Best Cello Poems
your melody sang in me
the mystic timing arose
night time air sending chills
beneath me the nightingales
danced a mild manner ballot
as the cranes bowed their heads
moving me despite the quiet rain
the daunting task the calming pain
Mrs Yolanda Nicholsen
The Aging Cello
This aging Cello’s beauty starts to fade,
and once taut strings now sadly stretched and frayed,
but still her luscious curves remaining staid,
yet silent are the mournful notes she played.
The rigid Bow that once caressed her strings,
and brought soft sighs that lifted up on wings
and drifted with the gentle breeze of spring,
no longer there to make this lady sing.
The tender notes that drifted in the air,
and gently wrapped around this lady fair,
no longer bring these coupled hearts to bear
the tender moments of their sweet affair.
Without her Bow the lady’s on her own
while standing in the shadows all alone,
and gone the mournful melodies once known
as aging Cello’s tender dreams have flown.
December 4, 2020
This is a poem, for the wind
Not for you to read, dear reader.
Be gone - and allow only the breeze in.
Go on, hop it - I welcome the draft.
You are eccentric; I like that
Back door gales and wrecked heel tabs
Slammed hatches; a gateway to gusts
Yo-Yo Ma on the ocean; in shorts.
Trying out - Haydn and seeking
We are energy and so are you
You are old enough now dear wind
To host your own podcast.
I'll set up a mic and table for you
If I can be your first and only guest.
Five year olds in the sandbox,
Scaffolding into the next century.
Babble, taradiddle. Bunkum.
Nature's divided into four seasons
each eye-catching in a similar way
and yet, different for many reasons.
Winter's crystalline beauty carries sway
but She is both barren and deathly cold
with a hollowed-out heart of papier-mache.
Spring’s spectacle slowly breaks Winter’s hold
accompanied by a moist April breeze
She showers snowdrops as petals unfold.
Summer is known for Her emerald trees
dandelions, coleslaw, a picnic spread
grasshoppers, hummingbirds, and honeybees.
Autumn colors the leaves in shades of red
scarlet, crimson, puce, orange, and yellow
weaving a fitting shroud for Summer’s dead.
Together they keep the planet mellow
each a fine-tuned string on Nature's cello.
10/12/2019
The cat with her cello sat on the street
To meet and greet folk with music so sweet
It was no surprise
She brought tears to eyes
With her ‘Elgar's Cello Concerto’ treat.
Someone’s wearing horns.
“I keep turning ideas ‘round and ‘round,” these are your words not mine.
Let’s dance, El Toro.
Jagged footwork, chaotic turn of events, graceful flip-flopping of antics; the trick is to hold your stance so he can’t plow through you. Close your eyes so you can’t see his smile. It’s the only line of defense.
Twirling images of skin like red satin falling in a downward pirouette.
Let’s scheme, El Toro.
This is dangerous ground we’re stomping on.
Someone’s wearing strings.
“But, you’re taken,” these are my words not yours.
Let’s dance, Geppetto.
Guilt ridden irony, daydreaming about scenarios, and the act of being controlled- just keep following the pull and listening to your master. Entertain the boundaries and adhere to the rules. It’s the only way of survival.
Tangled visions of life, like twine knotted in the midst of your grand production.
Let’s scheme, Geppetto.
This is a shaky stage we’re performing on.
Sweet melodious conscience, the Devil’s cello is humming.
Please don’t ask me twice.
Please don’t ask me thrice.
A Cello Plays
I’m sad tonight because I sit alone in my chair
The sound of a cello plays softly in the background
The music is sad like me, as it plays alone, filling the air
I wonder if it feels the pain of the hands that play it
Does it understand that its sound is also a cry of passion?
As the bow touches the strings, the melody laments for someone
Mourning, grieving, the bow plays the cello with strength driven from agony
An agony it doesn’t fully understand except for what the performer expresses
With great care, she holds the cello and escapes into the music filling the night
The flow is smooth, sorrowful, as it leaves the room eerie and haunted in loneliness
A broken piece, the strings bind it together, like a sulking lullaby
Alone it waits to be played, gathering dust as the days drag on
A dark corner becomes its new home
And all the cello knows of is solitude, anguish, and tears
From the hand that held the bow, playing till she bled
That’s all it was taught to play, only to never be played at all.
Written by: Jennifer Maupin
June, 2011
A lone rose thrown on the beach
lies lonely and forsaken
out at the end of the pier behind rusty old trash cans
a beat down broken cello cries
the rose takes notice and emits a single high pitched note
directed at the anguished cello in distress
the rose resembles a small red flame of dancing fire
the cello turns its body towards the flame and hears the note
a feeling of joy brightens its facade
one can tell they’re both seeking a companion
she coyly opens her fragrance of possibilities
her delicate scent combines different essences
meant to ease the cello’s pain,
the cello feels love and the pain vanishes
a mild wind blows the rose closer to the cello
the rose changes the high pitched note to a more soothing note
after a whirlwind romance love blossomed
bringing these two disparate entities together
a strong wind hurls them towards the center of the universe
and were not heard from again
but the scuttle bud around the universe
is that after centuries they’re still together
but the gossip is
they never bore any children
and there in this dangling dingle
hides another story for another day.
A cello played
somewhere in the background,
some somber, durable tones and color,
invoking prayer, calm, contemplation, remembrance;
a string effigy
solemn, melancholic dreams
calling to mind
the search for more than what is seen;
a play on notes
of time and memory
of hope and promises
of what may yet be.
A D
e
e
p L
o
w V
o
i
c
e Sometimes SCREAMING
Sometimes whispering
But always going deep into your soul
Play the Cello my fellow.
The music floats into a mellow.
The light glistens on the chandelier.
Twinkle twinkle here and near.
The blue sofa perched close to the window.
Looking inward at the doggy below.
The books float on a tableau.
Giving enlightenment to whoever seeks them solo.
The records lay flat on the hardwood floor.
Scratched and scarred to never play a song.
The fireplace has no roaring embers.
But the mantel carries dimly lit flames.
The islands of plants takes the Sun thru the southwest window.
Trading in CO2 for a few sounds from the Cello.
Cello Seduction
A brief glance toward the audience,
She closes her eyes and begins to play.
The maestro sat astride her Cello,
Sonata in C Major carries me away.
Ordinarily I don’t listen to classics,
But the sound of a Cello enchants.
So, as I listen to my virtuoso lady,
Her music seduces me in trance.
candle
mantle
red wine
divine
deserves
hors d'oeuvres
mellow
cello
firelight
love site
Tall red and pink-tipped spears reach for the nothing-at-all blue sky, all washed out with sunshine. The tight wrapped buds of the hollyhocks are too high for us to reach, but Imogen can. You and I wait for her to bring them down. Here behind the flowers, no one can see us. It’s hot. Your mother calls us in to dinner but beckons us first inside, past the bright kitchen doorway on into the dark dining room. We form a small circle behind her as she points to the thermometer on the wall- 112 degrees it says! I stay there trying to see if it will spurt out the top like it does in Popeye, but it won't do it and I've gotta go eat. Well then, goodbye!
Us kids didn’t notice the heat. Every day is warm in summer and we were busy in our shady corner. The best thing was the hollyhocks themselves. One of you, maybe you, maybe Imogen, showed me a big red blossom with a dark pink bud threaded at an angle onto its stem. A fairy tale princess! She was beautiful. I was aghast. Picking flowers! I looked around to see where your mother was. But you went right on, picking more flowers, more buds. I finally picked some, too, being careful not to take too many and to stagger the harvest so the gaps wouldn’t show.
We admired one another’s flower ladies and when there were three or four for each of us, we had a party and the princesses swirled around in their reddish dresses, riding away to adventures and back again, adjusting headdresses, perhaps even exchanging heads for the occasion. We talked quietly but incessantly among ourselves, making conversation for our charges, inventing plots and actions. There was a stillness and an ongoingness about it like a French film, you know, the ones that have a single cello note played continuously. So began the letter to my dear cousin, Marguerite. She had been recounting stories about our ideal upbringing! As I recalled the scenes of childhood, I was not so sure.
Her soft expressions forever changing,
As the leaves of autumn do.
A sweet voice forever crooning,
Under a favorable moon.
Smooth, polished, delicate to my taste,
Her soul confident of the notes that shall be found.
Enjoy her splendor this nightly morn,
For when dawn arrives,
This sainted music may have gone.