Long Dulcimer Poems
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The junk drawer of my mind processes MOMENTO, like golden Ark Dulcimer, Cimbalom that shatters the font of unfinished sound, into pixels of mime, song bound, PUZZLE PIECE orchestrated by the filter of Time
In swirling depths of thoughts refined, sorted, assorted, twine.
The junk drawer of my mind resides, to be found again.
A hope chest realm where memories find their place, in their proper chaotic order digest.
In fragments, scattered from venture, far and wide re deployed.
Like the land of forgotten toys, a painting of unfinished joy.
Junk drawer, lessons from God.
Mind processing synapse, synod.
Poetic lines of insightful mysteries
Unfinished thoughts. "-"
Why a kitten is so endearing.
Why a cat has its own chick as a plushy,
(it's very own rainbow Charizard, to squeeze obnoxiously, then capture the void, bon avengers within junk drawer, purr upon in wave of polar oid.)
Within this hidden, sacred space,
lies an Ark of sorrows and joys,
mysteries.
Dulcimer ABACUS, plucked with fervor
of background noise,
composes, comprises, compromises the melody life employs a place, not a junkyard,
but a station of honor and grace.
Cimbalom strikes, resonant and pure,
opens to unfold precious capture.
Drawer opend, creating ripples, echoes of the past, beckoning you back in naked allure.
Shattering the font of unfinished sound,
of a song of nostalgia cure.
Bardic STRING shows where you've been
and flashes like a CARD to bring you back
within its kingdom, labyrinthine idiom fragmenting
of lessoning vaguery.
A PUZZLE PIECE, intricate and profound.
Each memory a stroke upon life's canvas,
framed in rainbow, tornadic hope, victory,
touchdown.
Orchestrated by the filter of Time,
crafting back, story, poetry wondrously
open to assemble to my need.
As I delve into this harem,
emotions rise and fall like a symphony's tide,
cascade to the sea, mountain sides.
For the junk drawer of my mind possesses
a BAND that TIES.
The power to stir, position, place,
a fall into the hole to leave an imprint inside
upon the whole, preside of unveiling,
behold my wares, MISCELLANEOUS,
extemporaneously-
stare wondrously as it doesn't lie, as it lies there
about the truth of whose
belongings are shuffled nigh.
I flip the history of Bojangles
On a cool Sunday evening
Los Angeles coming down
A flow of oboes breathing
Through the lung of the street
The hobo not stopping for air
Fingers moving in a dance
Across the strings of consciousness
Milking the music of his brain
Onto a breast
Of dilated ears.
Mr. Lopez, unsettled from his comfortable chair
Searching for something to tell
Against the neon of despair
Heard the dulcimer quelling hell
And saw himself standing bare
To the sheetless eyes
Of a man serenading Beethoven
Deaf as a statue
In the city's superfluous air.
Here is where humanity
Sings hope amidst the garden
Of hopelessness
That make direlict dreams
Tugging our divinity
Down to rags of nothingness.
Mr. Ayers, a quaver away
Juliard school in love aspiring
Suddenly there fallen
Amidst the glitter and glamor
Of non-existence
Peace, a basoon
Seducing a Los Angeles moon
Coy as a lover
In the tangle of wine memory
He plays against
The unkown sorrow of the world.
And here dedication
Drives us to distraction
Soon or late
Decomposing our minds
Into shards of glistening memories.
Discovery, today beholding yesterday
A bride for the first time
Amidst the silence of flowers
Cradling weeds and seeds of tomorrow.
Love without purpose
Can change the course
Of splintering history.
He plays, harmony
In where the traffic blares
Yellow light onto his gray matter
Splitting airs with sharp sounds
They echo
Not the common pit, nor
To a single Maestro blending
The mind's kaleidoscope
Before the other's saner wit
Along highways and wind tunnels
He brings to a sombre note
To ode all joys
Strugling repressed under
Human ambition
Ayers is my minstrel
Jarred by a nerve
Not wired for sleep.
Fortune smiles
From the frontier of friendhsips
Fondled by the music
Of love unfranchised
Awakes the lyre
To sing in the resurrection of desire.
Friendship is a sheltering tree
From life's base tragedies.
There is nothing left to say
Once the wind has blown away
All the leaves from their high nest
To its cradle in the west,
Where the hills and meadows were
Filled with plaintive dulcimer
Notes descending from the cot
Of the lonely knight, who sought
His good fortune far from home,
In a land where armies roam
At the will of greedy kings,
Of whose deeds the minstrel sings
To the gullible, poor crowd
Whose slow thoughts are borne aloud
From the markets and the streets
To the richly ornate seats
Held by anarchy and pride
In a pose which cannot hide
All their perfidy and lust
For the harvests of the just,
Who must sob in misery
Waiting for eternity,
Where they fancy they’ll receive
What is due to those who give
Of themselves upon this earth,
On whose face they’re cursed with birth—
One as beggar, one as lord,
Neither of his own accord,
Though both human through and through,
About which no man can do
Anything to cast away
The frail moulding of his clay,
Or to summon from the pit
Of his mind what he sees fit
To console himself today
And endure on his long way
From his rise up to his fall
To the dark and eerie call
Of the scythe which severs life
Far more cruelly than the knife
Which sheds blood upon the ground
Once the boar caves to the hound
Trained to heed its master’s call
To the end and above all,
Just as Nature has ordained
What by man cannot be feigned,
And what ultimately braves
All mere mortals to their graves,
Though what still remains behind
Is for wiser men to find
In the song of the old knight
And the western wind’s great might
As it blows the leaves away
When there’s nothing left to say.
Find my poems and published poetry volumes at www.eton-langford.com
Compassion sings in velvet vibrato violin strokes, thrumming upon
an ivory frame suffused in dulcimer tones of need.
Half deaf we echo broken words, sharp jagged phrases, defining
the borders of empathy, binding the reach of the heart.
Compassion lays bittersweet trails on the tongue, late fall berries,
bursting in a celebration of triumph and sorrow.
Half starved, we feast on spoils, too drunk on victory to discern
the salt-sweet retch of blood from the bitter poison of lies.
Compassion streams in surreal ashen hues - the rose tainted
glow of golden wildfire skies. A sanctity of devastation.
Half blind we stumble backward, peering through filtered lenses
at remnants of truth, polarized illusions of light and shadow.
Compassion has a feel to it. Silken swirls, brushing coarse burlap weave,
abraded, fraying strands writhing and twisting to knots.
Yearning for touch, we seethe. Flames of passion spent in bursts, numbing
balms of hatred, clutches of greed, belie the cold of our isolation.
Compassion carries a scent. Ancient and innate, its musk permeates
with an overwhelming fear for the suffering of another.
Senses blurred, anointed, incensed, we shed our stigmata of tenderness,
cowering in the purloined stench of our pernicious sanctimony.
Compassion has a secret seed, bound to the strivings of our soul, nurtured
in endless streams of hope, rooted in the sustenance of courage.
Correlations confound conclusions. Half deaf and blind we crawl, fragile
unadorned. Braving thorns, we guard compassion’s trembling stalk.
©Ilona Rapp 2017 All Rights Reserved
Colourification-- Vibgyor Romance.
Newly married,we flew in the valleys of Kashmir,
me,a man of words has promises to keep,
jetlegged,my slender,delicate ladylove rests,
the houseboat stirs with the bash of breeze,
moonlight magnolia tip toes to greet her,
mirthful lake dances with reflections of taupe trees,
incredible is my beauty queen,my flamingo in scarlet satin robe,
her malachite eyes hidden in her deep slumber,
her power rules over me,ever ready to dance to her tones,
me,so macho,sturdy yet so mellow,submissive,
chatreuse highlights of layered hair flap on her face partially,
fair skinned fingers get more radiant wearing the muave enamel,
wintry weather takes its toll on her fuchsia cheeks getting more dense,
lucky is the turquoise jardiniere on her bedside,
see,the naughty persimmon shellfish in the lake winks at me,
how i wish this moment could freeze,
for her evocative aura is more enchanting than her mould,
SHH! noisy ashy sandfly,my dulcimer,my romantic Ghazal sleeps.
Fiction
P.S...Tried something out of comfort zone..so plz excuse my mistakes.
Ghazal is an arabic name for females.It is also an arabic form of poetry.
1-white-magnolia 2- black-taupe 3-red-scarlet 4-green-malachite
5yellow-chatruese 6-purple-muave 7-pink-fuchsia 8-blue-turquoise
9-orange-persimmon 10-grey-ash.
Contest-Colourification
Sponsor :Silent One
15/03/2016
While most "old" music terms are still in use, some specific, less common words include descant (a high, concurrent melodic part), duet (for two performers, contrasting with modern duo), and dulcimer ( an American stringed instrument, now often called lap dulcimer). Older terms often refer to a specific function within a piece, like descant, or a specific instrument, like dulcimer
------------------------------------------------
Sacré bleu I had startled her
a specific function asked her
bought this annoying word to light
it was spoken after his request for a
specific type of singing during the song
they had rehearsed.a high concurrent
melodic part where the song seems to
stand still as a ooh's and ah's create a transitional
sound but first the Soprano must hold a note for
33 seconds the sound is to be mixed into the song
but during a concert it is added right into
the song giving the lead vocalist a 35 second
break to restart the song in a different tempo
Little stringed instruments and brass horns
and a snare and kettledrum music section
he want to use a nord stage 4-88 but the power
wasn't available in the area. So Gariben repurposed
a flat screen tv into a solar panel and we were on our way.
The tent were we practice doesn't have the aucoutics to record
but we are studio bound. 25 members of the orchestra
will combine with the "Jinx" band to perform Tensail's best: aint that right Tensail? Tensail say's Yeah!
A carpenter’s daughter am I but I do so love music.
So I built myself a lap dulcimer
of fine wild cherry and walnut;
I used my late Father’s old jigsaw,
cutting each plank into an elongated guitar shape.
Into the fingerboard, I measured, cut and hammered fret wire and carefully rasped away the roughened metal edges,
so I could play without any harm.
I sanded each one to a velvety caress,
steamed wood, shaped, and clamped sides into place;
a future musical vision, not just a typical hog fiddle but,
a fine tranquilizing music box.
On the top, I cut out flying birds and wood-burned, curly, swirling vines. I glued it all together carefully;
making sure to wipe down all of the sides.
When it was dry, I varnished it and then I sanded more.
So many layers brought out the woods luster.
No words explain the joy inside as my heartstrings did began to flutter.
Installing the pegs to hold the strings;
I carefully placed my screws then turning, turning carefully until they were solid there;
I adhered my bridge to the top.
Upon it then, I placed my strings;
adjusting the bridge, and tuned it up.
Oh, glorious be, such celestial sound
as across the strings, I dragged my thumb.
Such a magnificent harmonic thing;
ah, the way those strings had rung.
Off to YouTube I did go, for lessons I knew I’d find;
and when I play my dulcimer, it’s serenity sublime!
Dulcimer dewdrops
paint the leafy canvas,
hungry mouthlings bobbing
a rambunctious sway
from
clear pleasure of impact to receive
blessings of the day,
the celestials milk of lactate rain;
Natural communion of God's living waters.
Springtime of Life in the midsts of earthen daughters
festival seasonings to give down sunny aisle.
The Sun baptises the atmosphere into radiant bands to Godfather it along, graft in its song,
to treat them well and cherish their innocent incense of
Petra-Petrichoronation.
Everything minted, freshly new,
looks one to another in curious expressions,
each starkness of moment a momento co-efficient
a moonlit kiss, a rhyme to feel on the skin-under the enigmatic dance of time a type of salutation, a hand
extended across the pews of cherished commune.
Overseer-elemental- spirit-emissary-
spreads over the horizon,
an Angel of the mind's auburn snows
and breaker of confinements of prose,
has a general idea what C R E A T I O N must be feeling,
but sneaks a look to every station, every interaction,
each breath taken silence of magical gratitude the entrance into the white fluffy and delicate know.
The lottery was won by each
for no other reason that G O D is the Author
and Master Poet, of Love
and balls lightning to show it.
??Daniel? ?3:3?-?6? ?KJVAAE??
[3] Then the princes, the governors, and captains, the judges, the treasurers, the counselors, the sheriffs, and all the rulers of the provinces, were gathered together unto the dedication of the image that Nebuchadnez´zar the king had set up; and they stood before the image that Nebuchadnez´zar had set up. [4] Then a herald cried aloud, To you it is commanded, O people, nations, and languages, [5] that at what time ye hear the sound of the cornet, flute, harp, sackbut, psaltery, dulcimer, and all kinds of music, ye fall down and worship the golden image that Nebuchadnez´zar the king hath set up: [6] and whoso falleth not down and worshippeth shall the same hour be cast into the midst of a burning fiery furnace.
??Luke? ?9:53?-?56? ?KJVAAE??
[53] And they did not receive him, because his face was as though he would go to Jerusalem. [54] And when his disciples James and John saw this, they said, Lord, wilt thou that we command fire to come down from heaven, and consume them, even as Eli´jah did? [55] But he turned, and rebuked them, and said, Ye know not what manner of spirit ye are of. [56] For the Son of man is not come to destroy men's lives, but to save them. And they went to another village.
Playing my guitar
playing Christmas songs
songs that echo from my childhood
songs of memories made
made in fantasies
made in dreams
dreams built from flavors
dreams built from stories
stories family told
stories in favorite books
books given to me by family
books given to me by friends
friends who understood
friends who shared interests
interests that made us friends
interests fascinating
fascinating and bright
fascinating and intriguing
intriguing mysteries
intriguing fantasies
fantasies of elves
fantasies of dragons
dragons are colorful
dragons are actually good
good mythical beasts
good characters
characters for stories
characters for songs
songs I create
songs I play
play on my guitar
play on my dulcimer
dulcimer rings
dulcimer chimes
chimes like bells
chimes ting-tinging
ting-tinging like bells
ting-tinging sweet
sweet music
sweet harmony
harmony for dance
harmony for peace
peace on earth
peace and tranquility
tranquility of love
tranquility that’s infectious
infectious as laughter
laughter
infectious
3-6-2021
ALL YOURS (Mar 8) Poetry Contest
Brian Strand