"fiddles" poems
My caressing hands have stopped trying to tame the strings.
They move now more to harmony than to melodious things.
Brassy bands, drunk sailors and the sound of laughter.
The D string, the rough bar-stool clamp and clatter.
The sound of voices, raucous and hoarse with song.
The sound of voices, laughing as they all yell along.
It's a barstool anthem;
It's great and it's loud.
There're no classics here...
but Bach would be proud.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 9:16 PM UTC
They gathered by Williamson Road at sun-up
from neighboring spreads across the Tioga valley.
They came with carts laden with lumber stacks -
with saws, adzes, hammers and sundry tools.
They gathered with the homesteaders bond.
to co-build their neighbor's' dreams.
Sweet music of community echoed off the hills.
Chisels clanged into rock, shaping the foundation,
saws sang into boards to frame a timbered skeleton.
The staccato syncopation of hammers fastened walls
that soon would shelter plowshares, stock and grain.
A smithy leaned over his fire and forge -
chiming iron into sturdy latches and hinges.
Children scurried about mixing squeals and laughter
with exuberant fetching and lifting whenever called.
In two short passings of the sun the deed was done
and a handsome new barn, decked out in a wash of red
was silhouetted tall and proud against the fading light.
Homesteaders gathered at a celebration table
to share a hearty meal adorned by the music
of fiddles, grateful smiles and easy laughter.
Then one by one they steered their wagons home
gazing back at what their labors had wrought -
knowing to the depth of their communal souls
that we are more together than we are apart
Listen up, America! This is the music of community.
We are more together than we are apart.
© 2016 by Robert Charles Howard
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 10:16 AM UTC
thats wrong
i just hate the class
its becuase she’s in it
and i can never focus
on the equations and logarithms
becuase
of the way she bites her lip
when trying to solve a problem
how she unconciously fiddles with her carcoal hair
as she listens to her music
but most of all
becuase she smiles at the face behind me
who happens to be her boyfriend
if i position myself correctly
its almost like she’s smiling at me.
Mar 20, 2019
Mar 20, 2019 at 11:31 AM UTC
Way up there
In the thin, thin air
There sits a man
Who laughs and grins
And fiddles with his double chins
A lunatic, if you must know
He paces, paces,
To and fro
Not love, nor hate
Does Steve perceive
But TV programs make him seethe
Xanax, ****** amyl poppers
None of these are Steve's show stoppers
Thorazine would do him good
But he won't take it
Like he should
So Mumbling Steve will grimace/grin
Until it's time to cry again
His mother loved him not a whit
Flushed Steve away, like so much ****
He killed his daddy, uncle, too
He killed that man, with Devil's Brew
Mumbling Steve drank up the rest
Of that that killed the old ******
Then laughed and laughed
And flashed a grin
Then burned off his extra chin
JNc 3-16
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 11:38 PM UTC
An old man sits
on the edge of the bed
just after he's tucked in his grandson
He fiddles and fits
While his old gal, she knits
And his boy sleeps, soft and handsome
But what is this?
He can't help but think
As his grandson rolls restlessly round
What sort of ploy
May claim my boy
When his pops is dead in the ground?
His wife, she shakes head
All afluttered and red
Claiming that he's been a fool
For Death, he comes
For every which ones
As sure as summers for school
But wife, he cries
With tears in his eyes
As his boys turns roughly about
"What will become
Of my dear grandson
When a grandfather he is without?"
His wife, she smiles
Is silent awhile
As her needles go clickity-clack
"This boy, you see
Is our legacy
And a family he never shall lack."
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 10:14 AM UTC
Was there a time when dancers with their fiddles
In children's circuses could stay their troubles?
There was a time they could cry over books,
But time has set its maggot on their track.
Under the arc of the sky they are unsafe.
What's never known is safest in this life.
Under the skysigns they who have no arms
Have cleanest hands, and, as the heartless ghost
Alone's unhurt, so the blind man sees best.
3.2k
While My Guitar Gently Sleeps
boogie woogie is on my mind
my toe tapping a thousand times
slapping snare and top hat crash
back to sleep dreamy night fade away
is it a festival of jazz marching by
raz-ma-taz New Orleans style
clarinet and trumpet and tuba blow
blind melon singing do-dah do-dah-day
Latin fever makes me thrash
trying to remember the tricky steps
the cha-cha of the island girls
watching how the shapely hips sway
Spanish marimba mambo twist
taps clacking as the flamenco flies
big box acoustic cat gut strings
fingers twitching wanting to play
square dance cowgirls and dudes strut
thumbs in their pockets stomping boots
fiddles and steel race through my heart
gonna do it all do it all someday
roll over and change the world another day
dreamy night fade away once again
screaming guitars in triple tones
while my guitar gently sleeps away
Gomer LePoet...
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 3:45 PM UTC
Bombs are falling in Aleppo,
the evil failed man that rules,
killing his own people,
Innocent noncombatants,
sheltering in their homes,
Crushed and buried in the
falling rubble of a dictator's
vengeful hate.
None but the volunteer
White Helmets digging
with bare hands to save
and unbury them, most
victims, irrecoverable pieces.
Occasionally, miraculously
some are spared and saved.
Through these valiant selfless
efforts.
Oh Syria, you are bombed and burned,
while the world fiddles an obtuse tune
and turns its collective back on desperate
human cries for assistance.
Jun 19, 2017
Jun 19, 2017 at 6:12 PM UTC
Thumb and index.
Snare with caution.
To hold you firmly and into crocus sack .
Land crab beware. Hungry Belizeans on the hunt.
The Blue land crab rises with the rain and fiddles
forward seeking feed.
Or flooded out from his cavern.
The night brings silence then
an eerie crashing and clacking
by the hundred thousands they run.
The season. when I was a boy.
The art to catch the big one.
Stalk and wait as he travels afar
staking out territory.
Cornered now in fighting stance
back against the wall. a finger
was the bet to get one by hand.
The cowards choice was the
coconut thong that fell from a dying tree.
The Kiss-Kiss two feet long.
The thong.
That was my choice and into the boiling ***
he goes. the cauldron bubbled with a few
And maybe even crab stew.
I still have ten fingers five a hand.
The Kiss-Kiss my friend to the end.
I was chicken but the blue crab
went down the hole with ease.
No worries. The coward's way out.
Kiss -Kiss Rule.
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 10:29 PM UTC
Electrics shafts cuts
The bubbling shade shakes
Fiddling all islands
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 5:32 AM UTC
Power of the cosmos runs through my veins
Burning me up..I become the pain
Help me!
I'm trapped in the flow
Swirling from within expanding my soul
My body...My mind
I become the sign
Spoken to me in ancient rhyme
Peace is gained only after a battle
Slaughtering humanity as if we were cattle
Pineal gland tingling
Thoughts start streaming obtaining meaning
Living in a vessel that can no longer contain
Evolving me to next level of my brain
Adam...Eve
Living in a tattoo sleeve
Is it Magic if you already believe?
My melodic riddles play like fiddles
Prophetic are my scribbles
Third eye sight keeps me living in the middle
Vibrations stimulate me as I continue to grow
From the infinite energy filling up my soul....
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC
****** Finds Her Love
as the rising heat rose,
prickling horse pose
a young jockey is born
among saddle of thorns
she sees his harden well
up close it looks swell
looking both in the eye
will he teach her on the fly
his widening eyes yearn
of nature's lesson she'll learn
one must trot before she runs
labor of love before the fun
she pets and explores his tap
and he sings and fiddles her gap
a plumb beautifully glows
yearning love for the rainbow
she takes his bridle slowly in
crawling like with a grin
on wings of sage she flies
higher, higher as she cries
kiss me through the night
as her widening lips incite
a fire rages the rarefied air
a trotter shaking the pair
to the moon and stars she goes
her first orbit coming to a close
down to earth with a pop and splash
their wedding night's dance a smash
LR-5/7/17
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 9:34 PM UTC
I never whittled wicker fiddles
while riddles belittle the middle
class of ***** and elephants.
Irrelevant asides alike another
mother smothered by her brother’s
last lover and uncovered this summer’s
eve. ****** – the reason seasons start
aren’t propelled by a spell in my heart.
the spell in my heart you ask?
its a dry spell for sure,
it crackles with the flames of fire
that whip out like the whips
of elephant trainers,
the way they scare me in place,
and i shake with terror.
but terror arises and smothers
the way mothers have been smothered
by a brother's last lover,
and summer eve will still come.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 8:10 PM UTC
Let me tell you a phenomenon I realized. Whenever he opens his mouth to speak, I pause and lean in to listen. My body seem to come together in peace, listening intently. The breeze softens to the sound of his voice, flowing with a quiet coolness. The animals pause to hear his stories, like an eager crowd. Whatever tension building up on my shoulders and neck seem to pause and heal, disappearing quietly with each word he utters, or whatever sound he hums as he stop to ponder in between conversations. It's like the universe comes to a calming pause whenever he makes a sound.
And oh, don't get me started when he sings and fiddles with the guitar or piano. With elegant fingers poised on strings or keys. Creating magical notes with a fiery passion surging from his beautiful heart to the tips of his fingers. You may think I'm exaggerating but I am always in awe of his talents. It's like his soul scoops up the emotions and dumps them carefully in music chords and intricate words. How I could just close my eyes and let his voice breathe life into me. I thank God everyday for his existence; for he is made of all things soft and beautiful.
-m.b
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 5:54 AM UTC
She may walk through crowds
unseen
An advantage of her age
poking through products
at her own distracted speed
Feeling fruit or sniffing soap
Reading labels
fine print through two pair of glasses
turning slightly
hoping no one sees...
how gone it's getting....
She may lean on cart at check-out
just shy of your usual...
Old
who ask for double bags
Nope, she will not slow the line that way
Remembering work
assesses pain
shifting weight to other leg
to spare an aching knee
Not one for counting desperate change
Not arguing every item on receipt
Not fumbling coupons
nor writing checks
...will not slow the line...
reluctant to let go of youth
Remembering exhaustion's day
she will not slow the line that way--
Fiddles with smart phone
(Yes, she knows how!)
to pass the time
She fumbles through her purse--
God only knows
what “old folks” look for
Probably glasses, tissues, gum,
or
"Where the hell's my keys!"
Stopping by a news rack
on the way out
Is she waiting for a cab?
Who cares!
Outta way, she stops to read
The New York Times, WaPo, Journal
Thee chapters of a novel
Outside their pay-walls
The mind beneath the woolen cap
is at it
grazing once again, for free
Where she often likes to feed--
her curiosity
No one sees her watching
from the inside out
and the corner of her eye
But what to do about that cat litter?
or ½ and ½
on highest shelves?
she simply cannot reach....
Always some tall good-lookin' guy around
to flatter
his size
looking for dog kibble, “big game snacks” or beer
She plays
the old lady card so well
...and somehow
gets what she needs
Jan 5, 2018
Jan 5, 2018 at 4:41 PM UTC
Little Pieces Of The Sky,
Slowly Fall Down,
The Girl Sat There,
Still As Stone,
The Only Sound Which Filled The Forest,
Was The Falling,
Of Lifeless Leaves,
The Sun,
A Useless Light,
Providing No Warmth,
What So Ever,
What Do I Do?
The Heartbeat Increases
Where Do I Belong?
Her Eyes Avert From The Stare Of Hidden Creatures
Why Should I Forge On?
The Girl Becomes Restless And Fiddles With Her Hair
Why Do I Have To Be Alive In This Generation?
Tears ***** At The Corner Of Her Eyes
Ill Never Reach Enternal Peace
She Sighs Breaking The Forest's Silence
Im Much To Strong To Give Up
She Clutches Her Head
I Can't Give Up
Her Heartbeat Steadily Increases
Even Though Life Is An Enigma
Her Body Shakes
I Can Solve This Mystery
Her Body Starts To Shed It's Skin
Im Free
Pine Needle Green Eyes Strip To Golden Irises
I Am Me
She Runs With Strides Bigger Than The World Itself
There Is Nothing More To Be Said
Pupils Contract
No Words Are Known
Heartbeats Quicken
Decide For Yourself
The Sun Slowly Dies
What
Black On White Scars
Am
Blood On The Corner Of Her Barred Teeth
I
Dreams Are To Real
Becoming
Trees Slowly Start To Fade In The Distance
............
The Heartbeat Still Present
............
Though Is She Alive?
................
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 9:46 PM UTC
You know, sometimes people who don't deserve your thoughts come to mind. And you are one of those.
Maybe that is why it is dangerous to let your mind wander. Every wanderer needs a lodging for the night, and you so happened to be that old, tattered shelter in sight.
Some hate rhymes- it's juvenile, for the imbecile.
Some seem to find comfort in it- like the hem of her dress she fiddles with; like the feeling of his teeth, against teeth. It's like seeing old paths in the woods, as though you will never lose your way.
The idea of you was so easily uprooted with even the slightest winds. Fancy naming someone after a hurricane. I wasn't sure if that was heartbreak. After all, you never held it. It slid right out my throat along with the words I said to you. And I wish I could take them back.
I am over you, really. But I can't help that the thought of you always hits home. After all, you were a place I dwelled in for such a long time. Even after you were long gone.
Fill this tastevin with something- anything. Your unsaid words tasted foul. And I just want any trace of you to be removed from the tip of my tongue.
For you were a cliffhanger; and I was hanged.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 11:15 AM UTC
There's a tale that's spoken
When dawn has broken
By gateman and watchmen and guards
And it's echoed by thieves
As the night time leaves
As they shuffle their crooked cards
Of a demon disguised
And a doctor despised
So be weary of coaches at night
There's a roaming physician
Of the devils tuition
A curse and a bringer of plight
Oh, Doctor Sinestre
The butcher of Leicester
A man with a hunger for pain
With top hat and tails
And talon-like nails
There are many he's happily slain
He travels by night
And is fast out of sight
And away by the first light of day
He takes eyes and ears
As grim souvenirs
And your body is left on display
It's said he was born
With a singular horn
Which he uses to gouge his prey
And my grandmother swears
He was brought up by bears
Which he killed in a grizzly display
He's a magical voice
A remover of choice
To beguile the strongest of wills
He can tear you apart
And pull out your heart
So quickly the blood never spills
Oh, Doctor Sinestre
The gory molester
An animal dressed as a man
If you hear him approach
In his ebony coach
Then away just as fast as you can
He feeds on the weak
On souls of the bleak
And seekers of fortune and strife
He removes your afflictions
Diseases, addictions
As swiftly he cures you of life
He has eyes in his ears
So he sees what he hears
His teeth once belonged to a snake
The soles of his feet
Don't meet with the street
Not a print or a sound does he make
There are maps of strange lands
On the palms of his hands
And thick purple hair on the back
There's a bat in his hat
All sluggish and fat
For if ever he fancies a snack
Oh, Doctor Sinestre
The mayor of Chester
And prince of the circles of hell
He giggles and gloats
As he fiddles with goats
He dabbles in chickens as well
A spaceship he flies
Through Lancashire skies
He can turn you to gold with a kiss
He's a ghost driven mad
By his alien dad
And.... Are you TOTALLY sure about this?
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 10:09 AM UTC
Low down
Downtown
The plaza's alive tonight
The music's raunchy
the music's heaven
fiddles
guitars
mandolins
spinning
fingers on strings
a
flashing
My eyes are lit
You can't miss it
The bars are hopping
Neon popping
Sweat dripping
The smell of **** is drifting
The night's a jumpin'
Dancing
dancing like there's no tomorrow
Maybe tomorrow's never going to come
that's
okay with me
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 8:11 PM UTC
news paper pages
scatter along a ***** wind
some caught in fences separating
some free to climb into the forever of
deep blue sky pure sunshine
washed clean of the sins printed on its page
only photographs remain
a black & white image of the old man
feeding pigeons along the empty path
that lead him there
news paper pages
forever silently burning in a collapse of worlds
so old the smoke has died away
pages with masterful words written
never finding lips to uncage their meaning
a beauty of phrase that has never faded
a chain link barrier between what its
long dead author spoke eloquently
and the world disguised by years of dead dust
only photographs remain
a faded image of an old man
walking the sunset
a scattering of bread crumb's
stretching back along his trail
leading not into the living sky
forever shifting between dark and light
but into the dusty caverns of twilight
forever twilight
by candle light
he will pour over the things he never spoke
wishing only for a voice once more
a way to tell her
about all those yesterdays ago
the why's and whatnot's
that he fiddles with
like wooden toys ever more finely crafted
never to knowing play
never to escape the gathering dust
here he sits
in his comfy chair
tea and biscuits gone cold
and his lips ****** with gentle care
words written on discarded news paper pages
like bread crumbs scattered for
birds that never come
© 2017 mark john junor all rights reserved
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 9:50 AM UTC
Tempting, thy twirling trails...
Yet through timeless thunder and tempest,
Thy teasing taunts I wholeheartedly embrace and trace
To tread upon torturous and treacherous thorns...
Catch a glimpse of thy glory,
Touch that tantalizing streams of dreams;
In whom I'm submerged into secret symphonies of seduction,
But in realm of reality; torments with wishful wishes...
Swirl my swelling surge with sweet shivers,
Spare thou my sizzling sickness with a slice of thy subtlety.
To ****** with fact beyond fantasy's fiddles...
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 6:49 AM UTC
The morning weeps with the agony of fermented knowledge,
While a wanderer shines like luscious rapture.
The moon fiddles with the ocean's delight.
Stop!
The sunset bathes in well-deserved water.
Help!
The wind blows bubbles in purple sorrow,
And Heaven lingers in barren ecstasy.
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 6:29 PM UTC
*** Julia sways in the same Winter, losing an up hill battle of deep seated Calvinistic virtues and the excitation of **********
@@@ Julia goes on weekend holiday with her parents in hopes of losing her virginity in some square of Savannah.
@@@ Julia packs a bible, hoping to burn it in a symbolic rite of passage.
@@@ Julia packs a doll, hoping to drop it from a rocky bluff, post de flowerization, a highly political and artistic statement.
@@@ Julia packs the lucky strike cigarettes she took from the family gardener years ago, saved for her first post coitus cigarette.
@@@ Julia fiddles with a razor in her parents washroom. Breaking a piece and tucking it in her fingernail, as she read once that prostitutes do.
&&& Julia plans to draw blood in her ****** the man or men severing herself from the responsibility of a ***** & she severing her skin as tribute to a new brokenness.
@@@ Julia fantasizes her flower's loss to be on a rich man's bed with one or two plainly handsome sons of a rich man.
@@@ Julia desires the experience to be ****** seething with heat and violence.
@@@ Julia prays for this chaos, to shed her modest and humble skin, to become a quiet ***** in this painful flash of light.
@@@
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 5:16 PM UTC
There are those that want it
to come to a complete halt,
frozen solid and white,
like an ice sculpture
stuck in a peculiar pose.
This is the only way
to stop that heart-wrenching
moment,
that robs them of their blue skies.
Then there are those that want it
to quicken its footsteps
and flip by, like the pages of
a notepad giving motion
to squiggly drawings,
in order to get the next paycheck
or start that dream job.
Me? Every now and then I want it
to make a stop by the side of the road
and enjoy a leisurely doughnut,
maybe join in on the freckled giggles
of the little girls hula hooping
on the concrete pavements,
and sing nursery rhymes of
broken eggs and fiddles.
But sometimes I just don't care
whether time shoots up the skies
or gets weighed down with iron,
especially when I've got
my favorite chicken goulash
served with fine couscous
on an afternoon such as this one,
where the sky frowns with dark clouds
and spits angry beads of rain.
As far as I'm concerned,
the brown-eyed little boy
on the corner of the street
could be the keeper of time,
making sure it walks on nonchalantly,
with no regard to people's wishes,
leaving in its wake footprints of
sadness, joy and everything in between.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 4:21 PM UTC
A belly of butterflies
Danced to the sound
Of harmonica trees
And the violin leaves
Synesthesia bound
To the whispering winds
Of the sweet nothing skies
Playing fungi Fall fiddles
To tempos of riddles
Sensational melodies made in her eyes
Resonant love
In a breath of fresh air
These orchestra waves
In my deepest sea caves
Drifted away to the shores of nowhere
Then bottled-up notes
In time-signature sands
Wrote ballads of blisses
From strawberry kisses
Plucked from the tunes of our heartstring commands
And each nymph and faun
Composed of the Earth
Out of many songs one
And our voice was the sun
Crescendoing to a symphonic rebirth
Jan 31, 2017
Jan 31, 2017 at 12:22 AM UTC