Long Fiddler Poems
Long Fiddler Poems. Below are the most popular long Fiddler by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fiddler poems by poem length and keyword.
Racing the dark
on a winter night
trembling
heart stopped
by a well-lit house
at a crying
violin sound
back of children
playing inside
sound of laughter
aroma of spices
pulling sick heart
lingering on
to a distant
springtime tango
fragrance of flowers
blooms and buds
unchanging
with time
the fiddler
the roses
and the smile
that vanished
without goodbye
swallowing a knot
of tears un cried
cutting the wind
stamping the ground
reached a keyhole
in solitude of night
to cross
from dark
to darkness
locking mask out
sensor blue light
on a single bed white
pulling sheet
to tearing eyes
not even an echo
to answer
a whisper
repeating twice
good night, good night
to a once existing smile.
First Place Winner: Brian Strand-All Yours-May20/21
In the stillness of the night when it rains
Haven’t you listened to a funny chorus?
Cra…. Cra… Cra…. it goes on rough n’ raucous,
A ‘music’ coming down to us through the air porous.
It is a frog family who forms this nocturnal band
They live happily close to a marshy land
During day they roam catching flies, their treasured prize
At night in water, popping up, they sometimes surprise
Equally comfortable on land and lake
With croaking music, the night’s stillness they break
With bulging eyes and webbed feet,
These slimy creatures are an interesting sight.
One evening as the light was waning away,
The frogs were feeling sleepy and stopped their play.
But the youngest was singing in his usual tone
Sitting on a rocky promontory, all alone.
It was then that a fiddler came that way, singing in style.
Listening to the frog’s song, he stopped with a smile.
Sonorous though the music was, he felt it had a lively rhythm
It sounded reverberant as if beating on a hollow drum.
The fiddler sat and sang the whole night on his fiddle
With the Cra- Cra music of the little frog thrust in the middle
Everyone who passed that way greatly enjoyed that lively duet
The sleepy frogs woke up and joined the chorus so sweetly set
Every night the little frog sat outside, recalling that heavenly night
When he and the fiddler drowned the surroundings in music’s delight
But never once again the mysterious fiddler came their way
To play on his fiddle, pouring music to make them gay
Jan. 30. 2023
The Fiddler and the Frog Poetry Contest
Sponsor- craig cornish
Miles of broken, sunbaked seashells,
resembling pieces of porcelain of lesser value,
lying across a populous beach subdued by misty blue,
as hungry sea-gulls pounce the fiddler's crabs..
The beach entertainer draws huge crowds;
singing funny songs and making comic skits
by spicing up his unique modus operandi,
and modestly mocking his modus vivendi...
He has never made lots of money,
but settles for dollar bills to earn their sympathy;
dressed in tight and colorful ministrel's attire,
he amuses the public with his monkey-shine...
And he pulls out his fiddler and the crowds go wild,
awakening, by its high-pitched sound, a dope fiend,
who has built a temporary shack threatened by the blowing sand;
He puts on his sunglasses and disappears in the groovy sunshine...
The beach entertainer follows him, leaving everyone behind
saying," Sorry, brother...I didn't mean to wake you up, the bum turns around taking off his lenses.
and exclaims, " Music doesn't fill an empty and aching belly...and cheer up a feeble mind! "
" Here's all I got...take it and get something to eat!" He says stretching his hands.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Being part Irish I have to admit
that yes indeed, I celebrate it.
If truly the Irish are lucky you see,
I’ll have my green beer and sandwich of brie.
I’ll dress in me greens with a button or two
that says I am Irish, how about you?
I’ll get out me Bodhran and give it some beats;
then my tin whistle, I will play while folks eat.
I’ll have buttery shortbreads’ and other great treats;
and don me tapp’in shoes with their new cleats.
While the fiddler bows his old Irish tunes,
I may take a moment to have me a croon.
I’ll do me a jig or two, for good measure;
then politely say, thank’ye, ‘tis been a pleasure.
Me ancestors came from that dear Emerald Isle;
though they hated to leave, they did it with style.
The bayou sky flies a catfish moon over swamp gators
And cottonmouth vipers. Accordions, fiddles, and rub board vests
Make their ramble through the undergrowth hot on the trail
Of a sultry midsummer house party in Sweat Neck, Louisiana.
All the usual suspects are there. Sharkskin Slim doffs his topper
To Ruby and Rose - the Harlequin Twins. They curtsy in reply.
They came to town to show local folks how business gets done.
Fast Man is fresh from stabbing Satan in the back; same as before.
Snorkel-nose Nelson lays his blackjack on the table.
Pelican-neck LeBeau considers the odds and spits.
A honeysuckle breeze wafts across the terrace.
Eucalyptus, peppermint, and pine tar grace the veranda
Where Miss Bunny Bouche, in her famous lavender velour,
Garners attention from spy boys eying Cajun temptations
With considerably hardened intentions. Several teamsters
Just in from Shreveport dance lively while a claw hammer fiddler
Plays Tee Nah Nah. Essential words are suggested in the space
Between the jug and the mason jar. They speak of collard green
Creole rice served with crayfish in roux étouffée. The snap beans
Are sure enough salted. The shrimp gumbo is suitably spiced.
Sad Hannah sits off in the corner, her motives transparent
As parish politics. She’s been rumored to have dabbled
In arson crafts she’d learned at Magdalena’s Den of Sin,
But no one ever really pays her much mind.
She’s been deliberating the consequence of a life not lived,
And sees a glimmer of hope in the eye of a hurricane lamp.
Her chance of escaping obscurity erupts through the hall.
So now, it’s last call and damn it all, take a left at the crossroads,
And be sure to turn your mattress over when it’s time to climb downstairs.
And as for Hannah, sad Hannah, well, it’s either up Ladder Lane
Then down Hemp Alley, or else it’s just a lonely walk home.
One stormy night in Magalluf, it rained and rained it rained all day
By half past ten we'd had enough, time to call it all a day
Then we heard some music playing, the sweet sound of a violin
So our footsteps started straying, to the magic bar that he played in.
As we stumbled through the doorway, he clocked us with a cheerful grin
As we walked across the floorway, the strangest thing was happening
For our feet then started tapping, we didn't know quite what to think
And then our hands just started clapping before we settled down to drink
Glory Glory Hallelujah, sha la la la la la la lay
Doobee doobee doobee dooya, ole ole ole ole
Glory Glory Hallelujah, sha la la la la la lay
Doobee doobee doobee dooya, ole ole ole ole
He played fast then played it faster as people twirled around the floor
Louder than a ghetto blaster, the crowd all hollered out for more
So we got up and started dancing, we thought we'd dance the night away
The rhythms there were so entrancing, when we saw Mick the Fiddler play.
He's going wild, he's up there jumping, his fiddling fast with Irish fire
So we're up our hearts a -pumping as the tempo rises higher
He sang of joy he sang of sorrow this quite extraordinary man
He said don't think about tomorrow enjoy your pleasures while you can
Glory glory Hallelujah, shalla lalla lalla lay
Doobee doobee doobee dooya Ole ole ole ole
Glory glory Hallelujah, shalla lalla lalla lay
Doobee doobee doobee dooya, Ole ole ole ole.
TO HEAR ME SING THIS.
GO ON TO YOUTUBE.
MICK THE FIDDLER, LOUIS SPENCE
THANK YOU.
we need a fiddler and a harpist her groom insisted
She did not care about a big wedding, she wanted the woods
Her groom and his mother arranged everything except her dress
It was an evening wedding; the forest looked super romantic lit up.
at first the bride had resented his mother’s involvement in details
she had lost her own mother to cancer a month prior
groom's mother decorated woods with candles and lanterns.
treating her as lavishly as she would have treated her own daughter.
New bride was not marrying a man, she was marrying a family.
best day of the rest of her life; she felt her mother's love in his mother.
(woman)"Just cause I didn't smile at you
Just cause I didn't wave
I'll not wear feelings on my sleeve
That's no way to behave.
But it could be, that I like you
Maybe like you quite a lot
You won't know because you've given up
My heart is tied in knots.
I'll tell you what you need to do
Come over to my house
Knock on the door, 'no violins'
You're a fiddler, not a Strauss.
And if I do not answer
It's because I'm mad at you
You've made me lose my temper
Something I swore not to do.
Now listen up, tomorrow
Come back and try again
Knock, cordially, about three times
But I won't let you in.
That's when you firmly clear your throat
And in your sternest voice
Demand I open up the door
Don't give me any choice.
I'm feeling pretty flustered now
Still we've got to iron this out
Okay, now where did I leave off?"
(man)' I guess I'm in the house.'
"Oh yes, that's right, I've let you in
Don't act surprised to see
My hair is done, my face made up
The hem above my knee.
Pretend there's nothing baking
Though the smell does captivate
Fresh rolls; a well dressed fatted duck
And cause it's getting late
You may as well attempt
To hold my hand, but no
Those puckered lips you'll tuck right in
Or out the house you'll go.
Some other would be wooers
I've kicked right out the door
T'was one or two, no there were three
Pray don't be number four.
I've planned this well and all is set
We've made it up the hill
Now ask the fated question 'Sir'
((man) ' Will you...'
"Of couse, I will."
RETA PRUITT
September 4, 2016
After years of practice and devotion,
And playing scales until his fingers bled,
Trying musically to touch emotion,
To subtly influence both heart and head,
The Fiddler can take pride in his art form,
The music years and tears in the making,
Thoughts of future glory keeps his heart warm
While his empty belly throbs with aching.
Meanwhile, there’s a frog down by the river
Who’s singing out his song without a care.
The listening soul cannot help but shiver,
The beauty of his song much like a prayer.
The better song? Well, critics might debate…
I love them both and so I shall not rate…
Sunflower field of yellows and oranges
Green leaves apparently hiding the krazy cat
A one-eyed pirate who sneaks and slithers
Field’s golden fiddler strumming in time
Strumming his truth
Strumming his heart’s blood
Strumming and strumming
Strumming in time
Comic book colors parading in krazy cat’s head
Don’t ask me about this field at midnight
Silk and pearls, better than Iowa’s corn
That’s a hint and you’ll get nothing else
Strumming my song
Strumming my sorrow
Empathy oozing out of my pores
China Cat sunflowers guarding my secrets.
My golden fiddle dancing her unique tune.
Quintessential secrets of the krazy cat hidden.
I am the strummer.
I am a sunflower.