Peter Balkus Apr 2018
before going to bed,
I was listening to Bach
and I thought to myself:
Enjoy this moment,
maybe it's the last time ever
you are going to sleep
listening to Bach.
Martin Mikelberg Jan 2018
Some minimal haiku are constructed to hide the middle word so that three words conceals the middle word.  But this is what Bach did, create a unique order of chords which become the melody as well.   Just a note about music today, you can copyright melodies but you cannot   copyright chords.
Kamiel Choi Oct 2017
In my mind I have created a garden
populated with insects who don't bite
and birds who don't **** on my paper when I write
there is a lily pond, with frogs who know Bach

However, they keep quiet. This is my refuge
where nothing pierces through the surface
every ripple is merely the smile of an admirer
every distortion the promise of a silence

I sit at a table, turning all that I see
into bold and brazen words; forever
in love with language, forever beholden
to her blossoms, that lie rotting at my feet
Brianna Love Oct 2017
I listen to music by Mozart,
I listen to music by Bach,
I’m carried away through the night,
with no thought of care for the clock.

Sonatas by Beethoven,
I hear waltzes by Strauss,
in fancy, I see myself in beautiful gown,
as I float serenely about the house.

A gentle number by the King,
love me tender, now on my mind,
lost in thoughts, dancing around,
I leave the passing night behind.*
Nateive Son Jul 2017
The New Bach,
Walks among us,
As I type this,
He or she,
Will not be hindered,
From expressing themselves,
Through traditional channels,
Or beholden to the slavery of,
Social circles in,
Austrian squares,
They will have the world at their fingertips,
And if they can only focus,
Shall enlighten the world,
For the benefit of all,
Teaching us more about ourselves,
Than we may want to know.
The New Bach:
B Condon Mar 2017
Through silky grass and waters blue
Do the joints click into
Shapes of knowing wing or bone
Stretching, enchanted
And nerve and vein hums, pulses
An ancient tune between
Breathless heaves
The trembles of heartbeats
For a simple reflex of a finger to lips
Jim Musics Dec 2015
Only *** can make a rock
but a heaven was created by Bach
that ain’t a crock of poppycock

To open the creative combination lock,
to avoid the dreaded writer's block;
seek out a Heinlein-like grok

To keep the artist from the butcher block,
from being a rote yammering, shell shocked, fighting ****;
closely study the take-off runway’s air sock

Before the tick-tock of your biological clock,
finds you a smelly, ***** smock,
wiped all over with slimy chicken stock.

Anyhow, my dear,
You're immune to such schlock

you rock.
Inspired by, but not descriptive of, Yuki.
Terry Collett Dec 2015
Chrissie dried after her bath,
towelled under arms and legs,
a radio played from the other room,

cello sonatas, Bach,
Delia listened,
played a pretend cello

drawing an invisible bow
across invisible strings,
she'd played this that time

to that music teacher at college
before having her(sexually)
in her student bed,

Chrissie dried between thighs,
eyed her mirrored self,
plumpish, pink of skin,

love bites where Delia
had ****** and ******,
Delia drew the bow slower

as the music slowed,
head to one side,
invisible cello

between opened thighs,
smiled, the woman
her father hired

to care for her
at term breaks
from boarding school,

Delia has seduced
and bedded in the first
Easter term,

Chrissie dried
between toes and feet,
towelled a final area

of skin, stood,
washed out the bath,
the Bach flowed on,

cello sounds,
recalling Delia moving
over her body like a snake,

tonguing over and over,
Delia closed her eyes,
the cello stilled,

invisible bow
blown away
like leaves in wind,

she lay back
and waited for Chrissie
to return, bathed,

dried wanting her
*** to heat
and burn.
SilverSpoon Oct 2015
Most mornings are spare,
Like the spaces between the branches of a spruce tree.
Most mornings are clearings in woods
And bare bark.
Most mornings sound of violins
And Torquil Campbell’s voice swooning in and out of Bach’s Suites,
Leaving you empty,
Hueing you in gray,
And sketching you, lightly, onto white notebook paper.
ConnectHook Sep 2015

Revelation:** three, seven – the Kingdom of Heaven

The key to unlocking both glory and shame.

Philadelphia knows He’s arriving in newness

inscribing on foreheads His city and name.

(Though it could be on tee shirts or baseball caps, true –

unless someone takes time to decipher the text…

is it Greek? Aramaic? Amharic? What next?)

Don’t be mad – it’s not me but old John who’s to blame.

Of names and on numbers of Savior and Beast

I have long been a-pondering, trembling, wondering

mushroom-cloud raptures in mind’s eye a-thundering.

How will we get to that marriage-day feast?

Will my garment be ready or filthy with fall-out?

(The song says His blood will make clean if we call out

in faith for forgiveness, in humble repentance

believing that grace will abolish the sentence.)

You may wish my rhyme to be likewise abolished.

Bear with me. Forgive me, I grant it’s not polished.

I speak what I feel and I write when I’m able;

which brings us to heavenly thoughts gastronomic:

what dishes we’ll meet as we dine at that table-

strict Jewish? Angelic? Or pre-Abrahamic?

Shall they serve us from silver or common ceramic?

Being clay to the potter, an unfinished vessel

I leave all these questions for others to wrestle.

Yet there’s still one more realm I explore in conjecture:

the sounds at that gathering.  Classical?   Rock?

Unending revivalist Christian refrains?

Shall we headbang in heaven with glorified brains?

Psychedelic/Psychotic…? or  Handel and Bach?

(Lighten up. It’s the end of my bible-school lecture.

You’ve seen a few rooms of my castle-in-air,

and we ALL know it’s reggae they’re playing up there…)

R.I.P. Mikey Dread aka Michael Campbell DREAD
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