I dwell within a vault of seasoned pine,
Where cedar ribs trace curves of spine,
A cavern arched with honey-colored wood,
The quietest home a creature ever could.
Above my head, a rosette carved in lace,
Filters the daylight into one small space,
A golden circle painted on the floor,
Where giant fingers stretch and start to soar.
Then wakes the giant—sweeping arm and hand,
Striking the chords above this hidden land;
And every wire becomes a brazen beam,
Shaking the rafters of my hollow dream.
The notes crash down like thunder from the sky,
Making the air vibrate, the dust motes fly,
A tidal wave of brass and silver sound,
That pins me softly to the maple ground.
And when they rest their palms against the waist,
The roaring ocean dies in breathless haste;
I curl up warm beneath the bridge’s arc,
A tiny tenant sleeping in the dark.
I play the best instrument of all the boy said
We guessed drums, guitar, sax, stated Ned
“No, no, no,” he shook his head
We were out of idea by the time we went to bed
I’ll bring it by and play you a tune
He finally showed up late afternoon
It is an accordion! We thought this funny
Until he started making decent money
It seems weddings and funerals pay big
For those who bring an accordion to a gig
Who knew this? Who would have believed that?
He is now living in splendor, our friend, Matt
'Tis melodious music resonant has gone deep,
Tenor cleft trembling audaciously within,
Like sea, audibly searching immensely steep,
Vocalizing many universes therein.
Violin, Xylophone, banjo, bass guitar 'tis befall!
Ambience sensation Ah soothing, pleasing tremor,
Forming audibly, crescendo shift staves squall,
Softens our e'ver stony heart like th' stemmer.
Euphony that's nostalgia intense emotion,
Sounding harmoniously wanting, an' wondering,
Instrumental fortissimo that brings notion,
Stillness, sounding turns resoundingly thundering.
Enthralls our unfathomable emotion, ring,
Induces enraptured soul never before,
Our determination echoes so despairing,
Audacious Phoenix ablaze into bright galore!
In the depth of my soul,
Lies nothingness next to my existence.
In a box lacking pure experience
Only one question is anchored in me,
“Is it mine purely, or just a monograph?”
A question with confusing philosophy.
Behind this social “instrument”,
Lies a resistant mind
Full of dreams and visions,
Not expressed due to fixed missions.
I say experience lies in uncertainty,
But told to trust the tangible
The “truth”punished for if questioned.
Truthfully, another question haunts me,
“Do I surrender, or do i explore the mystery?”
woe to me, an instrument without its player,
who shall pull the bow across my strings?
The gale arrives, a stealthy player,
drawing harmony from my dusty strings.
She comes, she goes;
and with her, the world’s rhythm flows.
Fingertips
fall—
not like
stones,
but like rain,
plucked silver
threading the air.
Each string
holds a hush,
a breath not yet
forgotten.
The musician builds—
not a score,
but the curve
of a heron’s wing
skimming dusk
softly vanishing
in a single glissando.
The guzheng does not speak.
It spills:
vibrato,
a tide rising
then breaking
against memory.
Sound leans back—
not toward silence
——but toward a
distant shore
we once
heard.
________________
Note: Guzheng is a traditional Chinese musical instrument.
sound of blues ripples on--
smokey tunes blowing hot
sizzling flamed mood...it's jazz!
sax notes intoxicate
swirling like coltraine's grind,
soulful trance whips my breath...
spice of night, weekend jives!
jaw harp
listen to my voice
it is your voice that I breath through, though
your secrets are whispered but by my arouse
speak my thought
o sing me
no, the instrument
not the president
jews harp, jaw harp
plucked from thy heart
by the shaman heals
meditation steals
its rhythms
across realms
eventualities
and through centuries
tricked by its old name lure
tricked by its sound, nature
jewes trump for a king
heck why not, a politician
We're all instrument
In many ways, fit, we can
Other's amusement.
they streaked past us so fast
I was not sure who was in the lead
that's my granddaughter and her puppy
explained my neighbor, Mrs. Sneed.
They never stopped running
throughout the house, even on the couch.
The little girl fell off a couple of times
But she was tough, we never heard an ouch
they sure are having fun, I said, not sure what else to say
They are so much fun, Mrs. Sneed replied. But I am glad it’s only but one day.
For when they go home, I am exhausted and have to rest two hours.
They ran past us several more times, wet now, due to lovely April showers.
harp
to the mouth at the mic
on one side
the awe-maker
on the other side
the awestruck
harp
to the ear at the air
invisibly gained
bleed the crowd
there is something about
the simplistic shape of a conundrum
an ancient voice in modern mouth
in cartloads for the few to quell
where ice finding comfort in flames
many a throat bending breath
singing like electric birds of paradise
fully charged and chirping
hum and twang and cooing purr
songbirds, my blackened raven
thaw from towers, steel beauty, caw
across tropics, canopies and solitudes
sweet openings to a midnight's play
oh warm to my lips, my songbird, warm
we fill each other, marry
beyond the cartoon spring in Scooby Doo
like a stag on a mountain’s rippled rove
a dimensional wormhole letting feelings through
bringing words of secrets, a couple’s love
an instrument whose song comes from within
a pluck, the kiss upon the lips
my meditation, a distant lawn mowing
bring me syllables served in porcelain cups
and the shaman knew its cosmic worth
a healing voice like a Tuvan’s throat
deep flames that crackle in the hearth
or further down to magma’s note
the twang, its cry articulates
with the warming drizzle of chocolate
What happens to this poetry embroidered within the walls of my heart,
When the joy of my words are shattered underneath your feet,
Can the torture of your empty moon paint a slithering promise,
Far across into my deep colorless dreamscape of dahlias,
Your dry eyed apologies took me to a mortal with no reflection,
As you hide behind your short lived excuses and homed cruel intentions,
Like a fool I was to believe that a rose could bloom in the peeks of winter,
While broken instruments illustrated a weak illusion,
Shame, These knees you held with such tender affection,
Poured our tales into my abstract dreams,
How you wandered into my eyes casting a waning crescent,
Hoping the fragrant of a swine won’t clear my sight,
I’ve stood by the hills, where it steeps down your hell,
Perhaps the burdens you trust and love are the saint in your spells,
Claiming clarity for a chaos that have you deeply compelled.
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