7 lines /7syllables
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she was touched by a phantom
becoming a phantom too
both boarded coral carriage
wheels grate cobble streets in mist
opera seats were waiting
then to swirl on dancing floor
she relished escaping hours
Sydney my love, Sydney my city
Splendour and majesty, nothing such pretty.
Sydney my love, Sydney my city.
First rays of the sun, spread here fun.
Opera, Harbour Bridge, Blue Mountain.
Pretty pretty places, plenty plenty beauty.
Sydney my love, Sydney my city
Clean clean beaches, green green trees,
Pleasant weather, cool cool breeze.
Kissing the shores, sea waives sporty.
Sydney my heart, Sydney my city
Kangaroo, emu, parrots, cockatoo.
4X fun, taste of barbecue.
Having flora and fauna, folk and fidelity.
Sydney my delight, Sydney my city.
Cheers of beers, music and dance.
Events and sports, friendship and romance.
People enjoy varied leisure activity.
Sydney my crave, Sydney my city.
In habitant's haven, half a hundred hills.
Love surfing thrills, basking when chills.
They toil for growth and prosperity.
Sydney my choice, Sydney my city.
People here thrive in an easy life.
Happy happy children with serene smile.
Over everything, supreme is humanity.
Sydney my pride, Sydney my city.
- S. D. Tiwari
Candle Opera
Have you ever taken time out to look up at the stars?
They shine bright from afar.
Seeing light dancing at night.
Feeling spiritually grateful all the time.
Looking up, counting your blessings.
Through an orchestra, the wind is singing.
Guidance along the path.
Growing old, time goes by fast.
Reach out and touch the flames.
Like a vivid memory that will always remain.
Water resides down a stream.
Candle Opera has a symbolic meaning.
Don’t take life for granted.
Through a song, listen to the message.
Take time out of your busy life.
From me I give you warmth in the moonlight.
I just wanted to show you my appreciation.
Thanks for giving me a chance through a colorful illustration.
You have been my inspiration till this day.
My love for you will never fade.
Fantastical notes of gloom filled the orchestra pit
Who was playing? No one was here. Except Paul.
He felt spooked after searching for the source.
A gremlin band, a ghost trio, a zombie orchestra?
The music was deliberate, harsh, off beat, nonharmonic
The hair on the back of Paul’s neck rose almost an inch
He felt threatened, for he knew he was alone here.
Or was he?
After a bubble bath last night
I left the water running
‘O, Soapy Mio!’
Heaven help me
pay for the plumbing
A Chinese opera singer named Chow Ling
Had a voice that would set dogs to howling.
Her high C, it was said,
Could awaken the dead,
And turn Buddha from laughing to scowling.
In bejeweled jade landscape
the topaz terrain rolls
as wondrous waves,
undulates with
sculpted panorama
of captivating cadence,
entrenches in earthen frame
the sprawling shape
of a placid lake,
sublimely sparkling,
the shining sapphire face
looking up entranced
toward the cerulean sky,
spread serene on
boundless blankness.
The southern zephyr
whispers enticing melody
to the rhapsodic ripples,
rolling aquatic rhythm,
intensely passionate,
stretching in seraphic span
of self-centric array,
sliding on slithering shadows
of the dancing trees,
lining the contorted contours
of the splashing shore,
emerald adorned.
Malachite lotus leaves
float flamboyant
with pulsating fervor,
the ruby flush
of full bloom
makes the collage
of fiery fresco
with fanning feathers
of flaming flamingos,
their ballerina legs wading
the lazuline waters
in avian grace,
supple napes swiveling
in charismatic concerto
of aquatic ballet,
rapturous recital
performed unruffled
in hypnotic gleam
of the setting sun,
chromatic spectrum
composes the sonata
for lacustrine opera.
The phantom of the opera,
once bitter and marose,
living in torture chambers,
almost comatose,
has got a new publicist.
Don't write his epitaph.
Now, he's bright and cheerful,
signing autographs.
The phantom of the opera was sincere,
but, with him, I wouldn't want to share a beer.
Not only that, but furthermore, in any case,
have you ever happened to see his face?
A spectral figure, clothed in red,
he had no face upon his head.
High o'er Paris on an opera house roof,
she described that phantom goof -
here is what our pretty Christine said
about our hero whom she had misled,
"he's a monster, a loathsome beast",
an understatement, to say the least.
. The opera of loneliness
by B. joycee rani
‘’the weeping eyes has started to sterile ‘’,
‘’the yellow skin with red stains ,bruises began to bleed’’.
‘’the monster of evil has me to eat’’.
‘’my mind began to rot ‘’,
My heart and locked-mouth has something to tell a lot’’.
My phobia of death has now gone,
When loneliness carries me on.
I forgot my diet and appetite,
Even vomited blood with phlegm.
But, why to worry about it ?
When I have loneliness with me.
The old father hits me with a leather belt imprinted ,
When I don’t do chores and study when he needed.
The old mother mocks and taunts me down,
When I neglect to do with my numbed-stricken ,
Wounded hands around.
I fall for it, accidently;
But, loneliness never betrayed me .
It is as lovely as an infant;
And caring as mother cow.
I will never leave it ,
Till my heart stops now and still’’.
From: Now That She's Alone
Story of a Man's Wanting
( the mention to play glissando
and to sing aria)
Do you know what to say
does it make you
wanna just walk away
seems it's clear to me
something more
obviously
maybe it's all in the song
those glaring melodies
something for ee
I swear it alluded me
Villainized by it's potential
scammed to be exploited
all in the attempt of bragging
such is easy for some
to ignore and
I sort feel
they wrote it like a song
maybe it's in the song
It's gotta be in the song
Stand dominates
it's all so complicated
sit down to see
the bright blue sky
the puffy pretty clouds
watch as they go by
when I stop my ponder
get my mind right
and understand
looking to my woman
reaching out to hold her hand
Keeping my lady Happy
Ya'll know I don't wanna be wrong
stop to read the lyric
Maybe it's in the song
Maybe it's in the song
Originally written in Italian
interputed into English)
He ate a Yankee Pastromi sandwich with
Russain dressing running down his cheeks.
i've just been reliably informed that
the manchester united dressing room was bugged
before their match at aston villa
it is a shocking security breach
but classic sci-fi can be a bit hit and miss
like my pancakes
but we soldier on
we have tickets for the opera
as we still await to see on stage the essentials;
making a cup of tea
reading the newspaper
putting on a pair of socks
but there's a character on stage dying from
tuberculosis, which according to Wikipedia is an infectious disease.
that causes
significant damage to the lungs
and she's singing her heart out
i whisper to my wife, "this is fun."
that italia '90 fella was good
you'll be in tears
Please don’t leave me hanging like that that, I hate to be in suspense, you piqued my curiosity and it’s so intense. Artfully teasing you know how to play, always one step ahead, leaving me dizzy and frayed, My head is spinning you think you’re winning, who’s got the last laugh? What’s all that ringing must be in my head, it’s giving carnival vibes, Clowns with balloons and daggers, cute little kittens with menacing eyes. Your destination, my fears, pulling me in and giving me sneers . What’s going on with the goat he just fainted, he stuck his tongue out and said blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah screamed and disintegrated, he looked kind of evil did I just use past tense? Is that mirror melting? What happened to his head? It’s so small and stuck to the bed. This ride is spinning down to the depths. I realize the ringing in my head is the alarm clock to wake me up. I turn over and face the clown in my bed. Oh geez, it’s just my lover Fred. What a tasty bit of drama, a midnight abracadabra.
In a lattice-lit dorm room sits a writer.
A discarded chemistry book lies beside her.
because ideas are hitting off her, like a collider.
Why does writing make her feel alive-er?
Cause it helps sort out the feelings inside her?
Repose is something grinding-study denies her.
Now, rhyming isn't her primary desire
the connections form, almost, despite her
poetry’s at it best when it comes unaware
“Oh,” she thinks, like we’re going there?
What she writes might eventually be shared
with that awareness she vowels with care
picking words when they seem the ripest
shaping phrases like some sort of stylist
she may be less of a poet than a typist
Her default is to narrative - like you read in novels
cause let’s face it - cold-poetry is as dead as vaudeville,
as buried as silent movies, letters and opera,
have I come to dig up Caesar, like a fossil?
.
.
cold = straight up
Born in New York of Italian descent-
from childhood on- lasting still all these years,
Deep in my soul live the sounds of lament-
The drama of romance, fear, death, and tears.
The power, the movements, fill up my soul
Like thunder that roars to shake up the night;
So vibrant and flowing, lost in the role,
I listen to grasp each note with delight.
Emotional voices strike at my heart,
I'm filled with a depth I cannot explain-
The beauty, the sadness in every part
Bring stories to life that stir inner pain.
Yes, opera is a big part of me;
My favorites played again and again-
Puccini, Bizet and those of Verdi;
Of Tosca, Carmen, and best, La Boheme.
With musical dramas of life and death-
The singers stir feelings with every word.
Strong voices mingle to deepen my breath;
Emotions rise with each aria heard.
Born in New York of Italian descent-
My family loved and nurtured this art;
played records at home- with happy hours spent
at the Met- where opera lifted my heart.
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