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Prose Poetry Music Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Music

These Prose Poetry Music poems are examples of Prose Poetry poems about Music. These are the best examples of Prose Poetry Music poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

Collecting the Cracks that Bleed Through My Voice.

We broke in two and it amused him that I was still counting...

I could hear the night whisper beyond his ears, the bed we lay ourselves down upon and
passion was considerate when his mind let go....

she was direct and unforgiving and I...

gave.in.


I could listen to the tumbling of my heart for ages and I collected music as my lips split
in half, it was only to kiss him, you see, only to allow him to know...

how I bled.


I tasted myself as the night wore on, exhausted yet hungry for his arms, I studied my own
in the afternoon, multiplied my freckles and wondered if my child would be ashamed of the
scars that decorated my skin, prayed she would never know how years could bite, so I
reached for him when the clouds became cold and I became...

scared...

as I frightened myself to death in the realization that we....

were still so alive.



The ground we walked on spoke of faults and mistakes, there were cracks in the earth yet
my hand still held his, he was clueless and I was silent but we slept well, he and I,
after passion erupted and the sky split...

when the clouds collected my music and rain sang, just to show him, how the days
could
bleed.




Details | Prose Poetry | |

Bell's Blues (Conclusion)

     Today, I had a chance to ask his widow, Laurie, about this story.  She 
confirmed that it did happen, and he came home from work that day excited, and 
told her and their 3 daughters about the event.
     And sure enough, shortly thereafter, the song became a hit on the radio, and 
M.T.V., in those ancient days when they actually played music.
     This news brightened my day considerably, and I'm happy to share it with you; 
so when you next hear that song, remember my good buddy, Mark Trotiner, the 
uncredited genius behind it.
                                          tom bell


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Bell's Blues

Staring, vapor locked, at my Hammond B-3 console organ, which dominates my 
kitchen.  Surely a symbol of my madness.  I can't help, but think, if the keys were 
the days of my life, and the black ones represented the bad days, are there 
enough black keys??  Fighting petulance, self-pity...losing...
     Wondering if I can stand another minute alone.  Atop my organ, music books, 
and the complete works of Edgar Allan Poe, another mad poet.
     Plagued by physical agonies that merely complete a perfect circle of anguish 
and distress.  Even to worrying of misspelling a word again.  Pure lunacy.
     Remembrance of my 1863 death at Missionary Ridge, something I became 
aware of as a young child before I'd ever heard of reincarnation.  Or just an early 
sign of the madness to come??
     I am lost in a befouling miasma of deep despair.  My life's hopes down to 2 
desires;  one last music band, and taking my son to Disneyworld.  Money is 
meaningless to me.
     I am well aware that death is as natural as life.  And I would venture to guess 
that the loss of my father, my young cousin Billy, my dear friend Mark Trotiner, and 
too many others, are "Business As Usual" in this universe.  But not for me.
     Being terminally ill myself is something I have long since come to terms with.  
And what a reunion it will be!!  But I must continue to go on surviving as though I 
cherish this long and barren life.
     My writing, especially my poetry, my poet friends, my music, my musician 
friends, and a few relatives and others; these are the meds that work for me; not 
the 30 or so pills I must deal with everyday.  So thank you all.
And now an addendum, one which brightened my day:
     Mark Trotiner long maintained that he gave Mark Knoffler (Dire Straights) the 
idea for his hit song "Money For Nothing", when Mark Knoffler came into the 
appliance chain store he worked in way back then, where he bought, and drove 
off with several T.V.s, singing the prototype words he'd gotten from Mark Trotiner.  
Over the years, I tested him repeatedly, looking for the tale-tell deviation in the 
story one finds in a false tale.  He never faltered, he never failed.
    Continued.....


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Retribution

	It was kind of nice having money all the
		Time.
	Looking back when I was seventeen,
		I looked forward to going to work.
	It is unlike what I feel about work now.
		I did a lot of reading as a child.
	I read all kinds of books.
		I would consider Oak Lawn a safe
	Community then. 
		I can’t remember any times when I got beat up.

	I did a lot of running home and telling.
		I avoided a lot of suffering by talking to
		My parents about the bullies.
			It wasn’t until junior high that I had to
		Take care of a fight that went way wrong.
			I was scared to death of a seventh grader.
		I fought him, and found out he wanted to 
			Wrestle.
		I wasn’t that good of a 
			Wrestler then.

		I got better
			In high school.
		It was kind of chaotic, and the wrestling matches
			Were more “fighting” than wrestling.
		I hung in school and made a name for myself
			At Oak Lawn Community High School.
		My sister gave me a collection of albums
			My junior year.
		I was introduced to all kinds of music by
			Those.

		My first good introduction to music came
			My sophomore year.
		A friend introduced me to “The Police” with
			“Zenyatta Mondatta” and “Ghost in
		The Machine”.
			He told me what he did at his party
		In eighth grade.
		They sat around and played Gin.
			They drank soda.
		They went bowling.

		I got off to a late start with music,
			And I finally caught up with my tape-
		Radio I got for Christmas my junior year.
			I could have had a big party,
		But I decided to wait.
			I didn’t really have one except
	 	The one’s I had in grammar school.
			My friend thought he was going to
		Get married to this one girl at O.L.C.H.S.
			It fizzled out like my relationship did.

			That girl liked someone else though.
		I should have given up calling her,
			It was no fun talking to her.
		She didn’t talk to me at all in school.
			I’m not sure she even knew who I was
		In lunch.
			I didn’t have anymore classes with her.
			Her boyfriend went out for basketball
		Like I should have done.  I was pretty good.  Maybe just
		Doing my chess and studying was the best thing for me to do.

		


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Be Still

And the westerly wind,
Will blow a sea of waving grass
And the sea's fine mist 
Will breathe drops like dew
And the sinking suns
Will cloak the sky's horizon
And the moons of Autumn
Will beckon the golden fertililty of the harvest
And the violet tinged edge of night
Will cry for the white bursting of the stars
And the carved thrust of the mountain range
Will challenge the forever yielding blue
And the hovering tunes of the dawn's awakening
Will mimic the lullaby of my dreams
Rise


Details | Prose Poetry | |

When We Met

          ~When We Met.~
Battling everyday is so hard to maintain a healthy 
brain to keep up with our everyday work our 
thoughtful speculations of wanting the impossible 
to take place,has to change,by gaining self confidence
and become independent.

When we just met at the hotel lobby for recollection 
of work,accompanying us the sounds of 4 of July in LA. 
Our ceaseless conversations felt flawless immediately.
A faultless intimate sharing took over a mixture of
work and pleasure.

When we just met,our loving nature coincided with
authentic sounds of fireworks plus its music filling 
the sky with a huge combination of the most
beautiful Technicolor's of fireworks.

The sounds with musical lights combined together
allowed our eyes to sparkle more than ever,both 
of us became in a pensive dreamy mood for a rightful 
discussion about how love can start by romancing,
to evolve later into a durable long lived relationship.
He was so much my type of a man,an artist in his work,
very authentic,fancy,& has an unforgettable 
sense of humor.

Smiling drinking and eating with our discussing, 
constantly allowed us to remain in high spirits, 
behind us the sky illuminated our joy of being 
together,that delightful lasting closeness felt 
like a challenge awaiting for the unpredictable 
to happen,the tremendous sounds of fireworks 
accompanied with a charming tempo ringing
in out thoughts.

Instantly our touching hands felt permissive,
stimulative,devoted,his voice transformed into 
an echo inviting me to later go up into his room 
to heat up the bed and enjoy cooling off our desires.
Having asked me before about what color of roses I love,
Yellow.

Later on hand by hand once inside the room it was filled 
with yellow roses everywhere,and layered on the 
beautiful bed.
Suddenly, he threw my hand bag and held me so tight 
to waltz to the sounds of music,a telepathy between us 
and the sounds rang in our ears as a sweet mixture of music.
Immediately took my hand kissed it with his warmest lips 
begging to love me tonight,what a gentleman our body 
connection was authentic,flirting as a start was conceived 
in an artistic way,kissing wise and making love was 
memorable, slowly the sounds ended while gradually 
our naked bodies parted in the morning when our 
routine for work had to take place. 

We parted with a long sexual kiss,emancipating
another brutal night with a candle light.


Therese Bacha
1/7/2014


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hypnotic Beyonce

A love that is stronger than my pride,
trying to keep feelings my heart can no longer hide
Emotional honesty is trapped within me,
relieve me, and oh please set me free.

How to give my heart if am afraid to be hurt
Turning my back on love ignoring what its worth.
Refused to reach out for his love, I ‘m all left alone, now
loneliness thrilled me to my very bone.
 
Playing the ‘hard to get game’, now I’m left like a clown.
Trying to escape from such a feeling; truth that my heart is revealing.
Silence screams music in my head, pushing me to switch on the TV
There came Beyoncé doing her show, singing her new song ‘Halo’
Amazed, her voice melted my frozen stare, so I sat down on the coach to listen.
Her music turns hypnotic and pulled me in, sending thrills all over my skin.
 
Her voice were clear as the Caribbean sky on a cloudless spring day,
and every word she says just melts my heart away, giving deep feelings that
Consume my tender heart, leaving only mystery with no ultimate attempt to define it.
Her word touches my emotion from the core of my soul, and it seems like 
everywhere, only my lover’s face that I behold. 

Then a happy time filled my mind, giving sensation of a summer breeze tickling my 
skin and amplifies the deepest desire I felt within. This perpetual bliss, abruptly I 
found myself in the arms of my love wth Enthralled Melodies making Passion 
explodes into flames and from this very moment, I know my life will never be the 
same.


 By  kelleyana Junique.



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Nineteen fable

 Nineteen fable 
Nineteen fable 
 
MUSICK NONnude Review 
 
 
CHarlaxFabels 
 
Grand Funk Railroad was a fave group of mine the best time eye ever had was in 
a house on a rug listening to this song of hard rock and rhinocerous thumps. 
Wait. FOGHAT was the best for sex but lucky mee was never a Catholic. The 
Horns blew for Chicago and there was lots of other groups to make this fable 
bleed there was the Creedence Clearwater Revival so cool so wonderful a thing. 
John Fogarty sure must have been a saint. Eye wish he had not got so mad and 
left the other members of his group. But Creedence Song became a new fave 
thing. 
Daddy had a band 
Played him a little guitar 
Traveled in a van 
Livin' that rock and roll 
Night after night 
People comin' up to the bandstand 
Say you can't go wrong 
If you play a little bit of that 
Creedence song 

It was late one night 
Cruisin' on down the interstate 
Stopped into a diner 
To get him some chili and fries 
Heard the waitress tell a guy 
Standin' over by the jukebox 
Hey you can't go wrong 
If you play a little bit of that 
Creedence song 

Well daddy took a shine 
To the lil' girl behind the counter 
She movin' her hips to the swamp beat 
Right on time 
Said could he play her somethin' 
Over there on the jukebox 
She said you can't wrong 
If you play a little bit of that 
Creedence song 

Daddy had a plan 
He asked that girl to marry 
With a brand new wife 
They're livin' on rock and roll 
Night after night 
She whispers oh so sweetly 
Hey you can't go wrong 
If you play a little bit of that 
Creedence song 




Details | Prose Poetry | |

BITING COLD

(Winter Song)

This cold is touching me and I'm liking it 

It hugs me real tight and I'm loving it 

Now it's biting me real hard 

From my foot up to my face 

I wanted to let go but it won't 

Though it realy hurts, I won't mind 

Cry? Never! 

(c) 2012


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Exclusion

Waking to murmurs	
Hum of smooth white noise 
Or waves slapping rocks

Through mirror-like glass
I see russet wings
Dampened by dewdrops	
.  		
Walk to the kitchen, 
my feet soft and bare 
on tiles cracked, and 

wish the sea
surrounded
so sinking

floats


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Golden Fertility of the Harvest

He is the sinking of the final red orange sun of the glowing summer 
Warmth no longer oozing and seeping into the pores as I lie bare under the skies 
Jeweled dewdrops on the morning grass to dampen bare feet all softness under  
And the shimmer on the surface of the lakes like the diamonds in your eyes 

He is the golden cusp pf Autumn's Fertility 
The ritual dance of the scarecrow in the breezes 
(Straw coming loose and flying towards you, most certainly 
will brush up against you and tickle before he ceases)  
 
And this thinner less lumpy all seeing scarecrow  
Seems to be in no remorse: his knowing face will always grin  
And his arms will always be raised in a wave to show 
He will protect the yellow brown stalks that bend before him 
 
He is the crisp wind that caresses the crinkled foliage 
Their rustling like long flowing skirts on a 1940s ballroom floor 
These winds chill the fingers and toes and your face with the stinging red roses  
Yet when winter beckons the retreating light, we will be frozen at its core 

He is silent snowfalls and many winter moons  
And the brown earth beginning to expose itself  
The uncoiling of green and mud beginning to ooze  
And all new life breaking free from its fragile shell


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Less 'Talk' More 'Milk'

 
 
  After the interview; 
Each rider and horse, 
move it off, all too quickly.
My head how it spins, around it.
As it works each day, with such beautiful hands.
None known here, can refuse it. 
Here in this factory, they own it.
It are they, as they hang down, each cloud 
and dawn like dew, each tip, now dripps with it.
What has it done.
What should it do.
Roles reversed, would you.
i look they say, like it.
I frown they laugh and i smile at it.
Upside down, they are all I see, and it's full with it.
They all watch it, as none can slip by it.
Explaining and swirling about, as it utters. 
Looking at it, most like they, start to work.
One says it's simple mechanical, it's poetry.
Fore their arms are off and their aft of it. 
All just because, they make cream from it.
Factory chatter is loud and the clamor it grows 
as each machine moves, 
up and down, outside all around it.
The bottles once clear, are warm when they're filled, 
and the milk comes out, quickly through it.
They try Calming it down, as too many hang 
down, 
and around it, are those hands that confess it.
Each cow, you now know, has it's very own name, 
and as Betsy stands there, don't confuse it 

Is It Poetry 
 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Encompassed in Memory

Cool mountain streams reflect the cobalt blues and greys of sky 		   
Restful twilight with stars scattered as if on a canvas 		   
Fire cloaks the curve of the earth and golden fish swim nearby 		   
Weeping willows in the field sway to an urgent sadness 		   
The gushing wind that stirs etches the land, channels through boundless time 		   
The carved thrust of a mountain range, maybe the Andes 		   
Will challenge the forever yielding sky, vast as the horizon 		   
Where rain batters the window and mists as far as we can see 		   
It is a warm evening in a pub in Ireland 		   
As the songs hover around us, I know this is what it is like to be free


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Froze

My heart stop sometimes and then it skips beats what is it 
telling me???

That my life is short and if I don't get you back it will stop 
completely

Come back to me and heal this froze heart of mine take me 
into your arms
and embraces me with this pain 

Give me that nice and understanding part of you bring the 
sun into my darkness of love that I have because 

of you life couldn't be better without use together so open 
up them windows and let the sun shine in

Renew our friendship to inreplaceable pull together the 
strength of love and forever keep use hole


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Fourth Fable

 The Fourth Fable 
The Fourth Fable 
 
A Jesus Cowboy Song 
 
Eye am a strong man iff strength is not physical alone, 
but charachter and hope, love become my armour 
 my arm as gates once opened close now new ones open at a glance in poverty 
of riches poor people there in Heaven sing to Jesus as they wave branches from 
the richness of the trees beside the waters running in the trenches freely given 
overflowing when a little lamb just wants a drink of water another drink the water 
bubbles up so no one has to lift her she can reach the water carefully she drinks 
and then she sings…' 
'my holster is empty my life is complete my love is in Heaven 
eye have plenty to eat and to drink ' 
life is not meant to be a shoot em up rodeo 
life is not meant to be a shoot um up movie 
my life is in Heaven my holster is empty 
eye have LOVE' 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Love's Symphonic Passion

Love's Symphonic Passion
                                by Odin Roark

Shimmering whispers urge forth,
A beginning seeks release from darkness,
The voicing of struggle proclaims arrival,
Like miniature cymbals of resolute announcement,
The humble cries of emergence
Clash ever so quiet with air and space,
Once portending grace,
Now its melodic genesis.

The matrixes of parent/conductor
Anxiously hum nursery rhymes
Through white enameled side-rails,
Vertical portals to unfettered ears,
Absorbing even when sleeping,
Evolving passion's invitation.

The precious first movements
Grow from those one-finger dissonant phrases,
Sometimes pounded upon the black and white landscape
Where an merging piccolo's infant smile
Finds support by paternal contra bass and maternal cello echoes.

Remembrances of tinkling melodies
Soon enjoin its pure and simple
With conflicted movements of trial and error,
Evolving the inevitable adagio of growing up.

Hence forth
The scherzo's innocence of adolescence
Crescendos into threatening measures,
Where layered tones of choices
present challenge,
chaos,
counterpoint to independence,
or sympatric harmony.

The family of voicing
Develop love's thematic material,
Rhythms,
Keys,
And more complex harmonies,
Creating the free fantasia,
A coalescing of passion's varied workouts.

Its strings worn thin,
Arriving at life's largo movement of peace,
That place of reflective consonance,
The weight of its chambered containment
Rests forth its closing bars,
Housing now but the waning echo of a baby's chorus.

Its shimmering whispers
Float upon one last wave of the baton,
Stirring life's ethereal essence
Into heroic chorus
A higher bonding…
Awaits.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

La Mujer Del Barrio Vega

Some Paris Hilton wannabe laughed
At my cell phone
(which was missing the battery cover)
As if to say
"How pathetic!"
As if to suggest
"He'll never get laid!"

The day was too gloriously
Autumn
For me to care
About the trivialities of some
Electronic set of shackles
And the status of their condition

But(t)

I was tempted to throw out some quips
Toss some facetiousness around
Like feces
Just a little something to mentally gnaw on
While  mockingly handing her the phone
"Oh, your girlfriend has something to admit to you."
While overanalysing her face
"Oh, nice 1986 pink skiing googles that you call sunglasses."
But
Alas
Why feed the absurdity with more
Of the same

The leaves were showing signs of new color
The air was crisp
The hummingbirds were in Mexico
The music in my head was excellent as
The breeze blew over my neurons

Adios
La muchacha con no alma

Buenos dias 
Para la Tierra


Details | Prose Poetry | |

BITING MY DESIRES

I’m dancing to my feeling, with a rhythm
Of music unsung
Listening to distant voices
Unsure of the message
Of love that ain’t mine, in the voice I hear

‘Here I am’, could that be the voice
That drives me to the unknown
To lands I fear to trend, in light and dark,
To catch the voices, and kiss the light
That sparkles, in darkness of love

I’m all but, biting the desires
And hidden feelings in my heart
Unsure of her feelings
And music in her eyes
That leaves me faint, and crippled with desires!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

come listen to the music

I hear the music of the heavenly angels 
Coming softly through the blue sky from above 
Blending with the music from on the mountain tops 
Bringing to all earth's people messages of love. 

The song birds are singing to the angels' music 
Telling us to hear the words of truth very clear, 
"All of earth's people are more alike than different 
And to help each other will leave no room for fear". 

Come listen to the music of quiet gentle breezes 
And music from wild flowers growing on the hill 
Whispering softly to awaken our spirits 
Saying, "Only listen and let your hearts be still


Details | Prose Poetry | |

NO MEASURE TO SOUL TREASURES

this a sight that right
has the pass
and gas 
of music that last
get on this task
and check it out no doudt
there's
NO MEASURES
TO SOUL TREASURES


Details | Prose Poetry | |

GUITAR BLUES MEN

going back in to time
the blues has shine
its sad and it bad
they pick quick
and play away the story
that come from within
these
GUITAR BLUES MEN


Details | Prose Poetry | |

AN INSTRUMENT THE PLAYER

AN INSTRUMENT
&
THE PLAYER

Once upon a time - not so long ago - encountered, was this exotic GU ZHENG. Fate, placed this lovely Instrument, into the hands of an old player, a musician who had been laid to rest, who had lain dormant, frozen in time, among the ashes of reflections of the music he once played, music that created the sights and sounds that made up the visions he now looks into, of his past. 

This old man's abilities - decaying, flaccid from so many years of neglect and impotency - came to life, to life with such desire, that it made possible, movements from his tired old mind, mouth, hands and fingers that would play sounds, vibrations of heavenly music, that would sing to the ears of his lost old soul, lifting his spirit to heights once only known to his youth now to extro into the world of the living, once again, fingers - like that of the gods - gliding over this elegant, sweet Instrument, caressing her with whispered strokes, much like those of silent breezes on a clear, worm summer's day as they slide across the quivering strings of this beautiful GU ZHENG, that now - after so brief a moment, making such heavenly articulations -has given up the music, ending the dance, turning down low, the lights that once, where as brilliant as a million suns, and taking the music - silently drifting across the players recollections of tunes they once danced to -and slipping it into the hands of another .

The old musician slips into a cloak of sadness, of dark dirges he puts into his own words, plays from his instrument, - the broken heart - plucking at it's dead strings, bringing to life the blues, the song of his awakening .

B. J."A" 2
February 16th 2011


Details | Prose Poetry | |

After a Storm Named Irene

The pounding rain
Beat
Like a toddlers hand
On an old Indian drum
Waking up memories
That I had long forgotten

Songs
That I knew so well
But have forgotten
Now decide to return
Chattering aimlessly on
About why 
They decided 
To come again
On this particular day
Which of course
Made me smile

Throughout the day
No matter how hard
I attempted to ignore it
The old music kept playing
In my head
So for the rest of the day
Though I tried
The music continued 
To followed me 
Everywhere I went
Growing louder and louder
Until my whole day
Was a medley
Of the 1960’s

Note: My headache kept getting worse

It was just about this time
That a second cup of coffee
Would have been perfect
But the hurricane
That had just passed
Blew all the electricity
Away 

Not being 
A campfire kind of guy
Boiling water
Was not in my nature

After some time 
I lit up a second cigarette
While drinking what remained
Of my cold
Once hot morning coffee
Half & Half without sugar

About this time
I was fairly certain
If I waited long enough
The single cup
Would work its magic
And chase my sleepiness away

So
I drank what remained
Closed my eyes
Leaned back
And fell fast asleep

It was typical


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A sound of orient

A sound of orient 
-
He looks like a fragranced oasis in this city; 
a lean, yet muscular man in a dhoti, 
sweaty; playing flute, a plateful of bland food 
in front of him, his humble surrounding, the hut.
A village man, who has once come in chasing dream, 
is now a part of this city, a part of speed, 
all except his flute and customary dhoti. 

The dizzy sound travels up, to the fifth floor terrace, 
to the sad man and sadder woman, to the sadists, 
to the dying and to the dead. It climbs up like veins. 
His is a life, with its own brands of pain and love, 
not demanding, the way sometimes this city extracts. 
The days and nights extract a man. 
He hauls out others or vise versa. 

A sound disappears in sleep, 
becomes a village in the vale, 
where dreams move like sheep.
~© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Soup And Brain Salad

No, Shar, I'd never heard of it, but I will, i looked it up, and it's got a great rating.  
Sounds good!  Thanks!!  My friend John S. is a horror buff of the first ranking.  He 
was even on the peripheral edges of some things.  Was working with Joe Spinell 
when he died (Joe) from a tooth infection complicated with heavy cocaine use.

Freddy, 'Ol boy- for you I'm sure the words would be "I'm just a boy whose 
detentions were good!..... And, when you med Davy Jones, was that at his 
locker?  Do you really like Burdon?  Have his Mickey Most series??  Regards, tom


Details | Prose Poetry | |

music

music

He sits alone in silence
In his own little world
A very handsome boy
With hair black as coal

I said hello to him 
But he just watches and smiles
Then his father told me 
He been deaf since a child

And I hear music play 
And I think of him
Wish I cloud do a miracle
So he can hear the music with in


We are so fortunate
Still we do some wrong
It’s unfair for innocent child’
 To never hear a song

Music is a gift of live
It helps us thru a rough day
Bring joy to our lives
And chase the loneness away

We never know god works
We can never read his mind 
Maybe a child born handicap
Is an angel observing mankind?

The devil says to god
Man worshiping me, .starting wars
God says to him one of mines
Make a million of yours


 So we must have faith
One day the deaf hear music plays
And cripple will walk 
And the blind will see his way

So as I write this poem
Want to say to my green eye  friend
Take care of your self
I need you till this world end 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

and 'Ladies'

 
  and 'Ladies' young and old
do you even know
when i go into the grocery store
and how they come all around me
and i
not even paying attention
as they watch me squeeze this and
squeeze that
and they being all that you are
some what more and some few less
and they
take my hand and place it there
and in my hand they squeeze it
they squeeze it harder than they should
but i'm not paying attention 
and as i'm thinking about squeezing
that which needs to be squeezed
in my mind i am squeezing it more
and watching some become flushed
there faces grow dark and pink
so many
and so many my head spins around 
looking down as i feel
all of that juice run free
through my hands
and all of my critical thinking
has left me it's gone. 

Is It Poetry 
 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

NO MEASURE TO SOUL TREASURES

this a sight that right
has the pass
and gas 
of music that last
get on this task
and check it out no doudt
there's
NO MEASURES
TO SOUL TREASURES


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Silencing Them

People think I'm crazy
doing what I'm doing,
but they don't' understand
what's going on.

Faces twist
   in the dark mist,
as thoughts
unparalleled to any
          I've had before
race around screaming.
All wanting to be heard
             at once
as they pound 
   on the inside
of my cranium,
not allowing me 
               to concentrate
on any particular one,
numbing my senses
and locking my jaw shut.

People just don't know
what it's like in here,
fighting for the ideas
          I've had
that are being strangled
by my thoughts. 
That is why
I do what I do.
Going where the music's loud
and the light flash
in spectrums of beauty,
it may not
silence my thoughts,
and I may never
resurrect my ideas,
but when I'm on the dance floor
I can't hear them,
they can't scream that loud,
and the feelings produced
       by the music
                 and the crowd
heal the dents in my skull
causing a temporary feeling
                of bliss
that makes this thing
       we call life
               more bearable.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Little Girl 'You' Ran Away

After You Have Run Away; 
and after the money, 
that you need has run like you so low.
How long can you live off those small, 
packets of sweet honey, So 'dear'.
Warm each they gave you, when you bought that
last finger of chicken, 
you being hungry and so thin you must eat it all.
They who eat only sweet candy, soft it is moist taffy
bagged candy and treats in cups each girl holds,
such as yours.
They can see the toothache you now have
not some small widening stain, 
that's your soul that you carry inside from them.
Your little suit case, dainty and small packed inside.
One pair of jeans your skirt from church some knee socks
and your flops and pink clear panties, 
because you are a pink oyster they all want to drain you.
Sixteen or younger the dark living jungle you see.
The whole world is locked so far now away, from you.
The man in blue would take you home, child again.
The other lives in the back red Allys way.
He does not smell the Lilly or Rose he just cracks, 
open the moon and moves around each clouds soft face.
Mean are the bruises around what were once your, 
soft and milk thistle your silkies.
Winter looks down and comes back to keep in us all, 
but not like that, 
in the back of a stall, on your hands and knees
where those old salty leaves, 
always rain down from the trees,that can't stand on there own.

Is It Poetry



s.t.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

TODAYS MUSIC NEWFACES

some come with motion
from over the ocean
and from the worlds
young boys and girls
they dance prance
and sing do many thing
that music world bring
from many racist
TODAYS MUSIC NEWFACES


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Comment to Willy-fred

thanks, dude- yes 100% right-- did you ever get totally shattered by someone you 
love??  Remember how the music in the background took on a whole 'nother 
significance??  A totally new, far more aware, state of being-yet, of course, not 
necessarily a better one....thanks for the comment- send me your email address, 
so we don't have to converse this way.  Mine Quasarttt228@aol.com   Regards, 
tom


Details | Prose Poetry | |

How Mark T Made His Mark

Money for nothing...
Newmark & Lewis you see
Was where Mark T worked
And was visited,
By a famous rocker
Who likely got the idea from him
I long wondered if true
And have been more than satisfied
With the proof.

I thought this tribute was done,
Then I realized I'd missed
the mark...(and I do miss Mark, believe me)
Mark's mark was really on those 
He shared the earth with.
No one ever influenced me musically
more than Mark.  What he taught me,
I couldn't have learned in Juilliard's.
And not just music.
Mark was way ahead of his time.
Way ahead.
He had his weaknesses, who doesn't?
But he did have a good heart.
He was a good friend.
I am sure he was a good father.

I was in numerous bands with him.
Like I earlier stated, somehow
his presence calmed me, even
when we were facing unscaleable
obstacles.
Once he brought over two albums,
pre- band practice.  I was introduced to
Floyd's "Atom Heart Mother", and the Dead's
Live Dead version of "Dark Star"

To this day, these are my favorite
pieces of music, particularly "Atom Heart".

How I wish we could have spent more time together.
How I grieve, with his family.
Only years later learning of this.
Countlessly trying to reach him prior.
Someday I will.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

nineteen fabel part two

Hendrix was the best on the guitar that eye have ever saw and the star spangled 
banner made by this strang black man became my country banner sweet. There 
was so many off the wall hard to play and follow like the BEGEES nothing rally 
wrong with them just could not copy them. BOOGIE WOOGIE will remain the 
easiest to play just progressions made of love back and forth and up ZZ Top just 
left Chicago and Found they Jesus. 
The Doors was everyone's favorite when getting high. Eye could not party and 
maintain my dignity eye never could have group sex or sinful fun with everyone a 
problem to the gamers to the players to the users everyone eye then become the 
odd one to them all preferring quiet solitude unless they needed me to help 
maintain there dignity. Piano music will remain the favorite of rednecks killers' 
kain. Steppenwolfe played the drug songs patriotic backwards making fun of 
pushers users flushers. Listen quickly to this musickal idea before eye leave 
John Fogarty and others like him even women who play musick helped this 
young man believe in GOD. 



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Insights/Outsights

Hope no one is gettin' the wrong message, I am not petulant...My EMail is 
available to anyone (Quasarttt228@aol.com) My phone No. is another matter, but 
certainly available to Shar and other close poets.  Be advised I often do not pick 
up unless I know who it is (old habits from creditor hounding days)
Yes, Shar, I too love Swanson's dinners- when we were kids and they came in 
real tin foil trays, we considered them a special treat...and (though I am an 
excellent cook) I love them too..a batchelor's friend, you might say.  I feel and 
appreciate the love, and reciprocate to my best ability...You  got lots'a critters, but 
in my worse days (a few years ago), in an unheated house without gas, phone,
TV, sometimes electricity, food, hope...I still had my musical jams sessions...they 
were worth goin' on for...but in terms of critters, I was King!!  Squirrels in the 
ceilings, walls, constantly eatting thru, usually right over my bed, often running 
loose in the house, with their nastier relatives...ask "Willard", and many other fun 
things to occupy my time.  But I loved the place (still do)...and would go back 
there in a heartbeat if it was still standing, and a possibility...So where I am is 
nice, (but Boring!)- and I got no complaints about none of that.  I gotta get you 
some copies of the bogus "TV Guise" magazines I used to make for my father's 
birthday...they each took weeks, and were universally admired...I'm not sure what 
you want me to "stop saying", but you're the boss, far as I am concerned.  Love, 
tom.