Tag Archives: poem about music

Change of Tune

Change of Tune

A new aesthetic each few years from dead head to new waving.
It seemed a change of music was to be his signature craving.
Disco led to hip hop, new age to heavy metal.
When moving to new rhythms, he felt in finest fettle.
Some found his music vile and others found it strange,
but at least within a year or two, it was bound to change.
The prestige of being “with it” was probably the reason
he changed his favorite style of music every other season.

 

Prompts today are aesthetics, strange, vile, prestige and wave.

Inscribing an Epitaph for the King of Music

Inscribing an Epitaph for the King of Music

When it came to lyrics, his wit was finely tined. 
His words were sharp and pointed. He had a rapier mind.
When he was at his zenith, his music was sublime.
Perfect in its sentiment, exquisite in its rhyme.
His tunes were like a river moving words along.
All the world’s fine miracles occurred in every song.
Each run an apparition that faded out of sight
just as the next melodic ghost appeared to take its bite.

His music effervescent, then thundering, then gory,
devoured all our senses, flooding us with its glory.
He raced us through emotion as though running out of time.
Each opus was a mountain, exhausting in the climb.
Then when we reached its zenith, he released us from its hold
with one brief caesura that freed us from the fold
to barrel down the mountain in one euphoric sweep—
sliding from the summit down to the deepest deep.

They scribed a single word in stone over his burial mound
to describe this musician who married words and sound 
to take us all on journeys magical and euphoric,
and yet the label “Maestro,” just seems too categoric
to conjure up this genius who could transport us all
to every corner of ourselves within that massive hall.
He deserves a finer word. A more distinctive label,
but words fail me as I choose what I’d inscribe if I were able.

Prompt words today are tune, occur, apparition and zenith. Here are the links:
https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2019/03/10/rdp-sunday-tune/
https://fivedotoh.com/2019/03/10/fowc-with-fandango-occur/
https://onedailyprompt.wordpress.com/2019/03/10/your-daily-word-prompt-apparition-march-10-2019/
https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2019/03/10/zenith-2/

Loud Music in the Rainy Season

 

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Loud Music in the Rainy Season

Up above me, such a din!
I feel my patience growing thin.
Cross fingers that they do not fall
as workmen scamper over all,
balancing on domes and peaks,
replacing roof tiles, sealing leaks.

They’re taking the old surface off
all my domes and drainage trough,
putting membrane down and goo
that will not let the water through
in June when rains beat hard and steady,
although, alas, they’ve come already!

The dogs are sent into a tizzy.
Looking up, I just get dizzy.
In this world that I love so,
down here in lovely Mexico,
now the grinder joins the din.
In a noise Olympics, it would win!

My thoughts all center on escaping
this chipping, drilling, pounding, scraping.
How I’d like to leave this all
for relative quiet at the mall!
But, alas, I must remain
a martyr to construction pain.

Ear plugs having no effect,
before my sanity is wrecked,
I turn up music to a SHOUT
to let Bob Dylan drown them out.
Now Caitlin Cary croons and sings
that she is “Sorry” and other things.

Eliza Gilkyson’s rough croon
is over oh too soon, too soon.
The silence that her true love speaks
replaced now by the sander’s shrieks,
I turn the iPod on again,
full force, to drown out all the din.

I’ve no sympathy for the neighbors’ plight.
Their damn dog kept me up all night,
and if my eardrums are to be shot
I would rather that it’s not
by machines like those above,
but rather by a sound I love.

The prompt word today is “thin.”

Banded

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Banded

From string to string and fret to fret,
they draw us into music’s net.
They strum and pick and blithely finger
notes that make us want to linger,
tap the table, move our feet
to their infectious strumming beat.

They are my favorite sort of band––
unique and playing their own brand
of acoustic, bluesy notes––
a kind of music that denotes
connection to a world of hearts.
Their music woos and cuts and smarts.

Opening sensibilities.
Music that unites and frees
our spirits to commune and soar.
Notes that journey to our core.
Which is what music’s meant to do
in  dancehall, city street or pew.

Good music sets our hats askew,
chases us down and counts a coup.
Stirs our hearts and brings a change.
Astounds us with its depth and range.
Draws us with it, layer on layer,
unites us in communal prayer.

Denominationless, it draws
us in and gives a place to pause
together to survey that place
devoid of sex or age or race.
That place where we unite in song.
Give up ourselves, and sing along.

The prompt today is fret.

I Keep Your Promise

I Keep Your Promise

Rain beats a riff on the back window
as I drive away from your familiar
promises, like lyrics of a worn-out song.
“Never again,” is made true this time,
my choice instead of your vow.

It’s only truth I take away with me:
torn buttons, bruises, broken dreams.
The empty baby carriage
you’ll find in the spare room,
one more unused space
in a house too rarely
a home.

I was the house
you entered
but never
spread out in—
the rumpus room
battered with misuse—
a refrigerator
filled with carry-out and cartons
with their “use by” dates all lapsed.

I was the melody
to that false chord
you loved to strike,
proud in your outlaw status—
that anchor that held your music to the page.

I see its strains floating after me,
as though that part of you
knows what it will miss
and even now
is trying to be found.

 

The prompt word today is riff.

Morning Symphony


Sounds of Morning

The music I awaken to when I’m at the beach
is a symphony of sounds nearby and out of reach.
The gentle whirring of the fans beside me and above,
and sounds outside my kitchen door that I have grown to love:
the spread out carpet of the surf, the stirring of the dog—
as I lie here on the couch, sorting out my blog.

The day can’t really start for me until I’ve shed my words.
We cannot walk upon the beach to watch the soaring birds
and throw or chase the tennis ball as we do every day
until I shake the words out and put them all away.

The subtle tapping of the keys, the gas truck passing by
outside the bedroom window with its annoying cry
of “Ze-ta, Ze-ta, Ze-ta gassssss.”
(I cannot wait for it to pass!)
Then other traffic sounds fill in
to fill the space where it has been.

One room leaks in beach sounds to tell tale after tale
of needle fish and rooster fish and tuna, snapper, sail—
my porch like a receiver that gathers all these sounds
of nature and of passers-by with which this beach abounds.

Yet the bedroom window opens to a busy street.
I hear the passing traffic, the sound of passing feet.
Neighbor greeting neighbor and the gas truck’s bray—
all the usual street sounds of a noisy Mexican day.

The dog protests more earnestly. He’s ready for our walk.
He has no patience for this blog—its ponderings and talk.
So I save what I have written, content with what’s at hand
to wander off to other worlds of wind and surf and sand.

 

 

 

The prompt today was symphony. This is a rewrite of a poem published earlier.