Long Trombones Poems
Long Trombones Poems. Below are the most popular long Trombones by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Trombones poems by poem length and keyword.
Salve for the soul in healing sound
Rhythms balm spreads in division
Lifts the hour high
Explodes the troubled mind to calm
Birds Interpret song on wild notes
Orchestrations with crescendos fly
Rise with symphonic melted hearts
Murmuring violins, strings together, meld
Overtures dawn with the song respond
Repeating every measure operatic
Movements operate on scores created
On levels not recorded simply on their merit
Far from civilization primal saxophones blast
Jazz discordant jungles awake inhabitants
Afraid, stir in the fields, collaborate
Instruments strike a wonder cord, relax
Falling rain that drops one note away
Stay up any way
Try not to reason with the rain
On pastures pure meandering
Rock and roll misgivings earthquake the dead
Bring them back to life with melodies
Raw streaming strings and drums, melodic sounds
Listeners never miss a beat, good enough to eat
Green waves of grass will laugh in harmony
Grow closer to an open concert stage
Quiver for an instant explanation
One that never came
Nearer than you will ever be
To solid ground in symphony
Feel a mystery evolve unsolved
Far from the here and now
There is something in the air not there, perhaps salvation
Far from the common cold, almost a religion, not quite a song
In musics realm, tilted towards the left, the brass section
Trombones for sure to settle the final score finale
It was a glorious, hot day soothed by the August's breeze; the town's copper bells
harmoniously chimed in their old, sturdy bell towers
as the band tuned to their festive sound with trumpets, trombones and marching drums.
The large square resounded with thousands of voices,
a procession of faithful flowed to the Church of Saint Stephen.
I ran upstairs with heavy breath to tell my sister to follow
them, but there on the flloor she layed with upward eyes, kind of lifeless;
and so hepeless not to find anyone, I stepped outside and saw
the saint's pious face and invoked Him for a miracle...suddenly I went back,
and instantly her face regained color and she began talking. I was convinced
that such a miracle happened because of my firm faith,
and that vision reinforces my belief that saints are the intercessors of God.
Proud parents gathered for the fifth grade band presentation.
The kids labored long and hard to enhance their musical education.
'Twas the band's first concert since its recent organization.
The harried teacher approached it with a sense of trepidation!
Moms and dads endured the commotion at home for many weeks,
As their blossoming prodigies practiced and honed their techniques.
Suffering through the blare of trumpets, the bleat of saxaphones,
The wail of clarinets and oboes, the atonal pitch of trombones!
The girls were dressed in white blouses and black, slinky skirts.
Boys wore dark trousers, black bow ties and snow-white shirts.
Each of the girls had a pretty ribbon adorning her hair.
Boys had even combed their hair - which was very rare!
Teacher apprehensively grasped her baton and waved the downbeat.
The program began with a simple rendition of "Bonaparte's Retreat."
At the end of the concert a heartwarming thing occurred.
The audience rose exclaiming, "Twas the sweetest music ever heard!"
Though at times they were not in tune and the tempo somewhat slow,
They proudly gave it their best and put on a wonderful show!
Was a spark in a child's soul that night fanned into a flame,
Boosting his or her enthusiasm to strive for musical acclaim?
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
t is characterized by a low-register brass melody, a fast chromatic guitar riff, and mood
surf-style electric guitar (played on a 1939 Clifford Essex Paragon) brass (trumpets, trombones), seven saxophones, and a rhythm section (upright bass, drums, piano a synthesizer
I
Kegal before me
Might then I'll love
You
We as one
Kegal before me
To intise my need
of suckegal
Kegal
Kegal
Your strength
Your wisdom
Kegal
Kegal
Kegal
My need for
Such
The hizzdom
Longful yearning
Your kegaling thrust
A need in your optimism
Kegal me as much
Yeah, that's you
Yeah it's me
Kegal me lady
Take the time for me
__________________________
Kegal Yosef
Kegal Yosef
Kegal me lady
Kegal me all night long
The Vik Flick Remix
---------------------------
The sun mounts over crumpled roofs and streets,
Beats from machetes and trombones disconcerts the air,
Brides and husbands-to-be bosa nova where joy and gossip meet.
Little ones run run past stalls,their joy sharp as knives,
Grandmas share gossip,drinking Joko Tea in chirped mugs.
While dear uncles sway,remembering old wasted lives
Smog billows from grills where meat roasts and fry,
Fires burn,mixing ululations and cheer,
Even the emaciated township dog pauses,ears to the sky.
Hubands-to-be jive,hats tilted,praising feats of might;
Ladies-in waiting in skirts that sparkle under sun.
Every furtive glance a nod and a story of delight.
As night comes,lanterns flicker in houses and alleys;
Music is tender,hearts stay buoyed and awake-
In hoboland love and joy endure amidst the pain.
The Gede's Almanac (DHR)
on Fèt Gede, when Haiti welcomes the dead
I.
Elsewhere, autumn is a slow undressing —
maples letting go of themselves in red,
a season measured in what falls.
Here, on the first of November,
we do not measure autumn in falling.
We measure it in return.
The gate between the living and the dead
is a crossroads swept clean with rum,
and the dead do not drift down like leaves —
they arrive like family, loud, thirsty,
wearing purple and black,
one lens missing from their sunglasses,
because Baron Samedi never cared
which eye saw the living world clearly.
II.
My grandmother used to say: the dead get hungry too.
So we feed them what we would eat ourselves —
pikliz sharp enough to wake a corpse,
griot dark as the soil they came up through,
and clairin poured straight onto the ground,
a small, deliberate offering
to those still owed a place at the table.
We do not whisper to our dead.
We shout. We laugh with them in the cemetery
the way you'd laugh with an uncle
who tells the same joke every year
and somehow it is funnier each time
because he is the one telling it,
and, for a moment, he is here.
III.
In this almanac, autumn has no orange,
no pumpkin, no cider, no children in flannel.
Autumn is violet on white crosses.
Autumn is a marching band at a graveside,
trombones arguing cheerfully with grief.
Autumn is Gede Nibo, powdering his face
the color of bone made beautiful
before it is buried.
I have read that in colder countries
they call this season a dying —
the trees performing their long undressing,
the light going thin and apologetic.
We do not disagree, exactly.
We only add what they left out:
that death can be a coat
you put back on once a year,
then wear to your own grave
where the living are waiting,
still unafraid enough to dance.
IV.
So if you ask what autumn looks like
where my family comes from —
it looks like a crossroads at dusk,
a bottle passed hand to hand,
a name spoken loud enough
for the one who owned it
to lean in from wherever the dead lean in from.
And when we call,
the answer is not silence.
It is ayibobo —
the old word crossing the distance
between the grave and the living mouth,
between the ones who left
and the ones still learning
how to stay.
“A maestro is like a candle. It consumes itself to light the way for others.”-
~~ The Poet ~~
Conductor of an art form, stands the maestro of the storm.
Instruments take their place, then the symphony begins.
Firstly, a tuneful rhapsody of woodwind with violins.
The sheer spellbinding rhythm builds increasingly strong.
A tinkling as the rain begins, he uses spiccato to bring the tempo along.
The piccolo sends notes scurrying for cover by the continued rain,
And introduces the flutes into the mix once again.
The cadence evolves, with heralding intensity to engage.
Notes follow the beat, to a crescendo of immense rage.
Now, as the kettle drums implode within their skins,
The conductor is in full control, as his baton spins
Music’s fury is reinforced by trombones, entering for the first time.
Cymbals clash, cellos and double basses offer a fortissimo effect, sublime.
The percussion again, joins, as the woodwind slows,
Notes soften, and the flute’s melody gently flows.
A solo of horns, a transition with the full orchestra, it springs.
In suspense of his melody, the piano takes us to strings.
Tempo lighter, airier which is juxtaposed with the timpani drums.
The soft gentle tones, once hurtled by deafening wind, silence comes.
Audience captivated, orchestra foregone. The maestro lowers his baton.
Let’s sail away to Acapella,
A celebrity haunt owned by Penn and Teller.
I shall act as your prince, you’ll be Cinderella
When we’re sat on a beach in Acapella.
It’s not as sexy as Cannes or as dowdy as Rhyl
But their choirs and ensembles will give you a thrill,
Acapella compares well to old Casablanca,
As you will observe once we have dropped anchor.
Their libraries don’t hold any musical score,
Acoustic folk singers are considered a bore,
All keyboards and trombones were sold overseas
And whistles restricted to football referees.
So you won’t hear the bagpipes of Kenneth McKellar
Or repetitive bass notes plucked by Paul Weller.
Your voice will entrance all the ladies and fellas
Once we’ve moored in the harbour of Acapella’s.
There fishermen bring ashore haddock and bream
Having sung shanties as a well-rehearsed team,
The salty sea breeze gives their voices a rasp
And the youngest amongst them let out a gasp!
Melodic and manly, the crews ride the waves,
Proud of their seamanship, masters not slaves,
They heed the advice of their mothers and aunties
But rarely acknowledge the source of their shanties.
Once a solitary busker was found in a yacht
And by all accounts he deserved what he got,
He was forced down the plank at the tip of a sword
Then his vintage viola was flung overboard!
On the pier you’ll find orators and callers at bingo,
But no jukebox is pumping out John, Paul or Ringo.
Pop or rock music gives locals the creeps,
It’s no wonder that George’s guitar gently weeps.
So, if Customs Control takes your squeezebox or trumpet
Don’t seek compensation, you’ll just have to lump it;
Those instruments go to a processing plant
Because singers are welcome but musicians aren’t.
We shall seek out the nightlife in numerous bars
Where the locals all sing without playing guitars,
Dodge the Lambrettas in quaint cobbled alleys,
Then stride across hills and along peaceful valleys.
So, if you’re tired of concertos or singles by Queen
Book a cruise to a place where they’re considered obscene,
It’s a magical island owned by Penn and by Teller -
The remote principality of Acapella.
So let us sail forth across the briny
In a luxury yacht - well furnished and shiny
To where your vocal range will be valued quite highly,
And you won’t have to sit through Baba O’Riley.
Oh captcha squares, oh captcha squares
What are these objects in your frames?
Oh captcha squares, oh captcha squares
Why must they gotta be the same?
Cars and busses, traffic lights
Bicycles and motor bikes
Crosswalks, signs, and steps and stairs
Fire hydrants everywhere
Boats, planes and parking meters
Tickets, fines, misdemeanors
Why are you so fond of these?
Why are palms the only trees?
Oh captcha squares, oh captcha squares
The pictures trapped inside of there
Oh captcha squares, oh captcha squares
Depict a world so bleak and bare
Arid, bland, unaesthetic
Barren, drab, unpoetic
Sterile, cold, antiseptic
Unconcerned, apathetic
Somber, sad, and desolate
Woeful, bland, pedestrian
Weary, grim, dreary, hopeless
Grainy, gray, out of focus
It doesn’t need to be this way…
Many things could fill your squares
Why not fill these things in there?
Tambourines and castanets
Bass trombones and clarinets
English horns and piccolos
Harpsichords and xylophones
Fiddles high and Irish whistles
Jingle bells and finger cymbals
5-string banjos, mandolins
Saxophones, accordions
Desmond Tutu and Mandela
Cassius Clay, Cinderella
Charlemagne and Genghis Kahn
George and Ringo, Paul, and John
Twain and Edgar Allan Poe
Wayne and Brando and Monroe
Ida Wells, Frida Kahlo
Steinem, Parks, and Ferraro
River Thames and stormy seas
Winter wrens and bumble bees
Cyprus, ash, oak, fir, and pine
Sassafras, willow, and lime
Daffodils and magnolias
Marigolds and begonias
Cabbage, beets, and potatoes
Carrots, beans, and tomatoes
Oh Captcha Squares, Oh Captcha Squares
If your pictures must remain
Oh Captcha Squares, Oh Captcha Squares
How aboutcha change the frames?
Captcha circles, captcha suns
All the captcha olygons
Wiggly captcha twiggly lines
Twisty captcha twiny vines
Captcha diamonds, captcha hearts
Captcha clovers, moons, and stars
Captcha ribbons, Captcha lace
Captcha colored string bouquets
Oh Captcha Squares, Oh Captcha Squares
We understand you're here to stay.
Oh Captcha Squares, Oh Captcha Squares
Just be more creative, OK?
Composed, he walks towards the podium.
At first to applause, until a hush forms.
His heart beats like a water pump,
sweat drips - eyes fixed at his ensemble.
Audience anticipates,
as he stands at the nexus of musical creations.
With a brief glance - nods and closes his eyes,
baton in hand and a flick of wrist,
an oboe penetrates the silence,
violins trill and bass begin to roar.
His empathy connects with each note,
as his wand moves to the tempo,
conjuring symphonic magic,
softly then dramatically,
as emotions ebb and flow,
like waves weaving solo tones.
Spectators lost in imagination.
Gradually the melody flows faster,
as trumpets and trombones blow.
He feels a sharp pain in his chest,
as his pores drip like little rivers on his lips,
but he still guides the harmonic mood
with precision and clarity.
As the horns blare and percussions echo,
he loses grip of his baton - falls onto his knees,
clutching his breast - the music stops,
pianist plays her last key - audience gasp
he falls to the ground - curtains close.