Music Prose Poems | Examples
These Music Prose poems are examples of Prose poems about Music. These are the best examples of Prose Music poems written by international poets.
Known by his surname Satie
music with gymnopedie
.stark…simple without pretence…
sounds…..pause..then…silence.
The gown I wore was stitchery sown art
and you were styled in handsome tailored clothes.
First song we heard that touched our giddy hearts
we claimed as our enchanting love sung prose.
Our young fair faces wished to boldly chance
the feel our eyes both surmised as real.
How flushed my blush was when you asked to dance
and took my hand for waltzing romance zeal!
Our sweetheart tender courting days were blessed
with passionately peaked romantic songs.
Years tuned our music to medleys expressed
to sing for stars that gifted love so strong.
Time still plays gold toned notes to serenade
our stardust filled hearts living love portrayed.
Your world is never bleak and drab
no fickle thoughts.
I heard you chastising,
chasing something within/without me.
I stood firm, not flat on my back
held up by your traction of sorts.
You hadn't fumble for a star leader -
I was never plunged to darkness,
never felt picked upon.
For the saucy moon you know, buffers me -
You'd seen me looking up, smiling.
The fluorescence of the moon as disco ball,
You saw me dancing to my own music.
*
My sanctuary is my art studio, which we carved out of our garage.
I have paints, canvases, brushes, and loads of glitter.
It’s my creative place where I can sit in silence or listen to music.
If I look up I am facing trees, which outline my three windows.
No one bothers me here. My husband knows better.
Sometimes the dogs want in, so I let them unless they get loud.
Then out they go, usually chasing squirrels.
This is a room we built out of the back of the garage, and I love it.
Music came out of my fingers
made me dance all over the wall
My parents were askance
For I was a newborn from a small town
I was tapping my fingers on my highchair tray at one
Loving the feeling of playing my own trombone or drum
I was a musician, so they called me Table Top Joe
It was not even my name, but that’s how I evolved
Kindergarten teacher was Miss Alyson, who was pretty and quick
She let my fingers play the piano as a reward if I did my work
Work in kindergarten? That is crazy I told myself. And it was.
Every day at school was a waste of time.
How did it get me closer to fame?
Fortune?
My destiny?
I played the game as long as I could
Then I ran away to become the real me.
A musician who drums on everything he can reach.
Tabletop Joe!
The imperfect walk of man, cared about in recklessness,
careening for the wall of death, can’t be protected -
no longer in his mama’s womb. Womanized, dehumanized,
faithless…AnD cared about. Those left behind, want to rewind
their watches, but the truth is they couldn’t fix him. All his ills
in his bushy beard, behind it a smile, a hug, a shrug. Darkness
was upon him and in his circle of conspirators…can you believe
the music coming out of them - great big curses, whispers
mixed with praise music…the daring beast brought down
with determined gentleness. They flee from the Spirit’s power.
Still I hope and hope and hope, if this is the end, as it seems,
that somehow, by the skin of his teeth, he made peace with God.
He played the piano the way he did everything – incredibly well.
He’s a maestro, his mother told everyone who stopped by.
They did not doubt it, he was busy too, always composing.
Writing screenplays, creating operas and musicals.
When will he publish? Some of the noisier ones asked his mother.
That’s not important, she told them. That he is living with me is.
He lived with mama until her death, which delighted both of them.
His creations were genius, we discovered after his own crossing over.
I am quite taken with the sultriness from the
Coltrane grove sending hints of cedar down
my spine as I enters the room arousing the sassy
brassiness of my horizons a solid structure
forms each time his fingers tap the saxophone
unspeakable melodies hindered just so under
the balanced keys behind the piano mans
harmony and then the butterflies dance again
as he kisses this instrument I'm quite
taken again the sound lingers over the
snow capped mountains after being blindly
sent out from beneath bales of hay where
southern hospitality seems to whisper please
stay awhile an yet my brown eyes began
to sink into the night sky as stars shoot out
across the darkness lights seems to fade dem
and glow as John Coltrane finishes the show
Love, nurture – abandon, disown...
Love, nurture – beat, rape, murder...
Love, nurture – build cities, blow them apart...
Love, nurture – despise, hate...
Love, nurture – rip young from their own wombs
for convenience and saleable body-parts....
Love, nurture – pray to a god that will forgive any snafu...
Love, nurture – God started with smaller creatures, and continued
to fail upwards....
Love, nurture – make a hell of one's world, then hide in politics, sports
music, theater, and poetry.
Small wonder many prefer dogs, cats, and stamp collecting....
She was light and lithe and lovely.
Most did not see her enter the sanctuary.
The mood was somber.
Death does that to a church.
It was Grandma Mert’s funeral.
Many people were hugging.
There were a few tears, but not many.
She was a spiritual woman; there was no cause for alarm.
Some of us heard the harp music.
Others did not.
Two of the children could see the faerie.
They did not think to mention it at the time.
One mentioned it many years later
After she saw a similar woman in a photograph
Her grandmother, as a young girl.
Young Mert.
I heard the chanting but thought it was drumming
Was it the trees? My ears perked up a bit higher.
I wanted to know who or what was in the woods.
It was an enchantress, lost in a song of her creation.
She saw me not, as she wandered past, making music.
I am not magical, but I recognize mysticism when I hear it.
Melodic notes amazed me with her cosmic connection.
The woods seemed more alive than ever; she was a keeper.
Some say, poetry is an art!
painting pictures with words –
the artist may reply: “Then
why not just paint?” Some say,
that poetry is music, words
being the Poet's instruments –
to which the musician may
reply: “Why not just play?”
Some say, poetry is a voice:
the poet's choir of sounds,
echoes from his soul's sonorous
cathedrals – to which the singer
may reply, “Why not just
sing?” Some say, some say,
some say...to which the poet
may reply: Yep! Yup! Yip!
It is natural to hunger for a savior –
when spiritual, we turn to God; and when
feeling more literal, toward government,
our mates, extended families and pens –
Today, I write my better world; perhaps,
investing too much in image, in song,
and the music of my own voice:
Here, I am master, in the snow-white
beginning of my poetry; where
the first mark can be a bolt of
lightning, or a scented rose – Poetry,
is omnipotent! – even if I am not.
In my dream I wandered into a basement piano bar because someone told me it was the secret place to get great waffles. Sitting at the piano was Beth Hart crooning sorrowful songs, no other accompaniment, just Beth and a piano. It was like this tattooed lass just wandered down the stairs and sat down and started playing with only a few present to share a glorious hour in our lives. I sat at a table near the piano eating a thin waffle with whip cream on top, a scattering of walnut pieces, and no syrup, with a shot of Effen Black Cherry Whiskey on the side, blissfully listening to Beth. I could have died, my life fulfilled.
Her moonchild ballad so heartfelt and warm
the voice of an angel, lifting my heart
I am captivated and intrigued
my imagination parades through meadows and mountains
she is singing in a language I do not know
yet my soul understands completely
There is a tenderness that is precious
A bit of a lament, a love poem
She is singing to her lover,
assuring him that she will always know him
Through past lives, and future incarnations.
Her notes caress my ears, assuring me of her love
An incredible gift, you have Lyn,
An angelic voice. It is prettier than harps.
I listen and I learn, transmogrifying myself into a butterfly
flitting from note to note, enjoying the view.