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emily mikkelsen 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
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,
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
Pio Jasso Sep 2017
where is the sadness?
Did they place it,
inside you?

Did they harvest it,
from the earth,
from the land, from the sea,
from the deep stones,

layered and buried in the
hidden fissures, we pray
not to see,

like plunged notes,
lodged and scored,
like echoes on the noisy
stave of time?

Is that where the sadness
is chained?

Or is it stored in the
carved, caverns
of those dark river
curves that mark your
cherry wood, sides

like two mouths,
wanting to speak, but
waiting for everyone to leave?

I think it wants to be free:
the sadness.

Release it.
Pio Jasso Sep 2017
In the sound
of a cello lives
a dark prayer,
a dark prayer
from land,
a dark prayer
from sea,

a rosin
death, designed
and crafted
with blood
and guts
and elements
and trees,

and notes,
soaked in
barrels that
surround and
wrap me
like golden

enters and
suspends me
out of time,
and bears up
the world,

like a dark prayer.
There was a theatrical fellow
Who played most bizarrely the cello:
   His sound supersonic,
   His air histrionic,
He jiggled vibratos like jello.
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