Recuerdos de la Alhambra
the walls listen to the sounds of
spanish guitar
strings playing the
recuerdos de la Alhambra
silence stills itself
on this windless noon
the fan did not move and the
wooden chair is stifled
if it has hands it would have
clapped and it if has the mouth
it would have said
'sublime! '
the carpet that keeps
the pin
does not have wings
it transcended the feet
a revered existence
lofty, splendiferous.
i felt something
diving
penetrating my
emptiness.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
How Does One Hear The Echoes Of Silence?
silence. Does not speak, silence is dead.
it is buried underneath the mouth,
and simply rots there, like dust,
with worms. It will be the worms
that shall utter silence, but at the end
silence is devoured
and gone.
what you hear and see is this
emptiness. it has feet and walks in air.
and tinkers in space, some moods and
feelings, fleeing, fleeting,
this emptiness speaks a lot
some words turning themselves
from elves to giants to cyclops
to monsters of the universe
where this emptiness dwells
it is in my heart, always, resounding,
with lots of echoes as it reaches
the walls of the farthest planet
and comes back to me
like the twinkling of a star.
and then i am full.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Mario Parodi
it is now
mario
with his
parody
again
guitar strings
guitar strums
so
so spanish
my ears
jump
with joy
my ears
have kangaroo
feet
jumping with
joy
to the
skies
to the
hills
mario
parodi
and his
spanish notes
jumping like
fleas
from his
spanish guitar
my mind
has kangaroo
feet and jumps
and jumps
to
a great leap
the
great leap
that
soren
once
had in
norway.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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That Old Thing? It's No You
I spent the night twiddling around on my guitar
A night when I should have been talking to her
Sure, she'll listen to me play
But I think she'd listen to anything I have to say
And this guitar will get old and worn
And the strings will rust
And the neck will crack
And the wood will warp
And playing this guitar gives me callus fingertips
But my girl, she's the one that soothed me when I was forlorn
She's the one I can always trust
I think she will always have my back
Even when I know it's not true, she'll tell me I'm always looking sharp
And she's the one of I sing for, when the song comes from my lips
poem by J.M Berger
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My baSs gUitar stRing
Pull my string as i sit my back on you
i can make anything you want me to
your hands touching mine at the rhythm of blues
playing fastly like you do with your bass guitar, oh!
And you said relax, don't scream
i did bite my string to shut the voice within
as you move....move...and move...
playing on my curve, your bass guitar moan....
poem by InNer WhisPers
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Invisible Strings
(ian hunter)
One, two, three
Well I woke up this morning - theres a girl in my bed.
How did she get there? was it something I said?
I dont understand it but somehow it seems
She visits me in invisible dreams.
Over and over I try to explain
How did that girl get into my veins?
Did somebody send her - was it my velvet wings?
And how does she touch my invisible strings?
Invisible strings - invisible strings
These are a few of my favorite things
Now its all over when the fat lady sings
Ill still be playing my invisible strings
Well maybe she dont have a world of her own
Maybe shes using me just like a phone
And sometimes shes cool and sometimes she stings
And Im all tangled up in invisible strings
Invisible strings - invisible strings
These are a few of my favorite things
When youre wearing black and Im wearing wings,
Well still be playing those invisible strings
Well she never leaves - Im never alone
I aint in the book but shes still calling home
I tried to lose her - watch the tv
But that womans always picking on me
Well, theres strings round my body, strings round my heart
Id like to know where the string-pulling starts
Id give anything to meet the angel who sends
Invisible ink to my invisible pen
Invisible strings - invisible strings
These are a few of my favorite things
When youre wearing black and Im wearing wings,
Well still be playing our invisible strings
Invisible strings - invisible strings
These are a few of my favorite things
Now its all over when the fat lady sings
Well still be playing our invisible strings
Invisible strings - invisible strings
Oh yeah
song performed by by Ian Hunter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mateo
Mateo sat on a rusty bench
outside his local bar
and polished his old guitar
with a crumpled up tissue
he’d pulled from the pocket
of his faded jeans
while Sophie watched
through the balcony rails
as he breathed
his whisky haws
onto the scratched wood
shining it
until his reflection
shook them by the throat
and his fingers
started to pluck and weave
their life through the strings
The music played off key
but his arthritic hands
were too tired and sore
to tune the old guitar
like her
he felt a comfort
in the imperfection
of the sounds
and the grainy melody
that filled the spaces
in the day’s drizzle
Mateo didn’t see her
but she knew he felt her
in his pulse
and he played her
in his strings
and she tried to run from clichés
but she couldn’t
her heart bled
poem by Sheila Knowles
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Strumming The Strings Of My Heart
I watch you play,
Making a beautiful tune
The strings of the guitar shaking
As you sit in the light of the moon
Your plucking the strings
With great ease
Making a flowing melody
A pretty song, just for me
I continue to watch
You playing your guitar
Making me love you
While your strumming the strings of my heart
These strings will never be touched
By anyone but you
You go where no one else can
Leaving a mark, like a tattoo,
Saying I LOVE YOU
poem by Katniss Everdeen
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The Spanish Guitar Song...
gives me that needed break
the Spanish guitar playing making me rise
from stupor of the
computer screen makes me raise my hands
my feet stepping out from the floor
to the veranda
makes me dance the
malangueña....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Fate of a Musician
Every day I pick up my guitar and just play
I write my own songs with the help of friends
We design music and lyrics we start new trends
Acoustic guitar, electric guitar or 12 strings
These instruments have played my songs and I have grown wings
Soaring and flying watching my creations grow
As the music expands the lyrics just flow
The more I create the more passionate I become
The more I play the more fun we have
Music gives me something to do
Each song I write I will be sure to see through
When I am up on stage standing in the spotlight
I spread my wings, start playing, and take flight!
When the crowd cheers you get a feeling of inspiration
After the gig you’re sitting home alone
You pull out your guitar stick in the headphones
You start strumming, creating your own beat
You sit there all night tapping your feet
The history of music and the sound you create
Brings friends closer together I reckon its more then fate.
Benjamin A. Green
poem by Benjamin Andrew
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Guitar
Made up of six strings.
Has neck and body.
Just like a human being.
Sounds of the strings makes me smile.
Playing it and singing makes me more satisfy.
Whenever I see my guitar.
It makes me think of sitars.
Both are musical instruments.
Played by the musicians.
One time or two time.
Doesn't matter how many times...
poem by Yash Pradhan
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My Sad Guitar (In Iraq)
When I play...my sad guitar,
With powered chords...of deep emotion.
I strum the strings...with such devotion,
When I play...my...sad...guitar.
When I play...my sad guitar,
In a bunker, built in the sand.
This war torn country, this desert land,
I miss playing...In a rock and roll band.
When I play...my...sad...guitar.
When I play...my sad guitar,
My memories play,
Deep in my mind,
I try to find-
Our... wedding... day!
When I play...my...sad...guitar.
When I play...my sad guitar,
I think of my Harley...My hot-rod car,
Wishing I was home,
With a beer in a bar.
When I play...my...sad...guitar.
poem by Philip Lore
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Bland
his words are bland
and i think i understand
inside his cell
darkness and emptiness
and silence
words
becoming intense
he felt all of them
like pins
and here you are disturbed
angry
and wanting to kill
what mockingbird is there
if only you
have felt what drowning is
on that well
where the water runs dry
you would not have
become like him
engulfed by this huge mouth
of emptiness
vomited you run the streets
endlessly without direction
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Transcendence....
in that pit of sorrow
shall one descend
until his head is seen
no more
what is seen is the plain
a desert if you know
the sun is cruel
as seen on the skulls of goats
and men
but one cannot just descend
forever into the
grief that is so overwhelming
that is not the end
of this matter for soon one who is scarred & scared
with so much sadness
learns so carefully and the heart
that is broken soon shall
heal the strings that snapped
from its guitar body
and one's trembling fingers can still
figure music what just two strings
or even one
down to that grave of darkness
where shadows speak
one day an eye looks for a leak
of light
and finding an opening
wings its way
to the world of light where it
once lived
for it shall remember and rise
once again
as spirit as scent of calmness
and gentleness
the scars listen and the broken limbs
reshape what the spirits
reinvent: you see, you must have
felt it, because
it happens and we are still here
all willing
to speak and listen.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Silence of Rumi
I read Rumi several times
And every time I went through
the same sincere silence
That unites the human with the divine
Silence of Rumi as though
Is the silence Sublime—
The heart of all sounds!
I dove deep down that silence,
A child’s wonder of sort
Why do I start my poems with words?
When they end only with silence!
His silence is deep
Deep as the existence at the bottom of the ocean
Deep as the calmness of a wise man
And yet he is in conversation
With the silence
And through it, time and again
His silence is the silence of a flute
Empty, easy and melodious
It turns separation into liberation
Oh what a joy—Rumi’s silence!
His silence is an invitation
To join the journey of the soul
A sweet beacon to lose yourself
In the Self of existence
And yet it is conversational
You can toy with it safely
Who can turn his back
Having heard Rumi’s silence
In its sincerity
In its entirety
Who can escape from Rumi’s silence
Having been there for a moment
Who can not hear his silence
Having heard it with the thumps of his heart
Oh love! Go and meet this evening
Silence of Rumi in its serenity
Of heavens
This must be the highest
Of souls
This is the highest!
poem by Bhaswat Chakraborty
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The Silence of Night
The silence I am with
Comforts
Stills
Surrounds
The silence is not real
Full
Constant
Chaotic
The silence is for me
Friendly
Hopeful
Peace
The silence becomes
All
Nothing
Ambiguity
No child to remind me I'm not alone
Little patter of feet to keep me up
Cries for 'mom' are far from this home
No last night time kisses and hug
The crickets sing there woeful tunes
Sounds of cars and screeching tires
Baby's scream and mother to sooth
Sounds of an urban type comical ire
The slamming of near neighbor’s door
TV blares a messy reality reminder
Silence carries drive by bass to poor
Teenager’s worried yells are a timer
Late night bacon from downstairs
Orange light filters in the windows
Revving motorcycle give night flair
Sounds of silence continue to grow
By Ruth L. Rivers
Aug. 4,2009
poem by Ruth L. Rivers
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Away From My Moody Attitudes
The strumming of strings,
Heard on...
Your guitar,
Expands my mind with your melodies...
No matter if I'm moody.
Or...
Hard to please.
The strumming of strings,
Heard on...
Your guitar,
Expands my mind with your melodies...
No matter if I'm moody.
Or...
Hard to please.
To witness the dew with mist lifting,
In the early morning dawn...
Comes to deliver a fresh acceptance,
With...
A feeling I can't miss,
To let drift away or go on with a need in me...
Internally I ssek to feed as if feasting.
The strumming of strings heard on your guitar,
Delivers a fresh acceptance with...
A feeling I just can't let,
Escape away.
I am not promised a repeating of these unique days.
The strumming of strings heard on your guitar,
Delivers a fresh acceptance with...
A feeling I just can't let,
Escape away.
Only you can move me,
In the way you do...
Away from my moody attitudes.
Only you can move me,
Away from my moody attitudes.
Only you can move me,
In the way you do...
Away from my moody attitudes.
Only you can move me,
In the way you do.
To give me what's overdue.
Only you can move me,
In the way you do.
To give me what's overdue.
Away from my moody attitudes.
And...
Only you can move me,
To give me what's overdue.
Away from my moody attitudes.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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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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Minstrel Of The Dawn
The minstrel of the dawn is here
To make you laugh and bend your ear
Up the steps youll hear him climb
All full of thoughts, all full of rhymes
Listen to the pictures flow
Across the room into your mind they go
Listen to the strings
They jangle and dangle
While the old guitar rings
The minstrel of the dawn is he
Not too wise but oh so free
Hell talk of life out on the street
Hell play it sad and say it sweet
Look into his shining face
Of lonelines youll always find a trace
Just like me and you
Hes tryin to get into things
More happy than blue
A minstrel of the changin tide
Hell ask for nothing but his pride
Just sit him down upon that chair
Go fetch some wine and set it there
Listen to the pictures flow
Across the room into your mind they go
Listen to the strings
They jangle and dangle
While the old guitar rings
A minstrel of the dawn is near
Just like a step n fetchit here
Hes like an old time troubador
Just wanting life and nothing more
Look into his shining eyes
And if you see a ghost dont be surprised
Like me and you
Hes tryin to get into things
More happy than blue
The minstrel boy will understand
He holds a promise in his hand
He talks of better days ahead
And by his words your fortunes read
Listen to the pictures flow
Across the room into your mind they go
Listen to the strings
They jangle and dangle
While the old guitar rings
The minstrel of the dawn is gone
I hope hell call before too long
And if you meet him you must be
The victim of his minstrelsy
Hell sing for you a song
The minstrel of the dawn
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I listen to the silence
I Listen To The Silence
Darkness about me
In the somnolent silence
The silence has substance
As thick as can be
silence about me
as loud as a scream
In a nightmarish dream
It can terrify me
Silence has a feel
Of darkness in velvet cloaked
As a desperate cry being choked
Phantasmic, yet real
As Quiet surrounds me
The silence has substance
The absence of presence
is deafening to me
Sounds whispery as paper
Things scurry about me
Sounds, soft, sad and scaly
Like venom and vapour
Silence is sound incomplete
Silence whirs, silence hums
Silence throbs, silence thrums
Silence has it’s own heartbeat
Quiet has movement,
Tho’ever so slow
Quiet has substance
and how do I know?
I listen to the silence...
as you do also
poem by David Whalen
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Guitar Man
I wasn’t born with a guitar in my hands
When I started playing I was ten
You may think my talent’s average, but don’t count me out
There’s been power in my gift since I began
My expression in music is just like my words
I’m very direct and I’m real
I don’t back down, or play weak timid sounds
And I only write songs that I feel
I’m a fun loving guy with a great sense of humor
My music, I take it quite serious
I can be calm and I’ll listen to reason
But don’t be in my face when I’m furious
I’m not always likable, but I’m mostly lovable
There’s strength in my heart and my hand
Some know me as Greg others call me Farris
But you can call me Guitar Man
poem by Rosie McFadden
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