Long Saxophone Poems
Long Saxophone Poems. Below are the most popular long Saxophone by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Saxophone poems by poem length and keyword.
She stepped out in new-faded jeans.
Raindrops streaked through her hair.
Main Street lights kept breaking down,
Like stars that weren't quite there.
Her denim felt like old friends.
Soft where life had once been there.
Some where she wanted to be, over again.
As the night draped over the fire escapes
A young man watched her walking.
His own blues stark as night.
Sharp as Sunday morning shoes.
Not a crease or wrinkle in sight.
He said, "I like your old blue jeans."
She laughed, "Son, take another look"—
Half the fades seen better days;
Half the memories came forelooked."
She touched the fray on one knee.
Ran her hand along the seam.
"You can sand 'em down with pumice now.
Or stone-wash 'em to yesterday;
Fade 'em pale with lemon juice.
It's easier to drink a past,
Than slowly earn your own."
You can fake the faded colour...
You can't fake the miles.
The drunks were preaching heaven.
Like rent was never due.
A saxophone kept wailing.
To a blue cattle dog baying the moon.
The busker missed the heartache.
Someone missed their train.
Everything was wearing out—
Everything else was set on pretend.
In the driving rain.
You can fake the faded colour...
You can't fake a mile.
Nobody falls for brand-new faded denim.
Not from near or far, not for long.
The finest blues are weathered;
The deepest truths are all well-worn songs.
Some scars are stitched for fashion,
Some come one worn thread at a time.
You can fake a faded colour...
You can't fake a faded life.
Old faded blues
Faded lives, faded dreams.
Going at the seams,
Full of holes and stale tears.
Nothing's quite the way it seems—
Some fades take years.
Some hearts wear easy,
Some take years to blue.
You can buy the faded denim...
You can't buy what you've been through.
If I could play the violin
I'd write a melody
euphonious to draw you in
and play my rhapsody
to bring a smile to your dear face
and calm the storm within
if I could play the violin
If I could play the saxophone
with timbre silvery
I'd paint a poem of pure tone
to laud your alchemy
for you turn iron into gold
and granite to gemstone
if I could play the saxophone
If I could coax an oboe's tone
a dulcet sound divine
to craft a raft for you to own -
a musical lifeline
when waves have knocked you off your course
when winter winds have blown
I'd play a soothing oboe tone
If I could sing a heaven-sent
anthem or hymn profound
I wouldn't need an instrument
when you feel nearly drowned
I'd whisper arias of hope
my mouthpiece, bow, and strings
are prayers for God to heal your wings
and soar beside as heaven sings.
The aroma of fresh-baked bread,
The scent of a book yet unread,
Hints of spring in the air,
When the coldest winter’s fled.
An old song like a forgotten friend,
Over the din of a bar heard again.
A sunset’s liquid gold,
Splashed across sky, sea and sand.
The rustle of a fresh white quilt,
The fall of a lover’s hair like silk,
The queries of a little girl,
Made softly with a quivering lilt.
The mist from a sprinkler’s spray,
On a lawn and a hot summer day.
The notes of a saxophone solo
Weaving into the heart to stay.
Every moment carries a treasure,
To gladden the soul beyond measure.
Blessed are those who find
Contentment in each simple pleasure.
A tear slipped from my eye
when you pulled me closer
because somehow,
this was the moment
we had both been waiting for.
Not rushed.
Not unexpected.
Just two people
finally allowing themselves
to feel what had been quietly
building between them.
Your arms around me,
your breath warm against my skin,
your lips finding mine
with the kind of hunger
that makes words unnecessary.
There was something about the way you held me..
steady, familiar, almost effortless...
the same way you held your saxophone,
like your hands already knew the language.
Only this time,
I was the one feeling every note.
And then there was that moment
the moment your body met mine
and everything inside me went still.
For a second,
I forgot to breathe.
I closed my eyes
and let myself feel it all..
the intensity,
the tenderness,
the slow rhythm between us,
until I could no longer separate
where your touch ended
and my surrender began.
You held me tightly,
and I melted into you.
Until that final moment
when you held me even closer,
and I felt the warmth,
the release,
the quiet after the storm.
And I wanted the night
to forget the morning existed.
Because sometimes
the body remembers
what the heart is afraid to admit.
And mine remembered you.
Your arms.
Your breath.
Your touch.
The way you made me feel
beautiful, desired,
and completely vulnerable.
Maybe that's what Grenada gave me
not just an island,
not just music,
not just a memory...
but one unforgettable moment
where I finally stopped protecting my heart
and let someone else
learn its rhythm.
And somewhere beneath
the Caribbean sky,
between the music and the silence,
you became the note
I never learned how to forget.
I blow my Saxophone strictly for the pleasure...Its my gift from God one of my many Treasures.
Took care of all eight of my children; Some have college degrees.....I take things
like they come,never hard to please. Took care of my dear ole dad tho he neglected me.
Used to steal moonshine,to help my ole granny. Long ago I did that stuff, myself still a
boy. No small stuff do I sweat ,No strangers have I met. Work hard,hard play,moving
obstacles out of my way.I love my wife, I love my life "Hey what did you dream last night!
God I love my music:My music I love by God! Seventy years old I am,still working in the
mines. "Hey what did you dream last night" When he hits the number he's doing what God ask...doing what God loves,sharing and caring; Blow David ...Blow Your Horn,against all odds,against all adversaries. What a good brother! Hey that's my husband! Hey that's my dad!..Hey that's my uncle Dave,loving his own and others. Passion is his saxophone. He said to write a poem,especially for him..I call him uncle Dave, you see,but he's really a GOOD FRIEND!
End poem
Dave ask me to write this Poem
..he's amazing! And he is still working in the salt mines,playing his saxophone,playing
numbers,and house painting on the side..And asking what you dreamed.
Yo... Man... Really? That word echoes, hangs heavy in the air/ You say "no," dismissive, a flippant affair/
But the air vibrates with possibilities, unseized/ Two "yeses" shimmering, carelessly released/
You could have been a builder, brick by brick, Instead, you're a spectator, watching dreams get sick/
Your girl she's riding ragged, a runaway train on crack's cruel track/
Little man in the back car set munching’ on a Big Mac/ Someone saw her screaming, a shattered, desperate plea/ Lost in the asphalt jungle, wanting to be free/
And you? You clutch your comfort, your convenient denial, Trading empathy for indifference/ wrapped in cold filial Loyalty to your dead stagnation/ your comfortable cage/
Help your girlfriend and baby boy find haven/
Don't mouth "impossible," "too hard," "not my fight," Two "yeses" could ignite a future, burning bright. Ya dig?
You're missing the bassline, the fundamental beat, Lost in the noise of self, your own small, selfish feat. A viewer, not a doer, trapped in your sterile frame/
While the real-world bleeds truth, whispering your name. Lay low, brother, for a spell/
Drop the jazzy pretense, the horn's mournful moan/ Pawn that tenor sax, that symbol of a dream unearned/ Get a J.O.B., let the rusty gears be turned. 'Cause that soaring saxophone, it ain't singing for you/ Just a hollow echo, amplified in your mind's eye, man, Be a doer, not a viewer, step out of the haze, Learn the power of "yes," in a million different ways/
Say "yes" to the struggle, the mess, the inconvenient truth, Say "yes" to growth, to change, to building something for youth. Say "yes" to compassion, the hand reaching out in the dark, Find the "yes" inside you,
All through the last winter
I sat on my own
Playing Cushie Butterfield
On my xylophone
I tried it as a two step
I tried it as waltz
Its not easy on a xylophone
To avoid playing shmaltz
But I got it just perfect
It sounded a treat
So I played it on my xylophone
As I walked down the street
And a busker with some bagpipes
Joined in to play with me
And we played Cushie Butterfield
That busker and me
And folk stood there just clapping
And tapping their feet
And soon there was a party
All down that long street
But it wasn’t for long
Were we on our own
For we soon heard the sound
Of a tenor saxophone
And we all played Cushie Butterfield
And it sounded just great
Then the saxophone player
Was joined by his mate
Who played very jauntily
Casting notes afar
Playing the melody on
His 12 string guitar
And we all played Cushie Butterfield
With verve and good cheer
And oh how we wished
Cushie Butterfield could hear
Cushie Butterfiekd - 19th Century Geordie Folk Song
I am to him a Stradivarius, a treasured violin
His bow expertly caresses my supple strings
My body moans when tucked beneath his chin
Revving to his rhythmic pulse, my heart sings
I am the delicate ivory he strokes on his keyboard
his adventurous fingers roam over me in staccato
Those romantic interludes he's adeptly scored
accompanies intimacy to the point of crescendo
I am the mouthpiece on his golden saxophone
Our blues brings about passion and lustful desire
From a distance I hear the pitch of a lone trombone
Emotions build with the heat of a roaring wildfire
Across the well worn bridge of his idle acoustic guitar
I yearn for the virtuoso's touch to strum my chords
But there's no harmony, although we've come so far
No gliding glissandos found at the tips of drawn swords
Now he plays mournful melodies on a native Hopi flute
Reflecting our lives in every wistful and somber note
We're both lost, wandering like phantoms in pursuit
of lost love. We're adrift without oars or sail for our boat
With each wave a tear falls as I lay sheltered in the bow
He sits astern listening to music whistled by the wind
staring at the far horizon with worry etched on his brow
Is this, I wonder, punishment for those who have sinned
Yo. From a whisper, barely a breath, to a front-page roar/ EAST COAST JAZZ in the fifties, sixties/
Not just blowing trumpets, but blowing up the jazz scene jazz/
LPs stacked high vinyl spinnin’, cracklin' truth in every hip-to-be way. Jazz LPs, popin'’ the Truth, etched in black and white/ modern Jazz on the HIFI/
Jazz woke the airwaves up and made the radio take notice; everything felt right. Radio turned on, folks got wise and understood, and Jazz got the blood pumpin' in the mean streets day or night/
If you wanted to be hip to the now, the real, the raw, Late-night clubbing and listening was law, absolute law/
Ornette Coleman, man, a wild, horn-blowin’ free-to-be jazz king machine/ Free jazz founder/ hear his freedom RING!/
Then there's Mingus, righteous anger in his bass, Collective improv, settin' souls ablaze. Lay into "East Coasting," on Bethlehem Records, and let the music soak you down/
Starch your mind with Mingus, that ain't no stereophonic joke! No cover charge here, baby, just pure, unbridled bebop to the cool Miles sound/
A caravan of cats, late-night jams, playin’ something new and bold, Europe callin', TWA Flight 978 ready to take flight/
The Big Apple throbbed, a concrete, jazz-filled hang, Saxophone Colossus, Sonny Rollins, so raw, New York summer Hot Rollins, defying every jazz law/
Moody and quirky, a genius in disguise/ Influencing the young horns, reaching for the skies/
Sonny Rollins, deep in jazz thought on a New York big city day/
Sonny wrote a brand new Jazz Forever heavy page/
The jazz world exploded, on the silver screen, a fifty-cent ticket was your soundtrack to life, a vibrant, vital scene/
"Take Five," baby, the pulse, the driving soul on a jazz beat on stage/
I'm on the Lex Ave Trane, headin' for Groove Street! hold on, hold tight, let Abbey Lincoln sing, while we map our next gig, let’s name our new LP/ the Big Vibe/
Yeah… East Coast jazz… never really dies… spinnin’ vintage jazz LPs to keep my head alive/
ECJ morphs… and lives… in our own soulful eyes. Give me a holler give me a shout I’m talkin’ what’s It all about/ Want to be hip? Want to be in the know? Then listen late at night, and let the jazz sounds flow.
Music Of The Damned
The pounding beat of a drum
The haunting call of a guitar
The woeful sound of a saxophone
A singer singing the thoughts I have
Thoughts I cannot share
All heard in the darkest of night
Alone with my thoughts and the thoughts of the singer
I hear how life is not worth living
How there is no hope
How there is no chance of a future
Depression reaches into my very soul
Tearing me apart at the seams
I listen, absorbing every word
Letting the notes control my heartbeat
My head throbs as I listen
My hand reaches to table next to me
A thin sliver of shiny metal
Sharpened by men who didn’t know how it would be used
The singer had no idea what his words could do
The last note of the song matches my last breath
My heart beats to an ever slowing beat
It stops as the drummer screams
The song ends and so have I
Just the last victim of the music of the damned