There is music at dawn in the song of the koyel
The tweeting, the chirping, the warbling,the cry
The medleys that float in the morning air 
As birds sing a welcome to a rising sky 

There is music in the span of feathered  wings 
The steady drone of the humming of a bee
As the sun revels on his throne at noon 
While a brisk wind whisks leaves on willow trees 

There is music in the silver drops of rain 
A gentle drizzle or a thunder squall 
Music in the flow of rivers and streams 
And the sparkling cascade of a waterfall

There is music on slopes of lofty mountains 
In echoes that reverberate of a water spring 
In the soft rustling of a valley of flowers 
Of blue irises and pink hyacinths 

There is music in seas and oceans blue 
Waves overreaching to meet the shore
Rippling in sounds of frothy ecstasy 
Whispers of pearls and ocean floors 

There is music at dusk when the day rests 
The throaty croaks in a nocturnal sheer
As moths flutter drawn to light 
'Tis music of life that I hear

I only know the songs I love the most,
they can tell what life can be like,
not me, not making a living by living it.

I'll never write lines as good as those,
not saying better what's on my mind
or singing like it's worth it a listening.

Seldom other needs can juxtapose,
by any means I can't say much sometime,
but music finds me telling everything

for me, to me, for their soulful notes
whatsoever chord they could strike
the right ones in time will be moving me
magically...

Strange music playing
I never know from where it comes
always on a whim it wanders and goes
a flute, warm breathed upon my flesh
sometimes cool night jazz
a deep toned oboe, I breathe in wildly slow
drums synced in rhythmic beats
now a bass guitar strummed ever dark
a haunting violin that moans
ripping at the heart.

oracle of sound
emotions deepening
ochre filaments
dark enchantment
summer shore.

Albums, collections of songs,
A collection of words
brought together
to right, wrongs
or just to hurt
they're there forever.

Somewhere.

Old recordings
on vinyl
or hand written on papers.
New recordings
still on vinyl
but more objected to haters.

To be

easily accessed
and heard by everyone
fans or not,
torn to shreds
when criticised, a song
is unappreciated for what

amount of effort

the artist went through
to create something new
and original
just for you,
for your ears. To view,
to be a signal.

That originality

isn't dead
or dying
or even injured
but instead
living
to be heard

by millions around the world.

Cold, smooth and gleaming.
Your body jests me with
My own reflection. Each
Key and note releasing your
Voice and song till you speak
Louder than any human.

Aged worn lacquer glimmers
In mirth as notes as deep as
The everlasting ocean
Are released to waltz upon
The air and embrace my ears

With its melodic magnetism.
Fingers on valves moving
As if all the time in the world
Were allotted to this one
Tune. Each note clinging to
The ear and whispering

Sweet nothings. Light seems
To emanate from the bell
As the melody draws itself to
Its grand finale. Each note
Punctuated till…..