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Harp of Heavens Plucked a String

Harp of heavens plucked a string,
Vibrate its metal and iron rings
And the melody so pure, crafted fingers could play
Or is it master's art put into the fine tunes
Magician's spell of the silent night
Flee so pure in the heart of rhythm
My delight
Echoes the land, echoes the skies
And the night and day grey in dawn of a new era
Where a heart is born
The soulful music of harp, laughter of my friend
Puts to tune my rusty strings...

poem by Lama Abbas
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The Rosary

Not on the lute, nor harp of many strings
Shall all men praise the Master of all song.
Our life is brief, one saith, and art is long;
And skilled must be the laureates of kings.
Silent, O lips that utter foolish things!
Rest, awkward fingers striking all notes wrong!
How from your toil shall issue, white and strong,
Music like that God's chosen poet sings?

There is one harp that any hand can play,
And from its strings what harmonies arise!
There is one song that any mouth can say, --
A song that lingers when all singing dies.
When on their beads our Mother's children pray
Immortal music charms the grateful skies.

poem by Joyce Kilmer
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Song Of The Harp

Angel play upon your harp.
Play it soft and clear.
If I listen long enough
maybe I will hear

all the tones that vibrate,
reaching through the spheres.
Angel play upon your harp
sweet music for my ears.

All the sounds that reach our young
are not too heavenly.
Their music is just so much noise,
I know it cannot be

music that an angel plays,
music that is sweet.
All they seem to want is
a steady throbbing beat.

Angel play upon your harp.
Play it night and day.
Maybe they might listen
to the silken tones you play.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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The Harp Of The Minstrel

The harp of the minstrel has never a tone
As sad as the song in his bosom to-night,
For the magical touch of his fingers alone
Can not waken the echoes that breathe it aright;
But oh! as the smile of the moon may impart
A sorrow to one in an alien clime,
Let the light of the melody fall on the heart,
And cadence his grief into musical rhyme.

The faces have faded, the eyes have grown dim
That once were his passionate love and his pride;
And alas! all the smiles that once blossomed for him
Have fallen away as the flowers have died.
The hands that entwined him the laureate's wreath
And crowned him with fame in the long, long ago,
Like the laurels are withered and folded beneath
The grass and the stubble--the frost and the snow.

Then sigh, if thou wilt, as the whispering strings
Strive ever in vain for the utterance clear,
And think of the sorrowful spirit that sings,
And jewel the song with the gem of a tear.
For the harp of the minstrel has never a tone
As sad as the song in his bosom tonight,
And the magical touch of his fingers alone
Can not waken the echoes that breathe it aright.

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Unstrung

My skies were blue, and my sun was bright,
And, with fingers tender and strong and light,
He woke up the music that slept before—
Echoing, echoing evermore!

By-and-by, my skies grew grey;—
No master-touch on the harp-strings lay,—
Dead silence cradled the notes divine:
His soul had wander'd away from mine.

Idly, o'er strange harps swept his hand,
Seeking for music more wild and grand.
He wearied at last of his fruitless quest,
And he came again to my harp for rest.

But the dust lay thick on the golden wires,
And they would not thrill to the old desires.
The chords, so broken and jarred with pain,
Could never be tender and sweet again.

poem by Ada Cambridge
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The Melody Of My Heart

my heart is on the rise
and fall
my heart's melody is as nice
than all
like the leaves
on the tree by the river

my heart is a melody
to the birds of love,
life and all that worth
as i walked the earth
with the melody
of my heart from then
and sang to my heart a melody

i explore an adventure
of the melody in my heart
and art a melody of my heart
with fingers dancing to the heart
my veins rain with melody of the heart
i feel the heart
in talk and melody
and that melody
is the melody
of my heart

my heart is a melody
to the words of a rhythm
its music from the heart
a melody of emotions,
feelings, love and death
...after all,
it is the melody of my heart

poem by Onalethuso Petruss Ntema
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O, Little David, Play on Your Harp

O, Little David, play on your harp,
That ivory harp with the golden strings
And sing as you did in Jewry Land,
Of the Prince of Peace and the God of Love
And the coming Christ Immanuel.
O, Little David, play on your harp.

A seething world is gone stark mad;
And is drunk with the blood,
Gorged with the flesh,
Blinded with the ashes
Of her millions of dead.
From out it all and over all
There stands, years old and fully grown,
A monster in the guise of man.
He is of war and not of war;
Born in peace,
Nurtured in arrogant pride and greed,
World-creature is he and native to no land.
And war itself is merciful
When measured by his deeds.
Beneath the Crescent
Lie a people maimed;
Their only sin--
That they worship God.
On Russia's steppes
Is a race in tears;
Their one offense--
That they would be themselves.
On Flander's plains
Is a nation raped;
A bleeding gift
Of "Kultur's" conquering creed.
And in every land
Are black folk scourged;
Their only crime--
That they dare be men.

O, Little David, play on your harp,
That ivory harp with the golden strings
And psalm anew your songs of Peace,
Of the soothing calm of a Brotherly Love,
And the saving grace of a Mighty God.
O, Little David, play on your harp.

poem by Joseph Seamon Cotter
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Sweet Music

Hear the choir
On the wind.
Soothe you
Like a rolling cloud.
Background,
To the migrant crowd
On the wing.
Sweet music
Echoes in everything.

Sunlight dancing
On blue bay.
Hula hula
Palm trees sway.
Garlands
Of a tuneful sky.
Spill their scented notes
On high.
Dripping into
Orchestras of the ocean.
Sweet music tango
In marine motion.

Muted trumpets
Greet the gladdened morn.
Golden ballet
Of sunflowers born.
Like Heaven's harp
Of gossamer string.
Sweet music
Echoes in everything.

poem by Kevin East
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The Master-Player

AN old worn harp that had been played
Till all its strings were loose and frayed,
Joy, Hate and Fear, each one essayed,
To play. But each in turn had found
No sweet responsiveness of sound
Then Love the Master-Player came
With heaving breast and eyes aflame;
The harp he took all undismayed,
Smote on its strings, still strange to song,
And brought forth music sweet and strong.

poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Echoes of silence

A silent scream
A bad dream..
nightmare

Wake me up
Some one dare
Spare me.. spare!

Everytime i remember
that touch that smell
The day i experienced hell

my cross to bear
All my life
My death knell

My tortured sigh
someone hear in silence
my helplessness

As i laid that night
Silence echoes my fight
my plight!

Silence echoes
Scot free, he walks away
echoes till this day

Silence echoes
My lost innocence
At nights in dreams..

Night, witness to my pain
Driving me insane
within my heart...

Silence echoes,
My silent scream
my broken dreams..

Silence echoes....

poem by Meena Iyer
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The Silent Melody

"BRING me my broken harp," he said;
"We both are wrecks,-- but as ye will,--
Though all its ringing tones have fled,
Their echoes linger round it still;
It had some golden strings, I know,
But that was long-- how long!-- ago.

"I cannot see its tarnished gold,
I cannot hear its vanished tone,
Scarce can my trembling fingers hold
The pillared frame so long their own;
We both are wrecks,-- awhile ago
It had some silver strings, I know,

"But on them Time too long has played
The solemn strain that knows no change,
And where of old my fingers strayed
The chords they find are new and strange,--
Yes! iron strings,-- I know,-- I know,--
We both are wrecks of long ago.

"We both are wrecks,-- a shattered pair,
Strange to ourselves in time's disguise
What say ye to the lovesick air
That brought the tears from Marian's eyes?
Ay! trust me,-- under breasts of snow
Hearts could be melted long ago!

"Or will ye hear the storm-song's crash
That from his dreams the soldier woke,
And bade him face the lightning flash
When battle's cloud in thunder broke?
Wrecks,-- nought but wrecks!-- the time was when
We two were worth a thousand men!"

And so the broken harp they bring
With pitying smiles that none could blame;
Alas there's not a single string
Of all that filled the tarnished frame!
But see! like children overjoyed,
His fingers rambling through the void!

"I clasp thee! Ay . . . mine ancient lyre. . .
Nay, guide my wandering fingers. . . There!
They love to dally with the wire
As Isaac played with Esan's hair. . . .
Hush! ye shall hear the famous tune
That Marina called the Breath of June!"

And so they softly gather round:
Rapt in his tuneful trance he seems:
His fingers move: but not a sound!
A silence like the song of dreams. . . .
"There! ye have heard the air," he cries,
"That brought the tears from Marina's eyes!"

Ah, smile not at his fond conceit,
Nor deem his fancy wrought in vain;
To him the unreal sounds are sweet,--
No discord mars the silent strain
Scored on life's latest, starlit page--
The voiceless melody of age.

Sweet are the lips of all that sing,
When Nature's music breathes unsought,
But never yet could voice or string
So truly shape our tenderest thought
As when by life's decaying fire
Our fingers sweep the stringless lyre!

poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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The Girl At The Harp

LIKE Clotho, at her harp she sits and weaves
With mystic fingers from the swaying strings
A melody that ever louder sings
And my charmed heart in vibrant rapture leaves
All hers! And all her quiet life receives
The peaceful melody which round her clings;
She walks amid suave strains and murmurings
That never doubt or strident discord cleaves.
And from her singing harp she bends to grant
My dear desire; and the poor monotone,
That is my life, in her glad heart she takes,
And, twining its dull phrases with her own
Full-flowing theme of life, of both she makes
The pæan of one love reverberant.

poem by Arthur Henry Adams
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Violet Symphony

Echoes from the outside
The shades of evening soul
Step by step dance toward the open windows
Bring out the sounds when the wind blows
Upon my face and around my skin
A melody touches to any hearts,
Hush, again and again till it echoes inside
Erase the elegy of pain and sorrow
Bring the wings to follow the flying sparrow

Come inside and spread the feels
Flaunt me to the air in vibrating melody
Me, diving in tunes of melancholy
Voicing a happy song internally
Stay in spirit for life, love lively

And come an estranged voice
Jump over the notes chasing after me
Fluently you flute the words, pour a new melody
Speaking of music lyrically, blend naturally
Our thoughts write the notes of harmony melody
As thou, a violinist playing my heartstrings
Me, conduct the movement of the story
Dimension of a newly born composition
Deliver a piece, a magical beautiful symphony

We watched the sky painted blue
Cover all the spaces, the air amused
Released by the flying musical notes
Of the freed feeling from my heartstrings,
As we played, and to keep on play over again
Until the sky saturate with intense blue

Halfway of a happy song
Semi before us to complete
Different melody could change the song destiny
As when the tunes can't walk along the symphony
Not anymore to vibrate a way for euphony journey
The united voices crushing against the written lines
Inverse sound, reverse feel, at the end scoring noisy
How can we finish this for another half sheet
Like we end the blissful musical meet
Another half of broken song? for heart bleed?

Your hand still on my heartstrings to play
But when we losing tones, our mind not parallel
For us to retry the song we used to play together
Strong picking chords on me wont be better
Because you pitch high, pick my string loud
Ignore the lyric, don't care the right melody,
As we just want to win but cost the heart lose few strings

Replacing blue, we watched the crimson flow out
From this broken string we may see they fly high,
Shadow the bottom clouds, under the sky it stayed below
To be our violet symphony, shades the sunset backyard
The fusion of our blue and crimson melody

Silence with no more any symphony
Without the string how can a song we could play
Will the broken get fixed when we abandon the pain
And abandoning the lost melody will be a miss to ears
While, forgetting the sweet moments, big lost to hearts
Heart will stir the thought to heal lost without a miss
No solution without calm, always calm peace the mind
And only peaceful mind will understand the sign
We need a sign, may it will lead us a way
To meet and sing together after thousands days

Because days and time keep going, so life is moving on
Someday, we will meet a moment for us to learn deeply
Same to the hearts when we finally fix the strings
And the same melody shall be played again
This innocent song must be returned
Through the same opened window
Rejoining with other flying sparrow
To shade this late evening soul
Echoes from this inside
together we loose the past hurt
Heal the broken heart
To ride in the wind blow
Echoes outside

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This poem actually talk about importance of understanding
In every interaction, communication with everyone around
we may crafting a bond..We may walk togetherness as we share mind
, because we understand each other...but when we lost it
it feels like a beautiful music have bad interaction between
voice, melody, rhythm, and it nothing left but noise...it same to our
relationship among each other, we need to sort out what we can
do respect in different thing, accept to be harmony..
the past will teach us to be wiser, because we never can read
without learning ABC, and we never be an experienced adult without
pass the learning childhood... all we need time to learn
and let heart takes us in any decision...Love that echoes inside
must be amplified outside! _Unwritten Soul

poem by Unwritten Soul
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Ocean of Forms

I dive down into the depth of the ocean of forms,
hoping to gain the perfect pearl of the formless.

No more sailing from harbor to harbor with this my weather-beaten boat.
The days are long passed when my sport was to be tossed on waves.

And now I am eager to die into the deathless.

Into the audience hall by the fathomless abyss
where swells up the music of toneless strings
I shall take this harp of my life.

I shall tune it to the notes of forever,
and when it has sobbed out its last utterance,
lay down my silent harp at the feet of the silent.

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Playing The Guitar

Oh what a joy to hear him
play the guitar and sing!
When he sings and
play the guitar,
he puts his heart and
soul into it.
Oh what a voice!
I could hear him all day
all night
and never get tired.
He entranced me by his music.
His music is like
listening to angels
plucking the harp.
That’s how good he is
he doesn’t think so!
I know better!
For I should know! I should know!
He’s my husband.
For I am his number one fan.

poem by Noreen Ann Jenkins
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He Played to the Last String

Beads of sweat rolled, gleaming backs shook and twirled
Logs of fire added, pure smoke rose
In chorus, their voices went in unison, best steps competed
The jingles punctuated, and drums went in frenzy
His fingers danced with the harp's strings that made them wild
Alas, in crescendo, strings gave way one after and after.
Jingles and a string had to make it now, his voice punctuated
Infectious, in chorus they had applauded!
He PLAYED TO THE LAST STRING beamed the headlines.
A role in movie popped, he signed!

poem by Charles Jagongo Ogola
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Play The Music

Music, spangled with harmony,
trickling over the core of our senses.

This volume of sound resonates,
and like pearl droplets, echoes through the caverns
of our mind.

They elevate and transport us along,
weaving pure elation, vibrating with such amplification,
that all the universe sings,
and the melody reverberates into infinity.

Play the music,
it soothes the soul,
and steadies the beat of the heart.

poem by Ernestine Northover
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Clara Morris (Written for a Benefit Given Mrs. Morris)

The Radiant Ruler of Mystic Regions
Where souls of artists are fitted for birth,
Gathered together their lovely legions
And fashioned a woman to shine on earth.
They bathed her in splendor
They made her tender:
They gave her a nature both sweet and wild.
They gave her emotions
Like storm stirred oceans,
And they gave her the heart of a little child.

These Radiant Rulers (who are not human
Nor yet divine like the gods above)
Poured all their gifts in the soul of a woman
That fragile vessel meant only for love.
Still more they taught her,
Still more they brought her-
Till they gave her the world for a harp one day,
And they bade her string it-
They bade her ring it,
While the stars all wondered to hear her play.

She touched the strings in a master fashion,
She uttered the cry of a world's despair.
Its long-hid secret, its pent-up passion,
She gave to the winds in a vibrant air.
For ah! the heart of her,
That was the art of her,
Great with the feeling that makes men kin.
Art unapproachable,
Art all uncoachable,
Fragrance and flame from the spirit within.

The earth turns ever an ear unheeding
To the sorrows of art, as it cries for more:
And she played on the harp till her hands were bleeding
And her brow was bruised by the laurels she wore.
She knew the trend of it,
She knew the end of it.
Men heard the music and men felt the thrill.
Bound to the altar
Of art, could she falter?
Then came a silence-the music was still.

And yet in the echoes we seem to hear it
In waves unbroken it circles the earth:
And we catch in the light of her dauntless spirit
A gleam from the center that gave her birth.
Still is the fame of her
Felt in the name of her.
But low lies the harp that once thrilled to her strain.
No hand has taken it,
No hand can waken it-
For the soul of her art was her secret of pain.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Standing Next To You

Take me to a better place.
One more honest.
One more pure.
One that puts me on top of the heavens.
Looking down upon everything and everyone.

Keep me from saving face.
Admitting a terrible mistake that I have made.
To everything and everyone.
Why it can't be a simple dream?
One that you can simply grab out and reach.
And the one standing next to you.
Please guide me to where it is we're suppose go.
Because I just don't know yet if I am going make it.

Take me to a better place.
One more honest.
One more pure.
One that puts me on top of the heavens.
Looking down upon everything and everyone.

Let the existence be true.
Please don't let it fall through.
With hope as my prayer.
Let it take wings.
In place I've never seen and probably will never be.
For a too large a distance divides.
An impenetrable barrier resides.
Only my voice survives.
It glides through a sequence of mazes.
Sometimes I think something gets lost in the translation.
But one way or another.

Take me to a better place.
One more honest.
One more pure.
One that puts me on top of the heavens.
Looking down upon everything and everyone.

Its not any ones fault and I don't blame any of you.
I'll do what is needed.
Not because I have to.
Or in anyway need to.
Without reluctance sometimes still choices are made.
Living among life without life.
The body breaths but does it move.

Take me to a better place.
One more honest.
One more pure.
One that puts me on top of the heavens.
Looking down upon everything and everyone.

Take me to a better place.
One more honest.
One more pure.
One that puts me on top of the heavens.
Looking down upon everything and everyone.

Because right now I'm without you.
Right Now, Right Now, I Am Without You.

poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Harps We Love

The harp we love hath a royal burst!
Its strings are mighty forest trees;
And branches, swaying to and fro,
Are fingers sounding symphonies.

The harp we love hath a solemn sound!
And rocks amongst the shallow seas
Are strings from which the rolling waves
Draw forth their stirring harmonies.

The harp we love hath a low sweet voice!
Its strings are in the bosom deep,
And Love will press those hidden chords
When all the baser passions sleep.

poem by Henry Kendall
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Laughter echoes

Laughter echoes
Giggles, chuckles, snigger's
He's in hysterics
Laughter echoes

Blood trickles
Oozing, seeping, gushing
His beautiful broken skull
Laughter echoes

Cold voice whispers
Mutters, murmurs, mumbles
He won't stop laughing
Laughter echoes

poem by Fedora Wearing Biggins
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