Best Tenors Poems
When tuscan tunes of twilight,
cascade as clementine confetti,
She searches for secret silhouettes,
swirling to the symphony
of sunflower serenades.
In the midst of faded fields,
marigold memories crawl back,
refraining yesterday’s
tangerine dreams.
Swans glide in
sullen grace,
illustrating a saffron
backdrop from
sweet sighs of
fauna’s concerto.
Harmony of melodies
is the idyllic essence
of dulcet beginnings.
A plethora of
prewritten words
soar as passionate notes,
harvested through
hypnotic crescendos,
emanating amber toned scales,
whilst she sways below
apricot streaked skylines,
adorned in champagne
hued consonants,
synchronizing dandelion
desires,
fluttering beyond
darkness that floats,
as lyrical lines vibrate,
and ascend to
euphonious heights,
where bronze keys of
her mellifluous heart,
evolve from a tapestry
of twinkling tenors.
Her muse mimics
scentless petals.
There’s no wrong interval,
when performing in a world,
where rays of
honeyed glow drift,
veiling the rhythm,
between bleeding
dusk and dawn.
Changing chords remain
oblivious,
to the pulsating pain,
as her perfectly
manicured fingers lift.
The hunter’s moon
too refuses to see,
how her heart no
longer is made of flowers,
but nostalgic ferns
and leafless forests,
that twist and turn—
wilting away to
songs of sorrow.
But there’s a maestro
with a pristine prologue.
He understands her mind
blisters when colors tumble.
How her fragility has
been sleeping on
weathered pansies.
He guides her to
softly press the
porcelain frame of
piano keys,
playing the prelude
to a classical sonata,
lost in the maple waves
of wind-blown whispers.
Her oak leaf twirls and
sows duets
of sanguine tomorrows,
pitching lines within
veins rhymed in vain.
Birds of paradise croon
to orchestrated
hope and love,
while a palette of sounds
piercingly rise to unravel
a synopsis for healing.
“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.
I am like an avalanche slithering in shivering angst,
free-falling into an abyss of an aching era,
where luminous lakes reflect pixelated regrets,
for time throws my canvas into splitting helplessness,
and mind plays tricks in aimless frequency,
framing toneless tenors within paralyzed psyche,
pushing and pulling ivory strings of my ebony heart.
Now I’m dwelling in the chaotic caves of a calculative carnivore,
unable to grasp the lunar light that envelopes forsaken fields,
while crooning caged memories, like a pensive nightingale,
pondering, would the moon ever untangle these starless thoughts?
Or was it written on the wailing walls of melancholic museums~
that I was meant to drown in dizzying darkness?
I’ll rest my pen in a glass casket of equations~
cloaking this crippled conscience from seeing beyond vague visions,
detached from kohl eyes, eager to steal my voice,
as I keep sinking in black and white polarity,
pausing curative prose in screeching silence.
When soft colors of
the amethyst twilight,
dance amongst shadows~
swirling through forlorn forests,
I count sparkling syllables of
pirouetting peridots,
looking for metered refrains
from the emerald empyrean,
while wondering,
what am I but a
speck of astral dust;
garnet silhouette of
desert orchid dusk,
hanging on thin threads
of lilac-laced lines,
seeking sanguine
streaks between
black and white realms,
composed with rhythmic reasons,
that reveal pristine pathways
to still wander,
like a soulful sojourner,
sleepwalking through pilgrims
perfumed with peace,
to attain eternal nirvana,
there, I’ll no longer
be a wingless bird,
but will soar like a golden eagle,
feathered in fragranced faith,
and porcelain-tailed promises.
And as the pink pearl moon
unveils its hyacinth halo,
I twirl to the tamarind tenors
of twinkling topaz,
that fall upon healing hills
thriving with buttercup bliss,
below funeral fogs,
where melanin phases of faces
lurk in sweltering silence,
stimulating my quill to release
pastel pigments of contentment,
like glowing galaxies of gratitude.
Yet, I am an unfinished poem,
completely incomplete,
comfortably rhyme-less,
misplaced in a melancholic
meadow of magnolia metaphors,
too vague for the eye
that sees not beyond
my sun-kissed skin.
While from ethereal verses,
scattered across
seraphic spheres, I strive,
wishing that phrases I weave
across midnight skies,
would calm the soundless storms
beneath lunar-pillowed oceans,
as this glistening ink on
the ceremonial canvas
of life and beyond,
longs to be the epitaph
that immortalizes my voice
amidst ashes and stones,
skeletons and bones,
there I’ll slumber with
light still flowing
through poetic veins,
amidst the
piercing pandemonium
and turmeric tranquility;
yin and yang of existence,
I am both, earth and water;
aura of intuitive seas~
and cathartic currents
mirroring the crestfallen crescent,
soaked in infinite luminescence
from aesthetic lanterns.
“The sounds of Earth is the music of my soul”
I remember the valley rolled with thunder
A section of tenors echoed from above
The sky was shredded, by forked lightning
Somehow that moment transcended love
Static electric rose up through the cloisters
The organist played like a demon inspired
Rooftop gargoyles overflowed with water
And eyes welled up, as if nature conspired
Rivers were swollen, the lake was heavy
A boy soprano, almost pierced the dome
Landslides rumbled away in the distance
High on ambivalence, I thought about Rome
The conductor was whipped into a frenzy
Fitfully pointing his wand in the air
As the tempest outside reached crescendo
Defiant altos, sang a hymnal prayer
Beyond the west window, storms fell silent
Shafts of light, shone through from space
Together the choir reached out in emotion
As they swayed stoically, to Amazing Grace
Originally penned 08/10/22
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 14 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mark Toney
09/13/22
“The reason birds can fly and we can't is simply because they have perfect faith, for to have faith is to have wings.”
- J.M. Barrie, The Little White Bird
Robins, wrens, sparrows,
quivering, yet silent, still
on limbs and branches, boughs,
heavy with rustling leaves,
their feathers brilliantly flaunted,
in cloaks of crimson, indigo and lemony yellow,
creating music with arms, soft wings
singing to the shattered trees,
in altos, sopranos and gentle tenors,
laughing, chattering, chortling,
teaching the skies their cozy songs…
wrestling with the crisp of winter,
hesitating on the melody,
alive… more alive than the breathless winds,
shivering through the oaks and pines,
washing away all the sun’s spun wishes,
singing light on the ridges,
murmuring joy and peace and love,
in angelic voices, lifted in praise,
silencing the grief, the pain, the heartbreaking
in the distance,
the heart breaking, like a whisper…
birdsong, bird’s song,
alive and warm, in tones of hope,
poured out like the sun,
gentle and fond,
adoring, worshipful,
rising to the skies, tender
falling over the promises, the fanciful
reflections of a love,
who is peaceful like the dove,
bird’s reassuring, in hues, all colors,
rising and susurrant,…
praising, praying, promising
forever spun on gold threads of light,
softly falling on shadows,
restoring the life, resurrecting
insights, inspiring, imaginations,
alive… so alive, the bird’s sing
and, while the night, so silent,
presses in on the soul,…
we are remembering the call of hope,
peaceful and praising, every praising,
like the wind through the trees,
the singsong breeze,
each bird trembles with the need,
to please, simply please,
singing to the One who erases the dark,
fills the heart and silences the shame,
as the heart continues to pray,
and praise, oh, how they praise,
singing like the love who stirs life,
inside each story,
inspires love that is ever worthy.
Baritone bullfrogs,
Harmonize with the cricket
Tenors as firefly lights keep
Perfect time at night.
Nothing’s quite as harmonic
As their melodious chimes.
Do you hear the music?
Floating on the breeze
And the sweet song’s lyrics
Brings words of peace
The music sings of peace on earth
And the chiming of sweet bells
There is a flute playing
With sounds of harps as well
I can hear the choir
Chiming in on high
Sweet Sopranos, Altos,
Tenors, and Baritone
Do you hear the music?
The choir and the harps,
Bringing words of peace
Which are loating on the breeze
It’s Christmas Morning bright,
And I sing along with the lyrics light
‘mild and sweet, their songs repeat’
And I hope with all my heart,
Where ever you are,
There’s peace on earth,
Goodwill to men!
‘Cause I can hear the music,
Floating on the breeze
And the sweet song’s lyrics,
Bringing me peace
*****lol first attempt at Sehra, form..if I have failed will another wordsmith share their knowledge?:)
Kaleidoscope of Butterflies
~Tenors, base, all creating an seemingly endless hum… from beginning through songs duration……Tenors and base humming… in background sounding on and off, … in background…
Universe, space, stratosphere
ATMOSPHERE, Earth’
Joins two souls together
( Chorus, repeat 3x,s)
…..A likened to butterflies through a kalei’do’scope, we come together…..freely choosing to bond alike butterflies resting in moonlit fields, we come together…
Forest green, reddest-red,
Blue-citron silken veils
Brightly adorned faces, non-so lovely as bride, Le fem’
(Chorus)
Alike a rainbow
Colors expressing a Universal Atmosphere
Vibing radiantly, spilling-over, covering Earth
FULL of light and happiness at the resonance of vows
( Chorus, final)
Jill
~ for contest of Julia Ward ~
5~15~2016
The ground was blanketed with fallen leaves
that crunched under their feet as they ducked
into the bushes and secluded spots behind thick trees
The forest was their domain the comforts of life
as fugitives in hiding they could survive,
it beat capture and torture.
Emerging on the path came eight horses
with their riders trotting into view
Robin Hood and the others emerged from hiding
knowing they will not be eager to surrender
As the sun starts melting into the horizon bringing in the twilight
Robin Hood and his men knew they were in danger
Why did he feel like he was totally kidding himself?
Jumbling and stumbling they start to dwarf
Their voices had evolved from bass and baritones to tenors
Avoiding getting caught they all backed away and scattered
Bidding the riders farewell, then departing
2/13/2016
Poetry Contest: A twisted poem about Robin Hood -
Sponsored by: C. T.
Three men walk into a bar
One is holding a guitar
He starts to sing a song
But no one sings along
Alone he plays his tune
On A sunny afternoon
The other men join in and sing
Out of the box they suddenly spring
Their voice’s aloud and proud
But still no response from the crowd
The three tenors they are not
But when in tune they hit the spot
Looking at each other all confused
Their pride is battered and bruised
Then someone happened to mention
The bar was at a hearing aid convention
In shock they stood at the bar
After realising no one could hear the guitar
Their heads hung in shame
As they point and start to blame
Then someone shouted “give us more”
The three more responded “Hell No”
Away they walk into the sunset
To travel home in their 1950’s corvette
Altos and sopranos
Blend - songs
Are heard in the distance . .. . . . .. . .
bass and tenors sings songs of joy
Noises...(pleasant noises to be precise)
Musical noises increase in volume
Some people talk and sing at the same time
Some are having the time of their lives
Then...something breaks the innocence of a professional choir -
Bad language! I bet you didn't expect that, did you!?
People speak freely now
It's as if the teacher is saying, "Go ahead, class, and cuss all you want now!"
Very loud - the commotion is banging at my ear drums
My ears are sensitive to the noise
Yearning to hear songs instead of chit-chatters
I wanna hear music, not the latest gossips!
Songs and noises get my full attention in a good and bad way . . .
Just sayin'. Now, I'm hear payin' the price.
I'm obeyin'. Now, can I roll the dice?
Did you ever Roberto Nesto … the reggae maestro
Decorating rocks in the ghetto … children’s falsetto
Rising for liberation from tenures of poverty
Logwood lit from the shredded ash of ganja smoke
Rising to rinse the heart of woe … the clarity
Of things about his ragged ghetto … father broke
Love pregnant on cornmeal porridge … don’t cry
O woman, don’t cry, memory in music exploding
And now the world will dance to marijuana high
Dreams rocking, shooting, looting the tenors meaning
We were left nothing, now watching mainstream sings
Tributes to us for gifts of culture and the game:
The balladeer circles the sun on broken wings
Oh he made melodies out of the ghetto’s shame.
(Sorry folks, I could not resist the temptation, the rebel I am, to explode High cultural
traditions and provide a door for the people to celebrate from street and ghetto their own -
since none of the classical masters means anything in the pop world. Robert "Bob" Nesta
Marley OM ... February 6, 1945 – May 11, 1981 ... was a Jamaican singer-songwriter and
musician. He was the lead singer, songwriter and guitarist for the ska, rocksteady and
reggae bands: The Wailers (1964 – 1974) and Bob Marley & the Wailers (1974 – 1981).
Marley remains the most widely known and revered performer of reggae music, and is
credited for helping spread Jamaican music to the worldwide audience. "No Woman Nuh Cry"
is rated a classic by many musicologists.)
26/2/2012
By Sashi Prabhu (zeauoxian)
Contest: treasure trove
Austerely laid my eyes firmly on my garden far side
Tattered page piles, from my attic treasure trove, littered outside.
I picked up a dog eared page of the days of sitting together,
In this garden, cuddling and smooching in cold weather.
On such a glorious winter day, I scribbled on this page love notes,
A long time ago, by the way, in double quotes
Nostalgic now the dismal, Melancholy tenors that fill in,
Memories of “au revoir”, replete my poignant heart to its brim.
A wind now blows this dog eared page & it flies by the old gum tree
Dully chase it with some rage &as I see the page, begin to read all about me……………..
For the last two lines, the paper is vacant void & bare,
Heart’s healed wounds to open with quinine drenched text I would not dare.
search for me when
black are the
stars of midnight
for in every sunset
I see your name
in every moonlight
you feel
this restless flame
poetically fading into
rose-gold ruffles
of riddled reflections~
a spectral mirage
calming the
singing thunder
veiled beneath aching lungs
struggling to breathe
when the air feels
like scorching sorrow
infused with
rusts of regrets
gusts of gloomy garnets...
yet this heart
is a field of butterflies
a fragranced ambience
enhanced with empathy~
I forgive you for
turning my muse
into
a galactic garden
of
grieving geraniums
whilst you scroll
through the soul of these
s c a t t e r e d
lines of unrequited love
from a distance...
perhaps these woeful words
failed to reach
beyond your bleeding sighs
stuck in virtual pages
reminiscing moments
of magic
as I stand on the frayed edge
of
porcelain frames,
listening to turquoise tenors
while whirling waves
of memories
caress wind-swept
footprints
of
sundered soulmates~
and I long to be your dusk
where
wilted willows
s p r o u t
and
s w i r l
like emerald embers ...