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Lyda M Dec 2018
Let us dance,

Let us sing,

Let us be merry and jovial



See! The lark flies!

Red and gold

Aflutter in the breeze!



The strings resonate

The drums beat in time

As horns and flute

Play



There is much to

Celebrate this

Auspicious day



Auspicious day?

No such thing!



Each day is much

Like the other

And tomorrow



So sadness, evil,

Anxiety,

Away with thee!



We will sing

Of what was,

What is,

What will be



The past shall not

return



The present ever

a walking pace



The future

Unforeseen



So will be our days

Left to fate



Such are the

Years short



So what use are

These of gloom and doom?



Stay with me,

Let us be with

Music til the end



But may our music

Never end.
Beethoven Violin Concerto, Op.61 - third movement
Lyda M Dec 2018
Pristine white,

Like cathedral spires,

Pierce the skies



There is longing,

For the sky blue

Expanse above



Can you not see?

The love, the yearning



There is so much more

Than what this world

Can offer to one such as you



‘Tis pleasant,

A wonder of quiet

and harmony



Who do you offer

Music to?



Oh, love,

How lovely it

Is to meet you



Overflowing,

One cannot comprehend

Such beauty



And these days

Are golden and light

With the fluttering

Of your love



In the form

Of soaring melodies



Alas!
Beethoven Violin Concerto, Op.61 - second movement
Lyda M Dec 2018
Music – she is my muse

She sings to me

Her lilting voice reaching for the heavens



And yet



It falls short as she aches for

Love – tis heart breaking and bittersweet



It is a tug of war

For the melody

Who it sings for



A back and forth,

Undecided, disconcerted

Forlorn and desolate



Madness, determination

But she is beckoned

back, restrain





Don’t hold back

[I] can’t hold back

[I’m] trying



And yet

[I’ll] fall short



“Why? Oh, why?”

Can one not sing?

Shall the muse be only thought,

Ever taught?



No.



She sings and sings.

To fill in the desire

Of a passion unrestrained

(with restraints)



She is ineffable,

And only in silence

Can she be heard.
Beethoven Violin Concerto in D Major, Op.61 - first movement
Lyda M Nov 2018
perfection is something
I cannot attain

and so here I sit
procrastinating

watching time tick away
the hours I could use

but they've all
wasted away
I know there's stuff I need to do. But I just can't get myself to do it. It's not laziness. I've already differentiated the two. I just don't want to do it because it's still not going to be enough.
  Aug 2018 Lyda M
Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Lyda M Aug 2018
Music is a drug
I have overdosed in
Until I grew sick
Of melodies
Lyda M Jul 2018
Music is all but
Perfect; tis a faux concept
In an abstract world
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