Best Instrument Poems
What happens to this poetry embroidered within the walls of my heart,
When the joy of my words are shattered underneath your feet,
Can the torture of your empty moon paint a slithering promise,
Far across into my deep colorless dreamscape of dahlias,
Your dry eyed apologies took me to a mortal with no reflection,
As you hide behind your short lived excuses and homed cruel intentions,
Like a fool I was to believe that a rose could bloom in the peeks of winter,
While broken instruments illustrated a weak illusion,
Shame, These knees you held with such tender affection,
Poured our tales into my abstract dreams,
How you wandered into my eyes casting a waning crescent,
Hoping the fragrant of a swine won’t clear my sight,
I’ve stood by the hills, where it steeps down your hell,
Perhaps the burdens you trust and love are the saint in your spells,
Claiming clarity for a chaos that have you deeply compelled.
Lord, make me an instrument of Your peace,
That I too may have it,
For how else can I share Your peace,
Unless I first may have it.
Give me Your light and let it shine,
Through My every word and deed;
For how else can I light the dark,
Unless You first light mine.
Be a guide unto my feet,
That I may follow Thee;
For how else can I guide the lost,
Unless You first guide me.
Give me Your wisdom Lord, I pray,
And let Your strength be mine;
For how else can I counsel,
Unless my example shines.
Lord, be my light and guide and strength,
For I stumble all alone.
Hold my hand so I won't fear,
And lead me safely home.
Play me in the morning before I've time to dress.
Play me softly. I will be your lute.
Hold me to your lips. . . and lightly press.
Should you see me in the afternoon,
pick me up, and I will be your harp.
Caress my strings and hear my angelic tune.
In the evening, come on playfully.
I'll be busy in the kitchen, but a tambourine
I'll be for you as I sway my hips! Jingle-jangle me!
But at night, I want to be your fond guitar.
First cradle me; then stroke me with your passion.
Feel me vibrate with delight as I sing and glisten like a star.
Nov. 8, 2019
I envy the precision
of the engineer,
the grounded exactitude
of a trade, to be able
to hold phenomenon within
the spell of an equation,
have the power to make
something from a sum.
I make things from shadows,
the pulled threads
of a mirage and echoes
bubbling up from the bottom
chambers of a void. I work
with the vagaries of whim,
waiting for something to appear
from who knows where,
letting a shape emerge
from beneath a ghostly
gauze of words or reveal
its nature by a residue
of absence left
in the wake of its going.
I am a gatherer of what
is carried on the wind,
the fragrance of flowers,
moans uttered
on lonely shorelines
by the voices of restless seas,
the cry of nightmares,
the crescendos of love,
becoming for a moment
an instrument in some
vast orchestra through which
a divine song is being played.
String my wires, tune me up.
Feel my curve under your arm.
I can play any way you want.
But you have to want it bad enough to let go, to let it flow,
through you, through me,
to that place where words run dry,
and the music, the resonance of heart and soul, drums out the groove,
that individual beat that all sway to.
So play me baby.
Let me feel it.
That sweet rift, that soulful rhythm.
Can this be real? Our infusion?
Can you match my energy?
All plugged in and ammped up,
distortion echoing in your guts,
fingers hammering up and down my spine,
chords filling those empty places with soul.
Are you extraordinary enough to tune this body and match our rhythms?
Can you find the groove that infuses?
Fingertips
fall—
not like
stones,
but like rain,
plucked silver
threading the air.
Each string
holds a hush,
a breath not yet
forgotten.
The musician builds—
not a score,
but the curve
of a heron’s wing
skimming dusk
softly vanishing
in a single glissando.
The guzheng does not speak.
It spills:
vibrato,
a tide rising
then breaking
against memory.
Sound leans back—
not toward silence
——but toward a
distant shore
we once
heard.
________________
Note: Guzheng is a traditional Chinese musical instrument.
"My First Instrument"
Bassoon baby so special to me
The first thing I really took care of
Instrumental to my growth
I cleaned it every day
Woodwind wonder
Of stained sycamore maple
A glossy fine finish
For someone just beginning
Sleeping with my jazz filled fantasies
I was a double reed romantic
Leading hit ensembles
For the restaurant down the street
Practiced awkwardly were sheets of music
Letting out so many terrible sounds
Repulsive to even the neighbors
Cementing my ineptitude
I had a case for a device I could not handle
It was black and lightly gilded
For containing a cacophonous weapon
Most threatening
But caring parents blocked their ears
With cotton balls packed inside
While my idiotic iterations went on upstairs
For all those many months
And after some time had passed
Rejection from the band
And looks from the neighbors
Playing I was on a musical beast of burden
When I put it all together
A sensation of madness evolved
That no one could tell me the truth
I stunk worse than burning rubber
So I used it to get my way
A sort of give me what I want
Asking for more desert or staying up late
'Cause I'll play, believe me, I'll play!
Eventually I went to my parents and told them "I quit"
They removed the cotton and responded in turn
With smiles galore and threats from the community no more
Everybody was nice to me again
The first time I heard this I was in disbelief.
As he readied to play he rosined a long bow.
And he played with a flair of beauty and motif,
“On a hill far away” the notes softly and slow.
Without breaking his stride “In the garden”, he played.
I heard voices of angels in tune through it all.
The heads bow, their lips move, the congregation prayed.
Not intending to preach, someone issued the call.
Through it all the strange notes woefully made demand.
Like a Stradivari, rosined strings strike their hearts.
“Oh why not tonight” played, commanding those at hand,
with small pricks of conscience from the music’s tearful darts
At the end, the blind man, with the bow cross his chair.
Swore he heard the soft voice, Seraphim singing slow.
Saying, now find the thing that was played if you care
should you please rearrange the anagram below
CASUAL SWIM (two words)
©This poem in anapestic tetrameter for
Nette’s “sound madness” contest
24 Oct 2011 Charles Henderson
Lives, pears, pair-ed, peered, Structured.
Leaves, fashions, untouched.
Hearts rests on-ed silvered platters.
Fingers noticed ,less, much-ed.
Then-ed
Throats and tongues!
Captures cleft-ed flowers!
String---ed audiences reasoned.
When"s
Somethings undoubted-ly"ed Borrowed!!
I wanted to be
an electric guitar,
to vibrantly run my screams in
melodically riffs and solos...
Turning my pains into art...
But I'm just that... lone cello
how bitter and silent
dies of thirst in a corner
without performing any blues.... !
Man: God's instrument
Double nature - body, soul
Seeking Harmony!
(c) Demetrios Trifiatis
30 May 2016
5-7-5
A web of affection and all life’s beautiful sorrows
An assortment of moments that make up all tomorrows
Laying broken on the floor
Wounded through the core of victory
My heart is electrified but broken.
As flaming thoughts flash through my head
The substance of my action
Subdued a fraction of his life
Even though the knife of deceit was part of the equation!
“The heart is the only broken instrument that works”
It stretches out in the dark and grabs the soul
While it flourishes in the production of words!
Far beneath the solid order of man is the reflection of his heart
Pain can only last for a season and that which was claimed
As a victory at the time was a channel for a future sacrifice!
The substance of my action
Subdued a fraction of his life
Even though the knife of deceit was part of the equation!
A web of affection and all life’s beautiful tomorrows
An assortment of moments that make up all sorrows
But the heart does not fear because in reality
“The heart is the only broken instrument that works”
Mark Frank
Copyright 2022
The pressure drops and the clouds spin round
The angels make their music
The sunshine stops, rain hits the ground
Tesla knew they'd do it
The skies bring more than a downpour
Our emotions begin to alter
The grey mass blots out the light
And bring terror if you've faltered
Forbidden beliefs are cast to the sea
Invisible from the shoreline
The heavy weather knows us better
A stronger swimmers alright
Above I glance and at a chance
I see the angels playing
They look down, synchronise their sound
Their displeasure has me swaying
Their sound strikes fear as it meets my ears
Then they threaten with a staff
I question why I see with my eyes
And as they play they laugh
"Deafen yourself and keep your eyes down
Don't like the music? Well here's our rod!"
Then the playing stopped, their rod was dropped
For there was the angered God
I could not believe what I could see
He took the halos from their heads
He picked me up, put me on the beach
Then cast them to the depths
sound of blues ripples on--
smokey tunes blowing hot
sizzling flamed mood...it's jazz!
sax notes intoxicate
swirling like coltraine's grind,
soulful trance whips my breath...
spice of night, weekend jives!
My guitar sings, swings, dances
Those strings do-see-do; circle
Left, right, then form a big square
Tensions are released.