Synchronized steps walked cautiously,
Wandered in the conductor's lair.
Where once was echoing laughter,
Now sits a soft-pedal chair.
Roaring and thunderous barrage,
Wry language that he called his own.
Brings a foundational pulse,
A groove he’s always shown.
Collectively, experienced-
The roaring of his defeat.
A community of healing-
Our drum circle- yields to the beat.
a young Elliott Smith knew he was a musician
raised mostly in Texas, his fingers were itch’n
He learned to play guitar, piano, bass and drums
He moved to Portland and played for the rich and bums
His albums came fast and furiously, he loved to write
Heaven adores you, new moon, figure 8, were all out of sight
His best songs were crazy er, and new monkey
but also great was his song misery
he died at a young age, a mere thirty-four
we will miss his new songs and more
He had a way that made you want to hear
and smile and nod, tap your feet and cheer
The birds always have a song to sing
And the wind rushing through the leaves produces a sweet melody
The sound of footsteps tap to a rhythm that many don't notice
And even my own heart has a beat that lives and breathes with me
But them who am I without a song?
Longing to join the chorus but I'm somehow always wrong
My voice dreams to be heard and my mind wishes to be free
But unlike the birds,
I have never found my song to sing
No melody to ring and no rhythm to hold steady
I pray one day I'll find my tune and hope the world is ready
A poet is a musician
The instrument played is words
He may be rejected but
If you really listen
Prophetic truth may be heard
A poet is an artist
His canvas is a conscious mind
At various stages of awareness
Openly exploring abstract is Devine
A poet is a prophet
Who must not be self absorbed
Yet is aware of his flaws
Embracing philosophy as by the Lord
He took his leave ~ his final bow
an emptiness ensued
His music lingered in the air
its warm cachet intensified the mood
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
and talented rainbow fish is on the sax of course
This was pointed out by my cousin the lop-sided horse
Not that we could miss it, his tunes were melodically sound.
he was the best musician in this club underground.
the trombone had never been more appreciated or loved
frog dressed up in his best striped pants, his hands well gloved
took the instrument to the bog and began to play a merry tune
the evening was lightened by the brilliant light of the harvest moon
kinfolk had no idea how talented he was, their relative, Chay
his own mother was stunned at his ability; she met a new son that day
He did not stop at the trombone, he learned to play drums and the strings.
Then he ran off to Arkansas to play with an orchestra, in Hot Springs.
I was sitting alone and silent,
while trees swayed back and forth.
Without warning,
untouchable,
unseen,
a musician began to play.
The melody rose, then fell
as breathy tones I heard.
Soon the shriek of a crescendo
shattered the midnight air.
I shivered at the passion
and sat in awe and wonder,
listening to the song
of the untouchable,
unseen
musician.
Silent strings, once vibrant song,
Melodies hushed, where echoes belong.
A master's touch, forever stilled,
Rajeev Taranath's legacy is forever chilled.
Dancing fingers, now lie at rest,
Ragas unplayed, a silent test.
The wisdom passed, a lineage strong,
Yet music's heart now grieves the song.
Traditions held, a fading light,
The past is preserved, yet shrouded in night.
Improvisation's flame, a flickering spark,
Leaving a void, a lonely mark.
No more the sound, painting stories untold,
Emotions were silenced, and a heart turned cold.
The human canvas, draped in gray,
Taranath's artistry is forever at bay.
Challenges faced, a victor's crown,
His passion's fire, forever unbound.
Souls untransformed, a melody unheard,
The sarod's silence, a weighty word.
No loving caress on the waiting string,
A maestro's life, a broken wing.
The past honoured, a future unclear,
Taranath's memory was a precious tear.
Though death may claim the maestro's hand,
His music lives on, in every land.
A final note, a whispered sigh,
Rajeev Taranath, forever nigh.
Oliver is a one-man band.
Has every instrument,
Can he play them all?
Yes, on clay, earth and in sand.
Can he play the tuba?
Maybe? Of course, I don’t really know.
Does he have a following?
Yes, in the valley way down below.
Do the mountain folk know him?
I would be surprised if they do not.
Oliver is eclectic and fun.
Best of all, he’s a musician self-taught.
The Street Musician
"I am blind," says the minstrel,
"but I can see the notes in my mind
as my fingers strum and pluck the strings
so as for my ears to hear them sing."
I feel the rush as the vibrations resonate
from the wooden instrument to fill the gap
between me and the guitarist on the sidewalk.
I feel alone in the gathered crowd
but find comfort in their company
as we listen to the musician busking.
“How much,” I ponder as I look into the case
containing worn coins and crumpled bills,
“is this entertainment worth?”
An ancient voice upon the air
echoes "Clair De Lune" in whispered flats.
Debussy's spirit enchants the vines;
masters echo is never silent.
I married a musician.
At first the song was lovely.
I cried at the end.
I should have just bought a guitar.
Lyrics from the heart
Captured at the start
From the first word,
You do what you do
And I cannot take
My ears off of you
An extraordinary voice
My heart had no choice
From the first note,
You do what you do
And I cannot take
My ears off of you
The wink of the eye
The charm of the guy
From the first word,
You do what you do
And I cannot take
My ears off of you
The shy, boyish smile
The clean, cool style
From the first note,
You do what you do
And I cannot take
My ears off of you
Still none greater than
That true gentle man
From the first word,
You do what you do
And I cannot take
My ears off of you.
(October 16th, 2022)
Sweet notes, promising joy and quiet peace
Melodies dancing lights that will never cease
Promises golden like the reflections of the sun
Calming hearts with hope that won’t be outdone
Songs of the soul, harmony beyond our dreams
Tunes with lyrics, bold and warm, music streams
Bite Size Poem no.46 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Line Gauthier
June 9, 2022
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