Her big eyes shone while to her chest she clasped
the violin her dad worked hard to buy.
Delightedly that Christmas morn, she gasped
to see it; then she promised she would try
with all her might to learn to master it!
She practiced hard. The girl that they called Bright Eyes
would dedicate her all. She never quit.
Each day and night, she strove to memorize
the strings’ sweet notes, in love with allegretto!
How quickly she caught on, and one main goal
was in her offering of a vibrato,
which - when it filled the air - might touch one’s soul!
Today she casts such magic with her bow
that all who hear are warmed by Bright Eye’s glow.
written 12/29/14 For the "Let the Music Play On" of Mystic Rose
When fields gleam aureate and song birds sing
and transient stars in clusters scintillate,
when sweet perennials are coaxed by spring
to blossom forth, he comes with sprightly gait.
He wends his way along the mountain trails
past opalescent rush of streams and rills,
goat-footed, on the paths that ribbon dales
and wind around and up and down small hills.
Then nymphs appear as, through the woods, he trips
to flower-smitten meadows. Fancy-free,
he leads them with his reed held to his lips,
till blithely they embrace his rhapsody.
So hear the music; watch the wood nymphs spin. . .
Then captured by sheer merriment, join in!
For Nathan A.'s ANY POEM GOES Poetry Contest
A warbling vireo hops from oak to elm.
Your gaze wanders, too. This amphitheater
hosts the lyrical, almost overwhelms,
for beyond the mill ruins, the Grand River
is deep in thought, reflecting. It’s as though myth
lives; Summerland has come to the hillside
where weathered fieldstones beguile the impish
to dance. They do or else tin flutes will chide.
Though cozy the spot, the world is at our feet.
Tanned toes can not help but tap. Strong is the lure
of pipes and those songs that dulcimers keep.
When night softly falls, one group brings rapture.
They sing until stars tire and all are hoarse
like poets rousing words to supplicate verse.
I drift as storm and night duet,
a dance amidst a choir of rain.
wrung clouds strum strong and passionate
to cart away my deepest pain.
In every grand, thunderous note,
God’s loving heart beats in my soul.
Across the darkness, lightning floats,
to heaven skyward, I extol.
Winds sing with love blown rhythmically
just like sweet-sounding nightingales.
Clear sheets of rain course through lithe trees
bending to meet the river dale.
Then soft comes dawn, I praise the storm
in gleam of misty earth transformed.
For Shadow's Pick A Subject Contest, 3/4/15
*Subject - Storm
Oh, angel, how you flutter 'bout my heart
The joy of love and living you impart
Your voice my soul does carry into flight
Illuminates with incandescent light
Your eyes are blind to wonders of this world
Yet, when you sing, its beauties are unfurled
I live a dream unmarred by pain and strife
Where passion, joy, and love are verdant, rife
You sing my heart into that special place
Where naught resides but beauty touched by grace
Angelic face when lit up by a smile
Invites my heart to dream a little while
Bocelli, angel sweet of paradise
In blinded eyes, the light of heaven lies
March 30, 2014
Sponsored by Anthony Slausen
Listen. The colors of the notes are wrong.
Where is the perfection of sapphire-chords
that I am due? Cornflower doesn’t belong
here, plotting the composition’s borders.
Master music has all fingers contorting
to fit themselves into the metronome’s tock
and these tight strings have badly distorted
my repertoire. I’ve lost both key and lock
in a palette of sorrow that canvasses pain.
Oh, the cavernous range of a rhapsody
releases those scales of anguish again
until I am concert and concert is me.
Dissonance and harmony do not combine,
Still, under eye sockets black and blue shines.
About this Poem
This modern sonnet is inspired by both Picasso's The Old Guitarist and pianist David Helgott's struggle with mental illness.
The movie Shine is based on Helgott's life, though one sister disputes that their father ever abused David. David had a breakdown while practicing Rachmaninoff's 3rd Concerto, a highly difficult piece. He received electric shock therapy.
Picasso's blue period is said to be the result of his poor standard of living at the time and the suicide of a dear friend. The old guitarist shows a bone thin blind man hunched over his guitar, as though boxed in by the canvas.
The blue-grass music blares from speaker's face
as guys and gals entwine moon-round the floor,
she sits alone, ignores the dancers' pace
although her ears record the rhythm score.
He begged her love; he painted instant fame.
She nursed her song in dreams alive to wit,
she trusted him to give the verse her name,
and reasoned out they spun a perfect fit.
With traitor's greed intense, he stepped aside,
and claimed her song as his with no remorse.
He left her raw, his chest out-puffed with pride.
Disgraced, abased, her anger reinforced,
she writes another song, recounts the tale,
assured his star will now commence to pale.
Auburn lady envious of the blue night with its gleaming, capturing stars;
those rare diamonds, belonging to the silent and vast Universe,
you've stolen to adorn your undulating hair,
brushed by the July's harebrained breeze,
so temptingly soft and adorably fair;
if no admirer or lover seeks you, can I offer you my first dance?
Your melancholic look is fixed downward,
and you refuse to look above, nothing excites you tonight;
your external beauty cannot be resisted or ignored,
and will an harlequin, in his vividly colored costume, make you smile?
I'll play the flute brightly and make him dance to cheer you with his wit...
until your sadness leaves no sign on that sad face!
The shrill sound of the crickets can darken your spirit; listen closely, auburn lady...
sing along with the blue night, while your musical tones become the chords of my harmony!
Inspired by Edward Robert Hughes's painting: Night
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
My morning retirement ritual,
Provides breakfast to the birds on my street.
Food for fowl, silencing bellies that growl,
Watching the many hundreds gather near,
Huddled together on branches they meet,
With a calm patience we’ve learned to revere.
Feeding the birds of every pedigree,
Flying things, all sizes, colors, and shapes.
Hungry beaks, vibrant feathers, sharp clawed feet,
Small Finches and Wrens, large Sparrows come round.
Harmoniously singing us awake,
Their only care: yummy seeds on the ground.
My morning retirement ritual,
Feeding the birds of every pedigree.
1) Sonnet written in Anapestic Pentameter
My eyes are dazzled at the sight of you,
Extremely chic, your sparkles they just grew.
Your penguin costumes always sat just right,
With candelabra burning there so bright.
Yours eyes they glittered as if they just knew,
The secret to life was you, being you.
Your smile was a magical starlit gaze,
When you came out, we were all in a daze.
That you were eccentric, no one would doubt,
The crowds would go crazy, when you came out.
Walk to your piano, sit there so tall,
Fingers would move, and captivate us all.
Rings filled with diamonds slid over keys,
Magical misfit, our senses appeased.
Written by Brenda Meier-Hans
Mystic Roses Contest: Eccentricize my Eyes
Your head is dead a chamber vast and void
and nothing's what you think on anymore
forgotten are all things you once enjoyed
and are replaced by life the constant bore.
Your brain's been drained you sit alone and stare
all hope's run out, your heart is solid stone
from night to day and day to night it's there
the wish to be forgotten and alone.
You think and sink into Oblivion
not caring if you fade or if you die
but only that you shed the shell you're in
you've gone beyond the questioning of why.
You are the death, the dark of greatest fear
the song of life only the dead can hear.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
She walked by my side
trying to clasp my hand,
I was dreaming wide
with a lonesome land.
Where she could not follow
or call me through the night –
my heart is now hollow
and whiteness is my sight…
A man with a smile on his lips
and an old guitar on his back
gave me life’s wicked tips:
Love is better when love lacks,
you will follow alone his track
surrounded by scattered lilacs…
Tears In The Wind
Left hand deftly fingering strings on frets,
While my right hand is picking or strumming.
Composing a sad song about regrets
And searching a melody by humming.
I easily find a chord progression,
Played in a melancholy minor key,
Then add some dynamics for expression--
Reaching a fugue-like state releases me
Fleeting perfection is my endeavor.
Like tears in the wind, now lost forever.
My sweet angel , slowly close your eyes
Dream of stardust wisps and satin thread,
My arms gather your toes unto twinkling skies
Come now ,let moon beams cradle your head
Heaven’s fairies touch your cheeks to render
Blue sky lights fireflies and teddy bear kisses,
Smile now, winds blow fluffy twirls from yonder
Filled with magical pillows from soft night wishes
Cherubs spray chuckles on a bright wand
They’re babies too, keeping you safe and sound
Sleep now, drift off to wonder , wonderland
Mommy’s beside you, my love songs abound
This lullaby chimes straight from my heart
Till tomorrow brings us to new bubbly start
Listen when you awake at crack of dawn
hear the chorus of all the birds singing
watch them as they scurry and dig the lawn
until a nasty cat sends them fleeing
How very dull and bland without any birds
silence would greet us with it's bleakness
less colour everywhere, half mast halyards
how lucky to have birds to add brightness
So many feathered friends around
delighting us with their wonderful songs
the sound of harmony our souls surround
for the sweet mellifluous songs prolongs
Tunes everywhere blending in harmony
sweetly combining sounding like honey
A sold-out house the excitement grows
Electric stage pumping music builds
He always brings spectacular shows
Awesome concerts since sixty-seven
The master artist his power wields
Sir Elton John, this crowd's in heaven
Power ballads of sweet rock and roll
Piano genius is in his hands
Rhythm and blues performance has soul
Mesmerizing fans for four decades
Three hour marathons for loyal fans
Flamboyant Brit in his famous shades
A sold-out house the excitement grows
Power ballads of sweet rock and roll!
Sponsor: Anthony Slausen
Contest Name: Your Favorite Artist
Dangling from the tree I can see,
Broken wind chimes that still sing.
They just hang on by a split string.
Sending a harmony of tunes to thee.
Their tones and vibrations are a bit broken for me.
I listen and I ponder for what tunes they can bring.
From the tree they will sway when they can swing.
Bits and pieces are released through the air and flee.
Caught in the wind is it’s vibrations.
Carrying signals of great magnitude.
Funneling clouds into new creations.
Bringing air into a brand new mood.
Broken wind chimes can still sing a song,
But their messages are scattered all along.
© Copyright: Ann Rich 2007
Tears of a little girl
that's so young, that's in her childhood,
make a golden well, make a golden well,
but she doesn't realize
her tears sing a song so beautiful.
They sing a song of treasure,
they sing a song so wonderful,
they sing to worship God,
but she doesn't realize
she has a gift to sing.
She mustn't sing for anything
she must sing for the King,
but she doesn't realize,
she can sing so goldenly, (so as a golden well)
The orchestra was loud when I walked in,
Performing a whimsical waltz by Strauss.
I picked a group of friends and settled-in,
And perused the fineries of the house.
The chandeliers were unevenly spaced,
Creating random spaces of shadows
Where intimate strangers chastely embraced,
And not-so-innocent virgins caroused.
A friendly acquaintance introduced me
To his available little sister.
Turned out she was charming and quite lovely,
So I gave up trying to resist her.
“I would be most honored, beyond measure;
If you’d care to dance, it’d be my pleasure.”
Opening the box, she peers deep inside
Soft music is played from its underside
A smile appears on her cute tender face
Within her a giggle is everyplace
Her thoughts race, exactly how could this be
How do sounds exit something so pretty
The intricate markings on the box’s side
This is where the music comes to confide
She closes the lid and the music ends
Underneath she looks to see where it sends
But curiously she just finds a key
She turned it, twisted it, quite endlessly
Hearing nothing, she flipped the lid open
To hear the sounds that emanate within
I'm not as beautiful as a rainbow
I am the morning dew
Dancing on the tip of a leaf
Transient in the light of day.
Life is inviting me to dance
On the edge of time
To the music of love.
So come along for the dance
On the edges of time
I invite you to dance lightly
With me, to the music of love
Where the world is made of
Faith, trust and pixie dust
Like the dew on the tip of a leaf..
As golden daises there, I see
The morning sun so lazily
Shines down upon some sleepy trees
As they dance upon the breeze
Joni Mitchell on the set
She sings a song I can’t forget
Both sides now I hear her sing
Such joy the morning she does bring
Willy Wagtail sings along
With Joni, as two voices strong
Do reach into the heart of me
Enhancing morning mystery
I sit here, greet the morning in
As the new day does begin.
15 August 2014 @ 0913hrs.
Listen now carefully, what do you hear?
sounds abound as you tune in to listen
universe of noise fills the stratosphere
birds singing, rustling leaves in transition
Blades of grass crackle sounding like gun fire
the trickle of the brook harmonious
I settle down by the roaring campfire
drinking in the sounds most melodious
As magically they blend together
creating music so soulful to hear
playing perfectly keeping in meter
in the background reed pipes clamor come here
Music around us abounds all the time
listen to it play enjoy the downtime
A song masterfully crafted, by a man hard of hearing:
able to sooth any man or woman's ear.
Beethoven could barely hear, the crowd's crying and cheering
Still the beauty of his works, would not disappear.
Moonlight Sonata outlives, even it's composer's death
Like Moonlight; the Sonata shines upon the world.
Tis so human, it can rob one, of one's breath
for to describe its beauty, man possesses no word.
But always must I remove, my spirits from aloft,
When I hear the end-silence, of the sonata I adore:
Never again, will a song like a kiss be soft.
For the composer who had such power, composes no more.
I remain grateful, though I will never hear the moonlight, played in a great hall
For I would be worse off, if I had never, heard it at all.
You carried my emotions from the start
Each emotion bound in the small black note
Each one coming straight from my chilly heart
The music you make is my antidote
Through the preludes my comfort softly lay
By way of mazurkas my soul does fly
But to divulge you must learn how to play
Although learning is not a piece of pie
Piano brings emotions around town
You have the power to bring my heart up
Or throw me on the floor and beat me down
There are hard times when I just want to cup
My hands in my face and rock back and forth
And think Piano is a friend of worth
When the winter winds have stole
their shivered breath,
And warmer now, snow is shed,
what lovely can bring when it sings;
(From mountains deep to waken sleep)
And gather the birds to their blossomed boughs,
singing their elated woody sounds,
(gently loitering in elder trees)
speckled chirps in forest green
Neath budding Sylvan mistletoe
the earth is born-again,
returns this ditty of long ago
(til rejoicing in leafy worlds)
Today's so-called music is nothing more
Than repetitious, raucous rot performed
By untalented, unaccomplished bores.
Their cacophony is worthy of scorn.
Instead they are held in admiration
By tin ears insensitive to sound.
Instruments amplify modulation
Or it might be the other way around.
Nevertheless, its purpose is to drown
Out feigned singers who couldn’t hold a tune
In a shower lest risking being found
Out. The day will finally come, and soon
I hope when these hucksters who can annoy
Are replaced with music all can enjoy.
**This is a little different from any sonnet I have wrote. I normally write Shakespearean
sonnets but I found one called Spenserian sonnet and wanted to try my hand at it!**
Vibrations pierce me straight through my core
settling gently alongside my heart.
Awakening a burning yearning want of yore
a craving unquenchable from the start.
The tears stream down--my eyes they smart!
How music can touch a person I know not.
Floating aloft o'er my head as does a lark
and the strums and the riffs they plot.
Upon the soul and mind the sound picks a spot
nestles down into the thickest of thick,
The deepest deep recess where I am caught
and chooses to lodge there--in the quick.
An invasion of my senses entirely welcomed.
Tasted on the tip of my tongue; notes envisioned.
Time Was when I heard a raging fire
And the sound of glory raised from the Ash:
When my Sometime World long playing higher
Dazzled the age with a hot vinyl flash!
That Flying V, Fender Strat, Blowin' Free
Amplified in my ear and in my brain:
And The King Will Come slowly unto me
When I hear the piper and drum again!
In beauty of Leaf and Stream evermore
Comes the hypnotic Wishbone trance that was:
Like a Warrior at the gates of war
To rise again the legend of Argus.
And in the end a new age will record
The great band of four who Throw Down the Sword.
Dedicated to one of the greatest albums ever from 1972.
I couldn't choose just one song - you must listen to the
"Argus" by Wishbone Ash. Still a classic!
A genius is a lofty kind indeed:
he or she is a creature of the mind
that goes where breaths of inspiration lead
like a mythic muse on a Grecian wind;
some have the gift of poesy like Keats
and some the gift of music like Mozart;
one limns a lush, green field where blithe sheep bleat
and one writes airs that lull the soul and heart.
The gift of genius is but an instrument,
a golden talent to be invested,
used, multiplied, shared, for the betterment
of humanity and thus wisely exploited.
But, if your genius be absent from this rhyme,
then share the greater genius of your time.