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Ira Sosa Sep 2022
With a cursory press of a key and arco of the strings,
They look at each other,
Determining when to start through what looks like telepathy,
But it is instead the subtle movement of arms and chest.

They begin.

With the movement of bows bouncing on metal,
And the dancing digits upon black and white,
Sound reverberates between the audience,
With eyes and ears in tandem absorbing the scene.

They continue.

As they pass over bridges,
And draw out waves with their hands,
I listen,
Swaying and breathing and performing as though I am beside them,
Despite being above them,
Yet feeling so below.

Becoming one with their instrument,
And bringing me along,
I smile,
As just like they pull beauty out of their tools with their soul,
They guide joy out of me,
For all of us.

They end.

Then again, they start.
With new sounds from a new person,
With new intent,
And new methods.

They change.

From haphazard joy and dance,
To somber death and confusion,
They become one with the music,
And follow in its suit.

They continue, anew.

As the sound changes,
So do I.
Listening with sharper ears,
Hoping to catch a different magic in my ears.

They continue, still.

As the cello draws honey,
The violin; its dew,
And the piano waterfalls arpeggios,
I am content.

They end.

Full of the food of life,
They stand,
To let us feast with them with our hungry hands,
Giving our own vibrations to fill our drooling souls.

They leave.
And so do I.
Both of us fed and quenched,
From the performance.
A professor of Piano, Violin, and Cello can make some bangers...
Dave Robertson Oct 2021
A cello’s open C
nearly derailed me.
Cerys snuck it in,
slow Sundaying,
nearly made me stop the car
and howl
as the bow drew on my guts
like blissful punishment,
the sullen throb
calling human
em May 2017
cello boy,
young and sweet
he finds it hard to eat
he says
to be thin is to be beautiful

young and innocent ,
he doesn't look at me
as he curves the bow
an instrument
that sings only for him

cello boy,
he has curls
hanging in his eyes
the curve of his lips is parted
but he is hardly breathing

cello man,
sometimes i dream
entirely accidentally
of his arms around me
he plays me like
an instrument

and i would sing for him,
only him.
Lyda M Sourne Jul 2018
And doubts have dashed
And murmurs gone
And frowns have turned downside up

To smiles
And heart
And laughter
And newfound friends
And applause
And gratitude

As miles of
Blood
Sweat
Time
Heart
Mind
Hard work

Have rewarded the sweetest
Not of gold but of

a musical gift
Written after we won a music competition. Some people were salty about losing. I'm just glad all my hard work didn't go to waste.
S K Anderson Apr 2018
It hurts, you know.
That I wasn't there, to save you.
I wouldn't have been able to anyway,
but I would have tried.
So I will remember you,
Everyday.
I'll see you in your brothers,
And hear you in every piece.
And I'd like to dedicate this writing,
In loving memory.




Dedicated to Edgar.
Edgar was a cello, not a person.
But a cello that I loved dearly.
This was written the day that I found him broken on the floor.
***
Amidst the smoke and light and laughter
Along the smiles and cheers thereafter

A sound is bled, wrung free from strings
It bounds and treads and wholly sings
Inside each song, a secret’s moved
Not right nor wrong or frequent proved
The message dances from bow to ear;
A coded trance of love and fear
From left to right the story rings
Of Death and light the Cello brings
The covert tale engulfs the room
It vibrates truth to those who loom
The Cello knows for why it’s played
Its secret lost, both gone and stayed

In the smoke and light and laughter
Music lies and cries thereafter
Edward Coles Jul 2016
The cello sings Ave Maria.
Distilled calm; blister packs
In a wet July.

There is peace in every grain,
So fine. Wore away the stone,
Three drownings in the sea.
Annihilation

To build a monument
We settle upon:
Our paradise recovery.

There is warmth after the rain.
Ukulele played on the
Gran Cervantes balcony.
Off-white scars;
Pyramids with no eyes.

Every stoner sleeps.
Every kind heart cries.

The Arc of Life sings a lullaby,
Still I cannot get calm.
In a wet July

A comfort to staying inside.
We tried, wore away our lungs,
Three renewals in the sea.
A leap of faith,

An old keepsake
We contrived upon:
Our lunatic discovery.

There is movement in death.
Pollen falls to the ground;
Exhale of recovery.
Dead-end joy,
Statuettes with no eyes.

Every criminal weeps,
Every kind heart lies.

The cello sings Ave Maria.
The strings that heal
In a wet July.
C
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