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Duet, Minor Key
by Michael R. Burch

Without the drama of cymbals
or the fanfare and snares of drums,
I present my case
stripped of its fine veneer:
Behold, thy instrument.

Play, for the night is long.

Keywords/Tags: Duet, minor, key, cymbals, symbols, drums, fanfare, snares, instrument, play, ***, night, long, strip, ****, naked
james Dec 2019
my mind crescendos
until the violin strings
are screaming more than they sing
and i cant hear my heart beat
over the sound.
when the world is too loud,
i will grow louder
until my bow snaps, and death drowns me out
100% in my top favorite poems of mine
MisfitOfSociety Sep 2019
I cut a peep hole in space,
Enough to squeeze my fingers through.
I pull it open and wrap its fabric around me,
To gain a better view.

Feeling the stars rotate around my center point,
A cosmic spider’s web stretching out infinitely.
Scaling the web like morning dew.
The stars beat in rhythmic poetry.
I sing to them and they sing to me,
We are all singing in harmony.

It is all balanced and perfect,
Sway to the music.

Sorting to find it in the storm.
Be an instrument in its hands,
Sing its melody through your chords,
Let the sound fill your center,
Let it bounce around and out of you,
To touch the hearts and minds around you.

Is this separate or is this my reflection?
In everything I see myself,
Echoing through the gaps between particles of inner space,
Staring right at God’s face.

The universe is singing to me.
That old sweet melody.
Sway to the rhythm of the music,
Let it pass through body, mind and spirit!

Accept this holy gift and sway to the music!

I can hear the hum of Saturn,
Resonating within me.
The stars they sing out,
Verses of a remedy.

I am,
An instrument,
In its hands.
Sway to,
The music,
In its hands.

Sway to the music,
Witness every in-between scenes behind the moment!
LeoH Aug 2019
Letting go of attachment
I awake to a deeper truth
I am just the instrument
I pray I am played well today
JT Nelson Jun 2019
Instrumentation selection
Was a big step in our lives
Choices made in fourth grade
Would stay with us through school
To the end
If we stayed in band

So many choices
Brass or woodwind
Big or small
Loud or louder
Percussion as an option too
What would be the perfect fit

Did we take advice from mom or dad
And play the instrument that they played
Or maybe a brother or sister
Or one of their cool friends
A lot of impressions molded
Our decision on the path that we went down.

I selected, with a few of my friends,
The long and shiny brass trombone
Touchy slide that perfecting
Lubrication with silicone proved tricky
And dumping the spit from the valve
Proved essential and gross.

It took years to become adequate
Enough that the notes flowed like spit
All the way through my senior year
Until I put the parts away in the black case
That one last time then sold it
To the parents of a fourth grader.
DG May 2019
I cut off my ears
at a beautiful note

And fall in love when
it's a screeching sound

I gauge my eyes out
with the violin's bow

The audience claps
so I take a bow

Lately, I have been détaché-d
Colorful melody, no strings attached

Take the strings of the violin
Tie them around my neck

I grab the neck
of the violin, choke myself
and say

Violence is yet
another instrument
I can't play.
Jon Thenes Apr 2019
(not ringing)
Bringing shrill
in a sense vacuum
a violence

Mewing, gut string taut
shock shell
instrument strung
along the centre of a tester tube

Abused sense-fully
with over leaden silence
packed tomb
provision tank
a violence

admin crowding
crowning grin
audience of labcoaters
a tinny able
a stint completed in this pressure test
out come;
all fists and winning
soldier born
a re-spun sinner
Guinea Pig
Kivanc Feb 2019
I will dive into desolation before sundown,
If the weather gets darker, I will be lost before tasting
One who likes daylight in sweet sound of tune.

We have to look up to sky to see what's inside of it,
Temple of breath is shaken cause of the sadness,
And excuses disappear in sound of love.

I didn't realise when moment explained fact of separation,
Necessaries of love is appeared slowly with effects of sadness,
I have to lose you and me in sounds of instruments.
Lucius Furius Jan 2019
I say there is no physical beauty.
This skin, this flesh, this bone
are but the clay of which we make our beauty,
the instrument on which we play our beauty.
Witness the failure of funeral directors to please true aesthetes:
the dead Ingrid Bergman lacks the beauty of a living bag lady.
Tennis masters
given K-Mart rackets
win gracefully,
while the high-school violinist
playing a Stradivarius
fails to delight us.
Thus noses, lips, ******* have no beauty in themselves.
Perfect features are easily distorted by
anger, sloth, irritability, or conceit.
But in a rare few
energy, grace, composure, and sensitivity
are blended in such a quantity
that they overflow
and color with an exquisite beauty every pore of the body,
fill with a subtle music every gesture, every word.
I say there is no physical beauty.
This skin, this flesh, this bone
are but the clay of which we make our beauty,
the instrument on which we play our beauty.
Hear Lucius/Jerry read the poem: .
This poem is part of the Scraps of Faith collection of poems ( ).
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