Best Acoustic Poems
Sounds of an acoustic guitar..
Sounds are literally out of this world..
Strings of a guitar..
Deep and joyful..
Penetrates the soul
A soulful magical experience of pure delight
Transendence occurs..
Attributed from vibrations..
Our ears devour the opulent sounds of a guitar..
Speaks to us..
Shoots right to our hearts..
captivated by the music..
Sounds..
Dance..
As we sway to the beat of the guitar strings..
Whisks us away..
To a different time..
Touched by nostalgia
Laughter and tears..
A trip to memory lane..
The sound of an acoustic guitar..
happily brings forth a smile upon our lips..
While we are kissed on our cheeks
By pure bliss..
Acoustic Shadows 4-8-26 Craig Cornish
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Acoustic Shadows
As screen doors slam an audible footprint of sound
Echoes in phonics of ice in glasses
And tinkling bells of ice cream trucks.
The solstice ripens
Growing large in the splash of rainbirds
And telltale whirr of hummingbirds at feeders
As humidity buzzes, the breath of summer’s envoys
Sound out a boneless resonance
With chords that tease and tantalize
Alluring in fleeting notes hatching hazy inklings.
Haunting memories of a solstice oratorio renewed,
Veiled in the caress of a mirage,
Reverberate in noisy shimmers of Luna’s fullness.
Ripples of ghostly illusions speak in clues
Like bards of déjà vu
When sounds trickle down furrows of skin and soil
Leaving hints that foreshadow dusky shades
Recalling the hum of warmth in cold bones
And cues that foretell of the season of crickets.
we long for rain
when the sun sabotages the silence,
suffocating the calm of skies ~
as breeze stays not where it should…
~ warmth feels near, until it isn’t ~
kissing the seas
in ripples of rose-ritual highs…
while these eyes…
keep searching,
wanting,
your flame beyond the skin of soul,
that tickles thought through
the tremors of time, O time ~
shifting what is known into uncertainty…
succumb to my musk of softness
when dreams refuse to listen,
and touch becomes distant,
melt into my pulse,
warm, woven lies,
taste this fall, evermore…
I cup my hand
no Doppler's circle
this well of emptiness
as I splay my fingers
more of the same
hits the floor
fits of giggles
screams
groans
murmur then fade
eyes hold the sound of the afterimage
as ears seek its nuance
observer - the end/in the beginning
the hatching in the darkness
a dance within the drift of focus
of every empty
cupped hand
Mother hears a choir singing,
or so she tells us from her hospice bed,
she also hears the church bells ringing
to mark the trailhead ~
farther on the path she knows leads home.
She is content with the life she’s known,
with few regrets she packs her bags to move
to her celestial home built so long ago,
Mother says the angels reassure her there is nothing left to prove,
come greet your friends and family in heavenly tableau.
From sounds heard on eardrums
and hair cells in the inner ears,
we refract and warp their tones
into sound shadow puppet-plays,
in the mind’s disc-jockey's booth,
picking and choosing what to keep or lose,
softening hard edges, to time-warp what we can bear,
bending the ear away from dissent,
replaying covers of old favorites
when we refuse the unfamiliar.
The unwanted drifts into static noise,
we switch off midway,
we look away, hands over ears—
we laugh to force a chorus line.
We get up and dance
to shake away the doubt now stirred,
quick-stepping away sideways
to avoid toes being crushed,
when what’s heard moves up too close—
too close to the bone.
“That can’t be true.”
“Can’t apply to me, surely.”
“Where did you hear such nonsense?”
“It doesn’t really matter anyway.”
“Enough already—OK.”
Midway, the call we're on
strangely is made to fade,
it seems to breaks up—
"Sorry you've dropped out"
"It's garbled"
"Say again, Speak up"
Or the soundproof door
quietly, gently swings shuts
before the message is complete.
Interrupting:
"Yeah, that's Right"
"I Know what you mean"
"That's so True"
"Everyone Agrees, Sure!"
We know what we like
the home disk jockey to spin:
old favorites,
covers and tributes
echoing into sound shadows
along narrow self-worn and self-torn
protected shadow lit pathways.
Acoustic Guitar
My fingers dance on the slender body
I am harmoniously in love with it
It's always there to resonate my heart
I get drowned in its soft chords
Away from the world, in the parterre
We both go string labelling
With pronounced active pickups
It's semitones enter the fathoms of my soul
Contest-Music to my soul.
Spoñsor-Laura Loo.
By waters edge sat John Muir
His wish for us all, preserve what's pure
He twisted and wiggled, his butt did a dance
It occurred to him, he had ants in his pants!
12/28/14
© All Rights Reserved
Toyous melody of childhood memories Board in tune becomes a high wire trapeze Two cans and a string acoustic phonology Each part paper comb sings the bucket drum With whizzing blade of grass in hands with breath hum The paper roll trumpet blows ensemble strums Running along the day grows as children play Rolling hillside a box becomes a sleigh Tutor love pea shooter from across the way After a rain paper boat follows the drain Bows arrows cornstalk fiddle finish reframe Hoop and guider dolls cat and mouse homemade plain
Rip mayhem-
Shrieking birds, waves of soft
Pink chattering, disorienting love
Sweet clinging rain-soaked bodies
Intertwined in deep earth chords
Vibrating my soul, cleansing my brain
Thank you, Thembi!
Your message pure, like hidden springs I
Visit in Northern Minnesota Forests-
Unspoiled
Everlasting....
Tribute to Pharoah Sanders
February 2010
two blooming flowers
vibrant rhythms of their touch
sensational kiss
love is now in boom
acoustic sound of two hearts
singers rainy song
For contest:
Sponsored by PD
Duets? Oh no, those are no longer my style.
I tried them with you for a good long while.
But your voice always overpowered mine.
Did you think you sounded that Divine?
Let me set you straight, and it's a fact,
not sure I can without anger, just tact.
So I'll spit it out to you so you can see,
my life with you was no great symphony.
As a composer of music, I will commend,
but that's where your conducting merits end.
Master of the keyboard you might well be,
no longer the maestro can you ever be to me.
"Emotional dysfunction." You write that score.
You plucked the strings of my heart til they tore.
The flute resounded my mournful lonely cries.
Foolish Maestro, write a song that will apologize.
When I left I took the lyrics I wrote for your songs.
Maybe that was selfish and perhaps it was wrong.
But you caused the pain, closed the door to discussion.
Write a new song including your sour tones of percussion.
I've taken that baton away from you. Now it's in my hand.
I learned to conduct my own life, and I lead my own band.
I left you all the instruments. You still have your music.
I've found peace, and I'm happy singing solo in acoustic.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
December 13th 2015
Staccato tantrum,
Mother Nature’s jackhammer,
doing overtime.
The notes are missing their staff;
floating aimlessly upon the wood.
There’s nothing quite so musical,
as the woodpecker.
P rose unfolds revealing the deepest inner desires
O nly a few words transcend into a multitude of meaning.
E ven after he explains something is lost in translation,
T he simplest things made beautiful by the words, they
R eminding us we’re not alone, increase
Y earning to become one with the experience
When I play the crafted wood with six strings
My heart leaps and my soul sings
When I play the mighty, dulcet tones
I have all the world's majesty out on loan
Where some hear structure, timbre, or rhythm
I see shape, form, and an algorithm
When I'm afforded the daily pleasure
of spelunking the depths and playing a measure
I'm free for a moment that stretches eternal
And all I that I am is expressed external
Where some see a guy simply playing guitar
I am, in fact, tapping the deepest reservoir
This is no mere trifling hobby or lustful passion
This is evidence of God and His compassion
This is the apex of my communication
This is the pinnacle of my rumination
Culminating in silent contemplation
Illuminating my utter jubilation