Best Musician Poems
His fingers sailing on the string
Arousing enchanting rhythm from sleep
Solace to desolate hearts bring
And penetrate the craving souls deep
Music drifting in the air like perfume
Healing wounds like the miracles of Jesus
Prevailed serenity torments consume
Like a flower’s bloom elegant and gracious
Melting like butter the hardened hearts
Soothing like balm the anguish and pain
Healing the wounds of the suffering’s darts
Trickling like rain drops on a sun baked plain
Bestowing tranquillity and serenity to soul
The onlooker’s hands busy in ceaseless applaud
As on the Sitar his magic fingers roll
But his life beleaguered and misfortune clawed
Would tomorrow's air be perfumed by his music?
Would his means promise togetherness of his body and soul?
Would anguished souls still crave for the balm of his lyric?
Or the hawks of society devour his art as a whole
there is, indeed,a relationship
between music and poetry
creation! expression! release of things inside
If I had experienced neither, when I had died
And had to value the worth of my life,
And rate the influence my existence generated
for the general good, I'd be shy
How can I explain my worth, after I did die..
On this point I'd be proud,
Cause somehow I was so lucky,
To experience the joy of both
and did my best to leave a small mark
of my thoughts upon the earth
If but one word, one song,
one counterpoint jam, one painting
that I had done,
had meant something
to someone, than in this regard,
I have won!
There was a disabled musician
Who stiffly played every audition.
Now recording with care,
Strumming from his armchair,
On youtube he’ll post each composition.
20141113 for limerick contest
There were reasons we shouldn’t be together,
There were reasons we should have stayed apart,
But no reason could ever reason
With the passions brewing in our heart.
She was married to the mayor,
The richest man in our town,
I was an unemployed musician
For whom success had never come around.
She was fifteen years my elder,
Living in a mansion up on the hill;
I was playing guitar in the city park,
Passing around the hat for some coins and bills.
I sang love songs that I had written
About lovers that I never knew;
No one would ever stop to listen -
My notes rode on the winds that just passed on through.
I noticed her on the park bench,
Feeding the birds and tapping her feet;
I noticed the tears that were escaping
As she rocked to the rhythm of my metered beat.
I noticed how she started singing
The words she had heard each day;
I noticed how later into the evening
The mayor’s wife had started to stay.
I noticed how she started looking
Straight into my eyes as I sang the words;
I noticed how I started feeling
That my lyrics sounded quite absurd.
One day, she left early, after dropping something inside my hat;
I found a key to a motel room with a little note that she attached.
It said, “I can help you write a love song, about a lonely rich man’s wife
Who met a poor musician who gave her back her life,
And then when you sing your love song, people will hear it in your voice,
That it is a song that has real meaning and they will listen without a choice.”
We made love in the evening;
We made love into the night;
We made love the next morning,
At the first signs of sun light.
When I was writing down some music
For a new song, fresh in my head,
She left our room but didn’t go home -
She drove away from our town instead.
Now my hat gets filled up quickly
As people stop to hear my song
About a love between two lovers
That didn’t last very long.
There were reasons we shouldn’t be together,
There were reasons we should have stayed apart,
But no reason could ever reason
With the passions brewing in our heart.
Rain seeps into every crack and crevice
chilling to the bone
Winter has arrived with a vengeance
and summer is forever gone.
Ice slicks the asphalt, into a
glittering glistening death trap.
Here begins the slow invasion
of the unrelenting cold.
This grubby little mutt follows one day,
His hair matted, claws overgrown.
You take pity on the poor thing;
Starving and probably ill.
(A miserable pup with big sad eyes)
And leave blankets and scraps out the door
You wonder of his owners forgotten
He’s no street dog- well behaved and gentle
Perhaps abandoned, lost.
But maybe not. He’s ugly, scarred
Hairless in patches- He belongs in a kennel.
You don’t want him- and feel an inexplicable deep hatred
The wag of his tail infuriates and the curve of his snout enrages.
You slam the door.
A glass spills and everything is red.
Merlot on the carpet, scarlet on the bed.
You knock over the roses
Deep crimson of condolence
You want to draw blood, you want to destroy
You crave another’s red bloody torment
Schadenfreude, be damned
His whines pierce-
through the cold air of the night,
and the solid wooden door.
The royal blue E minor: the laments of the abandoned
You can’t help but join in song
As the wretched creature
howls expressivo at the starless sky
a symphony of loss.
Violins screech to his scratching
with trills, mordents and turns.
The descending melodic line fades and echos;
As the merciless tonic pedal of time ticking
crescendos.
The clarinets wails accompaniment;
subdominant, tonic, leading.
And with a plagal cadence, the mutt droops his tail
Morning arrives- painfully slow
The rising sun thaws anguished aubergine
And leave only tender lapis of fingers frostbitten.
They struggle; falls a familiar key
As you reach and bend
Moist; a warmth unexpected and wet
As the mutt licks your hand
tongue curling around a corpse’s digits
nuzzling his cold snout into the back of your knee.
Tongue lolling, tail wagging
The mutt never leaves.
The frost on the tree branches promise
Of how you’ve lived and grown
They shimmer like precious silver
and accent the beauty of home.
The fresh biting air,
with great gasping breaths you shiver.
Here begins a new journey
With your most loyal friend.
A
Dragon
Cannot play
Harmonica
Trying one melted
His own mouth harp
To liquid
Metal
Pool.
Easter Sunday
in a tide pool conch
a fiddler sleeps
I am searching your music
With torn flesh and jagged nails
Ripping stones from the earth
To find our root on the surface
Photosynthesizing some toleration
For the modified scream,
Your life flipping
From street to stage
I am looking for a beat to write
Dancing is too easy
Too coherent
Life is not like that anymore
What is left us beyond the jagged teeth of sound
Is what this music has become
This overwhleming hedonism
This great feeling
That we shall never amount to nothing more
Than this, a heart frantic
To become detach again
Without a chemical therapy of pain
A song on its tune
Makes others want to sing
A perfect harmony
Affects everyone who listen
Written and sung by someone
A musician with a powerful thinking
But no one knows his identity
Even the title of what he's singing
Haughty musician
at prize-giving function
blows his own trumpet
The Musician
I need a singer, to sing me a song;
Anytime of the day, I will need her love.
I need her beauty, to shine as she sings;
Or I need to hear her scream in sympathy.
My eternal sunshine, you look divine,
Beneath the light that shines, to show me your smile.
My love is yours to behold, my life.
I allow you to see through me; to see inside.
To see what is real;
Like the pain I feel without you near.
I wish this heart would pick a new career;
Because it is useless at love; it’s like me - a loser.
All I ask for, is you to sing a song I choose;
A rock song, a reggae number,
An indy tune, rap, comedy or something other;
Like a poem I wrote, after having a smoke.
My poetry has rhythm, so any poem could become a song…almost.
But if you find a song of mine you like;
Take it within your soul, for the rest of your life.
For I shall always write another,
For it is my hobby, my job, my love, my career.
So I pray you hear the words I speak;
For one day I could write the words for you to sing.
If you understand me,
Then be with me.
Read all my poetry and songs…
If you want to know the real me.
(C)2011 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Cold and damp, the stool in the corner,
The muso sits with guitar.
All in good time,
That’s rhythm and rhyme,
He brings colour and life to the bar.
Gus beats melodies, tunes and songs,
Ballads and harmony lines.
Rhythm and rhyme,
That’s all in good time,
With a chipped glass half full of red wine.
People relax while tapping their feet,
Moving and grooving the floor.
All in good time,
That’s rhythm and rhyme,
All is sweet from the front to back door.
Joggers, jeans, shirt and beanie,
He sings notes of emotion.
Rhythm and rhyme,
That’s all in good time,
Life’s free with the musical potion.
When Orpheus sang on his flute
All Nature listened falling mute
But when Samson sang
It sounded like a bang
That sleeping babies woke up with a jolt
Musician
Gifted, artistic
Sways, grooves, moves,
Joyful, hopeful, loyal, important
Virtuos
Musician
smart as butterfly
tiptoed into parked hall
surprised to see fiancée partying
drowned