En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Matter is Music. The Atoms Sing.

Matter is music. The atoms sing. A frog
leaps into the water and strings a guitar.
Tree rings like odes in the heartwood of the apple.
The rain breaks like tears into tiny harps.
A gust of stars, a lyric of dust wheeling
into galaxies like symphonies in hydrogen alpha.
And the light, too, playing the flowers
like the stops of a flute, and the leaves
like semi-quavers, and their fruit, like whole notes.

Adagios of colour, bass runs of taste,
and sound the echo of a shape shifting mirror
that touches the light like a lake
touches the moon inseparably playing
on the plectra of its waves like an encore
among lovers mastering each other's bodies
like first violins. Or red-winged blackbirds,
the woodwinds, or the wavelengths of disparate stars
resonating with the eye into lyres, and eagles, and swans.

And me? I'm this voice that's been scored
by time and space to reveal the contours
of a theme interweaving like a melodic river
through the mindscape of a dream in counterpoint.
And I can hear tides in the rush of the wind
breaking in the leaves of the silver Russian olives
and the great sorrows of children who died young
playing in the rain on the syrinx of the columbine.
And strange and eerie from a distant window
I can hear the muted suffering of a song
whose words I know all too well by heart.

poem by Patrick White
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Flowers Adrift On The Fragrance Of Their Own Foregoing

Flowers adrift on the fragrance of their own foregoing.
In the night that takes me under its wing
to shelter me from myself, arrival and passage of spring.

Fish nibble at the wafer of the moon on the tongue of the lake.
The wind bitter as a green apple with an innocent cruel side.
Saturn at dawn, Venus at dusk, things abide in their own good time

without knowing for whose sake they shine until the mind
can't keep a secret anymore and let's the heart know
what the heart has always known. Reason is colour blind.

Everything that's hidden out in the open isn't invisibly camouflaged
to look like God at a quick glance. Flowers don't dance
with their deathmasks on. Things may have changed

since I last walked here, but they haven't aged. Autumn
not an older season than spring, spring not younger than yesterday.
Water's never heard of a virgin birth that ends in a real death.

Silence of time as it appears to the spirit in a deepening sea of awareness.
Nothing disfigured. Nothing restored. Nothing scarred.
Nothing wounded in the moonlight, pleading to be healed.

Earth pungent with the expectations of urgent ghosts.
And dust in the eyes of the stars, the cries of Canada geese
with more longing in their voices than celebration

like the wailing of a train disappearing like smoke in the distance
from a sad fire in danger of going out. Exits and entrances galore
there are as many ways out of here as there is space and time to stay.

Bush wolves on a far hill agonizing over something in the night
like blues harps of blood. And in the heartwood of every leafing tree
I can hear the first violins of a symphony tuning up to the light

as if something sublime were about to begin with the first dropp of rain
pinging like a tintinnabulum beside the kettledrum of thunder at the back.
To speak now would be to conceal what I really feel in words.

Lavish with life, I reveal my voice in a rush of waterbirds
startled off the lake like a mantra of sacred syllables
that nuance the ripples they leave in their wake

with a whole new way of phrasing the light with eyes
that see things musically as they fall away from their wings
like the meaning of things when meaning isn't necessary.

poem by Patrick White
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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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Key to your song

Key to your song
~
There's a song playing on the keys to your dreams
a chord rings out while you sleep as beautiful as you are
the words wait to be sung aloud to a chorus as yet unheard
let me sing with you sometime, let me here you sing
the strings will play a melody that we both know
the sound of the music carried in the air while you breathe
is the softest most gentle touch to my soul
any sonnet carried to a symphony is graceful
listen to what you feel inside of your heart
upon every key which unlocks all you are
a note plays to entertain another dream
and here is your song playing again
just as when you slept safe in a dream
there's a song playing in my eyes as I look at you
beautiful love please let it be sung

poem by Matthew Holloway
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The Broken Love Song

Sitting, sitting, waiting for the music to stop
The music plays over and over again
My eyes wander, my sight blurred
My mouth lets out whispers and sighs
The song plays all over again; in circles

Tears, wait a minute...tears?
Tears flow down my cheek
The sound of misery has been playing
Playing in full circles, let it stop
I won't let it stop even if it hurts

The words that I murmur, I whisper softly
He left me; he left me behind
The music breaks me down into pieces
I grieve as I see myself dead in the funeral
I didn't die in the funeral, I died here

My lips part and gave way to smoke
Clouds of mist form before my eyes
The images are distorted, it is blurred
By salty waters that rush down my cheek
I could not hear the music anymore

He left me by this chair
He left me and made me hear this music
Broken as it played in circles
I hear my heart stops its own music
The tears in my eyes sympathize

poem by A.B. Black Waltz
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Your Always Missing

Something Strong is living on
Even though you’re gone
When I cry my tears
They create rain for you
Because you’re gone

I’m sitting by the bed side
Where you once laid
Many days I cry my self to sleep
And the rain comes to play with me
All I want is just you near

Missing everything that I want to share with you
Every time I close my eyes
I close my eyes with you
And I see your face next to mine
And the rain is above my head tonight

Missing words of lullabies
Sweet tender voice is silent
Rain comes to play
With lightening always striking
And your always missing

Walking in the park
Clouds always gray
Time with you was gone to soon
And theirs only tears and rain
So what is left to say today

Tree’s never swaying
Plants never growing and dancing with you and me
The rain is always here
It’s never that comforting to me

Missing words of lullabies
Sweet tender voice is silent
Rain comes to play
With lightening always striking
And your always missing

I just want to see you again
Singing a song with me
Never again to dance in the rain not without you I won’t
No more playing for me
But the rain is playing with me

Missing words of lullabies
Sweet tender voice is silent
Rain comes to play
With lightening always striking
And your always missing

Never to hear the silent cries
Only angels seem to hear
I’m guessing your up their too
But is the rain playing with you

Missing words of lullabies
Sweet tender voice is silent
Rain comes to play
With lightening always striking
And your always missing today
Your always missing from me
And the rain is crying with me

poem by Tin Mouse
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Listen To The Wind and The Rain...

Listen to The Wind and The Rain
Playing Symphonies Again
With Muted-Base of Thunder
Raise The Window; Watch and Wonder

Listen to The Wind and The Rain
Crescendo – Clean and Rise – Refrain
A Rush of Lightning Rhapsody
Love-Struck A Chord… Deep in Me…

(Listen to The Wind and The Rain…)

Open Up The Door!
I Want to Feel the Choir’s Full – Score
Wind and Rain – By Maestro’s Hand
Make Melody to Woman and Man

(Listen to The Wind and The Rain…)

Listen to The Wind and The Rain
In This Lullaby, We have Lain
In Such Peaceful Harmony
Singing in Love’s Key…

Listening to The Wind and The Rain…

poem by MoonBee Canady
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Stars On The Water

By: rodney crowell
1981
Down in louisiana, bayous by and by
Pirogue pole or your natural soul
Keeps you tied to a tree high tide
Beer joint lights come on
And then the crowd starts rollin in
Chorus:
Pretty soon you got stars on the water
You got stars on the water
Its like stars on the water, let it rain
Beaumont to biloxi
Sea breeze at your door
Gypsy rains, dang hurricanes
White silver sandy shore
Blue light lounge is shinin
Way out on the view
Chorus:
It looks just like stars on the water
Just like stars on the water
Just like stars on the water, let it rain
(guitar instrumental)
When its midnight down in mobile
Moonbeams on the bay
They come from miles around to dance the jukebox down
And dig the good time sounds they play
All across the harbour
Night lights shinin in
Chorus:
It looks just like stars on the water
Just like stars on the water
Just like stars on the water, let it rain
Chorus:
Pretty soon ya got stars on the water
You got stars on the water
Its like stars on the water, let it rain
- notes:
Background vocals: timothy b. schmit

song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Faceless This Time Of Night

Faceless this time of night, my skin evaporates like dry ice
into a deepening sense of containment
by a dark space with distant cities of light
trying to colonize the Pythagorean fireflies of Cretona,
or the shimmering mirage of Port Angeles
dancing like a seance at the foot of the mountains
across a hundred miles of the Georgia Strait at night,
the immensity of the freedom that dwarfs the stars
with the sheer magnitude of the labour before them.

The fragility of a spinal cord traversing the abyss
of a one-stringed box guitar made of cardboard
when you were a kid, the mere filament
of an anachronistic light bulb with the lifespan
of the wick of an apostate candle at a black mass,
disappointed it wasn't born a flower,
but a weed more at home among the stars
that uprooted it from its intimacy with the earth
like a kindred spirit of light
that must wander through its own solitude
like music at night from an open window
in the life of the mind to reach out to them
like a tendril of smoke from the embering nugget
of the heart nesting in a private crown of fire
that abdicated its empire of ashes for a single note
of the night bird's longing to sing back up
like a bell for a sad universe that's always on the road.

I hear crying in the distance, the dark lament of the hills.
The night creek weeping unseen through hidden valleys.
I can taste the deaths and sorrows, the broken promises
of the rain, drifting like the fragrance of a waterlily
like a star reflected on the undivined watershed of its tears
saturating the air. Matter a condensation of the light,
I can feel life moving through this body, this flesh,
this scrap of starmud, a rush of water, a gust of stars,
a purple passage of blood, a breath of fire and wind,
and the earth, not solid, but real, animating all my limbs,
my vital organs like the ripening fruit of a rootless tree
as if time wept like a bell in me as well, and its tears,
heavy with the weight of too many separations,
yet wise in the ways of the sky, sweetened the fall to come.

poem by Patrick White
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Won't Meet Most Of You In A Lifetime

Won't meet most of you in a lifetime
and know there are six billion of us
and more coming all the time, each trying
to interpret the sign of their own star,
you know, the one that nobody else can see
but for a few rays of light breaking
through the clouds here and there,
that says, this is the way to shine,
this is the way to shine, and that includes
black holes everywhere as well.

Whether you can see through it or not
as a plagiarism of water and sand
every mirage has its own meaning,
every star belongs to a different zodiac,
each with their own totems, mandalas,
and shapeshifting constellations, each
their own houses of worship and disrepute,
we're all wearing on our foreheads
written in between the lines of fate
like a sidereal bandanna, each
a meme of one we're hoping will allow
someone to recognize us in isolation
like a prison tat that says we've paid our dues
for the last thousand lifetimes without parole
and have a right to be here as well as anyone
because we've done our time standing up
just to be alive, whether you're running from it
or not. Everyone's got a different approach
to their own departure, and though
there is no gate they must go through,
there's a garden they must spend
some time in for awhile, telling
the flowers what the roots of our names mean
each as unique as a snowflake
on a petal or an eyelid or a furnace.

Each a theme of their own picture-music,
our lives are not sub-plots of the main narrative.
There's a whole symphony in the tintinnabula,
like a dropp of water reflecting the entire universe
just the same as there is in the first violins.
And everyone brings their own instrument to the jam
whether it be the wind in the silver Russian olives,
a tuba, a burning guitar, or the fossil of the lyre
that used to sing the dead up from hell
to a day of show and tell, and it doesn't matter
what kind of music you make, whether
its the choral riot of your favourite nocturnal animals in a zoo,
or the distant plectra of a hidden nightcreek
playing solo on a harpsichord in a lonely sacred grove,
or you're riffing on futuristic mystic mantras
like Tibetan prayer bowls that used to sound
like a waterclock of urns, as long as you're adding
your singularity like the longing high note of a nightbird
to the dendritic staves of the trees. Even the silence sings.

And what is it we're all really longing for
in the solitary labyrinths we've made
of the complexity of our desires,
if it isn't a world elaborated from
the prime fractal of our love,
as if it fell to each of us now, not god,
that weight was removed from her shoulders
the moment our cosmic egg hatched
and we took to our own wings,
eagles and fireflies and Icarus alike
to provide the image of light upon light
like a masterpiece we leave behind us
that's everybody's signed like a self-portrait
of who we were to each other for awhile
when we stood in wonder and awe
at what was arrayed before us knowing
it's the exact likeness of everyone,
and the star in the eye that's turned toward us
as if each of us were the direction of prayer
is the same one we've been following for light years
like the magi seeking the source of their own radiance,
candles in the dark wondering where
the light's coming from in billions of creative mirrors
falling on everyone alike like rain and eyes
so that before we close them
like two dew drops of stereoscopic water
falling back to our roots like our last words
from the tips of the tongues of the stargrass
to dream up new blossoms in our sleep
like new moons budding on a dead branch,
we each realize that we're the myth of origin,
the alpha and omega of all things that begin and end
as well as the unattainable for which there is no metaphor
placed well within the creative reach of everyone of us
though if I were to give it a shot as a poet, I'd say,
knowing what I know of this life in the arts,
like the habitable planets and ripening desert moons
of the low-hanging fruits of our hearts.

poem by Patrick White
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Miracle From My Dream

If you were a flower in my garden,
I wish i were the rain that touches your leaves,
I would whisper how beautiful you are with every rain drop,
And even that would never be enough.

If you were a harp,
I could use the best notes,
To play a melody from my heart for you,
And even that would never be enough.

If you were a painting on my wall,
I could look at you all night long,
Admiring you in all your splendour,
And even that would never be enough.

If you were the sunrise,
I could be the sea kissing you on the horizon,
I would wrap you in my waves and caress you,
And even that would never be enough.

If i could have a second with you,
I would stop the time,
I would be the rainbow that touches your soul after rain,
And even that would never be enough.

If you were the miracle from my dream,
I don't want to wake up anymore,
I could stay dreaming forever,
And even that would never be enough.

poem by Cristina Teodor
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The Music Comes And Goes

by: Tripp

the soothing sounds of a piano to a guitar the sounds they make
the feeling It brings when the piano sings playing the strings of a guitar
the times come and goes as the music grows

in the heart of those who play
thinking of that one thing that brings epiphany to that instrument you play
as you hold and take care playing with hopes and dreams the music slips through
and sings

i can't get enough of what it does to me
when i hear that sound that voice

the music she brings to my heart when I'm with her
her voice is the epiphany to my heart
holding on to her the music keeps playing

my heart keeps beating as the music plays
i keep dreaming dreaming holding on hoping this song will never end
dreaming to fall in love with this instrument forever

she is my instrument

poem by Preston Trip
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Nature Plays Music!

Nature plays game using sea, wind, tree, sky
Like fingers playing on the key board of piano!
Dashing waves, thudding waves, hissing waves
Are different notes of music of all Nature knows!
Oozing or howling sound is the music of storms;
Hissing sound of breeze is the music of spring
And many sounds of music produced by nature
Everybody cannot forget along with the smell sure!
Simple harmonic waves are the rhythmic beat music
Every heart and verse of poet has like the ticking time
Or the works of mind nonstop till the end of time here!
Wind passing through flute or saxophone is nice to hear
Like the vocalist produces various rhymes of music
Forming natural base for all songs we enjoy in life forever!

poem by Ramesh T A
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Gone Soon Enough

Gone soon enough. To who knows where,
though I suspect the question answers itself
if there's a there to get to at all. Deal with this now
and maybe that, given opposites engender
one another out of their procreative union,
will be tended to as well in every mystic detail.
Mark one jewel and they're all marked.
Do unto one of these and you do unto me.
And maybe this is the belief of every leaf in the fall,
but with me when I'm trying on ghosts
to go with my death mask, it's merely one
of a myriad passing thoughts and scenarios
impassioned by the inspired absurdity
of trying to conceptualize the inconceivable.

Not void bound, though I'm free, I still hope,
more love and loyalty than clinging to mirages,
to take all the stars with me, and the moon and the sun,
the wind, the stone, the flower and all the sorrows
I've venerated over the years as shrines
to unknown lovers who suffered as anonymously as I did
to accord their solitude the dignity of a sword
and their silence the clarity of a window into the soul
transfigured like space by the nature of its contents
into the bodymind of a human who's given up
looking for signs of greater things to come
since he followed the breadcrumbs out of a dark wood
into a clearing where he realized, looking up at the stars
for paradigms of light he might be able to recognize
to get his bearings, the whole of his awareness
from the beginningless beginning was revelation
out of nothing, rootless blossoms on the wind,
emptiness with a thousand stamps on it
like a loveletter he wanted to be sure got there.

No message. No medium. However you parse
the expression into a million punctuation marks
like traffic lights of the silence, and the stillness
irremediable, and the stars not the measure of their light.
The many return to the one and the one returns to transcendence,
as the doge of Zen once said, out of everyone's mouth at once
as he did in twelfth century Tokugawa Japan.
When the Japanese plum tree blossoms,
it's not speaking for itself, it's an expression
with as many voices as the universe has atoms to say it,
solo or in chorus, acapella or accompanied by the wind
lamenting the ashes of the blue guitar of the moon,
neither an urn, nor a womb, or the rain improvising
Scarlatti on a harpsichord of plectral thorns attuned
to our tears and spinal cords. If the painting, the poem,
the life doesn't lead you to the unattainable within yourself,
if you try to contain the feeling, the image, the insight
in the Mason jar of the brain like the spooky green lights
of the fireflies riding their own eyebeams like Einstein
the clock on the town hall tower, until time stops
and space becomes infinite, and nothing outweighs
the feather or the flower, you won't be struck down
by your own light. Things are retaliatory and petty like that.
But it will be awhile before the Canada geese leaving now
bearing the souls of the dead south and west,
return for you bereft in this realm of arrival and departure.

Death, too, has its muses, its nightbirds,
and none of them are widows at the window or the well.
None of them part the curtains or the veils like a death shroud.
They're not the screening myths for what
we dare not say out loud lest the silence is listening
in a deathcart parked across the street. You are
the corpse telling you your own life story
and you're the green fire of the living bough
that lights the funeral pyres of its own ancestral stumps
to burn them out with the intensity of your life
paying homage to your own transformations.

Though everything I've just said is smoke on the wind
to the living, that isn't a sign of its evanescence,
because to the dead, it's an imperishable lyric
sung by a ghost of picture-music so free and unconstrained
they can hear their hearts still beating like the echo
of distant thunder or wild moonlit horses
running through the high fields like Pegasus
flying with eagles and swans among the stars,
albino periods shining at the beginning of endless things
the middle extremes of every moment of the mindstream
rising like a waterbird with unborn life
and imperishable death for wings, and in its voice
all the silence, sacred syllables, and wavelengths
of everything that sings a child to sleep in its dreams
like a new violin safe in the arms of the mystery
that seasons it like the heartwood of a broad-leafed maple,
spruce, or the willow with lyrical eyes down by the river
trying to write a song for the waters of life
in the shadows of birds in passage across the moon
as if she'd just taken the words right out of my mouth.

poem by Patrick White
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The House Of Dust: Part 02: 07: Two Lovers: Overtones

Two lovers, here at the corner, by the steeple,
Two lovers blow together like music blowing:
And the crowd dissolves about them like a sea.
Recurring waves of sound break vaguely about them,
They drift from wall to wall, from tree to tree.
'Well, am I late?' Upward they look and laugh,
They look at the great clock's golden hands,
They laugh and talk, not knowing what they say:
Only, their words like music seem to play;
And seeming to walk, they tread strange sarabands.

'I brought you this . . . ' the soft words float like stars
Down the smooth heaven of her memory.
She stands again by a garden wall,
The peach tree is in bloom, pink blossoms fall,
Water sings from an opened tap, the bees
Glisten and murmur among the trees.
Someone calls from the house. She does not answer.
Backward she leans her head,
And dreamily smiles at the peach-tree leaves, wherethrough
She sees an infinite May sky spread
A vault profoundly blue.
The voice from the house fades far away,
The glistening leaves more vaguely ripple and sway . .
The tap is closed, the water ceases to hiss . . .
Silence . . . blue sky . . . and then, 'I brought you this . . . '
She turns again, and smiles . . . He does not know
She smiles from long ago . . .

She turns to him and smiles . . . Sunlight above him
Roars like a vast invisible sea,
Gold is beaten before him, shrill bells of silver;
He is released of weight, his body is free,
He lifts his arms to swim,
Dark years like sinister tides coil under him . . .
The lazy sea-waves crumble along the beach
With a whirring sound like wind in bells,
He lies outstretched on the yellow wind-worn sands
Reaching his lazy hands
Among the golden grains and sea-white shells . . .

'One white rose . . . or is it pink, to-day?'
They pause and smile, not caring what they say,
If only they may talk.
The crowd flows past them like dividing waters.
Dreaming they stand, dreaming they walk.

'Pink,—to-day!'—Face turns to dream-bright face,
Green leaves rise round them, sunshine settles upon them,
Water, in drops of silver, falls from the rose.
She smiles at a face that smiles through leaves from the mirror.
She breathes the fragrance; her dark eyes close . . .

Time is dissolved, it blows like a little dust:
Time, like a flurry of rain,
Patters and passes, starring the window-pane.
Once, long ago, one night,
She saw the lightning, with long blue quiver of light,
Ripping the darkness . . . and as she turned in terror
A soft face leaned above her, leaned softly down,
Softly around her a breath of roses was blown,
She sank in waves of quiet, she seemed to float
In a sea of silence . . . and soft steps grew remote . .

'Well, let us walk in the park . . . The sun is warm,
We'll sit on a bench and talk . . .' They turn and glide,
The crowd of faces wavers and breaks and flows.
'Look how the oak-tops turn to gold in the sunlight!
Look how the tower is changed and glows!'

Two lovers move in the crowd like a link of music,
We press upon them, we hold them, and let them pass;
A chord of music strikes us and straight we tremble;
We tremble like wind-blown grass.

What was this dream we had, a dream of music,
Music that rose from the opening earth like magic
And shook its beauty upon us and died away?
The long cold streets extend once more before us.
The red sun drops, the walls grow grey.

poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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I Don't Think The Wind Sings For Me Alone

I don't think the wind sings for me alone
even in this isolated space where it
silvers the leaves of the Russian olives
like musical scales. Or every thought and emotion,
every image, symbol, or insight
shares the same myth of origin that I do.
Nor all the words that I call my native language
weren't rooted first in someone else's garden.
As the air I breathe was, as the light that has entered
through many more eyes than mine. What I hear
doesn't belong to me, nor what I see,
my private vision. But when I don't grasp
at clouds and water, everything is my reflection
looking back at me as if there were no one there.

I disappear. And I feel my presence everywhere
as real as the sceptres of Queen Anne's Lace
growing old in the moonlight, or the blue fury
of the wild irises burning in their own fires
like the Pleiades. Who can understand
the circuitous wanderings of the mindstream
white water rafting its own axons in an empty lifeboat
when even the questions you raise about it are not your own?
I may well be that, but tonight, I'm not personally involved.
Things occur like spiritual events. The rat snake
strikes the frog, the shadow flash of a bird
transits the moon. Arcturus descends
before the Summer Triangle with the easy grace
of a light that doesn't realize it's being observed intensely.

And I wonder if we're actualizing each other
in some interdependently original way
that it knows as little about as I do.
Or the dead birch tree that's standing by both of us,
naked in its bones as a fan of coral.
Silly man, now you know how a fly
up against a window feels. Or how a mirror
that's deeper than either your eyes
or the light can see into, keeps its appeal.
Been wondering most of my life
in an aloof but wary mode of gratitude
about the great symphony of love and light and light,
like someone who's been hurt by someone they cherish
without knowing why. And whether to laugh or weep
at the absurd tragicomedies that keep appearing
like vulnerable mushrooms in my sleep.

But tonight, tonight, all I want to hear
is the whisper of a dropp of water running down the sluice
of a blade of stargrass. The eerie rustling of the leaves
as if the trees had something to say to me
about my presence among them that leaves me
half again as estranged as when I first came here
to enjoy a freedom that isn't just a matter of changing gates.

Sad man, but tonight I dance with thousands of waterlilies
under the chandeliers of the stars, in three four time,
as if I just remembered how to waltz with the bride
and bow to a flower like a lunar violin. My heart
doesn't look for its reflection in the fire pit
where I burnt all my life masks like straw dogs
when the sacred ritual was over. I denuded myself
basking in the clear light of the void, until
there was no one left, not even me, to notice.

poem by Patrick White
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Music Of My Heart

MUSIC OF MY HEART

When we are together, there is music in my heart,
but there is only silence, whenever we're apart,
I would rather hear the music playing soft and low,
than hearing only silence everywhere I go,
keep the music playing, keep the sunshine in my life,
so I can dance forever with you as my wife,
there are times when music, is a gentle soft refrain,
just like an angry sky that brings a softly falling rain,
you fill my expectations, you fill all my needs,
my love for you keeps growing, just like sprouting seeds,
when I gaze upon your beauty, a drum beats in my heart,
then I hear the violins, softly playing their sweet part,
soon there is an opera, playing so devine,
all because of my love for you, oh sweet love of mine,
so walk up to my jukebox and put some money in,
you will hear the music, when my heart starts to spin,
it will play a love song, written about a love so true,
it will play forever, and it plays only for you.

written by Harry Bryant
10/29/2002 10: 23: 33?
all rights reserved

poem by Harry Bryant
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poem That Comes From Hearing The Poem Of Another

The poem that comes from hearing the poem of another
And tries to ride on its rhythm
Like the sea on its own waves-

A forced music finding nowhere in itself a music of its own
Because all the poems are melodies made light by more light
As all the poems are dreams made dreamlike by more dreaming-

And we in our poetic fervor hearing that lyric sound
Go round and round again and again
As if we were the music of the stars
When the universe empirically spherical –

But now in this more deeply instrumented time,
When what we see with our eyes is always less than what we measure
Time and Time again tells us that Space and Space again tell us
That all we are in this long distance darkness
Is one small point of light which in its own sad way will fade out before its music endures-

For the stars have only our imagined music
and not more than the light
of their own violent dying –

So here having heard the poem of another
And open to my own inner voice,
I cry and cry again for another sky and another music
That only God Who is Beyond these earthly hapless sounds
Can Dream and Feel and Know
In the Lyric Ending that justifies our home.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Language of Soul

Purple gloves stripped of shadows
Jazz dream surrenders into bliss
Something innocent like meadows
Singing chidren make their wish
Music is a mystical fire
Theater of every desire

Embellish your decorated tears
Let everything come out of you
Express all that is fine and dear
Dress in the deepest red and blue
Like flaming forests we dance
Sing in the wind take that chance

Music is spirit with guests of honor
Parables sigh metaphors of time
Secret dreams of sacred Father
Longing stars that need to shine
We lament then we rejoice
Let every heart lift their voice

Harps, trumpets, violins and flutes
Guitars and the tribal sound of drums
Let the refined teach hungry youth
Hear the noontides and the lover sun
Angels sing joy to the world
Let every theme be unfurled

Every song a language of soul

poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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Shared Heaven

For the dream slaves
the incense has become a moon
for the alchemic effect of tear’s stain
in erotic war.

Ask a mooner,
will he bring her to bed
for a song to measure the cantus
between flight of strings in midnight?

The small bruises of stars
were playing under the lemon tree
in sinking clouds. You must know
the richness of poverty at night.

This was the theme to play,
it was enough to have walked on golden
leaves of November, while I was collecting
the false truths of life.

poem by Satish Verma
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I Listen To thy Music Everywhere!

I feel my spine is thy flute,
My breath is thine,
Producing strange music,
AUM in different tone and pitch!

My heart beats like Drum and
bass,
when my ears able to listen,
Songs you sing
Everytime different and new,
using different flutes!

Thy face I see in mirror of
different drops of life,
the rainbow of colors appear,
When your light refract through
drops that rain from heaven!

Thy light glows too in fire of hell,
and thy beauty in colourful
flowers,
Birds and butterflies,
Thy light shines in different colours,
life in every species making whole world colourful!

Thy song echoed even in murmur of bees,
in the flow of rivers,
Or in the voice of persons,
and the noice of people alike In the roar of a lion or of ocean waves,
Or in the silence of icy
mountains,
I listen to thy music everywhere!

poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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