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Erian Rose Mar 2020
Kisses don't compare
To all the little things we do
Singing in the car
Holding hands
Dancing in the kitchen

The little moments last forever
With you
Michael R Burch Feb 2020
Sumer is icumen in
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1260 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Summer is a-comin’!
Sing loud, cuckoo!
The seed grows,
The meadow blows,
The woods spring up anew.
Sing, cuckoo!

The ewe bleats for her lamb;
The cows contentedly moo;
The bullock roots,
The billy-goat poots ...
Sing merrily, cuckoo!

Cuckoo, cuckoo,
You sing so well, cuckoo!
Never stop, until you're through!

Sing now cuckoo! Sing, cuckoo!
Sing, cuckoo! Sing now cuckoo!

***

Keywords/Tags: Middle English, medieval, reading, rota, round, partsong, summer, cuckoo, sing, cuckold, seed, meadow, woods, ewe, lamb, cows, bullock, goat, billy-goat, poot, ****, pass gas, never stop

These notes were taken from the poem's Wikipedia page ...

"Sumer Is Icumen In" (also called the Summer Canon and the Cuckoo Song) is a medieval English round or rota of the mid-13th century. The title translates approximately to "Summer Has Come In" or "Summer Has Arrived". The song is composed in the Wessex dialect of Middle English. Although the composer's identity is unknown today, it may have been W. de Wycombe. The manuscript in which it is preserved was copied between 1261 and 1264. This rota is the oldest known musical composition featuring six-part polyphony. It is sometimes called the Reading Rota because the earliest known copy of the composition, a manuscript written in mensural notation, was found at Reading Abbey; it was probably not drafted there, however (Millett 2004). The British Library now retains this manuscript (Millett 2003a). A rota is a type of round, which in turn is a kind of partsong. To perform the round, one singer begins the song, and a second starts singing the beginning again just as the first got to the point marked with the red cross in the first figure below. The length between the start and the cross corresponds to the modern notion of a bar, and the main verse comprises six phrases spread over twelve such bars. In addition, there are two lines marked "Pes", two bars each, that are meant to be sung together repeatedly underneath the main verse. These instructions are included (in Latin) in the manuscript itself:

"Hanc rota cantare possum quatuor socii. A paucio/ribus autem quam a tribus uel saltem duobus non debet/ dici preter eos qui dicunt pedem. Canitur autem sic. Tacen/tibus ceteris unus inchoat *** hiis qui tenent pedem. Et *** uenerit/ ad primam notam post crucem, inchoat alius, et sic de ceteris./ Singuli de uero repausent ad pausacionis scriptas et/non alibi, spacio unius longe note."

(Four companions can sing this round. But it should not be sung by fewer than three, or at the very least, two in addition to those who sing the pes. This is how it is sung. While all the others are silent, one person begins at the same time as those who sing the ground. And when he comes to the first note after the cross [which marks the end of the first two bars], another singer is to begin, and thus for the others. Each shall observe the written rests for the space of one long note [triplet], but not elsewhere.)

The lyric may have been composed by W. de Wycombe, also identified as W de Wyc, Willelmus de Winchecumbe, Willelmo de Winchecumbe or William of Winchcomb. He appears to have been a secular scribe and precentor employed for about four years at the priory of Leominster in Herefordshire during the 1270s. He is also thought to have been a sub-deacon of the cathedral priory as listed in the Worcester Annals or possibly a monk at St Andrew's in Worcester. But it is not know if he composed the song, or merely preserved it by copying it.
Ilonka Feb 2020
if happy could talk
it would tell me
get out there get more sun,
run, ride your bike, fly

if happy could talk
it would tell me to smile, laugh, love,
pad your dog ten times a day

if happy could talk it would tell me
sing, sing, sing!
I am fully there when you sing
you were born to do this!
Erian Rose Feb 2020
Let's let the world flow away
in the breeze of evening day
Singing at the top of our lungs
Shuffling through fields and crumbling stones

This love  
A touch in the bittersweet air
Forever remembering
the feel of your lips on mine
No matter the time
Clay Face Feb 2020
Pain speaks truth, so does love.
Singers raise their voice above.
Not only to converse, but to express,
a sleeping beauty in distress.
A diamond under modest flesh, eyes and breath.
Given out with passion, to eyes ears and those at breast.
To flame thought from its shine, weather mine and without fine.

Liars sing too, in choirs of deceit and malady.
Their tenors to their sopranos mundane.
So they flee to song in order to fabricate glee.
They pile notes beneath their feet, to rise above the fleet.
They’ll just as soon pile their fellow members,
as they would the audience below them.
At whatever cost it takes to fly, they’ll pay.

Flight however is true, and eventually lies fall.
Wings built of plastic are sure not the call.
Reparations will be met at the terminal.
For those who lied above all.
But even on the ground, they’ll sing.
They believe their lies so deeply,
their contrived melodies are reality.
If you don’t like their composure, then dip your ear’s shoulder.
But find medical consolation, if deception and lies bring you anything but butterflies.
Liz Feb 2020
Despite the poems, I'm at a loss for words
Can't stand to be alone, so I listen to the birds
They sing me songs I've yet to write
But I can't think up the lyrics, I'd be up all night
7/21/19
Stan Jan 2020
You didn’t like the smoke
So I quit smoking
You didn’t like my writing
So I stopped dreaming
You didn’t like my singing
So I was left with listening

Now you have another fool
To demolish the dreams of

I can breathe again
I smoke
I write
I sing

And I’ve lost you
But I love myself again
Tea Jan 2020
22:
Oh, tree...
Please listen to me?
You don't have to do anything...
Just listen as I sing...
I've no idea what I should do...
I can only talk to you...
I wonder if I can wrap my arms around your bark...
Maybe then I won't feel so dark?
If I take one of your leaves will you be hurt?
Will your roots dig deeper in the dirt?
Saige Jan 2020
Worms were never appealing to you -
seeds, berries, echos, and ghosts you preferred.
And kindred spirits and misty mornings.

I remember I found you alone -
your brothers and sisters strewn around you,
like dead leaves in the fall -
a whisper of their bird-song
still sighing on the wind.

So I held you in my shirt's breast pocket,
and whistled while I knitted a nest.
Just a little bundle of grass and string
but you settled in.

I thought you would sing sad songs in the evenings,
like the wise women that sat on porch swings.
But you just mourned with soulful eyes,
haunted by the shadows of your past.

You waited for something,
a memory, a word, a release.
I saw the knowing in you then -
the knowing of much more than life and death,
than seeds and windows and metal bars.

And I sighed.
How much I long for my own release,
not from life, no:
from my own expectations,
from single-stories and stereotypes.

Let me fly free, you cry.
You're too much like me, I sigh.
Steve Page Jan 2020
"Once you have found it
keep your Voice on you at all times,"
my Uncle told me,
"you never know when you might need it.
Do not entrust it to anyone else -
they won't value it the way that you do.

"And do not leave your Voice
where they can steal it,
but slip it in your inside breast pocket,
close to your quiet heart -
where you can reach for it
at a moment's notice,
and when the moment comes,
you take it out with a steady hand
and you let them see
that your Voice is not lost,
it is not tired,
that it lies ready
that it is willing
to speak truth to power,
to voice comfort to the powerless
and sing in chorus with quieter voices."
And he patted my hand,
"You'll know. You'll know."

Years later,
when I found my Voice
far from where my Uncle had sat,
I knew it was mine
from its familiar shape and weight in my throat,
from the way it resonated
with the call I had suppressed
and the way it chimed
with the voices of those
who chose to stand with me.

And now that I've found it,
I exercise my Voice in song,
I practice it in comfort
and I school it in truth
and I always keep it close
to our quiet hearts
where they cannot steal it from us.
'Finding my voice' takes time.  I recommend 'Search for My Voice' by Felicity Ann Alma and 'A Portable Paradise' by Roger Robinson.
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