Accompaniment Poems | Examples

I am

I am an appendage.
I am a tool.
I am his accompaniment. 
I am an addition. 
I am an attachment.
I am the accretion formed from abuse.
I am nothing without him to tell me what I am worth. 
I am only something when he loves me. 
I am only worth anything when I am convenient.
I am supposed to be enjoyable. 
I am supposed to be to his benefit. 
I am supposed to be easy. 
I am supposed to satisfy.
I am supposed to be useful. 
I am told to be practical. 
I am told to be appropriate. 
I am told to be available. 
I am told to stay mute.
I am told to be passive. 
I am told to submit. 
I am a person. 
I am feeling. 
I am alive. 
I am not his appendage. 
I don't have to be a wife before I am myself. 
Before I am happy.
I am tired of how I am treated. 
I am ready to be a combatant. 
I am ready to accept the bruises if it is for the last time. 
I am ready to feel like me again. 
I want to be me again.

The Pets of the Old

We are much alone when old,
after lifetimes of accompaniment,
of tacit support and connection
from our friends and peers.
Must I now label as mental failing
sometime strange behaviors I exhibit?  
These are a consequence of long living, 
result in my speaking to the air, to myself and
to my beloved pets. No one else is around.
This becomes habitual. I explain that it is 
only to retain my sanity, ability to speak,
to think, to hone skills of artful conversation,
of facile verbal composition. 
Although silence may be soothing
or oppressive, calming or profoundly 
disturbing, pets are a great comfort -- 
though they sometimes underscore 
and magnify lack of human interaction.  
Loneliness is a sad consequence 
of aging, intensifying losses, magnifying 
declining mental agility, dulling consciousness
of changes in behavior.  To fill empty hours,
to calm fears, feel at peace,  welcome 
the company and affection of pets. 
Treat them as deserving beloved ones.
We must protect, support, preserve them.
They are as central to our lives as we are to theirs.

I SING

I have a confession…which to this poem I shall now bring…
when I think that no one’s listening or watching…I have a tendency to sing.

When I wake up, having a playlist which contains my favorite songs,
I go into the room where I write my poems, turn it on, and sing along.

In my car with the radio blasting…sometimes I fall into a trance
I forget that people might might be watching…as I sing…and often I dance.

When I’m in the shower…or, for that matter, in the rain under an umbrella…
with no musical accompaniment…I sing acapella.

I never had dreams to be a famous singer…
with all the fame and fortune that would bring
all I know is there are times…when I just have to sing.

I know, for me, there is no better way for my day to start
than with a song upon my lips and music in my heart.

I use to wonder since this clandestine signing is my thing…
if I sing because it makes me happy…
or 
am I happy…and that is why I sing…

Looking back over the years however 
this is the conclusion I have reached…
It isn’t one or the other…
it’s a little bit of each.

Interludes In Life

Wonderful sunshine
Happiness to an angel
Singing through this cutie
A piece sung by Celine Dion
My Heart Will Go On.

Hot noon day a blazing fury
A poor PWD weightlifter
Trying her best practice religiously
Unmindful the poor physical condition of the gym
She's still manage to cup a prize for her name.

Misty cold evening at ground hotel
A lonesome romantic dancer
Dancing on the floor in rhythmic motion
Accompaniment of a grand piano
Played by a centenarian grandpa.

Symphony

Nimble fingers glide across the strings
practiced notes turn instruction into muscle memory
dancing, the bow sounds out each note
on the ivory shore, breezy and remote

Clouds drift about, sun warm on the face
shrill cries of gulls, waves crash upon the sand to replace
the accompaniment of a piano, buzzing of brass,
the trill of flutes, percussion with salty seagrass

Each note calls, a yearning stirred, fulfilling a role
letting the music sing a symphony of the soul
that words would not convey
performed for flowers on a warm spring day

Pitch Pipe Overture

Sing for me and make it a cappella,
an album of musical afternoons;
By the light of the old candelabra
with a pitch pipe harness exotic tunes;

Your voice a passport to a far off land
no need for any accompaniment;
Colorful suitcase let me hold your hand 
I’m smitten by the vocal enchantment;

That accent so deliciously foreign 
I want to lick it clean off of your lips;
When can we go to the airport again?
I revel in all of our first class trips;

The moment the last song is in the air
I’ve begun planning our next overture.

The Heathland Provides

The heady scent
Changing through the seasons. 
As spring is no longer embryonic 
It’s adolescence showing through. 
Swathes of yellow 
Popping buds and seed pods as the sun hits,
An audible accompaniment 
To the visual spectacle. 
Each year I walk
Through the forest fringes
Heathland meets dense wood
And each time when the scent hits
Initially for that year
My mind is transported. 
To lazy hot summer days, 
Beaches far away. 
Sun glistening on caramel skin
All triggered by the scent. 
The gorse fills the air with coconut,
The telltale sun cream aroma,
A reminder of days gone by, 
Summer to come
Sweet blossoms heavy with nectar
Ambrosia to nourish the beasts
Dwelling in the margins of the forest. 
And as the Beltane passes,
Air filled with smoke from 
A nonet of timbers
Taking us into the summers dawning,
The fresh yellow darkens, 
The scent matures 
No longer coconut richness
And once again the spring has retreated
Time advancing on toward the hazy days.

seal

sea soliloquy
	a harp accompaniment ~
		predatory notes

Stopping To Pet

God speaks to me,
His scriptures comforting
my tongue and ears – 
His living word, a sweet
accompaniment~ we are
lovers, heart and soul
spiritually entwined...

I am reminded of
that rural church, a
primitive bench for two
or more

far apart from the 
transcended mockery of golden
cathedrals, with magnificently stained
panels, popes and kings imagining that
it is possible to gild and paint one's
way into heaven

(a cat leaps into my lap – we have been
writing buddies for some time now; his
insistence for a pet reminding me that all
my high minded thinking has taught me
nothing, if I do not interrupt, and commence
with the honor....)

December Reimagined

The moon risen high, over
    the burial vault of the sun
  to the accompaniment of fireworks
    from competing constellations

  ~ All this, before suppertime

Ambivalent

AMBIVALENT
The swallowing of a morsel can't be justified
If the stomach still hurts.
Scorpion– the shining demon,
who doesn't stop until it’s quashed
applauds as it was filled with goosebumps.

A dog with two tails–yet barks,
and they say the future of the unknown 
Is seen by Accompaniment of tears with personal growth.
Yet– the flame went down through us.

Come rain or shine,
A new Renaissance needs to be found
To a land proposed with happiness
In a wide dark bush filled with bitter leaf.

Yeh! the old Renaissance 
The assumed room temperature was hugged.
some bellied up while a few fell on the wrong side of the grass.
Who knows!
If I will bite the dust before then!

Time flies like an arrow 
No money– yet parties flowed like never before
No Food– yet waste bins overflowed with food remnants
Nothing to write home about 
But bittersweetness is to be remembered

Peace be unto us that made it,
To that decade we never thought we could overcome
Surely another mountain shall stand against an egg,
Enthralling to see the new resolution.
©Fawass Olalekan Adelabu

Whisper the Wind

first day
writing new letters
in the same old journal

a hymn
the only accompaniment 
rain drumming the roof

*****

just in time
it stops raining
first cherry blossoms 

spring wind
ten thousand frog croaks
collapse a rain-soaked silence 

*****

at the shore
our footprints erased
in the turn of the tide

clouds
here and there 
into the horizon

*****

the day's heat lingers
after dusk shuffling the cards
over and over

listening to the morning news
i brush tangles
from my hair

****

outside her window 
one hundred evergreens 
whisper the wind

his boyhood home
in the tangled garden
only the wind

*****

in the hour before sunset
cricket song again
filling the clear cut

early morning
the bright red barn
subdued by fog

****

winter sun
shines down on
the deserted playground

that snowflake
into the muddy puddle
without a ripple

*****

all the hues
of the rainbow are in it
this winter sunset

new year's day 
the amaryllis flower 
almost open

*****

Note: This selecton of haiku and senyru was originally published in 2000 as a gift booklet to family and friends at Christmas.

Resonant Gifts

When my unlanguaged
RightBrain intuitive
mute muse default son
speaks in throated sounds,
urgently loud,
quietly lulling,
boisterously laughing
from belly
up to smiling dimpled face

He wants
and expects,
possibly demands,
nonviolent communication

And needs
compassionate companionship,
as do we all.

These two,
communication and companionship
not entirely the same,
and yet not distinctly different;

A creative sacred apposition
of outside relationship choices
felt as a warm accompaniment
inside gifting voices.

Orca

Orca breaches amid 
rolling pellucid waves;
pod accompaniment
as arching bodies play.
blowhole sprays celebrate
in random ecstasy;
ocean’s performance art.

Blessings

It rained this morning until this moment,
now the birds are singing.
A blessing!

Bird song is not much of a tune, kind of repetitive
and it could use a base accompaniment.
In fact to be honest, the birds
are kind of annoying.

Wait, it’s raining again - sweet silence
Another blessing!

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