"bassoon" poems
The flame-red moon, the harvest moon,
Rolls along the hills, gently bouncing,
A vast balloon,
Till it takes off, and sinks upward
To lie on the bottom of the sky, like a gold doubloon.
The harvest moon has come,
Booming softly through heaven, like a bassoon.
And the earth replies all night, like a deep drum.
So people can't sleep,
So they go out where elms and oak trees keep
A kneeling vigil, in a religious hush.
The harvest moon has come!
And all the moonlit cows and all the sheep
Stare up at her petrified, while she swells
Filling heaven, as if red hot, and sailing
Closer and closer like the end of the world.
Till the gold fields of stiff wheat
Cry 'We are ripe, reap us!' and the rivers
Sweat from the melting hills.
10k
THE SAXOPHONE STORY
BY RAJ NANDY
The Saxophone is perhaps the most expressive
instrument next to the human voice.
Was made by Adolphe Sax, a Belgian, through
a deliberate choice!
He wanted to offset the tonal disparity, -
Between the string, wind, and brass instruments,
with musical clarity !
He felt that the strings ones were overpowered
by the wind instruments.
While the wind instruments got overblown by
the brass ones instead !
Now what would happen if the best qualities
of these three instruments types,
Could in a fusion blend and coalesces into a single
instrument type ?
So finally at the age of 20 years, in March Eighteen
Hundred and Thirty Four,
Adolphe Sax created a magical instrument for the
World to hear and adore!
It had the power of the brass, the flexibility of the
strings, and the woodwind’s variety and tone;
Which got christened after Adolphe Sax as the
SAXOPHONE !
Adolphe’s famous composer friend Hector Berlioz
in Paris City,
Gave this new instrument wide publicity!
In 1844 the Sax was presented in the Industrial
Exhibition at Paris;
And subsequently got patented on 20 March 1846.
It soon got adopted by the Bands of the French Army.
Making other instrument makers to become green
with envy!
The Sax was 80 years old when it became part of the
musical instruments of the Jazz Band.
A small bore mouth piece was created to suite the
varying tonal qualities required by Jazz.
Initially, 14 different sizes of Sax was created by
Adolphe.
Today only five types are in use for us to hear and
see;
The Soprano, Alto, Tenor, Bass and the Baritone
Saxophone.
They now form a part of our Jazz music's backbone!
- By Raj Nandy
FOOT NOTES :
Adolphe Sax (1814-1894) , son of famous musical instrument maker
Charles Joseph Sax of Belgium. Woodwind Instruments = Flute, Clarinet, Bassoon etc. Brass Instruments = Trumpet, Tuba, Cornet etc. String Instruments = Violin, Guitar, Harp, Banjo etc. The Saxophone today has become the very backbone of Jazz Music!
** ALL COPY RIGHTS ARE RESERVED BY: - RAJ NANDY **
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 11:06 AM UTC
Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, Night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the roses blown.
For a breeze of morning moves,
And the planet of Love is on high,
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
On a bed of daffodil sky,
To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
To faint in his light, and to die.
All night have the roses heard
The flute, violin, bassoon;
All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd
To the dancers dancing in tune;
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.
I said to the lily, 'There is but one
With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone?
She is weary of dance and play.'
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day;
Low on the sand and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away.
I said to the rose, 'The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those
For one that will never be thine?
But mine, but mine,' so I sware to the rose,
'For ever and ever, mine.'
And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
As the music clash'd in the hall;
And long by the garden lake I stood,
For I heard your rivulet fall
From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,
Our wood, that is dearer than all;
From the meadow your walks have left so sweet
That whenever a March-wind sighs
He sets the jewel-print of your feet
In violets blue as your eyes,
To the woody hollows in which we meet
And the valleys of Paradise.
The slender acacia would not shake
One long milk-bloom on the tree;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
Knowing your promise to me;
The lilies and roses were all awake,
They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.
Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dances are done,
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one;
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls.
To the flowers, and be their sun.
There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, 'She is near, she is near;'
And the white rose weeps, 'She is late;'
The larkspur listens, 'I hear, I hear;'
And the lily whispers, 'I wait.'
She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.
3.2k
For each word that never made it past my teeth
-harsh critics-
I am sorry
I told you I loved you last night in bed
and all you heard was my breathing
-waves on your shore-
I am sorry
For each step I should have taken that was frozen in my legs
-stone pillars-
I am sorry
I ran to the edge of the earth for you
where I heard the lilies were blooming
-empty vase-
I am sorry
For each song that suffocated in my hollows
-white noise-
I am sorry
I scored you a serenade for clarinet and bassoon
and your shutters heard nothing
-white noise-
I am sorry
For each quiver of my hands that has held me
chained to the anvils of fear
For the confidence I lack and the love I have not given
-myself-
I am sorry
For times I held truth by the throat underwater
and prayed you wouldn't notice the splashing
For those days I went sleep walking
-through prayers-
I am sorry
For the stability I cradle while sitting on dreams
singing songs we all know the words to
the song we've each written verses to
12 bars on each wall of this blue cage that we sing through
For the times we don't fight
For the times that we mean to
For the injustices that steal the peace from our silent nights
For the riotless streets
For thriving inequalities
For microphones and stages still wet with my ego
For the silence I keep
-when the world is listening-
I am sorry
Shake me
from these paralytic dreams
from the cloud of ideas and fantasy
-what is art but a landing?-
Shake me
make me rise up and face the music
climb out of myself and breathe
-what is prayer but respiration?-
Shake me
until my apologies are gone
and your house is full of flowers
and your ears are full of songs
and your heart is filled with this love of mine
your quivering hands shook free
Shake me
until I see beauty in truth
and truth in what we are made to be
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 2:48 AM UTC
Sinbad’s sea-battered ship was
poised on the edge of annihilation,
The Sultan's brow furrowed with curiosity,
then without warning
Scheherazade stilled her narrative
and lived to see the morning sun.
When the moon and stars next owned the sky,
Sinbad was snatched from the jaws of death
then the saga of Prince Kalandar
seized the king's soul with wonder
but Scheherazade left the tale unfinished
and sang with the birds at dawn.
Rimsky-Korsakoff turned the pages at his desk -
consumed by Scheherazade’s charms
then etched his pen across the waiting staves:
The violin must weave her spell once more
and bassoon and oboe take the prince’s part.
Trombone and trumpet led the martial call
and all the rest enlisted for the cause.
Russian bravura fused with the seductive allure
of exotic tunes born of the dust on the silken road.
A sonic whirlwind filled Saint Paul Church,
as winds and tremolos grew to cyclonic force.
A wall of brass completed Kalandar’s tale.
capped by an exuberant clash of cymbal plates.
The silence yielded to tender violins
chanting a hymn to the princess in all her grace.
Tambourine and winds wove a tapestry
of her debonaire and most virtuous prince.
As the final pizzicato chord faded, the Sultan
turned to Scheherazade with tear-filled eyes
and beheld his immortal princess
and she her valiant and eternal prince
and so it would be as long as night preceded dawn.
She kissed away his tears of joy and whispered in his ear,
“My beloved husband, I will tell you stories forever.
Tomorrow you shall learn of the Feast at Baghdad.”
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 11:27 PM UTC
Glad to see you, the ORANGE hatted man said to the YELLOW shirted Person seated in the FULL Reclining Chair, WHICH *By the *way, was ONLY in the Half Back Position. Being in the Half-Back Position allowed the YELLOW shirted Person to respond in Just a Slightly UPLIFTED EYE ANGLE !! And, the ORANGE Hatted man, Peering Down, with Head ***** Gave EACH of them an EQUAL Opposition Eye Angle of 22 Degrees EXACT ! ! Now, to Verify the fact of Equal Opposition, the PROTRACTOR MAN arrived promptly on the scene to Evaluate the Situation.. He (protractor-man) Had , for the Very FIRST-TIME, been especially Called for this HISTORIC Moment . YES,,YES,, For the very "FIRST-TIME" Equal Opposition between an ORANGE hatted man and a YELLOW shirted person, USING the Measurement of "ALL-MEANING", *THAT IS:: "The Protractor of Life"... This Historic moment would forever be Relished by Another Member of THE SOCIETY , BUT it was up to the Assigned Protractor Man to Assure all Interested Parties, That the ANGLE of Exactness was * C O R R E C T ! ! OR....it wouldn't COUNT ! OH DEAR GOD,,"THOUGHT" the assigned Protractor man, Let my Measurements be CORRECT ! ! The ORANGE Hatted man continued to Patiently Peer at the YELLOW shirted person seated in the :HALF-BACK * Position in the Full Reclining Chair.. A Trumpet Blast form a BRONZE Bassoon,, announced the arrival of a SPECIAL LADY ;Fully Gowned in STARTLING PINK AND Glimmering WHITE PEARLS , adorning Her Neck and SUN-KISSED" DIAMONDS flashed from her Fingers. In her Right hand she firmly grasped an envelope. She Careful in her opening ,as if it were a SEVEN-SEALED SCROLL ** Pulled out the PURPLE with GOLD INLAY INSCRIPTION ,"CERTIFICATE OF APPROVAL " FOR THE Magnificent level of ACHIEVEMENT by the ORANGE hatted and YELLOW shirted man ,VERIFIED BY AN "UN-COLORED " PROTRACTOR-MAN" "HEAVENLY" PRAISES AND ACCOLADES FILLED THE AIR** AND A "BOOMING-THUNDERING VOICED" "NOT-EVERYTHING WILL BE IN......."B L A C K & W H I T E " ! !
Dec 13, 2010
Dec 13, 2010 at 3:26 AM UTC
Puce fresnel washed its light on his over sized African patterned dashiki,
while paisley notes poured from his reeded dreams.
Like the Hamelin piper I was mesmerized by hypnotic tones,
every sweet and spicy slur, every bend of every breath,
I followed him down history’s path and heard the world come boldly through.
“You got to keep the magic”, was his advice .
“Don’t give away too much of the theme.”
Through fake fog he swirled his love,
his passion, his calling.
“Summertime”, played on an oboe
is like hot liquid southern summer ***
It crawls up your spine and explodes in your brain,
and you understand the songs meaning without one word sung.
Hundreds of years of vassalage reenacted in every blue colored measure.
This man did not think of himself as a descendant of slavery though.
He was, like all of his brothers of color,
a descendant of great Princes and Kings,
stealthy Hunters and fearless Warriors,
grand Land Owners and Wise Men,
Great Leaders of Peace and Brotherhood,
and he lived out his life as they did,
changing the world one note at a time.
He played the music of all people,
“World Music” it later came to be known.
Listen….he is in the rhythm still.
Wherever there is an ethnicity holding on to their heritage in song.
Wherever there is an indigenous rhythm, a harmony, a feeling……
Yusef is there, and he will be there forever.
*Yesef Lateef
Born October 9, 1920 in Chattanooga, TN
Died December 23, 2013 Shutesburry, MA
Musician, author, spokesman, educator
Instruments: tenor saxophone, flute, oboe, bassoon, bamboo flute, shehnai, shofar, arghul, koto
Recalling a magical night at Stratton Mt.,Vermont, in the winter of 1975 when I opened for Yusef Lateef.*
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 6:21 PM UTC
*you are in the mist, a grey mist
a beautiful coverlet to the eyes of dawn
you’re standing there, in the mist
all the eyelids fall from lunar spark and come to drape on
my beige undoing of graceful bassoon echoes*
in this darkened window frame, I look out
and the beat of life pumps on in the veins of foliage friends
*in the mist, all cities are alive in muffled sounds and reaching sighs
why give up so soon?
why give up.. at all?*
S T – 4 feb 14
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 1:05 PM UTC
There was not much to do down at the zoo
They were all getting bored, wouldn't you?
The keeper was called, we're out of our minds
Help us out, if you'd be so kind
The keeper said, so what can I do?
I'd like to help but give me a clue
Well, said the giraffe it may sound daft
But I've always wanted to play the harp
You know what, said the baboon
I would like a big bassoon
The emu said, I really do feel
A hankering after a glockenspiel
The lemur requested a violin
Certain he'd coax a tune from the thing
The elephants stood all in line
Already they could trumpet in time
The gorilla said he could use his thumb
To bang away on a big bass drum
They all got their wish, it was quite a scene
And proudly they played God Save the Queen
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 6:13 AM UTC
Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, Night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the roses blown.
For a breeze of morning moves,
And the planet of Love is on high,
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
On a bed of daffodil sky,
To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
To faint in his light, and to die.
All night have the roses heard
The flute, violin, bassoon;
All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd
To the dancers dancing in tune:
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.
I said to the lily, "There is but one
With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone?
She is weary of dance and play."
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day;
Low on the sand and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away.
I said to the rose, "The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.
O young lordlover, what sighs are those
For one that will never be thine?
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose,
"For ever and ever, mine."
And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
As the music clash'd in the hall;
And long by the garden lake I stood,
For I heard your rivulet fall
From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,
Our wood, that is dearer than all;
From the meadow your walks have left so sweet
That whenever a March-wind sighs
He sets the jewelprint of your feet
In violets blue as your eyes,
To the woody hollows in which we meet
And the valleys of Paradise.
The slender acacia would not shake
One long milk-bloom on the tree;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
Knowing your promise to me;
The lilies and roses were all awake,
They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.
Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dances are done,
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one;
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,
To the flowers, and be their sun.
There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;"
And the white rose weeps, "She is late;"
The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"
And the lily whispers, "I wait."
She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.
1.6k
TENOR:
My love!
My first bassoon!
The one - who taught me loves sweet tune!
{DRUMS}
GONE! GONE! - GONE! GONE!
TENOR:**
My love!
My sweet La Lune!
She came - and then was lost so soon!
{DRUMS}
GONE! GONE! - GONE! GONE!
SOPRANO:
My love!
My great Maestro!
The one - who taught me all I know!
TENOR:
Why?
Why did she go?
Why did she - L..E..A..V..E... - M..E?
{DRUMS}
GONE! GONE! - GONE! GONE!
BARITONE:
My sweet La Lune! - She plays her tune
Upon a shiny new bassoon!
My sweet La Lune! - She plays for me
Oh such ****** symphony!
{BRASS}
OOM PAH PAH! - OOM PAH PAH!
TENOR:
What's this?
I spy La Lune?
Blowing bassoon - a new c-o-n-d-u-c-t-o-r?
His baton -
She's sat upon!
It seems she's found - a new i-n-s-t-r-u-c-t-o-r!
{DRUMS}
GONE! GONE! - GONE! GONE!
SOPRANO:
My love!
My new found love!
How I adore - your o-r-c-h-e-s-t-r-a-t-i-o-n!
And with -
Your dextrous hands -
You fill me with - a-n-t-i-c-i-p-a-t-i-o-n!
BARITONE:
My love!
My new found love!
You light me up - a shining c-a-n-d-l-e!
And with -
Your dextrous lips -
My baton loves - to feel your H-A-N-D-E-L!
{BRASS}
OOM PAH PAH! - OOM PAH PAH!
TENOR:
The end!
The end is nigh!
And they must die! - There's no denying!
But how -
To pay them back?
For they deceived - me with there l-y-i-n-g!
CHORUS:
The end!
The end is nigh!
And they must die! - There's no denying!
TENOR:
Upon my word - I will make them pay!
Upon my word - they will die THIS DAY!
{TRIANGLE}
TING!
{CURTAINS CLOSE - END OF ACT 1}
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 7:29 AM UTC
Geoffrey Saucer
Siegfried Bassoon
W.B. Yeast
Sylvia Bath Tub
Adrienne Ditch
James Joist
Samuel Bucket
Edgar Allan ***
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 5:10 PM UTC
The bass bassoon is poised
And the penny whistle too
And when the families converge
You hear under the hullabaloo
The sweetest harmony
Absent of cacophony
Because you see
There's one thing that we rely upon
Everyone of us has an eye on
The front man who bears the baton
As he grips our attention
For no matter how long
Directing us as instruments
Of righteous passion.
This is his signature song,
So lead on dear maestro,
Lead on!
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 3:50 PM UTC
Anticipation tiptoes from table to table.
My Jelly Roll Soul
Sets sail for Alice’s rabbit hole.
In front of a hushed, hip crowd,
The music condenses into a scarlet cloud,
And originality speaks aloud.
A trumpet sounds,
A subway car rumbles underground,
Signaling all the cool cats
That it’s time to get down.
A virtuoso teases black and white keys,
Shaping notes with subtle expertise.
The closest I’ve ever seen, man come to mastering machine.
Slowing the frenzied, fractured step of the East Village above,
To E’s. Legato ease.
Optional Z’s
Leave many without sleep,
For who could snooze
At times like these?
The alto-sax
Is bending C’s!
Just listen in, on that wailing bassoon,
Who howls to the moon.
It might be noon,
Up there.
But that’s up a flight of stairs,
And I’m enjoying my jazzy state of affairs.
There will always be time for Nostalgia in Times Square.
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 2:57 PM UTC
does your **** get hard when you hear your own voice
or are you really auditorily jackin off a softie?
chokin on pulls between bottles and bowls
we all know you're full of ****
yellin unfair brackets are the worst of it
come back and talk to me with eyes a little less red
with some stories and quips you haven't beaten so dead
if you're fed up with the honesty then get up and head out
I'll never be stoppin ya
scream and shout as much as you like but somewhere else
cause I'm seconds from droppin ya
an understatement is ever hearing your voice again would be too soon
just the memory is worse than a broken out of tune bassoon
in short I don't hope you end up dead in a fire
but to say I'd be sad would just make me a liar
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 11:56 PM UTC
The music man in my family
Has fingers made of piano keys
I hear his songs
throughout the house
Speaking the language
That bleeds through him
From his father's early
bassoon notes
And mother's late night
flute whispers
And there it is:
The language of the music man
Swirling
Jumping
Freedom sounds
That tinker up the walls
And through the vents
And pipes of our house
All from the piano key fingers
Of our music man.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC
Through the Truffle Umptty trees, cute truffleumps run free.
The smallest local children come along to see, if they can glimpse the truffleumps , go swinging through the truffle trees.
The Truffleumps eat donuts.
They love them so, you see.
The man in the bakery shop.
He makes quite a few.
Some are pink and others blue.
Sometimes, he does green ones.
Other times they're red.
He serves them up with ice cream that is really, really cold.
The baker gets his bassoon out, to tell the truffleumps.
Their donut tea is done.
He hangs them on the Truffleumpty trees.
He doesn't hang them high.
As everybody knows, that truffleumps can't fly.
It's great to capture fresh donuts, as soon as they've been hung.
They're always tasty tea time treats.
Before they go to bed
Everyday at five o clock.
The Trufflelumps get down from their trees.
Waiting for the donuts, which soon will be their tea
They carry wicker baskets, to take their tea away.
Their trufflemummies watch them, as they go collect their tea.
As all good mummies know, it's not safe climbing trees, even if they're bouncing through the branches of their favourite wood.
Happily hunting donuts in the Truffle Umptty trees is really very good.
(c)LIVVI
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 5:47 PM UTC
~°~°~°~
The rosy bride didn't pace the hall,
Nor was there a wedding ball.
No bridesmaids, no flower girls,
Nor did I wear my mothers pearls.
For without the groom,
Playeth not the loud bassoon,
Tis the words that played,
While my heart like thunder relayed.
Melancholy, like Caesar, did I feel,
Piercing eyes, put forth the deal,
Closer to a faint, did I reel,
And like Calpurnia, I now kneel.
Hoping you'll read this through,
Hardly ebbing the feelings, I grew.
~°~°~°~
Commit I, what I detest,
& leave you culprit, like in Gone Girl.
Painful thoughts, my mind did protest,
To new ventures, it would whirl.
A letter of love & apology,
on the very last day.
bearing, like Juliet's analogy,
Concealed beneath the fray.
'What ifs' sadly got the better,
But letter, tis the right way!
Or so I thought, while my mind did fetter,
To take action, a letter will I lay...
Sans number or address,
To test you, cuz love finds a way.
But this too, did I redress,
The masts somewhere else will sway.
"Don't be so hard on him,
Leave your number deep within."
"No, no, that'll make him dim,
give not even the pin."
Yet another did say,
"Leave clues, in & out,
work em woe till the gray."
These nasty devils dashed about.
~°~°~°~
At last did I none,
But write this terrific pun.
I know you know what I did
last summer. That has rid,
All that went on for the past 3 years?
Reality had become my fears,
Alas you believe the deed is done,
But you're right, you weren't the one.
If you had the patience,
To read this till the end.
Sans showing indifference,
Gratitude, I do extend.
By now, far away I'll be,
If Shrek could reach, so could you to me,
But there's a reason, it's a fantasy.
So goodbye, cuz I see,
Life has bigger plans for me.
~°~°~°~
Jan 5, 2021
Jan 5, 2021 at 2:28 AM UTC
Music is so much more
Than just rhythms on a page because
I can hear the bass in someone's chest
Or jazz in their laughter
And I can find music
In the way people's voices rise and fall
Or the sound of their lungs
The low trill that comes from the smugness in someone's voice
Or the fast strings of someone panicking
Some people sound like a piano, smooth and quiet
While others sound like the thunder of the brass,
Unable to be missed, but capable of tender moments
Because no one is less than an orchestrated piece
No one notices the subtle parts at first,
Like the vibrato in the solo of their thoughts
Or the sudden accelerando of passion and arguments
The forte pianos of being tired of fighting
Or the single flute of absolute euphoria
But when you return again and again
You fall in love with the way
Words seem to rise from their feet and wash over you like fog,
like a bassoon
Or the quickly improvised comments that fills you with a sense of warmth and safety
play with the strings of your heart like a saxophone
Because nothing compares to noticing the people
Who are made up of nothing else but music
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 11:24 PM UTC
the din of one thousand plus
audience members is displaced
as the concertmaster clip-clops
from stage right to center
a fusion of brass and strings
begins its call-to-order by
the woman charged with
bringing chaos to hundreds
of orchestral voices -
a boisterous parade of
timpani vs. flute vs.
bassoon vs. viola
then - silence - then
a moment of expectation -
she enters smiling with
baton under her arm
applause from the low
seats of the orchestra to
the heights of the highest
balconies
she mounts the rostrum -
a penguinesque black-
striped uniform topped
by a bob of dark curls
a moment of silence from
the musicians - her hand
points the baton to the
sky - and strikes the air
with the sweep of authority -
a blend of sounds causing
heartbeats to still -
allegro ma non troppo
© Lewis Bosworth, 2018
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 2:51 AM UTC
CFM. (Adult)
5 January 2022
Hunger-wearing-black-booted-
Midnight-shadow-street-corner-blue-
Bartender-bassoon-smooth-wailing-horn,
Tonight pull me while I'm burner-raw-torn.
Desiccate-night-thirst wake me. Tease.
Moon CFM drown me, break me.
Roaming-desert-music, seize me.
Viola-tight-throat-hum-love, sting!
Tonight no hope, I need to sing.
Jan 5, 2022
Jan 5, 2022 at 11:43 AM UTC
Watching the truffleumps down by the sea,
With their mommies and daddies, they're running free.
Having fun.
They love to play.
They wore swimming suits made from green string and lace.
The brightest thing on their bodies was the smile on their face.
They paddled in rock pools.
Fished for wriggly shrimps.
They put them in buckets made out of bright yellow plastic.
Those truffleump imps.
Just by the water, mom saw some bright fish.
The truffleumps went in for a swim.They put the shrimps back in their pool.
To take them home would be unkind.
The sound of the bassoon whistled out.
Telling the truffleumps, it's soon time for tea.
They picked up their towels and buckets and spades.
Home they went, drinking pink lemonade.
Past the houses.
Past the shops.
For today the truffleump day stops.
The truffleumpty trees were loaded with donuts.
So mom, dad and truffleumps got off the bus.
Baskets filled up with donuts for tea.
Heading home they go at the end of the day.
(C) LIVVI
Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 7:12 AM UTC
I've only imagined where I'd go were the skies to open up
Magical, and time to be metered
Only in metrical or musical
Timbre what bassoon might be heard when and if
Flutes bass drums human voices
Joined into that chorus of
Nature resounding unheard
On the distance in the forests
On sunrises in flowers
In the eyes of the forlorn
The starving bellies
Of the deserts
In that mass of culled voices
Written on papers buried
In libraries in educated
***** on leather desks in the
Remotest abscesses where the hurt cannot reach or on
Wool carpets decorated
Florals instead of the marvels God
Sent created made us in
Oh I cry loud
I cry at top of my lungs ability
Wake me up
Cry cry
Sound out
Poets
Those with more than
My abilities.
The time is
Now.
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 3:56 AM UTC
My heart is a bassoon
once I've tackled it
to the ground, oboe
in my good hand
As a battering ram
A morning star
A mace
A flail
Nary more a tune
My heart is a bassoon!
got it now? It waits
to fill up every room
"Water always finds
It's own level" or so they
say and if my heart were
full of water I wouldn't
have a clue what they
mean by that anyway
My heart is a *********
bassoon and if I were to
put it in the bath it would
ruin it
Jan 29, 2019
Jan 29, 2019 at 3:52 PM UTC
I've been waiting at my gate,
waiting, just waiting. I've
been waiting so long with
my music and songs, the
cello and bassoon.
Many years have elapsed.
Will there be your coming
ever? Some question. I
gaze on. Far away is
the blue sky line.
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 6:48 PM UTC