Best Cymbals 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
Beneath umbra skies I seek a mirrored moment
the breeze a capricious charmer
blows serpentine sways to life
a ballet of tall switchgrass dancers
sweeping edges raspy green
dulling in the ever dimming light
their brassy symphony a soft cymbals’ siss
lure my thoughts to ramble a willowy maze
mesmerizing my mental landscape at sunset
whispers lulling my linger
moon-shimmer lends its voice
to chanting chimes in magenta magic
dropping notes afloat on aging August’s currents
like a sprinkling of stardust
upon a cradlesong
hymns of Venus vespers soothing me
my silhouette glides
a twilight shadow an astral body
with a vitality all its own
as the unwed wind ushers
my air brushed footsteps
to where wild whimsy wafts my sighs
free from fetters
a fading breath liberated to dusk
vibrations in violet call my name
I have found the echo to my essence
a spirit aswirl in a whirl of charcoal veils -
I seize a sylph’s escape
and amidst the darkened veils.. we dance
Susan Ashley
August 24, 2019
~ Fifth Place ~
Premiere Contest: A Brain Strand Choice No 1185
Sponsor: Brian Strand
~ Third Place ~
Premiere Contest: 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 8
Sponsor: Mark Toney
~ First Place ~
Contest: N/A Rerun 3
Sponsor: John Hamilton
~ Poem Of The Week ~
Week of September 1, 2019
.........The Belly Dancer.........
Stood beside her teacher on the stage.
Young, brunette. Hip hugger magenta
jeans and a short bandana shoulder
less top...
Her young heart leapt with dreams of
dancing fame.
Shoes were forbidden, just her
beautiful feet showed.
And heavy finger cymbals from Syria
She imagined herself already in
prismatic, sequined flowing veils.
Creating licentiousness by
weaving her hips,
And the trembling waves of her torso.
Performing before colored lights.
Much to the audience's delight.
When the Moroccan music began,
she was swept into a magical
dance.
Her teacher, encouraging her to do
more so!
And full use of the serpentine stage
she made!
Imagining herself in that surreal costume
of femininity,
Designed to cover the body perfectly.
Voluptuously,just glistening with coins
and intoxicating crystals.
The blend of Moroccan-Mediterranean
sounds,indeed!
That remind her clearly now.
This was just the lyrical foundation
and introduction to the man who
is her heart's eternal vibration!
He is the music that keeps her
alive and eternal connection to
life and the stars.
She will always be his "Faiza,the
Turkish Delight."
His love of so many nights.
Till her spirit clandestintinely soars
to their Romios Star.
There she waits for him in their
celestial dwelling.
To dance for him...forevermore!
September 30, 2019
Blessed in abundance that manifests in our
stressed daily interaction with our fellow man, and the sincerest
form of our inner wellbeing is the outpour of laughter.
Dormant in the face of adversity, while we empathise with
modern populace at large and try to bring some
modicum of humanity and relief of the pain.
We’d all experience this from time to time and this is
seed of essence in our reality that is forever fraught.
Felled by ulterior motives – punished like Sisyphus by our
fellow peers – as the dulcet tones of compliments, the sweetest
wrung encouragement that soothed our souls like songs
sung at our cradle; the melodies now forgotten. They are
symbols indelibly edged into our subconscious and those
cymbals that tend to want to drown us out so that
we spin in the vortex, but vector us towards the stories to tell.
Be it to explain the tumultuous emotions raging beneath the surface of
our designer exterior – this is by far the saddest
hour and we, eventually, rather opt for the dilatory thought.
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Percy Bysshe Shelly – To a Skylark
Oh captcha squares, oh captcha squares
What are these objects in your frames?
Oh captcha squares, oh captcha squares
Why must they gotta be the same?
Cars and busses, traffic lights
Bicycles and motor bikes
Crosswalks, signs, and steps and stairs
Fire hydrants everywhere
Boats, planes and parking meters
Tickets, fines, misdemeanors
Why are you so fond of these?
Why are palms the only trees?
Oh captcha squares, oh captcha squares
The pictures trapped inside of there
Oh captcha squares, oh captcha squares
Depict a world so bleak and bare
Arid, bland, unaesthetic
Barren, drab, unpoetic
Sterile, cold, antiseptic
Unconcerned, apathetic
Somber, sad, and desolate
Woeful, bland, pedestrian
Weary, grim, dreary, hopeless
Grainy, gray, out of focus
It doesn’t need to be this way…
Many things could fill your squares
Why not fill these things in there?
Tambourines and castanets
Bass trombones and clarinets
English horns and piccolos
Harpsichords and xylophones
Fiddles high and Irish whistles
Jingle bells and finger cymbals
5-string banjos, mandolins
Saxophones, accordions
Desmond Tutu and Mandela
Cassius Clay, Cinderella
Charlemagne and Genghis Kahn
George and Ringo, Paul, and John
Twain and Edgar Allan Poe
Wayne and Brando and Monroe
Ida Wells, Frida Kahlo
Steinem, Parks, and Ferraro
River Thames and stormy seas
Winter wrens and bumble bees
Cyprus, ash, oak, fir, and pine
Sassafras, willow, and lime
Daffodils and magnolias
Marigolds and begonias
Cabbage, beets, and potatoes
Carrots, beans, and tomatoes
Oh Captcha Squares, Oh Captcha Squares
If your pictures must remain
Oh Captcha Squares, Oh Captcha Squares
How aboutcha change the frames?
Captcha circles, captcha suns
All the captcha olygons
Wiggly captcha twiggly lines
Twisty captcha twiny vines
Captcha diamonds, captcha hearts
Captcha clovers, moons, and stars
Captcha ribbons, Captcha lace
Captcha colored string bouquets
Oh Captcha Squares, Oh Captcha Squares
We understand you're here to stay.
Oh Captcha Squares, Oh Captcha Squares
Just be more creative, OK?
................
As if the sunlight breaks the day
And dawn arrives with a whispered breath
Ascending like a clarinet
As gentle as a cradle song
Small butterflys, will twirl aloft
And circle in the morning breeze
A mantra of incantation
Stirring thoughts to meditation
To revel, shy against the dawn
With quivering wings to climb the stairs
In rippled waves, that stirs the air
The fleeting leaves, will dance and sway
And songs exhale, so crystal clear
To gently sway the flowing glass
Of bubbling streams, sweet, crisp, and pure
So gently soft, and sweetly felt
A first note broods, without fanfare
A petal drifts, then spins away
it can be heard, like breeze once stirred
A timid bird, a quivering chord
A sonnet's love, with lanquid words
Each breath a spark, that kindles change
With trilling voice that wraps around
A wreath of mist lifts off the ground
Skimming rainbows, with a song
A never ending, ... wistful sound…
Then rumbles like a stormy cloud
The lightning strikes, and cymbals clash
The music fills the soul at last
Until it climbs and drifts away
The storm has passed , the music played
Last time it rained was in April.
It did not rain that much,
but it was enough to dirty everywhere.
You see, it was a south easterly wind
and the clouds arrived laden with sand from the north African desert.
That was nearly five months ago, and the farmers are already up in arms,
bemoaning lack of water as they till the arid soil.
dust flies in the air
the sun blazes overhead
sweat drips profusely
Prayers have not gone unanswered!
Dark clouds creep from behind the hills
fast multiplying, ominously, obliterating the blue.
The calm hot air is ruffled by a timid breeze which soon turns
to gusty wind. A sudden horizontal flash followed by drawling thunder
precedes a few big drops of rain which testily hit the ground.
increase of tempo
deafening cymbals clash
erupting deluge
Water gathers then flows steadily down the streets;
thirsty fields drink greedily; trees bathe in delight, relishing
heaven’s kiss of life on their moribund leaves, roots breathing in relief.
Then, worn out, the wind slowly abates; so do the thunder and the rain.
The clouds shyly disperse, permitting an unobstructed view of the sky above.
Satiated, the sundrenched land savours the afterglow.
sensual appeal
petrichor emanation
veins pleasantly throb
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Contest: Rain Rain Come My Way
Sponsor: binibining P.iNk
8th June 2016
Covered by cloud the out-of-sight tops of soaring towers,
Buckling under their own weight, beginning to topple from
Those airy heights;
The gaping breach - the once impregnable outer wall!
The inner keep ablaze with greedy, insatiable flame;
A thunderous cacophony of crashing cymbals and blaring
Horns;
Wide-eyed lurching panic desperately grasping at the fleeting
Moment...
And the whole World immersed into madness.
Hauled above the line of the high-water mark
The bleached, gnarly boards of the depleted Longships;
And when hurriedly stripped bare of brine-drenched hempen
Rope and torn white sail.
The golden sands burning with all the brilliant radiance of a
Million candle lights;
And below a shattered sky...an enormous, disintergrating Sun
Collapsing into a hissing sea!
And now you come to tell me that Agamemnon is dead.
Dead? Is that how you say it: "Great Agamemnon is...dead."
So..all is done then. But is one death nearly enough for the
Cruel and needless sacrifice of gentle Iphigenia?
Every remaining last God to be brought to this place...
Summoned together, here, today; and this in itself...
A dreadful thing.
For never can such be given up to us again.
A Harvest of Music
The orchestra gathered under the dome
Audience awaiting the pure joy to come.
Descending silence alerting the senses.
Arrive the maestro, and magic commences.
Trombone and trumpet burst forth with feeling.
Explosion of sound, set senses reeling.
Tuba and French horn now adding their voice,
Uniting as one to delight and rejoice.
Soft music flowing, a leaf in a stream,
Catching the ear in a heavenly dream,
Rising and soaring, empowered of wings,
A dream maker's touch and violin sings.
With long curving bow caressing the strings,
Hair hiding her face, an angel, she brings
The music of angels, rafters invading
Haunting blue notes from cello cascading.
Clarinet cadenza, clear fluid tones
Tugging the heartstrings, embracing the bones.
Filling the dome, ethereal splendour
Fading away, celestial wonder.
Percussion take hold, no longer hidden
Cymbals and side drum do as they're bidden,
Crashing and booming, sound finding its berth
Pulling the listener back down to the earth.
Thunderous applause with standing ovation.
The crowd full of rapture capture elation,
A feast for the soul, a prayer with no word
A harvest of music, to honour the Lord.
The sound of baroque fills the air
the lively beats one can hear
as senses reel to music sweet
elves dance upon imaginary leaves .
The orchestra reaches crescendo
shattering crystals of chandeliers on high
staccatto beats .....the doe skids across the icy field
as snow cascade down from cypress trees.
Violins squeak ...Trombones blare
mandolins vibrate the inner ear.
The harp thrills......soft ripples along the narrow stream,
fish jumping into sunbeams.
Cymbals clash , a metallic crash...splintered timbers caught in lightening flash
A silent throb...the music dims... a cool beeze flows over the hills
soothing, drawing all into a warm embrace
calming the spirit , slowing the pace.
The music wanes...... delicate snowflakes stuck to window panes
A Grand finale......twitching nerves that long for solace.
Silence now as the music stops.
Peace follows music sweet.... into dreams.
Baroque music lives on....do not weep.
Sleep now ....sleep.
Heart String Sorrows
Sadness pulls my heart strings
with a bow of rosin’d guilt,
tear drops stain the notes upon the page
Sorrowed cello whispers
of a soundless worry wilt,
harmonies distort beyond the stage
Out of tune concertos
midst excessive cymbals blare,
steady as the beat of gathered pain
Broken mirror rhythms
sit within the favored chair,
misery in musical refrain
Violin’d distractions
cried in melodies so thin,
echo in performed apologies
A cappella opus,
as a prelude to the hymn,
played by melancholy symphonies
Good night Soupers
When did I learn to walk?
The awkward stance,
a toddler’s uncertain step,
stumbling, falling,
getting up again until
rhythm of feet and
balance work in sequence,
was that when I learned
to walk? No.
When did I learn to walk?
Kindergarten marches,
a military parade of sorts
around a classroom,
rhythm band instruments
in hand, banging on toy
cymbals and drums
to the measured beat
of feet and blare of
prerecorded sound? No.
When did I learn to walk?
Was it the long hours
in marching band
practicing routines,
memorizing music,
and the beating of feet
on hot pavement along
humid parade routes on
July mornings in hot
woolen uniforms? No.
When did I begin
to learn to walk?
From the moment
I held your hand, strolling
by the Strand Theater
on the sidewalks of St.
Paul, along the shores
of Lake Como on
Spring and Summer nights,
through Rosedale, your
hand in mine as we looked
at engagement rings
in jewelry store windows
and dreamed dreams.
I learned to walk
in earnest down
the aisle of
St. Bridget of Sweden,
into a new wedded
life filled with
wonder and love,
the many walks of
pregnancies, Pitocin
drip walks down
hospital corridors,
during nights with
restless infants, and
sick children, to
parks and baseball
diamonds, plays
and musicals, concerts
and gymnasiums,
graduations, weddings,
funerals, grandchildren,
all of them walks
along the spherical
path of life.
To walk with you is
to learn how to love,
each measured step,
a grace-filled journey
to something greater,
far beyond and far better
than the stumbling steps
that I could have
made on my own.
To walk with you,
is to see the
world with different
eyes, colors bursting
through the greys,
warmth on the
coldest of days, your
voice floating, playing
delightfully in the air
alongside until the
sound settles gently,
gracefully in my ears.
We have walked many
steps together in life,
my gait now not as steady,
these days of uncertain
limbs, joints and cane.
In walking with you,
new discoveries never
end, new beginnings
abound, and that
with you, the first,
and the finest of
all teachers, learning
to walk is never
fully learned.
“death approaches but we have no regret ~
when God questions us, we will stand erect”
When Death resolutely comes
With his deadly summons
Tarry not like a galley slave
But like a courteous host behave.
Do not waver and do not droop
As if you are to be hung on a loop
Never dread lying under the dust
Within the narrow vault thrust.
When God questions us, let us stand erect
Our life should be worthy that we won’t have any regret
Obey God’s command and place Him above all
Love your neighbour with your heart and soul.
If so, when ousted out of terrestrial space
We will be enfolded into God’s embrace
Know, it is only when seeds rot
That fresh and florid lives sprout
When death comes and it’s time to go
Strut like an indomitable foe
With swinging hands and head held high
To be welcomed by angels of the sky.
There will be the music of clanging cymbals
And the rising rhythm of sounding bells
With all claim, into a kingdom, bright and cheerful
We shall enter, that is far radiant and blissful.
I wander in the wonderland of words
where sounds can rhapsodize an inner flight
and seek to sing like skylark midst the birds.
To feel a lyric line is ringing right
that rose unknowingly from secret source
can send my senses soaring with delight.
What guides the reasoned rhyme’s creative course?
the urging of an enigmatic muse?
or might it be a fundamental force?
The words may dance or promenade in twos,
at times leap forth as in a lightning flash,
or shower phrases in prismatic hues…
When glimmers come but embers turn to ash,
there are no syllables with tongues of flame
nor tones that thunder like a cymbals’ clash.
Then I despair and falter in my aim
of catching rainbows in a verse’s net
and cry I should forsake the poet’s game.
Still oft before the dying sun has set
arises hint of inspiration’s spark
albeit faintest flickering, and yet
from out of what had seemed a moonless dark
is heard the distant music of a lark…
~ Harley White
Sun sets, stars sparkle, sliver chimes tingle
Yielding to an oboe's lonely minor key pleading
Moonless sky's dark deepens, bassoons, moan
Piano notes lightly dance, stars flirt and twinkle
Harps and violas, lovely late-night companions
Over the hills cymbals clash as a flash storm rages
Neon-white flares, heralding trumpets boldly blare
Yellow-gold dawn, blue joys sing, a flute abides