music poems

Not a Word Spoken – A Poem by Michael Kagan

A string quartet fills the kitchen
The cello’s bow played through
An heirloom sugar bowl’s sweetness
The harmonic strain so perfect
Makes the pain go away
Not a single word need be said
The sound of the rousing marching band
Flows through the veins of
My narrow halls
Trombones sliding pock marks into plastered walls
Crisp apple cider of this
Trusted music causing my
Knees to kick up the speed
Keeps the pain away,
Words are never spoken
And that funky jazz combo
In my living room
Made themselves a cozy cat’s Home
Cat-nip lines playing tic tac toe forward rhythm flying high
Notes silver shimmer in space until they fade
And beauty does die,
This music ties the earth to my feet
Reaches in, making love
To my heart,
Reflects the invention’s own brand of pain
Pushing other deep aching
Aside
And it speaks without using words
If ever spoken
Would
Rip me open
Exposed to the
Terrifying light.

Freak Out – A Poem by Scott Thomas Outlar

A poet
who says no to a thought
or denies an impulse
to start
pouring forth,
is not a poet at all,
but a fool
and a coward.

A poet
that censors the psyche
or strangles the soul’s
attempt
to release,
is not a poet, but
a bureaucrat
and a gum in the works.

A poet
that ignores intuition
or stops at a crescendo,
is not a poet, but
a killer of music
and murderer of art.

A poet
that loses the rhythm
or screws up the template
just on the verge
of hitting the high note,
is not a poet, but
a masochist
and a sadist
and a freak
and a future aborted.

More at http://17numa.wordpress.com/.

Bruce | Roy Pullam

The RPMs of the guitars
Like the motor
Of a fine-tuned engine
Climbed to a roar
His voice
A young man’s angst
As he growled
His dissatisfaction
With the lack
Of freedom
The smothering blanket
Of the status quo
Echoing the feeling
Of so many
In the death trap
Of the comfortable
Clarence’s growl
The sax full-throated
Powerful and unrepenting
Both a challenge
And a curse
The universal anthem
Of escape
Mocking my own
Submergence
Into the mainstream
Reminding me when
I felt
Born to run

Going Rogue | Judy Moskowitz

I remember the day I gave up Mozart
Feeling mothers fire
I played her tears that left an indelible stain
Her mind blind to new ideas
It was a time when the needle
Pulled me into each groove of every record
I could feel the tingle down to my toes
Nerve endings exposed to the heat
Inside every note
Desperately wanting to know its root
The cause and effect of something so intense
That was the day I heard Miles Davis play
And I went rogue

The Music | Chris Byrne

Some just hear words
Some hear lyrics
Some hear the melodies
Some hear the voices
Some the meaning,
Yet music is a display of love
That only a few hear,
Those who put their hearts
On display for all to see.

Guitar Man | Chris Byrne

The music was serene in a way,
He ripped the guitar apart
Until his fingers bled
And as the guitar howled
In pain, he heard riffs like never
Before; his fingers were moving
So fast as he was hitting
High notes, he only
Dreamt of years
Ago when he
Got his first
Guitar.

DC Experience | Stan Morrison

down at bohemian caverns
upstairs over the pharmacy
Rahsaan explodes the room
manzello, strich, nose flute
all blues, nothing abstract
multi-everything, humming
I never recovered

The Piano | Judy Moskowitz

Notes tugging my strings
Tuned prepped and polished
To be played
In a “kind of blue” way
A shout out
The cry of release
Cleansing for truth
So I can feel the tickle
Connecting me back to you
Wrapped in deep Mahogany
Once you get into my core
The cavity
Of missing persons
Will you be playing me
Or am i playing you
Like cheap wine

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