Long Keyboard Poems
Long Keyboard Poems. Below are the most popular long Keyboard by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Keyboard poems by poem length and keyword.
The lake has its own orchestrated acoustics.
The quaking of oboes and the bassoon-ing honks
of a skein of geese
conduct a loosely scored morning air.
Rustling reeds chime in fluted stems,
a wind section throats through its hollow notes,
and then there is you.
you who hesitantly strum
within each lip-breathing earshot
nevertheless
your strings are tuned high
to the vibrating moment.
All this ‘a cappella’ is inside you now
like a chick cracking though its own eggshell.
You look around your shoulders
searching for the composer
see nothing, only a naught that imagines
paused fingertips above a keyboard.
Will you sing now or depart unfinished?
The ensemble of the assembled
has left.
You can try again
when your inner metronome
is less bolted to its mechanical tongue,
but for a time
harmony nest elsewhere.
ALONE
By
Kevin L Fairbrother
All alone, just me and the surrounding landscape
My mind fills with an avalanche of the past, the present and the future
Such a jumble of thoughts in my head, hard to separate the good and the bad
Nor find the means to lesson this feeling of loneliness
Like a computer that searches and crunches numbers
My brain is working over-time and heading for an over-load
At the speed of light it looks for and separates the positives and negatives
For there is so much is stored and there is heaps and heaps to untangle
Perhaps a walk in the crisp cool wind swept day
Will clear my head and untangle the thick jungle
Then again it will surely add to what is already in my head
As I walk taking in the sounds and scenery around me
Put pen to paper, get on your keyboard that could be the way
To let your brain and your fingers do the talking
Surely that should decrease the flow of information
But alas, I have to think, there-for, I make worse the situation
There is one way and one way only to ease the dilemma
To slow down the process and to get rid of lonely thoughts
Have a stiff drink, play soft music and lay on the bed
Snuggle down, close your eyes and sleep with your loneliness
My Missing Muse
I have tried to write as of late,
but my mind has become a true blank slate.
My keyboard is bored and my ideas are bland.
I have to think of something grand.
Lately I lack poetic thought, thus I’m feeling quite distraught.
Maybe new themes will come to mind, if I read some antique poems of mine.
I have written about nature,
birds like ducks,
a child’s marker freckles,
a coffee cup.
A retired boat resting on the shore,
dirty socks behind a door.
I’ve penned 2 poems about Monet and VanGogh.
Now Degas? I don’t know.
Lady Di who danced in her royal gown,
but sadly now listens to angel sounds.
Her love for people was always increasing, but my poetic thoughts,now decreasing.
A teapot and a tuffet, diddle diddle dee.
A sweet little bundle came to me.
Blueberries grow on a bush not a tree!
Still no ideas will come to me.
Two tired tulips on my windowsill doze.
Three ladybugs on a daffodil pose.
Now is the time I need to compose!
A chorus frog’s peeping has a dancing beat,
clicking,
croaking,
repeat.
Jumping rope in heels, the teacher who tried her best.
Feathered fledglings sleeping in a Blue Egg mommy’s nest.
There is a wee granny in my apple tree.
Bring your appetite, then you’ll see!
Trees dressed in acorns
Protect our seas
Echoing owls between forest trees.
No new ideas coming into my head ?
My muse is hiding, I dread.
Cronkite,a reporting wiz,
closed the news, “That’s the way it is”
An unbiased journalist one could trust.
Integrity, sincerity and principles, a must.
TV shows,
Winter fairies on tiptoes.
Still I have the blank slate woes!
A path of moonlight, dragonflies.
Slowly summer says goodbye.
Soon the southern birds will fly.
Smell the season sunshine.
Crowds that cheer, “Alley Oop”
As basketballs find their longed for hoops.
Aunt Gloria was warm in her Irish blue.
Little boy Benjamin lost his little shoe!
His sister found it, "PEE U”
“Hooray” I cheer. Now it seems more clear, I feel my blank slate might disappear.
I’m suddenly feeling passion for more creative action!
Imagination,inspiration,determination!
My mental blankness is washing away.
New topics to write about, coming into play.
Now upside down silly fun.
To the writing teeter totter Marikate, have fun!
At last she is here, she turned up last night,
Turned up through the misty dark fog,
She waltzed through the doors of my simple small mind,
Escaping the clutch of the smog,
The smog that had imprisoned her mind, her soul,
The smog that’d tied her thoughts down,
Now she’s safe to be all the happy she is,
And she can do it without owning a frown,
You see, her mind owns a keyboard,
She can write what she wants, every pain is beaten away,
And her poetic world, inside my small mind,
Destroys her mental hurt, rust, and rot….. her decay,
Her mind turned up in a poem she wrote,
Her mind threw her hurt out to sea,
When she waltzed right through the doors of my mind,
Writing poetry that's emotionally free.
There is a story of four musketeers
French history would have you believe,
But no it’s not true they are Brits through and through
With a welsh lassies...but we will not grieve
It’s all for one and one for all
Never one alone, will ever fall
The cry goes up and you can all hear
The other three will always be here.
Their swords are sharp their tongues are too
You can battle just one but never win two
Our weapons unique a pen or keyboard
Together the musketeers will never be floored
We have age and experience love and friendship
We cover our backs so the knife cannot slip
A tear cannot fall it will soon be wiped dry
And the four musketeers will never cause a sigh.
So raise up your sword arms and rally to the call
The four musketeers are gonna have a ball
We will patrol and protect all those in our clan
The four musketeers always stand up for their man
© ~GG~ 07/03/2013
When I jot down the words that I
Have forming in my head,
The only tool required is
A pencil filled with lead.
A pen won’t do the trick for me;
A keyboard holds no lure.
It’s only with a number 2
That I feel most secure.
The yellow ones I like the best,
Though I get out of joint
If I’m not near a sharpener
And I’ve worn down the point.
The plastic ones with lead inside
Work well when on the road;
But I prefer the pencils that
One doesn’t have to load.
Of course my pencils must possess
Erasers at the end.
A pencil lacking such a tool
I wouldn’t recommend.
I’m writing this right now to praise
My very best utensil –
And naturally, my fingers grasp
A number 2 lead pencil!
When you licorice listen the quiet is loud
Many voices are heard and many sounds
The car rushing down black street
Needs a muffler it rumbles so unique
The hum of electronic waves in the air
Do you hear it as well do you even care
Always hear my heart beat like drum
Is it tinnitus the cause of this hum
I can hear cicadas singing their songs
Nothing to be afraid of all night long
When I walk I hear my yellow footsteps
My shoes on and off makes the sound swell
I hear the baby cry across the way
Perhaps he is hungry or thirsty today
I hear the keyboard as I teal type
I am alone and so alone I write
Do we take time to hear each other
Despite differences we’re sisters brothers
Listen to the unique violet voice inside
That swells like the ocean moonlit tide
Typewrite
Pacing back and forth these keys,
Like footfalls echoing on worn-out tracks—
The sights and landmarks in languid grey,
Burning with the sting of nostalgic pain,
Faces, voices, shadows etched in memory,
Untold stories thump against my brain
Like a retroactive typewriter,
Reminding me—
With every thud of the type slug,
Voices in these walls
Strike the ribbons of regret.
Scars printed in blue,
Hurts inked in red,
Fleeting across faces and lives,
The ribbons take the beat
Of my swag and gait—
That staccato rhythm
Of a past that won’t forget.
Thud tap, thud tap, ding!
And back again—
Like my aging heartbeat
On this old typewriter in motion,
The carriage bell,
Signaling the end of a line—
A moment of reckoning,
Yet back again: the carriage return,
Resetting for the next confession,
The next scar,
Thud, thud—
Like the drumming in my head,
Tom toms telling the wind:
My past always catches up.
But now— it’s time to abandon conformity,
Transformed by verity.
I should have a screen and keyboard,
Control-a, hit delete,
Roam the freedom of a white page
With a renewed mind.
Accordion, keyboard for the Highland Fling
Bell, an idiophone in percussion sing
Clarinet, of woodwind joys
Drums, so loud for the noisiest of boys
Ektara, from India the one stringed piece
Fiddle, of old in toe tapping increase
Guitar, my favourite for Rock n Roll
Harmonica, blues my soul
Ipu, from Hawaii for Hula dancing beats
Janggu, a drum used in Korean traditional treats
Kettle Drum, in thunderous pound
Launeddas, from Sardinia, used in ceremonial sound
Maracas, rumba shakers as we cha cha along
Nyckelharpa, from Sweden playing fiddle type songs
Organs, of many in musical bloom
Piano's, elegantly classical grace any room
Quatro, so Latin, played in many a place
Recorder, in schools where many a pupil embraced
Saxophone, that solo in " Baker Street "
Tubular Bells, made " Mike Oldfields " album complete
Ukulele, from the guitar family
Violins, assembled from species of tree
Washtub Bass, graces American Folk
Xylophone, musical wooden bars, the trees have spoke
Yu, of ancient China now no longer used
Zither, all the above in my orchestra, my music is fused
My entry into Deborah's " Do You Know Your ABC's? " contest
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/poetry-soup-3.php
Organ grinder
Meat grinder
Bump-and-grind
The workday grind
Get up, get out of bed
Drag a comb across my head
Yeah, Yeah, Paul: You knew that was coming --
Go to work
Pour the coffee
Water the plants
Sharpen some pencils
Head for the water cooler
Trade some stories...gossip a bit
Stall...stall...stall...and stall some more...
Get to the meeting on time
Look engaged
Back to my cubby
And then:
What's this? A poem?
A what? A poem!
A poem appears
comes flying from my fingers
onto the keyboard
up on the screen
read... saved... printed …
posted on social media... 'liked'
All over the internet
Gone viral
I'm a thing
a downright event!
Yeah, sure I got canned
Of course...
Know anyone looking for a new poet?
December 03, 2019
Predictable Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Nina Parmenter