Joni, playing the jazz trumpet with your voice
Joni, who hated the music business
Joni, who was attracted to artists of all kinds
Like a moth to a roaring fire
Who in turn attracted and influenced like-minded minds
Around your flaming heart
Inviting others in, hesitantly, less it hurts too much.
Joni, you grew older than your age
Joni, eternally young, for you have the voice of sincerity
And naked truth on your side.
The artist supreme.
You lasted longer on this green earth than your companion Vincent,
Your mentor Miles and the locksmith Signore Picasso, who unlocked many doors for you.
Joni, forever young
Forever in hearts who yearn to accomplish what you accomplished.
Not fame and recognition, but entering the holy of holies,
Into your inner core, where you made love to yourself.
Home is where the heart is, they say
Joni, you showed some of us the way home, and we are eternally grateful.
Joni, you laboured to express, rather than impress,
With your smattering of artistic bursts
Like a bright sun behind a cloud, unable to contain its light.
As my ship blows on the sea of life...
I'm a man with a golden voice!
And I... search for my one true love...
so I can feel that underlying joy...
and I can be something whole!
Tears fall on my sleeve.
The wind flows on me...
and the moon is my only company!
My ship...ooooo...blows on the sea of life...
and I'm a man...with a golden voice...
and I wish to fall...in love...
in love!
As I.. talk with you...
I feel I'm sitting here...
under a rainbow...
in the sky!
Which is a recipe...
for love and harmony!
And dreams...
as cheesy as they go...
dill like a pickle...
or false like fools gold...
can come true!
If you only knew...
how to reach...
for those very stars!
And my heart...
was forever lonely...
till I met you...
my true love.
You make my vision...
come true...
oooooo!
As I.. talk with you...
I feel I'm sitting here...
under a rainbow...
in the sky!
Which is a recipe...
for two lovers...
to embrace!
And my heart...
was forever lonely...
till I met you...
my true love.
You make my vision...
come true...
oooooo!
As I.. talk with you...
I feel I'm sitting here...
under a rainbow...
in the sky!
Which is a recipe...
for love and harmony!
And dreams...
as cheesy as they go...
dill like a pickle...
or false like fools gold...
can come true!
If you only knew...
that I...love you.
that I...love you...
that I...love you.
Songwriter
The songwriter gained great wealth and fame.
Until the songs no longer came.
The price paid for wealth and fame is never known.
Until the moment it comes due.
At his moment, he knew.
His price was suicide.
you were haunting, elusive, bitter, sweet
your hair was long, dark, lost, lonely
you sang the scars of the streets
And when I die...
New York tendaberry…
and the past is a blue note
I wanted to embrace you
as I drowned in your lovely
soulful primal songs
Spring whispered in her ear…
upstairs by a China lamp
La la la la la la
you welcomed me to
the nocturnal chaos of
a vibrant, tormented, joyous city
Bleed a little…Til your freedom calls you
You found the system and you lost the pearl
I’m just a child of the universe
and now you’re gone
but
your
music
lives
on
I'd like to write a song
I thought that would be fine
One that is original
Much more than just one line
Not rely on the music
As some writers are prone to do
The lyrics should be different
Not Yah!Yah or Boo De Boo
The musicians are important
They are essential for the song
Without a fitting melody
The song can go wrong
The writer and the musos
Have to write as a pair
There's no room for egos
Or arguments to flare
As long as there is harmony
And both parts come to fit
The writer and the musician
Have a good chance of a hit
When I started writing
It was meant to be a song
I did not realise
A song would take so long
So La La La, Dah Dah Dah
And Dee Dee Dee, Dee Dee
There you are, an instant hit
And guess who wrote it, Me
It is six minutes to midnight
I have been drinking Red Bull for three hours.
It usually inspires me.
Nutbush is going around in my head,
but it has been done.
By Tina too.
The deadline my songwriting partner gave me
is one a.m.
She knows that I have an avid belief that
my muse has her best ideas at night.
Especially from midnight to two
I eat a bag of Lay’s
Barbeque Potato Chips,
for ideas.
Crunchy. Scrunchy. Bunchy enter my head.
Too silly, even for me, even for 12:34 which it is now.
I call her and beg her to give me another hour
2 a.m. is what I was aiming for in the first place she says
Knowing me not half as well as my muse,
nonetheless knowing me.
It is now five minutes to 2.
Will she be mad if I call?
Especially if all I have is
Crunchy? as
I already threw out ‘scrunchy’ and ‘bunchy’.
I chuckle at myself, wondering if my muse
is asleep, or merely dead.
master of gibberish lines of metaphor
acclaim and awards from the poetry corp
coffee house pied piper
study and decipher
dazzle with brilliance or baffle galore
The words are swirling today. They are gleeful and happy and kind-feeling.
I am lying in a little stupor after taking a sleeping pill that knocked me out for ten hours.
And I am watching the words whirling and curling and floating ever so gently in a cloud formation,
Not so high that I cannot reach them, for I can. I smile at them, knowing they can be used for fun.
They can cajole,
They can tease,
They can delight,
They can irritate,
They can play,
They can exude serious,
They can teach, torment, and terrify.
Words, glorious words, in the hands of writers, poets, singers, and dreamers.
Wow!
How wonderful, thrilling, and toe-curling!
I stretch my toes, my feet, get a charley horse.
Ow! Ow! Ow!
Jump out of bed, make myself a fat, happy, roast beef sandwich, snag a bag of chips and an ice tea.
Run outside to feed Shark, the cat, who lives out there in a cozy, covered, hot-platted igloo,
And sit down at this typewriter.
Where to start?
How about now!
Painting pictures with your words,
Will you slay them with your tune,
Can you make them sing your melodies
To their unforgiving moon
Will you watch them leave their seats
Dancing solo on the floor,
Bid farewell unto the heartache
They keep behind their quiet door
Can you take them from their darkness
Share with them your star-filled night
Can you gift them sacred memories
That live long beyond tonight
Can you show them they are beautiful
Will your words be filled with grace
Do you understand the sorrow of
Those who feel they're out of place
Will you break through to the sadness
Could you empathise the plight
Of the lonely who then only
Fade away into their night
See I was once a songwriter
Broken just like you
As the eyes of blind indifference
Made me feel wretched and blue
I'll take my pen, and write again...
Dance on....
Friday came and the workplaces
Surrendered their weary to the weekend
Tiredness dissipating as the precious days
Are contemplated with anticipation.
Another crowd of friendly murmur
Gathers in the little upstairs room
Gloomy by day, evening transformed
to a theatre within the music bar.
She arrives having travelled
With her instruments seen and unseen
Steps up on the stage again
Boots discarded, tippy toed pleasure.
The first gentle notes picked out
Hush the gathering to respectful silence
As they cleanse the week from their souls
Embracing the soothing delicacy.
Then the voice arrives
Chocolate velvet-smooth whiskey
Sweet strong intoxicating earfuls
Elevate spirits in ecstasy.
Two hours disappear in a thrice
A happy melancholy descends
Pleasurable attendance struggles
Against the tinge of sadness, it's over.
The artist remains to greet the grateful
Friendly chatter, CD signing
Soon we shuffle back to life's reality
Hoping she knows the joy she brings.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.