Across the universe
Has there ever been a band,
That so many understand
Life changing music, made and played,
By courtesy, of their hand
Creations lit the spark in us
Visions of a better time, unreal sublime,
Took away, the dark in us
Those were the heady days,
Absorbing us in many ways
Seducing ears, eyes filled with tears,
With how their songs amaze
Now I recall how sad we were,
At the setting of the sun
But all good things, must come to end,
When all is said and sung
I would wrap up all those lines,
That tingle jingle at the nerves
And send them in a rocket ship,
To burst, across the universe
Nothings gonna change their world
Nothings gonna change their words
Nothings gonna change their world
As they fly across the universe
For Beatlemania Contest
Poem Written 7 March 13
She was a lonely violin,
in a case all by herself,
looking forward to the evenings,
when he’d take her off the shelf-
After reaching his destination,
he would gently set her down,
and ever oh so tenderly,
remove her velvet gown-
With chin held high, he’d hold her close,
she made him feel so proud,
and then a song she would sing ,
which always drew a crowd-
Together they were magical,
making music quite refined,
he knew that she was special,
of an extraordinary kind-
Late one night the maestro sighed,
a tear rolled down his eye,
this cannot forever last, he said,
for soon I’m going to die-
The violin now knew,
that soon would be their end,
he had filled her life with loving care,
and been so true a friend-
Now on any given night,
walking down this unpaved street ,
some hear a violin’s lonely cry,
so sad , but yet so sweet-
Before we implode or reach cluster one
What do you want from me, as you humans dry run
We are Poles apart in what you and I do
Marooned you will be, if you don't turn to be true
I am only but a sphere, but your wearing the inside out
Our futures lost for words as we enter life's drought
There is time for dialogue to take it back
Will it be a great day for freedom, or will we enter our black
Around the table of powers we have to keep talking
We had high hopes when we stooped, we may cease to stop walking
It beggars belief that we are heading into strife
Maybe one day we'll acknowledge, that were coming back to life
There's a place under the sun-which provide shade for
everyone. Where is this place! not in a place of refuge, but
stored within yourself-providing an overflowing river of ever-
lasting prudentcy too anyone?... If you feel it - Shout! "Give me
This dampsel in this story come's at the point were absolute
direction was needed and finds herself speaking to the Messiah-who
would provide her with direction and deep quinching thirst for proph-
etic neccessities to get one's life in order. "Give me this water", are
you at that point now? right now, whereas the decision you've made
has brought you upon that crossroad of your life. A life whereas we're
sleeping with anyone, most times the wrong one, all looking for love
and emptiness has mis-lead us to become complacent and a nation
of unprotective boom-mer's has emerged and our live's has no order.
Jesus say's - I will give you water, water that will provide fulfillment
of Place & Grace. Running to the next town she tells everyone come-
meet this man who has told me everything of my past and of myself.
This-this man-for he must be the Messiah, he speaks to me about a
special water, that shall be an atonement unto his Kingdom. These
folk's come from all the places north of the border. Together we all
shout! "GIVE ME THIS WATER".
His squarish jaw, waggles when he thinks,
holding his fingers entwined at his waist.
He stares past his silvery frame, sinks
into mind, until I break in and say hi.
His thin silvery hair, is plush with curls at neck.
He stoops over as if time has weighed in
I see him counting, saying what the heck
here’s a bird, a butterfly, noisy squirrels.
His hands have a pain in them, all webbed
inside, pulling muscles taut, but they wave
they stroke the air, my legs, the seas ebbed
the sand, the sky, building the future in mind.
And when he picks up his violin mistress,
he dances her, never still this man of mine.
His harmonica hoots the day’s stresses,
digging out his soul, bending him like grass.
Sometimes I have to silence his motions,
hold him close to heart, let him sleep.
But always he plays out his commotion
making me music, making him mine.
How lovely this autumn afternoon
While I dream away this time alone
Listening to the bird outside the wall
Singing with the sweetest mellow tone
Gathered to me now this written music
Scrolls scribed by great masters of the lyre
The strings that bring to life my happiness
Sounds that set my joyfull heart on fire
Choosing one that calls the little bird
Whose voice is clear and speaks of life
I will now play until the twilight deepens
For tomorrow I will become his wife
For the Scrolls contest...
Written by John Moses Freeman
Music and Meditation
~A Mozart symphony to soothe one’s soul,
meditation’s friend is good music’s blend.
~Quiets minds considerably so I’m told,
good music and vacation is man's friend.
~Meditations and soothing music relates,
put on a good record, do yoga stance.
~Drives out bad manners, bad spirits vacate,
bad thoughts of one’s mind, like ants in the pants!
For and in honor of Dr Ram
And contest: Music and Meditation
Rick, you got me once again;
I'm tired of feeling dumb.
Curse your mindless hyperlinks!
Kiss my big fat bum!
Rick, I'll never pass it on,
On this day or another.
Let the halfwits have their fun.
Let them have their druthers.
© 2011, R. Erin Lenth
The thrumming thrumming thrumming
can seem so very near
as fingers strumming strumming
make magic that I hear.
Your fine guitar - passionate -
What longing it can bring!
As you stroke the strings of it,
my heart is quivering!
I wait for that resplendence -
melodious and low -
I know will soon commence.
Your sweet words soon will flow.
Your voice which hums, lilts and croons
a plethora of love tunes,
keeps on bewitching me.
I can’t know just who you are,
but I can feel your glow
as your music with guitar
spills from my radio.
Deep love of music fills her soul...
God-given talent makes her whole,
Her friend, her lover, held to heart…
One feels the bond will never part.
Her violin, sweet violin,
She plays her tune above the din
Of earthly sounds, of mundane things
Her melody of heaven sings.
Deep passions rise in tones sublime,
With magic bow, the soul will climb
To fly enraptured by the joy
Her violin and she employ.
© Sandra M. Haight 2014
All Rights Reserved
Contest: Let The Music Play On
Sponsor: Mystic Rose
He gave her the gift of music
The violin, his greatest treasure
Grandpa once played it with joy
Now hers to find its sweet pleasure
She slowly started to learn the way
To make the strings begin to sing
Hours of practice a pure delight
Until the storied notes took wing
Born into a life barren of comfort
That one gift changed everything
Music lifted a soul that mourned
The comfort that beauty can bring…
When the day's living has left me full of stress
If only for an hour, I make the world go away
Lock the door, a hot bath and a glass of wine
And let music, perhaps a Bach symphony, play
Slowly my heavy burdens begin to lighten
A sigh, a sip and with the sweet melody drift
Soon enough reality will call again, but for now
I appreciate this small but treasured gift…..
For the Indulgence contest...
(3 May 2014; For my son Steven, an ACCOMPLISHED guitarist)
Real musicianship can truly drive you nuts—
There really are no “ifs”, “ands”, or “buts”.
Practice, study, memorize, then more practice--
Is this just an obsession or complete madness?
Learning chord inversions, arpeggios, and scales
Is like reaching Heaven by crossing through seven Hells.
It wouldn’t be bad if there were only a dozen majors,
But there’s also those other dozen minors.
What’s worse, it seems we’re never finished
Because there’s also augmented and diminished,
The major/minor/augmented/dominant sevenths.
And symmetrical double-flatted diminished sevenths,
And if this harmonic mess is not enough,
All those dissonant Jazz chords get really tough…
Such as the sustained seconds and fourths,
The sevenths add nines, sixths, blah-blah-blah, elevenths.
And if learning all this isn’t already extraordinary,
There’s music theory and music vocabulary.
Instead of just saying “get louder”, you have to “crescendo”,
Or for “fast” or “slow” you say “allegro” or “lento”.
Then there are names like Ionian, Dorian, Phrygian,
Lydian, Mixolydian, Aeolian, and Locrian.
(All being modes derived from scale C-major,
Plus each major scale also has a relative minor)
Multiple pattern exercises on guitar fretboards
Are even worse than finger drills on piano keyboards.
Worse, the string tuning on a six-string acoustic guitar
Is not quite the same as on a 4/5/6/7-string bass guitar.
It’s hard to get up on stage and routinely play
That same song, for the umpteenth time, in an inspiring way.
No wonder musicians seem to all suffer manic-depression,
From trying to play a full sets with unique expression.
All the advances in music equipment and technology
Bless and curse musicians like two-edged swords, you see,
Because all this work they do to sound like a maestro or genius
Can be counterfeited on a computer by a musical ignoramus.
But computer geeks won’t ever find that special place,
That fugue-like subtle sacred state of grace,
Which for brief moments is like deep meditation.
No, that’s the forbidden domain of the real musician.
To suggest that musicians all are just “gifted” naturally,
Is the absolute superlative worst insulting irony.
Truly, real musicianship can drive you nuts—
No, there really are no “ifs”, “ands”, or “buts”.
She wakes every night
Around the same time
Shivering and sweating
As 3am chimes
This nightmare she carries
Fills her with fear
As every night draws
Her death she feels near
At eighteen years old
With her whole life ahead
What attracts these dreams
As she sleeps in her bed
The nightmares increase
As the weeks pass by
To a party she's invited
As she gives life a try
Her previous nightmares
Seem a distant past
As she dances the night away
Praying that this is the last
She indicates it's late
To home she must head
In the back of her mind
Is the dreams that she dreads
She takes a shortcut
Only to hear footsteps behind
Before she knows it
There are two by her side
Taunting in ridicule
Down a dark alley they lure
Screaming and scratching
This daughter so pure
To a darkened room
With this evil of two
To her naked flesh
As they do as they do
Her eyes start to close
And the last thing she sees
Through a small basement window
A clock face strikes three
The tides of June carry me over yesterday's sparkling
waters to the distant shores preserved in my mind.
Playful summer memories are just a light twinkling
in my eye, pressed into worn photo albums, I find.
Hotter days conjure thoughts of friends, no school
to muddy the rippling lake and hours of summer fun.
'Last one in 's a rotten ..., splashing 'round, we kept cool,
cannonballs and belly flops, a relief from the ruthless sun.
An old boat dock became our fort, buckets of tadpoles were
our mascots. Our neighborhood breathed new life and laughter...
bikes flung upon the grass, lake waters beckoned of adventure
'til the ice cream man's music brought sweet dreams to chase after.
Michael Jackson, The GoGos and Duran Duran played the soundtrack
for our restless days. From our fort, the radio blared across the yard.
Warm breezes held music and secrets of boy versus girl attacks.
And though we often complained, the boys were never barred.
Many years ago, summer time brought treasured carefree days
of hide and seek, dodge ball, board games and cold lemonade.
Slip and slides, cool lake swims and running through sprinkler sprays,
all happy memories of our never ending June days on parade.
By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders
for Memories of June Contest (Joann Grisetti)
A completely true story....
My grandpa was a playin' man
He had a local four piece band
I was without a doubt his number one fan
Grandpa and music went hand in hand
Get together's on Saturday night
A little moonshine to start out right
Dancin' a jig under stars so bright
Dancin' and playin' until mornins' light
My grandpa was a playin' man
He played harmonica in his four piece band
I was was without a doubt his number one fan
Grandpa and music went hand in hand
Singin' songs of long ago
Happy voices singin' way down low
Grandpa puttin' on quite a show
Where he learned those songs I don't know
My grandpa was a playin' man
His guitar makin' magic in that four piece band
I was without a doubt his number one fan
Grandpa and music went hand in hand
Fiddles screamin' out loud and clear
Folks would gather round from far and near
Everybody grinnin' from ear to ear
Those memories to me are oh so dear
My grandpa was a playin ' man!
Long ago, near a quiet lake lived The People
Living as one with Mother Earth and Father Sun
One day there came to them, a beautiful boy
Straight and strong, but of words he had none
With The People he grew to glorious manhood
But still he had no way to speak of his heart
So with love and patience Grandfather made a flute
And then No Words and his flute were never apart
You could find him in the first morning rays
Or in the quiet evening's soft comforting shade
Speaking to The People and to the spirit world
With the music his grandfather's flute had made
It's haunting notes spoke of the beauty around
Of the life lived and loved by the water blue
Rising up to fly with the wind and the clouds
The music of a No Words man of the Sioux
Barbara Gorelick..for the " Tell His Story" contest
Hosted by Constance, the Rambling Poet
The notes, oh the notes that soared above
The music to grab and hold the heart
A rhythm carried by the winds of life
Two things that cannot be keep apart
So feed the soul with music then
The sounds that bind us to each other
Spoken with unbroken line and phrases
Filling needs for self , for one another
In time the music will have a softer tone
But they belong together, hand and glove
The melodies will linger in each memory
Speaking softly..."If music be the food of love,
"If music be the food of love, play on....."
Shakespeare, from- The Tempest-
Something like a love song
Crossed my mind,
Sang to my soul,
Made my heart fly.
Something like a daydream
Drove me wild
Had me on cloud nine
Free like a child.
Something like a miracle
Hit me hard
Had me jumping and skipping.
I was touching the stars.
Something like a love story
Took my by surprise
Feeling like I won the lotto
Gave me butterflies.
Something like a love song
Played softly to my heart beat
Its all your fault
And I'm swept off my feet.
"Roll on tonight my mates are coming round
For a few cold beers and some rocking sounds
Time is drawing near, as I hear a knock at the door
Blimey! at this time of the night, a vacuum salesmen stands before"
"Hey pal make it quick, I have a party to host
Tell me your pitch, now disappear your a ghost
The best place for them is in the lunar craters
Sucking on Listerine soaked tissues, singing, "see you later alligator"
"Another knock on the door, and I'm pleasantly surprised
All my intended buddies on my doorstep, the parties arrived
For a night of drifting, ending with earache and pain
Entering wormholes of insomnia, no pain no gain"
"Our party is going to be like a cool Rock 'n' Roll gig
Beers flowing a plenty, this ain't no highland jig
We start with Frank Zappa and The Mothers of Invention
Best friends and myself, our schooldays convention"
"This is no wine and dine as Dire Straits play
The "Sultans of Swing" sounds excellent any day
Next we play Deep Purple, listening to Jon Lord's Hammond sounds
Music is our medicine in six speaker surround"
"In between sounds to the kitchen we head
Tid-bits and more beers to keep our gig well fed
We sample some Grunge Metal listening to Nuclear Waste
But once again Classic Rocks rules, as Grunge is not our taste"
"For the next couple of ours it's like The Monsters of Rock
AC/DC and UFO, the Rock never stops
We air guitar to "Whole Lotta Rosie"
Wearing spandex boxer shorts, one of us drumming like Cozy"
"We all awake in the morning, some with sore heads
But it was never a night that we were ever going to dread
It was a bunch of guys who met whilst at school
Who released their friendly energy, like fools but really cool"
"Tom, I never knew you, but I thank Catie for this
Writing this poem, just fills me with bliss
I know you will be busy, but if you happen to look down
Give our convention a shout, join our Rock n Roll clowns"
My tribute to Mr Tom Bell, so many people spoke about him.
Reading what they said, I only wish I knew him.
Boys in glitter and gold quote the doors
With dreadlocks they beatbox drum and base
A girl balances my friend with her legs
He lies planked above her face
Flags ripple with colour
Cheers wave through the crowd
The clearest pitch of an angel
Embodies my soul with sound
I'm inhibited won't you accompany me
Sunlight replaced by lasers and neon Crucifixes
I lust for a disturbing insatiability
I've become transfixed
Paramedics attend to paralytics
While I unwind I feel
The sleepy sexy wind on my face
And I drift off
Ever since I was young
I always had this dream
About a little girl who lived next door
Who drowned in a nearby stream
I don't know what possessed me
But I always knew one day
She would turn up at my door
And ask me out to play
I mentioned it to my parents
They said "listen" and sat me down
It happened before we moved here
Her bigger sister let her drown
The family we bought the house from
Moved on from the fear of this
Their teenage daughter suffered nightmares
And dreamt of a wet abyss
Many years have passed
I am now well into my teens
But this aura that still surrounds me
Everywhere I look she's seen
One evening I went to shower
As normal I pulled back the screen
I turned to look in the mirror
She was there, staring back at me
There was an incredible similarity
She looked like me when i was young
Now having shown herself, is it over
Or has it really just begun
No one asked her to dance at their Prom that night
It beggars belief in me, what's wrong with these guys
Her beauty is all I see, personified within my sight
To not even to approach, I'm in total amazed surprise
Moving now to the present, although pasts have lived
Paths of life have drawn us to be amidst of each other
Recent discussions daily, our template to never sieve
It beggars belief to me that others they would rather
Now you have to be me to see to what my eyes declare
Breathe with me to see, within politeness my eyes grace
It beggars belief in me what's wrong with these guys stare
To never to ask her to dance, their Prom, invited place
The night has finally arrived for my ask to come to light
To see her standing there for my eyes to behold
Draped against her tanned a dress that so delights
My heart in pumping joy as our evening starts to unfold
At the edge of our bed she stands, her beauty immaculate
I offer my girl my hand as she smiles we begin to dance
Hands to shoulder to waist, two in movement calculate
Engrossed, absorbed, I'm caught, her scented fragrance
Slowly our hands in roam, listening to 'The Flame' by 'Dare
Eyes in glancing look, anticipating minds in thinking wish
Lobe to necks now met, disheveled clothes reveal bare
Our song now nears it's end, our hands in touching bliss
Buttons open straps in slide, shoulders where fingers walk
Gravity about to be tested, soft cotton just can't resist
Tongues like fencing epee's, when earlier they just talked
Unison hand in hand, engrossed in naked to bare assist
Covers turned lie silken sheets, rose petals sporadic adorn
Two souls in facing look, kisses aplenty caressing touches
Entwined in loving join, hips grinding torsos bourne
Rhythmic writhing palms in palms, lovingly in clutches
My son upon this Christmas Eve
I reminisce of midnight hours
Your fingers dancing over tenuous keys
And the emotions your talent empowers
I couldn't comprehend how you taught yourself to play
Or just how this symphony of one became
The songs you have inside of you like heaven on display
I revel in your poignant craft uniquely unprofaned
It's true that your propensity
Can lean toward darkened depth
A common vein for artists
To be moody and depressed
For your pain releases beauty
by your gift it's voice relates
You know your in the masters company
of Mozart, Bach, and Hemingway
So when your struggles weigh
As the sea laden oceans sand
Take your seat and breathe
Stretch out your feral hands
Creating an instrumental euphoria
For the lonely and the damned
Open the gate to moods your feigning
Though others will misunderstand
Christmas Eve and it's memories
This flashback came my way
Of your very first piano
The best investment I ever made
But one day when I'm aged and old
It will be you who cares for me
Play for me then on that Christmas Eve
With your love in every stroke
Scarlet were the clothes she wore.
That was the color I’m sure.
If you wear red tonight.
I will not feel at all right.
If those are the colors I see,
it will bring back a bad memory.
Please, I don’t want to spoil the party.
Seeing you in red will be too much for me.
I do want to hold your hand.
But please, grant my small demand.
When I see you standing there,
Anything but red is what I want you to wear.
If you want me to love you,
then wear something in green or blue.
Please don’t wear red tonight, Ms.
It’s loathsome, yes it is.
Soft keys pressed by soft fingers moving swiftly
eyes close and heart slows down for once
words are not flowing like they usually do
so the music fills lungs and I find a bunce
words are everywhere and my thoughts are lost
writing with the soft rhythm of the piano keys
relief passes over, for it feels like ecstasy
to write again like a passing breeze
my only comfort when the world is suffocating
the simple smile of a rhyme that makes sense
the beauty of the work that my fingers produce
the wonder of how the heart is so immense
soft keys pressed by soft fingers moving swiftly
eyes close, but my heart stays focused and ready
words are flowing faster than a silver waterfall
nonetheless they are sure, pure, and steady
Never been to a festival before
But agreed to go with AL to Weiser
I had no idea what was in store
The way Al described it, was a teaser
The Weiser Festival is a week long
We stayed in Al’s camper; kept the cost down
On this kind of trip, I couldn’t go wrong
All night playing music in the campground
I mostly played folk, wasn’t bluegrass wise
I’d had the mandolin less than a year
We stopped on the way and bought our supplies
And that included four cases of beer
Al said, “When the campground picking begins,
“Playing circles will be formed all about”
“If the group is tight, you don’t just barge in”
Join an outer circle and check things out”
That first night, I couldn’t believe my eyes
From circle to circle the pickers go
The whole jamming scene was homogenized
I just stuck with Al and went with the flow
The music’s was great, joined in where I could
But playing Bluegrass isn’t that easy
In bed at four, couldn’t go when I should
Couldn't sleep, the music wouldn’t let me
Sleep half the day; take it slow; there’s no strife
You’re ready for the picking to begin
I got hooked, that night, on bluegrass for life
And given a choice, I’d do it again
A hot bluegrass band had a circle tight
Al had set it up for me to enter
I didn’t know Al had made it alright
But there I was, in circle’s dead center
Inside that circle, music all around
An experience that no one can buy
Before long I was consumed by the sound
I experienced a “musical high”
That’s how I got hooked; became such a fan
Before I knew it, Bluegrass became king
Now today, I have my own Bluegrass band
I'm playing the music; doing my thing!
Chester Bennington's gravelly scream
Was to me, at one point, a melodic dream
Somewhere down the road I couldn't face the pain
That or my ears wore out under the strain
And who could forget that DJ who brought to life
That Asian stereotype?
When Mr. Hahn's hands were in sight
You really had faith the song would turn out right
I couldn't stay hardcore - the time had come to sit
I took detours listening to how others sing
But I never took any shame in it
Cause I knew for a fact that exploration was their thing
Yeah, Linkin Park
Was my original spark
And once kindled it was never the same
Before I knew it the whole house was aflame
Though difficult to believe - reading what I write now
This group irrevocably affected my life somehow
I now scan for stories in a rapper's rant
'Twas Shinoda that taught me that...
NOTE: I realize, after posting this, that not everyone will know who Linkin Park is (or have heard the name before and just isn't a fan of that style of music). But I think everyone can relate to being inspired by some sort of celebrity. Whether they're a singer, author, painter or whatever.
Up four steps, on the stage, become a different guy
I’m a Gemini; could it be that’s the reason why?
On the stage, the showman in me suddenly runs free
I don’t how, but I do become a different me
Just having fun at a bluegrass jam
When a stranger came up to me
He asked, “What sex is your mandolin”?
I said, “Where do I look to see”?
Alright said he, does it have a name?
Sure, I sometimes call her “Lexie”
Well there you have it, she’s a female
I guess you’re right, cause she’s sexy
She’s dressed up in beautiful fashion
Her skin has a velvety sheen
Healthy and tuned to a perfect pitch
“A Looker”, you know what I mean
Check out her body, and all those curves
She knows how to turn a guy on
She can woo you with soprano notes
Gently whisper, “You’re my Don Juan”
Then he asked if he could play “Lexie”
Probably, had you asked sooner
But now, I view her differently
And I’ll be her only tuner
Got home from the Jam after mid-night
Asleep in my chair right away
Woke up to a mandolin playing
Knew it was “Lexie” right away
Had to drag myself out of bed
And headed to the music room
The music had a sinuous sound
I’d never before heard the tune
Opened the door, sexy “Lexie” said
“Heard your words at the jam today”
I‘ve been waiting a long time for you
Take me to your chest and let’s play”
Cradling her and strumming her softly
Warming up, she got short of breath
“I love how you finger my fret board”
“Your pick on my strings is the best”
As I continued strumming softly
She whispered, “Give me some action”
Shifted to a rapid tremolo
Heard her sigh with satisfaction
When our “song of love” was completed
I rubbed on polish and buffed her
Then she asked, “When can we play again?”
In my next dream, if you prefer
by Charles Sides