A Prayer for Disharmony

A Prayer for Disharmony

O orchestra, storm! Enough 

with the crowd-pleasers playing 

it safe. Smoke your rhythmic roll 

of reed and brass, conduct 

concertos charged electric. Pour 

bubbly from fluted glasses, piccolo 

us, horn us, pluck us saxy. Swing signs 

and cymbals, vibrato 

our steel-stringed bones. 

Blow us from our cushioned

seats, and movement me vivace 

from despair to action, timpani

without tip-toe. No more 

lento-gravé, composing 

me to death, a broken motif

on repeat, all pomp, no

circumstance. I crave

dissonance, tempest 

and prestissimo, roused

to discordant halls of protest, 

on my feet, applauding a new world, 

symphonic. 1812 Overture me, 

cannons without Pachelbel,

violins to beat the tacet rest 

from my tautly-strung chambers, 

a piece of hymn from my B-flat heart.

What are you looking for?