Best Concerto Poems
I walked in darkness along the shore
seeking only solitude and nothing more
Thunder drummed from somewhere far away
like foreboding timpani as clouds began to play
They competed with the roar of bally waves
crashing to the beach in rhythmic laves
Everything was out of reach for me
the moon, the stars, the depth of the sea
Echoes of a nocturne were swirling in my head
Lyrics left unsung, but spoken instead
My soprano continued; the falsetto stopped
Too weak to stand, on my knees I dropped
My footprints had been erased by an ebbing tide
No longer able to run. I chose not to hide
Blind in the darkness, my loneliness daunting
a flash of lightning, then another more taunting
I lifted my eyes to the sky, to the falling rain
its sting delivered in a medley, staccatos of pain
On the edge of the sea, I waited for the end of me
My tears an ensemble, an elegy in requiem plea
I ignored the orchestra when I heard the ocean call
louder than kettle drums or the storm's howling squall
No encore would this night be able to reprise
When the flowing tide encroached, I closed weary eyes
A chorus of waves crashed like cymbals in concerto
stealing the baton from the hand of the Maestro
The moon and stars were out of reach for me
I wept as I was swept into the depth of the sea
August 28, 2022
2022 Marathon Mile 13 Contest
Sponsored by Mark Toney
Quiet, pensive, waiting, from out of nothing, a flash, dancing!
Back and fourth, faster, bolder, more beautiful, more radiant…
The sound envelops, and the beauty firmly wraps its hands around my ears…
Relevance and resounding, growing, pulsing, whipped into a fever!
And then easing back just a bit, like a rest to enjoy some perfect nectar of echoes.
Then back again to churn, not with blades, but with brushstrokes.
The pulsing art grabs my soul and I sway to the rhythm, the life, the light…
All around me, so necessary is this, something so pure and powerful.
Flex and twirl in the rays of sunshine, on coming the clouds and thunder!
Pounding out the feeling, the pace is relentless, but in my arms, pushing, harder!
Squeezing ever ounce of love from the air, the earth, the fire and then easing again.
Dripping with sweat, a deep breath, another, still moving but slower now.
More deliberate, but still full and open, slowly, gently, slightly and then quiet.
I am the maestro
Of land sky and sea
I am
A living
Breathing
Symphony
Of many sounds
And sights
That I have found
Like the BOOM
Of the ocean
When I lift her up
Then throw her down
Her roar
When I roll her
To crash upon the cliffs
Along the shore
Or the tinkling
Of her shattered pieces
Falling back
Into the tide
As I fly - Fly - Fly -
High
Beneath
The blue
Of a North Carolinian sky
Over---
The burning sand
Slipping through
The slender
Sea Grasses
That whistle
As I tickle
Every strand
Whooshing -
Through the cities
And the towns
Tumbling
Bramble bushes
All around
Slamming shutters
And banging doors
Before I leave
Turning every leaf
On every tree
As I fly- fly- fly-
Higher and higher
Piercing
The heavy black clouds
To make them cry
With screams
So loud
They crack the sky
That thunders
In reply
Throwing
Bolts of lighting
Pelting drops of rain
As I fly- fly - fly -
Through the night
Into another day
Where
My concerto
Finally
Comes
To rest
Upon
MY
Dying
b
r
e
a
t
h
Hear the keyboard’s staccato concerto,
an unacknowledged music whose echo
is known intimately by dull, bored minds.
Offices, which shut out the light with blinds,
hum with rhythm as background to life’s show.
Under the seamless sky of crystalline cosmic sheen
resplendent rays of the mesmeric moon embrace you.
On the sequined waves of the stardust surge I float,
see the luster of your heart in the patina of your eyes.
My dormant desires are enticed to feel enamored
your shimmering radiance in the moonshine, I adore.
Your ballerina eyes dance to the music of longing, I listen,
the cadence fusing with the melody of my resonant heart.
The florid finery of iris flashes in your sapphire eyes,
glitters with the grandeur of fervent pearls of dainty dew.
Rhapsody ripples in the emerald meadow of my mind,
I hear entranced the concerto of your yearning heart.
In vivacious vale of my mind contoured by your charisma,
I carve an ardent conduit of rapt craving to reach you.
The fervid clouds of my pristine passion melts in a torrent,
make my love for you a cascading stream, I swim.
Flowing with the current of your captivating allure,
my enthralled emotion sails in the bracing bay of bliss,
where your love designs the lilting lattice of stars in my sky,
the shine of its enchanting tinsels I preserve in my heart.
Art from the heart, a religion of ritual,
where One summons God and glory to center stage,
your spirit enriched by the self confidence that ensues
as inspiration smells like cedar and feels like sanctity,
the physics of mystics in an eye the mind won't deny,
whence a penny is a prize with a wish
to ventilate a voice of sensitive wisdom,
sensational seeing into the human condition,
visions of vinegar in virtue, visciousness in victory, mercy in the face of malignancy,
pleasure in the panic of risk, pain in the placid avoidence of adventure,
securing an ownership in a Universe from our births unto burials
worshiping composition and the partnership it represents,
Vermeer & Vivaldi, Beehtoven & Bosch, amatuer & adept,
feeling like an angel with demon bones, fusing two atmospheres together,
a holy parade of brazen beliefs putting a new world in order for all,
a micro euphoria, a macro excitment, accomplishment ambrosia,
happiness warm and wakeful in hearts pumping for promise,
for a covenant crafted in a workshop outfitted for you, for what you were ment to do,
volunteering to be a lightning rod of a Goddess crazed with passion,
a power placed in One's fibers for maximum purpose by a trusting Deity,
raise humanity's awareness to the truth that existence is an exercise in artistry,
faith framing futurity within the purity
of knowing that I am where I belong, I belong where I am -
J.A.B.
Wheeze in, wheeze out again as pollen
invades two chambers of lungs in
a choral synapse, an orchestral acapella
lifting my bronchial tubes as they
rise and warble high-pitched notes:
this is the melody of allergy
drenched in breathless tunes
right down my now tightened navel
while oxygen dips to 87--a horrific
musical trilling nurses in an otherwise
quiet emergency room...
And this big needle enters my greenish veins
to release a ditty called 'solucortef'
which opens this clogged overture,
sending me through a gateway of trance
as my Einstein-like hair droops, weaving
squeaky knots... finally, I river through
calmer streams: this very instance, dear bladder
sings another tempo, a urinary whistle...
the finale of a long, 3-hour allergy concerto
without any staged intermission.
Broken Wing's Take The Dagger From My Heart, Please - 2
Resent 10/9/2016
------------------
From Body Of Work Contest Submitted 9/13/2016
Visual Attached Judged 10/6/2016
...lungs, bronchial tubes, navel, veins,
hair, bladder
One of the greatest classical composers was a Prussian.
Herr Bach went by the name of Johann Sebastian.
Laboring at his harpsichord, his compositions were many.
He wrote a rather short tune that was quite pretty.
It had an upbeat, allegro type melody.
His famous piece was the “Minuet in G”.
Along came three young women in the twentieth century.
‘The Toys” would become this trio’s adopted name.
One hit song catapulted them all to fame.
With a small band, they entered a recording studio.
Their production became a hit nearly everyone would know.
They sold many recorded copies of “Lover’s Concerto”
If Johann Sebastian were alive today, he would be pissed.
He could not get a copyright, and all those royalties were missed.
Inspired by a video from You Tube
Concerto of the Enchanting Night
Arabic Poem by: Fadhil Aziz Farman *
Translated Into English by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
=========================
You suggest the songs
And leave me deep
In the splendor of the rhythm and melody.
Drag my day out of the dream to wakefulness
I have not known
But the philosophy of dreams
In all my days.
You suggest the songs
And leave me floating in a wave of fragrance
Showered down By Lynol Ritchie
With his love songs
Or by Yanni with his tunes.
And dance
Do the tango
Do the waltz
Do the ballet or the jerk dance
Dance as you please
Or spin around the Earth-pole,
O symbol of amazing taste,
Rouser of lightning in the sky,
And crown of all beauties.
Here I am intoxicated
By the melody pulsating in your figure
And by the bashful roses
On your cheeks,
O sweet wine in my chalice and my vats.
You suggest the songs
And at the end of the round
Put your head on my chest,
O child of my poems,
And listen to my heart singing them
With the virgin tears of joy
Flowing down the violin’s cheek.
You suggest the songs
You suggest the melody
And hint the sweet words
They’ll come to you
Then hold me to your chest like a child.
I will need your ear
To whisper to you
All that baffles my heart
And my tongue
You suggest the songs
And strew them
Such as roses
On the desert of my life.
What remains for us
Of all our years,
But joy
Strewn like roses
And like dew
On the seconds?
*********
Translated by Em. Prof. Inaam Al-Hashimi
USA
* Fadhil Aziz Farman is a poet from Iraq
---------------
The original poem in Arabic https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10202962662165969&set=p.10202962662165969&type=1&theater
Whether working wallabies would weave waved warm wafers or whether wallpaper would wear walls is two times a question really. It is rational to assume that an ass jacket would dart over a yak and a yam would appear. At intervals. Rotating. But rotating is not a salivating salubrious salutation singing strong songs. Nor is it a giant radio beam. Dancing. But the power of a hoover in many a house can simply be powered by five hundred and forty two heron wings. Hovering Hoovers having heaped hinged hunts. But a hunt disturbs a grunt so why line up paws and hooves in rows. Cinematic of scale and climatic of chaos. Said the four centimetre jar in a herd pile. Herd piles are not mooing nor are they moving either. Pan to the alloy and a fistful of iron ore can symbolise a very pretty pavement in a green patterned dress. But standing next to a chess set of colourful butter beans is pleasant for the partridges whose lacrosse abilities are really quite astonishing in a supernova diesel twist. Spinning. It is nit fashionable to quiz a funfair over which ride is the best for they all are egocentric and often argue with lashings of colours, noise, and fur ball darts. Pressure no pea to preform a painted piano concerto for concertos can control and control is akin to a line of skating cows on an outdoor rink. Always count the pink buttons carefully and slowly. Evaporated milk is often found playing near to margarine containers. Z cinematography Z at fifty nine little splooshes splashing to thirteen fish hooks waving at the fins. Z xxxxx zzzz whirrrrr the wings and eeeeee to mice piles. Z
With one precise wave of the baton
the Oboe starts playing a single melody
beautiful notes flowing upwards, fluttering downwards
reverently renders on the last note
well-balanced diaphragm for soft and loud tunes
before the final note disappears into the air
the Violins fill in the silent intervals of resting space
painting a background of sweet flower gardens
their bows joining voices with synthetic core strings
singing brilliant and responsive tone with a nice complexity
the Violas, the Cellos, the Bass all join in the chorus
bright blue skies emerge from the strings
unaware of the approaching dark thundering clouds
tonic and dominant rhythm of the Timpani
announcing the presence of something sinister
the black lightning monster hidden in the billowing mass
twisting sounds conversing with the Percussionist
cooking charms from the Glockenspiel
metallic echoes of bells ringing in the rain
suddenly interrupted by a menacing shrieking Tam-Tam
mixing chemistry with the guidance of a mad scientist
a jumble of words that make no sense
struck by a combination of Chimes and Crotales
shouting judgments into a creature's ears
so lacking in self-consciousness
gliding on the outer shell slipping softly away
always craving to fulfill the starvation of empty souls
green eyes looking towards the Harp for its unique resonance
ebony lips licking in anticipation of the next composition
Harmonious tones,
Reverberate the forest,
From chattering leaves.
Olga Scheps embodies Chopin's Piano Concerto n° 1
For a pianist who ponders her prey
The taming arms-length erect posture
The torso and pulsating violin back encased in red-rich ornate coarse wrap
Nape muscles strung by swaying grace-groomed arms branched aloft
Pursed lips part for allegro romp
Tensile gushed groin screaming on seat-edge flailing fingers
Averse to sleek chord whale case under knee-cap check
Who is the Master of the indomptable Mistress
Does the script express and extend the actress's role
Or trundled chords liberate hidden Polish voices yearning
Cabriole on prairie pastures
The yearling kicking high on the keyboard
Startling the chevron-sinewed munching herd
Light lambs and kids throwing frolicking fits
Round and round the heifer humping high down the meadow
Stung to the quick half-recurring bars of the theme
The feline fauve now appeased by soft churning cuddles
Pages of screwed signals hung on lined sign-posts
Roused by nut-cracker knuckles
Flush out repartee collective timbre strings
Doused by the sweet-sweating triumphal orgiastic release
The wilful eyes of the hungry panther
Turn soft and pander to the prey
Is this when the poised moment of the composed kill
Misses the mark just once
The sleek black whale bears its twinkling teeth
in hollow rage
© T. Wignesan - Paris, 2018
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.
New York city Zen
A forte of car alarms
Teenagers scurry