Poetry Music Poems

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

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The poem(s) are below...



Details | Free verse |

Hourglass

Sand falls
Through the glass
Love falls
Within the past
Memories dance
They never last
Head in my hands
As I stare overhead
At the hourglass


Falling Down Stairs

Stairs broken
Wheels unspoken
I fell
Grasping for air
Are you there?

Piano Keys

Playing me
Rhythms dancing free
Clouds in air
Notes tossed in despair
Are you there?


Voices

Echoes
Broken wings
Wounded sparrows sing
Clinging to clouds high in sky
Chirping symphonies
Knowing not at all the why
Never loved…
Never loved…
Never hugged
In solitude wonders fly
No one
No one is there



In the Key of Despair

Tap tap
Music in the ear
Flowing freely in the salty air
Beethoven, are you there?
In the breeze, I hear the notes
My mind runs away, it floats
Pain drowned in the river
Limbs frolic on shores of hope
Keys somber in black and white
As I touch them
It conveys the fright


Strings

Choking, not me, but the air
Credenzas and waves
Washing away the realities
Of all your trivialities
Whilst I whither and fade away
Inside a musical symphony
Strangled on lusty desires
Are you
Are you there?


Sleep

Notes hither and floating in the breeze
I look up
The moon
My last breath
My last hope
My last wish
A kiss from the one I never met
The moon hides under cloud
My eyes in tranquility close
The beat no longer in time
No longer there
Where ever I am going
My last thought
Are you there?






Violins and Other Things

Distractions
Deformed from loves inaction
Teardrops falling on time
Rolling down passages
Where darkness does dine
Notes high, notes low
Treble as I grasp the clef
The conductor knows all that is refined
In the end
He shall consume the wine
As I, was consumed by time


Masterpieces

The piano full of dust
Brushes dipped in paints
Now turn to dust
There is a poem over there
In the corner
By the naked painting
Of my Caribbean liver
That cried and wept
Day and night
Night and day
When willows swayed
And the raven landed
On the sill
Of the empty room
For I am no more

Silence whispers
Are you there?


Guitar Strings and Clouds

I caress the strings of discord
Melodies shouting
Displeasure
Credenza’s and interludes
Wine intrudes
The senses squished like sour grapes
Emotions boxed in crates
I caress philosophy
As my garden sadistically does undress
Taunting the desires of my illusions unrest
The rose and the rain drop
Embrace
I cry


Last Act

Once was life
One…… tear…   one tear…… drop
One gasp of fear
Fate licking……………………… deaths ear








Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2017




Details | Prose Poetry |
Voice: Jason Williams *** I danced! Whirling air around me, particles of sundust in tornadoes and hurricanes following me in awe I danced. Each night I wake and feel my legs The ones that once carried me and jumped so high The ones that took me away from a world I didn't want to be in Creating a dream, I danced. The music colouring a world with brushes and pencils With moves and muscle, practice and pirouette A world I thought no one could take away I danced. When my eyes are closed I dance My mind paints my body whole and healed A unicorn, a world of faeries, a galloping horse A world of dreams, veiled and away from hurt I live again I live I don't dance anymore But I write. My words, my lines, they carry me now My legs are useless, my arms and emotions Carry me So.... I dance again, in words I dance. *** 1st Place in contest: Practiced Passion Sponsor: Frank Herrera November 9, 2016

Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2016

Details | Rhyme |
I hear much joy in the music,
View elation in the dance
Feel happiness in the laughter,
Soulful spirit in poetic romance.

I feel love in the language
Swelling in my heart.
Reverence for God and Goddess
In beloved families far apart.

I love the customs and the people
As they celebrate each day
Living life to the fullest
In their honor I wish to pray

That I may learn to be as humble
As loving and as kind,
To be blessed by elder wisdom
In every senior that I find.

This is a gift to give my children
To open their sleepy little eyes.
To see the value in rejoicing,
To reach for stars up in the skies.

When they learn this knowledge 
To listen well to the sages,
They will know of sacred secrets
Handed down through the ages.

© 2014 Connie Marcum Wong

Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2014




Details | Light Poetry |
The Duck That Lost His Quack


A Duck woke up late one day last week,
And all he could do was to squeak.
He looked everywhere and listened to different things, 
Even heard sounds all around, from pings to zings.

For example, he tried many gates, stairs, and barn doors,
Then went and stepped on cracks in nearby creaky floors.
He visited several witches, doctors and some were both,
They prescribed everything from lemons to ginger troth.

In his travels, he came across a quaint woodshop, 
Being so tired, he sat down with a solid plop.
A carpenter saw that the Duck was so very sad, 
From behind the counter, he came to help the lad.

After hearing of the tale of a missing sound,
The carpenter leapt up with a double bound.
He said, “From within is where it comes, 
Not outside, as most would sum.”

“I have made many instruments for music, 
And what you need is something acoustic.”
He brought out a short board with a nail, 
Then attached several metal strings to a pail.

The carpenter said, “Play away and listen to the sounds in your head.”
The Duck strummed everything from Enya to the Grateful Dead.
After a fashion, the Duck was soon lost in the tunes,
And started to dance and sing like a midnight Lune.

Who knew that this Duck had a knack,
And in the middle of it all started to quack.
So you see, it’s not external to what you seek,
In many cases, its internal and who you meet.



Written by Michael Eastman, 8-25-2015,

This, after listening to Bubbles the Mouse speak,
And hearing a long story composed of squeaks.

Copyright © Michael Eastman | Year Posted 2015

Details | Light Poetry |
"When Music Plays"
When music plays a soul is completely alive longing for it to continuously whisper Fill now each heart
A day can change melancholy to elation replenishing body and soul with stereo Have it play on
SkyWatcher - 04-06-17

Copyright © Lisa Ricci | Year Posted 2017

Details | Couplet |
When he played his violin magic took place!
A sense of serenity shown on his face.

A lover of music so gifted in art...
A teacher to many, known for his sweet heart.

Poetry would become his passion, his need...
A master of poetry in the words that he freed.

The strings are now quiet with music no more.
Still students recall the teacher they adore.

His words we can cherish with fond memories...
A legacy of gems for new reveries.

9-5-17
© Connie Marcum Wong

Bittersweet Contest - 6th placement out of 6
Sponsor Kevin Shaw

*Dedicated to my dear friend and late poet, David Austin

Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2017

Details | Romanticism |
Your love flows through my veins
like the Nile River flows through
the sands of Eygpt.
Love flows through my veins
like rivers that break off into endless streams
and water the gardens of the green stems
of torn covered rose bushes.

In my veins, you flow, as a sparrow
flies through the blue skies in beauty.
You are the blood that flows through my veins
and later settles deep in my heart
and embraces me with a hug of intimace.

Love flows through my veins
like endless notes played by the sweetest composer
along with his private orchestra playing a lovely melody.
Rivers, streams break off and flow into lakes and oceans,
Like my veins that lead to my heart,
you are always there flowing through my veins.
Your love flows through my veins.

Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2013

Details | Light Poetry |
Waking
Slumber
Another day
One more to sway

My eyes are red
My hopes are dead
I live in dread
In bed

Another day
Another one
Another breath of putrid air
Why

Interludes
Softly mocking me
Musicale morticians
Playing with my mind

Oneness
Nothingness
Meaningless
Vodkaness

Swimming in tears
Arms flaying in past races
Symphonies sounding grandiose themes
I am one with death and her piano keys

I sit as the keys fall to the floor
Sadness absorbed by the empty walls
I am one
With no one

No tunes
No cartoons
Rain and depression strangle my heart
Nothing left at all to give

Wrinkled
Withered
Despair in the king’s castle
Counting gold

One
Bloated and floated
Black liver dancing in the sea
Shouting his oneness

Return
Come back
Touch ne
Humanity

Oneness

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

Details | Light Poetry |
There are times
You see in the eyes of a child
An Angel
Our Alice in wonderland
Through the looking glass
Even General Zia yielded to her charm

In our dreams she is ageless like the winds caress

Look deep into her heavenly being
See the seraphs eyes that lays a kiss upon you
Both young and old
See the hand that holds the poor
Listen to the voice
That united nations

Listen to the heart of Nazia Hassam

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

Details | Free verse |
Ballet is poetry. . .
And both share in
The magical movement
That is defined as art.
As brushstrokes blend
Hues onto a white canvas
And forms begin to
Appear in the glory of a
Golden pas de deux dawn,
Fingers of light stream
Through parting clouds
Capturing the divinity
Of the death of night
Into days beautiful birth.
Fluid motion, chassé. . .
Balancing earth's elements
In an alluring assemblé.

© Connie Marcum Wong

Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2012

Details | Light Poetry |


                     My pulse is high and the heart beats double punch
               Paul McCartney, George Harrison, John Lennon, Ringo Starr
                          Music, lyrics, melody in beautiful harmony
                          "Love me do" ..... yes, it feels like love ....
                          Strawberries crown in my hair with the boys
                                    "Strawberry Fields Forever"
                      Quite a sweet dream ... "All You Need Is Love" .....
                     Paul, George, John and Ringo sings "Is not She Sweet"
                                I lose my breath, this must be "Real Love"
                                 "Penny Lane" ..... Who is "Penny Lane"
                   "Please Please Me" - feel a little tired - "A Hard Day's Night"
                                  "Help" they are behaving like "Bad Boy"
                            "Abbey Road" is a nice place .... but, "Let It Be"
                               I'm going home with a "Yellow Submarine"
                                           "Cry For A Shadow"






28.10.2013 A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved


Sponsor Rhonda Johnson Saunders
Contest Name Beatlemania!

Copyright © Sunshine Smile | Year Posted 2013

Details | Light Poetry |

Musical renditions
The voice in unison, together we chante
Strings play their story
In harmony fate sings along
The winds blow in from the sea
The sun runs away
We are the band of the night
With whiskey we sing and play
We are young and we are old
The night breeze carries the tunes
I may be fao, and I may be inebriated
Harps and chords, strings to be strummed
I see you stare, would you like a Rum?
You know what you want
So close your eyes
The kiss will be sweet
Tomorrow you may fly away
Tonight the strings they are all in play

String me along
Not for long
All strings fall
Naked is your deception
The strings are all gone


Notes "chante" pronouncec shante, = sing in french
Fao = ugly in Spanish

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2014

Details | Light Poetry |
In this old sensing bad world,
Old is good,
The old culture,
Listening to a song nature,
Music their literature,
A violin at every home,
Like one with Nero Rome,
Violin in feminine for the men then,
A fiddle in the middle of hands,
The four strings of violin like four nerves of women,
Carrying not blood but fear,incomprehension,shyness,
And loathing no men but own men,
The women were pure like music from violin,
The old not violent,
But a good violin,
Oh Girl! let the music play on from the old violin!

(Basing on the culture of our South Asian bounds)







Copyright © Muhammad Safa Thajudeen | Year Posted 2014

Details | Light Poetry |


By duskfall, I cruise with the sky, 
throwing life’s pebbles unto ripples
of yearning… and she lifts her veil against
the moist air fondling the blue of night

unto my pale meadow…she whispers
before an interlude, refreshing my senses;
a warm potion to my languid thoughts
and pierced refrains, delicately whisking 

shadows and cluttered notes: her luster 
bequeathing new facets of hue
and a gleam for sweet beginnings
reaching for my wet skin with a melody

like a passage from tear's soundtracks,
then to grasp my wish on her halo.
Laying on columns of grass, I rise
to feel the sky cruising with me in the meadow. 


Craig Cornish's Debussy Contest
6/10/2014

.


Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2014

Details | Light Poetry |
Como’ Si’ Yama’, Senor’
Como’ Si Yama’, Por Favor’…
… for Below That Embroidered Sombrero’
Shone Eyes Like El Dorado

He Was A Tall and Handsome Hombre’
Like The Range of Sierra Madre’
…Now, He Sat Center The Cantina
Surrounded by Bonita – Senhoritas

He Smiled, “Buenos-Dias Senora’”
Por Favor, Por Que’ El-Hora’ ?...
If So, Have A Seat, Mi- Amiga’
And Mercedes, Bring Over More Cerveza

He Was… Rodrigo Reyes-Pacheco’
Best - of The West, of Vaqueros’
He Came to Compete in The Rodeos
And Win Fame and Fortune in Pesos’

He Came Thru El Paso De’ Tejas
Thru Dusty Rancheros and Mesas
To Ride on El Toro Rojo
Who Has Never Been Ridden Befo’…

La Viva’… Arriva’  … Rodrigo
The Brave and The Bold Caballero’
Champion Bull Rider, from Old Mexico
Vaya’… Con Dios’ !... Rodrigo

Now, El Toro Rojo, Was Dangerous
For Killing Men, El Rojo, Was Infamous
His Horns Had Pierced Many A Corazon
Ripped Flesh, Like It Was Piñata’ Hung

I Informed All of This To Rodrigo
The Hombre, Was Bent on Being Macho’…
… He Would Ride Toro Rojo, Manyana’
Said “Gracias”… But My Cares Were Por Nada’ !

La Viva’… Arriva’… Rodrigo
The Brave and The Bold Caballero’
Champion Bull Rider, from Old Mexico
Vaya’… Con Dios’!... Rodrigo

… Now, He Wasn’t Loco in La Cabeza’
I Just Didn’t Comprehende’ … “Que’ Pasa”
But I Saw Rodrigo Atop… El Rojo 
… ! He Rode Like A Latino – Tornado ! …

He Rode El Rojo, To The End…
Then, Turned ‘Round and Rode Him Again…
Rodrigo had Won… Just Like He Planned…
Because El Toro – Rojo …   …  Was Mexican !

La’ Viva’ … Arriva’ … Rodrigo
The Brave and The Bold Caballero
Champion Bull Rider from Old Mexico
Vaya’ … Con Dios ! … Rodrigo….
Vaya’ … Con Dios !... Rodrigo o o o o o


for Ruben Ortellao... 
I Don't Really Know 
What Your Branch of Humanity is... 
(Spanish, French or Other)
But I thought You Might Like 
This Whimsical Poem...  
Oh... And Thank You For Your 
Most Generous Comments... 
(Cause I Know You Are A Fantastic Poet... 
I've Read Several of Yours 
and I Love Them Too...)

 (P.S.  Excuse the Spelling... 
I'm Spanish Illiterate (Smile)
MoonBee

Copyright © MoonBee Canady | Year Posted 2009

Details | Prose Poetry |
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.....

Copyright © tom bell | Year Posted 2007

Details | Rhyme |
Always Something (Left) To Say We riddle with change in pocket corners, sit alone and sing an afternoon away, nothing but the violin strings and ukulele play. Middle of this median, stuck on this border, with you, sit and sing an afternoon away. Everything but the engine moves and I'm sure, had I not met you, I'd never have something to say. You throw coins in the starlit air, Tuck your strings under your arm. The sage sings for us in solitude: His voice fades in the spruce Together with his laughter. And had I not met you. Had I not been here this day, Had I not sang the day away, I'd miss the muse that's you, And a sage in solitude. *** February 18, 2017

Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2017

Details | Prose Poetry |
The soft sounds of my hands in the air
Swift swooshing movement of words
Expressive fingers moving letters around
Stillness flowing sentences to paper
The intricate familiar patterns of language
Never perceived as impossible until 
Possibilities run out, until words stop
making sense inside. Until lips tongue
and brain fail to co-operate, then mouth
becomes meaningless, messy 

The soft sound of my hands in the air
Swift swooshing movement of words
Of colours painted by writing hands
Hands gesture music in the air, frail
and gentle, and ever so expressive
Drooping words of rain and raising
words of rainbow, of love and warmth
Twinkling words of night and dark music
It all paints pictures in a book where
It doesn't matter my mouth didn't speak.

Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |
I sat in awe and watched them make the stage a world, where everything, everything could happen. The music took me away from where I was sitting. Drifting me on invisible lines. And I dreamt. I dreamt. Their hair in braids, their colourful clothes, their graciousness. A jump a deer, or swan. Arms a house to live in. Embracing all the world from love to death and beyond. And I danced, I danced, my music danced in my head, my words, sung on paper, were spoken on stage. Lived a life other than ink or syllables. I lived there. I bowed for my imaginary public. My mind a stage, all dancers, all words, all the music. This dream kept me alive. This dream makes me a poet who sees colours and music in words, and enjoys just that. *** October 31, 2016

Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |
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.



Copyright © JeanMarie Marchese | Year Posted 2007

Details | Free verse |

CENSORSHIP

There is a language I spoke and I knew.  
It fluently told it's stories in dance.  
Graceful chaînes that turned our spirits out 
and razor sissones to cut with candor.  
There is a light song I willingly played.  
My fingers glissade, ran, courir, en croix, 
rapidly crossing the tired yellow keys.  
There is a bleached canvas white with nothing!  
The brush has eyes.  It's clever at seeing, 
tout va bien, and always without me.   
It tells me what is beneath the linen,  
a textured story in shape and color. 
There are no jagged edges in assemblé. 
The poetry, un mot, could keep the time 
on paper. It knew dimensions, of four, 
in every breath.  It saw the frozen rose.  
It sprinkled stories of death or exploded 
in dimples of joy.  It holds my hand and tells on me.  
A firefly in bourrée is silenced from the play.

By Edlynn Nau
October 8, 2016

Copyright © Edlynn Nau | Year Posted 2016

Details | Light Poetry |
L’orgue de la mer - The Sea Organ


Née à l’horizon	

          Born on the horizon

où se meurt le soleil

          where the sun dies

ses grandes vagues pleurent

          her large waves weep

et s’écrasent sur les marches

          and crash on the steps

où l’orgue de la mer chante

          where the sea organ sings

le va et vient des marées

          the coming and goings of her tides

plein d’accords mystérieux d’air et d’eau

          filled with mysterious chords of air and water.




The Sea Organ is located in Zadar, Croatia. Below the steps you see in the above picture there's a system of tubes and a resonating cavity that turn the site into a musical instrument when the waves come crashing in.

Copyright © Anne-Marie Coreggia | Year Posted 2017

Details | Prose Poetry |
     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

Copyright © tom bell | Year Posted 2007

Details | Free verse |
When poetry is written,
it mainly comes from the heart.
It's triggered by emotions and thoughts,
composed by the mind, written by the hand.
Poetry states a fact and reveals opinions,
it's music and art mixed into a concoction to touch souls.

Poetry can be written by a liar,
but be so true and honest.
The words can hurt, sting, or burn,
they can melt a heart, warm a soul, or bring out a smile.
Poetry comes natural to a real poet,
if not the art does not flow and may miss a soul or two.

When poetry is written,
it mainly comes from the heart.
It's triggered by emotions, thoughts and experiences,
composed and pieced together by mind, written and revealed by hand.
Poetry states facts and reveals opinions, out there to connect,
it's spoken music and written art, used to touch souls,


*inspired by the quote:
                      "The poet is a liar that always speaks the truth."
                                                           -Jean Cocteau

Copyright © Brittany Paradis | Year Posted 2009

Details | Light Poetry |
music you choose it
it do this
take control
music is bold
this is no lie
here why don't even try
SOME MUSIC NEVER DIE

Copyright © kurtis scott aka curtis futch jr | Year Posted 2012

Details | Lyric |
just an average typical morning within this same old town
avoiding all the neighbors that nosily creep these grounds
while all these other folks keep busy bodying gossiping and all
who has whiter teeth, bigger boobs, or the cutest guy at the mall
i stopped at the library to dodge all these illiterate snots
the only place that's quite enough for me to organize my thoughts
i walked in just to be stopped, breathless, dead in my tracks
a book, not made of paper or even hard back
binding was some type of stitched authenticism
bound with a beautiful articulate collage of pattern to it

I thought
same old stories, same old narrative
can someone tell me where all the good authors went
I just need an outline, no critique or edit
but everything I read, I feel I have already read it

I stood there for a second, which felt like a lifetime
must have been reading stars, because it left my mind blind
if only just once I could hold that masteredpiece written classic
I can't lie it was perfect man, I just had to have it
I gasped for a moment, dead in my body
frozen and stunned hoping nobody saw me
it crossed my mind for a split, then, I thought
nah shit
if I get caught I'd be a goner, but I just couldn't wait any longer

I thought
same old stories, same old narrative
can someone tell me where all the good authors went
I just need an outline, no critique or edit
but everything I read, I feel I have already read it

I darted for that case in a flash and I shattered that glass
busted it open, like I was late for literature class
static shocked a little as the book touched my hand
it was in that moment i knew i was the #1 fan
then it wasn't long I realized it was written for me
initials imprinted so there was no questioning

I thought
same old stories, same old narrative
can someone tell me where all the good authors went
I just need an outline, no critique or edit
but everything I read, I feel I have already read it

I fell deep into the title it really 'hit a line'
bold, italics, with a dedication underlined
I wasn't sure why I needed or wanted to own it
but I would have searched forever if I would have known it
searching every library for a perfect story
all the titles and endings just really seem to bore me
this one was special I just wanted to trace over the print
read. every small detail. no need for suspense

Copyright © aunna jones | Year Posted 2017

Details | Light Poetry |
kick feet

off beat

Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2009

Details | Lyric |
I bring hit after hit like a boxer
You haters' inconsistent
Everybody's on the same vibe
Mine's kinda' different
Verse hot, hook hot--
I'm gon' sellout soon as I drop
Verse hot, hook hot--
I'm gon' sellout soon as I drop

Minor in poetry, fine-arts major

Doctor goon on deck, call this a fear-factor

I'm going in, but I ain't got no curfew

I son a lot of you, it's like I birth you

Got a lot of verses, but this ain't a Bible

Fallout when you hear this, I ain't liable

Ain't talking 'bout tearing, but the beats R.I.P

Didn't sell a lot of tracks, but I got D.O.E

Put you up on game, my hustle's M.O.E

Music over everything, ain't moving 'D'

I got cash like the bank, I sell CD's

Smells funny, tickled my nose, I might sneeze

You would think I'm water, the way I flow

I'm just like some dynamite, bound to blow

Act like you're in a recliner, lay back

If I ain't on fire, then why they say that?

Feature, feature, can I get a feature

So far ahead I sit on competition--bleacher

My Raps' like a bunch of apartment buildings, complex

Got chicks on my jock', ain't talking 'bout sex

I'm so different, it's magnificent

Haters want me to fall, but that's not how the script went

Thing's fishy, I ain't gettin' caught in that net

Just killed the beat, without breaking a sweat

Copyright © Arcene Janvier | Year Posted 2013

Details | Sonnet |
For Fiona Meyrick, poet and musician; a Petrarchan sonnet

Fiona, in the silence of the night
Sings songs of sorrow soft in minor key
That sigh above all formal melody
In cadences that dance like birds in flight
She rests within the dark, composing light
In subtle shades of sweet philosophy
Transposing on the stave a mystery
In spills of sound like ink on paper bright
Fiona; at the stroke of midnight blessed
Plays pianissimo the ocean’s rage
Transforming all the sins of man confessed
In gentle rhythms traced upon the page
A modern muse, an ancient truth expressed
In lullabies to sooth our restless age

© Gail Foster 2016

Copyright © Gail Foster | Year Posted 2016

Details | Light Poetry |
Flowers
Fragrances and bouquets
Morning dewdrops
The rising sun
Throwing promises
As Gaiety sings
Young lovers kissing 
As the rose buds bloom
Rain drops caressing
Memories floating
Past and present meld
In the coming of spring
A butterfly
Plays with my strings
Éclairs to savor
As eyes kiss eyes
I take hold of you
Dear spring
We twirl you and I
Young and old
Musical chairs 
Lovers wed and bed
I smile at the sweet scent
Cane in hand
Off I go
A blind man
Who waltzes in the spring

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KmzFDEu2RoA

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015