Violin player's eyes are starry
beauty like the glitter,
The notes take to dark-ness
strong bones don't wither
deep sea's treasures
blue and color green
inside a pirate's eyes.
Don't confuse the seasons
to chills of the Winter-time,
undecided or believe lies
Not the warmth of Bret hen.
To forgive is to take
away your sole lake
and the ruminations
of this abandoned town,
This too is a sin of pride
and vulnerability
red toxins into splashes,
echoes are deathly sounds
Cracked smashed windows
like the dour of pavements
but the detail is amazing,
unlike a city of simplicity
drones in for a coffee,
but lets shrug off the rest.....
He picks up the instrument....
At evening the old man would play
As if colors sighed themselves in strings
Like a rainbow he lit the room
With every note or tune
Love and loves beauty, echoed out
Like water to flowers
His violin spoke like it was alive
Like telling his music in words
To those who would listen and enjoy
Outside in the streets the sound
Rang out for miles
His dedication to his art
Came from within his very soul
He creates a magical world of sound
As each note is played with love and deep attention
His mind with only one thought
His music, his solace
Played through a heart that comes alive
With each passing note played
Each night he would play until early morning
At day when he could
Never tiring of his creations
Under his guidance the Violin became alive
It spoke to him, and he listened
That’s what made the Music so wonderful
They created it together
With love and perfect harmony
Together
Flirting with my demons is like a wild cat gambling in a casino.
It’s fun, reckless, irresistible.
It’s thrilling, it hums with danger,
until curiosity, as it always does, catches the cat.
Flirting carries consequences.
You lose everything when you forget the promise you once made to walk away.
Therefore sometimes a promise of foreverness gets fractures into foreneverness,
a storm of uncertainty, like fallen trees
too weak to stand against the wind.
Now gone.
I memorized your metaphors, by immortalizing your Mona Lisa smile,
with the majestic violin tone of your voice,
softly, igniting wildfire graffiti of butterflies of kisses continue to continue to flutter and glow throughout my heart and soul.
Pure and pleading, cascading feelings
Reel from the old violin.
Whether one string or many
Her notes rend the air
and all are held captive there.
Strand troop
String group
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
As the maestro meticulously draws sound from the strings,
Feelings and sensations the music brings.
A skilled violinist performing with skill,
Can lull your heart and make it still.
The maestro has a story to tell,
And with his violin he tells it well.
Quickly rising with a higher pitch,
Then fallings again as in a ditch.
Bow across strings faster and faster,
A building crescendo by the master.
Then the soothing of a softer sound,
A sense of release the artist has found.
It’s much like life with its ups and downs,
A revealing balance of smiles and frowns.
Time used to be gentle
like bike bells singing harmony
with a summer breeze.
Time seems to be picking up speed.
A freight train without an engineer.
A Hendrix electric guitar on amphetamines.
When did time become a runaway brute?
A trickster, a taker-a mass grave maker.
The shell game player. Raper of dreams.
Whisking everything you love to the far away...
Putting your cries on mute.
Time is picking up speed.
Withering things but never planting seeds.
Plucking the shriveled blossoms of memory.
Dumping them in a landfill.
With broken dolls, rusted 5 speeds, black lantern dreams.
Time is yellow rings of selfishness.
Forever hungry- lacks any empathy.
It devours the cream of life.
Turns the radiance of innocents into junkyard eyes.
Splashing gray onto the temple.
Welding bent hand to crooked cane.
Smashing everything in its greasy path.
Time is endless clownish-black comedy- a careen off a cliff.
A vintage violin at the bottom of a winter stream.
Time blasts into celebration when you're down to your last breath.
There was a young man bought a pangolin
but thought it was a mandolin
to be played like a violin
he tipped its scales 'til they creaked
tweaked its tail so it squeaked
and named the bow Anne Bowleyn
no one listens
until the voices start
bleeding bowstrings
You entered my silence like a violin bow dragged with blood through shattered stained glass
I sewed your laughter under my eyelids and lungs, and the light transformed into myriads of fragrant wounds
I coughed wild moon petals for weeks, my mouth full of the echo of your ever-burning footsteps
There is no cure for you, you are the high fever that shapes bones into transparent crystal bells
You are the imperial chandelier fallen right in the middle of the sonata, when the air still trembles with flame and glass
And I lean daily among the shards, gathering your syllables like phosphorescent fish above my heart
I taste them with fear, checking if they still smell of sound, if they still shake the rooftops of my orbit
Every morning I bandage my lungs with sheet music, hoping that silence will flow from me
But the silence breaks anew and your echo returns like a kite torn by a storm
So I clutch your broken glass in my fists, to make it sound like the violin again
marc chagall's equestrienne
don't eat that violin
painted in 1933
like something dreamt
strange&mysterious
chagall's imagination
full of color&movement
a celebration of paints
strange images
a horse eating a violin
dreamlike vision
melancholy&delightful
emotional& poetic
some ridiculed it
he kept painting
&became famous
There once was a cat
who was really quite fat
his likes were pets, food, sleep
but of music, not a peep
when he saw the violin case
he ran away, as if in a race
sounds of violin crying out in the dark
desperate for one solitary ray of moonlight
string along all lost souls who stray in the night
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
My mournful violin, a wooden soul,
Beneath my fingers, tales unfold.
Each string a tear, a silent plea,
For joys departed, lost to me.
The bow, a phantom hand that sweeps,
Across the wood, where sorrow sleeps.
A haunting melody, a whispered sigh,
Echoes of love, now past and gone, they fly.
The music weeps, a mournful strain,
Reflected grief, an endless pain.
Each note a chord, a broken heart,
A bittersweet ache, tearing me apart.
My violin, a solace and a curse,
Woven with memories, I hold them close, rehearse.
The echoes linger, in the fading light,
Of love's departing, in the starless night.
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