Two guys by a bus stop, and they have nowhere to go.
They begin merging plucks and ribbits into a melting comfort.
Their destination is the Earth, and sedans honk at them.
Red stop sign becomes a resting place for a fellow cellist.
Fair lime crickets play along to the weeds, if just for this one moment.
And the taste of copper and paper is thrown at them in antipathy.
They are not homeless if the meadow’s honey is their home.
Yellow plaid is unlikely to grow here, it is foreign, says the guttle.
Different hues of blue in their familiar magical background.
No mortal whistle in the gale ought to be uttered during the tree’s ballet.
One hurricane lantern is shared between deities, or humans, or leaves,
And you can barely make out the vicars of string and bloodline.
Powder white porcelain glares at the back of their senseless heads,
Resting on a moss bed wearing a dress fly-fish dip in and a bear died for.
With a face made of zig-zags, one of them eats their mom’s snack,
The other swims with a black dog in gin bottles and stolen mint.
What a paradox, cried the wolves; they soon bellowed along.
Categories:
cellist, aubade, home, life, miracle,
Form: Free verse
Frog was selling the heck out of the flowers today
A cellist came by asking if he would pay him to play
Frog thought the bear was annoying, but allowed him to stay
However, he told him he had no money to pay
The cellist did not mind, he was pliable and sweet.
He performed some fantastic pieces; his instrumentals were neat.
The frog changed his mind and asked the bear to come back tomorrow.
I could probably pay you a shilling, he told him, to the bear’s sorrow.
Categories:
cellist, 2nd grade, 3rd grade,
Form: Rhyme
we see
her feet
her robe
drops as
the sound
track sounds
more ominous
then what we are
seeing as she steps
into the bath
pulling the final
curtain that blurs
her nakedness
but now we are
clearly in the tub
with her
as her hair
falls down in
wetness as
we witness the
shadow of some
thing outside
what was her
private room
in the steam
the images start
to thicken as she then
pulls the curtain
aside and yells at
the string quartet as
their music
was beginning
to feel and fill the
screen
with morbid
tricords and
then suddenly the
cellist says we
should have
played at
the baby
shower
instead
Categories:
cellist, muse,
Form: I do not know?
Midnight memories of moonlit bay
When in his arms young passion lay
Beneath the twilight prior to dawn
He the prince and she the swan
With an exchange of funny quips
He craved sweet nectar of her lips
Citrus notes from her perfume
Intoxicating thoughts consume
Ignited passion in their eyes
Fuelled by fun and restful sighs
Just one touch upon her skin
Awoke the lust and carnal sin
Now love cascades down delicate flesh
Like cellist and cello bodies mesh
Entangled dreams and shared desires
Merging in those raging fires
Exploding waves upon the rocks
It’s open now, Pandora’s box
Friendship gone - it’s something else
What happens when the passion melts?!
October 27th 2019
Midnight Aurora
Thank you to Curtis Moorman whose early morning quips inspired me to write this :)
Categories:
cellist, friendship, love, sensual, silly,
Form: Rhyme
she critiqued the written words
some she refused to speak out loud
she used humor to laugh
at what she had read.
when the cellist wanted to rehearse the song
she told him she didn't feel comfortable singing
in perfect English: she wished to sound out
the words, and use her voice as an instrument
to fill in the spaces ere she thought
perfect English lacked the sounds of her style.
they sung and played the song
first in a mellow way, than in a soothing soulful
bass casting perception, getting right what she
thought was wrong. It worked it was suggestful
but she made angry a person
she had said was her friend.
For years they had collaborated and wrote music and lyrics together
the composer became angry when her words were said to have been
perfect English and wronged by the perfection.
she thought her friend could have been more creative in criticizing her work.
Categories:
cellist, appreciation, best friend, betrayal,
Form: Acrostic
What movement, what visual rhyme and grace ...
I have watched the old willow on my grand-father's farm
Sway in a summer breeze, sweeping the grasses with a soft movement
As sublime as the bow of a master cellist ...
I have rested in a hammock in the afternoon breath of the Caribbean,
Scents carried from the African plains to mix with sugar cane and brine,
Rocking me gently off to slumber in a flawless to-and-fro ...
I have been mesmerized by the perfect sweep of the pendulum
On my parents' grandfather's clock, the rhythmic back-and-forth of a child
On a swing, the tick-tock of a music metronome ...
The sweet up-and-down of a rolling ocean tide, the swooping flight of a
Pileated Woodpecker, the slow-falling drift of a winter snowflake, and the
Proud waving of my country's distinctive flag in the wind ...
But never in my many years on this Earth, have I beheld anything that
Compares with the flawless, hypnotizing, provocative, heat-generating,
Rhythmic dynamism and undulation ... of your voluptuous hips.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Swagger" Poetry Contest, Line Gauthier, Judge & Sponsor.
Categories:
cellist, body, passion, sexy,
Form: Free verse
Four horsemen hale deep in darkness their
knives and swords tear open red flesh
the city filled with smoke while skeletons
dangle from open doorways. Some are burned in
fires rising while some drowned in the turbulent
sea. A sweet cellist sits and plays alone among
the black and gray smoke singing in the dust.
A young Angel's wings catch fire and dead men
with quiet guns, face down in earthen graves.
Men like rust and set in dust with bloody teeth
streaming down their hungry face. No guns no
warriors left only black haunted houses with
gray broken gates. The skies are adrift with
smoke. Planets blow apart and seize
only fire. It is over, it is the end.
Categories:
cellist, absence,
Form: Free verse
First-class ship bound for Norway
o'er glassy seas 'neath cold dark sky
they met passing through the gangway.
Sizzle, pop! How the sparks did fly!
She a cellist, he a sweet guy
both cruising to view Northern Lights
but once they caught each others' eye
different splendors filled their nights!
by: Nancy Jones
For Nette's contest, “Hutain this one....”
Categories:
cellist, romance, travel,
Form: Verse
Across the branched park spires, towers and chimneys
Deep shot green silk tablecloth, green velvety curtains
Olive green chairs, viridian green carpet , green walls
Streams criss-crossing form braids of light and water
A flurry of bat squeals fill the milky violet peaceful sky
Moon round mirror standing together two pale twins
Rain falling like petals leaves glistening like tinsel
Eyes flash A bowl of pot-pourri assails the senses
Cellist plays Beethoven's Opus 1number 3 Cminor
Black hair falling over her shoulders as she cradles
Familiar well-loved enchanting sound fills the room
Categories:
cellist, imagination, passion, places, green,
Form: Verse