Best Trombones Poems
Oh captcha squares, oh captcha squares
What are these objects in your frames?
Oh captcha squares, oh captcha squares
Why must they gotta be the same?
Cars and busses, traffic lights
Bicycles and motor bikes
Crosswalks, signs, and steps and stairs
Fire hydrants everywhere
Boats, planes and parking meters
Tickets, fines, misdemeanors
Why are you so fond of these?
Why are palms the only trees?
Oh captcha squares, oh captcha squares
The pictures trapped inside of there
Oh captcha squares, oh captcha squares
Depict a world so bleak and bare
Arid, bland, unaesthetic
Barren, drab, unpoetic
Sterile, cold, antiseptic
Unconcerned, apathetic
Somber, sad, and desolate
Woeful, bland, pedestrian
Weary, grim, dreary, hopeless
Grainy, gray, out of focus
It doesn’t need to be this way…
Many things could fill your squares
Why not fill these things in there?
Tambourines and castanets
Bass trombones and clarinets
English horns and piccolos
Harpsichords and xylophones
Fiddles high and Irish whistles
Jingle bells and finger cymbals
5-string banjos, mandolins
Saxophones, accordions
Desmond Tutu and Mandela
Cassius Clay, Cinderella
Charlemagne and Genghis Kahn
George and Ringo, Paul, and John
Twain and Edgar Allan Poe
Wayne and Brando and Monroe
Ida Wells, Frida Kahlo
Steinem, Parks, and Ferraro
River Thames and stormy seas
Winter wrens and bumble bees
Cyprus, ash, oak, fir, and pine
Sassafras, willow, and lime
Daffodils and magnolias
Marigolds and begonias
Cabbage, beets, and potatoes
Carrots, beans, and tomatoes
Oh Captcha Squares, Oh Captcha Squares
If your pictures must remain
Oh Captcha Squares, Oh Captcha Squares
How aboutcha change the frames?
Captcha circles, captcha suns
All the captcha olygons
Wiggly captcha twiggly lines
Twisty captcha twiny vines
Captcha diamonds, captcha hearts
Captcha clovers, moons, and stars
Captcha ribbons, Captcha lace
Captcha colored string bouquets
Oh Captcha Squares, Oh Captcha Squares
We understand you're here to stay.
Oh Captcha Squares, Oh Captcha Squares
Just be more creative, OK?
Composed, he walks towards the podium.
At first to applause, until a hush forms.
His heart beats like a water pump,
sweat drips - eyes fixed at his ensemble.
Audience anticipates,
as he stands at the nexus of musical creations.
With a brief glance - nods and closes his eyes,
baton in hand and a flick of wrist,
an oboe penetrates the silence,
violins trill and bass begin to roar.
His empathy connects with each note,
as his wand moves to the tempo,
conjuring symphonic magic,
softly then dramatically,
as emotions ebb and flow,
like waves weaving solo tones.
Spectators lost in imagination.
Gradually the melody flows faster,
as trumpets and trombones blow.
He feels a sharp pain in his chest,
as his pores drip like little rivers on his lips,
but he still guides the harmonic mood
with precision and clarity.
As the horns blare and percussions echo,
he loses grip of his baton - falls onto his knees,
clutching his breast - the music stops,
pianist plays her last key - audience gasp
he falls to the ground - curtains close.
Sing Me an Old Style Song
Sing me an old style song,
With pretty flowing phrases;
A story of love gone wrong,
In other times, in other places.
No trumpets blare, just sweet trombones,
A crooner, smooth tongued and mellow.
Hurting, aching, quiet, for me alone.
Sing me an old style song.
Let bottled tears stain my cheeks,
As your freckled nose appears before me.
For I cannot cry to beats and bangs,
Please sing me an old style melody.
That I may cry and cleanse my heart;
Empty and ready for a new filled start.
Jingle!
She has a bracelet on Hear it?
Jingle!
When she tells her friend how concert-hip she is it
Jingles!
Quaking little cupids. trolls and other creatures come together
and they
Jingle!
On the brighter side, she's taking off her hat,
but when she does it's tutti-forte
JINGLE!
I'm betting at the softest point of Weber's overture she'll
consult her program and it will
Jingle!
Oh, damn!
Jingle!
It's in my ears in my head like Robert Schumann
Jingle!
Get a grip The concertmaster has come on takes a bow
looks to see who makes a
Jingle!
The oboe sounds an A
Jingle!
The winds begin to tune
Jingle!
The brass have heard her song and laugh
Jingle!
Horns trumpets trombones give a mighty blast!
Jingle!
And here come the strings all 62 pull there bows
but still can hear that
Jingle!
Now at last her tintinnabulation's lost in thunderous
applause Maestro has come on
(Jingle)
I do believe he knows the lass
Jingle!
He throws to her a little bow a kiss
Jingle! Jingle! Jingle! Jingle! Jingle!
Flutes, ahead laying the routes
Oboes they off to Villalobos
Harps, dusting off vessel tarps
Violin silenced by engine din
Cello, matching the revving bellow
Piano sad in the canoe
Clarinets are taking private jets
Horns, fasten seatbelts the Captain warns
Cymbal off checking the gimbal
Saxophone, sorry plane now flown
Bassoon missed flight in June
Trumpets in London loving crumpets
Timpanis tanning in Florida Keys
Tambourine, ouch you forgot sunscreen
Drum in Jamaica sipping on rum
Trombones still crossing time zones
Tuba, where else but Cuba!!
The sound of baroque fills the air
the lively beats one can hear
as senses reel to music sweet
elves dance upon imaginary leaves .
The orchestra reaches crescendo
shattering crystals of chandeliers on high
staccatto beats .....the doe skids across the icy field
as snow cascade down from cypress trees.
Violins squeak ...Trombones blare
mandolins vibrate the inner ear.
The harp thrills......soft ripples along the narrow stream,
fish jumping into sunbeams.
Cymbals clash , a metallic crash...splintered timbers caught in lightening flash
A silent throb...the music dims... a cool beeze flows over the hills
soothing, drawing all into a warm embrace
calming the spirit , slowing the pace.
The music wanes...... delicate snowflakes stuck to window panes
A Grand finale......twitching nerves that long for solace.
Silence now as the music stops.
Peace follows music sweet.... into dreams.
Baroque music lives on....do not weep.
Sleep now ....sleep.
“A maestro is like a candle. It consumes itself to light the way for others.”-
~~ The Poet ~~
Conductor of an art form, stands the maestro of the storm.
Instruments take their place, then the symphony begins.
Firstly, a tuneful rhapsody of woodwind with violins.
The sheer spellbinding rhythm builds increasingly strong.
A tinkling as the rain begins, he uses spiccato to bring the tempo along.
The piccolo sends notes scurrying for cover by the continued rain,
And introduces the flutes into the mix once again.
The cadence evolves, with heralding intensity to engage.
Notes follow the beat, to a crescendo of immense rage.
Now, as the kettle drums implode within their skins,
The conductor is in full control, as his baton spins
Music’s fury is reinforced by trombones, entering for the first time.
Cymbals clash, cellos and double basses offer a fortissimo effect, sublime.
The percussion again, joins, as the woodwind slows,
Notes soften, and the flute’s melody gently flows.
A solo of horns, a transition with the full orchestra, it springs.
In suspense of his melody, the piano takes us to strings.
Tempo lighter, airier which is juxtaposed with the timpani drums.
The soft gentle tones, once hurtled by deafening wind, silence comes.
Audience captivated, orchestra foregone. The maestro lowers his baton.
I better take my trombone lessons serious
Not for fun or fame, neither for leisure
A prophesy I wish to help see light from the Bible
“At the judgment day Angels will blow their trumpet
But forgot trombones will also match
The quality of the sound that will blow
I will surely render my service for free
(After all God loves a cheerful giver)
And hope to receive the blessing of salvation
To find my way to the segmentation of the sheep
How lucky I will be. That faithful day,
If the Angels blow their trumpet, I will take out my trombone
And proudly blow my trombone.
If Angel Michael blows his old trumpet,
I will blow my new trombone.
Symphony No 9
enter sounds of pianissimo allure
Elysium with piano keyboard pure
floating along Schiller’s poem “ode to joy”
faint piano fingers find her bashful coy
leading emotion along a subtle score
three trombones follow the soft violin strings
choral symphony opus in love with wings
the allegro meter picking up slightly
the master deftly lifts the music gently
leading the way for music to fly and soar
two horns drop to an adagio slowing pace
brass horns bring the B flat for the extra bass
tempo slow leading to a prime horn solo
his genius growing the perfect audio
audience gravely silent waiting for more
bass drums bring in the fourth a big ovation
brass trumpets rejoice the crescendo occasion
its percussion and contrabass swooning artistry
this symphony is art breathing life into poetry
symphony number nine; Beethoven’s life crescendo furore
Tribute to Beethoven’s final symphony when he was deaf
hugely influenced by Friedrich Schiller’s poem” ode to joy”
Reflecting his work in 4 movements building to the final vocal
Crescendo in the 4th movement (increased syllable count per line in final stanza)
Dark and lonely
A cave in my soul
Dripping with emotion
A tidal flood
Encrypted in my heart
An arrow through a lark
Broken trombones
And old sousaphones
Honk into the night
I'm a rain dog that bites
I am a rattle snake
That wants to fight
There’s no love here
There never has been
You ask me for my hand
It’s a shaker and a tam
No thank you ma’am
I'll take my chances
On snake eyes
And remove the scales
That tie
So don’t come looking
For sunlight
It’s damp and dreary here
For a heart that is closed
This is no place for you dear
Written By: D. Collins 11/17/15
Let me bring ya’ll back to what it once was.
That sweet, Gumbo flavor on the tip of your tongue.
We had The Meters, Chocolate Milk, and Fats Domino.
Louie Armstrong and the Irma Thomas Show.
We had music, spirit, and our traditional dance.
Trumpets and trombones were in every band.
We danced in the streets, and we never sat down.
Twenty-four-seven we would paint our town.
People came together as if all were kin.
And, it didn’t even matter what color of skin.
Je t’aime beaucoup for what you’ve given me.
The bosom of New Orleans and all it’s history .
With indisputable culture and indescribable heart.
Je t’aime beaucoup, which means “I Love You A Lot.”
Through me they’ll know about the “Big Easy.”
The city long, before George Bush’s “Breezy.”
The concert Band
A work of reeds, air, and hands
Reading sheet music isn’t easy
And our uniforms are anti-sleazy
All instruments must be in tune and time
Otherwise we sound like a broken chime
The flutes sound sweet and dainty – like a fairy
A piccolo can go so high it’s scary
Our key of music is set in the key of C
When we are in tune we sound so pretty
Clarinets are reeded
When they squeak, earplugs are needed.
They play way too soft; you must strain to hear
And you have to be quite nearfor that my dear
Saxophones are loud, reeded, and sqeaky
Sometimes they can be quite spit leaky
Those sweaty neckstraps are almost like ties
You could wear it with a suit and look like one of those classy rich guys
Trumpets range in color - silver or gold
Their sound is quite bold
They have valves of three
And all the fingerings are quite easy
French Horns are very hard to play
Tis hard to get the note you want to stay
You have to put your hand in the bell
The smell is totally not swell
Then the oboe and the bassoon.
Oboe sound high and sqeaky, and the bassoon sounds like a loon
Both reeds are double and small
And they arent quiet at all
Percussion is the busiest part to every band
They dont use air or reed; they use thier hands
They keep the tempo for the most part of the time
All of the precussion instruments cost one thousand times a dime
Trombones are made of brass and a slide
If they're loud, your hearing is fried
Stand to close, you'll get hit
Ive heasrd that hurts quite a bit
Without the conductor. we wouldn't be a band
They can change tempo with a flick of a hand
They control everything; we bow to your wow
They tell us where to end and when to play now
Proud parents gathered for the fifth grade band presentation.
The kids labored long and hard to enhance their musical education.
'Twas the band's first concert since its recent organization.
The harried teacher approached it with a sense of trepidation!
Moms and dads endured the commotion at home for many weeks,
As their blossoming prodigies practiced and honed their techniques.
Suffering through the blare of trumpets, the bleat of saxaphones,
The wail of clarinets and oboes, the atonal pitch of trombones!
The girls were dressed in white blouses and black, slinky skirts.
Boys wore dark trousers, black bow ties and snow-white shirts.
Each of the girls had a pretty ribbon adorning her hair.
Boys had even combed their hair - which was very rare!
Teacher apprehensively grasped her baton and waved the downbeat.
The program began with a simple rendition of "Bonaparte's Retreat."
At the end of the concert a heartwarming thing occurred.
The audience rose exclaiming, "Twas the sweetest music ever heard!"
Though at times they were not in tune and the tempo somewhat slow,
They proudly gave it their best and put on a wonderful show!
Was a spark in a child's soul that night fanned into a flame,
Boosting his or her enthusiasm to strive for musical acclaim?
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Never trust a woman with a stick
Allegros slow Andantes quick
It starts when Passionata comes on stage
Hips controlled feet detache dress in style
lento firm lips betray a smile
Rehearsals can be so deathly sweet
Routined (in mind) commence polyphony
hoping for a firm sure beat
She steps upon the stand with grace
Checks (includes her undergarments) that
We're all in place then
Taps the flowered rack
All players
men emasculated
women stuck to chairs
instantly repond (with silent prayers)
Egmont is chosen for the overture
The long tutti fortissimo is SICK!
QUICK!
Trumpets trombones French horns
empty valves of spit
Woodwinds check their springs
the reeds for grit
The entire string section pluck their strings
but OH!
The bloody tambourine
shaken on its stand rolls off of it
and down each riser in jingling fit
Passionata breathes contemptuous
sighs
rapture flash of victory in her eyes
At last a chirptwittering laugh
patronizing glance to all
(especially the men)
"Shall we" rising to her tallest fullest
"try it once again"
Salve for the soul in healing sound
Rhythms balm spreads in division
Lifts the hour high
Explodes the troubled mind to calm
Birds Interpret song on wild notes
Orchestrations with crescendos fly
Rise with symphonic melted hearts
Murmuring violins, strings together, meld
Overtures dawn with the song respond
Repeating every measure operatic
Movements operate on scores created
On levels not recorded simply on their merit
Far from civilization primal saxophones blast
Jazz discordant jungles awake inhabitants
Afraid, stir in the fields, collaborate
Instruments strike a wonder cord, relax
Falling rain that drops one note away
Stay up any way
Try not to reason with the rain
On pastures pure meandering
Rock and roll misgivings earthquake the dead
Bring them back to life with melodies
Raw streaming strings and drums, melodic sounds
Listeners never miss a beat, good enough to eat
Green waves of grass will laugh in harmony
Grow closer to an open concert stage
Quiver for an instant explanation
One that never came
Nearer than you will ever be
To solid ground in symphony
Feel a mystery evolve unsolved
Far from the here and now
There is something in the air not there, perhaps salvation
Far from the common cold, almost a religion, not quite a song
In musics realm, tilted towards the left, the brass section
Trombones for sure to settle the final score finale