Great Uncle was a musician
He chased his dream on a mission
He never penned a song
Folks knew him well down in Nashville
Though music paid no big gas bill
He had true ambition
His songs found a sweet rendition
He played with open admission
His true love was lifelong
John picked his guitar with goodwill
With joy, the music he instilled
Sharing tunes, his mission
To make music his tradition
Spontaneous compositions
If I could string along
I'd play it with my own free will
John Craig showed such a master skill
He strummed strings all day long!
John Craig rode as a musician
With grit and a deep ambition
Just pickin' it along
John would pluck out his chords at will
With six-strings he'd ride and travel
Playing good tunes, headstrong!
He was a slick string technician
A musical aesthetician!
He played for trav'lers all night long
I'm not sure he knew a playbill
His playin' was a sweet earful
John Craig's songs still roll along!
[Even if in my mind!]
Great Uncle was a musician
He chased his dream on a mission
He never penned a song
Folks knew him well down in Nashville
Though music paid no big gas bill
He had true ambition
His songs found a sweet rendition
He played with open admission
His true love was lifelong
John picked his guitar with goodwill
With joy, the music he instilled
Sharing tunes, his mission
To make music his tradition
Spontaneous compositions
If I could string along
I'd play it with my own free will
John Craig showed such a master skill
He strummed strings all day long!
John Craig rode as a musician
With grit and a deep ambition
Just pickin' it along
John would pluck out his chords at will
With six-strings he'd ride and travel
Playing good tunes, headstrong!
He was a slick string technician
A musical aesthetician!
He played for trav'lers all night long
I'm not sure he knew a playbill
His playin' was a sweet earful
John Craig's songs still roll along!
[Even if in my mind!*
They may come and go says Samael, so sayeth the wiccan prince who some say too ushers in hell, but hell is reserved for the iniquitous and the evil, where tortured until they are ash, is the only white steeple, the comely few who verily detest when mothball mouths are not cottonmouth bassets the silly strummed up wheat, which pervades the day when the heat is nigh on noon complete, the southern seer, grampy to some, has black boys and girls this Samael sung.
My
core
eludes
convinced I’m
under a moonspell’s
magnetic pulse anchored within
across bossa nova sambas strummed on nylon strings
luminous is this moonflower’s white petals contrast the deeming darkness
under a saudade of stars symmetry an opus pleasant to the ear, there in lateral
is my b u r i e d s o u l in s o i l so l o v e ’s d e e p s t e m s s t e a m ~
into sweet fragrance lingering in dawn’s ensemble, I its exhibit an external bloom only at night’s crescent-lit grace, strands of opalescent pearls, jewels face up, yet my thirst is still unquenched,
e a c h
n
i
g
h t a r
e
n
e
w a l
did she see me watching in wonder
above the head of her pin
as her companion
strummed his mandolin
each whirl and twirl
her every pirouette
coaxing from her toes
a tiny jet of sweat
I’d heard of angels dancing
on the head of a pin
yet always had dismissed it
as just so much spin
I failed
I failed
I failed
I took that pic and strummed like there’s no tomorrow
I failed
I spectacularly failed
I fell forward again only to fail to no avail
I continued to fail
I failed so badly life just smirked at me and spit
I didn’t notice
I was too busy failing
I forgot to quit
Careful—what you hear
is not truly what mind heard;
bias wears a voice
we sort the world by its sound—
kinship hums in tone and tongue.
Talk sounds funny—strange,
not what you're used to hearing
through your native ears
guardrails narrow to constrain
how you render each word's sound.
Hearing listens first
for cadence, tone, inflection—
truth dressed in accents;
one voice rises, one falls through,
judged before the words arrive.
A child chooses friends—
not for faces, but a voice
that feels like their own;
in accents they speak at home
echoing inheritance.
As youths grow older
their speech bends towards the room,
softly converging—
to belonging in the crowd
with a learned change in accent.
Careful—he might hear
you—not as you fully are
mutual bias
is voiced in accented sounds—
kinship strummed in scope and tone.
Glassy lamp flickers come midnight
to expose her quiet charm
while fingers thumb tingle of brass--
Her sway a quavering string
in beats of harp - plucked interludes ,
gently grating strummed goodbye.
Connect The Dots
Sponsor: Nette Onclaud Jan 30, 2026
My favorite story in the news,
Which likely garnered many views,
Involved a Swedish man and creature
In a human-interest feature.
Mattias Krantz, a young musician,
Used his chops and intuition
To teach an octopus to play
A piano in a clever way.
He purchased Takoyaki from
A market, thinking he’d become
The only keyboardist to use
Some tentacles to play the blues.
With bribes of crab to strike the keys,
This octopus learned how to please
And hit some notes just like a star
As Krantz strummed nearby, on guitar.
I read the tale of this duet,
A human and his ocean pet,
But you should go the extra mile –
The video will make you smile.
a lively alligator with a banjo down Arkansas way
strummed his stringed instrument every single day
He had drums too, but his wife said “no”
when she was at her mother’s he played them though
This was a musical beast who loved to sing and dance
He wanted to join a Thespian group, they said “no chance!”
You see people are fearful of alligators down in Arkansas
So he went to New Orleans and danced during the Mardi Gras.
Written: November 13, 2025, for contest sponsored by Joseph May.
" Inspired by the song: 'Like a Wounded Bird Trying to Fly' sung by Kurt Vile.
*****************
Like a wounded bird trying to fly,
I flapped through a mellifluous sky—
not quite broken, not quite bold,
just chasing warmth over winds grown cold.
I strummed my soul on an equine red,
while ghosts of my father rode rails in my head.
My mother, shrewd, stitched up our knees—
with eleemosynary grace and teas.
Now I sit where the green ferns grow,
my kids disport in the woods below.
There’s an imbroglio in my chest—
a luculent ache I can’t arrest.
So if you find me, don’t ask why
I’m like a wounded bird trying to fly.
It is only my style of saying goodbye—
to the weight, the waste, the wondering why.
Violins tuned in distant dark
heartstrings strummed calmly wait for warmer moonlight
~ melodies conjuring the sweetest memories
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: 2nd place 2025
A sketchbook from back then
was stained with abstract colors
like our ten fingers
why didn't we arrange bright colors back then?
black, blue, and white
mixed together without a basis
I remember very well
how the pattern was ultimately
ruined by the darkness
while you labored
on your own sketch
and I only knew a little about that fetish
We grew like shoots
far away from the colors back then
like a line that had been etched
sometimes we disappeared
I still live with bangs on my forehead
exactly the same as back then
and you still like classic cars?
maybe we've only gone a few steps
Count 20, open eyes
ahh, that's just a coincidence
I still scold Wednesday
but you look good
with those stripes
Sometimes you give in
waiting for me to run awkwardly across
you strummed that music
making me confused
guessing your dream last night
but you were far more confused
because you didn't say anything
Do you still remember
the flaw in my eye?
While I was still writing poetry
I seemed to be starting to forget the calm
shape of your Adam's apple
when you drew black lines on our sketch.
Night's crush spills black ink
the moon unzips hidden seams
turns souls inside out
foreboding haunts chokes the air
mystery bleeds from her face
Night leans on the shore
moon's breath a blade of silver
cooling tepid skin
the tide tongues open raw seams
salting wounds to sting and heal
Moon bends in bow arc
stringing light across the sea
searching for fractures
beneath the unblinking glare
shadows cower, faint, exposed
She writhes feral, drenched—
her breasts plunge in black water
eyes white with hunger—
she rips at our fraying threads,
raising fear to blaze with flame.
Hopes rise in moon's mist
drawn up by her silver hand
spilling into dreams—
she gathers us in like tides
weaving paths to becoming
Light stings into lust
with hymns strummed on naked thighs
a harp of end chords—
every string the ocean plucks
screams in time with tug of tide
Dawn scars the moon's face
her ghost hides behind torn clouds
soft unrepentant—
the lilt of her vanished hymn
echoes a throb in our bones
Oh sister of night
oracle of ebb and surge
you hiss with forked tongue—
what prophecy do you bear
light's mercy or void's abyss?
S traight from the start.'
T rue blue allways for you
A ustralia allways in his heart.'
N ever one to turn his back.'
C oster known, the country round'
On that guitar, he strummed town to town
S ure supportive of ANZACS all..'
T reasure of so many, in outback halls
E very venue he played out his heart
R ecognised as an asset; Aussies value his art.!
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