Best Clefs Poems
It is on this day
Into his elegant horizons
Where cirrus clouds are sprayed from sunrises and sunsets
Attuned within throat of violins
An example of his concave humanity
Preaching fond memories in baritone clefs
An embrace of admirations’ core within exhaled stanzas
Forcing trembled knees to stand against robe of Death
His double entendres know no bounds
My iridescent conundrums become resolutions’ pavement
As I grab aloe-coated tissues
Wiping joyous tears from his laughter induced statements
He pours wisdom in foaming, oat-flavored pints
While we relish in his charming, devilish wit
Slowing down a rushed humanity
Bit by luminescent bit
Yes, it is on this day
Where I choose to declare in Quatrain formed sentence
To the one that puts the “man” in humanity
An affirmation on why I bow in Santa’s reverence
©Drake J. Eszes
Dedicated to the almighty Jack Ellison and my 1st Quatrain!
The longest shadows start and end the day
like thoughts that creep from embryo to grave
so here within the midday sun we pray
to not be where the shadows misbehave.
But even in the bliss of summer highs,
bold thunder clouds roll in to snap and sneer.
When daunting lightning fractures purple skies,
its striking beauty slays instinctive fear.
A child has dreams of what life may become,
as elders wish they'd captured all those dreams,
but in the midst of life we all succumb
to fate and its bizarre unwritten schemes.
Yet in the face of unexpected pain,
we have the strength to confiscate the quill,
to change the tune of fate's unsung refrain.
Then, from our daring hearts, the ink will spill.
It drips on clefs that show us what to sing:
a world of notes that paint eternal spring.
This is a heroic sonnet that I wrote with Craig Cornish, one of my favourite gents here on PS!
I wrote verses 2&4 and line 2 of the couplet
Craig wrote verses 1&3 and the first line of the couplet
The chartreuse pearls hung on the pregnant vine
as whispered jade of leaves in autumn breeze.
The necklaces of trellis did entwine
like clefs of absinthe notes in verdant keys.
Limes envied grapes reflecting fervent sun,
bright clusters for musicians then to splay
in shamrock fields with fables to be spun
of emeralds and pears in harvest play.
Cerulean spread 'cross effulgent sky
when came the time for plucking of the harp.
Lithe fingers did each picker then apply
and place with grace refrains upon the tarp.
In peridot the countryside rejoiced
while to reprise fruition gave a voice.
These tiny hands. Black and White hands twirl. Vibrant palms ripple the Flower-land. Dancing onto the rainbowous piano. Music permeates the thirsty airs. Notes float upon the multi-hued keys –
Red
Orange
Yellow
Green
Blue
Indigo
Violet.
Black and White Hands on colorful keys. Magical hands whirling into aural anthems. Fists and fingers allure the dry, solid airs.
A melodic tune touches the soul of each flower. Turn by turn their chemistry churns. Juicing the chords of the roots in the damp soil. The stems curl and stretch calligraphing into clefs and altos. Petals strike classical beats. The rhythms of nature are awakened.
The fragrances of Roses lead the choir. Then play the violinic tune of Lavenders.
Gradually follows the oboe sounding waves of Jasmines. Then tumble into the song, the harmonious vibrations of Violets. The Magnolias infuse their trumpeting energies. The flow has begun.
Roses
Lavenders
Jasmines
Violets
Magnolias
Lilies
Chocolate Cosmos.
All shades and tones of lyrical perfumes tie Flower-land into a charming, irresistible atmospheric bouquet.
These tiny hands. The phenomenal fists decorate the spectrums of Flower-land. These black and white hands. These multi-coloured keys. These fragrances now adorn the dry airs and garland them with their musical aromas.
Cold nights and tree lights taught him to forget home.
He’s mellow tonight though, no telling what goes unknown.
He packs light and steps heavy and taps his fading flashlight and I bet he’s a lefty.
Duracell down spiral connects with flesh on even time, a metronome of alkaline.
Ill forever remember this snowless December and he’ll certainly forget me.
Still I sway with the music still he keeps it rock steady.
As he rolls down my street and through the night (like I roll through my week)
All that exists is the moon, that man… and me.
Ain’t it somethin’, what life brings when you start listenin’ to the quiet things?
Plastic sacks like gift-wrap, thrice reused, revalued glass
Rides passenger beside wrinkled paper grocery bags
Holding sugar coated soda cans,
Hanging from the rubber handle and his hands were full of gravel.
They grow more fragile as he travels.
And this overanalyzed poet’s delight
Does just that just as the moon tells of midnight.
The crude acoustic music moved right through the tulips, ricocheted off red bricks, treble clefs start riots.
It jukes a tune, almost a salute, not unlike the Lousiana blues, up your spine it always winds up finding the light that burns inside, even from somewhere deep in the bayou at suppertime.
A profound lyric, when you hear it slides the skin from your bones and you fall to the dirt, like ivory stones.
He's hard to get a good look at, and feared like a black alley cat;
his con-man disappearing act is long like the years you cant get back.
The words that i don’t hear his lips say are shouted aloud by his ribcage.
The nickels he bent over backwarrds fo never got easy to take.
This slow going rolling stone grew old with his folded up road map
the only thing that he had when the rain was too bad.
This landed him on a fortunate sweet spot,
an unfound tin can jackpot in the same spot you hadnt yet thought,
the start of the last stop of the things we bought and dinners we got.
His belly goes empty when everything rots.
Hovering hemispheres habitual harmonics, symmetrical solitudes in their Sonics,
Mastering melodies with mnemonics, amidst approbation of acoustical avionics…
Stellar symphonies sailing Celestial Seas, applauding Angels aerially appease,
Birds belting songs on tranquil trees, botanical gardens blooming in the breeze;
Superstrings romantically resonate, virtuous vibrations valiant as they create,
Overtures upon oblivions do ornate, spheres of distortions align and allocate…
Orchestral opus overruns the trance, magical melodic maneuvers enhance,
Treble and bass clefs prepare to dance, elocution of their eternal expanse;
The Earth hums within rotation, subsonic frequencies of ethereal elation,
The masses are minstrels of celebration, titillating tunes of temptation…
Solitude's surrender thru strident skies, music awakens deep dormant eyes,
The wings of a butterfly take us to new highs, ambient assonance to arise.
April.23.2020
Grace and Solitude
Sponsored by~John Hamilton
Placed 3'rd...Thank You
I am a true contemporary
who knows how to acceptably
write a poem. First with a tangible
aroma of burnt toast, I will run on
my imaginary couplets like a stroke
victim of the modern prejudices.
(Strophe’s choice is put aside, and
Iamb not going to count my feet.)
Once cute, most common figures of speech have
worn out their fashion like poorly matched metaphors.
(Do not rhyme, remember, do not rhyme,
as you wax nostalgic for some childhood time… damn!)
Pent up pentameter oozes with therapeutic
confessionals that spring or dance or likewise
incongruently twist uncomfortably on the page,
while conjuring an image both shamefully personal
and embarrassingly boring from a tourist’s slide show
or the shoebox full of faded, classic Polaroids.
Sardonically satiristic, I’ll reach-around to reference
an obscurely erudite portrait of some saint, like
Christina The Astonishing’s flight into the rafters
of the church to avoid the stink of her own kind.
And at the end of a turbulent typhoon of irregular lines
washing deeply into the recesses of nowhere in particular,
I will, after too long a time, finally and hopefully declare:
une mule morte sur les clefs du piano.
Self satisfied, I’ll end my rant -- non sequitur but unchallenged…
or would you prefer a tantalizing inquiry of you, Dear Reader?
I focus on my attributes in hope to one day compete
With them so called, "players and g's"
A wide skill level, intelligent approach to life
From writing poetry to being the best in a fight
I raise my intellect because girls don't like stupid
Began to learn in order to help cupid
Various knowledge, gained just to impress
But i kept going, curious as to what i'll learn next
I play piano because i was inspired by movies
Where with a sweet song, you get that girl nice and gooey
She falls for you, and then you have your queen
And all you had to do was flick some keys
I blow that clarinet to use it like a net
Sweeping women off there feet with musical clefs
It feels nice as my fingers fly
Closing the keys and emitting soft sighs
At first i was focused on the women
Never having any i hoped this would attract them
Now i revel in it, i love the music
And so i have a whole different reason to do it
It was the same with sports, women love the stars
The athletes with chests and abs seen from afar
So i hit the field and began to improve
Proud of the new cuts and grooves
I started poetry with my first love note
Trying a new technique because nothing else worked
I began to enjoy so i continued to write
But my first poem was written because i wanted to be her knight
Without woman i'd of had no motivation
Never would of discovered my talents without inspiration
Besides without a woman i wouldn't be alive
So i have no respect for them rude guys
To all the ladies, i thank you and i hope you remain
Strong in relationships, please stay sane
And remember, not all of us are alike
You probably just overlook the guys that are nice
His piano is not played often
as yesterday was, and when it does, the happy sound of Yamaha
lets him enter a fascinating world made up of time clefs, of notes
and chords that imagination
creates on instant thought...
while he contemplates Nature!
If his body is old, his spirit is young
and it can go on until those weary fingers
won't or can't play anymore;
and doesn't desire palpitate in his anxious heart...
leading it where it wants to go as an eagle soaring
past the hills of a radiant sunrise?
On February the sixth, another year will be added
to the calendar of that man engulfed by loneliness,
but he despairs not when he plays his piano
that soothes his pain, comforting him with hope,
allowing his senses to invigorate as morning
greets the happy sound of Yamaha!
The chartreuse pearls hung on the pregnant vine
as whispered jade of leaves in autumn breeze.
The necklaces of trellis did entwine
like clefs of absinthe notes in verdant keys.
3/5/18
Original poem: Grape Harvest
10/20/17
Rithium Divisa 2 Contest
Sponsor: Gregory R Barden
Word count
Quite clear
Black white
Eight eight
Two hands
key play
Grand scale.
Staff, Clefs
Pitch, trills,
Sharp, flat
Tone up
Tone down
Hum, sing,
song bird.
Key board
Black, white,
No gray,
No shades
New heights,
Loud, soft,
Light, dark.
Love, life,
Birth, death,
Start, end,
Play on .
Vivacissimo
guitar
sitting unplayed, unlearned
beside its counterparts:
piano, saxophone, koto,
soon to be joined by a banjo
a silent quintet
untouched, unheard
why do I not put my hand to them
why do they sit in this orchestral mausoleum
is it because there is no music
within me,
no euphony bursting from inside
that must find expression
in the movements of my fingers
is it that I fear
untamed chords and notes
will come of the tumult
of my mind,
cacophonous sharps and flats
that refuse lyrical composition
and what if
the clefs line up and Aeodean
beauty and grace emerge instead,
flying from me in a frenzied vivacissimo
how much more frightening
is beauty than silence
NOT BASELESS IS
Not baseless is the ocean’s roar, the build up to that bass before
it all comes crashing into shore, foaming it draws back for more
I’m sure that there are high notes too, perhaps too high for our purview
but to the sound of rock and roll, I find that sea has taken soul
By Aaron Davis
Not voiceless is the ocean's roar, crescendo notes rise off the floor
it all comes waving on the shore, rising up to meet me at the door
I'm sure that there are treble clefs and flats but heh! what I adore,
is when Maestro strikes a pose, it makes my soul, begin to roar.
By Mystic Rose
My mind is like a well read novel--
and the pages there are torn,
rustling, crunching, crackling noises
from whence my thoughts were born.
A thousand words, a thousand more--
fill my brain with beautiful silence,
round and round like a merry go round,
my betraying voice of violence.
My mind is like an antique bass;
each vibrant hum,echoes sweetly--
clefs and trebles, my music sheets
are compiled ever so neatly.
I find in song, the greatest friend--
each note, a sincere appreciation,
fa, so, la, ti, do-- a graceful chant,
within a tomb, my souls vibration.
My mind is like a pregnant garden--
with fruits from shore to shore,
an apple tree, no longer forbidden
rivers of gold, in my hearts decor.
Valleys that extend to your dreams,
are wondrous places, I do implore--
Wherein I see your face, I think
I must someday venture to explore.
My mind is like a wilting rose,
for when it falls, no one knows.
In theory I thought you would like to know
That I didn’t practice the piano
I’m a noted rebel
Who is now in treble
For showing my staff to a soprano
The keys are a problem, almost a curse
When I lose mine I can’t go and rehearse
Yet I press the pedal
On the heavy metal
To beat the band, chapter and verse
On a scale from one to tenor, would
You recommend a woodwind or windwood
And why play a wrong chord
When you can cut a cord
Of timbre wood from where it once stood
They said that we were in-de-chorus
Of which we didn’t join since they bore us
That’s me and Melody
And her ‘sis Harmony
Who prefer climbing the range before us
We chime the bridge onto sharp rocks and
Rest on D flats made by god’s own hand
Though avoid the clefs
Both steep and bereft
On that classical crescendo land
Later while talking jazz with Al Legro
He said I should meet alto Lea Gato
And after I meter
That I should seat her
On the bench I refrained using a day ago
They held a concert that had a small glitch
Due to Lea’s false-et-toe that did twitch
We hammered her toe spur
To try and compose her
Yet tempos flared for her being off pitch
I love music but prefer natural things, you see
Like fishing for bass with strings off a bowsprit
I do enjoy rhythm
Mostly with her, not with him
And with a cappella of fellas fish the middle C