Long Flute Poems
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do not simply dawdle and diddle
for life may pass as a twinkle
hardly any time to drag and dawdle
in life, joy and sorrow may mix and mingle
before your powers diminish and dwindle,
enjoy it wilful as a child cheerily toying with shingles
for a change, play on the flute or fiddle
and on your toes, twirl and twiddle
or go for a walk with your funny, furry poodle
or write a peaceful placid idyll,
could even be a distrait doodle
life that is a tricky and ticklish riddle
is never a puddle for you to muddle
but is to clasp, caress and cuddle
let it ring with a jangle or jingle
even when you are sickeningly single
smile, showing your dented dimple
as stars in the sky wink, blink and twinkle
Sep.1.2022
First published in 2021
~ Placed Second~
Alliteration- Old or New Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Joseph May
“He who pays the piper calls the tune,”
and the piper of your tragedy
was America,
playing its flute through Israel’s fire.
O Qatar, blinded by your own gold,
you mistook greed for wisdom,
and in your thirst for wealth
you invited the wolves to guard your gates.
Did you not see the shadow of betrayal?
The largest base of America rests upon your soil,
its radars sharper than the eyes of eagles—
yet the jets of Israel passed unseen,
like daggers through your unguarded chest.
Do not be naïve.
If you believe America was innocent,
you mock yourselves before the grave.
Have you forgotten the corpses of Baghdad?
The silence of Tripoli?
The endless cries of Gaza’s children?
America is no friend—
he is a merchant of blood.
His loyalty is to profit,
his covenant is with chaos.
He builds his empire
from the bones of those who once trusted him.
You celebrated his protection
as if he were a brother,
but brothers do not sharpen knives
behind the curtain of their smiles.
Learn from the fate of Saddam,
from the fall of Gaddafi,
from the ashes of your neighbors.
For the fire that devoured them
is the same fire that now seeks you.
Qatar, you are not the master of your destiny
so long as you dance to the strings of another.
And remember this truth:
What is done to Gaza
shall be done to you—
for those who embrace the serpent
must one day taste its fangs.
Morning dew dripping from my eyelids
doors banging at the center of my heart
as the symphony gets ready to start.
the flute begins with a champion song
while the listless crowd jeers merrily along.
brass, rhythm and base
my lips tremble with sadness,
and I could not escape this emptiness.
The sound increased,
but the pain did not cease.
Tump
thump
lub-dub
ba- bum
chanting sounds from the congo drums
reduced me to crumbs.
The violin ushers in,
and the vibrating trumpet sound begins
The chords get louder and louder
exploding emotions in the air,
leaving me cold,
empty and bare.
The manipulative trombone echoes through my ears,
and the deceiving guitar tune appears,
in one second everything was said
and I scrambled hopelessly to my bed.
It rips up my innate passion
while they look upon me without compassion.
I waited for an answer
but he was entwined with the belly dancer.
The symphony increase,
every beat exposed
the daunting rhythm to my piercing soul.
they appear one by one,
raging without control
Tubo, trombone,
French horn and bassoon
harps ,tiako and bamboo flutes
made their speechless debut,
heartbeat telling me the truth.
©2013 Christine Phillips
mysterious as Lemuel
unlike hundreds of
other rowdy seniors
constituting the nineteen
seventy seven graduating class
of Methacton High School,
this now mooch older non "Warrior"
(alma mater mascot) alumni -
of late more astute,
(yea rather boyish looking edging
into age bracket,
viz ranked as ole coot)
far to late for
me or any brute
to gather rose buds,
fat and/or slim
chance i.e. remote
while I may in my dreams
play Mozart's Magic flute
at this late stage of life,
no harvested crop yield,
nor any sown
healthy product rendered moot
('cept tantamount to rotten
tomatoes and fruit)
all, cuz your truly
did not give a hoot
'bout his future,
later when the
requisite need for loot
would be absolutely necessary,
not necessarily to buy
a fine gold spun suit,
but more so to be financially
(non bombastically, egotistically,
nor inimitably) to toot
my own (baritone)
horn, no any which
ways appearing snoot
tush (more likely absent minded,
versus trying tubby astute),
no matter this myopic googly eyed
non-boastful logophile,
these days (lives duet
tough lee hand to mouth
existence) nearly destitute
his whole pro Lix life,
witnessed, and flaunted
(reed dit as) inked badge,
(regardless getting promoted,
but nearly failing every grade),
and ambivalent toward
dismal poor performance report cards
testament toward tummy
severely lacking ambition,
while analogously forced
to climb hemp fat tick rungs
jute dish shuss academic ladder,
no matter rope burns
squarely didst root
moost unfavorable outcome
to this wimp who mouthed
pop eyed expletive
conveying "oh chute",
whose then palm (olive)
oiled pilot size glute
more accurately boot
found me poor bum promoted
to higher baby boomer chair
despite favorably portentous signs
tubby potential vagrant,
who would lack self reliance,
nor give a hoot
to stitch survivalist parachute.
Can you hear the rhythm
The rhythm of a drum
It's easy to copy it
Tum Tum Tiddly, Tiddly Tum Tum
It is also easy
To imitate a bell
Tinkle TinkleTinkle
That goes very well
Also, you can Bang and Clang
Boom, Boom, Boom and Bong
That's not a bell of course
It sounds more like a Gong
A Flute is even easier
Just Toot, Toot, Toot, Toot
Everyone will cover their ears
And outside you'll have to scoot
A Tambourine is boring
All you have to do with it is shake
You would soon get tired of that
As it would make your poor arms ache
There's a lot of other instruments
You pluck and strum and blow
It would take a long time
For you to choose one so
There are just too many
For you to understand
And have to take lessons
To start playing in a band
Or play in an orchestra
That would be super good
Where every type of instrument
Plays music like it should
I was in a field near Maitland, just wading through this rain
and I'm feeling about as ragged as my jeans
Mali went home to lay down just before this rain
started spinning this old man's mind back into a dream
so I pulled my wood flute from my dirty red bandanna
and played it softly as I learned to sing the blues
didn't hear the words or see the lies just held Mali's hand in mine
We must have sung every song this grand-pa knew
Dreaming is just another word for nothing left to lose
Nothing means everything because this life it ain't free
And feeling good was so easy, Lord, Till I sang the blues
In real life feeling good was good enough for me
From her fast track to play time, she loved laying in the sun
That's where we could discuss the secrets in our souls
Through clear and stormy weather, arguments and the fun
Yeah, this blue eyed baby girl kept grampa from the cold
On a clear day near Amplatz, Lord, I felt her slip away
You knew she went to look for her Big Bro, I know Liam found her
I'd gladly trade all of my tomorrows for one single yesterday
If I could be holding that precious Mali on my knee
To remember is yet another word in this life some must lose
Dreams, hope and deep faith that's what Mali left me
Speak often to all who cross and you will realize who is free
Learning this together was good enough for me and Mali McGee
Without a word we get aboard
New lease of life I have to hold
You didn’t tell, but it’s okay
I knew the schedule for today
We’ve got a lot of alco stuff
And dainty food, more than enough
A few musicians, one plays flute
Three others doing strings and lute
Monk is the captain, he’s so nice
He leads the ship by throwing dice
The boatswain’s drunk, rest of the crew
Aren't sure what they ought to do
Nuns play canasta, drinking wine
A beggar prays for sun to shine
Some folks are gazing at the skies
As if they’re taken by surprise
Perhaps they got fed up with sea
Waves sway around you and me
You turn to me your face, so pale:
“We won’t be swallowed by the whale,
I hope, what do you think of this?”
- “I think to get another kiss"
This plot unfolds by its own rules
We're hanging out on ship of fools
There is no course this ship must do
There is no purpose, but a view
Of endless waves up to the line
Horizon darkens, then inclines
Then our ship soars up and glides
Down to the bottomless white skies
And there we go, towards the land
Which doesn’t look like golden sand..
Natives, Adivasi, however we identify them,
They were there before we came, and took over their land from them,
We used them, displaced them, put a dagger of pain in their hearts,
They only shed tear of grief, which were not even allowed to come out of their heart.
The aboriginal people from ancient jungle,
They danced in peacock feathers decorated attire,
They played flute and played drums on beat,
Men and women performed circle wave dances on the beat.
The nearby hills, they worshipped, made an ascent,
Taught the virtues of difficulties in life’s ascent,
The hill’s highest peaks, like ambitions in life, were over which only an eagle can fly,
Were dwarfed by the airplanes which now can fly.
They work as day labor, bare feet in scorching summer heat,
In the land rich with abundant minerals of all sort,
The putush flower and mango blossoms were abundant in past,
Now noise of cars, population have overtaken the beauty of past.
Now they have their own state, freedom for all, Adivasis and outsiders,
They still long for their beloved land, snatched and built to house others,
They got measly compensation, no one to shed a tear of grief,
A dagger of pain, a tear of grief.
Adivasi – the original people
.
Inspire me
fiddle fiddle
trombone
flute
trombone fiddle flute
my heart mimics
the cartoons dance
to the trombone
fiddle
and flute
And off my mind goes
with the gentle whisper
of the baton
And with the just for a
moment
gentle stroke through
the air
my eyes close
and I disappear
to the
trombone
fiddle
and flute
Depression
Once so bubbly and cheerful
how purposeless now seems the life,
Fingers fail on the holes of flute
air no more blows in rhyme;
Even if hundreds of Suns combine
can’t get me a little sunshine,
Thousands of stars twinkle
heart sees only white of moonlight;
Sitting within forewalls of closed room
I await something bright however minuscule,
In that darkness of biting cold
anticipate some soothes of warmth;
Like a weightless tender feather
for days that could remain afloat in air;
I too seem to be hanging onto this life
although no reason to such a strife;
Soothing breeze doesn’t embrace
soft whispers unheard,
Colourful paints cease to charm
flowers as if have no essence;
Unlike an old volcano
having used up all the brimstone,
I don’t even boil or simmer
despite all the fire underneath.
Written August 5, 2020
© Dr Upma A. Sharma