazing the worship of tropical sunrise and sunset seduction.
You heard twinkles of darkness chant
“How Great Thy Beauty”
Avidly pairing with sleekness of fodder of romance on unwritten letters,
But you dappled in exotic furs of unrequited love.
Ah, passion twirled in futuristic repose.
… Pause …
You fought, didn’t you?
Till your armor sped off at the sight of your shadow,
Sing with me then the variant melodies of jilted petals.

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Confessional Strings:

“The bloodshot grounds. Damn.
The changing faces, the pallid death. Cunt. Fuck.
I was never strong enough; I should have hastened my fingers,
But I was frail…

In pristine, smiling fields fountained by ale,
Smothered by filtering infant heat.
There lies US again…
If we could be the naked art livened by earthly treasures,
Or the pounding poem,stuck deep in our hearts.
And I know you’ve thought about the steam of our lips,
Lost in the delicious humming of pink birds.
You should have held on to your violin,
For I have been the song you search for.
Whether in doubt of faith in poetry or the luminous happiness that reeks at its dormancy in yourguilty and quiet vault.

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“…God, we’ve tried to be restraint,
Constantly flushed what was the burning perfectionism of lust.
And how we longed to tear into each others clothes,
To synchronize our thunderstruck bodies…
But we ‘moved on’ and kissed several luminous lips,
Sang uncomposed songs on the shoulders of trying.
Even as I watched beaming in silence at the hurt you encountered.
It remains our unspelt sky, something blindly tragic,
That we could have called our own.”

(How do you then cry for happiness?)

When my burnt pages of communication
are what you saw as mediocre for your stature.
When you read poems condemning you for being a muse, a child at heart and a woman in brevity.
How do you do that?
Want what you don’t want to receive?

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© Eddy Ongili 2014

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