Best Musicality Poems
I am a poem popper
Poetry is the drug for me
A perpetual habit
Shared with select company
I am a poem popper
I have been since the age of three
Me and Seuss go way back
By eight hooked on Dennis Lee
I am a poem popper
Addicted to the musicality
High on wit and wisdom
Dependent on a healing property
I am a poem popper
Where this is going... Obviously
My habit led to writing
Call it manifest destiny
I am a poem popper
Poetry set my mind free
Boasting the gamut of human experience
The crux of empathy
Pop me
02/22/19
Poetry And Me Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Silent One
Categories:
musicality, me, poetry, poets,
Form:
Monorhyme
“When I am silent, I fall into the place where everything is music.”
Rumi
If life was a song,
what would be your refrain?
When instruments of fate performed
in a ballad of somber sorrows,
I floated like a ballet dancer
in an eclectic fashion.
My silent tongue had no melody,
before love sowed harmonic tones,
in a reverberating remedy of refreshing
rhythms soothing a tortured soul.
As my voice softened in a symphony
of violin strings and saxophone vibratos,
our bond composed a chorus of notes,
like satin feathers from hummingbirds
in soft clarinet choral chords,
only heard in an orchestra of a
velvet butterfly renaissance.
You always have my songs on repeat,
but I wonder if you will change the record?
Together we write lyrics,
sing verses as distant duets
with drumbeat dynamics.
Yet I am a metaphor of saffron rays
lost in the absence of lilac moonlight.
Everyday you disappear with dawn,
as morning whispers her blessings.
I'm left alone with birdsongs,
who join in with my colourless chorus -
echoing my angst of yearning to be free.
I wonder if you will remain a twilight sonata.
If you are the ebony to my ivory keys
in this crescendo of bohemian dreams,
why can't we be boundless as the sea?
This vinyl veil we call existence
is a composition of heartbeats
with heartstrings woven into
a vibrant bridge of emotions.
Sadly no pedestal can reach
lingering lullabies of the sky,
so we continue to cast hues
of golden heavenly harps,
before final tenors are heard.
If life was a song,
our refrain would be an acoustic
with steady beats, sometimes
with too much bass to air -
but we can control the volume.
Tempo will always change
like a decrescendo,
but we are the conductors
of our own musicality.
Not all serenades sounds the same -
no muse sings forever.
Categories:
musicality, muse, music,
Form:
Free verse
The sun’s sparkling streaks,
of sangria grace,
descend upon
the malachite verdant valley;
world of pristine mountains,
and evergreen tales of
rainbow hued meadows.
Where medieval castles
are guarded with a fragrant
fortress of blushing flowers,
enveloped in topaz gold beams.
She walks along the
fields of redolent reveries,
where hope sprouts
like the rising moon-
whispering secrets to
the whimsical wind,
in mystical musicality,
whilst butterflies
rest upon her ebony hair,
choreographing a
three dimensional
ballet in ethereal delight,
cradling and mirroring the
dancing spirit in
emerald elegance.
Her chrysalis heart
nurtures their sanctuary
with sanguine serenades,
for she is the queen
of azure wings,
dressed in timeless mists;
her mind is wrapped
in kaleidoscope clouds
draped in pearl crescent dust,
fluttering and twirling with
twinkling stars between
fragile thin veins,
like delicate petals
woven from a tapestry
of thriving dreams.
Yet the sound of
unsung songs drift
along shadowed skies-
of champagne and
rosemary rays,
fleeting like waning colors,
longing to spread floral arms,
to sketch watercolor
paintings from
dandelion desires-
to be heard and seen
beyond the creek of thorns
and thistles,
as peacock feathers soar
amongst petrichor leaves swaying
to the celestial tunes of her life-
amidst raining regrets
a devoted warrior never lets
eclipsed spheres dim
their light upon her sight.
Categories:
musicality, deep, fantasy,
Form:
Ekphrasis
Line of enquiry:
Instrumentalising mind, I rested thought
employing it only when needed
shifting to heart, I became self-taught
gentling touch, voice of conscience heeded.
Intellect and intuition are like a sword and shield.
One cuts through darkness to bring clarity,
the other is an internal compass protecting the lost.
Both are formed polished, vigorous and gallant,
but through the struggles of each battle,
become ineffective when not revived.
My mind plays like a piano
and I am its pianist.
When I sit upon the cliffs of doubt,
it seems to be sleepwalking into a
chaotic jungle of consciousness,
where the symphony ignores the song sheet.
I don't want my words to be forgotten.
There is no reality in this reverie,
so the soul yearns to be free,
like a seagull soaring above stormy seas,
towards a sapphire and ivory skyline.
Sometimes skies can resemble fire,
where flames appear too strong,
so my internal wings seek refuge.
To heal from the noise, I lose myself
in the stillness of solitude.
In my loneliness, ego screams,
so I escape from this echo chamber,
by starving it from unworthy self praise
but if I do not love myself,
who will love me?
When dwelling upon the mountain of overthinking,
my spirit is unable to adapt to the flutes of fate,
but I ignore the provocation of poison.
I listen to the musicality of my heart,
releasing the strings of attachment.
I burn myself to light up the blackness,
composing lyrics from adversity's lessons.
I am a metaphor for a star,
touching the divine horizons,
sparkling, but still learning from the
'see saw' emotions of my heart and mind.
We are all carpenters in life,
with different tools to master our minds,
trying to control the outlook of our emotions.
As rivers of wisdom integrate smoother,
when we build bridges of compassion over them.
Categories:
musicality, allusion, introspection, perspective,
Form:
Didactic
Iamb, Trochee, Spondee, Pyrrhic. Do those words have meaning for you? If not, you may find it handy as a poet to learn how to employ at least a few of them. They are names for the most common of the two-syllable feet used in classic poetry forms and many rhymed forms of today (there are other metrical feet used for 3 syllables). Poets can practice to become skilled at any one of them, but often poets are drawn to just a few when they write naturally. Iamb is the one that I prefer. When your words rise and fall in an unstressed to stressed rhythmic pattern, you are using iambic meter. Five feet of these unstressed-stressed syllables is called pentameter. That is why a sonnet is written in Iambic Pentameter. The traditonal sonnet writer uses ten syllables which are divided into five feet of unstressed/stressed syllables.
Here is the way Iamb looks if I show just two-syllable examples: de/TEST, un/LOVED, a/ WORD, go/ HOME. It would sound unnatural to say DEtest, UNloved, A word or GO home. The poet chooses his metrical foot and simply goes with the flow! If I choose to write a triolet, I would use Iambic Tetrameter (8 syllables with 4 feet of Iamb). When you consider all the different combinations of feet and meter, there is much to be learned! You can even mix up types of meter or use them unrhymed! To some poets it comes naturally -no textbook required. I have known free verse poets to say, "I just don't 'hear' it." But a few of those poets practiced and practiced; with time I saw them grow!
For those who want to practice poetry
in such a way to make their poems sing,
Iambic meter is one way to go.
Unstressed, then stressed creates a pleasant flow.
So give your words some musicality.
Keep practicing, and then your skills will grow.
Aug. 5, 2018
Categories:
musicality, writing,
Form:
Free verse
My heart seeks the smoky quartz sage within you, in secret,
like a solitary star adrift in the whimsical wilderness.
For I remember your voice, that manifested mellifluous musicality,
nurturing vain verses to thrive like lavender-incensed lilies,
glowing with sun-stroked flames of empathetic iridescence,
emanating sealed serenity amidst the archaic darkness,
crawling above raspberry-red roses, waltzing in silence.
Tonight, I cradle crooning clouds, soaked in sleepless sapphires,
as the petrichor breeze serenades your unconditional love,
that quenched my crestfallen quill, releasing cashmere calligraphy.
But if poems could speak, you’d feel the wildflower warmth of words,
how, once upon a camellia crescent, I found my inner rhyme in your sea-foam sonnets,
unveiling a cosmic collage of a sojourner soul,
healing from timeless tokens carved by familiar strangers, celestially aligned, forevermore…
I am the afterglow of a sanguine sunset~
airbrushed with patience by the power of your peridot pigments,
as your tongue is the mindful maestro, and I, the essence of your charismatic choir. …
Categories:
musicality, light, love,
Form:
Free verse
Doves cry when the earth is being disturbed
When there's conflicts and war they are perturbed
For doves are the dear Lord's symbols of peace
They bring olive branches to help wars cease.
Doves also represent the joy of love
The golden gift from heaven up above
They coo-coo-coo to attract their life mate
Then build a nest for them to populate.
Doves sing their song to tell you that they're near
A song that's soothing and moving to hear
Their musicality is a calm balm
Alike listening to a holy psalm.
Stay as innocent as doves Jesus said
Never let evil thoughts enter your head
Doves appear when one has a troubled mind
On angelic wings, bringing love sublimed.
Categories:
musicality, bird, cry,
Form:
Rhyme
Melodies from heaven take me away
Undue the wrath of hurricane heartbreak
Singing of joy in freeing green serenade
Into the voice of love the one who saves
Creating a rainbow and providing peace
Amber and gold love inside blessings
Letting us know soul holy body
Inside we glow spiritual unity
The angels do sing and ears delight
Your heart brings a note songs for Christ.
Categories:
musicality, angel, appreciation,
Form:
Acrostic
She is whimsical midst-escaping
blackness & beige stagnation,
reverberant betwixt musicality &
fictitious paisley fabrications,
recognizes the actuality of her
enigmatic spirit's frivolity,
well-defined by her quirky
quintessence serving her far beyond
periods of reflective flourishes,
has never been a slave to social
expectations nor gravitas of
worldly-minded undertakings,
materialism is not her cuppa tang
nor an applicable proposition,
heartfelt inclination is e'er creation
and the freedoms it relishes,
you may catch glimpses midway
seascapes & ocean's roar or
summits of splendiferous
mountain's sumptuous loftiness,
swaggers 'bout configurations
and milky way's artsy effulgence,
plays amidst wistful forests with
nymphets and poisonous toadstools
sashays 'round wildflower meadows
blanketed yonder moon blushes,
sun-kissed & star dusted she's
collectively nightfall 'pon daylight,
envisages building soaring air castles
amidst macrocosms high-rise skies'
timelessness whence humankind
shall humbly recognize enlightened
ceremony of incommensurate
resoluteness & obsessive commitment
furthermost nature's conceptualizations
Building Castles in the Sky Contest -Steven Henderson
Categories:
musicality, adventure, allegory, environment, imagery,
Form:
Imagism
Trying to understand:
in an information culture,
evocation is more important;
explicit saying counts against us.
People need to be well
into believing
being educated is more
than information:
less hypnotized
the incoherencies and
what they’re saying,
the musicality
of people’s voices
and intonations;
would get more
from them.
Effectively, psychoanalysis is
something other, not the coherences;
it listens for words
that are saying more,
It’s got something to do with being;
it’s a form of listening,
not distracted by incoherence
but evoked by it.
Categories:
musicality, grief, silence,
Form:
Free verse
There’s a soft glimmer of day on the horizon
As a vanquished sun is swept away by dusk’s dark flow
With a slender slip of a cloud stretched North to the South
That floats on the sweetness, the texture of marmalade glow.
Dark clouds above me are still catching last light
And the air is still fresh from a passing shower.
Overhead there are magnificent canyons of sky,
Clouds eroded by meandering rivers of air,
Untouched stars shining through,
And flashes of lightning that break dance further South
Reminding less attentive humans feelings are electric too,
Random flashes, like a child remembering how to cry
Without understanding when it is effective.
And the crickets are singing their harsh waves of sound
With combined voice that could wake up the dead
Or float lovers to their dreams with strange musicality.
What a chorus! It’s like they’re all suitors of one woman
Hanging out in the darkness under her window
Their legs resonating in an orgy of praise.
Is there anything alive that does not ooze sensuality?
I’m driving myself to a late dinner in Pierre
And there’ll be no one waiting to greet me,
But loneliness is not the same as being lonely
I even stop as I’m driving to write down these words
For when my muse speaks I almost always listen
For the music of the night is so fragile,
Though her words are my constant companions.
Like raindrops they cool me with their touch, to my senses glisten,
The thoughts she brings are flowers that follow mountain streams
And her rhymes, even when it’s cloudy, are stars in my night.
Arriving back in Blunt, the cricket song, seems somehow softer,
Though hardly less insistent, cries “Don’t you know we love you?”
I insert some extra lines and thoughts into what has come before,
Into an already flowing work, dollops of color added madly,
Just more cricket noise, hoping to touch your heart.
I wish that I had stopped once more beside the road as I returned.
“That was such a beautiful thought! What was it?” I wonder sadly!
Apparently the female that male crickets seek has not chosen yet.
But with this poem my day is done.
Brian Johnston
September 7, 2015
Categories:
musicality, life,
Form:
Rhyme
If I was an animal
What would I be?
My defining traits
are sarcasm
musicality
bright colors
The only animal
that comes to mind
is a bird
a parrot
for it's talkativeness
a canary
for it's beautiful voice
a peacock
for it's extravagant feathering
but no animal know
is as fidgety
moody
strangely uncomfortable
among it's fellows
as I am
So I suppose
being a bird
is best
for whenever
I feel awkward
and out of place
the bird in me
can always fly free
~Marie Viloria~
11th place in the contest: If I was an animal, what would I be?
Categories:
musicality, animals, nature,
Form:
Free verse
My only regret is never learning how to fly
There seems to be so much freedom in the sky
On a vertical, diagonal rise guiding the wind
Piloting my destiny on the glide
I imagine I was a rocket launching memories
to space taking off
My fears of high heights
switching off; a golf ball to a hole-in-one teeing off
On the wing of a perfect swing
defining the why
Defying the how; redefining aerodynamics,
on a perpetual high
An albatross - spanning the open oceans
never to land for eternity
With the turbulence of the waves
crashing and washing my musicality
Around the globe - be the first everyday to view a new sunrise
Feet landing only to feel the lushness of the universe
To take off once more and finally
to my death on the wing
Drifting for eternity like a signal
escaping from the big bang
With my molecules like particles never slowing down
At the speed of light my soul learning to fly to heaven
My only regret is never learning how to fly
Gravity I would defy; my humanity I may deny
There seems to be so much free air
Where birds only sing and ever soar
Categories:
musicality, fantasy, flying, imagination, universe,
Form:
Rhyme
Across the globe, music ascends—a universal zephyr,
Bridging cultures in harmonious yearning;
Chords converge from Andes to the Zangezur, xenharmonic,
Dulcet tones of a duduk—in the air, they whisper.
Every note—an echo of humanity's vibration,
From flamenco's fire to the finesse of a cello's undulation;
Gamelan's gongs—a gamut of sounds' timbre,
Harmonium's hum—hearts and spirits, it serenades.
In India where the sitar intricately resonates
Juxtaposed with jazz as New Orleans quavers;
Kora's strings kiss the breeze as Africa pulses.
Lyrics leap across lands—in mosaic form, it oscillates.
Marimba's mallets are on wooden keys lightly narrate
Ney's notes always navigate in a trance-like murmur;
Oud's ornate voice offers a limericking lyric
Perhaps to partake in profound kinetic kinesis.
Qanun quietly queries—a quivering jumping jubilation
Rhythms resonate—a restorative impressive intonation;
Samba's syncopation—a spirited harking harmony
Tabla's tempo—a testament of gripping grandiloquence.
Uilleann pipes uplift with urgent a fever for fervor
Violins voice the vibrancy of the endless echo;
Whistles and winds—the world's diverse diapason
Xylophone's xylography—a cross-cultural cadence.
Yodeling yonder in the Alps' billowing bellow
Zither's zephyrs—a zenith we accentuate and attune.
Categories:
musicality, culture, dance, humanity, music,
Form:
Abecedarian
Let me paint a picture descriptively
going on ten he's only three
ever so smart as can be
with an enormous vocabulary
mastermind of colors, numbers, and ABC's
Harvard, Yale, or Stanford University
a bachelors or masters degree
a bright future I foresee
runs like a flash of lightening
a grand finale of fireworks of energy
mentally challenging
exhausting me physically
yin and yang personality
on the cusp of gemini and cancer, diversity
brilliant ear for musicality
memorizes songs effortlessly
carrying and holding a tune in every key
happily he love's to sing
smiling, friendly, cuddly
at time even naughty
sense of humor ingeniously witty
lives fearlessly
a bundle of purity
Loved and loves unconditionally
blessed spiritually
tremendously I'm a proud Mommy
--by Traci L. Stickel
Categories:
musicality, childhoodme,
Form: