Eye OF Venus
Green is the eye of Venus, though now tightly shut.
Ancient music drums,
Trees viridian-hued.
The night has settled, dark as fear.
I rode a stallion-
Jet-black he was,
Against an array of foliage,
Emerald green,
Into the dead of night,
He rode.
Sleeping, I am?
Or am I living within some land of the surreal?
Lost within a valley,
I lie amongst tall reeds.
Water showers down upon me.
Skies turn mauve, purplish-
No calm before this storm.
Struck by lightening,
Branches are fallen by the wind.
Upon awakening,
As day breaks,
The ancient music’s melody is arrested.
A sibilant voice whispers to me:
“Sleep amongst the dead,
And depart from the living.”
As I nonchalantly gaze at the rising sun,
I wave “goodbye” to Venus,
And as she falls behind the horizon,
She waves back at me, and winks at me,
While ancient music begins drumming again…
poem by Claudia Krizay
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Related quotes
Be Music, Night
Be music, night,
That her sleep may go
Where angels have their pale tall choirs
Be a hand, sea,
That her dreams may watch
Thy guidesman touching the green flesh of the world
Be a voice, sky,
That her beauties may be counted
And the stars will tilt their quiet faces
Into the mirror of her loveliness
Be a road, earth,
That her walking may take thee
Where the towns of heaven lift their breathing spires
O be a world and a throne, God,
That her living may find its weather
And the souls of ancient bells in a child's book
Shall lead her into Thy wondrous house
poem by Kenneth Patchen
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The night sky is crying
There’s an old story
that the holy word holds true,
which happened in a time like today
when people lived only for themselves
and thought that they had knowledge
of the things around them.
The ancient poetry of Gilgamesh
proclaims that story
which some see as just a myth
and it is part of the traditions
of many nations
across the earth
and it says that once
long ago there was a cataclysmic flood,
like non other:
The night sky is crying
and tears are streaming
down to the earth
in splattering sheets.
The sound of the weeping wind
howls through the trees
sweeping green and yellow leaves
from the branches.
Thunderbolt after thunderbolt
roars down from the clouded sky
as if the elements are in terror.
The rain turn into hail
and from hail
into a blizzard of rivers
falling from the air,
as if the creator
is emptying a unknown ocean
onto the earth.
Hurricane storm winds shatter
and huge waves
brake with great power
and the water keep on rising
and lighting storms bash continuously
until man and beast are dead,
but for the people and animals
in that one solitary ship
that is save while the Creator
protects them
and even the dark spirits
fear the anger of the Almighty God.
When ever I see a rainbow
the story comes to my mind
and the promise,
that water will not destroy
the world again.
poem by Gert Strydom
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My Soul, Afire
The rising sun sets my soul afire
At the dawning of every new day-
I see life as a new beginning-
Cardinals, robins, blue jays and finches
Carry on with their tune as the
Orchestra of a gentle spring like breeze
Rustles the newly unfolded leaves upon every tree-
Alone to enjoy the mystery of the woodlands-
The sun’s rays shining through the
Branches of the maple trees-
Dogwood blossoms both crimson pink and white
Against a sky of cerulean blue
Evoke a chorus from my spirit-
A hymn of freedom and ecstasy, as
My spirit and soul have been reborn.
As the day progresses
I am overcome by fear and
At the noon of the day the sun rises above the mountains
The world comes out from hiding-
This is the time when strangers become invasive,
Clouds overtake the light and
The rain begins to fall.
Thunder would clap and rain would pour downward in a
Spitefully intrusive manner
Quenching the magical flames
That had my spirit and soul dancing to the
Early morning symphony that the world has
Maliciously taken aback-
When the night takes over
I see the full moon ascend over the horizon and the
Stars are bright-
The stars are bright and Mars is a brilliant red while
Venus winks at me with its eyes of green-
Stars and planets are gratifyingly beautiful in their own way, though
Light years away-
If I listen vigilantly-
I can hear ancient music imminent from
The stars and planets in the vastness of the universe as
The moon appears above the treetops-
It shines its light upon me and sets my spirit dancing and once again-
Sets my soul afire-
poem by Claudia Krizay
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Ancient Recall
Ancient days that are all gone
I never had the chance to look upon.
I've heard of them.
I've read of them.
So why do I feel drawn
to these ancient times
That I do not know?
They are fascinating
and I can't let them go.
Days of horse-drawn carriages
and dresses that reach to the floor,
Nights lit up by lanterns,
Seclusion near a sycamore,
Music played by string quartets,
beautiful music by four.
I visualize all these things.
Have I lived this life before?
Somewhere from this vast universe
I hear a somber voice.
It speaks to me in sad remembrance
and says to me 'Rejoice.
All the days were your choice.
Enjoy them as you did in the past
for these too shall not last.
You will be drawn some day to them,
fascinated once more
by days that you'll call ancient,
ancient days of yore.'
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Tintagel
DEAD man! will you ride with me,
As you rode that night of yore,
Will you ride with me, once more
To Tintagel by the sea?
When those savage words were said--
Words that challenged destiny--
To Tintagel by the sea,
Through the sweating night we fled!
Hearts, that raged with storm and sea,
Thundered through the scream of rain;
Laugh and ride with me again,
Take my kisses thirstily!
Clutch the cloak that flies apart,
Grip the stallion with your knee:
Let my wild, black tresses be
Once more pinioned on your heart.
Dream is dead, and dead are we:
But the dead rise up again!
Once more through the night and rain,
Dead man! will you ride with me?
poem by Muriel Stuart
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Land of Music
I come from a land of music
the drums of Africa beat in my ears
the chorus of Europe ringing in the air
the decibels are everlasting
the flutes of Asia so sweet sounding
I come from a land of music
the music is life and afterlife
if music is gone there is no point
no point in living, every thing
everything you know is done, gone, no more.
I come from the land of music, music is my life.
poem by Jessi Fujisaki
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Learning to Play Coltrane
She thought it was green, not
the emerald green of Indian summer
but a green like a darkening plain,
or the shadow rivers cast.
She thought it was light, a glint
or a warning, the shine
at the papery edge
of storm clouds. The way
a voice rising and falling becomes
a premonition, a dampness
at the back of her neck. Or maybe
it was more of an imprint,
a memory of sound, some afternoon
after the circus has left town
and all that remains is a field
strewn with garbage, a music
of pasted stars and ruin.
And she thought of a color
like that, mud-green, the green
of a small sadness, shapeless
as the wind itself. And for a moment
she owned everything inside it,
the light, the field, the wind.
—for Adrian
First published in American Poetry Review.
poem by Silvia Curbelo
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Music of waves
I see the waves, washing away the steps on sand,
I hear the wind, singing its song strange,
I hear the strings of trees playing it -
A music of waves, music of wind.
Here it is hard to say, where is asphalt,
Here it is hard to say, what is a car.
Here you should throw a water up to hear:
The music of waves, music of wind.
Who could remember about those, that took the wrong way?
Who could remember about those, that were singing and laughing well?
Who could remember, feeling the cold butt, indeed,
Music of waves and music of wind.
song, lyrics by Victor Tsoi, translated by Lyudmila Purgina
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Ghosts Of The Full Moon
Every moonbeam radiates joy
Sycamore trees in shadows of the sea
Savannah grass in green waves
Mystic winds blow the ancient souls
Let the fingers of night caress
Let the feelings sigh like a shaman
See the buffalo graze under the stars
Naked stars that pry memories
Stars of the future birth
Angel night where awe sails on time
We are temples
We are spiritual
We are part of the ghost world
Pearls of emerald waves
Seagulls fly like sailors souls
Onyx moon of silver ancestry
Valley of Kidron and golden tombs
Dreams walk the hallowed corridors
Touch the sacred wells deep in the sky
Irish fields green with souls
Ghosts of the Great Barrier Reef
Eyes like wandering lions
Buried inside the Great Wall of China
Castles along the Seines
Ships rise in the galaxies
Have you felt the shivers of the moors?
The ancient ones of the full moon
Villages appear in hallways of sleep
Words from the winds of love
Flaming swords with two edges
Gates where living waters flow
Caravans of stars
Desert visions
Black Sea silk
Her ecstasy is in a room of mirrors
Michael Angelo’s bust emanates
Rembrandt in the silent museum
Raphael grounded in sanity
Yellow lamp of ancient quills
Whale oil sires the ancient graves
Icy waves of the mariners vault
Stairways in a New Orleans house
Night as quiet as fear
Have your felt the river of night?
Have you seen green eyes stare?
Lovers feel a stranger in their bed
Do you believe in vampires? I do
Van Gogh was haunted
Soon you will hover
Soon we will be the night
Islands of Jules Verne
Opium dens of Calcutta
Tibetan monks chant
Impudent vengeance never sleeps
Sword of Spartacus revels in anger
Magnolia slaves of the plantations lair
Red eyes, keep a night light on
Avenues of Hades belladonna
Byron dressed in black velvet
Jim Morrison at a séance
Edgar Allen Poe knew the night
Indigo trees in the wind
Mango ghosts
The Nile where cobra’s laugh
Brazilian rosewood dreams
Spanish ghosts of Mediterranean blood
Tireless Volga a sage of time
Ethereal eyes like a slaughter
Tribes are wandering the silt fields
Mountains ghosts
Celtic rivers of the vivid mind
Can you feel their candles?
The wings of night flutter
Shadows merge breathing constellations
The wind blows the curtain lace
They gather in costumes under moonlight
Ghosts of the full moon
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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Music is...
Music is...
Music is expression...
Music is freedom...
Music is the song of life...
Music is notes...
Music is noise...
Music is beat...
Music is relaxing...
Music is peace...
Music is loud...
Music is calm...
Music is meaningful...
Music is sound...
Music is heart...
Music is soul...
Music is mind...
Music is body...
Music is nature...
Music is language...
Music is the song of my life...
Music is everything...
Music is me...
Music is....
poem by Madeline anderson
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No Other Voice
There is no other voice I miss as much
When I'm far from my home, your laughter, your touch
There's no music on earth I'd rather hear
No other voice but yours
Your birdsong in the morning
You're the wind in the trees
The lapping of night waves on tropical seas
You're the sound of my heart beat, my breathing, my life
The lullabye rocking our babies to sleep at night
And through the dead of the voices I scream in my head
There is only one voice that sings love songs instead
There is no other sound that speaks straight to my heart
There is no other voice
not even a choice
There is no other voice but yours
song performed by by Kenny Loggins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Because, music is my eternal life.......
When there is a song about love
then the music does become a soul of my heart
When I hug the melody of music
then I feel the spirit of words, traveling with me
When the voice of music passes in the air
then my ears are listening to its harmony
When I close my eyes and feel the rhythm of its music
then I dream an angel of its music goes around me
Melody is my love and the eternal music is my life
The music has its own story that plays with amazing emotions
and I can hear its beautiful song with touching rhythms
Let it be symphony, classic, jazz or hard rock
but everyone loves music which has only one language
in this universe that has known as Sound of Music.
Anyone who has no interest themselves in music
is nothing but dead bodies on the ground.
Because music is my eternal life.
poem by Ravi Sathasivam
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At Nightfall
O little hands, long vanished in the night--
Sweet fairy hands that were my treasure here--
My heart is full of music from some sphere,
Where ye make melody for God's delight.
Though autumn clouds obscure the starry height,
And winds are noisy and the land is drear,
In this blank room I feel my lost love near,
And hear you playing--hands so small and white.
The shadowy organ sings its songs again,
The dead years turn to music at its voice,
And all the dreams come back my brain did store.
Once more, dear hands, ye soothe me in my pain,
Once more your music makes my heart rejoice--
God speed the day we clasp for evermore!
poem by Frederick George Scott
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Music is
Music is round
Music is square
Music is blue
Music is green
Music is am
Music is pm
Music is happiness
Music is sadness
Music is life
Music is death
Music is the world.
poem by Lesley Bass
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The Ancient Hills Of Toora
The ancient hills of Toora are looking brown today
Yet they were lush and rather green when last I passed this way
But that was last September when the nesting birds did sing
And every where looked greener in the early days of Spring.
To those ancient hills of Toora the Seasons come and go
And where once were thousands of gum trees only a few gums grow
And the Aboriginals who lived and hunted on those hills are not around today
Time brings with it great changes and it's always been that way.
The ancient hills of Toora as old as father time
And they were millions of years old when Christ was in his prime
The oldest human on Planet Earth perhaps fifteen years with five score
But the ancient hills of Toora will exist forever more.
The ancient hills of Toora overlooking Toora Town
From the long and warm dry Summer have never looked so brown
But I recall last September decked in their wildering flowers
Those ancient hills of Toora lush and green after Spring showers.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Back Street Kids
Description:
============
Great music with interesting riffs and instrumental combinations,
the lyrics however are quite generic...
I'm just another back street kid
Rock 'n Roll music is the only thing I really dig
Can't stop the music going round inside my head
I'm a rock 'n roll soldier,gonna play it until I'm dead
Nobody I know is gonna take my rock 'n roll away from me
Sitting in the back seat of a shiny limousine
Living in a taxi can't remember where I've been
Playing my music,sitting in my hotel room
Writing about the stars and thinking about the hand of doom
Nobody I know is gonna take my rock 'n roll away from me
Living life comes easy if you know which way you're going
Got to see yourself in other's eye's,surprised?
Living like I want to don't come easy,but I'm trying
Sorting out what's true and what are lies,it's wise
Brought up in a back street living with the salt of the land
Seems that now my music's paying off my tax demands
So listen to the music,want to see you get so high
'Cos I'm a back street rocker and I will be till the day I die
Nobody I know is gonna take my rock 'n roll away from me
song performed by by Black Sabbath
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Flying Dutchman
The blue water stretches
as far as visibility allows to see
and there’s fog
rising white before the storm
out of the water.
The dusk becomes grey
and the sea from blue to dark black
while the night
darker than ink, as only companion
folds over the old ancient ship.
It’s Van der Decken standing as tiller man
behind the big wheel
and forever he steers the ship
on the journey that she goes.
Always cursing
his loud voice thunders
like lightning falling around him
for sailors to tend the sails right
and sails are hoisted crunching, groaning and trembling
with strong ropes
and the ship jumps
over the smashing waves.
Like a phantom
the Flying Dutchman appears
with white sails like a wraith
over the horizon
where it sails before a storm with speed.
The ship becomes lager
as the storm wind
brings her closer
and you hear her creak
against the power of the wind.
There’s thunder bolts blinding suddenly
and sea birds flies screeching
out in front of her,
while Van der Decken’s skeleton
drills his men powerless
to set the sails right
that is vibrating against the wind.
“How long still Lord, ”
echoes against the sea and sky,
without a answer
ever coming
and suddenly the ship is gone
as if it disappeared in the naught.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Forest Road
The forest road,
The infinite straight road stretching away
World without end: the breathless road between the walls
Of the black listening trees: the hushed, grey road
Beyond the window that you shut to-night
Crying that you would look at it by day -
There is a shadow there that sings and calls
But not for you. Oh! hidden eyes that plead in sleep
Against the lonely dark, if I could touch the fear
And leave it kissed away on quiet lids -
If I could hush these hands that are half-awake,
Groping for me in sleep I could go free.
I wish that God would take them out of mine
And fold them like the wings of frightened birds
Shot cruelly down, but fluttering into quietness so soon.
Broken, forgotten things? there is no grief for them in the green Spring
When the new birds fly back to the old trees.
But it shall not be so with you. I will look back. I wish I knew that God would stand
Smiling and looking down on you when morning comes,
To hold you, when you wake, closer than I,
So gently though: and not with famished lips or hungry arms:
He does not hurt the frailest, dearest things
As we do in the dark. See, dear, your hair -
I must unloose this hair that sleeps and dreams
About my face, and clings like the brown weed
To drowned, delivered things, tossed by the tired sea
Back to the beaches. Oh! your hair! If you had lain
A long time dead on the rough, glistening ledge
Of some black cliff, forgotten by the tide,
The raving winds would tear, the dripping brine would rust away
Fold after fold of all the loveliness
That wraps you round, and makes you, lying here,
The passionate fragrance that the roses are.
But death would spare the glory of your head
In the long sweetness of the hair that does not die:
The spray would leap to it in every storm,
The scent of the unsilenced sea would linger on
In these dark waves, and round the silence that was you -
Only the nesting gulls would hear - but there would still be whispers in your hair;
Keep them for me; keep them for me. What is this singing on the road
That makes all other music like the music in a dream -
Dumb to the dancing and the marching feet; you know, in dreams, you see
Old pipers playing that you cannot hear,
And ghostly drums that only seem to beat. This seems to climb:
Is it the music of a larger place? It makes our room too small: it is like a stair,
A calling stair that climbs up to a smile you scarcely see,
Dim, but so waited for; and you know what a smile is, how it calls,
How if I smiled you always ran to me.
Now you must sleep forgetfully, as children do.
There is a Spirit sits by us in sleep
Nearer than those who walk with us in the bright day.
I think he has a tranquil, saving face: I think he came
Straight from the hills: he may have suffered there in time gone by,
And once, from those forsaken heights, looked down,
Lonely himself, on all the lonely sorrows of the earth.
It is his kingdom - Sleep. If I could leave you there -
If, without waking you, I could get up and reach the door -!
We used to go together. - Shut, scared eyes,
Poor, desolate, desperate hands, it is not I
Who thrust you off. No, take your hands away -
I cannot strike your lonely hands. Yes, I have struck your heart,
It did not come so near. Then lie you there
Dear and wild heart behind this quivering snow
With two red stains on it: and I will strike and tear
Mine out, and scatter it to yours. Oh! throbbing dust,
You that were life, our little wind-blown hearts!
The road! the road!
There is a shadow there: I see my soul,
I hear my soul, singing among the trees!
poem by Charlotte Mary Mew
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Le Pont Noir
I'm going to the bridge tonight
Venus shines so ever bright
Deep in the woods under the stars
How did I come to get this fa
Have this feeling...what will I find
Around the corner of my mind?
A thousand trees of creeping sin
Dead leaves blowing in the wind
I'm whistling an old melody
To keep the beast away from me
I hear the call of croaking frogs
Answering me lost in the fog
I tell myself, everything's fine
Here in these woods, for the first time
Uh, ohh!
Out in the dark, a shadow sound
Fear to look, but turn around
I realize I'm face to face
Two yellow eyes, an evil gaze
Ugly blood hound, no wagging tail
How long has he been on my trail?
Down to the bridge, he's leading me
What is it he wants me to see?
Uh, ohh!
Already we've arrived, Here I am
There's the bridge, Where's the man, What a scam!
That story 'bout the bridge isn't true
I'm enjoying myself, what a view!
They say the bridge is not what it is
No one ever comes back...so they say
What could happen to me, anyway?
>From away, a tall man comes to me...
Has he been here waiting...just for me?
He says there's no more fishing in the lake
But one thing for sure...I'm the catch of the day!
This is what happens
When one looks for gold
Turn'd into gray stone
And down deep you are thrown!!
All this is over (X4
song performed by by Voivod
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Modern Love V
The spring's audio tempest brings a mauve sunrise alarm full of chirping avarian prayers.
The gust's mouths open the blackness with yawns
while awakening dewy green fertile cornfields.
The stabbing wind's hands paint dalisque clouds on the innocent blue-sky like flapping white kerchiefs of goodbye to memories.
The infinite wind's broken heart flutters and emotes warm misty tears while performing to silent love's audience.
Among ancient swaying trees the mezzo tenor wind's song jumps around like Verdi's Egyptian victory march.
The whispering wind reveals its secret, as it churns the ocean's floor, touching the delicate pearl in your salty oyster.
Pirate whirling wind, that gathers quickly and steals away
forever-excessive foliage and spent hearts, like fluttering arrows of parrots.
Whimsical warm wind that melts your
winter ardor like a foamless tasmanian wave, spent and resting ashore in your damp tomb.
Your lip's kisses are deserting and diving back to your heart rather than waging an equinox battle with summer's breeze.
The spring’s audio tempest brings a mauve sunrise alarm full of chirping avarian prayers.
The gust’s multiple mouths open the black clouds with their yawns while awakening dewy green fertile cornfields.
The stabbing wind’s hands paint dalisque clouds on the innocent blue-sky like flapping white kerchiefs of goodbye to memories.
The infinite wind’s broken heart flutters and emotes warm misty tears while performing to our silent love’s audience.
Among ancient swaying trees the mezzo tenor wind’s song jumps around like Verdi’s Egyptian victory march.
The whispering wind reveals its secret, as it churns the ocean’s floor, touching the delicate pearl in your salty oyster.
Pirate whirling wind, that gathers quickly and steals away forever-excessive foliage and spent hearts, like fluttering arrows of parrots.
Whimsical warm wind that melts your winter ardor like a foamless concentric wave, spent and resting ashore in your damp tomb.
Your lip’s kisses are deserting and diving back to your heart rather than waging battle at the equinox with summer’s breeze.
poem by Liberatore Suffoletta
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