"composers" poems
You laugh
Angels weep out of jealousy
Devils have no single conspiracy
Demons dancing in harmony
Men hearts go broken with no remedy
Women eyes tearing continuously
Violins break out of envy terribly
Composers have no more creativity
Music plays with no melody
Silence starts listening joyfully
Happiness laughters left in agony
Beautiful words describe nothing but misery
Tulip flowers become colorless shamefully
Believers lose their faith immediately
Infidels drop their convictions instantly
Hearts start beating rapidly
Lungs oxygenating quickly
Living ones laying listening carefully
The dead come back miraculously
--Hisham Alshaikh
Jul 13, 2018
Jul 13, 2018 at 10:24 AM UTC
I can remember starving in a
small room in a strange city
shades pulled down, listening to
classical music
I was young I was so young it hurt like a knife
inside
because there was no alternative except to hide as long
as possible--
not in self-pity but with dismay at my limited chance:
trying to connect.
the old composers -- Mozart, Bach, Beethoven,
Brahms were the only ones who spoke to me and
they were dead.
finally, starved and beaten, I had to go into
the streets to be interviewed for low-paying and
monotonous
jobs
by strange men behind desks
men without eyes men without faces
who would take away my hours
break them
**** on them.
now I work for the editors the readers the
critics
but still hang around and drink with
Mozart, Bach, Brahms and the
Bee
some buddies
some men
sometimes all we need to be able to continue alone
are the dead
rattling the walls
that close us in.
11.2k
~the heart of (the) matter~
~~~~~~
an essential phrase,
that concentrates the
instincts not to sway
away,
be focused
on, by the always present
algorithm of the
essences
but my version preferred
is that
"the heart of matter"
with skill and effort,
one can learn, to shoot
arrows honed to be near
an-almost-bullseye every time
but to understand that
the heart
is matter,
the mother
of our body parts,
the little engine that could,
can and does,
and asks only
refresh it with
fresh blue blood,
every second
(not to much to ask for)
what are/is the sinews of the heart?
what are its secreted corpuscular (1)
composed of?
why words, you silly!
each beat, a letter,
the heart doth register
its creativity incessant,
never ceasing to rest
for composition is its goal,
to sing to write, to weep
from pleasured thoughts
and deepest fright,
and you say you need inspiration?
then listen to your writing vibrations that from thy center
emanate, you who toil laboriously
when all that matters is the matter,
the wonderful matter of
who when where and why
that chatterbox in your body
never ever pauses
***and that is why in the matter of god,
have no doubts
only a god could have conceived
of a world of billions of composers
where each one of us
matters***…
5:19am Wed Sep 10
Sep 12, 2025
Sep 12, 2025 at 5:59 AM UTC
Take me to Vienna where the music walks.
Where the buildings invite you to sit,
And accompany them for a cup of melange.
Where the many palace gardens have jovial pique-niques,
With their bikes resting by the trees.
Take me to Vienna where life ebbs out
Where the past lives on,
And composers wave out the windows.
Take me to Klimt's golden city,
The city where even the grey Donau is welcoming.
Take me to Vienna and don't take me back.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 3:05 AM UTC
She wears t-shirts of the Beatles
And she loves the Rolling Stones
She wakes up to David Bowie
And she dreams of the Ramones
She goes out to dance clubs nightly
Till her ear drums both get blown
But, she has a deep dark secret
That her friends will never know
At night when she is by herself
When the room is nice and dark
She slips beneath the covers
With Johann Sebastian Bach
She's a closet classic ******
And her name is Amber Clark
She just loves orchestral music
The rock and roll is just a lark
Her friends think something classical
Is something for your folks
They cannot play an instrument
They cannot read the notes
They think that chamber music is
What people play on boats
But she has a deep dark secret
She loves the stuff that Chopin wrote
At night when she is by herself
And her friends have gotten ******
She slips beneath the covers
And she listens to some Liszt
She listens to it many times
In case there's things she's missed
She's a closet classic ******
She has "Baroque" upon her wrist
She listens to the music
That her friends like to be cool
If she told them what she listens to
They'd laugh her out of school
So, when they go out clubbing
She will join them as a rule
But...ah that deep dark secret
This girl is no ones fool
She listens to Beethoven
And she knows each piece by heart
She knows where one bar ends
And another one will start
She can play most every instrument
And she knows most every part
She's a classic closet ******
But she still knows Boyce and Hart
She has cds in her library
And most sit there untouched
When her friends are gone they don't get played
She doesn't like them much
She would rather hear a symphony
By a composter who was Dutch
But there's that deep dark secret
And she won't use it a crutch
At night when she is warm in bed
She listens to Mozart
She needs a little Nacht Musique
To open up her heart
It's a piece that sets her mind a blaze
It hits her like a dart
She's a closet classic ******
And she keeps her worlds apart
By day she sings Bruce Springsteen
At night she listens to
Composers that her friends don't know
They're so old they're new
So she keeps her world a secret
For she knows what they would do
If they found she didn't know
Where were you in sixty two
But at night she is a ******
And she listens to Mozart
She needs that piece of music
To shoot an arrow through her heart
Eine Kleine Nachmusic
She conducts every part
She's our Closet Classic ******
shhh.....the song's about to start...
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 11:35 AM UTC
tonight I will bleed out the defintion between us
tonight I will leak like the ocean in between every grain of sand
tonight I will break my body in all the pieces
tommorow I will leave you
tommorow I will make every vertabra in your back shake
tommorow I will sweep you into my mind
and drench you out thinking about my sleepless night
yesterday I held you
yesterday I blushed when you came to kiss my cheek
yesterday I listened to your heart sing under your skin
yesterday I felt you in my stomach
yesterday you were my favorite song played by the ancestors
of all the greatest composers
yesterday you were the art of my life
and the cleanliness in my heart
yesterday I invisioned a picture of you and me
and a small soul between us, a painted mixture of you and I
yesterday you were the bone in my fingers
that helped me write soft things
now your the rapture in my heart
and the fire burning my wings
Aug 7, 2011
Aug 7, 2011 at 9:04 PM UTC
Why is it that Poetry has never yet been subjected to that process of Dilution which has proved so advantageous to her sister-art Music? The Diluter gives us first a few notes of some well-known Air, then a dozen bars of his own, then a few more notes of the Air, and so on alternately: thus saving the listener, if not from all risk of recognising the melody at all, at least from the too-exciting transports which it might produce in a more concentrated form. The process is termed "setting" by Composers, and any one, that has ever experienced the emotion of being unexpectedly set down in a heap of mortar, will recognise the truthfulness of this happy phrase.
For truly, just as the genuine Epicure lingers lovingly over a
morsel of supreme Venison - whose every fibre seems to murmur "Excelsior!" - yet swallows, ere returning to the toothsome dainty, great mouthfuls of oatmeal-porridge and winkles: and just as the perfect Connoisseur in Claret permits himself but one delicate sip, and then tosses off a pint or more of boarding-school beer: so also -
I NEVER loved a dear Gazelle -
NOR ANYTHING THAT COST ME MUCH:
HIGH PRICES PROFIT THOSE WHO SELL,
BUT WHY SHOULD I BE FOND OF SUCH?
To glad me with his soft black eye
MY SON COMES TROTTING HOME FROM SCHOOL;
HE'S HAD A FIGHT BUT CAN'T TELL WHY -
HE ALWAYS WAS A LITTLE FOOL!
But, when he came to know me well,
HE KICKED ME OUT, HER TESTY SIRE:
AND WHEN I STAINED MY HAIR, THAT BELLE
MIGHT NOTE THE CHANGE, AND THUS ADMIRE
And love me, it was sure to dye
A MUDDY GREEN OR STARING BLUE:
WHILST ONE MIGHT TRACE, WITH HALF AN EYE,
THE STILL TRIUMPHANT CARROT THROUGH.
2.6k
there's music
that makes you see
more *****
and then there's music
that lets you see... other... things.
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 4:27 PM UTC
We are musical notes
Drifting as waves through the air.
Each of us has a unique rhythm,
A different beat.
We are nothing more than melodies,
Penetrating the ears of those we love.
And your melody is beautiful.
It moves me across the floor
As I dance,
Spinning and pirouetting through voids of happiness.
Your breath is the voice of a bluebird,
Your heart the gentle beating of the drums,
Your ribs the strings of a guitar
And your eyes wilful composers.
You are the song I can't stop singing.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 10:23 AM UTC
Rainy summer day,
storming actually
The kind of day that made you want to crawl under the covers and forget yourself
drift off to sleep
Still
despite the navy skies
It was still summer
summer means peaches
big ones, bursting, dripping
honey nectar and sunshine
so we make a peach pie
cinammon and sugar sticking to our fingers like slow molasses
underscored by the constant drip, slip, flooding
arranging produce like composers
and we waited
we waited for the pie to bake
we waited for the crust to crisp, for the sugars to melt,
for the peaches to ripen, to brown and butter
we waited for the rain to stop
we waited for sunshine, for dry shoes, for beach days, powerlines
we waited for hours
we waited for months
we waited eighteen years
we sat, and we stood, and we waited.
We sat in front of the oven
eyes pressed against the window
we waited
watched the sugars bubble, the scented cloves
we were two years old and one hundred at the same time
we waited for the kind of lives that we saw in movies
the kinds of dreams you wanted so bad it hurt
we waited with stomachs churning
wasting our youth, one rainy afternoon at a time
waiting for life to begin
Rainy summer day,
storming actually
The kind of day that made you want to crawl under the covers and forget yourself
forget about the peaches
forget about summer, about friends,
about anyone and anything
drift off to sleep
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 9:28 PM UTC
Flesh on flesh. Eyes watch eyes
Following fingers round curvatures. Caressing skin.
Skin on skin. Flesh in flesh.
A gin-sung-dream –
Silent utterances from the dark-side of a candlestick.
An unsung overture to Nature’s greatest gift
And Nature’s perfect curse.
Lips pursed open, speechless. Breathless.
Wide-white eyes scream STOP. blink. GO ON.
Glances flash between the flickers of candlelight ,
Meeting unknown looks in the black. Bodies
Embrace, writing words that have their own
Music. Heard only by its two composers.
Everywhere the other wishes to be –
Vivacity. Revelling in promiscuity.
Obscurity. Strangers share a warmth
As old as the ages.
A wafer-thin knife-edge of meaning.
Gin-song dreaming. An opaque tonic
For loneliness.
Hands in hands, heart fleeting.
The perfect curse of Man
In the stroking of skin.
Later, a vague sound of water, a towel
A drawer closing – a door latch clicks.
The world floods back.
Through the curtains,
Through the drainpipes
Your fleeting heart sheepishly returns,
Aching like a hangover.
Too much gin.
The momentary tonic wears off.
Heart in hand,
Hand to head.
Candlelit premonitions return.
Heated flesh. Arching backs.
Fingers through hair…
Salty fingers through oily hair and
Blood-red-wine lipstick smudges and
A singeing waxy smell makes you reel
To the window for air.
And there you are again,
In the middle of a city that knows you
More than your Alcoholic Lover,
A Melancholic Mother to all your needs,
Except the one you tried to soothe
A few hours back.
The one you pine for.
The one you lack.
Oh, this Humdrum City
Rushing you, with your heart in your hand, off your feet.
And your heart in the street
And the gin in your glass
Whenever you meet
Whoever it is that might
Make you complete…
A vague sound of water, a towel,
A candle extinguished, a door hinge creeks.
Wafer-thin. Flesh on flesh.
A belt buckle rings, a zip
A drawer closing, a door latch clicks.
The door latch clicks.
The door latch clicks.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 2:25 PM UTC
*i've become as lazy as composers
when writing titles,
example of tautology is as lazy
as beethoven's ninth symphony...
yeah, grand... but what a dull title!*
so i was reading this article
about bim adewunmi
about the singer laura mvula...
and you know how it goes...
leftist liberals tend to write
tautological spaghetti,
likened to bim's example:
'short-haired, dark-skinned
black girl', bim, we get it...
could have said rancid cinnamon
for all i care...
tautology is a logic of adding
more salt than the salt required
so it doesn't taste too salty when it
does... i could also proof-read
other journalists...
restaurant critics are the best laughs,
esp. when reshuffled like
a ****** cabinet of the labour party
to the opinion columns...
then it's not called opinions section
but table talk... a bit like saying:
do i woo the sea back into this oyster
before i gulp-down-the-hatch-it?
well what do you expect,
free democracy and subsequently
free journalism has a judas kiss /
brutus stab at everything,
why not laugh at it as a useless
get up in the morning read a newspaper
be pulverised by stories from kingdoms
far far away and opinions of people
who'd send ******** dubbed
soldiers off to the slaughter fields of Flanders
so they can keep erectile egos ready
for a salary readied...
journalists always divert the heat & fire
to the politicians... while
journalists get away with satirising themselves,
and i dare say, they are the clumsiest
satirists of themselves,
the most wonky ready to dismantle itself
noumenons in existence.
- journalist: huh?
- the public - (elvis') aha uh um (frolicking
without the stiff upper lip).
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 7:50 AM UTC
You owe me nothing but to breathe.
To remember how I tore my heart in
Two rendering a
Blood Eagle to stretch its wings and
Tickle our souls with its sticky feathers.
When I think of us, I see us as we were.
Other people than now.
Memories framing themselves like a
Fantastic painting the artist
Stepped back to admire, then died.
*Hang me. Hang me before i hang
Myself.*
Dramatically opposed to drama.
Uninterested infatuation.
Broke billionaire.
Mortal gods shaking divine hands
With decomposing composers,
Thanking them for the silence.
We were lovers and enemies, and
I'd still give my life and afterlife to
See you worship another as if I
Never left a fingerprint on this
Planet; resting as safely in arms that
Love you unendingly,
As we all lie sleeping; dreaming
In our own, stronger arms,
Forgetting that even our loving
Is imaginary.
Death is awakening.
Rubbing the
Eyes of our souls and yawning,
We look up and smile at that which
All of this is a bleak and fleeting
Shadow of.
Plato knew.
When I wish to die, I do too.
This love is not Love.
It's all mud and air.
You owe me nothing but to breathe.
Oct 20, 2016
Oct 20, 2016 at 1:25 PM UTC
washing on the shores,
the rustling winds in
the palms, the caws
of birds and scuttling
of ***** the silence
in the mornings, and
the quiet in the night
echoing, soothing,
playing, evolving
the sounds of the ocean
sound like some ancient
composers song
there is life in this music
human life, animal life,
plant life, sea life, life
of the air, life of the
earth, life of the tiny
and life of the big
we feel it more than we
hear it
and we smile
the bass hum of the trees
the melody of the seagulls
the harmony of the wind
the crescendos of the waves
it is the song of the sea
the music of the ocean
the soundtrack of life
I feel my muscles unclench
and relax
Apr 3, 2011
Apr 3, 2011 at 5:49 AM UTC
Poets, composers and writers we are
Looking to convey happiness and perhaps scars
From hope to love and death and sorrow
Expressive lines filled with feelings of tomorrow
Some may be long
And others short
Some may even contain our deepest thoughts
Therapeutic and knowledgeable
And some worrying too
Our verses can also uplift the most saddest of moods
Inspired words as well as our own notes
Sometimes with or without double quotes
Eagerly penning our lives away
Sometimes to feel and sometimes to keep those monsters at bay
Exhilarating, freedom, the release of pressure
Making us feel new or sometimes fresher
Love for words and thoughts equally
Some of us are novices and others literarys
Imaginative and creative is what we are
Aiming to reach the faintest of stars
Lyrical, rhythmic and sometimes wordy
Our heartbeats race as we become sturdy
Promoting our poems through lists and sites
Making good friends with critics who help us to seek new heights
Poets, composers and writers we are
appreciating others for their talent by far!
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 5:06 PM UTC
In the morning
before the day gets too distracting
your piano’s at its very best.
Say Hello! to it with a scale or two.
Nothing quite like the harmonic minor
(in contrary motion – 3 octaves please)
to get its hammers hammering,
the pedals pedalling, and those
black and white keys
to skip under your fingers.
Bach today or shall it be Brahms?
Gershwin maybe, or just a little Grieg?
No matter what, they’re all your friends.
Nice people composers, no trouble to anyone.
All they do all day is sit in their studios
and dream about music.
Sometimes they write it down,
carefully,
measuring every note and rhythm
for your piano to play
before the day gets too distracting.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 2:07 AM UTC
Autumnal joy floats on the wind: it blows
A woodwind section through the buzzing leaves,
And gently rattles red arpeggios
That harmonise with mournful semibreves
Of ageing branches creaking in the breeze.
The forest spirits collectively moan.
Without the crunch of thund’rous symphonies
The rain can ****** on a xylophone:
The surface of a hidden woodland pond
Where all the stepping stones are so arranged
As keys of limestone next to keys of slate.
And all around the silence is estranged
And till the snow of winter has to wait.
We wave our sticks at where the air has thinned
And call ourselves composers of the wind.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 3:58 PM UTC
There are times when writings is useless.
When the similes go on for too long like when the ocean merges with the sky and your eyes cannot the define the boundary between each crystalline blue and it is almost sublime because there is no end or no beginning and that is what I think of you. Infinite
There are times when art is not enough.
Like those times I cannot make the right mixture of the hue of that lovely tint in your eyes and, of course, not matter how many times I trace you in the canvas those lips like rose petals will never move and say "Me too."
There are times when music is lacking.
How you remind me of a melody each and every single time I see you and despite trying to trap the melody in these useless music sheets nothing comes but a few missing music notes that birds and composers have not and will not fathom.
But if I could write you down in paper,
I'd let the words scramble away once more because the free verse of your world intrigues me further more than finite verses on washed out paper.
If I could paint your essence,
Life would be a monochrome film,no more technicolour, no more blushing cheeks. I like you much more in this everlasting landscape where you can dye the world a million colours and still search forevermore
If I could play you in to melody,
The poor birds would be envious and the world would be a quiet place without composers able to eclipse that lovely song of yours. And yet, I love this cacophonous world in which everyone is deaf to you but I who can discern such a faint, dainty tune.
There are those times, you know?
When I know I'm not good enough but if I could, I still would not.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 12:24 AM UTC
This Boyhood’s End
was mine too, but
through its music’s dance,
not just Hudson’s farewell to a natural world
of exotic flowers and flocks of birds
on the great plains of the pampas.
In Tippett’s suite of songs I first found
that ecstasy of word-rhythm wedded
to melodic contour held in place
by a singer’s voice, and a pianist’s touch
of harmony grafted from a play of parts.
Sitting on my bedroom floor
ear close to the gramophone,
thirteen and already enamored,
I listened over and again to this cantata
that has for so long held the key
to the very door of music . . .
Music may be a notion like ‘God’ or ‘love’.
Everyone identifies with it,
but it is composers who live to fathom
its depths and sound out its mystery.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 3:11 PM UTC
We did really well this time.
It was the longest we'd gone
without one of us messing it up—
I was proud.
But now I've decided
these record-breaking few months
should really be the nice note
that we end on.
Cause both of us are performers,
not composers,
and we can play the parts just fine,
but as soon as the background music falters
and it's our turn to take charge,
and use the opportunity to shine,
we falter, too, and back out of
the spotlight that's begging us to take a chance.
So it's the last time
that I'm running backstage.
I'm seizing this chance
to conduct for once,
and I'm getting the feeling
you're just waiting for the song to end too.
...................................................................................
Don't worry.
The decrescendo will be as fast as possible.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 11:18 AM UTC
TIME has so much power and say on our day to day.
It tells us if we are early or late.
If we should be hired or fired.
Determines if we're morally correct or socially incorrect.
Our definition of TIME is far from perfect.
TIME is a song that has your radio station infected.
Can't change the station, can't escape it.
"Ugh! I hate this song!!!" singing along
We are the dysfunctional orchestra,
the composers of this catchy tune.
Composed by the abused watches we wear,
the guilty murderer clocks we hang on our walls
and by our notorious digital clocks in our phones.
Our favorite dance partner is 'Father Time'.
Dancing to the ticking and tocking.
Grooving at the speed of gears turning.
Steady rhythm; never speeding or slowing.
TIME does not exist, TIME keeping does. Oh silly humans......
measuring something that does NOT exist.
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 10:53 PM UTC
I remember the day when love you'd say
Embrace me and take me to the place
where we'd both engage... In love filling the dull and pale page
Inspiring the knowledge of an ancient omniscient sage
I remember the scent that showered my senses
I remember the nuzzle and the puzzling glare
When you'd stare wondering if I would stay
and from this buzz magic we shared
And laying you on my lap studying your soul's map
Searching for the destination of your heart
healing the wounds along the way where the wolves marked
Will I ever succeed mending a broken heart? I wondered.
So many pieces didn't seem to fit
How do you survive going about as a wreck?
I guess you go on for there is ever someone next
Oh! Only leaving you more lonely
Your heart crying: "Somebody hold me,
Burn the sour of my throat that chokes me"
And honesty and loyalty you know no more
Only a cognitive matrix that has you feel like *****
You lost the battles but won the war
You are the monster of your love sore
The pieces leave wounds unrepairable and
inspires a behaviour unbearable
Leaving you in dramatic peril
But love you still have
Settling you know not, always quick to dance
but so many malevolent composers are there
Can you please them all?
Will they sit beside you on your bed after *** or leave and close the door?
A sham a shame, who to blame?!
Once red, now a black broken rose
squandering pink minnows
Sweet cheerio! And money band
Heart of gold and hands of sand
Will you ever find form?
Will you ever heal from the storm?
I hope the poetry of the moments keeps you warm.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 5:49 AM UTC
i close my eyes
my favorite classical slowly fades out
my eyelids move violently
i picture myself rocking back and forth
hands folded
as I secretly listen to the music
my hands move with the sound of the violin
my feet move with the sound of the piano
and my heart soars with the composers
i try to open my eyes
i'm not rocking
my hands are still folded, tightly, stiff it seems now
my heart is still underground
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 5:46 PM UTC
I remember that when I was young
A bunch of Insects taught me All I Need,
The Walrus showed me my Imagination,
And a couple Stones gave me Satisfaction.
Three Idiots Held My Heart Like a Grenade,
And Thnks go to a cartoon for giving a band its name.
My good friend Jimi led me through the Haze,
And the words of a Pie dropped me into a maze.
Old Blue Eyes was with Apollo when it Flew to the Moon,
And the Cops sang of a set of colored Eyes too.
Now, lets not forget those old composers,
And the Sweet Children who filled our Guns with Roses.
The King of Rock said Only Fools Rush In,
The Queen said Champions Fight ‘Til The End
The Prince played his guitar like a god,
And the Jester’s voice was a little odd.
Those surfer Boys sang about Vibrations,
While the Lizard King expressed his Fiery intentions.
Mr. White was always there to set the mood,
And Mr. Brown explained how to Feel Good.
Ms. Franklin taught me how to spell,
Mrs. Robinson got me out of hell,
Ms. Perry’s figure was like a Dream,
And Mrs. Ross still reins Supreme.
One blind man sang of his home in Georgia,
And another was Superstitious.
A guy named Ozzy served as my conductor
As I looked out at the Smoke on the Water.
Michael danced like no one else,
And Kurt rebelled against life itself.
Cocker left the stage with nothing left to give,
And it was music that taught me how to live.
Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 3:14 PM UTC