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Paul Butters Mar 4
You can’t beat that musical beat,
From tinkling triangles
To blaring horns.
A quick ditty
Or grand symphony.

Music can mould mountains,
Oceans and plains.
Make you feel any emotion
Or atmosphere.

When songs and poems marry,
Their offspring are awesome:
“Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?
Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality…”
Mercury magic.

Those rhythms run like chugging trains.
They fight pitch battles
Within our brains.

Drums keep beating,
Guitars whine.
Ever repeating
All through time.

Chuck Berry with his rock and roll,
Aretha Franklin, Queen of Soul.
Elvis truly was the King,
Want some crooning?
Play some Bing.

Beatles, Queen or Stones,
Who really cares?
Roll over Beethoven
Bach or Lennon
On your dancing squares.

I know that rap can give you the blues,
But there’s so much music
You’ve got plenty to choose.

Musical memories adorn our minds,
Warm associations
Of nostalgic times.

Paul Butters

© PB 4\3\2019. Last stanza added 6\3\19.
Let the band begin to play...
Beethoven
did not compose
in silence.
Silence composed him
into a symphony
flocked by clefs
and mobbed by notes
melting the clouds of sin
into raindrops of kin.

Van Gogh
did not paint
in silence.
Silence painted him
into a mural
with swirling clouds
brightly blazing
in the evening fields
of amber pain.

Poe
did not write
in silence.
Silence wrote him
into a fiction
deeper than the misery
of his midnight dreary
deeper than the fathomage
of his kingdom by the sea.
Pete King Dec 2018
Realisation can be a harsh pill;
One I've always struggled to swallow.
The dose, in this instance, was to be
That my happiness isn't a reward.

It's not earned through great achievements;
Contentedness isn't product of valour.
It's not found in deep breathing and spiritualism,
It's not created by anything external.

No.
My happiness will always be through
consistent fidelity and belief in a purpose.
A purpose that simply has to be weightier
than the small stuff we're sometimes thrown.

It's the consistent drive:
To love.
To laugh.
To make laughter..
To put pen to paper.
It's a thousand-melodies,
On twelve piano keys.
It's the gnawing hunger inside of me,
That says it would be simply unacceptable
For me to leave this world,
Until I have brought forth
Everything I feel I have within me.

Happiness is always going to be a fleeting thing for me.
And that's alright.
Because I'm only just getting started.
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
Terry Collett Jul 2018
Lloyd packed
away his viola.

George was sitting
holding his violin.

"What does your mother
make of you playing
in the string quartet?"
George said.

"Mother thinks
I should get a real job,"
Lloyd replied.

"Doesn't she
like music?
I thought you
brought her along
when we played
Beethoven's last
string quartets?"
George said.

"She likes Welsh stuff
and a bit of Elgar,
and when I told her
Beethoven wrote them
when he was deaf,
she said,
it sounded like it,'
Lloyd said.

"So she didn't think
much of it, then?'
George said smiling.

"No, and she said
that woman on that
big violin thing(cello),
had her ******* showing
when she leaned forward,"
Lloyd said.

"Best not tell
Margaret that,"
George said.

Lloyd picked up
his viola case
and he George
left the recital hall.

He was seeing Margaret
that evening
while her husband
was away,
and they
another sort
of tune to play.
Knit Personality May 2018
Largo e mesto,
Con pizza, no pesto.

There once was a man from Zumbrota
Who’d **** down a 2-liter soda,
    Then burp up a symphony
    By Beethoven winsomely,
From the first bar to the end of the coda.  

#
Jo Barber Apr 2018
Goethe, he was an artist.
Schiller, Mozart, Beethoven.
Writers, musicians, painters all.
Even now I hear Chopin's call.
The tunes make my heart sing,
my soul dance.
I'm in a trance
when I hear those sweet melodies.
Like the sound of your voice,
it all makes joy
come rushing back to me.

Won't you stay,
play a little longer?
I may not be as gifted as you,
but I could be your muse,
if you were to choose
me to.
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