On the day
that John Lennon died,
people were just going
about their business
as they did every day.
Mark David Chapman
Catcher In The Rye
void of his holy self.
He would have had to
Imagine there’s no heaven.
John took the elevator
down from his room
at peace with his belief
that there was
no hell below us.
He stepped out
on that fateful day
above us only sky.
On the day that
John Lennon died,
people where just going
about their business
as they did every day.
Imagine, all the people
living for today.
Chapman talked to Lennon.
Just before he killed him.
He was singing "imagine
there’s no countries
because it isn’t hard to do."
Chapman shot his
hollow point bullets,
there was nothing
to kill or die for
and no religion too.
What a senseless killing,
how senseless killing is.
I imagine all the people
living life in peace.
John fell to the ground,
a pool of blood beneath him.
A preacher on a soap box
unaware of the horrific act
that had taken place
was spewing words
that never belonged
to his soul but filled
the tin cup he was holding.
He yelled loudly,
‘you may say that I'm a dreamer
but I'm not the only one’
a woman in the crowd hummed
‘I hope someday you'll join us.’
A teenage couple under
their breath followed with
‘and the world will be as one.’
They say when the police arrived
Chapman was reading his book.
Imagine no possessions,
I wonder if you can.
The Detectives did not wait
for an ambulance.
They rushed John Lennon
to the hospital.
They weren't looking for credit;
they had no need for greed.
The preacher had left
with his tin cup full,
no need for more or hunger.
At the hospital the air was
like most emergency departments,
people comforting people
who themselves needed comforting.
A brotherhood of man.
In a hospital with its tragedies
life is more than real
you don’t need to imagine
all the people sharing all the world.
It just is.
You can hear
beating in tune,
‘You may say that I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will live as one.’
Sponsor: Kelly Deschler
Contest Name: I Love Rock n Roll
I can’t sing
I mean I can’t sing
I’ll leave the singing to Walt.
But I assume, as he assumes, as you assume, as all assume,
I love like you, love like him, love like the Lord above,
What is there? Singing? Why can’t I sing too?
Every cell and feeling that exudes from me,
Leaves an impression that I’m proud for all to see.
Every smile and gesture makes me a man,
It doesn’t always fit into my plan,
But I think the trepidation is waning,
The insecurity finally is straining.
All this time I’ve wanted to sing,
But it’s always been my failing.
I can’t sing
I mean I can’t sing
No that’s not true.
Something is different.
I no longer assume, I assure.
I don’t wander, I wonder.
I can’t fear, I fight.
I don’t love, I love YOU.
I haven’t sung because of others.
But these others are sisters and brothers.
Sometimes my voice might crack,
The beauty I may lack.
But YOU have opened my mind,
All this time I’ve been behind.
YOU have opened my eyes.
I’ve seen the pretty skies.
YOU have opened my heart,
And I’m ready to start.
YOU have opened my lung,
And I’ll be heard, and sung.
She once met a man called Noel,
He was a musician of rock and roll,
They sang and played music into the night,
When she is with him she doesn’t get a fright.
Then He turned to her and said...
You’ve got the rhythm in you,
You’ve got it in your shoes,
You’ve got it in your bones,
You’ve got it in your toes,
You’ve got it in your hair,
You’ve got it everywhere,
You’ve had it from the start,
You’ve got it in your heart.
Through the wind they whispered singing softly,
Into the crack of dawn, morning light...
At 6am she fell asleep,
Subconsciously she heard a creep...
She woke up and he wasn’t there,
She called for his name,
It was like he didn’t care,
She was going insane!
She still hears those words at night,
Though unable to see Him through sight.
You’ve got the rhythm in you,
You’ve got it in your shoes,
You’ve got it in your bones,
You’ve got it in your toes,
You’ve got it in your hair,
You’ve got it everywhere,
You’ve had it from the start,
You’ve got it in your heart.
By: Ava Douglass Age: 12
In the year 2003,
both Southern University
and Louisiana State University
won national football championships
A monster celebration followed
in downtown Baton Rouge
It was broadcast live on local TV
There were speeches by the coaches,
alumni and players from both teams
and the presidents of both schools
But oh, the ceremony finale
Yes the finale was sight to behold
Both bands, in full costume dress
stood side-by-side together
and played a slow, majestic version
of our National Anthem...
A two second pause
(which seemed like an eternity)
(Cameras scanning the audience
People shedding tears
Overcome with emotion and pride)
The cheers and applause
shook the whole town...
***Southern University won the Black College Football National Championship that year. Their band is well-known and considered to be one of the best in the country, having played at The White House and several Super Bowls...
The sound rushing into my ears,
Flowing into my every vein,
Feel every cell vibrating,
That feeling of ecstasy,
The rush, catches my breath,
As I close my eyes,
And let it wash over me,
It cleanses, purifies,
All the anger, hurt
That lay buried deep inside.
The tunes reverberate,
Through my very soul.
It's hard to imagine,
So much joy,
From a few notes on a page.
But it makes me dance,
To tunes that only..
There I stood in this massive hall, decorated with sophisticated settings,
White flowing drapes hung freely from an invisible ceiling
Twinkling stars, sparkled against the midnight blue sky
Though I could not see it, an orchestra played a lovely, unfamiliar tune
Well-dressed, others sat leisurely at circular tables covered in white draping linen
Adorned with colorful centerpieces and white candles in delicate crystal holders
Quite puzzled, I made my way toward the center of the room
I searched for familiar faces in the crowd to no avail
My dress, simple, yet elegant was of the brightest blue
Then out of nowhere this handsome, young man appeared and took my hand in his
As if on queue, the music stopped. Strangely the color of his suit matched mine
Unafraid, I stared into the stranger’s face, as the most beautiful melody played
As we danced, we seemed to be floating before the crowd of smiling faces
The music played on endlessly, as I danced in the stranger’s arms
His leading was perfect, not a word passed between us, but gentle smiles expressed the joy
Lost in wonder, feeling incredibly elated, I wished we would dance forever
In an instant I felt a light touch on my face, and I turned away to see
And to my surprise, there stood my little girl, saying, “Mommy, wake up, I’ll be late for
Note: True story- A dream I had some years ago and which I will never forget!! I have no
idea what that meant,..but who cares. It was one of the best dreams I ever had! One of
those dreams you hate to be awaken from. .
Before spring came, in late February
to the blooming and jolly hills
I ran, breathing heavily and frantically,
touching the perfumed blossoms
of a solitary, old cherry tree;
and underneath it I sat writing poetry
that hadn't a perfect rhyme and beat!
Weren't my skills marred by imperfections?
Canaries and red-breasted robins
flew down and rested on my outstretched legs;
perusing my lines to spot their names,
and when they did, they flapped their wings in gladness!
I could have imagined their joyful words,.
if only they had acquired the gift of speech,
and deeper in their thoughts I would have reached:
to dispel the myth that they had no feelings...
After my short poem was completed,
I reached for my harmonica to play my favorite classic tune;
and being surprised by the paleness of the fading moon,
I dedicated that happy melody to her not to let her despair:
by waving my hand to make her farewell less sad, while I whispered,
" Silent moon, eternal companion of every poet,
what's beyond the realm of this universe?...
Tell us more of those invisible suns and planets! "
Before spring came to the dormant valley,
the mountains' peaks allowed the sun to melt their snows,
to create gushing torrents to feed its water to the dry and cracked soil,
which needed rain instead of harmful frost;
and I drank the freshest water and washed my sweaty face,
while fighting off the bees' stubborn rivalry!
That spring has come again to dress herself with incredible splendor,
and this discontent and wishful heart desires nothing more than being there!
My theme is: Happiness In Childhood
Greet the little King,
who has been born in a cold manger
on the holiest of nights;
and by the glitter of a descending star,
He will spread peace in the land...
follow the shepherds and find that sight!
My gift to Him is my joyful song,
and with this clarinet I will usher in His coming...
walk side by side with the pretty angels and rejoice;
bring Him your gift, and surround Him with joy!
See the three Magi arriving on jewel-draped camels,
holding in their laps the gifts of His destiny.
A winter's night has always been completely bright,
every hill is hidden by darkness, but an heavenly light
appears across the frosty sky of Bethlehem, while divine
voices announce Emmanuel's glorious birth,
everyone wakes up and sees that star and follows it;
and where it stops, they find a baby without a crown.
Greet the Son of the Highest, the Wonderful Redeemer,
whom the Virgin Mary has borne in the humblest of places...
in the small town without a temple, or a palace for the Emperor,
where Mary and Joseph will train their child in Godly ways;
greet the little king, He will smile and invite you in,
and His smile will spread peace beyond the star-lit hill.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Sometimes a song can take me back
Make my memories come alive
To a time when love was a way of life
And families struggled to survive
Sometimes I get a little mellow
When I listen to an old love tune
And dream of days long gone
How they passed by too soon
Sneaking my first cigarette
I don’t think that I was ten
And listening to the AM radio
While the Kalin Twins sang “When”
We grew up with real music
That helped us bear our heavy load
When Gogi sang “The Wayward Wind”
And Mitchum told us about “Thunder Road”
Sometimes when I’m down, I think about the past
And a different way of life
I’ll listen to Lloyd sing about “Stagger Lee”
Or Bobby relate the tale of “Mack The Knife”
There were a lot of question and a lot of answers
Some were wrong and some were right
Like “Does Your Chewing Gum Lose it’s Flavor
On the Bed Post Over Night”
Sometimes those songs bring a tear or two
But they always bring me joy
While Jimmy crooned “Just A Dream”
And the Shirelles loved their “Soldier Boy”
When Jim Ed Brown sang of “Scarlet Ribbons”
And Perry said, “Catch a Falling Star”
Dee Clark was calling “Hey Little Girl”
Johnny was thinking “Chances Are”
Sometimes I wish I could return
To the days of my childhood
Just to hear Johnny Ray sing “Cry”
Or Chuck wail “Johnny B. Goode”
Jimmie sang about a “Honeycomb”
And “Kisses Sweeter Than Wine”
The Orlons were meeting on “South Street”
The Chiffons said “He’s So Fine.”
Skeeter thought it was “the End of The World”
Because she lost her one and only
The Beach Boys said “Don’t Worry Baby”
Roy Sang for “Only The Lonely”
Do you ever have these thoughts?
These scenarios that play on in your mind?
They haven’t exactly happened yet but in your heart you wish they would
Could just be a simple conversation back and forth
A glance across the table when our eyes seem to meet
The way you gently place your hand on the small of my back as we enter the restaurant
Driving down a road with no destination with music up high
The windows down low
When I'm in the middle of saying something and you stop me in my tracks and kiss me
It’s always these little movie clips
These small moments that may be simple gestures but seem to leave the most impact and make you feel weightless
Then reality hits and I find that a smile of pure joy has appeared on my face
Glen Campbell – A Special Person
It was September 4th, 1968 and I threw an empty suitcase into the trunk of my car, telling Joan, my daughter, that I might not be home to celebrate her birthday. She would turn 13 the following day and Wanda, my wife, had planned something special. As I dropped her off at school she had no clue as to what was in store.
Joan had become an ardent fan of a young Glen Campbell and he was due to be in town that very night for a concert. We led Joan to believe we had given up all hopes of taking her to see him since my travel plans would probably keep me out of town that night. Joan reconciled herself to the distinct possibility she would not be in attendance at his concert. She was a very understanding young lady.
When I returned home that evening, Joan was advised we would celebrate her upcoming birthday with a simple dinner out and maybe a movie. As we drove, Joan was very animated and proceeded to tell us of all the activity of the day. She didn’t pay much attention to where we were headed. Her chatter told us she wasn’t on to our plan.
Well, when we approached the Music Hall in Houston, TX Joan realized where we were and became so excited I thought she was going to faint. She shrieked with joy and showed the textbook signs of one about to see their idol. I don’t believe we had ever seen her so excited.
Wanda had managed to reserve some wonderful seats, center stage 3 rows back. We took our seats and soon were enjoying watching our daughter watch this young performer transform the audience, mostly young people, into an almost hypnotic state. We had joined Joan as fans of this young man from Arkansas. He was really putting on a great show. But something special was about to happen.
He finished the first half of his show and we sat there and listened to Joan excitedly chatter about what was taking place.
About halfway through the 2nd half Glenn pulled up a stool, sat down and asked, “Is there a Miss Joan Posey in the audience?” Joan was literally dumbfounded. We acknowledged to Glen that indeed she was here. Glen looked at here and said, “Well, tomorrow you’ll become a teenybopper. This one is for you.” He proceeded to sing “Hey, Little One” and there were probably as many tears in Dad’s eyes as in Joan’s. Her insistent question was, “How did he know?” repeated time after time.
Wanda, in her fantastic way of pulling off the impossible, had written to Glen Campbell, in care of the Music Hall, and told him of Joan’s upcoming birthday. It would mean a lot to her if he could only wish her a happy birthday. It was a long shot and he only received the letter some 2 hours before show time. Someone on his staff picked up on it and took it from there. He finished and instantly became a very special person to two proud parents. Joan became an instant VIP since almost half her class had been in attendance. It was a most memorable time and Glen Campbell will always have a special spot in our hearts…. Jake
I was a seventeen year old senior in a coed, catholic high school. Our gym classes however were still all boys and all girls. My senior year we had gym every other day and music every other day in the same time slot. The music classes, therefore, were also all boys or all girls.
She was a twenty-eight year old nun in her first teaching assignment. She was in way over her head. She was about five-foot-four and weighed practically nothing. The nuns in our school no longer wore habits and I remember thinking it was a good thing because she would probably fly away like Sally Fields. If you don’t know what I mean by that then you are too young to be reading my story.
The music class was a mad house. She could not control a room of twenty some boys bound and determined to make her life hell. I mean, music class? Really?
We never did the homework assigned; never answered her questions seriously; never believed her threats at discipline; wouldn’t accept the demerits she tried to hand out; and basically goofed off for the hour that was supposed to be dedicated to learning about music.
For some reason, she seemed too proud or too green or too determined to go to the principal or another teacher for help; and, sensing that, we knew we could get away with our childish behavior and so we did.
One day, a handful of us “got in trouble” and she said she wanted to talk to us after class. I was the only one that actually stayed. She tried to lecture me on my bad behavior but I guess my smirk was evidence it was not sinking in. Then, she started to cry, and for the first time I saw her as a person.
“What am I doing,” she cried. "I can’t do this. I am trying; I am really trying, but I am not cut out for this. Why are you boys so mean and hateful?”
I stood up in front of her not knowing what to do or what to say. I felt like a real jerk. I was a real jerk.
Tears poured down her face, which I finally recognized as being a pretty face. She bowed her head and just sobbed. In my awkward seventeen year old manner, I slowly opened my arms and allowed her to lean into me. And I hugged her while she wept.
At seventeen, I was no ladies’ man, and this crying nun was the first woman I had ever held so close to me. I could feel her breasts pressed against me; the heat emitting from her body; and, the delicate nature of her womanly form in my arms. I knew then that I was destined to go straight to hell for the thoughts that were going through my head and the feelings I felt between my legs.
She pulled away and whispered, “I am so sorry, I should not have done that. You may go.”
I simply said, “You know, you are doing fine, you just have a class of a bunch of butt holes”, and walked out of the room. It was that night that she started coming to see me in my dreams. To hell I go, for sure.
I wish I could tell you I had the moxie and the influence to whip that class into shape, but I did not. The mad house continued with one less student joining in the fun. I tried my best to behave, answer her questions, pay attention and feign interest in the topic of the day – but I was just one in a sea of monsters. I stayed after class and after school a few times to talk with her, ask her how she was doing, and see if I could help in any way. She was actually starting to get the hang of things and was able to focus on the few classes that were willing to learn.
At the end of the school year, I was one of the few students who had not enrolled in a college for the coming year. Because I was one of the better students, it caused a little bit of a fuss and a number of teachers talked to me about the huge mistake I was making taking some time off before going to college. It seems they were all convinced that if I did not start into college in the fall, I was doomed to never go to college. I challenged them by saying what they were really worried about was their statistics of percentage of students who went on to further their education.
During the last day of classes, the music teacher asked me to stay after class. It appears, it was her turn to try to talk some sense into me.
“So, I hear you are not going to college,” she said.
“No, I’m going to college … some day, just not this fall.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know yet. Take some time off. Work. Nothing. I don’t know. Why is it so important to everyone? When the time is right, I’ll go to college.”
“They just care about you.”
“Bull loney,” I said, only it was another word.
She smiled at me. I had been dreaming about her now for six months. I changed the topic.
“Have you ever kissed a boy?”
She laughed, “You know, I grew up the same as every girl in this high school. I did have boyfriends.”
“Yeah, but have you ever kissed a boy,” I challenged.
“No. Not the way you mean.”
“Do you ever wonder what it would be like?”
“No. Never,” she lied.
“If I told you I will register for college if you kiss me, will you?”
“No. I believe you when you say you just need some time off. I think that is a good idea.”
Then she walked up close to me and stopped a heartbeat away. Suddenly, she reached down between my legs, grabbed the crouch of my pants and said, “Just don’t let this thing get you in trouble.”
She abruptly turned and walked out of the classroom while I tried to catch my breath.
During the graduation ceremony I saw her sitting with the other teachers and shared a private smile with her while walking back to my seat after being handed my diploma. I would never see her again … outside of my dreams.
I often think about my high school music teacher and my ticket straight to hell. Unfortunately, I never heeded her advice. That body part of mine she grabbed ahold of for a fleeting second those many years ago, has gotten me in trouble time and time again.
The singer looks at the now empty stage
His voice guarded deep in his warm throat
Shielded by a high neck shirt he wore
Singing with passion from down within
Rehearsing day and night until it’s right
Blended rhythms and notes run the scales
Clinging in smoky night clubs like a shadow
Getting your pay with crumbled dollar bills
Go from gig to gig if it makes you whole
Your songs will make them dance and spin
Like a magic spell being cast far and wide
Allow your words to heal wounds and scars
And when you have earned your keep
Collect the spoils from your conquest sweet
Gobbled champagne and fancy caviars
And your heart beats crashed musical chart
Find the singer who was once loved
The brilliant heart that once lived in joy
Consider yourself a singer without a heart
Who has traded his soul from the start
As it ends the conquest will lose its spark
Come to your senses and stop this slide
You may be witted and sharp as a tack
Don’t get eluded and slip—stay on track
Comments: This is a narrative dialogue poem. It sets the stage one may
probably find in a conflicting situation. It develops into a complication, reaches a
crisis then falls into a resolution. It displays connections, alienation,
disconnections, and a turning point where a change takes place between a
protagonist and antagonist. The ending brings about a resolution after a
dramatic point has been reached. Give it a try one day, and I will give it a review
for you. It must be very interesting and relates to real life.
It was a cold and rainy night.
The stars were shining bright.
It seemed as if the world was at a pause and not a person was in sight.
I sat quietly in my car,
the sound of music I heard blasting from a far.
I opened my door,
stepped out slowly and looked around.
Now suddenly the music stopped,
not a word is heard, not even a sound.
I turned my head, looked over my shoulder,
I saw a woman running.
She was wearing a white gown.
I couldn't help but wonder why this woman running
flaunted such a frown.
I followed her footsteps,
I listened for the sound.
Running through the darkness,
one question came to mind,
Who would leave this woman?
Who would be so heartless?
How can someone leave her when she is so obviously distraught?
Abruptly a sound was heard.
I came to a stop.
I listened closely.
It was a gunshot.
Now fearful I stood.
I began to run as fast as I could.
I ran so fast, I could hear my heart beating.
I came upon my car and noticed a woman bleeding.
She was gasping for air.
Someone had shot her and left her to die there.
It was as if they didn't even care.
She reached for my hand,
whispered softly to me
"never trust a man"
At that moment her hand dropped.
I knew her heart had stopped.
I looked at her white gown now dripping red.
I I cried to myself and pondered what she had said.
This could be me.
I could be lying here dead.
I will remember her words always.
They will haunt me for the rest of my days.
This moment I will never forget.
No man should ever be such a threat.
This was the day my life would change.
From this day on I would never be the same.
The lesson I learned here,
never have such fear.
Fear that will keep me from being free.
I learned that I can be happy just being me.
A light - beyond bright -
beckons me warmly
from a place beyond which I cannot yet see.
As I approach a stairway which glistens like gold,
all my former burdens and apprehensions melt away.
Body aches have vanished and I feel that I am floating toward the steps,
melting from a warmth,the intensity of which
can only be matched by the radiance of the not so distant light.
A tenderness I now can easily recognize
emanates from that glorious light.
Nearing the stairway, I can hear sweet strains
of a music whose instruments I can't define.
I cannot see, and yet I strangely know, beyond any doubt,
that upon reaching the top of those golden stairs,
something splendid awaits me beyond the doorway.
Something forgotten is tugging at my brain,
an awareness of having been here before.
Am I simply returning to a place from whence I came
before my sojourn on the earth -
that place where loving spirits dwell in perfect peace?
On reaching the door, I do not even have to knock.
My mere desire to enter has been heard
and my unspoken questions have been answered,
for the door slowly swings open.
I cross the threshold and enter not into a building,
but rather into another realm.
Vivid colors dance before my eyes in the guise
of flowered meadows, hills and rills, birds and butterflies.
This landscape of indescribable beauty seem to go on forever.
A deluge of memories comes flooding my mind.
Suddenly, a snow white dog comes bounding toward me.
It's my precious Ollyver, who died so many years ago, the first to greet me.
He leaps into my arms just as he used to do
every night when I reached the doorway of my earthly home.
Flocking toward me are others.
I become dizzy with happiness and the thrill of it all. . .
And then appears my stepfather, no longer afflicted with dementia,
along with my dear brother Dale, who left our earthly home
sadly when he was still in his prime and full of dreams!
Next come those beloved friends of my family,
people whom I saw each Sunday at church and who later passed away,
people whose lives touched mine all those years ago of my childhood.
Others that arrive I recognize instantly as ancestors of mine,
even though many of them I'd never even met while on earth!
They come to embrace me, one after another in the beautiful meadow,
and the music I had been hearing swells to the joyous sound
of an angel's choir.
For Gail Doyle's Heaven's Doorway Poetry Contest
My magic Flute
My first and only instrument I received as a little girl was
My mom’s old boyfriend had gotten me a Flute and after they broke up I don’t recall what happened to my magic Flute.
A few years later I had music class my Freshman year in high school and we all got black plastic Flutes and we were supposed to learn how to play the Flute.
As an adult and a lover of good music I wish I had learned to play the Flute. I’d play on the sidewalks of city streets collecting money to pay for my children’s education and to pay the bills.
One Day I’ll go Home.
Home is where I could do anything. I would listen to my music and clean as often as
I liked. There was no right or wrong as time belonged to me. When I listened to my
music nothing else mattered I was just happy. Happy was a simple thing with only
music and cleaning for my home was a happy place for me!
Music brought an upbeat rhythm to lift my spirit at all times. I felt the beat as I
moved about doing all things in time with the songs. I enjoyed cleaning my home
with joy as things shined so for my pleasure. A combination of music and cleaning
nothing could beat. I wanted and needed to feel so complete.
Now a new house and life with music I still have. Now the music is less and the
cleaning so rare. The joy of the shine is far from my home and the call of pleasure
and being complete I’ve left behind. The feeling’s once felt while my music played
and I scrubbed things down has been handed over to another.
My purpose has changed to be that of another. I fill this house with things from life
with part time music and rarely clean as someone other does this. I have a purpose
in this house and although kept secret my spirit knows things come to pass. The
rhythm of my music and the spirit of the song will ensure happiness come along!
Now as I grow old my mind turns inward to find my home. I am there at last the
place where my music plays and I find rhythm. I see myself start to clean and the
shine appears. What welcomed relief to hear and see these things that made me so
complete. Once again I am just that for joy fills my heart and I know I am home
When I sit alone with my memories
My mind drifts back to the early 60s
When folk music was all the rage
The New Christy Minstrels, Peter Paul and Mary
The Brothers Four, The Limelighters, The Kingston Trio
The Canadiana Folksingers... who?????
A six member group called The Canadiana Folksingers
Included myself and my first wife Linda
Along with two guitar players and and a one-string bass
And I played the five-string banjo
Did we have a blast? Oh yah!
Made an album called “This Land Is Your Land”
And a 45 rpm single called, “Hi Jolly!”
Along with appearances on both
Of the only two Canadian TV Networks at the time
My memories of those days long ago fill me with pride and tears
We can't go back but we can dream
About when we were young
And the world was ours to explore!
© Jack Ellison 2014
June 1987. All is well as we sit celebrating
my 30th birthday in the best little bar and
Dance club in our quiet little town. Empty
B52 shot glasses line the table and the
mood was PARTY. We all sat laughing and
enjoying the evening but then I hear
a birthday shout out with a dedication
for my favourite song.
Dee de, da da Dee de de daa da
Dada Dee de dada de de de daa da
Now I’ll never be able to tell you in which
order these take place because in my opinion
it all happens at once. Your blood pressure
rises to 200 over 140, my eyes were popping
out of their sockets and I was stumbling
to the dance floor with all my friends. We
weren’t about to miss one second more then
we had too of dancing to our favourite song.
With our legs already to go it starts
“Here comes Johnny singing oldies, goodies
Be-bop-a-Lula Baby what I say.”
Out on the dance floor that night
we danced our hearts out and still to
this day, when I hear that electric organ
Playing Dee de, da da Dee de de daa da
my blood pressure rises my eyes open
widely and I start rocking from deep inside
As I sing.
The Walk of Life by
I Love Rock N Roll
I saw you the other day we didnt speak
Thinking to myself how did we become this way
And remembered the times we had
Our first kiss I remember
I was drunk but I sobered up
Realizing I was feeling outta place
I looked at you
Though it took me a minute to see
Your the only one I want
I only wanna make it good
For both me and you
So please forgive
If I pull away from you
It's a defense mechanism
I know not of what I do
Please forgive me if I want you like I do
If deserted, was I, on an island, and was allowed only three integral items to take with me, what would they be?
If we are speaking of material things, I suppose I would take my favorite book in the whole world, "Ask Dr. Mueller" by Cookie Mueller. It is a book I cherish, and can read perpetually because it's just that good.
If, by some strange coincidence, there happened to electricity on the island, and an old, abandoned, yet functional CD player just so happened to be found, then I would want my favorite album in the world with me: "Live Through This" by Hole. I worship Courtney Love and her music. She is a grunge Goddess to me. I love every song on that album.
If pen and paper could magically count as just one item, then I would take mountains of paper and a plethora of pens so I could record everything and continue writing poetry while hoping to be rescued.
My acoustic Gibson Epiphone means the world to me; I cannot imagine not having it with me. I know how to play all the songs off "Live Through This", so perhaps I would choose my guitar instead; that way I can still enjoy those songs as I still compose more of my own; that makes sense, right?
If, by Divine Intervention, there was an abandoned, yet functional TV and DVD player, I would have to consider taking all seven seasons of "The Golden Girls"; I don't think I could survive without the Golden Girls; it's my favorite show ever. And also all of the "Star Wars" movies; those I cherish, too.
And also, since I am an addict/alcoholic, I would want to take tons of pills, whisky and Cola with me; I'm sure I could not survive without those.
I understand that perhaps people or pets may not be considered as "items", but if I could choose among them, well, I would have to take my loving partner, my best friend of twenty years and my two dogs, Sammy and Bilbo, and my three kitties: Marley, Archie and Punky (of course I count them all as one because I like to break the rules).
Since there are so many things I do not think I can live without, it's an impossible decision. But these are my considerations, nonetheless.
*What Would You Take Contest Entry
Made my name in Monterey
BB,Muddy ,the key to how I play;
Bell bottom fashion was my thing,
Little Richard was my king
like his voice,my guitar sings.
Inspired by Raul's latest photo
Many Christmas stories are told every year,
and many songs are sung with pure cheer;
do I have a good story, at least one, I can tell,
or a simple song I can hum and spread good will?
When Lisa's grandmother passed away unexpectedly...
by her dying bed she kept an ivory music box,
and to her lovely granddaughter she gave it
to saying," Take care of it, and smile when you think of me!"
The day after granny died, she went down the dark cellar
to hide the ivory music box in an old dresser's drawer,
and once in a while she would open it and play it and listen to it sadly;
the pretty angel swirled...and Silent Night played as Lisa touched it tenderly.
It was almost Christmas Day and the pine tree wasn't decorated yet,
she rushed outside carrying a red basket with ornaments in it;
how could she had forgotten to adorn it with bulbs and garlands?
" Oh gosh, I feel like the Grinch!" she displeasingly uttered to herself.
There was no snow predicted for that evening and the illuminated town
was lacking Nature's magical snowflakes to make it festive and vibrant;
five minutes to midnight the choir from the nearest church gathered outside,
and waited for a miracle...silence...tranquility...every heart felt so alone.
But Lisa with an indomitable spirit ordered them to sing,
and they began singing looking up the clearest, starriest sky;
everyone seemed sad and some of them wanted to cry,
but before sadness set in...snowflakes began falling.
Lisa knew that it was the miracle she had been waiting for,
but something was missing from the snowy scenery...
she remembered her ivory music box she had put away,
and running, with awe in her bright eyes, she opened the cellar's door...
Clutched in her caring, careful hands, she carried the ivory music box,
laid it gently underneath the twinkling, scented Christmas Tree;
Lisa kissed it tenderly...until the golden angel started to swirl at midnight,
as that divine music filled the nippy air...making all cheeks so peachy.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
The house is empty, my husband is at work,
I am sitting with my dog just relaxing when
PBS television broadcasts a music special.
Oh all those Motown tunes from the 1970s,
Now that’s hotter than hot, I feel the heat rise.
The Commadores, Stylistics and Patti LaBelle,
I am singing, She’s a brick house and feeling hot,
Moving my hips and swaying to the great music,
Still remembering all the words and those feelings.
The memories it evokes is only of pure passion,
The whole decade provided a serenade of love.
You could fall in love so fast with the right song,
Every song I hear elicits a treasured memory.
The Discos were the highlight of the weekend,
Spending the nights dancing, driving the men wild.
The bump and grind was probably the best dance,
Although a good jive would always make your night.
Earth, Wind and Fire can really bring on a burn,
Al Greene just makes me want to cuddle by a fire,
Wow its getting warm in here, see what I mean.
I think I’ll tape this show and put it on tomorrow night,
So I can take my husband back and feel the heat.
Written July 29, 2012
For Debbie Guzzi’s contest
Those silly old love songs from decades past
Still meander through in my mind
Those love songs that speak softly of the thrill
Of a blossoming new romance
That promise “I Will Always Love You” by Whitney
The definition of what true love is
“Love Is A Many Splendored Thing”
And Perry's, “Can't Help Falling In Love”
Am I dating myself... perhaps
But these oldies tell of love in much simpler terms
Even though the world was still in turmoil
These songs promised hope
Of finding that very special person
To spend eternity with! To love and to cherish!
To grow old and grey with!
Those were very special times back then!
© Jack Ellison 2014
I stumble upon a river
the way it flows and feels
I take my shoes off and run threw it
laughing looking up towards the sun
I wake up and it was all just a dream
my sister runs up the stairs
she slams her door
i asked her what was wrong
she looked at me
She says "mom told me you were adopted"
at first i laughed as i thought it was a joke
I run downstairs to see my mom and dad sitting on the couch
"mom?" i say
she replies "its true we adopted you!"
she got up and walked into the kitchen
"after all this time i thought i was yours" i say
My father gets up and walks out the door
My mom lays her hand on her forhead
Just dont worry about it everything will be okay
"No it wont i say"
i felt fake like i wasnt who i was suppose to be
i just sat on my bed thinking about the whole thing
my whole life and who i should have been
I packed my bags that light and i ran away
leaving the less important things behind
i set out on a journey to find my real parents
I had my sister get there info. from my dads office
I took a bus to indiana and looked up there address
As soon as i found it i knocked on the door
A man opened the door
he said "who are you?"
i say "apparently i am your son?!"
"you put me up for adoption?" i repeat
He yells "ANNA!?, Some kid is here for you!"
i repeat the story to her as she denied it
She looked bruised and beaten up
I wanted to help her but the man hut the door on my face
I had no where to go now
So i started on a journey back home
But i never made it there
I found that old river i use to go too
i stayed there for a few weeks until
i remembered the way back.
I found myself that day
I realized that i was fake but now im not because i know that i am just me not any of them
It feels so good
To get the chance
Of finally learning
A beautiful dance
Steps seem to be
On a cloud of air
Is how it appears
Seeing the dance
It would seem
From in a dream
The dance steps
Take time to learn
Yes, a lot of practice
As elegance is earned
A partner reflects back
With each step taken
Sharing joyful smiles
In the pattern making
The individual style
Develops in the man
As he creates the lead
The best way he can
Sometimes we find
One to step perfectly
Either way, once there
The non-stop beam of gleam
Comes bursting from deep inside
As you realize you’re dancing the dream
Florence McMillian (Flo)
I want to tell you a story,
about one Christmas morning.
The snow was falling,
and the wind was roaring.
Holly and Christmas ferns decorated the door.
Gifts piled high around the tree on the floor.
Home baked goods from the kitchen filled the air.
The children opened their gifts with great care.
Time stood still for a moment when,
I reached for the box to open.
The box was white like snow.
Delicately tied in a big red bow.
Inside the box was a gift for me.
A tiny silver bell laid silently.
I picked it up and it begin to ring.
The music of Christmas, so charming.
My little girl said, "I hope you like your present too."
"Every time you ring the bell, a note of love from me to you."
A silent tear fell from my eye.
What a beautiful gift, and such a surprise.
I placed the bell on the mantle with care.
Even today it still sits there.
This happened many years ago.
The Christmas box with the big red bow.
A tiny silver bell plays a precious tune.
A note of Christmas joy from me to you.
Sitting on stage
The glare of the audience immobilizes my every move
Is there a way this paralysis will soothe?
The lights suddenly blare
Like a deer bathed in headlights
How can I escape from this radiant bear?
The conductor baton rises into the soundless air
Sweating, stammering, shivering
Will this be my final prayer?
The sound of an A fires from a clarinet
Bow on string, I imitate the shrill
This magical note seems to be my fever pill
A-D, D-G, A-E
Instrument seems in tune
But will this miniscule fact solve my problem soon?
As the chief baton swings side to side
Flickering images in my mind crash like a tsunami tide
Joy, Love, Hardship, and Harmony
Music conducted the opening to my passion ceremony
Fire ignites my being
Like bungee-jumping off a bridge
The words “Anything is possible!” now beaming
Like poetry, music is an art
Raw emotion strangles uniformity
Expression bears no limit
Creativity beats as our vital body part
*This poem is dedicated to a cure for stage fright (bless those poor souls)
To tell the truth,
I was no fan of opera, in my youth...
When did it come...? That turning point....?
I do not know, ........
perhaps I grew, to understand...
a wrenching tale his stories told
can grab the heart... ...grip fast ...and hold!
Puccini came, from out of nowhere
It finally made more sense to me...in spite of those who scoff, and shake their heads
Alive once more....this man long dead
has stirred my soul, ........and I was lead, into the clouds, where heaven lives!
I became a fan, ...and realized, such music lives within the blood
It rushes in, and floods my veins, just as it did to those so long ago
An aria... then a divine duet....Rodolpho and his sweet coquette
connects me to a vine entwined,
with those who listenend, long before my time.
Sitting in the dark tonight, I pause to think
who would have dreamed
how tears in the eyes, have formed a thousand rivers?
Long through the ages, still coiling with emotion
devotional artists, sing of such rapture
into the rafter's to countless reception...
A lover's kiss, the singing with prose
Skins turning cold....from the chill beauty holds
Tears to unfold, hypnotic poses
A bliss such as this
has left generations.... breathless
As the curtain is closed........ I must compose myself
Old music that echoes, as it has for centuries
bouncing off these walls....as I'm torn into two....
mingling with my heart, the old with the new
The rafter's of time, have absorbed one more time
Two tragic lovers, declaring in song
Throngs have been sung to.....hearts have been wrung
I listen, I watch, as lovers fade from the light
in poignant beauty, drifting away...
...........dying in the distance, ........
as will Mimi,
leaving her love behind....alone with a shattered heart
as death tears them apart
leaving my eyes brimming over
with tears in the dark
"Music By Puccini"
Midnight was approaching and the dance floor was stark
Colors of the spectrum were weaving and leaving their mark
Lights spun in brilliant flashes of reds, greens and blues.
Sparse bodies were gyrating as if music pulsated the hues.
The music stopped.
He stepped out of the shadows; on his arm was a dark beauty.
They walked into the hushed room; the air thick and sultry.
Dancing with my partner I watched them through the darkness
He pulled her lithe body to him, how I envied their closeness.
All eyes were upon them.
Piercing rays of greens and yellows flashed up and apart
A deep bass suddenly throbbed with the rhythm of a heart
Black hair and dark skin, he danced in his tight, arrogant style
She danced around him, shaking her body, nimble and nubile
The music beat faster.
The couple twirled around the dance floor as if it was theirs
Pulsating music and scarlet colors flashed around like flares.
His sweat became hers as their sensuous lips barely met
He lifted her into the air, holding her high with the ascent.
He lowered her to the ground.
Watching the Latino lovers as they danced through the night
I felt as if I were a voyeur who couldn’t turn from the sight.
She raised her hand to him; his eyes quickly turned my way
Suddenly, I turned to my partner and my hips began to sway
My heart beat faster.
I could feel him drawing closer the faster my body danced
Strobes of red hues flew overhead, as backwards I glanced.
He pulled me against him and I felt his strong masculinity
Then spiraled me outwards, his hand gripping mine tightly.
Our eyes locked.
He held me firmly in his arms, we danced slowly then quickly
Dancing to the rhythm the music began taking over my body.
The Latin dancer’s eyes looked into mine with a hypnotic stare
As breathlessly we danced and soon I became no longer aware
Of anyone but us.
Cerulean blues flashed over us as he flung my head back
His lips bent down to mine, his eyes piercing and black
Our hearts beat together as one and my eyes closed for the kiss
But colors changed, music was subdued; something was amiss
I opened my eyes.
It was as if I’d awakened to find that their world didn’t exist
And the Latin lover I’d danced with was no more than a mist.
Circling couples danced around aimlessly and suddenly I froze
Violet hues slid over the walls as he walked into the shadows.
His eyes met mine and he vanished.
Enlighten days have past
He comes excel in all, so he thinks
"I am greater than man,
I know what ignorant man does not.
Come to me for knowledge unsurpassed!".
He points to the blue heaven,
"Where is thy wisdom? For I know all.
Where is thy command? That makes the ground shake
And brings forth water that lives?"
At the great gatherings,
He flocks the shepherds, blind, mute and deaf
He answers to the multitude of questions
He asked the shepherds, "but what are thy questions?",
“I know not what do ask a man of your wisdom, but what is a dream?
What is life?” asked the young herdsman.
"I know not what you speak of", said the Man.
"I only know what i can feel, touch and see"
"A dream is dream that passes us by, like gentle breeze of fresh spring.
Life holds all things mystery and doubts.
Shepherd knows to flock, not life or dreams".
"The shepherds are those who are humble, noble one", said the herdsman
"The blind cannot see, the mute cannot speak and the deaf cannot hear".
"Who are you preaching to? Silent and amaze, the man looks on.
"If the blind could see you,
They would say, 'look here is the man who tried to humble the blind
For they can see what others cannot,
If the mute could speak, they would humble you!
And if the deaf could hear they would shamed your wisdom".
"Was I a fool?" said the Man "or are you not that young herdsman?
Who knows nothing of life and passes his days tending the sheep's?
What could you learn from such simpleton life?"
"Life I live is simple indeed,
No one knows that the shepherds are those who protects the weak"
"Nature is a friend of the shepherd; we sing the song of David
And rubs the olive oil to our young sheep, to keep away the flies".
Insulted, the man's fury turns over to the young herdsman
"Nature? Protect the weak? The song of David? Flies?
How can nature befriend a lonely shepherd? Protect who?
Song of David the Shepherd who became the king?
What flies would harm the young flocks?"
The young herdsman smiled at the frown face of the man,
Left without a word
The blind, the mute and deaf ignored the man.
An unyielding shame kept the man humbled
He wonders why the young herdsman smiled about.
He came about a bridge and crossed the rocky roads
On the hill top he stood
And saw the young herdsman singing the Song of David.
Tenderly the ivory keys call to me.
Their vibrating octaves like different voices
soft and hypnotic, drawing from
me the deepest yearning of my heart overtaking
my senses....helpless against its intoxicating melody.
Sweetly the notes swell, filling me, lifting
my spirit from its solitary place.
With each push of the keys the hammers strike a
chord deep within.
Waves of inexpressible emotion
sweep over me enchanting, and mesmerizing they
carrying my soul Heavenward
Be it on a old 8-track tape,
a 33 and a third.
Spinning on a turntable of a phonogragh.
You can't take away from me the day I heard him SANG to me.....
"Cupid, draw back your bow",
sending it piercing straight to my soul,
from that day forward,
I came to know,
that " A change was going to come"
as the 45 played......
you can't take my Sam Cooke away.
You cant take away the day I heard a beautiful lady sang to me
about "Strange Fruit" hanging in them trees, or the day when i heard her say
"them that's got shall have, them that's not shall lose,so the bible says and it still is news.
Mama may have, Papa may have, but GOD BLESS THE CHILD that's got his own"
She took my soul to another level, had me caught into a zone!!!!
No matter what you say, You can't take away my Billie Holiday.
You can't take away from me the day I heard him sang to me, 'bout those
"Picket lines,and picket signs, don't punish me with brutality, talk to me, so you can see,
WHAT'S GOIN' ON!!!! nor can you take away from the day I heard him say" MERCY,MERCY,ME" sangin' in reference to the ecology.....
seem more relevent today, you see.
There's nothing you can say,
that can take away my Marvin Gaye.
I'm just musically speaking,
is that okay?????
to and from
the rain forests
all that is
This is my impression of Elvis Presley
I was vey lucky to be 16 in 1956 when Rock and roll came into existence the greatest music of all time and for all time, this is what it all met to me.
Elvis was the big bang to creating music like the big bang was to creating the universe
Before Elvis their was no rock and roll, no music, no dancing
His look was unique
His movements on stage were unique
His voice was the greatest like nothing ever heard before
His songs started the greatest music craze in the history of music rock and roll
He looked dangerous
He looked like he was having the best time of his life on stage
Elvis didn’t give a damm who wrote his songs black or white
He was the first entertainer who did it all before anyone else did anything
Both men and women loved him
Elvis was a mans man
Elvis was a ladies man
Elvis was a gentleman
Elvis was a Christian
Elvis was a momma’s boy
Elvis was respectful of his fans
Elvis was just one man who changed music forever in America in 1956
When Elvis sings you have to smile, to tap your feet, clap your hands, move your body, and come alive
It’s 2013, 35 years since Elvis died
He is still the major Icon of the music world
Elvis is still the most worshiped singer and entertainer in history
Thousands and thousands of fans visit his home each and every year
Elvis didn’t smoke or drink
Elvis became an actor but could have become an accomplished actor with the right people and advice around him
Coronel Parker was both good for Elvis and bad for Elvis
Liberace taught Elvis how to dress with flash
Elvis had his own way of moving on stage when he sang no one has ever duplicated his signature moves God know how many tried
Elvis served the country he loved when he was drafted into the army no complaining
Elvis asked fro no special treatment while in the army
Elvis loved the woman and the woman loved him back
Elvis was the greatest entertainer of all time
Elvis met his tragic and to soon end to his life he was only 42
Elvis was hooked on prescription pills and that’s what killed him
No one could tell Elvis what to do many tried all failed
The music died on the day Elvis died
It was so sad that Elvis felt so all alone so much of his life that is what fame does to you
Elvis was the King
No one else will ever occupy the Kings throne
Elvis loved to sing gospel songs no other entertainer of rock and roll ever did
No entertainers star shines brighter or ever will
You can ask any great entertainer and there are hundreds and will all agree Elvis was the greatest entertainer of all time
No entertainer in the history of music ever had a first year success like Elvis had
I saw Elvis in Las Vegas in 1972 when the music started and you knew that Elvis was soon to be coming on stage the excitement and the anticipation in the room was over whelming and beyond compare everyone in the room was mesmerized
This is my remembrance of Elvis Presley
March 15, 2013
My hair bristled in the crisp breeze
Excitement spreading throughout my body
Even the sudden cold amused my fingertips,
Tingles spreading through my hands and up my arms
Soon I would be there too. . .
In the murky shadows of mysterious malice
To see the claws and talons of humanity’s greatest foe
The Prince of Darkness—the Saint of Woe
The great seal remained closed as I stood before it
Not a peep was heard from inside
“Knock, and it will be opened to you . . . “
Lightly, my fist clunked three times upon the great seal,
And a horrendous echo resounded like muffled shrieks of suffering
Black ooze leaked out of the seal as I lifted my fist
A great closed pot of tender meat and chow boiling over,
The spicy hot substance steaming the long grass surrounding the well-like prison
Then a voice, like Queen Bee birth resounded,
Stinging me fiercely, body and soul, having me sway…
To a familiar song
I had listened to long ago:
“Iiiii… ain’t got no-booooooody….
And no-body cares…foooor meeee…”
The song continued as the seal opened fully,
As I began descending into the restless night of his voice
Both lulled and perturbed
The sumptuous layers of shrieks, his background band
Gurgles of thundering bass,
And strums of laughter from throats long wailing…
“Aaaaaaaand.. I’m sad and loooooooonely…
Won’t some-body…come takah chance with meeee..
In what seemed like an eternal moment,
I had landed in the very bottom of the boiling ooze
The music ceased, and the great seal slipped over,
Blocking the view of the stars. . .
Yes, above. . .now only darkness
As if heaven, to Satan, was hell. . .
He turned to me slowly, knowingly
A smile creeping on his filthy face, from ear to ear
A charming set of teeth, freshly sung mouth
Arrogant brow rising in mock surprise. . .
A gruff laugh escaped his lips as my heart beat faster
And I thought to myself,
“What have I gotten myself into?”
. . .
The words popped out of my mouth before my mind could object,
And he exploded in a fit of charming guffaws
I heard a sea of laughter follow his own
Even Death, in the far corner of prison, winked. . .amused
“That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in years,
Dearest Daughter of Eve. . . I’m impressed . . . really, I am. . .”
His smile faded and his expression grew grim and cold
“Well . . . are you?”
I remained silent, and took a deep breath
What shall I say to the Devil himself?
Am I clever enough? Brave enough?
“Impressed, I mean. . .well?
I know you will not lie to me,
You wouldn’t dream of it. . .
You wouldn’t dream nasty dreams like times in your past days. . .
Or. . .would you. . .Daughter of Eve.
Would you dare. . .dream of me. . .”
I felt a claw hit me on the back of my neck
I remained still, my breathing cradled by the silence. . .
I moved closer to him, never blinking,
As his coal eyes burned deeply into mine
Suddenly, he was furious
“You dare give me silence, woman!?
After my years of devastating . . . tormenting my own,
Just to see and hear them screech and tremble. . .
Of no aim but to crush this criminal quiet,
You…a woman of no power…or little to show,
Come down to me, ME. . .whom you know hates you all. . .
You come down to me, The Almighty Devil of Hatred,
With your dull . . . infuriating . . . pathetic, disgusting. . .
I sighed. . .
“I. . .I don’t know why I am here. . .with you. . .perhaps it is a test. . .a lesson. . .
But I do know what I want. . .”
His claw dug deeper into my skin. . .
“Oh, that’s a new one. . .
But you. . .hm, hard to play with. . .? I doubt it.
Easy to trick. . .surely. . .
If there was a point. . .”
Deeper the claw dug into my skin, but my flesh refused to break
I smiled at him softly, and this seemed to disturb him completely
He looked at me numbly, an impassive stare
Devoid of feeling and emotion
And I said to him,
“I want you to sing and play us a song you have never sung before,
Prince of Darkness. . .”
His grimy skin rippled at the opportune challenge. . .
His eyes drew out all confidence and pride swirling in the shadows
His smile, big again, fresh, and repugnant
He smelled of all things dead, and all things putrid
“Plug in the bass, Death.
I am going to dissolve this fluttery woman right where she stands.”
I stopped him, possessed with an idea
I bit my lip and removed his claw from my neck
Taking his hand for a moment, and pushing it to him
“One more thing, Devil.”
He rolled his eyes. “Of course. . .what is it?”
“. . .I’m singing with you.”
The demons roared in hilarity, as Death,
Silent as always kept his composure
Satan tilted his head at me as the laughter died
He no longer contained his surprise
“You. . .want to. . .make music. . .with me?”
“I’ve got 40 days and 40 nights. . .don’t you be a killjoy.”
He smiled at me, fury and lust in his eyes
“Angel charms will not work down here, babe. . .
I rarely play fair. . . .but I never turn down a challenge.”
My strange purpose had surfaced at last
“Quit your stalling then, and turn up the music.”
Song reference: “I Have Nobody” specifically sung by Leon Redbone
**Please tell me what you thing guys! If you haven’t read the other parts, it might explain things a bit. This is going to be a major work, and I’d loved all the advice I can get. I am aware that collaborating with The Devil is a tricky feat, and I’d really love some input. Thanks for reading. Lots of love! –Oh, and also, I am thinking of changing the title of the work as well. Not sure what yet!
I dont know much about her
but I heard she wasnt that talkative
She didnt like being alive
She was numb to all the pain she had to go through
I heard she didnt like anything that was green
She ate roman noodles everynight for supper
She always wore flannels and bellbottoms
Sometimes i seen her wear dresses and fancy tops
But lately shes been wearing band shirts
She wears converse shoes and uses an army bag for school
I know that she dosent like to communicate through talking... only through her peoms
or sometimes even her songs.
I see her drawing and painting all the time
She draws famous people
She would like to be famous and not so unknown
When she tries to speak to anyone they always walk away and leave her alone
When she gets home she goes upstairs to play her bass guitar
She hates chocolate cake but loves chocolate
Her family left her behind because she cant forget her past
Sometimes when shes alone she contemplates the meaning behind her life
Her favorite color is gray because her life is black and white
Everything she says is false according to the world
She is not so innocent
I understand that she dreams about the perfect life
When she opens her eyes they are pitch black
She is someone that is fake
She acts nothing like she should
She is very grungy and unclean
She knows of no safety
and of no time
Her life is smashed into pieces by the giant sun
She will always be a ghost
She knows of no god
She crawls around in the world of death
She remains forgotten
A friend young like myself declined
These concert tickets and here am I
U of Indiana’s Department of music’s pride and joy
I look about
These are not the movie crowd
No there is expectation
Up down surround the hall
Mrs. Guldergreen would never wear her furs in darkened places
OH! She will be seen!
Odd though the mixture –
Some with ties
No sport coat
The Guldergreens of past concert years would be simply astounded nearly in tears
These days (say some) are thankfully different
To appearance to senses become indifferent
How then four tuxedoed proud men
No swinging hips
No four-letter words escape their lips
After a bow a glance all around
The four even now sit down
The lights go down
Where is the drumbeat?
Sounds that move the African tribes
No one’s raising arms on high
No dancing around the aisles when the music begins
A strain so soft
You actually hear the tick of your own wristwatch
No equipment on stage but
The air is electric
Nor a breath
Or sideways glance can break the spell
Surely the walls by grey-sickness stricken
Will crumble and fall
At last the music swells
All the while we have sat like statues
Not knowing or caring
Where we’re at
A final chord
Music is done
Indiana’s Quartet now rises as one
Plaster people come to life
On their feet
I’ll be damned!
There’s hope after all
No love in existence, I am nothing,
living in a broken down shack in a shanty town,
I stumbled upon some junk someone had discarded.
I rummaged through and a broken violin I found,
I grappled with the strings and twisted them around,
I repaired this musical instrument with my bare hands.
I played this violin with the thought one day I could be great,
a wonderful musician upon a world stage,
people would come from all over the world,
to listen to the music of a lowly little girl.
I dream't I’d be rich with lots of money
and I could buy a new home,
where I could bring friends, I’d never be alone,
somewhere to play and dance to the music.
I sat on the corner with a box in front of me,
then played with all my heart and soul,
my fingers were bleeding, people stopped and smiled,
a couple of coins in the box, then just walked away.
I looked up to see a shadow that was cast over me,
a beautiful lady had stopped to hear me play,
she listened till I finished then spoke ever so kindly,
she took me by the hand and I left the streets behind.
Upon the world stage is where I am now,
with lots of money and famous people around,
I live in a big house with this woman I met,
I will never forget the day she took my hand.
I now have a love filled and happy life
with my new mother, the lady that once took my hand,
the music plays on in the violin that I found,
it now hangs on a wall and is the pride of my town.
for "Let the Music Play On " contest
Sponsor - Mystic Rose
With every note there comes a motion
With every motion another note
Simultaneous facial expressions form
From harmonious melodies the guitarist wrote
He unselfishly shares his immensely sharp talent
With patrons he lovingly calls friends
Grateful friends that listen in true adoration
Hoping and praying his performance does not end
They cannot help but twist and shout or simply tap their feet
To the tireless momentum of lightning fast fingers
Evoking emotions that mesh with the beat
Bringing feelings of thrills that forever linger
The crowd cheers on as the guitarist performs
Casting expressions through sounds being born
From his guitar that exudes a true love of life
Exalting to feverous peaks of delight
The guitarist will be the first to tell you
That his out of this world talent is not of his own
In humble hesitation that exists in his voice, slightly trembling
Spills out confessions for God’s Love, all powerful, never ending
Author: David G. Pennington
At last she finally has the violin,
that will color her world with music! Her magical world lost touch with the
beauty of music, becoming black and white. The tunes flowing
from the brown violin's strings will spread like perfume, and treat every black and
white with color. To complete her colorful mission, she she needs a brown fiddle, which
is currently owned by a boy. It is only by finding the boy, that the violin's
magic can work.....
She had kneeled in the center of the stage with her head tucked under the arm veils of her
The music would begin like a soft sweet drip of honey, as she began to move like a dove in a
slow motion wind.
For once again she and the music had become one.
And as many times before, she would lose the sense of having an audience.
All in her mind was music and moves.
And no music is a stranger to the dancer.
For there are no foreign moves that the dancer had not moved across by talent.
And as many years began to pass the dancer began to stiffen, as her ageing had begun to
catch up with her, and she felt the music surpass her.
For she was still the music, yet the music was no longer her.
As her moves began to shorten, the seemingly quick pace of the music would not move
slower with her.
There had been many young dancers of whom had come and gone, yet she had remained
for the love of her talent and the music.
As the moves continued to slowly vanish, they were still in her mind like a bright summer
day,yet at hand they were gone.
And like an annual flower after bloom, she too had become wilted.
Only to die soon.
For her life like a season, had came to a quick end.
Therefore, the brilliance in her talent shall live on in those few rare dancers of whom will one
day greet the end, of a blooming seasoned life of a dancer.
And the music a non-living thing, will go on past all dancers,yet to keep dancing alive.
Copyright@March 2010 MaryMMcShirley/Kilker
A big hurray for the Yankees
for their stunning victory,
and a parade of confetti
to celebrate their twenty-seventh win
in the World Series on
November sixth in New York City.
Fans tossing shredded paper they saved in their offices
for that unexpected event, revel in their triumph, cheering up
their heroes whose faces glow with glory from Battery Park
to City Hall as they ride down, " The Canyon of Heroes"...
and all the streets seem a scenery of snow as Bloomberg
honors them with his poignant, thought-provoking wit!
The cheerleaders dance and the band wearing
their famous, colorful Scottish skirts,
don't mind the nippy weather...
what a joy to pay their tribute playing
their happy, memorable tune for
a great team who fought against the odds.
The crowds can't get enough
of their charisma and these rejoicing players
accept this honor with smiles...
and they know that there are
many more to come in the near future,
so let's cheer and hail our handsome champs.
A parade of confetti tossed down by fans
weeks before Thanksgiving Day,
when the jubilant, vibrant city forgets
all the worries to indulge in a carefree day,
revving up its passionate spirit and be jolly all morning...
a celebration indeed for every fan engaged in fervent hailing.
I've got style, I've got soul
I am made of Rock'N'Roll
with a teddyboy quiff and a killer riff
toking on a massive spliff
don't tell me, I make the rule
aint gonna be nobodies fool
bow down and worship me, I am cool
schoolgirls to grannies, all do drool
orgies in the swimming pool.
Hear me play a ripping chord
it earned me a number one record
a new party, if ever i'm bored
decadent play, I can now afford.
Language is far from mild, slate me? I'm tiled!
the gigs turn me so so wild, revert back to a child
I get my share of sex and drugs
long luscious hair and great big jugs
dodgy deals with chavvy thugs
then bottles of whiskey in 3 big glugs
and crawling on the floor like slugs.
I've jammed with all the greats
huge festivals across united states
that was when, I could get through the gates
American lawman frequently masturbates
100,000 people all in tune
me onstage, acting the loon
beating chest and howling at the moon
allow my music to take you far
I love being a Rock'N'Roll star!
"In this town, everyone's waiting for the next sunrise."
Gather round children of every age, wouldn't you like to see something strange?
Come with me and you will see.
Let us set the stage, for this is Halloween.
Whispers hum in the wind. (I am the clown with the tear-away face)
HALLOWEEN! HALLOWEEN! the crowd chants.
Master scares and creeps.
This, our circus on Halloween.
Don't be late now, for after the show, everyone's waiting for the next sunrise.
This is Halloween.
"Life's no fun without a good scare" we sing.
"I am the wind blowing through your hair; I am the hoo? when you call "who's
I am the one hiding under the bed, teeth grown sharp and eyes gone red." my friend
sings as the rest of the group sings the pumpkin song.
"La, la, la la la, la. Life's no fun without a good scare! La, la, la la la, la. THIS IS
HALLOWEEN! THIS IS HALLOWEEN! HALLOWEEN HALLOWEEN.
As the song ends, it is replaced by the eerie tinkling of a music box; slow and scary.
But, hey. That's what we're here for; the scares.
The murky rolling waves subject
to the whims of the February's wind,
far above the secluded lighthouse;
the roaming aircrafts vanish through thick clouds,
leaving behind a trail of hazardous vapors...
but the geese and seagulls can't continue their existence!
And still the sea offers them its promise,
a distant shore untouched by man...
by his greedy ways and incompassion,
causing the extinction of many species;
my reflection is based on fact :
we can't survive without them!
The stylish wild birds engage,
as if striken by a sudden rage,
in their frantic, daily dance over the marina,
as I listen the melancholic lyrics of " Nessun Dorma "...
the exquisite area of Puccini,
which comes alive through the extraordinary voice of Bocelli!
At four the fog thickens and shrouds the shoreline,
the brass lampposts light up with reluctance...
to shy away the presence of any ghost;
I, in transitive joy, hide my treasure beneath the tides,
hoping someone will find it and remember my work...
long after my thoughts will be no longer alive!
SEA TO SHINNING SEA,
...this is so intimate of time, as a first kiss of time is...so close of soul, so near, so dear of heart beat, so precious a rhyme that flows so intimately,
deep of time, down by the Crystal Seas...
...this is so intimate of dreams,
as the Crystal Sea so reveals of destinies galore,
destined as the night light of the moon-glows of starry eyes,
upon the waters,
...seeing tranquility upon the waves...
watching to the depth of a dream,
and a sun-rise
being so true...
for underneath and within this a moon-lit poem of starry night eyes, down by the Crystal Seas, a vessel sets sail upon the deep...into a kiss of dawn...
Sea to shinning Sea.
You almost have to be from New Orleans to understand
the mixture of the music that wails throughout the city,
It's zydeco, jazz, Cajun, classical, rhythm and blues
any combination from which you can pick and choose.
Fats Domino and Huey 'Piano' Smith live down the street
along with Harry Connick Jr, Ronnie Kole and Mac Rebenack.
Mac came to record one day missing a finger, laid down his guitar
took up piano and called himself Dr John.
You can't stop the music in New Orleans. You can't stop the musicians.
They are the soul of the city and the only time they hang up their ax
is when it's time to eat a hot plate of Red Beans and Rice, boiled crayfish,
hot boiled crabs, shucked oysters and thin fried catfish . Yum Yum
When Fats was playing in New York he called Mrs Leah Chase and said,
"Send me a hot shrimp po-boy and toast the bread crispy!"
That po-boy was on the next plane headed to the big apple.
Hence the song, "Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans"
Every bar of which there are many, too many perhaps, has music
and every establishment has excellent entertainment or they're fired.
A known New Orleans fact is "You cannot have music without food"
Hence, Soul Music and Soul Food, wipe your hands, let's dance!
Contest: Soul Tunes
Sponsor: Kristen Bruni
Sounds of music
are here, there, everywhere!
in this, in that, in that!
They give rhythm to everything around us;
be it the crack of dawn,
fiery sunny days,
or mellow twilights.
I hear the sounds of music
when the cock crows faithfully signaling dawn;
and when the Muslim devotees
are called to prayer by the mwazin;
Sounds of music confer zeal to my hands
as I kneel at the grinding stone,
grinding millet seeds and dried cassava pieces.
As the stones kiss each other they sing out to me;
Kigwak-kigwak-kigwak Itendo kwon ga’ngo?
Atendo kwon girigo ma nyoro baba onyewo!
Sounds of music that silence my rumbling belly
as I cook magira at noontime;
while the flames lick the blackened ayiga bottom,
she sings out in giddiness;
Alu-lu-lu chal ayidha mugoy pyere umaido!
Alu-lu-lu chal ayidha mugoy pyere umaido!
Sounds of music swing me to action
when I hear the milk cow mooing
in tune to the herdsman’s calming whistles;
and before adhadha orders me
I rush gaily for the milk stool
turning and twirling in tune
to the whistles of the milkman and the mooos.
Ah, the enticing sounds of music
that thrill us around the night fire
as adhadha regales us with folktales;
awili nyoro ‘wili nyoro fodi ‘kitwi dhudho?
a mama, mama, dhudho nyaka woc.
Mama dikini ‘kidwok nwangan
Mama ogwang nyoro ‘luwo kodan
Mama dikini ‘kidwok nwangan
Mama ogwang nyoro ‘luwo kodan.
Allow me to introduce myself sit back and hear a story of a
boy who grew up in philly I was born Dec.25th on a wet and
cold christmas day my parents didn't have much money to
spend but they still gave me a good home,they put me through
school and I would get extra preasents underneath the tree every
now and then.
Sit back and let me do my show I promise youll laugh and cry
this is the story of me.
When I was a boy life was better and I had nothing to worry I
never wanted to loose I always wanted to win. Music was always
around me music has always been a best friend to me thank you
Michael Jackson for bringing music to me if it weren't for my dad I
wouldn't love Elvis Presley,The Beatles are truly an inspiration to me
Sit back and enjoy the rest of the show and you will know
all about the story of me.
I've never liked school I was always good at acting like a fool but
history always interested me,Edgar Allan Poe inspired me to write
poems and suddenly I heard a tapping as if someone gently tapping
at my chamber door quote the raven nevermore.
Sit back and let my life entertain you pretty soon I'll be able to
sing my life and songs to you this this is the story of me.
Sometimes it's hard to understand me all I ask is please look before
you judge me I'm friendly as i can be I just want everyone to love me
I will always be by your side when your alone you can count on me
to be there I don't have all the answers but I'll try my best to give you
best advice and it makes me smile to make somebody laugh
Sit back and will make laugh I like acting like a clown so turn that frown
upside down and laugh with me.
I've been through heartache and pain,I've lived through shame
sometimes I think to myself weather I'm the one to blame I felt
pain inside sometimes I found it hard to hold these tears that I cry
deep inside I'll never give up and I won't go down without a fight
Sit back and enjoy the show sit back and have a few laughs you see
i thought of this song while folding jeans at old navy I'm gonna need
the money just in case they sue me.
That's the end of my show make sure you take my book it's all about me
better yet go onto my facebook where you can read all bout me. well
that's it if you wanna know more about me you know where to find me
stop by at Old Navy and i will be more happy than to tell you all bout me.
Nothing is more delightful
and simply remembered by a sweet word...
than a walk through a green forest,
to find a remote spot on a low hill
and put those daily worries to rest;
the anxious eyes long for that vision
of a last, unforgotten season:
the gentlest rain which brings
a familiar fragrance from other lands...
when spring hides its flowers!
Whenever the lonely poet dreams,
his unerring hand is quicker that the flowing streams:
the distant vison of his flourishing thoughts
is carried to unseen places;
and all he wishes is to feel a sublime peace...
when spring hides its flowers!
The wishful child ,led by his mom ,searches
the leaf-covered paths with a sorrowful glance,
even the robins and blue-birds can't confort him,
or give him some kind of hope for his unleashed whim;
and will he relish the joyful promise of each year,
as a gentle hand caresses his blonde hair...
when springs hides its flowers from his zealous eyes,
and one of those adolescent dreams unexpectedly dies?
I, once, was like him: curious,cheerful and so restless:
seeking surprises in unexpected places...
finding myself in front of simple wonders
that couldn't be perceived by the adult mind,
as if they were another mystery, not the creation of God...
when spring didn't hide its flowers!
upstairs in my room
i put my ear to the floor
only to hear my parents screaming
the argument is about me
my mom yells "look at what your son has become!"
Heartless, unintelligent, fake...
my father replies back
"hes your son, hes your own pile of dirt!"
whenever my family is out together
we act happy like these fights never happen
but every night they do and i cant tell anyone
i have to act like someone else in order not to get introuble
What have i become?...hurt..dishonest..will this feeling dissapear?
I will drag you down and i will make you hurt..
I lift my head from the floor
still hearing the angry voices of my parents
i found an old needle, and i dug it into my skin
the next morning i go downstairs
with a cut off shirt on, and baseball shorts
My father grabs my arm
"what is this boy?"
i yank my hand away from him and i sit down on a chair
"its nothing sir"
my father repeats "are you cutting yourself?, why?"
i grab my bookbag and i disapear out the door
My father runs outside pulling me to the ground
"are you cutting yourself boy?!" he screams
i say "no sir i just scrapped my arm on my dresser"
My father grabs my face
"you better not cut yourself again" he replies
He hits my face, as i lay on the ground.
I didnt wake up until i felt something wet drip on my face
it was raining and dark outside
i run into the house and into the bathroom
looking into the mirror i see the bruise that was left on my face
My father wasnt home and my mother went to bed
"everything goes away in the end right, if i let him have it all, my moms pile of dirt?"
I sit upon my liars chair full of broken memories i cannot repair
I become someone else, but the old me is still right there
if i could start again a million miles away i would keep myself
i will find my way
Faces seem so familiar
Names slip the mind
Euphoric waves roll through the veins
Reality is left behind
Sentences are to create
Yet so simplistic it seems
Ideas seem to differ
Shifting beliefs from before
Envisioning new perceptions
Now destined to explore
Pink Floyd plays Comfortably Numb
With the colorful flashing lights
As the mental climax seems so near
My soul rises in flight
Nothing else can compare
To this powerful little sheet
Unknown to society
It is rare the two meet
Shadows cloak clarity of thought
Easing the ache of the spine
Ecstatic sensations of wellbeing
Exemplifies life in the refine
Explosions of pleasure
Roll in like the tide
Speechless from the magnitude
Of this exotic godly ride
By an experienced mind
Yet even thee
Remains unable to define
Speaking has become difficult
Signs of peak drawing near
Gazing into the colorful lights
Exploring this cerebral frontier
The summit of this trip, has now finally arrived
Lasting seemingly for years
The most enjoyable feeling in life
By so many it is revered
Unable to move
Unable to speak
Now having found
That which I seek
By those who have been freed
Rides such as these
Considered personal creeds
Regaining mental capacity
As the brain slowly clears
Through the door a woman
This day couldn’t possibly
Get any better than this
Beginning and ending
In absolute bliss
She widely written about
In literature, and various songs
So rarely ever considered
In society to belong
Held in total reverence
For the most outstanding memories
Only made available
By the lovely Ellis Dee
A city made from nothing,
on a lagoon with shallow waters
to keep the invaders away ;
still today those bell chimes ring out
to remind everyone of her victory
at Lapanto...when the ships
brought back the banners
of the defeated enemy!
Venice's splendor is seen everywhere...
even in San Marco's Square,
swarmed with pigeons and visitors,
where the Venetians' genius built
a splendid Basilica reminiscent of their wealth
and power...making Venice: the Queen of the Sea!
Down the Rialto Bridge and the Bridge of Sighs,
gondolas row...carrying visitors and lovers;
the artists seek inspiration for their works,
while their stunned eyes are delighted by beauty,
which pulls them out of virtual reality!
Intrigue and mystic fascinated
many a devoted soul,
and the entire city echoed
with delirious voices breaking
the silence of midnight;
violins and lutes played in palaces
and in gondolas on the Grand Canal...
did anyone stare at the brilliant stars?
A masquerade was an invitation to love,
all disguised themselves behind a mask;
many were seduced by passions with haste...
as Venice revelled in their merry-making,
celebrating a glory that knew no ending;
and when it declined, it was deserted by all!
Venice's splendor seems eternal,
not diminishing through ages;
her fame ever-increasing and each stone
can tell a different story of people
who partook of her greatness,
leaving a legacy we regard as our own...
The night was cold and dark , the wind strong and harsh pressing against his back and for a moment he entertained the thought that some divine force was watching and smiling, perhaps even encouraging him.
Encouraging the tendencies that drove him, muffling the voices inside his head that asked what he was doing.
He was beginning to transcend into the setting and situation, begging to embrace his role like an instrument in an orchestra, each working in different ways yet still all part of the same song and only together do they create orchestral music.
Him the same as the violinist who has never played in the orchestra before, playing alone he understand solely the violin and the music he plays, in his mind he cannot fathom what it would be like to play in the orchestra and the process of a variety of sounds coming together.
Yet upon the incorporation the violinist understand that it is no different than the music he makes alone. The violinist does not appease the orchestra; rather it is the orchestra that calls upon the violin and all the instruments of the orchestra calling upon each other, working to each other’s strengths and weaknesses this is what creates the bountiful flavour of the orchestra.
It is then that the violinist understands what it means to play in an orchestra. One may listen to orchestral music and perhaps it has even inspired him or her to take up an instrument of their liking. Yet this does not offer them the same insight that the violinist in the orchestra has.
They can imagine, maybe they play pieces from their favourite orchestral movements, perhaps they even go as far as playing along with the recording of an orchestra, entertaining the thought of what it would be like to play with the harps and drums and flutes, yet regardless of their manifestation they can never have the same insight as that the violinist who actually plays in the orchestra, who makes it a reality.
And if it is not that reality, then it never will be and the fruitions of it will never come to ripen in the head of the pretender, because if the tape stops, it’s over.
Many days have gone and past us by,
Still in my memory
live cherished stories of an angelic voice
and a girl named Emily.
A young lady of no more than sixteen years
with a beauty few could see.
With tattered clothes and dirty face,
she lived in poverty.
But a blessed voice was given to her
like an angel, heavenly.
She sang out from an innocent soul
with love and harmony.
She shared her gift and praised God's name.
Light shined on Emily.
Though, she could not enter the house of God,
with clothes and face grimy.
On street corners, she sang to the Lord.
Her songs carried from sea to sea.
Until all the countryside knew the angelic voice
from a girl named Emily.
She brought God's message of peace and love
to all with hearts to see
beyond the station given in life
to the gifted Emily.
Then one cold day in the little town,
a young stranger blew in to see
if he could get a glimpse and hear the song
from a girl named Emily.
He walked the streets from dawn 'til dusk
listening for her melody.
When he heard her voice he was not prepared
for it's soulfulness and beauty.
He fell in love with the angelic voice
and fair girl immediately.
He did not see the dirt and rags
only beautiful Emily.
The stranger was a handsome prince
from across the sea.
The church members who ignored the girl
now all loved Emily.
She bestowed on them love undeserved
from the heart they would not see,
and sang for them in the same church
where she was once refused entry.
Emily married the handsome prince
and moved across the sea.
But she never forgot from where she came
and her life of poverty.
Until the day before her death, she sang
for all, songs heavenly,
and gave her fortune and riches away
to children in poverty.
She used her gift to spread love and joy,
this girl named Emily.
Her life to God was a gift returned,
the song of Emily.
By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders, June 4, 2012
for Heroes and Heroine's Contest (David Williams)
Don't make me promises of riches,
or expose me to false visions;
I live with meager means,
to surpass the wisdom of kings:
and as long as my music lives...
there won't be struggle or need!
As a youngster,I dreamed without illusion,
knowing which dreams were lasting and real:
discarding those causing deprivation,
not to be deceived by their vivid feel!
Notes of unwritten symphonies battered
this head...'till they quietly entered,
and at night-time at the same hour,I used
to hear their harmony as they sweetly played;
was that a gift I should have pursued,
or let it go to waste as if it never existed?
Until tomorrow shone
with the splendor of the eternal sun,
nothing I kept for myself or
expected hand-outs without deserving them;
this honesty was part of my integrity...
and everyone saw it and was amazed!
I swam through those rough waters of an inclement river,
suffocating,and not saying a word;
and finally my frustration found an outlet of relief...
my calm ocean awaited me at the end of my journey;
and as long as my music lives,
so will this undaunted spirit!
Copyright 2008 by Andrew Crisci
WROTE A BUJA...
A buja wrote a song
it rubbed the who in power
the wrong way...
to the slammer bujas..
self imposed insanity....
Called his government plunderers
stealing from the poor mans pockets
the system turned on the heat....
and our young bujas -
declared himself mentally insane...
committing himself to the loony bin...
The young musician
gave them people good advice
...its hard to get a good advice,
while lacking in cash or scandals....
and scandal-ed he was
and advice we got...utawala
the Rule of the elites..
Lewis k Nyaga
If all the things I have right now were taken away and I had nothing left I would fantasize about nature and how beautiful it is. I would imagine that I was swinging on an old tire swing in front of a river. In the river were little ducks and I would go feed them. In my life right now I don’t think of nature that way. I think if my freedom was taken away I wouldn’t take it for granted the way I do and I would know how much it actually means to me. I would also imagine my family getting together for my family reunion. We would usually have them in September. My aunt would make her fancy white cake topped with chocolate drizzle. My grandma always made her jello cake; I still don’t know exactly how she makes it. The others would bring KFC, at least three boxes full of chicken and fries. All the kids would sit together and play games and laugh as we threw food at one another. We would have a game where the kids lined up from age 1 to age 13 and you would get to pick a prize appropriate for your age. I would always get stuck with bath soap and tooth brushes.I take a lot of ordinary things for granted and I think a lot of people do but they won’t admit it. Sometimes I even take life and my freedom for granted. I think that if maybe we wouldn’t take things for granted like the trees or our freedom that maybe our lives would be a lot better and things wouldn’t happen the way they do. I have lived long enough to know that it won’t happen, nothing happens the way you want it to. Just a few months ago I lost my grandma and I couldn’t do anything to help her. I took all of the things she did for granted and now that she’s gone I miss her. She used to make this tuna casserole, it was just amazing but I never told her just how much she meant to me. I think if I would have told her that more then I wouldn’t feel so guilty or depressed that she is gone. I never told her what I needed to. If people could use the words of John Lennon “Imagine Peace” and actually think about it then maybe the world wouldn’t have to end because there wouldn’t be any enemies, murders, drugs, none of the bad things would have happened. If we could have just accepted everyone around us for who they are and known that one day we all have to die, we could have stepped back from it all and said I had a good life and I don’t regret any of it. I think it’s no good to step back from something and tell yourself that you could have done something to prevent it.
I was watching this man as he walked around in a store,
he was very amusing, this man was not a bore.
The music that was playing on the speakers so loud,
really got to him, he was drawing a crowd.
He seemed to like the older tunes,
that is when he really started acting like a goon.
He was doing the Jerk, and the Monkey too,
then all of a sudden, he was walking on the Moon.
My eyes got big, when he licked his thumb,
this man was so funny, he had come undone.
The best trip ever, was my trip today,
and as I left the store, I almost forgot to pay.
For millions of years mankind lived just like the animals.
Then something happened which unleashed the power of our imagination.
We learned to talk.
These are the words spoken by Stephen Hawking on Pink Floyd's track Keep Talking
from the Album - Division Bell from 1994.
Is it not a sad indictment on us humans, that we were graced with the cleverist of
yet we can hardly use it.
I wrote a poem today called Gorillini, and this is the last two lines:-
We are barely their servants
The real King of the primates
In June everything was festive and green,
a patch of deep blue couldn't be seen...
the struggling sun was kept off, with dire,
by a dense foilage of emerald;
and the robins competed with the blue-jays
to harmonize a new song with notes
that even a great composer couldn't write...
Oh, how I loved that sweet sound!
Auburn trees in Fall showed a dull color
andulated by the softest wind,
which wasn't as perfumed as that of spring,
and its sadness was compensated by a beauty,
which inspired a poet and a composer
to write it with a tender melancholy;
and I jotted down the impressive images
of a peaceful Nature that revealed its loveliness!
The freight trains scurred through the defoliating forest,
I found a massive rock and laid my body to rest;
and finally those struggling sun-rays
broke through to warm my forehead quickly:
so glad to have seen, with awe and curiousity,
the forest's beautiful and swift creatures
storing away food for those gloomy winter's days!...
Oh, how happy I felt to have been the wanderer of the forest!
It was a glorious, hot day soothed by the August's breeze; the town's copper bells
harmoniously chimed in their old, sturdy bell towers
as the band tuned to their festive sound with trumpets, trombones and marching drums.
The large square resounded with thousands of voices,
a procession of faithful flowed to the Church of Saint Stephen.
I ran upstairs with heavy breath to tell my sister to follow
them, but there on the flloor she layed with upward eyes, kind of lifeless;
and so hepeless not to find anyone, I stepped outside and saw
the saint's pious face and invoked Him for a miracle...suddenly I went back,
and instantly her face regained color and she began talking. I was convinced
that such a miracle happened because of my firm faith,
and that vision reinforces my belief that saints are the intercessors of God.
Singer,songwrter and piano man
We,fifties teens remain a fan,
Classically trained,a musical chameleon-
Oh Carol,hungry years, took him to Amarillo
But never,solitaire,this brillant Brooklyn fellow.
Tribute to Neil Sedaka ,71 years young this year
That he was dying and working on a requiem only increased
his foreboding – even a genius
is riddled with on-the-dark-side pedestrian fears
and emotions that make the flesh tremble suspiciously
without rational cause. He had convinced himself he had
been poisoned (acqua toffana, he insisted);
that he was writing his own requiem, and must
complete it quickly, for Death would not wait
for a finished score. With effort he would sing the parts
of the unfinished mass, while Süssmayr
hurriedly transcribed the notes, his wife Constanza watching
nervously by the bed, poised like a servant ready
to respond to his every physical need. For days now she had
been emptying bed pans of foul-smelling
fecal waste and washing his body of brown stomach effluvia.
As the days shortened to his final hour, she watched
his small body swelling day by day like a mushroom after
a night of heavy rain. The stench
enveloped his body like a foul garment and gave evidence
of internal disintegration and decay.
Here in his deathbed lay the little man she had shared
her life and body with for eight years;
and, after countless miscarriages, had given birth to two
boys; had laughed at his ribald talk and jokes;
had sometimes waited weeks for his coming home from trips
and tours; had tortured herself about his
faithfulness; had done her best to gain his father’s friendship;
had danced the nights away with him;
had sat down to dinner with the famous and the privileged;
and put up with his antics and buffoonery,
often to her embarrassment. Here lay her darling “Wolfie,”
the one-time Wunderkind, the child prodigy,
who made all of Europe’s Who’s-Who take note; who
by sheer genius, drove home the point
musically that being high-born conferred only limited
advantages, rank and title, petty privileges and nothing
of any real accomplishment; that genius was not the exclusive
property of aristocratic breeding.
He, of course, could not account for his own, if he ever did
at all, and neither Leopold his father who
acknowledged it a miracle but, opportunist that he was,
saw in the boy a quick means for easy money,
and paraded him throughout Europe’s capitals and salons
as if the boy were a rare exotic catch.
Now, without warning, a jet of brown stomach fluid shot out
of his mouth; he turned his head toward
the wall, his eyes rolling back, his chest collapsing with
a final pianissimo: a thirty-five year miracle
had come to an end, an unexpected coda plucked like
a sweet morsel into the mouth
of eternity – the sweetest morsel Death’s insatiable appetite
would ever taste.
I heard the untamed thudding of the long drum fumbo,
felt the frenzied throbbing of the fumbo
and poignant melodies of the string guitar tongoli
but through this all I heard you calling me;
and like at the beginning I danced the fumbo dance.
I wiggled and wriggled my waist like a caterpillar
my right knee slightly bent forward
inwards my toes sunk, out I pulled them.
up and down my ankles twirled and whirled.
I was caught up in the tempo
frenzied with the agony of your loss;
a shrill cry wrung out of me
piercing the pulsating night.
I blended with the palpitating sounds of the string guitar
that awoke me during moonlit nights,
the thudding throbs of the long drum
that guided my feet across shadowy footpaths,
in harmony to the melodious teke
and persistent ankle bells
“Follow the music and you will find me”, you always said
I could hear you call out to me
through the far away thumping of the fumbo
It vibrated and echoed, resounding over and over
The melody lent zeal to my feet
till at long last I would emerge
from the darkness into the swarming mass
of sweat-drenched dancers sopping with exhaustion.
All around, the ankle bells jingled
as the sweating throng moved their bodies in tune.
1 avoided groping fingers of yach
as I searched for you
yearning to dance for you, with you
“Follow the music”, you always said
and like a moth to a flame I was drawn to you!
A shrill shriek is wrung from me
echoing through the lifeless night;
and like in life I danced for you,
willing you to follow the music.
Raw boned, Time lines etched her face,
Her clothes hung from her frame,
Like the sails of an ancient ship;
Forgotten by the wind.
She drifted silently through,
Opened wide carousel doors.
Drawn by an invisible cord
Wooden steeds began to move
Prancing, dancing up and down,
Carousel music stirring her veins.
Music pilots memory's flight
Her body a fluid graceful sway.
Musically transported to ,
Another place, another time.
She moves with the rhythm,
Until she becomes the rhyme.
She's a willow tree,
One with the musical breeze.
Jeweled stallions rest midair.
The music stops.
She turns, and leaves.
I’ve heard this many times before
But this time, my ears struck twelve
Heartbeats of life pace more and more
In sync with all that scratch and quell
While counting ticks on outlawed tunes
A solo, but oh, so off key
The cords of life anchored in June
The metronome of time in me
With passing phases of the moon
Accustomed to a self taught fate
Sheltered in my private cocoon
More room to grow and hibernate
In meditating out of sight
A healthy way for me to explore
Before I step out into the light
Before I look down upon the unsure
Such is the soaring Phoenix way
A merger of the heart and sun
To rise with burning passion each day
And brighten it for that special someone
Everyone calls him
the king of rhythm and blues;
and with his electric guitar he plays his music,
strumming those strings with frantic fingers:
singing of his past delusions and unfaithful loves!
Decades ago, he traveled to many countries,
and everywhere he went he brought along
that guitar he named Lucille;
and even today it still emanates his will:
can you hum his most recent song?
A southerner from Mississipi,
uniting folks and making them sing;
and fame he found when he moved to Tennessee,
and who would have thought that he would have
become a living legend?
There you were
Just a blur
In the spur
Of the moment
A spontaneous rush
Of flushed confusion
An overwhelming lasting impression
This brief encounter
Bringing two strangers
A precious and a joyous sensibility
That's all too serene to be fiction
Permeates its way through the senses
Why did you have to go
And get on that plane
Now you're never coming home
I am sitting the patio, the sun is slowly sinking
and Hazel is talking to me. Asking if my coffee
is ok while she gently sips her tea, she talks to
me of her feelings, of the closeness that is there.
Growing in the warm ambience, the pull of two
hearts needing satisfaction. The air is tranquil
and the words soft, there is music on her breath,
haunting , mesmerising to the point of infinity.
Her emotions lie at my feet as she asks of me
“ Will you “ , my answer can only be forever.
And to the dulcet melody my eyes close and
my journey begins. Thank you Hazel.
For the full value go to
Steve Cook music 4.46 duration
and bathe in the Saxaphone
Everybody knows him as Alessandro,
the handsome gigolo of Via Veneto,
and his lucky charms he sells to many a gorgeous lady,
he approaches them and says,
" Mademoiselle, parle vous Francais?"
as he struggles with words, she replies,"Oui"
And he continues with a perfect accent, "Je t'ame!"
shocked by the womaniser, the slender French young woman
looks at him and starts to laugh with an entertaining wit;
but the gigolo insists, " Tu es tres belle!"
And the petite mademoiselle exclaims," Merci!"
How can his sexiness win him this French woman?
"Vouz habite a' Paris?" and smiling she nods
" Oui...a' Paris, a' Belleville..un quartier de Paris!"
and the gigolo continues, " Un bel androit!"
" Beau garcon,, est-ce que La Fontana di Trevi...
est loin dici? And Alessandro excitedly replied,"
" Ce ne'st pas loin!"... and with a sign laguage,
he pointed to his red Ferrari, ready to steal her away!
Copyright 2010 by Andrew Crisci
Mademoiselle, parle vous Francais?"/ Young lady, do you speak French?
Tu es tres belle/ You are beautiful
Vouz habite a' Paris?/ Do you live in Paris?
Qui...a' Paris, a' Belleville...un quartier de Paris!/
Here...in Paris, in Belleville...a quarter in Paris!/
Un bel androit!/ A beautiful place
Beau garcon, est-ce que La Fontana di Trevi...est loin dici?/
Pretty boy, where's the Trevi Fountain...is it far?
Ce ne'st pas loin/ not too far
I was ‘ Walking ’ back from grocery shopping
When I saw something, that had me hopping…
… mad, I mean… at what I seen
… a Man treating a Dog, just like a Queen !
They rode past in a top-down car
She had shades on, like a Movie-Star
My bags dropped down, due to shock…
… Now… What She got, that I ain’t got?
… Her big ears blowing in the wind
Now, I know, that’s Man’s Best Friend
But the only reason, I figured, I was Walking
is ‘cause I need a new kind-of-Talking :
Bow-Wow! Get my tail to Wagging
Bow-Wow! Ain’t too Proud for Begging
Bow-Wow! Learn another kind of Language
Bow-Wow… … see I can Manage …
I’m slowly Learning How
- to Bow-Wow
and it’s Alright Now
Now, I knew, something was wrong with that Sight
Can my Bark, be worse than Her Bite?
I started to Listen to the Canine next Door
Yapping and a Howling – made ‘em give Her More…
Then I hung around the Local Pet-Shop
I Finally figured out “What They Got !”
The next Man came, I Said, “They’s Expensive,
You may as well, get yourself a ‘Mrs’…”
Bow-Wow! Get my tail to Wagging
Bow-Wow! Ain’t too Proud for Begging
Bow-Wow! Learn another kind of Language
Bow-Wow… … see I can Manage
I’m slowly Learning How
and it’s Alright Now
Well… We were already happily Married, when He said, “Let’s get a Dog”
I sat up straight… went to sniffing, as silent-whistle-warnings, went off
I jumped in front of Him … and started to Tease…
“We don’t need nothing ‘round with Fleas !”
… and if You scratch behind My Ears,
I’ll make the kind of noise, you love to Hear ! …
Bow-Wow! Move Over Rover
Bow-Wow! Fe-Fe, Its Over !
Bow-Wow! This is My Growler
Git’ A Little Louder … Bow – Wow !
Bow-Wow… Wuff Wuff Wuff
Carol Brown… This One’s For You Kiddo’
And Your Great Sense of Humor (Smile)
This Poem is From Bygone Days
(Wouldn’t You Know… The Silly One’s Always Survive)
Hope You Enjoy It….
Travelled from mouth to mouth
North,west,east & south
Far feom the censor's pen-
In memory now,long gone
This poetry of anon
Tribute to the many anon poets who use this form(often with song) 'merely written for the
people' becoming worksongs/chanties etc outrunning the state censor & fanning freedom's
flame in al men's hearts.
I made something beautiful
come out of the ground
painted vibrations and made
imagined shapes and colors
that delight the eyes
and planted them in a garden
and surrounded them with various skies
Spoke as God painted
creation on the scroll
words that were silent
and beautiful to behold
words not said but sung
describing to the unseeing
what God has done
Glorifying is the meaning
of plants posing and voices singing
of forces molding and chemicals
bringing into being
other things with feelings
Night club lights dimming low
The pianist taking his bow
Play it again....Sam -
Across the smoke-filled room
A haunting ,tinkling tune.
Everybody was horrified of Paul's scruffy looks
with dirt and mud smeared all over his wrinkled face,
and his long nose with dark spots on its tip;
and a grave digger matched that image,
but he was the nicest person on planet earth:
hard-working, estimable, amicable and honest.
After the day's work was done, Paul stared
at the empty lots and whispered to himself,
" Soon I'll be in one of them...I feel it coming! "
One unlucky afternoon he was standing
on the edge of a newly dug-up grave and accidently
slipped and fell into the twenty-feet excavation;
no screams for help were heard...he was dead!
That same afternoon, there was a burial
and as the corpse's coffin was lowered into the grave,
Father Michael spotted a body lying on the bottom of it,
and it resembled that of Paul....suddenly police
were notified and minutes later a fire truck arrived
to the dreary scene. Then two young firefighters
lowered themselves into the pitch-dark grave by holding
onto sturdy ropes, and without much effort,
they pulled his bruised and broken body:
he was pronounced dead at two-thirty.
Paul had a near-death experience, one of the most
incredible ones: he visited heaven, the place of bliss!
And as he climbed the gold stairway, he heard many voices
of those he knew in the previous life...they chanted glorifying God,
who was seated on an ivory throne surrounded by Archangels,
Saints and the Prophets whom he remembered from his Bible readings.
vignette-ROCK 'N ROLL (repost of my 2008) poem)
Fame may not buy love
Or hold its hand
On a hard day's night-
Yesterday's in the past
Ecce Cor Meum maybe the one to last.
Tribute to Paul McCartney & his oratorio
RE-posted to complement the misiing decade from Linda-Marie's recent poem
Many Christmas Trees are seen
around the Yule Season in my city;
they all are very tall and beautiful,
but the Rockefeller Plaza's Norway spruce
is the most gigantic and spectacular
with its multicolored lights that resemble stars.
Christmas is a wonderful experience on New York's City busy streets:
stores, pubs, restaurants and shops dress up with decorations so dazzling;
where else can you find a Santa ringing a bell and spreading good cheers...
wishing New Yorkers and visitors a Merry Christmas with a tone so thrilling?
On Christmas Eve, Saint Patrick's Cathedral echoes with joyful hymns,
and Child Jesus smiles at children as they caress His soft and divine face.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Two years ago I left New York,
to find my luck somewhere else,
and in Waterbury, Connecticut I settled in a ranch-house,
which overlooked middle-class homes
groping on verdant slopes;
the night stars may have shined
a little brighter than in Manhattan,
without a trace of pollution or smog,
but the harsh winters made me dream again
of living in the warm streets of wonderful New York!
As I step out of my car into Fifth Avenue, by the entrance,
old acquaintances welcome the sweet return of a New Yorker;
and unto Columbus Circle I run toward Central Park:
it used to be my park, and my dog loved it by barking lauder,
and over little bridges I jogged as he chased me fervently;
there was no day in which I felt lonely...to want to escape from this city!
Here all neighbors met and chatted with a kind of stylish accent...
that all tourists love and find it extremely attractive!
When I look up...there the Empire State Building
is one of the wonders of my glamorous city that never disappoints anyone;
even night can't put it to sleep with its gloom;
and holidays always decorate it with spectacular lights:
like the yellow-bright daffodils that begin to bloom...
as happy faces greet the sweet return of a New Yorker...
driving on the Brooklyn Bridge bound for the New Jersey shore!
O greatest city, let me begin to write an ode that your people will sing!
Other cities are certainly beautiful and captivating as this one,
but none of them can spark inside that something so special...
the breath-taking view of the sky-scrapes in the August' moonlight,
the gracious waves of the East River and the ships that glide up and down the harbor;
and in this spot I met my sweet-heart with eyes like a Virginia sky, and hair
so soft and as red as the cheeks of a stuttering, drunken man!
Lady of a mysterious night, you vanished as the summer'
dawn erupted from the ocean's deep to forever preserve your delicate beauty!
Copyright 2008 by Andrew Crisci
Horatio, you sly and cunning feline.
You think you're smart.
Yes, you think I don't know what
you do when I go to work.
But I know, old boy, I know.
I know that you clean your slick gray fur
in front of the mirror.
I know that you make sure that
your collar is straight
and that your whiskers are trimmed.
You have to look your best
when she's there, don't you?
I know that you invite that calico
from the garden over
when I'm at work.
I know that you two play my Coltrane records-
to get you in the mood.
I can picture you two tapping your paws
and bobbing your furry heads to the beat,
feeling the groove,
digging that sax.
I can picture you laying next to her.
Your tail moving like a pendulum,
Your yellow eyes giving her
that "come hither look."
When I come home,
there is a plume of blue cigarette smoke
hanging in the air
and there are two empty wine glasses
with paw prints on the coffee table.
And you Horatio,
lie there in the blanketing sunbeam
from the window,
pretending to daydream of mice.
1960 and the world was changing
A time for living and rearranging
Baseball in the school yard with a sponge ball and a fist
Donnie Brooks sang Mission Bell and Chubby did The Twist
Bobbie sox and ponytails, school dances were so much fun
Johnny Preston’s Running Bear. I loved the theme from Peter Gunn
A young senator from Boston was in the presidential race
Marty sang El Paso and there was a theme from A Summer Place
Mr. Custer and Alley Oop were fun songs to listen to
While Elvis said It’s Now or Never and also Stuck on You
Ford came out with the Edsel. Remember the unsinkable Molly Brown.
Everybody’s Somebody’s Fool even Cathy’s Clown
We had air raid warnings and marbles in our pockets
Movies in the park and Cape Canaveral shooting rockets
Gable and Monroe in the Misfits, Perry Mason on TV
And the Drifters were singing Save the Last Dance for Me.
There was a draft to serve our country and we were always ready
A time for holding hands and a time for going steady
Kirk Douglas was Spartacus and Burt was Elmer Gantry
Pies were made from scratch and there were apples in the pantry
Larry Hall sang Sandy and Bobby Rydell wailed Wild One
O Dio Mio From Annette. She and Frankie had so much fun
Lonely Blue Boy by Conway Twitty and Bobby’s Beyond the Sea
Duane twanged Because they’re Young and the Everly’s Let it be Me
Those days are precious memories that I hope will never fade
The world was so much kinder then and I was in eighth grade.
Not far from my bustling town of Baiano, which welcomed anyone,
there was a camp set up for gypsies,
not with dangerous tramps and thieves,
it looked like a concentration camp:
a territory restricted and feared
by the locals when they burned logs themselves to keep warm;
and despite alienation and distrust, out of it came inner beauty.
Mandisa and I became friends,
and we chatted after I finished school;
many wonderful stories of Egypt she told me:
from every Pharaoh who ever lived to the last tribe of gypsies.
While everybody was suspicious and kept the distance,
prejudice didn't keep me away from her...we shared the same feelings
of two young people, but mine were somewhat more real,
hers were not too realistic considering the condition she lived in:
a camp that resembled a ghetto without any help from the Government.
At dusk, the males played the Ouds and Riqs
that surely brightened up a cloudy sky over their squalid tents...
residents listened, but thought their music was dedicated to their Goddess Iris:
what a misconception they had about theses gypsies who never hurt anyone!
With arms hugged across my chest, feeling the crispness of the evening breeze,
I listened to every song they sang with a nostalgia an outsider couldn't describe,
then I grabbed Mandisa's hand and started to dance!
They cheered and played that music louder..everyone came out of their homes
thinking that a concert was in progress, but they were taken by shock:
their bitter looks changed to human tenderness seeing two kids dance,
one of their own country: beautiful Italy and the other from
mysterious Egypt which they knew little about.
We looked at them and smiled and invited them to join us to form a ring
where all held each other hand: two races coming together
in friendship and harmony that before seemed a mere impossibility!
Copyright 2012 by Andrew Crisci
An animal carival
Inhabits his fantasy zoo,
Lion,elephant & kangeroo-
Hearing other composer's phrase
Into his imagination we gaze.
Tribute to Saint-Saens
Hopper's painted a sober couple
with an unamorous sentiment;
two lovers with faces too distant,
with hands not touching, not feeling...
just being realistic and sensible,
reflecting on a tomorrow that was coming.
The exterior colors are of a depressing dark,
and the interior ones are mixed with bright
ones...with an ivory tone consuming their sober faces;
why are they staring into nothingness, sensing sadness?
We can't feel what they feel, or hear what they hear,
but their thoughtfulness is as intense as the evening' whisper.
Theirs was an era when Elvis was the undisputed king,
and his music was played on an old-fashioned record player;
perhaps his blues were the ones they loved to sing,
but the pretty boy from Tennessee was much younger and happier than they ever were,
not wearing a blue t-shirt, brown slacks and a classic hairdo,
and he rode in his red Chrevolet with a style that was envied by everyone in Hollywood.
Hopper's theme should have been much livelier than this,
not as morose as his summer's evening melancholic portrait;
and who could judge him for expressing himself in a such way?
Perhaps it was a realistic scene he had experienced with his fiancee,
observe the artist's rendition of the unpleasant mood he was in...
and shouldn't have he painted it with a more intimate and amorous sentiment?
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
On the darkest evening of the year,
Not a glimpse of music to my ear.
Not real music, that is.
Hollow sleigh bells salute; cue the drummer boys and girls running to barter my interest!
The rushed cacophony contrasts simple simplicity
That my mind wants to find on the department store shelves.
We toil on the highway -
Horns blaring tempers flaring,
Veering left and right screeching to avoid a fight.
So stress and struggle and don’t brake too hard, lest your caravan not make it in tonight.
But at home the fire is so delightful.
One last frightful block and lo! The front door beckons.
Melody seeps out on to the street
Oh, do not ask what is it – let us go and make our visit.
First, shelve your insight, shelf profound.
We don’t speak such solipsist’s sounds.
Violins resound; crescendo, drums roll!
Love’s language laid bare as the bell extols.
The darkest evening of the year
Lightened by music in my ear.
It's so mild in the quite suburbs
with rain falling in October,
and unable to sleep, I face
insomnia for certain;
rain, keep on falling and let me hear
that steady, pelting sound on
the closed windows....a melody for
the saddest song should be written.
I must choose the right mood,
a minor scale to match this melancholy,
and a slow tempo growing into a crescendo,
and I could even throw in a scherzo;
and transport it with a C Major to smooth
some sadness out of the melody,
which tomorrow somebody
will hum, or whistle by learning the easy tune.
Hoping this song will be a hit,
thanks to the falling rain
in October for the sudden inspiration...
when I couldn't think of anything else!
Wishing the rain would stop at six,
so I could see the rising sun across
the eastern sky and listen to the lark
that built his nest under my windowsill.
It's past sunrise, and the shimmering clouds hesitate to leave,
and with nothing to look forward to... I must believe
that the rain falling in October,
can teach me the game of solitaire;
and pinned against my warm pillow,
I don't have anything to share but sorrow!
Flap your wide wings, friendly lark and repeat my song,
note by note; and without a lead sheet, I can't play it for very long...
Copyright by Andrew Crisci
Thinking outside his cage
A war on tradition he waged,
Writing notes by chance,upon a page-
His disharmonies cannot be forecast
Many suppose his music will not last
John Cage= Avan-garde composer
THE COLOR OF THE WIND WHICH IS WEDDED TO WINTER’S MUSE AND
What, color is music?
Is it the color of your lover’s eyes as you wade at water’s edge?
Or more like the colors you view when a child’s giggle makes you young again?
Then again, they could be muted colors…………………….
opaque in nature,
but suddenly you breathe on them and alas they glow once more
Royal colors crowned and crowded with admirers who stand in awe of hues hewn with
Yet if I had to make a decision
I would be urged to opine that music is the color of enjoyment enveloping this entire
planet which could be in peril
Allow the music of***laughter to echo through the deepest tunnels and over every
Or music could be the color an artiste must employ to duplicate a reflection of joy
which intrudes and reaches into one’s soul and tells you that no matter what, be
content with that which you were blessed to own,
And never fill your cup to overflow with the color of greediness or music made to
Music is not, of course the color of anger or jealousy
As for me I am making music my master who advises me to do things zealously
For after all, where would i be without the magic of music in the middle of madness
Whatever color music is I know it’s has to be majestically and brilliantly bright
Yet cannot deafen us to all but mellow melodies
Music is the color of a mid-August breeze
when heat un-heavies your heart and music gives birth to ease
Music is blue as that breeze which gently blew
While Mrs. Levy’s laundry sways as it clings to a rope,
suspended on the serenity of a symphony sewn of silk
Music is the color of everything built and born of beauty that belies the notion that
an emotion is nay a color as well
And oh how much music is there in the vociferous voice of one single bell
Music is the color of a hundred pipers piping as their numbers increase
Music is made when a war has cause to cease
Therefore music must be the color of peace
© 2011.…. the indupitably prolific poet who, in a short time should be named
poet lauriet of this site....me.....phreepoetree
*t...* take the word “laughter” and make an “S” be the first letter before “L”
Beautiful she was when I saw her
Nestled gently in that obscure corner at the Supa
If only she knew how many years I’ve longed for her
How sweet the poem I wrote for her was
Well, since I saw her and heard her beat in my heart
I swore with the little cash I had that I would buy her
And to buy her I now have
It was few minutes to nine
And the thought of spending another night without her,
...harassed my mind
I couldn’t survive the loneliness,
So off my room I rushed
...and into the Supa I dashed
There she still was, as beautiful clad as the day before
I didn’t have t look twice to know she was mine
That I had done in my mind so many nights before
Now, this was the time for her to really be mine
For opportunity to be theirs had long passed them by
Damn, how good it felt to have her in my grip
When I had her is when everyone else realized how fine she really was
Now they all wanted to own her
Damn, I’m glad it was too late for them
Here she now is
Nestled lovingly on my thighs
The feeling as sensational as I thought it would be
Her beautiful shape so bewitching
Her contours so obsessing
Her sound so marvellously enthralling
She is the love of my life and together we’ll be more than fine
She and I will find a way to make it sound and look right
We shall soon make love on the stage in the star light
They shall soon pay to see us perform our hearts delight
But before then it’s tough practice every night
Opera& music in every style
Establish his celebrity profile,
Living a life so mobile-
A genius with a raucaus laugh
Long lasting fame,his epitaph.
It has been raining
All the day.
But now silence.
Where just before
The drops a rhythmic downwards breeze
And gave us quiet melody to our thoughts,
Are suddenly no more.
The trees, stilted now,
This new, patternless breeze
And our lives are a little more boring
As the clouds sweep past
And leave us alone.
No accompaniment seems to last.
I was cleaning my room tonight
and came across a guitar pick,
one of your used.
A further search
among broken staple cartridges,
multi-colored plastic coated
and classic metal paperclips and
five other picks,
worn down from their
original rounded triangles
to somewhat odd circles.
I laid the picks out in a circle
like flat quartz rocks against
the sand-colored formica of my desk.
Two sky blues, one pink
and two tortoise shells.
I close my eyes and hear your blues,
and mine surge like a wave
until I gasp for air.
I treasured away your discarded picks
in a heart-shaped ceramic dish
that got broken somehow
in the move at the separation.
There should be more than this,
but I became unsupportive, you said,
when I tired of the smoky bars,
and then I wanted a degree,
which absorbed any extra energy,
so you no longer pitched me your picks
or thought I cared.
Maybe someone new gets your leftovers,
But I'm better off not knowing,
just in case there is a limit past
the pain of which I couldn't take.
But I'll keep living anyway,
As long as there is a sun in the morning
and the moon at night,
I'll live for the rises and sets
if that's all I get.
I put Moll's poems on the grand piano,
And the kids took their turn to read...
(Moll was the teacher at their school.)
"My poems!", she said to me, surprised,
As one by one the kids recited.
A hundred poems were thereby read,
And then --- Mozart was in the air!
A composer of song from Rome
North Pennsylvania he was grown;
Bliss dying on the Pacific Express-
Man of sorrows,what a name
Phillip's words found eternal acclaim
Tribute to Phillip Bliss 1813-1876 singer,composer,conductor and hymn-writer
Like tremolos and glissandos in music,
those crescendos and decrescendos in volume;
there’s observance of discipline and yet,
at the same time, there’s sense of freedom.
similar to life how it’s gonna be lived, so far.
Inroads within the wake of comfort zone
a melange of options shown for actions;
it gives an engaging answer to learn
in pursuit of love and openness to wounds.
Signs and wonders in today’s world,
reveal the message that God still cares;
though some people don’t look at this way
given that gift of faith in countless situations.
Now that modernity becomes superior,
in every way of living or communication;
with computers and electronics technology,
iconic symbols of the so-called Information.
But with higher gas and consumer prices,
along with recession fears and job layoffs;
there’s a call to be productive in every measure
to make ends meet and be really held accountable.
It slips to the periphery of life’s business and tests,
like a race in the battlefield where one competes;
wrestles with woes and sticks to what life holds,
with sense of freedom and God’s meaning to all.
Guido was the keynote king
Using words from Paulus hymn,
To teach his pupils ..how to sing-
Onward & upward it can go !
Tribute to Guido Aretino
Inspired by Izzy's contest
On this blessed shore,
every gate opens wide around sunset and dawn,
and the foreigners flow in...like waves rolling along;
all movements and images sketched
in linear prospective as if reality didn't exist,
permitting subsistence not to evade
from the sublunary harbor draped in aqua suede.
Many explorers from the Old Word
paid her a visit on slow vessels loaded with necessities,
in the hope of finding precious stones and gold;
and Columbus succeeded in his quest,
and all of these he brought back...
a new frontier was discovered and millions
flocked to these friendly shores with empty pockets,
but with dreams that would have made that young nation great.
On this blessed shore,
all are welcome if their character is good,
and the desire to get wealthy, with persistent sacrifice,
is reflected in their undisputed honesty and endurance;
Emma Lazarus wrote of these immigrants in her immortal sonnet,
which the wretched, the impoverished and the persecuted cannot ignore...
Read it again, doesn't it ask your libertarian souls to devour it more?
On this blessed shore,
peace dwells at a tremendous cost,
soldiers have gone to foreign lands to fight,
so that it may never lose its God-given right...
to spread it beyond its bounderies for all nations to admire;
and the proud citizens sing their national anthem to enhance its worth...
how can a Nation, guided and protected by God, not rejoice in its freedom?
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
If fate's when first impressions love
Then regret's yearning what never was
At ease entranced my eyes retrieve
Told this tale countless times
I loved an angel who lost her mind
Choose one word which rhymes with fate
Relive my life and transcend its mistakes
Reclaim precious time, addiction wastes
Some angels charm, yet their misery is shared fate
Past memories,I can't forget
To cherish the past without regret
Until my last breath
An angel's death is my secret unkept
If wisdom's embraced, trying moments mature
Some more fortunate, won't endure
Search the cosmos, search inside
Is regret volition's reward?And why?
Some lost souls embrace addiction
Save precious time , their unfurtunate fate is an intuitive prediction
Some have past lives they've barely survived
Is pain volition's reward, or human error?
Is regret finite? Will love last forever?
Past memories I can't forget
To cherish the past without regret
Until my last breath
An angel's death is my secret unkept
Schindler's list,Star Wars
Saving Private Ryan
Gadfly,Lord of the Rings-
Composers on a mission
To make their soundtracks sing.
Tibute to Williams,Shore ,Morricone et al...
In his twenties band
Louis ' music fell from his hand,
The lyrics left his head
He used his voice instead-
Scat-singing then,baked his bread.
Cuckoos and quails
In this pastoral tale,
Nature comes alive
To a symphony of five
Titled movements..so well contrived
Tribute to Beethoven's Symphony No 6
A poet with a voice
and a popular choice
Tragedy dogged his life-
Emotion in a controlled cry..
Too early did it die.
Tribute-Roy Orbison (1936-1988)
You perch on a low stool
of my presence unmindful,
guitar cradled on your lap,
fingers each string loving.
While you delicately pluck,
with slow, flowing arpeggio,
my heartstring you touch.
Who are you to affect me so,
just what kind of magic spell
you put me helplessly under?
'Moonlight Sonata' on tremolo,
'Gone With The Wind', play!
'Chariots of Fire' galloping
right deep inside my brain.
As the night comes to a close
you make me desire for more -
seduced, intrigued and raised
to the clouds to stay right there.
A guitar you turn into a slave
to touch a chord in the soul.
(Inspired by Liona Boyd)
In a glowing, fearless and inspired articulation
of those fingers in the piano that provide brilliance;
It’s a piece of music, incisive with exceptional signs
so profound and rhapsodic in the entire performance.
I feel like being redeemed as it overwhelms me
with its power and dynamism to echo its meaning;
Those are signs and wonders that make me recall -
my own journey of sufferings and inner pains.
As intertwined in the soul of human affliction
Are sentiments and longings for one’s redemption;
They’re like labyrinthine inducements of persuasion,
That music in the heart is indeed a great consolation.
Classical pieces like those of Tchaikovsky, Sebelius,
Brahms, Beethoven, Chopin, Rachmaninov, et al;
soothe my emotion while getting into the picture,
with imagination and a sense of deeper connection.
It’s a triumph of peace and serenity from within,
As its power conquers me through the whole;
I can feel the heartstring of being attuned then
to the soul of music festooned with confrontation.
The alluring resources that music evokes from within,
are fitting occasions replete with the truth of redemption;
its expressions, movements, textures and other emotions,
reveal the sanctity of what it means to be whole again.
Fame may not buy love
Or hold its hand
On a hard day's night-
Yesterday's in the past
Ecce Cor Meum maybe the one to last.
Tribute to Paul McCartney & his oratorio
A dance I’ll steal from this night
And move slowly with the moon
Stars will shine upon my feet
I will create a waltz for each one.
My arms move slowly, entrancingly
Hypnotizing sleepy watching eyes
Light sprinkles on my face from above
My bare feet glide across the breezy grass
A dance I’ll steal from this night
Sailing between each strong tree
Fireflies accompany my spellbound trance
Musical allusions fly alongside.
The flowers bloom acceptingly in the still of the night
Their quieted lights reveal the dreams of those asleep
Nuzzled in their nests as I drift below the leaves
Dancing in a daze, as I would in any sleep.
My feet skim a cool stream’s edge
Fresh water glittering on my lively legs
A skip across the small blue belt
The constitution of the forest
Winding from end to end.
A dance I’ve stolen from the night
In a forest of breathtaking captivities
Each shining star a kindly ovation
To my dreamy wander.
A missionary,with medical skill
With a gospel,fulfilling God's will,
An historian,writer of song
Out of scripture his lyrics came from !
More @ Luke 1:29 Ave Maria ;1:46-55 Magnificat;1:68-79 Benedictus;2:29-32 Nunc Dimittis
Simon and Garfunkel
Guitar ready and in hand
Made hit as a sixties band-
The Tom & Jerry duo change of name
Bringing forth popular fame.
In another's shadow
His art just longed to go-
Fifteen years to get it right
Before it saw a concert light,
And success upon its premiere night.
Tribute to Johannes Brahms Symphony no 1
Whimsical & topsy-turvy
A partnership of mirth & hilarity
William,dramatist with much to say
Arthur,leading composer of his day-
With light opera,they made their pay.
Tribute to Gilbert&Sullivan
His comet still crosses the sky
Visible to the naked eye,
And his music rocks around the clock-
Such events made their name
Leaving each with lasting fame
Tribute to Edmond Halley & Bill Haley
Now a favourite,at the top
On first night,a major flop
For its time,a plot too hot-
An early death was Bizet's lot
His Carmen,time has not forgot.
Tribute to Bizet
Lullaby to help us sleep
Music to makes us weep
With emotions running deep-
Softly swinging along
In a cradle song
Tribute to Johannes Brahms
He makes the piano his solo voice
In this concerto of popular choice
Inspired in this capital of empire
To set our emotions all afire
Andante of which,none could tire
Tribute to Mozar's No 21
A uranium mine was big brother's plan
The locals resist as best they can,
From Orkney to Oban-
Vicitory inspired a piano piece,
Rebellion obtained freedm's release
Peter Maxwell Davies-Farewell to Stromness
We sat in a room.
A bedroom, a messy one.
One with a mixture of clothes, garbage and drugs scattered everywhere. There
was random writing on the walls, like grafitti, and the paint was chipping. We sat
mostly in silence, we knew what was going to happen that night. When he arrived
we got into the van and he introduced us to his stash.
We got to the highschool commons. It was a giant building with tall ceilings,
giant pillars, and big glass windows, and it had no supervision inside. Before
going inside we smoked some hash outside. There had to be at least 400
people there. The room had flashing lights, loud music, and teenage wreckage
everywhere. The people were forming a kind of mosh; their arms flinging and
they screamed to see if they could out-roar the music.
The effect was deafening. Nearly all the stash-ridden tables were smashed to
the floor, so we hurried to the only stnading one left. He dumped his stash on the
The lights plus the music plus the emotion made you want to dig into the stash
and join the mosh. That's what we did, but we didn't join the mosh right away. We
sat around the table and watched the masacre, finding it overly amusing. We
laughed at mearly everything as the acid took it's effect. I finally got up to mosh.
Everything wanted your body in, and it had already stolen your voice, for you
couldn't hear yourself scream. Before I could get my feet off the ground, I couldn't
help but notice that there were people making out everywhere, as they moshed. I
laughed at them, but was jelous.
I started kissing someone, unsure of whether or not it was a guy or girl. We
stripped off our clothes until we were nearly naked, but then he/she backed away.
They rejoined the mosh.
I stood still, and the mosh parted before me leading me to the glass wall. I
walked, barefoot, to where it stood surprisingly clean. I took the object in my hand
and smashed the gleaming wall, screaming with the music. The crowd cheered
and roared until my ears were ringing and I was nearly deaf. I moshed into the
middle of the mosh and everyone jumped to my rhythm. I felt hundreds of eyes
watching me, so I closed my eyes and let my body go. He/she found me again,
and kissed me again, and the masacre disappeared. Eventually so did whoever I
A genius,of prolific reportoire
Came to fame with an orphan choir,
Lionized, then abandoned to the past-
Now his violins play breathtakingly fast
In seasonal works ,written to last.
Tribute to Antonio Vivaldi
A vaporetto upon the sea
A love departs that could never be-
Tears trickle down face,
Mahler played at his slowest pace,
Scene from Death in Venice
His music was to cause a riot
As Stravinsky lost th plot,
Beethoven ...it was not-
This rite of Spring
Soon made the critics sing.
Full story @ The Rite Of Spring by Stravinsky
Play it again Ed,
Elgar's Alice suddenly said;
A simple improvisation
Led to fourteen variartions-
On family,friends and a dog.
Tribute to his Enigma.
I wrote a song, and some have heard,
two lovers dancing, while recalling their past with every word.
Well today I was sent, a contract by mail,
they think this song will do quiet well.
I wanted you to know, and I'll keep you up to date,
on the news of my song, and this songwriters fate.
Sans a symphony
And no opera for for he,
Each day he would play
Note perfectio his only way.
Tribute to Chopin
Blind from the age of three
In his heart,music, set free-
A concierto exemplar,
Fashioned for a guitar..to make it sing
Memoria..... to a still-born offspring.
Tribute to Joaquin Rodrigo 1901-1999 Concieto de Aranjuez