Ivory Keys
A pianist sat on his stool
The throng had hushed away
And when the violin had strummed
His fingers hovered in the air
And then began to play
A thousand pairs of eyelids
Bowed and fell into a trance
And ivory still echoing
The audience dozed gracefully
As thoughts broke into dance
The ecstasy on faces grew
To vivid, joyous smiles
And as the keys sped quicker now
The pianist grew fiercer
As he swiftly hit white tiles
The waterfall, as did his pace,
Transitioned to a brook
And as his climax had relaxed
So did his face become less tense
And fashioned a soft look
The artist painted final notes
To vibrate in the hall
And as he hit the final key
The faithful listeners awoke
And sadly that was all
There was not any mad applause
Nor cheerfulness, nor joy
And there was silence in the room
For there was no one to rejoice
Or shout happily, 'Oh Boy! '
And then somewhere a sob broke out
A cry it then became
And in the throng the rest had joined
Tearing in blissful unison
As all tears chimed the same
They all reflected happiness, not pain
As it so seemed
And all emotions grew to bliss
As the host's face became less grim
His lips now coyly beamed
The audience was much in awe
Of beauty that he made
On eighty-eight of blacks and whites
A melody of pure delight
Of wonder that he played
poem by Sasha Ioffine
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Unheard Elegy of a Widow Pianist
In a quadrille of his flimsy fingers
He lambently imposed tranquility
In between the brunt of his calloused soldiers
That the phalanges strangulated in a knot
And trudged and snapped and broke
With the heart of the widow pianist
Whistling his vapid tune from weaker towers
With the streets teeming of faceless strangers
He played the elude of his phantasmagoria
And groveled with a bleeding sonata
With shambling notes of empty words
That singed brusquely in a queue
Among their empty swollen ears
The schmaltz plea died with the violins
He sedated himself with the picture
Of familiar peoples crammed in a rotogravure
And the melancholy disembogued of verve
When the pictures pranced with deluded scherzos
And the listening thawed unto their toes
As he gnawed upon a drunken smile
The pianist's elegy strode a thousand mile
The widow pianist crooned to bargain
For an audience to the unfurling morsels
Of his slivered mind and its elegy
And ferry the silver euphonic melody
In a place divorced of harsh veracity,
Where triviality would be unwelcomed,
And benediction is in a saccharine orchestra.
poem by Norman Santos
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Two Minutes Till Showtime
With as much fanfare
As could possibly be expected
The crowds gathered as one
In a flurry of excitement
The noise of chatter grew loud
Filling every corner of the room
The lights dimmed and shone
Across the empty stage
The final sound checks played out
While the performers waited in the wings
The fever of tension grew and built
For all the rehearsals would it be a hit
The songs and the story would it be enough
To answer the anticipation of the crowd
The nervous smiles and looks exchanged
Silence fell and filled the room
Time had come to take to the stage
The lights are up and the show is on
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Prejudiced? Who? Me? ? .....[Personal; Human Nature; Racial Prejudice]
I'm a white guy, aged 64, raised in a small town way up north.
Do some thoughts I have about blacks signal prejudice coming forth?
First I'd say NO, but then again I'd say YES.
But such thoughts, by both whites and blacks, are normal I would guess.
What thoughts am I now referring to you will probably ask.
To answer that sensible question will put my mind to task.
My interactions with blacks, I think, no prejudice does reveal.
And the rare times I have 'prejudice' thoughts, I think they're no big deal.
Do you wish to know of what my 'pre-judged' thoughts consist?
I'd almost rather not tell you. But, if you insist.
I sometimes think 'nigger'; when and where I grew up that was a 'bad' name.
I also think of them as different though people are the 'same'.
And here is where I say 'I don't like generalization'.
By 'same' I mean neither all blacks nor all whites are 'the same' in this nation.
So whites and blacks can both be smart or stupid, mean or kind;
within each 'race' criminals and 'saints' you'll find.
I wasn't raised to either love or hate blacks. My parents seemed not to judge.
And I've changed my mind again; I'm NOT prejudiced. From that opinion I shall not budge!
Then why you ask do I sometimes think 'nigger' when I think of a black?
I think it's due to both a primeval urge to break society's rules, and to thought-control I lack.
Luckily I don't act out my 'bad' thoughts. I might be in jail now if I had.
When in grade school, a boy said I called him 'nigger'. The accusation made me sad.
poem by Bri Edwards
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A Dream
I dreamt of autumn in the window's twilight,
And you, a tipsy jesters' throng amidst. '
And like a falcon, having stooped to slaughter,
My heart returned to settle on your wrist.
But time went on, grew old and deaf. Like thawing
Soft ice old silk decayed on easy chairs.
A bloated sunset from the garden painted
The glass with bloody red September tears.
But time grew old and deaf. And you, the loud one,
Quite suddenly were still. This broke a spell.
The dreaming ceased at once, as though in answer
To an abruptly silenced bell.
And I awakened. Dismal as the autumn
The dawn was dark. A stronger wind arose
To chase the racing birchtrees on the skyline,
As from a running cart the streams of straws.
poem by Boris Pasternak
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The Rose
There was a Rose so warm and bright.
And from it smiles would grow.
It stood out from the other Plants.
It; s beauty was on show.
A Flower with such presence,
That all that came to see.
A Rose within a garden
Blooming happily.
Then one day it's leavs grew weak.
And the brightness seemed to fade.
How could a bud of beuaty,
Grow dull from day to day?
And suddenly the smiles grew weak.
No more stunning petals
No more standing tall.
Then one day the rose grew weak.
And to the ground it fell.
Such a loss to all around
Enchanted by it's spell.
And so a space in the garden
Where once beaty grew.
A space that could never be filled.
By a presence so strong and true
( not written by me but i liked the poem so much it makes me think of my dad)
poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
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Shattering the Quiet
For freedom she awoke
And for freedom she broke
Her spell of silence and spoke.
And when freedom never came
She wiped her tears and rose again.
Many times she almost broke,
But stood her ground and never choked.
Man's crushing laws merely stoked
The fires of liberty within her throat
She bore a message that was pure and true
Out of her lips the words flew
Words of fresh beginnings, of starting anew.
They tried to quiet her down
But she hadn't made a sound
In far too long now.
For freedom she awoke
and for freedom she broke
Her spell of silence and spoke.
poem by Jeffrey T. Bender
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Disgrace There Is No Escape
Disgrace, there is no Escape.
There was this Norwegian, a gifted violinist he had won prizes in Moscow
and Warsaw, His debut was held in Oslo community hall, yes, the same
place the Nobel committee glad hands peace prizes to the mostly unworthy.
He played an Edward Grieg piece. Everything went well the public gasped
at his ability, then an accident, his trousers fell down, he wore pink lady
knickers. A shocked silence, then a titter, but soon laughter rolled around
the hall. The unlucky fiddler stopped playing couldn’t understand way
the audience laughed, till he looked down, saw his trousers rest on his shoes.
He tried to pull up his pants, lost his violin, stumbled and fell. The laughter
was merciless and never ending. He fled the country as a second cook on
ship bound for Argentina. There he got a job as a cowhand on a ranch in
the deepest pampas and grew a beard. Two years later thinking all was
behind him a newcomer came to the ranch, looked at the violinist and said:
” aren’t you the bloke who lost his trousers? ”
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Smile
Reawakened from the woods
Dry leaves as hairs grew
Some stuck to the face
That was made like ripe fruit
The agony spoke in serenity
Is night so long or the cave
The mystic for the union long
The palm that guarded the lips
The drums were made of magic
Holy utterance began the rite
Religiosity of the darkened walls
Chords in voice of the symphony
Small words like revelations
Music had become a long howl
Still rules the goddess in black
One miracle when lips uneasy
Words flew like winged objects
How chants break down spirit
The trance was not yet over
Final beats as it shook the earth
11/3/2009
(On Schiller mit Sarah Brightman-The smile)
poem by Sadiqullah Khan
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Nor We of Her to Him
He said no word of her to us
Nor we of her to him,
But oh it saddened us to see
How wan he grew and thin.
We said: she eats him day and night
And draws the blood from him,
We did not know but said we thought
This was why he grew thin.
One day we called and rang the bell,
No answer came within,
We said: She must have took him off
To the forest old and grim,
It has fell out, we said, that she
Eats him in forest grim,
And how can we help him being eaten
Up in forests grim?
It is a restless time we spend,
We have no help from him,
We walk about and go to bed,
It is no help to him.
Sometimes we shake our heads and say
It might have better been
If he had spoke of us to her
Or we of her to him.
Which makes us feel helpful, until
The silence comes again.
poem by Stevie Smith
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At Dawn
THE night-long clamour of winds grew still;
The forest rested, its foes withdrawn;
On sounding ocean and silent hill
There crept a sense of the coming dawn.
A bird awoke on a leaning limb
And fluttered its plumes a moment's space;
Dark purple lay on the sea's far rim:
The sky grew pale as a dying face.
Then all the trees and the rocks and heights
With wondering faces watched the East:
It seemed an altar hung with lights
And waiting for a vestured priest.
And in that intimate first hour
When land and sea rejoiced as one,
And Nature, like an opening flower,
Gave incense, came the burning sun.
Yet, while the hour of gold went by,
I saw through all its pageantry
The vast indifference of the sky,
The heartless beauty of the sea.
For wet and wan, and cold and sped
Beyond the breakers' reach of pearl,
There lay a strong man drowned and dead,
And in his arms a drowned white girl.
poem by Roderic Quinn
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Nellie Takes Her Bow
Who thanked the lord for the clothes
That she wore and mended,
Nellie with the big old fashioned eyes
Who won the heart of a crowd
Tore apart, took a bow,
Nellie theres a different world backstage
(chorus:)
I see the flood lights burning
I hear the band play on
Now nellie takes her bow
She said she really could not stay
She had a brand new play to play
And so she paints her face and smiles
And shell be someone else in a while
(chorus)
Just a lonely girl who could not face a broken world,
And so she acts out all her dreams and wishes thats how it had been
But when the audience is near, it seems as though she doesnt even care.
(chorus)
Nellie just sent me a line to tell me she was doing fine
She got the lead and on broadway, and now theyre digging her today
And as she turns the final page, living
Someones life upon the stage
(chorus)
song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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No Lilies For Lisette
Said the Door: "She came in
With no shadow of sin;
Turned the key in the lock,
Slipped out of her frock,
The robe she liked best
When for supper she dressed.
Then a letter she tore . . .
What a wan look she wore!"
Said the Door.
Said the Chair: "She sat down
With a pitiful frown,
And then (oh, it's queer)
Just one lonely tear
Rolled down her pale cheek.
How I hoped she would speak
As she let down her hair,"
Said the Chair.
Said the Glass: "Then she gazed
Into me like one dazed;
As with delicate grace
She made up her face,
Her cheeks and her lips
With rose finger-tips,
So lovely - alas!
Then she turned on the gas."
Said the Glass.
Said the Bed: "Down she lay
In a weariful way,
Like an innocent child,
To her fate reconciled;
Hands clasped to her breast,
In prayer or in rest:
'Dear Mother,' she said,
Then pillowed her head,"
Said the Bed.
Said the Room: "Then the gleam
Of the moon like a dream,
Soft silvered my space,
And it fell on her face
That was never so sweet
As her heart ceased to beat . . .
Then the moon fled and gloom
Fell like funeral plume,"
Said the Room.
"Just a whore,"
Said the Door;
"Yet so fair,"
Said the Chair;
"Frail, alas!"
Said the Glass;
"Now she's dead,"
Said the Bed;
"Sorry doom,"
Said the Room. . . .
Then they all,
Floor and wall,
Quiet grew,
Ceiling too;
Like a tomb
Was the room;
With hushed breath
Hailing Death:
Soul's release,
Silence, Peace.
poem by Robert William Service
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You Dance Till I Sing
You dance till I sing
you dance till my song is not complete
you dance till your each body language
becomes each word of my song
Your dance is merry making
with full nimbleness making the audience
unable to withstand the glare of strong light
emitting due to rhythmic vibration of each limb
You dance gently, you dance quietly
that submerge the melody of my song
your dance is potent to the climax
of visualization as rigel on the sky.
You dance like Natraj
tinkling the whole universe
with the tide of felicity
You dance,
you dance
you dance
till my heart, mind and soul
does not vibrate
with every tune of my song.
poem by Ramesh Rai
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Goodbye.
Write me a poem,
A short love ballad,
Whose words, though benign
Will somewhat revivify
The dying embers of my hope.
Play me a song,
A slow love song
Whose rhythm will make me sway
And burn deep in my heart,
To remind me then,
That you are gone.
Hold my hand
One last time,
And let me feel your
Soft, tender fingers in mine again.
And bemoan the memory
Of our broken unity.
Dance with me
One last waltz.
Beneath the moon’s amorous light,
And the stars our final audience -
Just you and me, again,
Where we first met,
And made our solemn vows.
Look into my eyes again
Albeit for a little while,
Let me marvel at their beauty
One last time.
And feel the same thing
I know I’ll be yearning for.
Let my tears be.
Let them stream down
And wash away my pain,
To numb a bleeding heart,
Torn by the betrayal
Of our last goodbye –
Just let them be.
poem by Brian Kamara
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The First Embrace
Come to me, grief, on my bosom press,
Lest it should burst with joy’s excess:
Heaven, with disaster, hell, with your pains,
Calm its commotion. For here awhile
She has lain. Strike, foes!
Your shafts but soothe, when they pierce the veins
Of a breast that lows
With the bliss of her thrill and her smile.
Sorrow and trouble have died away
Here, where her face in its loveliness lay.
Drowned she these in the deep of her eye?
Or sucked she their venom? I seemed to mark,
On her smiling lips,
How a tremulous shadow of pain passed by:
And the blue grew dark,
As her eyes’ light found eclipse.
Innocent bride, thou hast joined afresh
Soul with earth, and with God the flesh.
When on my breast, as pure and bright
As a saint’s white robe, thy perfect brow
Gently was lain,
Guilt with its tear-steins vanished quite,
And my mind is now
Like a cleansed and lighted fane.
My heart reflected an inward grace
From the sinless blush of thy maiden face:
To the waft of celestial wings was changed
The tress that wavered over me;
And, O joy, my soul,
Demoniac once, from heaven estranged,
Is, thanks to thee,
Darling, restored and whole.
I feel, where thy loving lips have pressed,
A glory shining within my breast,
And O, the paeans of love that burst,
At the touch of thy passionless, drowsy kiss.
I was fired and manned, -
While my fancy drank with a burning thirst
All the sweet of this
By a tender angel’s hand.
Love, while you lay by my beating heart,
What burgeoning blossoms seemed to start!
Blossoms that lived, and dreamed, and thought.
Almond or apple ws never so gay;
So rich a stream
Of the sun’s blood never the roses caught.
My soul its clay
Left in a blissful dram.
Cold, dark spirit, hold thee apart,
Or blend with the blood that stirs my heart;
Let it flow supreme in its pulses still,
Let nerves aquiver their passion prove,
And in ecstasy
Hark to the breast’s tense chords athrill,
Where, tranced in love,
She late at rest did lie
poem by Henrik Wergeland
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The Swan Song
Now I'm getting all fluffy for Bedtime Stories, this is how I see the Ugly Duckling in a Poem form, and I hope I do justice to the timeless classic by Hans Christian Anderson.
Do you remember?
The story of the
Ugly little bird
It was picked on
And trodden on because
Its plumage was plain
It grew up alone
Thinking it was
To clumsy to play
It watched with a tear
Alone and afraid
As winters and summers
Passed its lone life
It grew up with fear
And lived all alone
Accepting its life
It grew up that way
In the reeds of the marsh
But then one day
Hiding behind
The reeds of the marsh
It watched a swan land
In migration to pass
Graceful and pure
It bowed its handsome head
With grandeur and pride
He cocked his head held high
He swam to thro
To attract a new wife
And then just beyond
Behind the tall marsh reeds
He spotted the beauty
Alone and afraid
And it stopped in its wake
To bow its head
Just once more
At the confused ugly duckling
Behind the reeds of the mash
Taken by surprise
It cried in confusion of fear
Why do you mock me?
With your head so low
That only happens
When taking a wife
Said swan to the duckling
Its head still bowed low
Your beauty is wonder
Come now be my wife
Shaking its head
In cried in its rage
I am not a beauty
I cannot be your wife
Slowly it lifted
Its fine handsome head
Then said to the duckling
Look yonder my beauty
At your reflection ahead
Then looking at ripples
Where its teardrops fell
The ugly little duckling
Saw a swan instead
The handsome young swan
Once more bowed its head
I beseech thee my beauty
Be my wife, be my friend
Now a young swan
And duckling no more
It ruffled its feather
Its plumage snow white
Then bowing with tears
Her beauty so bright
Together they flew
As husband and wife
poem by Kaila George
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Did It Happen When I Stopped Complaining?
Somewhere along my journey,
I grew up.
I became both accountable
And took responsibility for my actions.
There were many along the way,
Who could not keep up the pace.
Somehow as I aged...
I held onto my faith,
With a painful self assessment I learned to face.
Saw my flaws and accepted them.
And not an excuse do I make.
It's too late for that now anyway.
That's why I am pleased to be the me I am.
I know the meaning of forgiveness and sacrifice.
And those realities have led me to my growth!
Somewhere along my journey,
I grew up.
I knew I would become a victim of confusion and stress.
I'm even impressed!
When did I wisen up...
To take my life with such seriousness?
Somewhere along my journey,
I grew up.
Did it happen when I stopped complaining?
Did I refuse to change the rules in the middle of the game?
Or did the violation of those rules,
I simply refused to change.
Knowing how to better play the game?
Either way...
Somewhere along my journey,
I grew up.
And pleased to be the me I am.
Still a work in process!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Listening
'T is you that are the music, not your song.
The song is but a door which, opening wide,
Lets forth the pent-up melody inside,
Your spirit's harmony, which clear and strong
Sings but of you. Throughout your whole life long
Your songs, your thoughts, your doings, each divide
This perfect beauty; waves within a tide,
Or single notes amid a glorious throng.
The song of earth has many different chords;
Ocean has many moods and many tones
Yet always ocean. In the damp Spring woods
The painted trillium smiles, while crisp pine cones
Autumn alone can ripen. So is this
One music with a thousand cadences.
poem by Amy Lowell
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Remembering Lena Horne
When she began her ballad,
an invisible torch melted her words,
slurring sex into sultry sounds.
The intimacy in her deep eyes
went straight to every man there.
Even women found themselves
limp with lust lingering on lips.
As she sang each sensual sound,
Her mouth formed words like a kiss.
Men sweated as they dreamed of
taking songs into the caverns
of their body, stalagmites forming
from music and imagination.
Their eyes closed. The dream grew.
Tones caressed shamelessly. Words went
from tongues exploring mouths of listeners,
a flagrant intimacy growing from song.
The spellbound crowd wished her music
would have no end. Each heavy breath
became shallow with expectations.
The final note brought no release.
Instead, the audience was left
with a prurient promise of more to come.
*Lena Horne died in May of 2010 and those of us lucky enough to hear her sing will never forget her.
poem by Raynette Eitel
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The Kiss
She turns her head gently
From left to right
And from right to left,
Avoiding my blazing lips.
Her shiny ebon hair
Gracefully frames her charming face.
I look into her eyes
And I see in them
The blue waves of the sea,
The flight of birds very high,
The azure serenity of the sky.
I look into her eyes
And I see in them
The green tranquility of the forest
Happiness and sadness,
Her beautiful soul, suffering and love,
The pristine spirit of an ivory dove.
I look into her eyes
And I see in them
The pure white blossoms of Lily
And the sun rising over the mountain,
The bliss and joy of life, the sorrow and the pain.
She turns her head gently
From right to left
And from left to right
Until my lips meet with hers
And I kiss her enchanted, throbbing and trembling.
Time stands still, only the hour grows thin,
Her delicate fingers plough my bare skin.
poem by Paul Hartal
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