Long Bach Poems
Long Bach Poems. Below are the most popular long Bach by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bach poems by poem length and keyword.
My dream shines brightly with ambitious gleam,
And in my heart, its vivid brilliance rivals even sunbeam.
I dream to be among the ranks of landowners,
To have thousands of acres and a hanseatic house,
Adorned with colorful feathered grouse,
And lush gardens fit for soirees and dinners,
Gazebos hosting bands and crooners,
And a view of a river as fair as the Great Ouse.
By day I shall paint,
And write prose and poetry
Lauding flora and fauna.
By night I shall play
Baroque tunes on a lute
Or Bach on a harpsichord.
All rights released into Public Domain
Sept. 26 2016
Three style II poetry contest
I walked with Mozart,
and he whispered,
“The Magic Flute will be my final prayer.”
Its light pierced the tender chamber of my heart,
and I wept.
I stood beside Beethoven,
his hand trembling in mine,
and he placed upon my soul
a chorus that rose beyond time itself—
each note a cry of eternity,
each harmony a tear reborn.
In the dreamland I found Bach,
the eternal architect of sound.
I said to him:
“You are the cathedral-builder of music,
stone by stone of melody and fire.
Your spirit still kneels within us,
woven into every prayer of sound.”
Chopin’s nocturnes touched the air,
fragile as moonlight on broken glass,
and I was lifted from the weight of sorrow,
healed by beauty too delicate to name.
Vivaldi unfurled his seasons before me,
a circle without end.
I was bound forever—
a prisoner of strings
who rejoiced in the chains of music.
When my mother played Tchaikovsky,
I whispered,
“What visions stormed your soul,
what fire burned through your pen,
to bring such wonder into the world?”
I spoke with Schumann:
“Your concerto will breathe
into countless souls
long after silence has devoured us.
You have made sorrow eternal—
and thus, divine.”
And in twilight, Wagner asked me:
“Do you love my work?”
I bowed and answered:
“I love all composers,
for in their voices lives the world.
Yet your fire burns like a secret sun,
a flame that no silence can quench.”
And so it was—
when silence wept,
music became our prayer,
our confession,
our everlasting breath.
Amy, Amy, what a voice,
As from heaven,
You’re a jazz singer,
Of the ones we can’t forget,
Sensitive, you felt guilty,
To refuse a photo,
You had too big a heart,
We asked you a hundred times,
How to hunt these people
So they can finally understand?
My God, what a voice,
What love, what love offered,
to all who listen to you,
You said thank you, tenderly,
I say thank you,
O Amy, what a voice,
It’s hard to understand,
I would have been in Belgrade to hear you,
Bye, bye, Princess, big black eyes,
Sing what you like,
It will always be more beautiful,
Only a Bach cantata,
Amy, Amy, what a voice,
An angel, angel in heavens.
For Christmas I got a Keyboard to play
I was thrilled to get this gift on this day
As a child, I studied the piano for fun.
My last piece was Bach and I was done.
Now that I am wiser and an elder,
The desire to perform was my answer
I bought some books on piano theory
Scott Houston’s ideas sounded easy.
Relearning the chords was pain free
His half step rules were simple to see
And the lead sheets eased my left hand
I was on my way to my first melodic band.
Now I was impatient and wanted to play
I had another text with lead melody ways
I flipped through the copy and saw Edelweiss
The black and white notes appeared truly nice.
Only white input guided my refrain on the board
In minutes I knew the sonata and wasn’t bored
I added the chords in time and fooled around
striking those entire notes created such a sound.
I enjoyed the tune over until I had no discern
When I ended playing, there was no concern
Tomorrow I will try another jingle on my keys
And practice the work until I know it in a breeze.
Distant strains of piano music
dance into my ears;
colors of vibrancy waiting
to take away my sorrows.
Somewhere black and white keys,
are laughing to the tickle
of nimble fingers;
that tickle my artistic fancies.
A canvas of Beethoven, Bach
or Mendelssohn fills my imagination
and my brush dips, ever so carefully,
into a palette full of elation.
The ecstasy of the arts,
spiritual adventures abounding.
The eyes, ears and spirit are blessed
to receive such sacred secrets.
The colors of music are black and white;
exploding into a billion etheric pigments.
TRULY SAD ABUSE OF POWER GATHER THEE UNDESIRABLE BEINGS ON THE SPECTRUM TO COMMIT THEE ULTIMATE BY BREAKING AND ENTERING TRESPASSING SEARCHING THROUGH VETERANS HOMES CRUSHING AMERICAN FLAGS FOR THEE OUTFIT OF SCUM ON EARTH MY PRAYERS ARE WITH THE CAPO CIRO GARGANO HIDING OUT FAKING HIS DEATH HIDING BEHIND UNDESIRABLE BEINGS ON THE SPECTRUM FUNNY RIGHT JEFFERSON ALABAMA BACH OFF ABUSE OF POWER STOP TERRORIZING DISABLED FAMILIES SEVERE ABUSE OF POWER BULLIES AN AUTISTIC YOUNG MAN TO TRESPASS WITH INTIMIDATION AND FEAR HIS UP COMING TRESPASSING ARREST OUT ON BOND HE ARRIVES SHAKING FORCED TO WORK FIR ABUSE OF POWER BELIEIVING HES GOING TO PRISON FOR A 300 DOLLAR BOND HE TRESPASSING EXPOSE DOCUMENTS TO CIRO GARGANO AND HIS ABUSE OF POWER STARTLING TAMPERING WITH DISABLED FAMILY AN ENTIRE FAMILY ALL ON THE SPECTRUM MANIPULATION INTIMATION BADGERING TERRORIZING FBI INFORMANTS DISABLED VETERANS DISABLED AMERICAN FAMILY
it's a mistake
i say as my
brain tries
to wake
me
aided by an
added alarm
though with
a charming
melody
this only keeps
me choosing
and pressing
me to press
snooze
which i do
over and over
and over again
beginning again and
again my melodic alarm
soon only looping
never ending as
is forever be
ginning and
becoming
turning into
a kind of
din as
if the
turn
table plays
the records
stuck the re
cords stuck t
he records stuck
s
c
r
a
tch
ENOUGH
though i
hold my
ears i'm
hearing
this
in my
head now
surely awake
the cacophony
translates
literally
as to
how
day
BREAKS
Form:
Try as I might,...I could not get it right
My small fingers that fumbled over the ivory whites
While scowling her face with that crabapple frown
One, two, three, four...one, two, three four...., her eyes looking down
"Try once more..." she repeated, and I would struggle, so hard....
She would point at the notes, with a yellow Number 2 .....
And circle the flats, and would circle sharps too
One, two, three, four......one, two, three four...
Don't bother to look at the exit or door
The room was too warm..." I keep the thermostat at eighty she'd say"
It helps old bones, , rhumatism, you know..it keeps the aching away"
A scent of Vick's Vapo Rub when she leaned in too close
"For my horrendous allergies".... she'd boast
A Kleenex all waded, a ball in her fist,
Her glasses hung from a nose,
That constantly dripped
One, two, three four,...one, two, three, four...
Oh how I wanted to run straight out the door
"Now, try it again", she'd say, as I glanced through the glass
Out to the sun and the summertime grass
With the sidewalk so ripe, for my playing 'neath trees
For some hopscotch, or jump rope, or roller skate keys
A day, ...not for Mozart, or Bach, or Beethoven...those guys...
What could those grim, long dead, wearing wigs in disguise
Understand of a little girls heart? One, two, three, four....One, two, three, four,
Oh how I wanted to run out the door
But now................My dear teacher....I wish you could know
How I grew to love music, and remember the days
When you gave me the knowledge and spirit to play
This beautiful gift, which I cherish today.........
One, two, three, four.....
May I play you a melody?......
And then, if you don't mind...
I'll be happy to play you one more....
__________________________________________________________________________
Miss Ella Mae Engle.... Rest in Peace, God Bless You, and Thank You From My Heart
Her pink okra fingers play violoncello,
Rises from her harmonic throat songs so mellow;
Is she a swallow? A skylark? A Nightingale?
Or the Greek goddess Calliope's sweet-sounding tale...?
An amalgamation of Bach and Beethoven,
Splays open, in and through her, like a vast ocean;
Piano, cello, bass guitar, and percussion,
Her heart and hands try all with perfect precision...!
Venomous feelings of infantile memories,
Childhood and adulthood draperies of worries;
Mushroom-like or monsoon creatures-like resentments,
Repetitions of termite-eating sentiments...
Like palms or banyans or olives Beth Hart withstood,
Worries and cares, though, continued as wild Redwood;
Grim hurt, anger, embarrassment, and frustration,
Could all these, yet, crash her creative causation...?
Rocks and boulders and hard hills, and mountains she breaks,
Earthquakes and volcanoes of destructions she shakes;
"Screamin' for My Supper", "LA Song (Out of This Town)",
Midst best melodic arts, Beth has her laurel crown...!!!
08 May 2023
Beth Hart Inspiration Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
Rhymes Checked At: Rhymes Zone
Syllables Checked At: How Many Syllables
Behind caution tape, I stand in the shade
watching a wrecking ball, tethered to sway
And soon with a gasp from the crowd standing by
A piece of the past is ready to die
I am seeing a lifetime, as it falls to the ground
the old tenement house, on Avery Street
For years it was home, to folks across town
Rarely do people now straddle it's shores
Where the root-buckled sidewalks lead up to the doors
And feet skipped over the cracks, with swift daily chores
All the chalked hopscotch lines have since washed away
along with laughter and the gold of the day
Summertime colors have withered and fled
Into bruised, battered bricks, of memories bled
Now, forsaken, this dethroned queen
With broken limbs and shattered eyes
of shards of glass, and broken lives
Still haunt the northwest wing
Thick layers of dust, cover the limpid leaves
of an old silk rose, within a vase
and reminds the gloom of dime store trips
when the passing lives, that used to be
were alive with simple certainty
A curtain, torn, hangs by a thread
and shivers, laced within the wind
A haven, built, of brick and clay
Defaced, disgraced, red-brick decay
Each story told, each life it held
Now crumbles with each stone, once laid
There were some who still remember, well
The ones who lived above the rim
By whom you could set the clock
By footsteps walked on wooden stairs
Who made this place a home
Now far away, the gossips say
"Their health had failed, such hell to pay
For now it seems to live each day
Someone has to tell them...
When to eat, when to dress and when to bathe"
People had watched them come and go
It was always with hand in hand...
Their music was heard between the cracks
Mozart, Bach, Glenn Miller bands
They had lived here forty years or more
Or so the legend goes....
No one really knows for sure, but know it was for years...
But now a flower in a vase
Is covered dust to dust
The lights turned off, no sigh, no trace...
with windows black, and lyrics lost
The wave that came, went back to sea
Like the hopes that fade away
Tomorrow's dreams have come and gone
to leave a winter's song
And is the only thing that holds the years
From waning into none....
___________________________________