Orchestras Poems | Examples

PBS and NPR

Entertainment on TV
Or radio depends
On funding from the government
Or ads for private ends.

Both PBS and NPR,*
With Public in each name,
Provide such joy for tuners-in,
With years of much acclaim.

From children’s shows to orchestras 
To journalists with news,
The varied offerings present
A host of different views. 

Yet now an order has been signed -
I’ll let you guess by whom -
To end all public funding,
As these stations meet their doom.

To stop “woke propaganda”
By the “monsters” on the “left,”
This, instead, will damage children
And leave listeners bereft.

The only monster I can see
Is one who thinks he’s king
And every day I wonder 
What new horror he will bring.


*Public Broadcasting Service and
National Public Radio

The Big Brass

Now rejoice the sounding brass

Let trombones and trumpets sing

Choirs of Angels weep with joy 

As the bells of Heaven ring

We mere mortals here on Earth 

We live and love and fight and die

Concerned with petty differences

While orchestras play in the sky

If It Wasn't For Poetry

Things that I alone see would remain unseen by others.
Things that move or touch me alone, none other would bother.
Clouds with color and form, are not just a repository of water,
but demand more than a stare and invite an inquiry further.
Who would SEE our Master's painting if it wasn't for poetry?

A vast domain in an opened canopy filled with awesome beauty
and so often unobserved would go undetected of wondrous mystery.
Who would otherwise reveal the workings of God's magnificent symphony?

As I sat at the bedside of one who was ill terminally,
a poem of comfort was born and given to the family.
Who else would listen to the beats and tones long enough to hear the
faraway sounds of the heavens or the whispers of the wind so near?
Things, that I alone hear, would go unheard by unkeen and nonpoetic ears;
Who would LISTEN and record orchestras of the universe if it wasn't for poetry?

Some places, times, and seasons from long ago years;
Things deep in the heart's core, that I alone feel, birthing tears;
Emotional and hurtful memories; mental abuses locked in cells of fears.
Who would FEEL the myriads of life's meaning if it wasn't for poetry? 

120323PS

What Is Your Final Wish

four merry frogs with a hey wheez wiggle wiggle wiggle
Were riding a designer fish down the middle of Lake Gibble
The fish was flopping and floundering as fashion fish do.
The frogs were laughing their guts out, and playing their old kazoo.

It’s the kind of day that other frogs are sitting in their swampy place.
But we are the orchestra of orchestras said frog cousin Mrs. Grace.
The rest of them agreed, as they floated out to sea on the fish.
Just one thing, said a dragonfly stopping by “what is your final wish?”

Samore Pet Squirrel Conductor

The music teacher was thrilled to see the squirrel in the window.
Listening to Beethoven’s 5th, he was conducting high and low.
His little paws were moving in a way that showed he knew what to do.
He ended nside the house, living in a tiny house painted blue.

She took her protégé’ to concerts, festivals, and seminars galore.
Many other people wanted their own squirrels, like her pet, Samore.
He ended up conducting seventeen orchestras at Carnegie Hall.
With each production, his tail grew a little bit more tall.

Under the Overpass

Was it his destiny to die in that sleeping bag
curled up like an infant in the womb
unnoticed, unseen
undiscovered for days
until others found the odor of death disagreeable
more obscene than the circumstances 
that led him there under that overpass
where those who happen to have been born
to the right people
were in the right place
at the right time
to be seen by those who crown
modern kings and queens
drive by in their Corvettes and Jaguars
to private parties where they’ll drink 
from fountains of champagne
and the best bourbon
rubbing elbows with the other elite 
stroking each other’s egos until they ******
making deals worth millions 
in a world where the rest of us don’t exist 
who struggle not to end up on the streets 
to die alone as he did
Perhaps he would have been among them
had his parents had money to smooth his path 
to educate him in elite private schools
take him to the theatre and the ballet
to hear orchestras play stirring symphonies
been shown beauty instead of brutality
Had he been graced with a handsome face

Asphalt Jungle Megacity

Grid city
closed in streets
congested.
every man
it's a subject
in the maze
symbiotic...
the city attacks
with volcanoes
steelmakers
industrial plant...
without trees,
the city if
plant in
posts,
steel beams...
no harvest,
fertilizes
in concrete
fertilizer
bizarre...
The city
smokes,
the city
screams...
But she
causes shock!
Magic City...
the whistle
from factory
it's flute
candy!
and everyone dances...
the horns
are orchestras
spontaneous
where all
touch... and mine
throat a lump
seeing the crowd so alone...!

Poetry Is Powerful

"Poetry” is a most powerful instrument 
like a flute that is to be played.
Also, it is a pungent possibility 
like a newly created perfume put on.
Yet, free to all, and for all to wear.
This is to be adorned, and is
one of the most of the highest of solemn calls.
Words that are spoken and then engraved,
never to be forgotten or ignored.

It can reshape the world 
that is in pieces and so, so torn.
A restorative medicine 
to a life that is very, very worn.
An elixir of life and 
a healer of lives beset by strife.
A lifter of our inner thoughts 
and our buried emotions.

A fire-works of explosions 
raising us up to a newer dimension.
A reversal of cacophonies, 
man-made devastations.
Words of pretty portraits and musical orchestras 
of artistical words:
Seamed stitched and woven and fashionably embroidered.
Also, made into a steely shining sword.

The Universe Rings

Lift your face to the sun;
Heart bells of elation,
Ring and renew the spirit.

Souls music needs no technology to play;
Angels tutor the soul,
In the compositions of ecstasy;
Such orchestras are eternal.

Mortal ears never hear what the soul’s do.
The ability exists, in the ears of belief.

The baffle of mortality;
The muffler that stifles a spirit’s songs, is a thief.

Science is the profiteer that 
deludes the singing soul into silence.

Dispense with the facts;
Sit in the silence to hear the concert of your life.

Alliteration For Poets

Alliteration always awesome
Ballad beyond barnyard basics
Crystalline calls careful consonants,

Diamante delivers deeply
Enthusiasm excites eager ears,
Fanciful frolicking faerie

Generously gives grateful glee
Hyping haiku to heavenly heights,
Imagery and imagination

Jubilantly jumping joyfully,
Kimo kindles king-sized kingpin,
Lamenting the lily-livered lunacy

Momentous muse modulates melody,
Necromancer normalizes Neverland,
Opulent Opalescent orchestras opt

To pollute poetry previously pristine.
Quixotic quorum of questioners
Respond and recover rhymes rapidly

Serendipitous sentimentality
Turns timely tanka traitorously toward
Unmistakably understated Uranus,
Vindicating verses vilifying Vashti.

Whacking wannish warblers west,
‘Xaggerating ‘Xtemperaneous X’tra special poems
Yet yielding a yeomanly yearning toward
A zealous zany zingaroo of zest.

Songs In the Key of Romance

Inside the longing as deep shadows dance
Lost in the passion of you
Offering songs in the key of romance
Violins sing right on cue
Endless this rhythm of love on display
Yearnings melodically free
Orchestras waiting for their turn to play
Until you are here with me

Caught In a Dream:

Caught up in the moment of a deep dream,
Myself drifting further than it would seem,
Although unaware of one's own true self,
I leave behind all my worries of health.

As orchestras sound and play in the mind,
Taken away on this journey in time,
While violins and great horns burst out free,
Captured the act of spiritual glee.

Quintessentially verbalized of course,
Within the dream world, there is no remorse,
No regrets, no shame, just a state of bliss,
In this realm, freedom to be as you wish.

You will be amazed at what you will find,
The dream world to me has always been kind.
                         /|\
(ten syllables per line)

When a Poet Falls In Love

 What happens when a poet falls in love? What is the result of the poet's passionate feelings?  

 ===== 

Love overflows from the poet's heart,
O'er the summit of ecstacy it leaps. The
Valorous writings are dedicated to someone else. The poet in love is
Exhilarated.

Orchestras of the heart sing out in a
Visible visage of valorous love poems.
Eagerly, pen went over paper creating
Roaring, rushing, and raging wild
Fantasies unruly and far-fetched, yet still
Lusciously sweet. As is the love of the poet himself.
Optimism overtakes all of the
Writings of the young, poetic lover.
Infinitely springs the ebbing, flowing admiration;
Never does it end. The
Glimmer of gold remains ever glowing and bright.

Autumn, winter, summer, or spring, this young, love-struck
Poet relentlessly writes the
Loveliest, and most passionate of ballads. The
Eternal song permeated the love-filled atmosphere.
Never is there a dull moment, when
The young poet loves. This all, and maybe even more happens,
Yes, should the poet fall madly in love.

Tell Me Your Story

Adventuring through the unknown world, 
Beside you is where I was.
Climbing up the towering mountain peaks,
Desired to reach the top.
Emptying out my doubts and sorrows,
Falling through the sky.
Gradually building my strengths and hopes,
Hoping to never drop.

Icebergs and mountains stopped me in my paths,
Jungles and lions too.
Kings and queens from all around the land,
Loyal and fair they were.
Many adventures and fun did I have,
No doubts to be there.
Orchestras of birds and chirpy insects,
Pollute the fresh. fresh air.

Queen bees attack the bright-coloured flowers,
Robbing the pollen away,
Scorpions may have stung, but I didn't feel,
Tell me, you were there.
Umbrellas may have protected my soul,
Venturing far and wide.
With or without my trusty supplies,
Xylophones of joy were here. 

You and I, in boats we sailed far and wide,
Zebras wouldn't be any different.

-Ariana Kulikov 2015

Melancholia

Gifted to the special and
wrapped in a blanket without 
purpose, a meaningless tableau
of different faces, each palette
empty of colour

Functional shut down.
Exhaustion to the very core.
This world of hawks and jackals
scavenging the very soul,
and bleak mid-winter lasting 
every revolution of the sun

Too much time to strike a chord,
too much effort to tune a note.
Surrounded by orchestras of vibrant sound
going about their business

Too much concrete for the joints to move.
Waiting for a salvation no longer embraced,
yet confirmed in a single moment

The shadows cast are long and late.
The frieze has been re-joined.
Tomorrow shall be time enough
to return this special gift

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