"fiddler" poems
A most pious man
whose well-tempered music
brushed the cobwebs
from the throne of God
Evolution was made manifest
across deep time
these lyrical figures
achieve the same purpose
in the space between the morning star
and the dawn
A fallow field
is sewn with pearls
a moonlit beach
illuminated by shadow
every scrape of the fiddler's bow
merges mind with the present
harvests the meaning
in the moment
The composer
that good man
was
for a time
church organist at St. John's
its notable steeple leaning
all askew
as a rebuke against God
or perhaps the drunken architect
A finger of candlelight
plays across the manuscript
a fugue echoes
through the still church
And though no living person
on that still winter's night
shares the organist's solemn delight
the stirring mass of possibility
that is posterity
awaits
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 5:49 PM UTC
"Then we will have tonight!" we said.
"Tomorrow--may we not be dead?"
The morrow touched our eyes, and found
Us walking firm above the ground,
Our pulses quick, our blood alight.
Tomorrow's gone--we'll have tonight!
4.9k
I remember walking up
to the Fiddler on the Roof audition
when I was fourteen years old
alone, feeling very unstoppable and confident
and then hiding behind the big trashcan
in the foyer of the auditorium
As they repeatedly called my name.
If you want something
throw it away.
I remember getting a *******
from a purring cat
in the dark
in a dumpster
behind a ***** bar.
If you love something
throw it away.
I remember buying you lingerie
and ripping it off of you
not even two hours later.
If you love someone
throw them away.
I remember seeing you
wear my shirts after ***
and how undescribably gorgeous
you looked then, glowing
and I thought about callling you
the other day to ask for them back
but then I realized:
If you loved in something
throw it away.
Nov 4, 2011
Nov 4, 2011 at 3:59 PM UTC
Inside the Rainbow Forest
Where unicorns are born,
And fairy dust floats on the air
From sundown until dawn,
There dwells in royal splendour
Yet very rarely seen,
The king of all the pixies
With his pretty pixie queen.
His palace is a mushroom
As tall as any tree,
With bright red spots upon it
That will make you squeal with glee.
A winding golden staircase
Stretches to the very top,
In a mesmerizing spiral
That you think will never stop.
All those brave enough to climb it
Would soon chance upon a door,
With the most enormous knocker
That you really ever saw.
One hard tap summons the butler,
A polite and friendly gnome,
Serving tea and fondant fancies
That will make you feel at home.
Through a maze of vaulted chambers
Each more lavish than the last,
Passing walls lined with the portraits
Of kings from the distant past,
That dear gnome shall gently guide you,
With much merriment and song,
To the Great Hall of his master
Who resides there all day long.
From beneath a silver archway
Set with precious gems galore,
You will enter to the fanfare
Of ten trumpets, maybe more.
Dainty apple blossom petals
Shall be scattered at your feet,
As you bow your head in homage
To the king you are to meet.
With a heart bursting with wonder
You will hastily be brought,
To the throne of his most highness
Far across the royal court,
Threading through the marble towers
Of an ornate colonnade,
And a troupe of prancing dragons
With their riders on parade.
Seated high upon a pumpkin
In a matching orange gown,
Curly shoes of bright green velvet
And an elderflower crown,
The king shall bid you welcome
With a beaming toothy grin,
As he beckons to the minstrel
For the music to begin.
With his beard like cotton candy
Waving wildly in the air,
As he slides down to embrace you
From atop his lofty chair,
Both your arms shall link together
To the fiddler's merry tune,
Clicking heels and laughing loudly
As you skip around the room.
In the magic of the moment
You will give yourself to fun,
As the mischief making monarch
Tweaks your ears and cracks a pun,
All those cares your heart now carries
Shall dissolve and simply be
Lost in wondrous celebration
Of a pixie jamboree!
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 6:38 PM UTC
I am a Fiddler on the Roof.
Someone like me is rare.
Daring enough to put my life on the line,
Make my presence known and there.
But I am a villager.
A mama nonetheless.
I get my hair pulled out,
My heart pulled out.
Then I have to clean the mess.
The Russians!
They torture us with
Pogroms and demonstrations.
The Constable their leader
In conquering many nations.
My soul is the Fiddler.
A simple sound happy on its own.
My love is whats keeping me on the roof.
I wants to grow and grow.
A villager and a Russian.
That is what I want, why I was sent.
Arm in arm with the Constable.
Happy to life´s end.
I can change things.
I am a Fiddler on the Roof.
Ready to change tradition!!!!
Feb 22, 2018
Feb 22, 2018 at 10:14 AM UTC
Strolling down the dusty road
I reached the path of an abode.
The Black Shamrock an Irish pub
I stopped inside for a pint mug.
One mug topped off with ale
That next to Guiness Stout
Looked pale, A Pilsner in the glass.
And down the bar a drunken fool
Sat staring with blurred eyes and drool.
A sassy colleen tended the bar.
And if your hands were free,
They wouldn't get far, for
If they reach to the wrong place.
You'ld a bar wenches Slap.
Across your face, and a spot of red
For all to see, that you got the Hand.
Of Molly McGee, a fiddler Bowed.
An Irish Jig, and a penny whistle.
Carried the tune to the drunken crowd
Within the room, a game of darts is made
While cribbage by old farts is played.
And the pints are emptied by the hour.
As the clock rings out in the churches tower
As drunks are Roused, and doors are closed
Old friends will stumble down the road.
All in an Irish night
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 5:17 AM UTC
WHEN I play on my fiddle in Dooney.
Folk dance like a wave of the sea;
My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet,
My brother in Mocharabuiee.
I passed my brother and cousin:
They read in their books of prayer;
I read in my book of songs
I bought at the Sligo fair.
When we come at the end of time
To Peter sitting in state,
He will smile on the three old spirits,
But call me first through the gate;
For the good are always the merry,
Save by an evil chance,
And the merry love the fiddle,
And the merry love to dance:
And when the folk there spy me,
They will all come up to me,
With "Here is the fiddler of Dooney!"
And dance like a wave of the sea.
2.9k
He's a bit of a diddeler
but more of a fiddler
as he scampers about the shoreline
He's a bit of a digger
and fast as a trigger
try to catch one, I tell you it's hard
He's a real survivor
a deep sea diver
when food is scarce on the beach
He never looks bored
shaking that extra large claw
I hope he's not looking for a fight
oh fiddle de de
please come to me
my fast footed friend, fiddler crab.
By Christos Andreas Kourtis
By NeonSolaris
© 2008 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 4:22 PM UTC
Last night I watched in silence
At the end of the road in forest deep
I hid amongst the trees watching in awe
As gypsies dance while others sleep
Under the violet hue of evening sky
Haloed by evening's golden moon
I watched gypsies dance and sing
As flames from bonfires leaped high in the air
Dark haired women in shawls and beads
Happily dancing and twirling without care
Casting their spells of magic and enchantment
Performing their honeyed seductions
Blended with aphrodisiacs of scent and sound
Gypsy men with kerchiefs around their necks
Hoops of silver adorning their ears, singing joyful songs
Children laughing, dogs barking
As if they’re singing right along
Oh, I so wanted to join them as I stood watching in awe
Envious was I of their freedom and joy
Caravans painted in bright images and colors
Tambourines jingling as velvet shadows danced in the night
Skirts swirling, gold and silver bangles on their arms
Dancing 'round the bonfire's fiery light
Accordions singing, with happy notes from a fiddler's bow
As they sang and danced barefoot under evening moon
In the coming dawn once again...
It will be time for them to pack and move on
With a last meal served...
The caravans are readied to make another journey long
"Gather yourself up gypsy girls
Wonderful as it may seem…
A gypsies’ life is never their own
Time to move on
Time to find another home
You must have gypsy blood
In order to survive"
As their wagons move along dusty trails
They'll be looking for a place to camp
A place to call home... at least for awhile
A place to hang their colored paper lamps
Until...
Suddenly- a cry rings out
"Stop the wagons, ring the bells
We've found the perfect place
The perfect place for magic spells
Tomorrow brings a brand new day!
Let's feast, dance and make merry
Come on let's get things underway"
And so...
The journey goes on
And never ends!
"Gather yourself up gypsy girls
Wonderful as it may seem…
A gypsies’ life is never their own
Time to move on, time to leave
Time to find another home
You must have gypsy blood
In order to survive"
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 6:17 PM UTC
*Winter, tricky entrapper,
cozy cuddler, night fiddler
nuzzler, tantalizer, whistler
sharp nailed cruel lover
seasonal unfailing seductress,
sprawling on the bed cloth of December,
rolling over a few months either side,
I would never take her for granted.
I see her peep through
the window curtains,
spying at the warm days eyeing me
and waiting for her to climb down the steps;
she is jealous, as she wants to linger
playfully riding on my back.
she seeped in to my blood stream,
like the narcotic effect of grass,
before I know it happens
little by little to make me
forget my other loves completely
even without my permission.
Her wiliness is stealthily at work,
to monopolize me fully
separating me from others
yes, winter is cleverness clad in white.
Now, I am at her mercy, completely
my fingers, chest and lips strangely
enjoy the cold caresses, she gives each!
I realize, she has taken over-
my body and paints my mind's canvas,
with bubbling hallucinatory white,
she wants others tightly on her leash,
my other loves complain:
"you act just what is her will
you always wear her fragrance,
on you what an influence she wields!"
can I help when winter my darling,
brooks no excuses!
She exposes me before others
I look like a pusillanimous one,
cowering and cringing before her
none, even my true love, has
such absolute control over me
like she exerts, it's a secret
but true that I wriggle to get out,
of this white net she tenderly knitted-
for my comfort, which is,
pleasurable I think, to an extent,
yet difficult to accept at the same time.
Let us part before long, not to make
our relationship much complicated,
I'll wait, till the next season arrives
you are in my list of periodic partners,
I'll be ready with warmth in my heart,
for your eventful visit, that leaves
an impression far too long to ever forget.*
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 7:58 AM UTC
it is mid summer I stumble like a woman
in which people have never seen the woman
ecce mulier
the summer sky opened up
there will be no more earthquakes or wars
it is nice lukewarm and easy going
things don’t tumble altogether towards the center of the earth
neither the lovers’ eyes nor the jealousy that haunts them
because they are happy
nor the love for your neighbor because it is envied
*
sing a song you fiddler man
for the girl from the white little house
here where I am allowed to be myself
the others are not sincere when a lonely woman
lives as if in a train compartment
rises and falls together with the moon
(I could have caught it in my bread basket
to cut a slice of it but I am not craving)
I am too simple without secrets
my whole life I got older in a stays ball dress
singing to myself from the window
praying to my angel to make me stronger
*
how many wishes can I pretend to possess
when I have never wished something for real
it was always something more important more painful
closer to me the one without beginning or end
something that could have been
you are my brother you are my sister
I am the one who draws the gate’s bolt
even if the garden is deserted
things must stay in their place laws must be respected
fences have to stand up
*
I shall buy lottery tickets to win at least a hope
if my astrological sign is lucky
if there were enough comets going around
trying not to die like a soldier
I am neither man nor gardener to plough for the seed of my dreams
nor monk to sing halleluiah
ecce mulier my lord
the pain is stronger on my waist
on the upper and lower halves I already froze
enough for you to pass over on foot without breaking me
*
I went astray in another world
I will never be at home I will never part completely
I’m a shadow’s bride but whose I don’t know
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 12:10 PM UTC
The tour guide was usually a taxi-driver,
But for a few extra Euros, he was my guide.
Jobs are scarce.
For two hours we toured Yeats Country,
Me, sitting beside this man of letters, and for once,
Enjoying the drive and not the anxiety
On Irish roads.
They're narrow and winding to Ben Bulben,
With stops at neolithic stone circles, burial mounds,
Passageways and, A Fairy's Fort.
The culmination was Drumcliff Churchyard
Where I was to prove his existence.
He has an unassuming stone,
One usually doesn't linger long,
But my Guide stood beside me,
And suddenly recited,
The Fiddler of Dooney.
I was sure it was Yeats' accent,
This unassuming poet.
I did as bid,
I
Cast a cold eye,
And stood glad that
I
Wasn't him,
As I stopped,
Before passing by.
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 5:32 PM UTC
summer afternoons
where the cicada screams were a deafening silence
heat and humidity, offset by shade and sprinklers
long days, warm nights
star gazing, cloud watching, day dreaming
nostalgia and retrospective bring me a peace and serenity
I once again long for
simplicity and carefree
summer afternoons
thunder rattles the walls as rain tap dances across the windows
puddles for splashing
nestled up reading, mornings come too soon
no worries with nigh limitless freedom
forts to build and pranks to play
laying on the porch swing listening to music
tide coming in tide going out
brackish water on the breeze
fiddler ***** scurry
lazy rabbits and cheerful birds
wonderful and longed for
endless
eternal
summer afternoons
Feb 22, 2021
Feb 22, 2021 at 9:36 PM UTC
Soft rhythmic ticking of a mechanical heart,
You scream for silence,
But she ticks on.
You stand still,
Bathing in the winter sun,
Burning in the blinding snow,
Which way do we go?
Which route do we take.
It's a straight shot to the other side from here,
Formless spirits tempt you with dreams.
Break enough rules,
And they will crown you Eagle King,
Soaring above the common man,
In self appointed wings,
You watch everything,
You look down upon the lesser flightless creatures.
Dust covered unopened books fill up the library,
Once a prospering civilization,
They have been reduced to brainwashed moths,
They go where the light takes them.
Watchful eyes cover the walls of this city,
Every movement tracked,
Every voice heard,
Everyone watched.
The night offers the promise of freedom,
Climb the wall and escape,
The world is new,
The world is you.
Three hundred miles away,
Your ****** feet leave a trail,
The vultures are waiting.
Feast your eyes on the magic of a new power,
A golden city with candles afloat,
Sand haired women with velvet dresses
Watch you from across the street,
You're a stranger among them,
Prepare your eyes for the fall of life,
They hold a banquet
To celebrate the meeting of the wolf and man,
It starts to pour as they touch.
Unanswered prayers hum in the air,
Suspended on the strings of doubt,
They have been returned to the sender.
Across the firepit,
Six sick savages mock the fiddler,
The music stops, words are exchanged,
And there's blood.
Six shades of red fluid,
Creeping slowly to fuel the fire that stares.
I've had enough.
I retire to my tent and someone's waiting,
I am the eagle king,
Her red hair paints the sheets red,
My thoughts go back to the six shades
I witnessed moments ago.
There's a murderer on the loose,
I didn't ask for this.
Set off into the night
Towards the temples of the East,
I may find my peace,
In a little corner of the marble city,
Bow down to the idols like sheep in the crowd,
The blade comes swiftly,
I felt no pain.
The sacrifice has been made,
There's no more waiting now,
You'll have your answer in the mail tomorrow.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 11:31 AM UTC
Fools may pine, and sots may swill,
Cynics gibe, and prophets rail,
Moralists may scourge and drill,
Preachers prose, and fainthearts quail.
Let them whine, or threat, or wail!
Till the touch of Circumstance
Down to darkness sink the scale,
Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.
What if skies be wan and chill?
What if winds be harsh and stale?
Presently the east will thrill,
And the sad and shrunken sail,
Bellying with a kindly gale,
Bear you sunwards, while your chance
Sends you back the hopeful hail:--
'Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.'
Idle shot or coming bill,
Hapless love or broken bail,
Gulp it (never chew your pill!),
And, if Burgundy should fail,
Try the humbler *** of ale!
Over all is heaven's expanse.
Gold's to find among the shale.
Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.
Dull Sir Joskin sleeps his fill,
Good Sir Galahad seeks the Grail,
Proud Sir Pertinax flaunts his frill,
Hard Sir AEger dints his mail;
And the while by hill and dale
Tristram's braveries gleam and glance,
And his blithe horn tells its tale:--
'Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.'
Araminta's grand and shrill,
Delia's passionate and frail,
Doris drives an earnest quill,
Athanasia takes the veil:
Wiser Phyllis o'er her pail,
At the heart of all romance
Reading, sings to Strephon's flail:--
'Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.'
Every Jack must have his Jill
(Even Johnson had his Thrale!):
Forward, couples--with a will!
This, the world, is not a jail.
Hear the music, sprat and whale!
Hands across, retire, advance!
Though the doomsman's on your trail,
Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.
Envoy
Boys and girls, at slug and snail
And their kindred look askance.
Pay your footing on the nail:
Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.
1.6k
Am a stain...
As it a man...
A skinny fiddler mouth.
Drifted as unholy mink.
A hounded firmly stinks.
Find me in the dark.
Am a stain...
As it a man...
Morgue violets you.
Virtuous eye, gloom
Your volute egoism.
Give your soul to me.
For i am the darkest night of yours.
Fainthearted fought risky moors.
Am a stain...
As it a man...
Dec 16, 2010
Dec 16, 2010 at 6:55 AM UTC
Humpty Dumpty what a numpty
thought that he could fly
with paper wings attached with strings
he leapt into the sky
Jack and Jill stood on the hill
and watched him with delight
as up he flew their laughter grew
at such a wondrous sight
The fiddler cat said fancy that
as with her love did spoon
and watched awhile with pleasured smile
the cow jump or' the moon
The blind mice three they didnt see
and neither did they care
for he'll come down and break his crown
like ev'ry fool that dare
Miss Muffet thought it's all for nought
though eggs will one day fly
the spider spoke well then the yolk
will be on that poor guy
The clock struck one the night was gone
the paper wings caught fire
poached or fried Briar Rabbit cried
of both I'll never tire
Thing one thing two yes you and you
don't stand there get a net
and bring green ham oh Sam I am
for breakfast now is set
So read and learn before you burn
the wings your heart hath bore you
for this the end my learned friend
as I wouldn't want to bore you
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 8:41 AM UTC
It was a woodcut in our high school history text, Unit 4
Beginnings of the Modern World, that so disturbed,
from the Nuremburg Chronicles depicting the burning of the
Jews, flat perspective,
faces of the victims among flames, in no particular agony, not
especially Jewish,
during the Black Death 1/3 of Europe died 1347-1351 alone.
Although
you die together you die alone.
Earlier that week, I had attended our 6th grade's performance of Fiddler on the Roof, thinking
Coltrane should have recorded Matchmaker as a bookend to
My Favorite Things
but as the play darkened
with the town's absorption into the diaspora, democracy
yet unthought of and rule of law a fig leaf for authority
Jasper, who played Zero Mostel, delivered his line well to
the effect
you're just doing your jobs while wrecking our lives.
Anyway, nothing like that is happening here, is it?
The gardener planting tomatoes, the gravedigger finding skulls,
there is so much life a little death won't matter.
Jasper
was a beautiful ham,
big as Zero.
A friend posed
this question: must all states be melting pots like the United States?
I said yes
not because they should but since
it's inevitable. Let labor flow like capital!
America was the last word of the play and brought a tear of pride
to my eye.
Immigration, exasperating argument re the Other.
How many's more than enough? 9 billion, a rational,
real number that exceeds or we're convinced
is within the carrying capacity of the planet.
Climate change is the new Black Death.
I like the Amerindian body type and face mixed in with the
European, African.
The irrepressible economy rolls out reams of logs, ores of
elements, bags of ice, fields of rice.
Embargo. The moon stares, bare, full of interstellar space.
Better a cold shoulder than a visit from our military.
The crazy Nazis must have felt themselves extraordinarily
compassionate toward the mother, earth, the goddess,
history, or some such abstraction and, thus, acted on a
fraction of all they did not know.
Selfless soldiers just doing their jobs guarding the border or,
on the other hand, collecting ****** for the burning of the Jews.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 6:58 AM UTC
St Simons Island, Georgia USA
East Beach, 12/4/2011
"Your focus determines your reality." —Qui-Gon Jinn
Witnessing an
amazing low-tide
phenomenon,
as if a walkway to
a parallel world
has suddenly appeared,
extending one-half mile
from East Beach
out to sea
People are slowly
gathering, walking, stopping,
stooping, staring in silence,
speaking softly—
I'm as eager
as Simon Peter
to join them, yet
somewhat afraid of
walking where
there has been
only seawater
minutes before—
Chattering dolphins
beckoning in the distance
instill confidence
So I join them,
stepping from the
beach onto the
other-worldly terrain,
first 42 steps confirming
we are not alone!
Surrounded by
a menagerie of
sand ***** clams,
beach flea amphipods,
sea roach isopods,
ghost, hermit, and
fiddler ***** even
cannonball jellyfish—
shades of the
Mos Eisley Cantina
on Tatooine
in miniature
But beware of
semidiurnal
tidal cycles—
Twice a day
at high tide
the sea, like an
unstable vortex
of a Chappa'ai,
consumes the
phenomenon,
even the beach itself
to the edge of
the dune
"The mystery of life isn't a problem to solve, but a reality to experience." —Frank Herbert
"So long and thanks for all the fish!" —Farewell message from exiting dolphins, translated by Douglas Adams
Mark Toney ©️ 2023
May 21, 2023
May 21, 2023 at 11:31 PM UTC
I'm the riddler whithout a fiddler
what a joker with out a poker.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 9:47 AM UTC
A birthnight of the biparous specimen
They were **** at birth,
As the north star entangled their webs!!!!
Their hair was wild,
Tis a paradise of degree
Both on a loving spree of their own romantic Med's!!!!
They were barefoot leaving traces,
As the crescent gave them their fluorescence
Both carried hopeless romance letters, meaningful between two!
They danced tribally
Fiddler's of homemade tea
As its brew was so impulsive!!!!
Both wore head dresses
Their making love left many messes
As their pounding shook the earth!!!!
Tablets they have written
For the world they dont care
Its themselves they share!!!!!
Tis,
They dare!!!!
In a t.p they are gateward
Dos parissioner's of all heavy flavor
As the scales tip to completion!!!
Their feather's sway under the mist
Tis, a ****** bliss
As the galaxies align to their axis!!!!
Industrious,
They
Plant their seeds
A perfect duo of one giant breed
Comrade's of never ending !!!!
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 8:59 AM UTC
i died just to haunt you
to breathe my smoke in your ear
and see if you remember me.
to follow where you walk
and hope to stay with you
this time,
even if the sensation’s one-sided:
can you love what you can’t touch, can’t hear -
[i know you can’t hear me,
but sorry if i wound you
with obscenities and broken hopes,
speaking in a foreign tongue of bitterness
and desire,
of the fickle fates
and fickler hearts of men] -
change partners as the fiddler changes tunes
moving with someone new,
who speaks your language
and doesn’t smoke like a dying fire.
can they dance like i did?
skirts swirling up time like water in a stagnant pond,
your winds fueling ripples -
how i cherished those lungs.
now i’ll blow my smoke signals in your ears
so maybe they’ll reach you
this time.
you ran to the plains while i tended the fires,
chasing something better -
but wild horses are only beautiful from afar.
harness them and they’ll crush you with their
meekness:
reins and saddles when you sought sweat
and wild rolling eyes,
eyes that never shut,
too filled with life to mimic death
even if just
for a moment,
wide while yours shut to block out the moon:
sometimes when you close your eyes
all you see is the sun.
[burning like a maniac,
like a man who met the devil
while drowning.]
sometimes when i close my eyes
all i see is red
red like rusted-over watches, red like
bottom-of-the-barrel
and anger,
and red like the wretched slough of time,
shedding seconds like scales.
[sometimes when i close my eyes
i imagine yours closing
in synch,
like a connection between us,
no matter how fragile.]
sometimes when you close your eyes
you find it hard to open them again.
don’t remind me that you don’t want me,
just give me one
moment
to memorize your shape -
hope you don’t mind my recreating you
from the scraps i can capture
in the meager light drifting from the sky.
smoke will choke it out soon enough
and you will be alone
with your broken wild things
and snuffed-out embers,
waiting for the tune to change again.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 12:51 AM UTC
for H
*let us write for one,
one another*
~~~~~~~~
let us premise.
we are much the same.
despite the fact that we are all genetically
different,
we come with the same equipage.
this is the miracle.
this is the strange.
at the intersection
at the corners of
Strange St. and Beauty Avenue,
the street poets slam,
drawers chalk paint Chagalls
upon the sidewalk,
street musicians sing songs of
Beethoven and Billy Joel,
let us agree.
we see with eyes, we hear with ears, we tongue taste,
voices, make swears and tunes.
soldiers with a standard, life-issued backpack.
you have vocal chords, but can you sing?
some see a village.
some see a fiddler.
the artist see the fiddler on the roof,
sees the strange in the ordinary,
and from this makes the beauty,
that in its differing is its uniting.
we all know words.
then we unite them in different combinations,
and A Tale of Two Cities sits on shelves,
in different alphabets, even dots and dashes,
wherever, readers read.
it is always,
the best of times, the worst of times.
it will always be that way.
it will be the strange among us,
*that see the music,
taste the words,
dance the paint,*
sharing it with us,
purging the the common, the ordinary,
yet making the common, the ordinary,
extraordinary,
giving us beauty of art,
in an uncommon but shared vision.
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 8:34 PM UTC
raindrops wash his tears as the fiddler plays
his jet black locks caress his cheek, slowly shifting grey
he has sung his heartbreaking ode for years on end
his true love an audience ne'er again to attend
eyes that once shined a bright green hue
dulled by sorrowful tears turned the deepest blue
once a lover he'd had near the western shores of Ireland
the love of his life, a gorgeous young lass, for her he'd asked her hand
nary a day passed were they not by the other's side
alas, the young lass had a secret she could not abide
untimely demise had she met at the sleight of her very own hand
a pain so harsh no longer could she withstand
alive once he was, now just a fiddler in the hidden glen
ne'er to to step outside the trees to the light of day again
'neath the crescent moon he lies
now a slave to the fiddlers' tune, he cries
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 12:11 AM UTC