or the spoons
but read it accompanied by something
the French horn
the harpsichord
the balalaika at the bus stop
the burping of a favourite uncle
on the runway as passenger planes take off around you
the Saturn V rocket launch was a clanger to the metal munchies
i mean i could go on
but i won't, because going on would be going on
the soul, the guest of the body,
needs nourishment, and calls for a poptart dad;
but i will go on, because this poem, read, as in a reading,
would be good to read out loud, accompanied by or standing alongside
the eruption of Krakatoa
Dedicated to Stuart A. Staples
I want to break someone's little finger
In three places
Give me strings on a hollow wooden body
Crumpled suits and apprehension
The warbler, the jongleur
The slur, the trill, the quaver
I can only serenade in that way
Without drop z tuning
Barmonies and mashed taters
Send in the French horn
Alone in the living room
The air conditioner remote
Engrossed and enthralled in the music
The dog watching me
Yvetta entered the forest quietly, barely making a noise.
She saw some pixies and elves getting out mischievous toys.
They noted her harp and wondered what she was about.
One of them made a tiny squeak, to them, probably a shout.
Yvetta sat down next to a cove on the roots of an oak.
Her melodious harp playing was serious, in no way a joke.
Within a few notes, a catfish swam down to listen.
Water stirred up by guppies, soon began to glisten.
Before the concert was finished she had butterfly and snail.
Hummingbird, frog, opossum and a raccoon with a hurt tail.
Weasel showed up along with a handsome white unicorn.
A snake slithered by asking if they had a French horn.
Turtles and faeries came along with brownies wearing tan.
A fawn showed up with white spots, along with rat from Japan.
Yvetta was thrilled that so many were excited with her sweet harp.
She played wonderful notes said butterfly, none of them sharp.
A woman who works shucking corn
Tells jokes that are Iowan born
Just lend her an ear
And you're bound to hear
How colonels can milk a French horn
Sweet so sweet just like candy corn.
When we kiss with candy kisses I am airborne. Every morning start the day with candy kisses so I can feel reborn. Every evening end the day with candy kisses so I can blow my french horn.
The years pass by with our many candy kisses so we will never morn.
Date Written: 10/30/2021
Note: Acrostic Rhyme
4 Place
1. Sweet
''S'' Contest, New Poems Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Ciel, on your birth day ‘twas true to say
Heaven’s bright light rays rain’d down from above
Fast forward to fifteen years to the day
Now it’s you that brings light, laughter, and love
Kind, calm and caring, words under control
Wait! Who’s that fleet girl in cleats with the ball?!?
Rocket shot from right wing shoots straight to goal
Through back of the net...ball, keeper and all
French horn, piano, and ukulele
Swimming with sea turtles and manatee
Beautiful music and places to stay
Your trips oft start with Airbnb
Beacon of bright light for love, hope, and peace
Sweetest of sweet hearts, our Ciel Elise
The New York Giants
are playing today
Watching football is exciting
Yes, it is violent
and people get injured
But the players know what they
are getting into when they decide to play it
They do it for the glory
and considerable financial rewards
I played touch football as a kid
and marched down the field at high school games
trying to play the French Horn in the marching band
Autumn is football season
and brings cool air and the changing of the colors of the leaves
I enjoy wathcing cheerleaders
and live vicarioulsy thorugh the medium of television
At 4:25 P.M.
The GIANTS will be playin
I intend to watch it
and root - as I always do
for the NY Team
Lily Valentine
By Franklin Price
5/19/2019
I'm here to tell a timely tale
Of lovely Lily Valentine
It may be slightly slanted
She's a relationship of mine
She's the daughter of my daughter
She has great talent in her voice
Since her early days of childhood
Music always was her choice
Was the lead in most the musicals
Was Drum Major of the band
Sight reads all the music notes
I just barely understand
Plays piano and the French horn
Maybe others, that's her game
Directs an a cappella group
Gemini Boulevard its name
They compete with other college groups
Awards for her are quite a few
She's been named the best soloist
And the best arranger too
Tried out to be professional
Was just the other day
For Musae, an a cappella group
Here are some words they had to say
We loved the way you interviewed
The way you used your voice
The way you copied Windex
Hands down you are our choice
Now she's on another branch
To climb the music tree
I know she has no bigger fan
Than her pop pop, that is me
I think once again you
will be able to write as imaginatively
as J.R.R and as humorously as Woody Allan
I have read both of their work and enjoyed it
So writers - pick up your pens!!
As for me I am hetero
Yes, I am a NY Giants fan!
I know some want the sport banned
But it is good for male bonding
I used to march down the field
playing the French Horn
Only problem was
it was too difficult an instrument to play
It is beautiful when played well
So is poetry when written well!
I woke up early on a Christmas morn.
Gladly waiting for Santa before dawn.
Looking through blinds in anxiety I'd torn,
I'd hoped to see him approaching my lawn,
in costumes in previous years he had worn.
But in disguise he came with a French horn,
playing elegies of demons unborn.
Wheat, barley, oats, rice and grains of sweet corn
filled his socks for a land which was war-torn.
I'd thought the usual Santa would return.
But a different Santa came to fore-warn
me of a nagging menace that had drawn
my nation to the brink, and seeks to drown
her in a season of yuletide to mourn.
I hear the music play,
the sad base line echoing
the light that shines in your amethyst eyes,
those beautiful eyes.
Such melancholy mirrored
in your sad eyes.
Crying melody,
the viola paints notes
from the inverted rainbow of your upside-down smile,
your sweet smile.
What sadness weeps
from that gentle smile.
Wails of bleeding sorrow
escape the French horn
as, from my embrace, you slide your slender fingers,
what soft tender fingers.
With gentle caress
you touch me with your slender fingers.
Then through the twilight
comes the tickle of tinkling bells
that drip note by note with each tear that you cry,
as you sit and cry.
Each tear I wish I could dry,
each lonely tear you cry.
01/16/2018
Just around the bend is the end of the line
Its there if you look for the neon sign
It's flashing in bright translucent white
Hung like a masterpiece against blackened night
Streaming, gleaming polished stars so bright
Did you know even the French horn must be drained of spit
Let it go before you reach the end of your rope
Birds sing in symphony when you awake with hope
Crickets lullaby when your eyes tire, open ears a bit & sit
Wring the rain right out of the atmosphere
Share your boisterous laughter here and there
Do it now as surely we are all aware
Just around the bend is the end of the line
and that our gravity lives will come to cease
When hopefully we meet the true master of peace
12/7/2017
An off-day for the quill: I’m channel surfing
from a carpeted beach beneath beveled
canopy. My legs haplessly dangle flung
overboard crossing a comfortable
black leather partition provided by Sears.
On CNN there’s a bow legged French horn
wearing white face apologizing for American
abundance above the ticking measures
of Cold War success. Spare me, Christiane.
Thirsty, I have the maid fetch me a fresh Coke
and resume my voyeuristic voyage downstream
through high-definition static and spoken
saturation. Eddie Cummings flips a knowing wink
then sweeps the tulips from a chimney’s dream.
4/27/17
On my computer
I
play
songs of the late 1970's
My seed time
as it were
ELP, Yes, and King Crimson
Perhaps I will pick up a recording by
Nice
they did a great version of "America"
from West Side Story
or perhaps I shall return to the fold era
or flip on some Dvorak
Music and poetry
enables us to touch unreality
but only if we let it
Some recommend Beethoven and Bach
Others Chuck Berry and James Brown
Attempted to play the French horn when I was younger
what a gorgeous sound that instrument can make
The Beatles and the Rolling Stones used ti
So did we at Midwood High
AS we marched down the football field
Cool autumn days
remind us
of leaves turning color, football
and the beginning of the school year
I remember those days
As age creeps in
I attend poetry
readings
and volunteer at Poets House
read a lot of verse
Poets House has Israeli, Afro - American, Chinese, Puerto Rican poetry
and much more
The world needs poetry and song
And so doe we , friends
I tried to ply
the golden
French Horn
when
I
was
younger
I took lessons
and emptied
saliva
from
it
I even tried out for
the college orchestra
Don't have my golden French Horn anymore
Don't have much gold
either
But I love to hear
the French horn
in orchestras
and in rock and roll bands
It is a marvelous
instrument
and I am proud that I
tried to play it
Related Poems