Long Tambourine Poems
Long Tambourine Poems. Below are the most popular long Tambourine by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tambourine poems by poem length and keyword.
She twirled in like falling autumn leaves of gold.
The ultimate heroine of fabricated stories of men of old.
Her castanets clicked in a gleeful, happy friendly way.
Tambourine Woman had entered the fall fest fray.
She brought in dragonflies, they flew at her command.
She is here! Someone said. They organized an impromptu band.
Tambourine Woman was no legend or myth.
Her sapphire eyes danced as she lived her pure bliss.
We were perplexed, bewitched, enamored and astounded.
Corn moon gave her attention that was mostly unfounded.
Butterflies surrounded her, and flitted their truth and love.
Her glorious dancing must have been given by those from above.
Murmurs went through the family on that October night.
She is real! She exists! We saw her, in all of her bright!
To others we could never spread this truth or express our zeal.
Because they were not ready to admit this myth was actually real.
How many times has my name been duplicated
perhaps more at least tripled or quadrupled
I check the on line library
Eleven at least Individual Douglas Gillies
I wonder are they all like me
married to young fillies
My wife then decides
she will look on line too
She discovers same name totals
adds up to twenty two
Add middle name Alexander
now my name's unique
Individuality at last
It's a trait I like to seek
I'm in a park and perched upon a bench
is a man he plays guitar
I wonder does he have the skill
to play an Indian sitar
His hair is long and white
his beard is in a plait
Around his neck there is a harp
I wonder how does this all equate
A tiny tambourine on a foot pedal is attached
in every way it seems that we are matched
Like me he even plays a Beatle song
acoustic there is no microphone
Am I looking in a mirror
or perhaps I am a clone
Footnote Harp an abbreviated name for a harmonica
*Image of Mom Playing at the Church by Family Photo
Pride of Place
Our matriarch, a great musician of sorts,
The piano, her centerpiece, she supports,
Coaching youthful kids even kids in shorts,
Performing at nights at resplendent resorts.
~0~ ~0~ ~0~
She taught the well-to-do to fund her trade,
Still, the piano, the cornerstone she made,
Training those destitute who hadn't paid,
My mom's piano she loved and played.
2022 January 29
*2nd Place*
Pride of Place
~~Julia Ward: Judged 2022 February 09
*Mom was a truly talented virtuoso on a guitar/rivaled Spanish strummers, ukelele and cello, drums, trumpet, flute, horn, tambourine, organ, and YES piano ... to name a few and composer of thousands of compositions.
. for public domain
Look Real Pretty
(Short song)
We're not here to look real pretty.
We work hard and we get dirty.
Oh yeah. Oh yeah.
We're up and at 'em 'round four thirty,
chorin' up fences, makin' 'em sturdy.
Oh yeah. Oh yeah.
When done on the day we sing like the birdies,
chug a few down and we get wordy.
Oh yeah. Oh yeah.
So if you come around when the week is done,
toss away the shovel and have ya some fun.
Call on Betty Lou and the preacher's son,
shake a tambourine and rap on a drum,
dance around and sing like the world's just begun,
then git on home afore the setting sun.
Oh yeah. Oh yeah. Oh yeah!
(inspired after my first hearing of The Way I Should by Iris Dement)
Is my fate to go on living in this impervious place
where everyone dons a mask to conceal his face?
I'm floundering in this troubling tenure of time,
in which no one understands the rhythm of rhyme.
I need to search the deepest corners of my mind
for a region where oblivion is no longer defined.
I hunger to locate a habitat where I can be me,
a sanctuary where my inhibitions can be set free.
Mankind has become such an abstract machine,
all walking to the beat of the same tambourine.
Egotistic are those blind to the needs of others.
A depth of indifference that stifles and smothers.
When did it happen, that it became a world of greed
where everyone wants more than they'll ever need?
Bump into me on the street. No one seems to care.
The oblivion in society is greater than I can bear.
I cling to the prospect of a world in which I behold,
a race of benevolent humans, in stories long foretold,
where no disguise is ever worn to conceal a feeling,
and no secrets are kept for embarrassing revealing.
If there is a place where these human qualities exist,
it's an Eden in which I could more than just subsist.
I wish to withdraw from this callous, obdurate place,
to live where people do not behave as a robotic race.
September 23, 2021
"O" Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
She dances in the moonlight’s rays,
her tambourine, joyously plays;
in swirling, twirling, color schemes,
she is a gypsy who interprets dreams.
A gifted child this bright young woman,
seventh daughter of a seventh one;
born upon the thirteenth day,
in the gentle month of May.
I know her well, she’s a friend, you see;
for she has done so much for me.
Her caravan travels many roads,
there’s hoards of stories, she has told.
When I see her coming ‘round,
I know over tea, dreams she’ll expound;
Lavinia Grey, that is her name,
she is the keeper of her clan’s flame.
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
The best part of vacations
Is they alter your routine,
Like giving up the tuba
For the jangly tambourine.
You leave your comfort zone behind
And venture into where
Nobody knows who you might be
And no one seems to care.
You visit places you have only
Read about in books
And taste cuisine created
By some unfamiliar cooks.
The scenery is different
From what you are used to seeing
And being in such strange surroundings
Might be somehow freeing.
The oom-pah-pah of daily life
Has all the normal angles,
But sometimes, just to spice things up,
You need to hear those jangles.
Come my love past the beauty of the hill
Ablaze with ginger sunset and fall fire
On a fast downhill wagon hayride thrill
In festive saffron and amber attire
Celebrating with tambourine and lyre
Autumn’s gift of new harvest abundance
With an improvised Abu Barn floor dance
Circling around a ginger umber mound
Pumpkin carving for the Jack-O- lantern
Eating chestnuts fresh gathered from the ground
Racing rolling barrels to the caverns
To ferment before hitting the taverns
Cinnamon flavored pies and crimson wine
Ginger spiced to flavor the night is fine
Fourth Place: Brian Strand- Premier Contest 1183-2/8/23
Fifth Place: Julie Leigh Rodeheaver- Autumn Romance-9/28/17
Sixth Place: Dale Gregory Cozart-Autumn Royal Rhyme-10/5/17
Ninth Place: Brian Strand- contest 110 -11/9/17
Fifth Place: Brian Strand- contest 355-10/31/17
SONG CREDITS :
Song : Mon Karigor
Singer : Tahsan
Lyric : Robiul Islam Jibon
Tune : Imran Mahmudul
Music : Imran Mahmudul
Album : Mon Karigor
Label : Cd Choice
Cast : Azim Uddula & Saowla
Director : Chandan Roy Chowdhury
Lyrics:
The foreshadowed clouds , wanderer within the sky
Not an easy one to tame through dispersing whisk
A faded glory wither down the colors, once held dear to heart
Once a plethora, a handful of gatherer bestowed, inner, introvert
Living through a mistaken grace
Rusty salty warm tears , a brimming trace
Genesis you said, Xanthosis, through these emotions, lingering long, worldly boom, recess
Craftsman Mr. Smith, let us halt the caravan in may
Simply whence it is calling to reborn in coming terrace whence autumn say
Craftsman Mr. Smith, let us halt the caravan in may
A rejuvenated dream factory will pull through the tambourine man…….
A painstaking lump some pain, overwhelming drowning a pour
Speechless a corridor and an ambling, nonetheless, lo and behold! None to hold accountable.
Wishful a mirror , a thousand whims
Ambivalence and a croon, tricking down the chicks of time, on lime.
Craftsman Mr. Smith, let us halt the caravan in may
Simply whence it is calling to reborn in coming terrace whence autumn say
Craftsman Mr. Smith, let us halt the caravan in may
A rejuvenated dream factory will pull through the tambourine man…….
The sand castle dream , too fragile a misfit, a shore the lively stream
Morbid a shore, enacted, plays along the indifferent acted upon, among the walks of dream
Craftsman Mr. Smith, let us halt the caravan in may
Simply whence it is calling to reborn in coming terrace whence autumn say
Craftsman Mr. Smith, let us halt the caravan in may
A rejuvenated dream factory will pull through the tambourine man…….
||END||
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