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William Marr Dec 2020
at the very beginning
a bass horn hummed from the left ear
merging with the shrieking violin from the right
climbed to the mountaintop
then howling and roaring
together they rushed down and swept across the wilderness
soon they were scooped up and held in midair
waiting for the conducting baton
to drop
Cardboard-Jones May 2020
The orchestra awaits in the pit;
Waiting for their cue.
Waiting for the lights.
The hierarchy of the symphony ready’s their instruments.
The concertmaster prepares the string section.
The principle trombone and trumpet
Rallies the brass section.
The flute looks over the woodwinds.
All these parts and pieces brought together
To make beautiful music;
Music that pierces the soul,
Soothes the turbulent mind,
And brings sophistication
To the chaotic mind.

Yet there is a man
Who stands before the assembly.
He does not play strings.
He does not play brass.
He does not play woodwind.
He stands before the assembly with wand in hand
With his back facing an eager audience.
For he has the most important job of all.
The orchestra would remain an assembly
Of beautiful noise with no direction
Without that magic wand.

This man directs the noise
To blend and flow
To make sense to our ears.
He is the conductor,
And he plays the orchestra.
Ephemeral Apr 2020
Violin in my ribs
Guitar in my heart
Drums in my mind
Yet all out of sync
Guess I need a perfect conductor
But who will be brave enough
To tame such a disordered body?
annh Dec 2019
A twitch of the toes,
A pop of the lips,
A flick of an eyelid:
I watch as electricity sleeps.

‘Hey there, Mr Conductor. Y’know I can’t resist you.’

Sunday schmaltz - sorry.
Soap suds and rubber gloves have that effect. My right hand is wielding a *** scrubber but my brain thinks it’s holding a pen. Let’s call this dishwater doggerel and be done with it. :)
TS Nov 2019
The wind plays a symphony that only the silent can hear.
Close your eyes, put your mind at peace, and open you heart to the sound.
Let the breeze fill your lungs and lift you higher.
Hear the rustle of the leaves high above and the gusts whistling a tune.
Windchimes add percussion while the hum of the earth beneath your feet casts a steady beating of your heart.
Breathe in, breathe out becomes the harmony.
And the wind roars the melody.
You are the conductor, the one in control.
You guide the song through its journey and take a victorious bow.
And when you stand and look out again and wonder why it has to go,
Remember that there will always been another symphony storm

Isabella Howard Aug 2019
Though I worry myself to pain,
And the wind unrelenting blows.

There is solace in the sight of an oncoming train.
Sometimes I wonder if the conductor knows.

Every evening at half past five
I board with no real destination.
His gentle voice asking for my ticket keeps me alive.

Though my daily absences keep raising questions.
This band around my finger has grown too tight.

He, acting less as a husband, more as a victor. Nailing my shoes to the floor so I can't leave at night.

Still my mind always drifts back to my train conductor.
Nothing left in this old town
I felt I didn't have much choice
I jumped on board a west bound freight
It was there I heard the voice.....

"Boy, this here is my car"
"You keep the rules, and you'll be fine"
"I don't know you, you don't know me"
"Boy, this car is mine"

I squinted in the darkness
I tried to focus on the sound
That voice there in the boxcar
As rough as any I had found

I asked him where he came from
He spoke but wasn't clear
Everywhere and Nowhere
And right now from right here

Now boy, Keep your distance
Keep quiet, leave me be
I don't like conversation
You keep to you, and I to me

Just then, the train car shifted
That there's the final shunt
You're safe now boy inside this car
The rail men stopped their hunt

He said that there shunting noise
Is the starting of a song
The train soon will start moving
Everyone is moving on

While the cars are stagnant
You know, not moving, sitting still
The rail men all go hunting
For us hobo's , if you will

That shunting sound is heaven
It means we are onto who knows where
And frankly boy, you know deep down
It really isn't fair

I asked him what he meant by that
He said, I've said enough
As time goes by, you sound some smart
You'll pick up on this stuff

The silence then took over
He was sleeping, so did I
He was snoring quite contently
I couldn't find sleep, I wonder why?

About an hour later
He sparked a match and smoke
And again from in the darkness
The hobo, well, he spoke

Boy, you are a new one
You could have killed me where I lay
But, boy, I trust your scared some
So, I guess I'm safe today

T'was a time a decade back
Got knifed, real hard and deep
Taken by another jumper
While I tried to have a sleep

Hadn't make that choice before
Most times I'm here alone
But, it was cold and wintry like
And I threw this boy a bone

See, it's dangerous riding rail cars
We are all on here to hide
And sometimes, well then, most times
This is not a pleasant ride

You know you asked my name back there
I ain't heard it for so long
They call me "The Conductor"
I'd give my name but, I'd be wrong

Life out here ain't easy
Your head is on a swivel
Listen boy, this is the truth
Not just some hobo drivel

Even though we're many
You are still alone out here
Some you think are friends one day
Would **** you for a pint of beer

So, keep your distance, bide your time
The choice is up to you
Stay out here and roll the dice
And do what you must do

I listened as he rambled
Sorted words that I could keep
Then as sudden as he started
He stopped, and went to sleep

Do I ride the rails a no one?
Lose my name inside my mind?
Or do I travel 'cross the country?
To see just what it is I'd find

I'm lost with no direction
Staying stagnant, that I know
But, the life of The Conductor
Is that where I want to go

I heard the old man snoring
I huddled up and grabbed my stuff
Between the lines from The Conductor
I guess I wasn't all that tough

Back home there is a fellow
The blues man is his name
He reminds me of this fellow
They could be one and the same

Next time I hear the blues man
Or hear the whistle of a train
I'll think of The Conductor
The man who has no name
Anthony Mayfield Jun 2018
If the beat of the drum
Is the rolling thunder,
And the lull of the flute
Is cheap defense,
How does the music keep me
Asleep inside?
Perhaps the conductor
Is a wicked protector.
And the orchestra summons
The wayward ******.
So look me in the eye
And sing the songs.
My own civil war was right all along.
Because only on the inside,
War is song.
I fight with myself. All the time. I am my own worst enemy, yet there is a dark haunting melodic beauty in the war that I wage against myself
a wand of disappearances
operate in our very
who is the conductor
of its vanishing

where once our fellow
poets did pleasantly
now the wicked wand
has eradicated their

numerous blank spaces
symbolize the conductor's
employing a wand which
has emptied the

black the hour
black the day
a black instrument
whisking them all too
suddenly away
a wand so dark
of intent
wanting to wane
our writers tent

the subtracting conductor
will be planning future
so be mindful of its
wand's unsolicited
Up until three days ago, poet Rye Sing was actively contributing and commenting on the Hello Poetry site.  I find it most strange that he/she has just disappeared into thin air.
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