Best Maestros Poems
Sometimes when
moonlight weeps to sleep,
I sit, draped
in burning dreams,
and beautiful nightmares
of moments lost,
engraved along the rising
of blushing blossoms,
within cerulean azure.
But shadows fade,
as clarity descends
upon the ivory beach,
adorned in pearls
and palm leaves.
I await for twilight to
sing my heart to
the milky-way.
I stretch my fingers,
to count glistening gems,
that shower silver
streaks upon my
stranded silhouette.
And I question the universe,
in r i d d l e s and r h y m e s~
what flows within
empty spaces
between iridescent
lines of stars?
Would I find traces
of footprints that left
the face of this earth,
where they
thrive eternal crests
in paradise?
Maybe there’s rivulets
of jewels with initials of
angels residing
in blissful musing,
in hope-filled reveries,
as the cosmic maestros,
orchestrate peaceful notes
with ethereal keys of faith,
In a choir for
celestial requiems,
to heal the grieving mind
that t i m e couldn’t mend.
I saw it rained
a rainbow with frozen
memories through my
glass window..
and I remembered
how I’ve always felt
closer to you in astral realms,
whilst soaked in
galactic light.
So tonight, I whisper,
prayers in poetic prose,
hoping you’ll feel my tears,
from the
highest halcyon haven.
Even death can
never kill a dreamer,
that bears memories,
and relives them
through classical sonatas.
Maybe this is how
a poet reminisces,
heartbeats in h e a v e n…
Like sparks trailing
from a million, billion fireflies,
a single thought limns a trillion suns.
From the first small bonfire
flickering across four million years,
whose light imprints itself
upon the canvas backdrop
of a feckless, barely cohesive Infinity,
the matter of man, no more than
the past, transmogrifies the future --
denies the import of "real" or "black"
or any other type of matter.
Yet existing, it defines the local locus
of now and when ... and how and then.
The freezing cold of space
burns like energy backfiring on itself.
Somewhere, celestial lightshows
flare across parsecs of near emptiness.
Liquid oxygen fuels
the laboring lungs of multitudes,
singing out the music of the spheres,
maestros of a trillion symphonies,
platelets in the lifeblood of the Universe.
Like a Coriolis wave that imprints itself
upon a formless sandstorm,
a thought burns itself
into the very fabric of Eternity,
opens like a budding flower,
and initiates its own realities.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ibPT24qMTw
Author notes
Je suis un Capricorn.
]
This is my Desiderata.
Written December 2nd, 2005
Letter chosen "V"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Virtuoso
Carnelian dawn reflects red sun rising,
Mirrors glow of vermillion flycatchers,
With scarlet plumage, so mesmerizing,
Dawn’s songbirds – virtuoso stature.
Flight song resounds through the still morning mists,
Woodland thickets embrace the day song,
Artists on wings with bright feathers flame kissed
Warble sweet aves on garnet birdsongs.
Vigil for daybreak in tones cinnabar
Matins’ maestros in morning’s sung prayers,
Amber strains from coquelicot popstars,
Lauds for the Daystar ring through newborn airs.
Cloaked in vermillion at evening's first light,
Songbirds wait to sing in red-orange delight.
The crowd awaits, for the
most auspicious of nights
...Standing ovations & red
roses, ready to be put in flight
Conductors & maestros alike
ready their positions
The echoes of my thoughts
seem to harbour an omission
Strokes of brilliance are
always ready to strike...
As I open my eyes a facade of
insanity catches my attention
& the roaring crowd puts my
thoughts into suspension
Frail & near death, with the
piercing gazes they throw
I put up an audacious piece of
display worthy to be called a
show....
My name is Black.
My mouth is diseased.
I walk on walls behind your back.
I've come for your soul.
You had it out on lease.
(You forgot.)
Stop tending to the chickens,
Or don't stop tending to the chickens.
Either way there are no fans left for anything to be hitting them.
But if they were still around they would get hit by you-know-what.
So don't touch me.
Don't tick me off.
I send the weak and injured off screaming in horror.
Mostly I'm just misunderstood, though.
I call a spade a club.
I turn maestros into minstrels,.
Melancholy into minestrone.
I eat sadness and vomit out anger.
I'm a riot at parties for the first five minutes,
Then I'm the mom you didn't call,
The key you left in the car,
The ringing in your ear,
The stinging in your throat.
I'm the faint chittering you hear
Somewhere in your bed,
Somewhere near your head.
Trailblazers and bellwethers
who conduct with dignity
are these noble maestros
who shepherd people.
Honorable and selfless
luminaries are these bold
inspirers of confidence.
Captains of courage
who lead by example.
Directors who orchestrate,
motivate, excite and
spark others to follow.
Emanate role models
of noteworthy distinction.
These are leaders,
champions of the best
who are as rare
as they are great.
Clocks
hearts pounding madly
synchronized hands
conducting the measures of time
maestros attempting control
of the endless concerto
© Sandra M. Haight 2015
All Rights Reserved
~8th Place~
Contest: Simply This: Top Ten Tanka
Modern Tanka – Syllables 5, 4, 8, 7, 7
Sponsor: Andrea Dietrich
Judged: 03/14/2015
.
Hidden Beneath the Rainbow
Guatemalan villages have rainbows of dreams.
Magical thought whereupon each soul gleams.
Locked by a culture engraved on the soul.
Harvests where births’ golden customs unroll.
Living antiquated amid pompous brochures
Sleeping upon mats on plank beds or hut floors.
Boys and girls may not date or co-mingle.
Marriages arranged without knowing lust’s tingle.
In homes of adobe an empire is stayed.
Within those four walls, the future is laid.
Bounded by mountains and winding footpaths
Encroached by the world, walking different paths.
Families stay warm around a hearth of three stones,
Braving the simple life without moans and groans.
Stunning people clad in colorful handmade clothes.
The earth is their friend, their skills, and maestros.
Milling their coffee, chili peppers, and corn.
Homegrown products produced feed these freeborn.
Harvests of sweat and self-satisfaction
Hand worked acres and strength still in fashion.
Hidden near volcanoes; tucked in God's hands.
Generations of peoples have loved on those lands.
Glowing beauty shines beneath heat and straw hats.
Faces aglow, tourists hoping for chats.
Gleaming simplicity knows modernization's foes.
That exploited attraction where vacationers go.
Escaping the fast pace and the greediness flow.
San Pedro la Laguna, hidden beneath the rainbow –
© August 3, 2010
Dane Smith-Johnsen
REFERENCES: http://www.artemaya.com/artist_life_bp.html
http://www.bootsnall.com/articles/05-12/a-taste-of-tranquility-life-on-the-shores-of-lake-atitlan-san-pedro-la-
laguna-guatemala.html
Even if they try to pluck it,
the flower submits itself onto their hands.
If it happens to prick their heels,
the thorn scorns itself all its life.
The dream too thinks twice, gets filtered to go soft
to be seated on their eyes.
Once positioned on their lips,
even the scariest of words
come out as a melodious lisp.
The hill river rushing downhill, mocking at birds,
having heard their clean laughter
repents for its pride
and flows quietly to Madhes.
Even If they fall during their play,
the nature, having come
under the spell of their creative sports,
doesn’t know when they again start to play so full of jest.
Believing that they fall unknowingly
the ground, mostly, does not even hurt them.
Even after the ages of exercise, not any flower could adopt
the innocence of their smile.
Instruments of music, after their company
with music maestros for centuries,
failed to acquire the sonority of their voice.
If they smash, the flower vase assumes a smile
while turning into pieces.
For a chance to be spilled by their hands,
anything they hold gets spilled itself full of happiness.
For a chance to play with them,
water forgets about its own colourlessness.
I wonder –
didn’t the creator really do injustice?
With a power to defeat everyone without any battle,
children are busy at play with the most beautiful moments of their life.
Once they grow conscious of it,
those moments will have gone away
never to return to them.
(Translated from original Nepali by Mukul Dahal)
The sacred lily of antiquity;
vital, that centuries have not defied.
Treasures, luminaries of Italy;
a preserved cultured city, dignified.
Basilica on the mount arises;
"The Gate of Heaven" takes my breath away.
The dome cap nestles above the city;
A vista opens to new horizons,
Cathedral bells ring, calling me to pray;
outside, minstrels in song, bold and witty.
On the old bridge, wares for sale are displayed.
A passage, above the River Arno;
self- portraits, don the walls; masters portrayed.
Bronzed doors, a journey to The Inferno;
afficionados of art come to praise.
Sculptures come alive in the public square;
Uffizi's galleries, patrons are drawn
to the genius of masters, are amazed.
The passion of "bel canto" fills the air;
night falls, your cobbled streets, dim, until dawn.
In marbled tombs lay national heroes;
maestros who impart the gifts of sages.
The Sacred Crucifix hangs in sorrow,
over consecrated ground, it graces.
A tapestry of life's virtues you share.
To the titans of art, we owe a debt.
Saints and prophets, their relics you enshrine;
devoted in faith we kneel in prayer.
David's majestic strength, Goliath met.
Florence's gifts, a legacy, divine!
May 4, 2022
For: Form O-Ode-New Poems Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Rhymes verified on Rhymezone.com
Syllables verified on Howmanysyllables.com
Theme: Place
Placed 3rd in contest
Black folk kept in sad condition
By owners without contrition.
What to do, what to do?
Wage war for emancipation
And forge a fresh slave-free nation.
The Forrest-Byrd Klan and Jim Crow
Surely are the ones you should stow –
What to do, what to do?
They rule and oppress your city
Blame them not ones who set you free!
Martin loved character content
With black and white talents lent
What to do, what to do?
Stevie and Paul in unity
Played in sweet keyboard harmony.
Smooth Barack cooed high in A sharp
As Hillary lowed in B flat
What to do, what to do?
So white folks, none playing a harp,
Chose the black, how racist was that?
Oppressed rainbow coalition -
All races rate full admission.
What to do, what to do?
Name trophy oppressor maestros
Amin, Mao, Adolf, and Castro.
Critical race theory, woke
Marxist, oppressive and no joke!
What to do, what to do?
Its rancid retro racist sin
Embalmed in landfill would fit in.
Have you ever marveled at the maestros’ pieces?
Have you?
Composers – who capture with music
Moods which can move us…
Writers – who work with words which
Amaze and absorb us…
Craftsmen – who produce with patience
Art which astounds us…
Painters – who create on canvas and sketch with skill
Landscapes and portraits and pictures to ponder
What genius, what greatness, what treasure invested!
Have you ever considered their value?
Have you?
Is it intrinsic or is it acquired?
Determined by men because in time they’re admired
Some are uncovered, their worth discovered
The master renowned, his work has been found
But many lie buried and won’t be exhumed
Their potential lying forever entombed
Maestro and masterpiece together
Deprived of the glory
In this life’s mysterious story
A rhythmic sketch of melodies new
Often leaves some singing the blues
Bereft of passion and desire
Unable to spark a musical fire
Tenuous tunes leave us to sigh
As music changes as time goes by
A piano interlude with brittle notes
Falls apart, unable to float
Maestros of old would demurely smile
As they tickled the ivories with style
As these musical gems subside
Somewhere along the way, the music died
The immutable beauty of songs of old
Framed in memories, dipped in gold
The formidable classics of rock and roll
And rhythm and blues with lots of soul
--
10-24-17
I sang melodies and choruses for the choir
Written and composed by maestros
The harmonies soared for earth’s life time hour
Even those that proclaimed the holy cross
I sang Handel’s Alleluia Chorus
As I did the songs of us
Singing ‘Stand and Sing...’
To respond “Proud and free”
Mozart’s Ave verum corpus
Charmed me into the love of sound
That would fill the Church’s campus
And the fragile heart all round
In the sounds of the maestros budded
The sound deserving no apology
The voice clear; all rounded
The humming and bursts like a eulogy
Then I sang not to entertain
I sang to express
The truth I humbly contain
Oh! To be true, I do not need the press
I though may not forget
The words of life’s wisdom
From the lyricists of old
That ‘to thyself be true’
Copyright ©April.2012. Moonga Nsamu. All rights Reserved.
Magnificent marauders masquerading magically might mean
Messy mollusks masticate marbled marigolds momentarily.
Maybe.
Moreover, momentous mosquitoes might make marvelous mini-muffins mixing marmalade momentarily.
Meanwhile
Minnie made monthly memories merely medicating masses
Mediocre men mysteriously manufactured man-made missals
Might mean
Millionaires mystify magical muggles’ meager melodies making
Magnifying, mollifying mortifying mind-blowing majestic missives.
Moreover,
Mummies, mammograms, mushrooms, minks, musicians,
Models, maestros, minions, muskrats, merry men
May
Momentarily medicate marvelously magnificent marauders.
Meanwhile
Mary May memorize multiplication minimizing
Mark’s Mother’s marmalade mini-muffin memory.
M might make momentous mountain-mincing molehill.