Best Cornet Poems
Oh buzz off you crazy crazy hornet
Trying to land here upon my buttock,
Here I am eating my crispy cornet
Lazing naked in my garden hammock.
Tried to coax it with my berry ice cream
But alas it seems unprepared or blind,
Dancing upon an invisible beam
Homing in on me with a one track mind.
Could it be I’ve enhanced the essence air
With a gross wind to further relieve me,
Or is this a mock symphony of flair
Of a Britain’s got talent “Bumble Bee?”
His “The classical flight” winning first prize
In pain my swelling one hell of a size!
© Harry J Horsman 2015
Muses are seen as a source of inspiration for writers of poetry. They guide the poet and form his or her words. Often seen as mediators between the spiritual and sensual aspects of poetry.
***
Place me on a pedestal and take me to the stars
enrich me with linguistic words of honey sweet
Fly me to the moon on wings of butterflies
dear muse, let your pearls resound inside this golden cornet
conduct in me a symphony with all the colors of the wind
inside this poignant writer's heart, there will always be a place
for you
So let us ruminate, reflect and contemplate together,
you and I side by side
floating high above the sky.
Climb the ladder of success with me, take me to Venus
so I can dance with the sun and cha cha with the moon
fly like a water ouzel and swim like a Mermaid
you and I side by side
for all time...
Jan 3 2023
Sponsor Regina McIntosh
Contest Name My Muse
Not a flag was unfurled,
and no cornet trilled,
as the rain-swollen clouds,
the bleak valley filled.
The wind blowing cold
with a chill that pervades
as the caisson's old wheels
creaked through the glades
where leafless Live Oaks
their limbs upward bent
as if to acknowledge
the young soldier’s lament.
A tousled lone drummer
in tattered old grays
led a dog and three mourners
to the dead soldier’s grave.
The muffled rataplan
of his red and tan drum
was beating forlornly
rum-dum d’ dum-dum
And along the bare hillock’s
long, rough-rutted track
both mule and cart
were carrying him back
to the land that he left
to fight a grim war
tho’ he ne’er understood
what the fighting was for.
When one fateful day
in a field of smoke
a fusillade violently
tore through his cloak.
His battle had ended
as he fell to the ground
his lips mouthing something
but ne’er uttered a sound.
Now his casket was lowered
in an uncaring grave
as the sad words were read
his poor soul to save
whilst a single red flower
was forlornly tossed
upon the young warrior’s
funereal box.
Unseen by the mourners
yet a color guard stood
a bugler and flagger
peering down through the woods.
Then high from that ridge
at the hillside’s top
the bugler rang taps
and all motion had stopped.
Each eye in confusion
turned looking around
in search of the source
of that sad, mournful sound.
Though ne’er to be seen
the bugler still played
the keening that echoed
down through the glade.
Then just for a moment
the sun had now shone
as if angels descended
to take him back home.
The mourners and drummer
filed out of the glade
except for the old dog
that steadfastly remained.
The elegy was over and
all farewells had been bade
that gave honor and glory
to his last parade.
John Henry Gardner
© 2015 – All Rights Reserved
When Joey was five or six
Good feelings, she tried to mix
And living colors, a few
Dissolved in the morning dew;
Happy landscape of the world
Of starry heavens unfurled
And birds to fly like angels
All ought to live in pictures:
What we dreams on ancient things,
Eternal play of love with wings
And nights on the way and hopes
In round waves and verdant slopes…
Flowers dance at our feet.
Then, a sweet image I meet:
Joey eating her ice cream,
Keeping from cornet a rhyme;
A luminous smile of joy
Like having in hand a toy:
This empty cornet is big.
I let it for my Guinea pig.
In the darkest nights beyond the clouds of thunder,
I know the moon is shining still,
Somewhere far, yet still. It dwells and glitters yonder,
Darkest nights our sun can't kill.
I'm an angel of death who glistens moonlight on thee,
I'm the moon you can not see.
Cunning foxtrot I dance to sceletonic cornet,
I'm the odds you want to bet.
I offer sweets and peace and youthful carrousels,
On order of His bells I sing His final spells,
I'm only an angel of death not death himself,
I do not kill but guide you to the nine of hells.
And take you not my sweets and peace,
You'll ride the carrousel with me,
For what He wants I can't release,
He wants you dead then dead you'll be!
Clear your throat before you cough,
Or better yet; clear your heart.
Words are last the ones I hear,
Now pay your debt, we depart!
Foxtrot, tango, quick quick slow,
Those are dance that I know,
Violins, cornets and bass
Play the jazz and blues for us,
Cry or smile or sleep or fuss,
Doesn't matter I'm the star!
We are dancing in my show!
Coming hell to you we are!
Step and turn we spin and walk,
Gancho, kick and dirty talk,
We spin, we're flying, gliding through,
And boom! The gates of hell!
Your dead and I'm to dance anew.
Remember! Moon is shining still,
I'm dances, jazz without my will,
Simply your final breath,
I'm an angel of death!
Form:
O'er the years my spouse and I have enjoyed Broadway Revues,
And the stars of song and dance on an occasional ocean cruise.
But none will compare to the shows we love the best of all,
Those priceless plays and concerts in the school assembly hall!
We encouraged our little girls in their philharmonic pursuit,
One mastering the clarinet, the other the melodious flute!
We relished each delightful musicale, concert and revue,
Where they proudly performed as their musical confidence grew.
The girls gave us grandkids that have brought us so much joy,
And now we have had their choirs and concerts to enjoy!
(The girls now suffer the din of the squawking clarinet,
Babble of budding actors and the raucous bleat of cornet!)
Our social life was on the skids till great-grandkids arrived.
Thanks to them our entertainment options have been revived!
Lord willing, we'll be privileged to enjoy another generation,
As they perform the arts to complete their cultural education.
Alas, the children's school years have passed so very fleet,
But in that short span they've made our lives more complete!
Tho' the footlights are dimmed and the curtain has been drawn,
Another generation will take the stage and the show will go on!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
My stomach is rumbling it needs feeding
I must have my lunch my stomach is pleading
What have I got in my lunchbox hey?
A sandwich, a banana and crisps today
A wonderful feast awaits me this lunch
When I get home I will just have some brunch
So I will have my lunch now then rest a bit
Then back to work again fighting fit
Do I want a chocolate bar from the shop?
Or an ice cream cornet with a flake on top
I might just settle for a biscuit or two
To dip in my coffee, yes that will do
I might read a book or a mag while I am eating
Or run round the block to get my heart beating
I must go now because its time for my break
If I don’t get it now it will be too late to take
A fairly simplistic approach is demonstrated by an individual acute angle and stresses are found in many evenly distributed lines. When the boom of the spray threatens a doctrine then blankets could fall meaning then that the orchestration of fortresses is reduced to a mere symbol plotted on a graphic sheet. Gridlock lines are not goldilocks and no three bears ever enter by a side door nor an exit. Dispite all counter productive odds the journeying migrating wings of many hue still crawl over the skies in a preplanned movement. And what of the ninety foot goldfish. Well he desires to be free and join the world for to watch is not to exist. It is the contemporary contemplation of a clarinet speaking to a cornet. On a very hot elaborate day. Always bask in whiskey, ice cream soda and a pile of gin in a basket. Take care of holes. Always sewing. No leaks then. And in a rhombus a bead speaks. Good. Giving guidelines grafting going gymnastic gnomes. And several skewered pickled eggs giggling in a line. Haha haha now bathe in tea. Hahahaa bananas booming brilliantly xxxx illumination z
Form:
Ice cream cornet sounds
Ottowa freedom lovers
Human sleeping warm
Leon Bismark "Bix" Beiderbecke
(March 10, 1903 – August 6, 1931)
It was said of Bix
That his Cornet spat out notes
Like shooting bullets at a bell
And his solos sounded as sweet
As a girl saying yes.
Bix Beiderbecke was simply the best
He was at the birth of hot music
His light illuminated
The jazz age
His Cornet accompanied
The roaring twenties
He was a romantic legend,
The young man with a Horn
But in keeping with the character
Of the very best of youth
His flame burned very brightly
But equally it burned quickly
And like the most beautiful star
He burned himself out
All too soon
Bix lived for the jazz
But died for the booze
Form:
I once knew a lad who played the cornet
Tooted ‘til he broke out in a cold sweat
He met a strumpet
Who liked his trumpet
He is blowing his heart out for her yet
June 3, 2021
Gilly darling dont do that
You don't know where it's been
And put our hat on there's a love
I'm fetching some ice-cream
Do you want a cornet child?
Or will you take a lolly?
Oh Gilly darling don't do that
I'll have to tell your Mummy
Now sit here on the beach towel
And do try to be good
I know you're keen on swimming
And I'd let you if I could
But Auntie Pam's a land lubber
The waters not for me
Oh Gillian for heavens sake
Just let your pig tails be
Now what is it to be my girl?
A cornet or a lolly?
A choc-ice? I suppose so
But if it melts we'll all be sorry
Chocolate on your pretty dress
A most unbecoming site
Oh Gilly child dont blubber
I shall get you one ,alright?
Oh look the van is going
Oh botheration damn
We'll have to have a sandwich
There is cheese or strawberry jam
There we are a jam one
Now do be careful please
Dont like it? Why, its lovely?
Oh ok then have a cheese
Finished it all up I see
There's a clever girl
Now have a bit of lemon cake
Or there's a Vienesse Whirl?
No I don't have jaffa cakes
No there are no crisps
Now Gilly just behave yourself
And still those quivered lips
I'm going to have a read now
Just play nice on the sand
And don't go by the water
Hold onto to dollys hand
Pam looks up from her book
No Gilly is in sight
Oh blast the child she murmurs
Then, Im sure she'll be alright
Gillian she hollers
What? Comes the reply
O there you are behind me
And the child begins to cry
The attic holds such fascination
I climb the ladder in trepidation.
The attic is a time machine
Most things hidden and unseen.
I lift the hatch and take a peek
The old rocking chair begins to creak.
Dust coats the old wooden chest
The lid embossed with a crest.
All the games of yesteryear
In the corner uncles spear.
Boxes piled high with books and photos
Most containing all my heroes.
Snakes and ladders, ludo, lots of games
They belong to my brother James.
Oh look! my old train set
On the shelf fathers cornet.
A place where I come and dream
Oh! just hit my head on the beam.
Underneath the old guitar
Just found my 007 car.
I think I'm getting rather mellow
I may return again tomorrow.
I descend the ladder and close the hatch
Now I'll go and watch the match.
We called ourselves the Heptcats
known on the ice as rink rats
Thomas, Don, Stephen, and me
and the Gardner bothers three,
Clark, Andrew, and Little Joe
to the arena, we’d all go
and shinny till supper’s call.
By high school, shinny was lame
us Heptcats sought music fame
Tom on guitar, Don on drum
Steve fiddle, Joe bass did strum
Andy cornet, Clark trombone
me on the accordion
Kings of the Plains Polka scene.
While some say seven brings luck
fame’s fortune never us struck
after school we moved away
Tom and Don in new bands play
Steve, Joe and Clark went to city
More school for Andy and me
Heptcats now forever gone.
Silver tongue money sign blow
bellow ballast
moral bankruptcy notes
Reprobate shekel vocal chords
toot the $eductive $ound of the crafty coin jingle —
Filthy lucre windpipes
utter-ly craving more and more
Tainted dross lips blare grifter bluesy groans,
lover of the honk heist Tap scale shrill moans
Pied piper pickpocket player (such a theft bar clone)
blow an Iscariot number
with a snatched purse pirate dirge Ag cornet tone
Argentum coffer con-duit
continuously ear play the bandito music,
that Gehazi leer song
Let the pilfering notes fill the covetous air
with a subtil silverware sound ...
Polluted decibel waves b crooked cavalier,
a-plundering thoughts abound —
Fork tongue reed bark paper lust promises;
empty air promissory echoes,
so wallet stolen wrong