Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Paul Butters Mar 2019
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...
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.
de Negre Sep 2018
this verse arrived when in my mind did you
i know the voice sings clear but the heart speaks true,
a crippled old man, that heart tells tales
of the self and the journey, that gripping your sails:

losing to winds which chill our bones
the crack in my hull, boat sinking as stones
like ones in the river, which we threw when in love,
our lips have been sewn, but that's push come to shove,

upon the river banks comes that song we had sung,
washing up with the stones, and the remains of my lung.
in a hurry written in math class, bur(ry)ial of love.
Annie Sep 2018
Proudly standing, rigid trees
   Swaying gently in the breeze
We watch the shadows fall
   Switches whip, the twigs are severed
   Yet the mighty wood persevers
Awaiting its next call
   Day becomes night; sunshine ends
   Branches soon begin to bend
Raw bark peels in strips.
   Autumn comes; the trees must fight
   For each burning speck of light
Drudged from unwilling lips.
   We watch them quiver in the breeze
   The axe-man comes to fell the trees
The thinnest shall go first.
   Year by year, the seasons change
   We ignore the passing strange
Stiff bodies, in one hearse.
   No one knows if it shall end
   The loss of foe, alike with friend
Means sunlight for the living.
   “What shall happen to them all?”
   Still we watch the shadows fall
A gift that keeps on giving.
Aa Harvey Sep 2018
Viva la morning sun


Midnight, dark night, no light, can’t go.
So dark, so quiet, so I guess the neighbours are not home.
Waiting for sleep to arrive, but it never does on time.
Still waiting to permanently close my eyes;
But match sticks under baggy eye lids,
Will not show me the peaceful dreams I need to find.


Brain storms while outside it is silent.
Not a raindrop in the air.
Sun will rise shortly, as will the neighbours;
They all arise without a care.
I will hear their alarms and the beeping of their cars
And each and every door they all slam, *******!


Muffled music drives away and I am left with clinking milk bottles.
How I hate to hear the milk man moving in full throttle.
The bin men arrive flashing their ‘vehicle is reversing’ lights.
I close my eyes, but they peek around the curtain…sigh.
People are busy nattering and I am left sinking;
There is no calling for the postman singing.
The birds have not even got their song books out yet,
Because there is too much noise, for all their rehearsing.


Now I arise from the deep pit in which I dwell.
The zombie arisen, the power button pressed, another day of Hell.
In a state of half-dress the violins begin,
Quietly at first, but soon a full orchestra of noise;
A cup of tea is soon ready to drink.
This symphony would wake the whole neighbourhood,
If it wasn’t for all the toys and work, which mean they are already up.


The din would be said to be deafening, ironic,
If I cared to hear those muggles out there, but today is supersonic
And the strings are rising up to the top of the planet,
And I am drifting within the music’s magic.


I am taken away to a classical age,
Where maidens play while in-waiting in castles.
The beer is served in tankards,
Meat ripped with fists and soldiers prepare for battle.
This warrior mind has no strength for a Queen,
The zenith passed, the air up here is so clean
And now the end of the song approaches
And with a whimper, I remember, the line of forgotten roaches…


I raise to my height, now at full length, a citizen.
Viva la revolution!  I am at one with creation.
Hello Earth and morning sun!
Let me feel your warmth…my morning divine, my elation.


(C)2018 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
The passion infused plucking
like each note has a soul of its own

The high notes like pinpricks
Low notes like a loud heartbeat

The sound of content loneliness that taught me happiness

The tempo slows like water shying away from the shore

Peace born out of urgency
Love born out of technicality

The hours given to the tone, timing and tempo
The effort in perfectly letting go

Perfectly unique every time
just close enough to be the same

The beauty in form
The form in beauty
I would love some constructive criticism
Rose L Jun 2018
the slow encroach
stinging so, it broke the choke
and rough, coarse femininity once kept in check with wine and herbs
now slips away, and hurts.

Recalling is like
dreams of forests heaving milk and music,
an ancient memory whose dew pools in your mouth with distaste
and tulip'd sap leaks at sordid urge.
what we want is still at sea, so let the spray bite your face
taste the past in those ever-watching waters
and burn hair on the pyres for your grandaughters, and grandaughters' daughters.
Inspired by the women of ancient Greek mythology
Next page