Hear the sound of my cry echoes
As the cry of sweet melody flows
A melody of sweet remorse
Feel it in your veins to endorse
Touch my heart Feel it gold
A warm note is enough to warm the cold
Snatch my breath away reaper of songs
A tune to one belongs
Play along Erik satie
I feel your melody with clarity
Gnossienne no 1 strikes a piano good
Don't stop ,it's one for the mood
Add classical music
Writing poetry
Does go together
As the music plays
Words for poetry
Fills the page with words
As I am listening
To the calming sound
Then I close my eyes
Relaxed the words
On a blank page
My pen is flowing
Until the words are
Written across the page
My pen flows with words
Till is is all written
On a blank page
My pen slowly stops
Softly the notes of a piano
begin to play
as evening dusk falls gently
like a quiet bird
in the night sky
Mutant suns of long ago
still haunting
the heavens
with its anemic haunting light;
Dark waters, a whisper away from life
gently gliding into the canal
The piano turns to black and white
in my mind,
Mozart dreams
Beethoven sighs
Chopin angels
Vivaldi cries
as the evening dances away,
I see a frozen tree in the middle
of an empty stage:
His hair is wild, his brow is furrowed
deep thought, ...
he is about to glide into another
nocturnal sonata
and so am I...
Once we had eight cats
Who loved classical music,
As I discovered
One day as they sat
Meowing on my carpet,
Watching my TV…
Listening as one,
Then another, classical
Music piece was played.
W.C.Hull © 2020-12-5-H1425-
2535-I52-K52-3-L59-3
Dark.
Grey.
Rain hits the earth making everything glisten despite the lack of light.
One dim street lamp lights the spot where she stands.
Curls.
Perfect.
Spiraling down her back, despite, or perhaps because of, the water in the air.
Pink.
Bright.
Aberrant.
Not a thing about this child says she should be here, and yet she stands.
In the small light of the road.
She looks at her toys lying about her dripping in the rain.
This small creature, an anomaly.
The time of year I will listen
To a classic music by Tchaisky
I enjoy the music of the Nutcracker
My eyes closed feeling the music
Feeling the flow of the tune
This music makes me feel
Like I am dancing across
the room
With my dance partner
The Nutcracker
In a ballet dance theme
Of the Nutcracker music
Sure not a snotty type but love classical music
It's so soothing and extremely hypnotic
Though not a snob
Mozart makes me throb
If you could see me now, I'm wearing a tunic
Folks more sophisticated than me might say I ain't got no couth, I suppose,
But I ain't a fan of Bach, Liszt and Mozart nor the music they compose!
Spare me the screechin' violins, growlin' cellos and twitterin' piccolos,
The rumblin' bassoons, the thunderin' timpani and the odious oboes!
Seems the woodwinds, strings, brass and percussion do their own thing,
Renderin' ramblin' and atonal piffle - no pleasure to mine ear doth it bring!
I'd rather listen ad infinitum to Elva Ruby Miller's shrill and off-key renditions,
Than suffer the agony of a two-hour symphony by professional musicians!
Shout, scream out!
No! Feel the voice
Verbose lyric, hyperbole!
No! Feel the words of song
Truly feel the depth with no wrong
Melt the berg of grief among
the happiness group and belong
a cheerful kingdom
-November 07, 2018 Chattogram
Not a snotty type but love classical music
It's soothing and extremely therapeutic
Though I'm not a snob
Mozart makes me throb
If you could see me now, I'm wearing a tunic
From the root, the sap rises up into the artist,
Flows through him, flows to his eye.
Activated by the force of the current,
He conveys his vision into his work.
He stands at a fixed place as the trunk of the tree
He does nothing other than gather
And pass on what rises from the depths
Neither he serves nor commands but transmits.
What a transmission of the classical music
It is certainly a form of meditation,
His consciousness is not in the lower vital world
And playing something soulful in high consciousness.
+++++++
April 29, 2014
Form Free Verse
Dr. Ram Mehta
Third Place Win
Contest: Rock My World by Debbie
This little man,
This shake of hair and shoulder life.
A smile, a grin on the last improvised beat.
This finger wonder,
palms retreat with a snap
as the santoor speaks
This collage, this voice
a million men in two
The tabla aches to begin
Shall we listen hard my friend?
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