Accordion Poems | Examples

Stars in Eyes

stars in eyes
two brothers
nay, friends
hugging

accordion bellowing
the preacher waltzing
the friends hurraying

celebratory
partying
in old westward ho

old-fashioned merrymaking
without all the noise
of the media

a tiny huddle
of villagers in dim light

do stars guarantee a brighter camaraderie?

Haunted Woods

This is the tale of young Polkahontus.
She lives in the forest; her aim is to taunt us.
The squeezebox is ancient; it’s lacquered and red;
she communes with the spirits and plays for the dead.

She gives the accordion a little squeeze;
the raspy sound out of it’s more like a wheeze.
She dances and prances and plays in the wood; 
I’d drop a tree on her if I only could.

At dusk she gets started down there in the vale;
I’ve fingered my crossbow with thoughts to impale.
In the rain, in the snow, even bitter and cold,
she’s playing that polka; Good Lord, it gets old. 

I’m at my wit’s end, so I get down the rifle
with murderous thoughts of a squeezebox to stifle. 
I aim through my scope with the polka red dot,
but I won’t pull the trigger, ‘cuz that polka girl’s hot!

Is This Ample Enough

none of the McCormicks knew which insect had made the crying sounds
odd since usually every McCormick is an expert about thirty-nine things
I know because my mother and her sixty-two sisters are all McCormicks
Some of the McCormicks do not bother to marry, cannot find ample fodder.

Is this ample enough? Cousin Lewt asked, dragging a McCormick home.
Isn’t he your cousin? Asked sixteen McCormicks. I sat quietly for once.
Wanting to see another beat down or put down at a McCormick reunion.
Daddy, who was a Stone gave me a wink; he was feeling smug too.

The Stone reunion is famous for brawls, fights, and police reports.
PS spoiler alert, the crying sounds were noises from a long-horned beetle.
Played on the accordion located between her front and back legs.
Even I with my magnificent imagination, cannot make this crap up.

Poetry Made Easy

The poet strings his words on feet,
While the songster sets his to the beat.
Are they similar or the same?
Are they different in more than name?
The singular of feet is foot.
A boot is where our feet are put.
The singular of beats is beat, 
But that’s not where we put our feet.
And so it is, without dispute, 
A beat to a foot we can’t impute.
An accent can’t go on a boot -
Except with accordion or flute.
Instead, the accent’s on the beat,
And that is also true with feet.

Circus Mom and Dad

They met each other in the circus, their son told me.
I was watching them balance each other on one lone knee.
They were fascinating, I had never seen
Anything as delightful, joyful, or completely keen.

His mother hung by the rafters and gave me a nod.
His father was playing an accordion, they were neither one a fraud.
I loved eating dinner at their table, watching their performing ways.
Frankly, I could have moved in and stayed for days.

Yin

            


          Inhale, exhale, like accordion-
     organ of music in your being, conducive.
Nor elusive to your counterpart, woman.

Be thou what you love to be.
Do not listen to militants 
that whisper fighting words out of insecurity,
that smell a foul smell,
of self burning the fields,
the green things of bountiful yields,
leave us choking on the smoked embers, 
entrails of the tares, and quardon off cultivation 
for the Valleys of shale.
Overtaken, by crawling things.

Or a boastful hare, with Men's running shoes and masculine fare.
Always in a race, bating with trickery, 
the illusionist Tortoise against her own shell.

Nourishment is an honor bestowed.
Remember, that the servant is truly the King.
The provider is the Matriarch held in the greatest of steams, 
saute of the home,
taste of generosity, 
aroma of security.
Yang, you have quite the mistress,
indeed the support of a mystery,
remember this, well.

If it wasn't for poetry

I am unsure if there's some general word I am going for, but it best fits into the mix, and that would be, 'inspiration.' Having that said ... straight to the heart of the matter ... my mom.

Self-driven, accomplished, multi-talented, advocator of The Word, loving daughter, sister, cousin, wife, mother, aunty, grand and great-grandmother, and lastly, not a stranger to people kind of a person, more like, "Is she your mom!", kind of a people person, ... and kind too.

Her talents beyond The Word were in music. She plays any musical instrument, from a tambourine to an accordion, and the organ to the drums. Practically everything in between like a harmonica, but her ace was the ukelele and guitar.

She composed hundreds of songs, wrote all the lyrics and accompanying medleys.

Today, her compositions grace many churches in the country, besides Hawaii, since she traveled a lot being an Evangelical minister.

If it wasn't for poetry, I'd be a 60's year-old kid who never had a mom.

Princess Accordion

Pretty princess accordion playing clown
Skips her truth sideways and upside down
I watch her sprinkle joy all over town
Glad that no one else can keep her down.

The Last Organ Grinder

Big muscles of the organ grinder, his biceps burning.
Cranking springs, the tired, but cheerful, Italian chap.
Many chapters of his life on streets of cold cement.
His beard, silver tone; his worn hat filled with coins.

You’d expect for the old legs to be moving, it rests
as the tunes be calling, beckoning through windows.
Accordion sounds be arousing smiles and curiosity.
Melancholy dirges wet the shoulders of the bitties.

Again the pedals and thighs grind along, travelling
as the kids and townsfolk wave goodbye. On his
merry way, feet tapping, ladies dancing, men puffing
on their pipes and cigars. The music says so long.

And another group gathers in the waning sun, waiting
for their favorite song; and the grinder gladly plays,
telling a story, with his barrel rolling, his pins caressed.
Kaput - he moves into a museum, a blast from the past.

Forbode of Wilderness

Deposited, held in Amazon's Adonis arms
    Hidden inhospitably stashed, kite shadow 
    Curled furtive, stairway stupefied windshield
    Hallucinations lag languished in amusement


    Monkeys freeze, screech scamper scratch 
    Egg smooth roof unscathed cubby abode
    Jagged gaps hang fur curtain climbing mates
    Swung carefree in cramped homecamp humid 

    
    Aghast lopped log rest exhales raggedly 
    Snapped propeller askew salutes defeat 
    Wing bent lungs transform fortitude into fuel
    Crushed accordion bodied anaconda swivels


    Lock jaw latch tight to jungle gym frame 
    Liquid flow flanks scale, giant slug glued
    Fork tongue tastes rain drip following day hope
    Fangs prong Coconas sour tomato gold codicil

  
    Cluster juice burst berries, bittersweet bulbs
    Knobs of Contreu twisted tangerine vitamin
    Fibre feeds faith indispensible, thin torsos entwined
    Fight against forbode of abandonment, exhausted 




                  Anonymous Minor Survivors 
                     Middle of Jungle June

Cat Shack Alley Cat Musicians

The accordion is my instrument of choice.
This was stated by striped blue cat Joyce.
My brother Adley is on the cymbals, nice and loud.
Cousin Zaney plays the violin, he has a classical crowd.

I asked, What kind of music do you like the best? 
Bluegrass, rock and roll, classical and all the rest.
We are bongo playing cats too, said my friend Joyce.
Come on down to the Cat Shack Alley and we’ll give you your choice.

So I went to the Cat Shack Alley where they were grooving.
My hips and my feet never could stop moving.
I was dancing up a storm, landing on a table top.
The diners there finally had to beg me to stop.

Night In Lisbon

Night in Lisbon 

Once, I went to a dance hall in Lisbon
 an awful place full of desperate middle-aged women
hoping to catch a man, any man.

Ah, for the horrible colours looking putrid on the wall
Was the music supplied by a jukebox when
the accordion was too drunk to play

Scrawny women of the night sat around the dance
floor trying to look sophisticated smoking cigarettes
laughing loudly like ugly sisters

Ogling men’s mid-part while showing spindly legs
meant, I think, to look enticing but only succeeded
In appearing like stick insects

Once these women had been beauties, attracted 
to men in suits; many divorces later and partying
time had taken a heavy toll.

Lonely women, chasing what once was, the youth
consorting with contemptible men who feared
being alone on a night when truth spoke piercingly

Appreciating Wrens Song

Butterfly girl greets the quiet wren in a field of corn
Where yellow and light green vegetation is often born
Far off they hear an accordion and a Romanian horn.
Melodies are terrific says a dwarf who arrived this morn.

Soft-spoken wren opens up his beak to sing a song.
It is exactly short enough, not too brief or too long.
Your voice is delicious says the girl named Lee Armstrong.
With that kind of warbling, how can you go wrong?

In Life

In life,

Sometimes

the fire rages
and is so intense 
we are certain
that we will be left charred
like seared blackened wood

unable to ever lift our heads again
or ever recover

In the midst of that 
fierce emotional blaze
The pain grips us like a vice
refusing to relent

twisting inside of us
as if it too
wants to break free 

we clutch our bodies tightly
and rock and sway
in a motion to self soothe

some remembrance 
of the comfort found 
within our mothers' womb

our bodies crumple
under the enormity of weight
and mental ache

we weep

hot acid rain
that scorch our cheeks
 
and flow 
from only
the most
guarded parts
within us

our heads
 
droop into our chests 
and our bodies fold inwards
convulsing with
uncontrollable heaving

we gasp

to catch our breath
our lungs expand and contract 
like a bloated accordion


we can only hope
that our minds

collapse

under the enormous strain 
of that which engulfs us


It is the darkest
reckoning
of human anguish

that one
can feel,

in life

Captain Deluxe

Deluxe sat in the crow’s nest playing the accordion all day.
Her father had been lost at sea, his memory was fading away.
Crew waited orders, for she now Captain Deluxe McVey. 
She played a morose melody, dreaming of a better day. 

You have to give us something to do, her first mate finally said.
Your father might have been retrieved, he might not be full-dead.
Deluxe was not ready to come down, she sat another day instead.
When she finally returned to the deck, she was ready to be fed.

How about grainy cheese burgers? Asked the compliant cook.
“You know how I hate beef,” she said, giving him the look.
They sailed the seven seas and ran into notorious Captain Hook.
Captain Deluxe won the battle and then went back to her nook.

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