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BasilLvoff Aug 10
[Link to the music below]
Never mind
The rainy weather
Have gratitude
For the kind-
Ness of the Heaven
And this peaceful solitude

Will quickly tick
And tears~
Will be shed
And you
Will be too weak
Tired to seek
Your years will be gone
And you will be so weak,
You’ll be meek enough to cease
To seek

Rise and look around
Behold the overarching beauty
Of the forever-lasting sound
Behold the beauty
Of the forever-lasting sound
Behold the beauty of the omnipresent ***

Is but a breath
It’s the inverse of inspiration
Life is breath
So life is death
Death is the end of our days’ tuneful music—it is the result of our breath
Death is a part of our breathing
Long live vivifying death

Never mind
The rainy weather
The cloudy weather
Is the variety of years, of our weather and its mood
Of our music and its mood
Without a difference there is nothing bad or good
Have gratitude
For this mood
And imbibe the music
Of these drops
Till it stops one day
Until it stops raining
The rain
Will end soon
Make it understood
Chorus (for instruments): Breathe till it stops

Words to Concerto V in F minor, BWV 1056
2. Largo [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NLrNhMGPQtk]
Peter Balkus Apr 12
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.
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.
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