Long Strumming Poems
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The Gaspe Peninsula dancing to music only she can hear,
She starts in the Appalachians of Northern Alabama;
Until she plunges into the sea at the end of the Gaspe,
The Mi'knaq Indians called it, the place where land ends.
She murmurs the music of the Scots and Irish settlers,
With fiddles and violins strumming and Gaelic lyrics;
On summer days, she is wildflowers and sun-drenched meadows,
That ripple in the fresh, sea breezes of the Saint Lawrence.
There are many wind turbine forests, a hundred miles high,
And the sound of the fiddles scream in her heart;
Along her shores she is rich wilderness, red cliffs, and forests,
And always the salt-tinged wind is caressing her soul.
Her peaks rise up to the azure blue sky in sweet solitude,
Birds swoop and glide her towering open rock forms;
And she hears accordian, gentle and soothing, weeping so softly,
And scattered are quaint villages and towns with bright roofs.
Many a shipwreck lay off her shores and the violin is sadness,
And the Blue Whales come surfacing and diving deeply;
Their blow-holes, blowing plumes thirty feet tall with a whoosh,
In the waters of the mighty Saint Lawrence that flows.
The fiddles are piercing and the piano cries as she nears her end,
Land plunges into the sea, and her journey has ended;
She is dancing to music only she can hear, of seascapes so beautiful,
Of boreal forests, pristine waters, wildlife, and high mountains.
_____________________________
October 5, 2015
Short Story/Music of the Gaspe
Copyright Protected, ID 15-714-669-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Midnight is when you have a song stuck in your head.
Stepping out of bed, and it’s midnight.
If I’m quiet,
I can do anything.
Like go downstairs and paint a picture!
Brushes and a cup of water.
Painting is when you have a song stuck in your head.
The beat and strumming.
My hand tapping the canvas.
Something woke her.
She heard me singing in my thoughts.
My thoughts and paintings are musical.
Going back to bed is when you have a song stuck in your head.
The sound is low and about to end.
The fan is loud and buzzing.
So am I.
When I go to the hospital next week,
I’ll remember.
By letting this song flow through me.
Not sleeping.
Just a song.
And another painting I never finished.
Preferential treatment does hurt.
Jealousy swept under bedskirt.
She pinches the harp in background.
Those black and blues strings, plucked, resound.
The eldest withdraws with lone words,
Tends to the notion of firebirds.
Flames of wind, harassing, unbound.
Those black and blues strings, plucked, resound.
Not love, nonetheless - of first things.
Very little under her wings.
Harping and lost, in tears she drowned.
Those black and blues strings, plucked, resound.
Carried on military style,
Untucked blouse, fell in love meanwhile.
Innocence of strumming, compound.
Those black and blues strings, plucked, resound.
Existence - inky endeavor;
Playing this life of whenever.
An angel’s heartbreak is profound.
Those black and blues strings, plucked, resound.
time is all he has
how little no one knows
the end is near
of that he is reminded daily
he sings the blues
for anyone who’ll listen
imagining scenarios where
he’s in love and life is sweet
hallucinations swirl inside his head
as pain killers of every color take effect
between imaginary and surreal
life floats unfettered
the blues his only lover
he sings as best as loud he can
meandering the path alone
down towards the great unknown
countless hours down the hourglass
he ponders the many questions deep
those of life and death
but mostly about meaning
tears in the night
strumming his old guitar
the flow of memories streaming
bound to leave no stone unturned
Read on air by invitation ~ July 28, 2021 'WORDS & MUSIC"
AP: 2nd place 2022
My heart waits for you so that our dreams can come true .
My heart aches for you, so remove the guard so that I can be with you
Days have passed and I kept working like a horse, cleaning the barn
Emptying garbage bins and meddling in the dirt oh what a terrible sin
I did not go to school to become a Janitor, but I became one over night
I also spend hours working my brain working with my intuitive mind and the spiritual oracle that originates from the divine.
My heart aches for you when no one is there to watch my back, my heart aches for you when no one is there to buy me a new frock.
Sometimes the days turn cold and I can feel you wrapped up into my soul with just a tiny touch of heat to warm your cold feet. It’s the kind of courage that we share that kept us floating in the air and when the weather is fine, I usually get what is mine.
The road is extremely long and the curves and turns are singing a wonderful song, the guitars strings are strumming and the people are marching on. The work is not yet done so I have to continue this journey until the battle is won.
I have to change directions, angle, and dimension and make the circumference bold and the dividing line whole; you must multiply the radius by two to get the diameter that is true, and then multiply the result by three point one four for a good estimate before you walk through the door.
I have to work with some new people and a new set to obtain some physical and spiritual depth. The location is metastasized with anger, hate and greed and the bald eagle is strangling the sisters and they cannot breathe .
I have to change location to get variety and a better proportion; I have to close in on the inner world with a linear distance and the radius pulling from the center or the sphere intersecting on something that is dear to complete the formula.
My heart is waiting for you to share the story of an unseen glory and ride with the wind in the south and break the wings of the North without a doubt.
My heart waits for you to complete this battle, and when it is done we will publish it and stand on the mountain top and shout with all that we have got
The birds will come raining in the sky for every direction and my heart will be pleased. I will hold your hands and embrace with thee. My heart aches for you.
Blue is the colour, blue is the period, blue is the mood
As Pablo's mind sunk, on the meaning of life he did brood.
The death by his own hand, of a friend that was close
Left Pablo the poor artist quite depressed and morose.
His feelings from deep down within his soul
Could only be expressed by his brush, his goal.
To show how he hurt and affected was he
He painted the guitarist, the one that could not see.
A blind beggar stooped and cold, a guitar in his hands
Not strumming just there, muted background looking bland
Muted colours of blue that makes one feel so cold
Of the half staved, freezing guitarist, that looks terribly old.
The oil tends to blend on the panel lacking some colour
To express his heart weary soul, his colours ever duller
The guitarist is stretched, elongated, looks almost dead
All the feeling of Picasso in his life, this picture said.
Look at me, I am starved of love money and bread
No colour in my life, perhaps I am better off with the dead.
A reflection on the times on society way back then
The hopeless, the wretched, Pablo caught with his pen.
On the bland background of blue, a guitar painted dull brown
The guitar in his hands, the player blind with a sad frown
Was he a symbol that the blind have inner vision yet can see
The dejection, the poverty, the misery of times lost on you and me.
His period of blue lasted three long years before it was then spent
He changed his style with his moods as his emotions were pent
A poor artist who suffered with his moods as we all can do
He expressed them with pen and brush, much the same as me and you.
© 23/01/2013
Contest Entry.
The Old Guitarist By Pablo Picasso
1.
The baby's sleeping
Sleep, baby, sleep
Love is for keeping
Keep, baby, keep
No time for weeping
Weep, baby, weep
Chorus:
Gently now, gently
Let us not rush
Love me intently
Let us now hush
2.
Music is humming
Hum, baby, hum
Guitar strings strumming
Strum, baby, strum
Love has come drumming
Drum, baby, drum
Chorus:
Gently now, gently
Let us not rush
Love me intently
Let us now hush
Bridge:
Gently now, gently
Take me in your arms
Love me intently
Ease all my alarms
Gently now, gently
Hear my heart beating
Love me intently
My fear is fleeting
Gently now, gently
Let us not rush
Let us now hush...
Now hush...
09.05.2020
For Edward Ibeh's "Pick-A-Title - vol.22- lyric 2" contest
Quote: A man can fail many times, but he isn’t a failure until he begins to blame somebody else.
John Burroughs
________________________________________
Inspired by life’s goals, winners are intuitively aware,
A loss is but a steppingstone, not a reason to despair;
Again and again, with certitude they play the game,
For triumph, they envision, is written in every name.
They never seek to blame others, for own mistakes,
Instead, they course-correct, averting heart-breaks,
Re-learning, deep in introspection, as they re-assess;
Ameliorating ways of failures, reaching for success.
When life is perturbed in adversities, they fear not,
Cognizant~ anything worthwhile must be hard-fought;
Summoning conquering ways, every failure taught,
To attain ultimate milestone, reveries of victory sought.
They accept, they advance, when things go wrong,
Strumming theme winsome, emanating from life’s song,
Echoing a pledge revered, treasured for quite long;
Avowing~ to them, the reigns of future shall belong.
Dreams of passion, dreams coveted, refuse to die,
For resolutely their objectives, driven believers vie;
Until triumphantly, bells-elated, of success chime,
Trumping sad sighs of failures, defeated over time.
There once were some Weavers
Who taught many of us to sing.
But it wasn't until much later in life
That their music would be my thing.
I never followed Pete Seeger
As his words with me didn't gel.
It would not be until years later
That others would finally tell.
Peter, Paul, and Mary grabbed my attention
With their skill, their courage, their art.
Of all the groups that I have listened to
They are closest to my heart.
Others garnered my attention
Donovan, Dylan, and Kingston Trio too.
I'd love to listen and sing along
As if every note was new.
Steve Goodman was a true artist
In his words of truth and form.
Folksingers come in every age
Croce's works were not the norm.
How I do love to listen to them singing
Or in some cases just strumming away.
The one regret I have in all of this...
I never learned how to play.
Oh! how gems sparkle from glinted morning dew
Wooing your view, amber rays peeking through,
Enamoring jubilation as missives of love I renew
On halo of golden sun inscribing ovations anew
Blushing purple hues, scintillating skyline blue,
Venerating day precious~ my stellar gift for you.
Arrayed in crystal vase are red-roses you adore
Where silken petals gleam, evoking springs of yore,
In bouquet of our memories exulting evermore,
For you are the love-blossoms my passions implore
Titillating heart today, tomorrow, and forever;
Answering my prayer, you’re life’s holy endeavor.
Birds gently awakened you strumming your song
As cadence of my soul, extolling you sings along,
For endearing is the appeal buoyant on your zeal
Soothing me in your bliss, forlorn tears you heal,
My cheerful theme you are, deity of eternal glee,
You are my voice of poetry, exhilarating as can be.
Fabulously shines your smile on splendor of today
As dreams satiated replay waltzing rhythms of ballet
When lyrical praises of lifelong allegiances convey:
You are the guitar my heartbeats ceaselessly play,
You are the harmonics, tunes of symphonies sway
In chorus of heart’s music celebrating your birthday.
September 4, 2021
Poem of the day on September 6, 2021
Placed 3rd: Premium contest--A poem to your spouse
Sponsor: Funom Makama