Best French Horn Poems
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.
.
I can feel the breath of violin, upon my face
~
The fluttering wings of fingers playing, 'A Lark Ascending'
In sweet release, I close my eyes, and drift away to inner peace
~
All strife takes flight, the music takes me to a meadow growing….
Two clarinets, in soft duet …..are timeless, ageless, knowing
I'm standing still, in waving grass, a cello plays a soft breeze blowing
I weave and sway…the music plays …a french horn makes sweet love to me
As if a lark, I leave the ground, upon the lilting sound, and fly away…
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Inspired by the Classical composition, "A Lark Ascending"
Composed by Vaughn Williams
Ciel, on your birth day ‘twas true to say
Heaven’s bright light rays rain’d down from above
Fast forward to fifteen years to the day
Now it’s you that brings light, laughter, and love
Kind, calm and caring, words under control
Wait! Who’s that fleet girl in cleats with the ball?!?
Rocket shot from right wing shoots straight to goal
Through back of the net...ball, keeper and all
French horn, piano, and ukulele
Swimming with sea turtles and manatee
Beautiful music and places to stay
Your trips oft start with Airbnb
Beacon of bright light for love, hope, and peace
Sweetest of sweet hearts, our Ciel Elise
I hear the music play,
the sad base line echoing
the light that shines in your amethyst eyes,
those beautiful eyes.
Such melancholy mirrored
in your sad eyes.
Crying melody,
the viola paints notes
from the inverted rainbow of your upside-down smile,
your sweet smile.
What sadness weeps
from that gentle smile.
Wails of bleeding sorrow
escape the French horn
as, from my embrace, you slide your slender fingers,
what soft tender fingers.
With gentle caress
you touch me with your slender fingers.
Then through the twilight
comes the tickle of tinkling bells
that drip note by note with each tear that you cry,
as you sit and cry.
Each tear I wish I could dry,
each lonely tear you cry.
01/16/2018
In the dimmed theater, the stage is set
not for a play though, yet a performance
one of baton, brass, notes, timpani
the performance I have waited for has come
As the stage lights grow brighter like sunlight
the theater grows dimmer yet, almost dark
but for the brilliance of the stage lights
then out you come with French Horn in hand
Along with thirty of forty other musicians
you take the stage, you are first chair
therefore you must be at your best tonight
and I know that you will be, you've practiced
The Conductor arrives on stage and announces
Welcome to the Black Hawk County Honor Band
I am sure you will be pleased with our selections
The Conductor takes the podium, opens his arms
With baton in hand he signals instruments ready
You raise your horn along with the others
ahhh the sound is fervent with excitement
the theater is alive with Parker in G flat
I can pick your horn from all the other instruments
you are playing the best you have ever played
you are caressing your horn like a fine jewel
and it sparkles in the light brilliance unimagined
Like your brother the writer of poetic beauty
you also have talent, musical talent like I
you now can hear a song and play it, by ear
like I you are learning the guitar, teaching yourself
The next song, Bach, such beauty to my ears
you and your fellow musicians have mastered the master
two years you have played, it sounds like many more
I film the whole concert, to preserve the moment
The concert ends with a Beethoven, in B how lovely
again you played masterfully, never missed a note
You even hit high G, and you thought you couldn't
well done son and it's all on tape, and in my memory
Red faced you leave the atrium, you worked so hard
I hug you and tell you how proud I am of you
all you want is a drink of water, you drank and
the redness is leaving your face, well done I hug you again
I wish your Brother could have been here to see and hear
he would have been proud too, and would have hugged you
You see, talent runs in our family, Me, you and Jared
all have it, So I guess it's in the gene pool, must be for you see
The Nuts fall close to the tree !
A is for Accordion, squeezing air with bellows
B is for Banjo, five strings plucked by bluegrass fellows
C is for Clavichord, keyboard with a metal sound
D is for the Drums which percussionists will pro-pound
E is for the English horn, using a double-reed
F is for a brass French horn, three valves is all you need
G is for Glockenspiel, metal bars arranged in rows
H is for Harmonica, both in and out she blows
I is for Ingoma, on which skins or hides are drummed
J is for Jinghu, just two strings that are bowed not strummed
K is for the Keytar, keyboard guitar held upright
L is for the Laser harp which plays on beams of light
M is for Maracas, their rhythm shaken by pros
N is for Nguru, Maori flute blown through the nose
O is for the Oboe with a mouth-piece that looks bewitched
P is for the Piccolo, a half-sized flute, high pitched
Q is for the Quena, a notched flute from the Andes
R is for the Rattle, maracas for the babies
S is for the Shofar, a Jewish horn hard to blow
T is for the Tuba, largest horn and tough to tow.
U is Ukulele, four-string Hawaiian gee-tar
V is Viola, a fiddle tuned a bit deeper
W is the Washboard, just for rhythm, understood?
X is a Xylophone, a glockenspiel made of wood
Y is Yotar, a guitar with four strings grouped in threes
Z is Zither, played on the table or cross your knees
This alphabet of instruments just breaks through the top
The're hundreds more to know, but Z's a good place to stop.
March 11, 2013
Allright Poet's ABC Poetry Contest
Mrs. Lightfoot had taught music at Talbot Elementary School for years.
A couple of her pupils excelled in music but most became engineers.
She sat at her desk to muse upon the past after another trying day,
Recalling events that had contributed to the 'dyeing' of her hair gray!
She remembered concerts when the cacophonous din made her wince,
And Mrs. Lightfoot approached such musicals with foreboding ever since.
But beaming parents saw their prodigies destined for musical acclaim.
(Only one she knew strummed a banjo at the VFW with a modicum of fame!)
Tubby Aruba wrestled with his tuba, ever out of step in the marching band.
Sissie Pyaner tried to emulate Liberace but she battered the concert grand.
For some reason one of the valves on Clyde Crumpet's trumpet always stuck,
And the trombone players could never harmonize - such was their bad luck!
Pat Claret could never adjust her clarinet reeds to eliminate the squeaks.
'Tyke' Biddle fiddled with the bull fiddle but never mastered its techniques.
Hubie Crums thought he was Gene Krupa and went crazy on the drums.
And when it came to playing the French horn, Sydney Corne was all thumbs!
Many times Mrs. Lightfoot thought she'd chosen the wrong speciality path,
And oft' wondered if she should have majored in history or maybe math.
In a couple of years she could lay down her baton one last time and retire,
To reminisce about fatal concerts, bleating horns and inharmonious choir!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
Each gleaming light shines like a sun
Expanding awesomely in curling fires;
Each cloud forms a grotesque face
A face that knows not its bizarre desires.
We ascend in separate ways toward the sky
To merge the fantasies that form the trance;
We turn our eyes to engage the dream
And find the song that weaves the dance.
The violin throbs with threads of silver
The french horn wails with sobs of gold
And time found notes to knit the music
That was too tenuous to hold.
In the crowd were so many anxious faces
Ready to speak, to smile or frown;
They kept motionless in those quiet places
Where dark sorrows tied them down.
In what new time or space do we yearn
To pace the thousand steps that lead before us;
In what new light or darkness can we turn
Before time ends and darkness abhors us?
The lamp is out, the dream now forgotten
The music has stopped, the candle wastes away;
Through tangled hopes and dreams we passed
To find the place where night meets day.
.
Morning dew dripping from my eyelids
doors banging at the center of my heart
as the symphony gets ready to start.
the flute begins with a champion song
while the listless crowd jeers merrily along.
brass, rhythm and base
my lips tremble with sadness,
and I could not escape this emptiness.
The sound increased,
but the pain did not cease.
Tump
thump
lub-dub
ba- bum
chanting sounds from the congo drums
reduced me to crumbs.
The violin ushers in,
and the vibrating trumpet sound begins
The chords get louder and louder
exploding emotions in the air,
leaving me cold,
empty and bare.
The manipulative trombone echoes through my ears,
and the deceiving guitar tune appears,
in one second everything was said
and I scrambled hopelessly to my bed.
It rips up my innate passion
while they look upon me without compassion.
I waited for an answer
but he was entwined with the belly dancer.
The symphony increase,
every beat exposed
the daunting rhythm to my piercing soul.
they appear one by one,
raging without control
Tubo, trombone,
French horn and bassoon
harps ,tiako and bamboo flutes
made their speechless debut,
heartbeat telling me the truth.
©2013 Christine Phillips
An off-day for the quill: I’m channel surfing
from a carpeted beach beneath beveled
canopy. My legs haplessly dangle flung
overboard crossing a comfortable
black leather partition provided by Sears.
On CNN there’s a bow legged French horn
wearing white face apologizing for American
abundance above the ticking measures
of Cold War success. Spare me, Christiane.
Thirsty, I have the maid fetch me a fresh Coke
and resume my voyeuristic voyage downstream
through high-definition static and spoken
saturation. Eddie Cummings flips a knowing wink
then sweeps the tulips from a chimney’s dream.
4/27/17
evening air
distant french horn melody
train whistle echo
On my computer
I
play
songs of the late 1970's
My seed time
as it were
ELP, Yes, and King Crimson
Perhaps I will pick up a recording by
Nice
they did a great version of "America"
from West Side Story
or perhaps I shall return to the fold era
or flip on some Dvorak
Music and poetry
enables us to touch unreality
but only if we let it
Some recommend Beethoven and Bach
Others Chuck Berry and James Brown
Attempted to play the French horn when I was younger
what a gorgeous sound that instrument can make
The Beatles and the Rolling Stones used ti
So did we at Midwood High
AS we marched down the football field
Cool autumn days
remind us
of leaves turning color, football
and the beginning of the school year
I remember those days
As age creeps in
I attend poetry
readings
and volunteer at Poets House
read a lot of verse
Poets House has Israeli, Afro - American, Chinese, Puerto Rican poetry
and much more
The world needs poetry and song
And so doe we , friends
In Junior High, I decided to try
to play an instrument
I joined the band, French horn in hand
determined to make music
I lugged my horn, ready to mourn
for myself, as I walked home
Although I practiced, my butt, this horn kicked
I could never play a song
The noise I did play, made all ears run away
and was painful to mine as well
Like howling dogs, the sound was all wrong
and frightening to my neighbors
Children cried on my street, men were white as a sheet
mothers ran out to buy ear plugs
But I didn't upset, became teacher's pet
And won the band's top accolade
With trophy in hand, I took a stand
and never returned to band
This is a true story but SLIGHTLY exaggerated
By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders, January 31, 2012
5th place in Self Exaggerations contest
I sit here at two in the morning
with pencil in hand
for the poem I am penning.
The lights are low
save the one on my desk.
In the ashtray
a cigarette is burning.
Gentle spring breezes blow
cool but not cold
wafting scents
of a lawn freshly mowed.
The sheers at the french doors
billow and dance
as the wind puffs and blows.
In the background
the music softly plays,
cascades and flows.
A clarinet, violin, french horn,
and now an oboe
fill my ears
as the fire in the fire place burns low.
Smells of the cookies I baked
nearly an hour ago
still linger and mingle
in and about each nook of the room.
The Jack Russel at my feet
lightly snores
as the cat stretches and circles
for a nap on the hearth floor.
For my public,
what shall I write for them?
What is in store?
Then Bam
a book falls to the floor
and I am jolted from my nap of dreams.
You see
nothing is always quite
what it seems !!
This poem is part of a series including Sunset Reverie, An Evening by The Lake,
Days End, On Comes The Night and Tiny White Canoe
Sweet so sweet just like candy corn.
When we kiss with candy kisses I am airborne. Every morning start the day with candy kisses so I can feel reborn. Every evening end the day with candy kisses so I can blow my french horn.
The years pass by with our many candy kisses so we will never morn.
Date Written: 10/30/2021
Note: Acrostic Rhyme
4 Place
1. Sweet
''S'' Contest, New Poems Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France