Personification Music Poems | Personification Poems About Music

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Details | Personification |

At the Pawn Shop

I met her  in a pawn shop on a warm summer night
When running from the rubble of  my shattered life
To sell a broken dream that would never come true
An engagement ring to pay for the rent that was due

There she lay sleeping in a battered rosewood bed
Heart strings breaking in a rusty sea of velvet red
So hauntingly beautiful, she took my breath away
Violin - an old reject who would change my life that day

So I bought Violin and lived out on the street
And played Rhapsody in Blue as coins fell at my feet
And soon we had a  little flat high above the Bay
And every day, I got better with every note I played

Today I am a maestro playing Carnegie Hall
My name in lights blinking on a Marquee Wall 
For it was I who saw myself in Violin
A tarnished soul and the beauty buried there within

Author:  Elaine George
Written:  2013

Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2013

Details | Personification |

I Rather Enjoy Being Played

By different lovers I’ve been kept,
some skillful and a few inept.
I always respond, unafraid.
I rather enjoy being played.

A Spaniard picked me up one time.
His classic strumming was sublime.
Notes poured from me like a cascade.
I rather enjoy being played.

That man released me, and soon I
was picked up by a strange punk guy
who stroked me roughly. Though betrayed,
I rather enjoy being played.

My strings broke often from his touch,
yet thrilled was I by his thrum. Such
unique new tunes from me were made.
I rather enjoy being played.

His sister held me awkwardly,
but then she sang so beautifully
it mattered not my sound would fade. . . 
I rather enjoy being played.

She and her brother gave me to
some plucking fools without a clue
till an artiste came to my aid.
I rather enjoy being played.

He pressed my frets, this handsome boy.
My stings were vibrating with joy.
I climaxed with his smooth glissade.
I rather enjoy being played.

With him I hope to have remained
in years to come. His love’s unfeigned.
Although I know at times he’s strayed,
I rather enjoy being played.

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2011

Details | Personification |

You played me

Running your fingers
over my delicately tuned form.
Blind. - You know which keys to press.
To enhance sweet music  from me.
Happily and playfully,
my white notes singing love.
The darker side brings juxtaposed
moods and sadness,
pedalling drama and bitterness.
You know just how to play me.

Copyright © Anna-Marie Docherty | Year Posted 2008

Details | Personification |

HipHop Is dead

Hip-Hop is dead
I can’t feel the throb, the devotion, the dedication
I wear all black
Black stilettos, black cut dress, aimed real low
Seductive but simple, I know my place
Beside the King, my sweet deceased Revolutionist 
Rap’s number one supporter, holding the casket with a broken
           S I G H
Someone plays, a radio, across the way
Slick beats drip past the ears to slime the brain
Wet and easy manipulated clay
Media displays wealth and misogyny
50 million dollar chains  
Females addicted to being slapped around
Like China Dolls in half-made    Cl    o   thes
Pose, Shawty and let this crunk beat fill your hips
Purse your lips, Mami, and I’ll let you
Be my accessory
Remember when the revolution was a evolution of the mind
Freestyles match drums in intensity
When freestyles were uncontrolled like the wild brown skin he was in
I felt, loved, Hip-hop in my veins
Let him be the catalyst  for the beating of my heart
I was so in love with his swagger, his love of himself and his people
Hat tipped real       low      to hide the pain

Beat real tight to stop the taint
Of failure and to rise like the dust after a stampede
I’d take Hip-Hop to bed every night
Let him rise and fall like the heaving of my chest
It was so hot I could barely breathe for the intensity overcoming me
The pounding of intellect in my throat
Stroked me from head to toe
And Rocked my ghetto loving soul
And he said things I’ve waited my whole life to hear
play sweetly in my ear
Dreaming of dreams too big
To let fade away
He grew shallow, loving women with hollow heads and thick thighs
Low rides and forgetting what he left at home
Long nights and overtime left me alone
Released hundreds of  artists
Torn between money and the spoken word
His best friends tried to revive what was inside, too late the damage took over
50 Cent arrived with Lil’s, and Young’s and a mess of southern heat
I was there when the light left his eyes
After Dr.Dre’s Chronic
Hip-Hop was Dead 

Copyright © Bella Cardenas | Year Posted 2007

Details | Personification |

Treasure of My Heart

Yamaha impressed me the first time I laid eyes on her glistening blond maple wood, her stylish body details, her long fretted mother-of-pearl inlay; lobed with golden keys. Her voice called to me the first time I held her in my arms. I strummed her six strings slowly in the key of G, then moved softly to D and C. All the while, I searched earnestly for her purity in sound quality and style. She was not the most beautiful in the showroom. But oh yes! She did flatter me with her musical presence. She was beautiful to me! I knew from that moment on she would be mine for eternity. 

Within the hour, I took her home to meet the family. She was shy on the journey, not making a sound; perhaps due to this being her first automobile ride or simply wanting to see a world she was now a part of. Yamaha was cased in alligator leather, a brown dressing which was stylish for the day. We were both nervous as we arrived and got out of the car. My strong caressing grip on her handle assured her she wouldn’t fall and it would be alright. She knew it would be alright as I smiled at her. 

I opened the door, allowing her to enter first. When in the living room, I called to everyone to come meet the newest member of the family. Dad was taken by her simple yet elegant beauty and style. Mom touched her first and she was most pleased. At that moment I realized the importance of first impressions as Mom marveled at how pretty she was. I sat down in the best chair in the living room while Mom listed to Yamaha talk and I sang a popular country love song.  I was pleased with the family acquaintance to Yamaha. It was evident she had become a part of the family.

 The first few weeks, I couldn’t keep Yamaha out of my arms. I longed to be with her every minute of the day. In my eye, she made me smile by just gazing upon her. I fumbled with her in those beginning days. She ignored my elementary attempts at refinery and permitted me the time to catch up to her mastery rather than bow down to my level. Like any two lovers, both must reach to the need of the other. Only then is love truly in harmony. 

Today, Yamaha is not the young glistening blond I held in my arms some thirty years removed. Her wood has been scared by my love to play her. She has received countless face lifts which cover her tainted mother-of-pearl. Her brown leather case dress stands in need of a seamstress care. But as with all things having been learned through love, we now make beautiful music together. She is my treasure, a light into my soul's well. She amplifies my inner being. As I perform, she is glorified. We have grown old together,and gotten better in time. I still hold her in my arms day by day as this lover has risen to her grace and expectations. She is my treasure for a life time.

Copyright © Mark Goodson | Year Posted 2012

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	The unwritten lyrics swarm in my head like a hornets nest, the studio is silent. The microphone taunts me in it's little square box, but it waits for a time when we can talk in private. 

	I hear the instrumental get louder from the twist of a knob. The song wrote its self as my head starts to bob. I cram into the booth and close the door with confidence. That I will come out feeling new and get praised with compliments. 
	I get loud with excitement and shake hands with my buddies. Hope that I can continue this hobby, but we see no money. 

	I made music for years not thinking what my future entailed. All my friends will understand when its time to set sail. 
	We have low quality equipment and no food for our stomachs. We grow into men and instead of friends, we are now distant cousins.

Copyright © Matthew Farrell | Year Posted 2013

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Music Child

I hear the music calling me
From the smooth and shiny rows of keys
The ebony and ivory
And all the melodies between
‘Come!’ it says, ‘And play a song
Upon your fingertips I’ll canter along.
Befriend the scales—arpeggios
Follow the tune wherever it goes
Let your heart become the notes
Let your soul become the pitch
Let your life become the piece
Together we shall play.’

I hear the music calling me
From brazen gold and silver strings
Between burnished frets I have seen
The beginnings of a reverie
‘Come!’ it says ‘And pick a poesy,
Fast and furious, young and rosy.
Strum my chords, tickled with rhythm
Call and coax the magic within them
Let your mind roam free and far
Let your voice capture the stars
Let your soul be one with mine
Together we shall play.’

I hear the music calling me
From silver, circular woodwind keys
The trilled and tranquil fairy fifes
Will slice the silence like a knife
‘Come!’ it says, ‘And toot a tune
And learn the lore of lustrous flutes.
Dance upon the bars and staffs
Our mystery within your grasp
Know the sharps, the flats, crescendos
Staccatos and diminuendos
Since your birth you’ve known it’s so
This is knowledge you should know
Lay your life upon these keys
Tune your heart to match my beat
Sing and dance your destiny
Together we shall play.’

Copyright © Susan Piwang | Year Posted 2013

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Jazz Baby

In Africa you were born 
In deep serenity
To the sounds of mighty drums 
And rhythm’s authenticity.

Stole you from your righteous land
Cut it up like a birthday cake
Gave it back to Anglo hands
But your birth was no mistake.

Hot sun baked your deep skin
In their souls your people knew
Down in the delta the cotton moved
By the Negro spiritual, you grew.

The teachings of gospel embraced you 
When Abe’s 13th had you lost
When the choir called you responded 
Learned you could share your talent, but at a cost

A burnt cork mask for the audience
Buffoonery and minstrelsy, Jim Crow and Daddy Rice
Exploitation in a racist Nation
Theatrical vice.

You got the blues
Had a melancholy mood
Broke down walls with the drowsy tunes
That free and rootless attitude

On the shoulder of Scott Joplin
Mesmerized with how his fingers played
Ragtime floats on running notes
In New Orleans your future lay.

The melting pot, jazz hotspot 
Black people, white people, blue, and green
Creole heritage swirling all it meets 
Street smart, fine art, everything in between.

Jazz is about freedom
You have to improvise
The band prides the electric ride
Sharing music with each other’s eyes

A jazz baby was born in the USA
Dare I say the American way
Day by Day by Day
A growing Jazz Baby played.

Copyright © Jada Myricks | Year Posted 2014

Details | Personification |

Elvina, the elusive slyph

this poem is dedicated to Elvina Kuchukova

thy power over wood and water lead me to springs untainted thy music is a bath for the mind thy art is a balm for the eyes oh Elvina you elusive slyph, where shall we meet next? Elvina i long to see your face again with thy hair black as midnight flowing like a river thy face angles like an elf with patience to match thy gentel words show thou troubles and scars yet to my eyes they beauty is everlasting Elvina i thank you thy skin is scarred with lines of flame the burning knife that scarred your skin is no deterent to me for i know the troubles other cause you strength has saved me from the burning knife for this Elvina i thank you you have saved me from myself for this Elvina i thank you may we meet again

Copyright © Wolf Lief | Year Posted 2012

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Drawn in Harmony

The phrase "Music to my ears" has been injected toward the 
wrong part of my body, and most unpleasantly personified. 
There is a record player that I let skip and scratch on purpose, hearing 
colorful sound of life back when truth kept us both inside the lines. 
I thought order was helping me draw closer to you, while you began on the next 
page without me. The needle digs it's way into my ape-shaped forearm. 
I'm directed by the guitar string shaped veins 
that only play notes in the keys of D# E# A# F# and the sharp sounds pierce 
my perception to the point I can hardly hear your voice anymore. 

At times, listening to the same old sad song on repeat makes me think
that I am just an old soul getting repeatedly tossed around in God's 
big barrel of human paradox. "Lord what was I made for? Surely it wasn't 
to repeat the mistakes of my forefathers, because I'm certain I am the 
only one you molded with forearms so large, that the record got lost 
and forgot how to spin in circles. Music is all about art, and art all about 
perception. Perception has nothing to do with your eyesight, and 
you use your ears to envision the painting on a blank canvas before picking 
anything else up but sound waves. I drive myself crazy sometimes when 
I think that my inspiration is speeding away from me in the 
opposite lane, but I didn't even ask for directions. Mostly because I'm a man, 
a stubborn one at that, and I always think I know where I'm going. 
But this time, I swear I had gotten the map right. So I transformed my open 
hands into tight fists to make music burst out of my arms, and the needle went 
faster and faster until it broke off, and the high pitched vibration 
disintegrated the steel into my own blood. I blame myself for letting this 
be the first time to let myself draw some air into my body. A surgery of 
scalpels cutting into my physical, and an orchestral symphony of sutures, 
threading my life back together again. My blue blood turns crimson as it kisses the air. 
Why do we associate the color red with life and vibrancy, when it clearly shows that we are letting our own blood run down our arms? Why do so many women where red lipstick; the kind that sticks to your collar, screaming to your wife that you clearly sinned? 
Why do we see sin so clearly; transparent enough for others to correct us before we really we even grasp the desire to fix ourselves? AND WHY IN THE WORLD IS THIS MUSIC PLAYING SO LOUDLY NOW; when my needle broke off into my body a long time ago, and I can hardly hear you anymore.
Good thing my life's song still isn't completely written yet. Let's add a more positive climax to this. One drawn in harmony.

Copyright © Spenser Jones | Year Posted 2012

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The Last Symphony

The musical hall was filled with whines;
Of the melancholy melody and spontaneous art. 
And the maestro's eyes were moving between the lines
Waiting to reach his favorite part.
I was now on stage!
Blown away by the appealing scene,
It felt like a picture in a story's page:
Neon lights and people's mien.
And among the audience: 
I read the expression of the crippled soul,
And that of the afflicted heart.
Recognized that look of having a set goal
And those looks of desire to-from the beginning- start.
I am the broken violin,
Owned by the best musician in town
At me-he always liked to grin
saying that I never let him down.
I long for the touch of his bow on my strings..
But I am growing too frail to compete.
I have lost the ability to- with the melody- spread my wings,
Vapid I became, my taste; bittersweet.
My strings will be amputated soon,
And no healing process can revive my damaged harmony
I will be among the ruins, letting out no tune
So today, i will play my last symphony.

Copyright © Sandy Tadros | Year Posted 2015

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Triumphant and Royal Sound

Maygin Creekmore

The sweet sound cannot escape me 
As it encircles my mind and caresses my soul.
The noise glides gently across the land:
Flowing smoothly with the rivers,
Escalating with the rolling hills, and
Popping with the mountains.

The sweet melody turns violent,
As though it were of crashing nightmares.
  Bittersweet it may be, 
A trained ear could easily decipher 
the madness from the beauty.
It never ends.

Amazement as the notes fade 
Softly across the earth.
The end of the song has arrived.
Still there is no instrument
That could ever be more triumphant.
There is no sound more royal.

The Trumpet.

Copyright © Maygin Creekmore | Year Posted 2011

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Love this hate that

music is more than an obsession its magic
no room in my heart for another thing
Why does the devil talk to me and i listen to it
feel like i gave myself away a conscript
who wont listen to his parents
a young rebel not caring
but i don't have a selfish center im always sharing
so let me give this back to you what you gave to me world
so much blood hate anger 2 vipers inter twineing and twirling
the black depths of my mind is swirling 
the passion i used to have is running low so follow me
No remorse im nothing more than a modern day force
evil sittin on my horse swinging my sword twords
your vocal cords as my hordes of minions claim im insane
as they dancein short shorts take a bat to your porsche
stomp down all your fortes join me im no demon
im just a evil genius alwase scheming about reaping
anyone stupid enough to close there eyes for sleeping
im fiending on feeding you to my inner beast whos dreaming
Of a day i wake up without screaming

Copyright © Riely dionne | Year Posted 2011

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My Dearest - a short note

dearest -

are a

a soft


I see

my entire body
becomes an ear

(Feb. 26 2016)

Copyright © J. Tudor | Year Posted 2016

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The Pianist

They were invincible
whenever they’re onstage:
piano on the lead
with violin
as his accompaniment.

They toured the cities,
the parks as well;
soft harmonies they played
that all, including men
went envying them—

violin had felt betrayal
from her own bow.
It snapped her strings;
made it sever—
leaving piano out of tune.

Despite his downfall,
piano persisted performing
on stage, but alone—
playing his wife’s
funeral song.

Copyright © Ray Angelo Ong | Year Posted 2008

Details | Personification |

Love Thou Past

Sitting on here ye porch
Reflecting on what were thee past
A terrible and horrifying future was in thou forecast
Thou hast laid a future in which we live
Thou peers say revenge is in progress
But we must see and love thou past and forgive

Blood dripping from thou ancestor’s hand
As thee work hard picking thou cotton from the land
Knees scrapped from thee hard planked board
But ye fellers still looked up in search of thou lord
Cuts and bruises on thee skin
As thou masters sits back with a grin

Don fears the curling whip
When thou master says take off them clothes boy and strip
Don females terrified by their masters lip
Once they art called in thou bedroom and asked to unzip
Hence thee hearts and souls were bruised and weary
Thou still hast to look their children in thee eyes all teary

When thou weren’t punished or art work
They would get out that string and begin to jerk
Jerking that string back and forth thee go
Thee voices of music starts to travel as the wind blow 
The ancestors started to sing and thee music just flow
Blues hast then been created and since only grows 

Ye hast been upset for years to come
But we must not forget where we are from
Our ancestors hast made it out alive
And one word we must have in us is “drive”
Drive no matter how hard the road gets
Drive no matter what them fellers say
Ye days may be filled with darkness in more then one way
But last time I checked thou sun rises each and every day

Got lots to live for yes we do
Thou ancestors shown us we can make it through
Through thou past we gain knowledge which only grew
We can no longer be called an animal that lives in the zoo
Our revenge is ever so sweet
Because through art intellect and skills is something that cant be beat
So when thou enemy call ye out of thou name stand fast
But to all ye brothers and sisters thou must love our past

© Jeremy Fennell

Copyright © jeremy fennell | Year Posted 2010

Details | Personification |

Instrumental fight

“Hey, Guitar, you’re such a prima donna, 
Always out the front of the stage,
Thinking you’re the biggest in the band, 
With some drugged, delusional rage.”

“What’s that Drums? I can’t hear what you say, 
Walk up here and tell me your woe.
Just walk over here, like other instruments do, 
Anytime, during the show.”

“Yeah, whatever, I’m too important to move, 
I’m better than a little fretted thing,
I am the beat, the tempo, leading the entire band, 
And I own what the singer can sing.”

“You two, cut it out, neither of you are the real big thing,
You aren’t what the crowd wants to see,
We all know they come to hear my blues,
Hear me, the harmonica, play blues in key”.

Copyright © Lewis Raynes | Year Posted 2017

Details | Personification |


Your sad face silently entices,     
standing alone in the darkness.  
You beg for my touch like a lover  
but I hit you instead with a hammer.   

Yet my cruelty can’t stop your thrill  
as you scream with a happy shrill. 

Copyright © Wilfredo Derequito | Year Posted 2007

Details | Personification |


In the midst of my adolescence
he invaded my personal space,
ignited my nervous system-
weakened all physical defenses.
The blinds over my eyes
were dusted and opened-
revealing the sensation of love and warmth.
We've shared:oxygen,ethinicity,
a mutual love for the art of music.
Why can't we share our lives?
Let our lives intertwine?Discover the empty spaces 
and let passion fill every gap?

I love him because he's not the prototype
feel him, because he's enhanced my senses
know him because he resembles my inner self
need him because I have no one else.

Who can satisfy me-give me what I need?
Who can make me fell this way: NOBODY

Copyright © Tiffany Allen | Year Posted 2006

Details | Personification |

Modzart I

                                 Flash carefull of the dark i'm here forever 
                                 Malifecent imitators,now here,nevermore
                                 Prudently need reed to stop, heart's weak
                                 Land repeatedly emerge...memories bind
                                  Green eyes once dared to love abidingly
                                  Polyphony, Sonata, to thought the mind
                                 To pupil the heart, affairs billions, for you
                                  Never a note misspelled voice of nature
                                 Gained blood shed soil hailed and meant
                                 Lords house is all around right we belong
                                  Exhale enhale live don't surrender I never
                                  Blues green white and yellow flatter grey
                                   However everything revealed its telltale


Copyright © Talin Kalishian | Year Posted 2017