"lutes" poems
He often would ask us
That, when he died,
After playing so many
To their last rest,
If out of us any
Should here abide,
And it would not task us,
We would with our lutes
Play over him
By his grave-brim
The psalm he liked best—
The one whose sense suits
“Mount Ephraim”—
And perhaps we should seem
To him, in Death’s dream,
Like the seraphim.
As soon as I knew
That his spirit was gone
I thought this his due,
And spoke thereupon.
“I think”, said the vicar,
“A read service quicker
Than viols out-of-doors
In these frosts and hoars.
That old-fashioned way
Requires a fine day,
And it seems to me
It had better not be.”
Hence, that afternoon,
Though never knew he
That his wish could not be,
To get through it faster
They buried the master
Without any tune.
But ’twas said that, when
At the dead of next night
The vicar looked out,
There struck on his ken
Thronged roundabout,
Where the frost was graying
The headstoned grass,
A band all in white
Like the saints in church-glass,
Singing and playing
The ancient stave
By the choirmaster’s grave.
Such the tenor man told
When he had grown old.
12.7k
The Eid is bustling with joy
come let’s give it a try
f
l
y
away!
To the deathless groovy paradise
floating high on the elixir flow:
The triumphant joyous wave
streamed up from the secret bottom line!
Up above the lapis lazuli sky.
A pair of butterfly basks
in the sunlight
quietly indulges in style.
It goes on in slow motion
illuminating the night a firefly
perches on a slice of the Moon
flanked by the moonlight.
But you and me
we will rhyme and chant
in our lovely mother tongue.
In the same original lingua
like ‘Adam speaks up and all
angels listen in paradise’.
Come let’s give it a try
f
l
y
away!
On the wings of the moonlight
we will
s
a
i
l
away!
Ambling by the Moon
we'll **** through the starry nooks.
Eyes open and gently perched
atop a star for a moment or two.
We will see miles of galaxies
over the moonlit lakes of the blue
playing cool ravishing lutes!
The spring night is in bloom
and the cute sleeping beauty
wakes up playing the flute!
Musical half lights filling the sky.
Come let’s give it a try
f
l
y
away!
We’ll drink sharaban tahura
the holy wine of paradise
and once for all we will
k
i
s
s the death goodbye!
Our story will fill the divine soil
the heaven's flora and fauna
each and everyone will shine on our page
no houri will ever say finito singing our tale!
As Adam did it first stunned the angels
telling the nature of all things in paradise.
We will do that once more without a smirk
this time we will see the loving Creator!
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 1:04 PM UTC
Through portico of my elegant house you stalk
With your wild furies, disturbing garlands of fruit
And the fabulous lutes and peacocks, rending the net
Of all decorum which holds the whirlwind back.
Now, rich order of walls is fallen; rooks croak
Above the appalling ruin; in bleak light
Of your stormy eye, magic takes flight
Like a daunted witch, quitting castle when real days break.
Fractured pillars frame prospects of rock;
While you stand heroic in coat and tie, I sit
Composed in Grecian tunic and psyche-knot,
Rooted to your black look, the play turned tragic:
Which such blight wrought on our bankrupt estate,
What ceremony of words can patch the havoc?
6.7k
Easily Tux
Laxity Use
Laxity Sue
Taxis Yule
Taxi Yules
Tau Sexily
Axe I *****
Yea Xi ****
Yea Xi Lust
Aye Xi ****
Aye Xi Lust
Ail Yes Tux
Sail Ye Tux
Ails Ye Tux
Italy Ex Us
Laity Ex Us
Taxi Lye Us
La Suety Xi
Talus Ye Xi
Lax Yeti Us
Lax Suety I
Lax Ye Suit
Lay Exit Us
Lay Suet Xi
Lay Tuxes I
Lay Ex Suit
Sat Yule Xi
Taus Lye Xi
Sax Yule Ti
Sax Yule It
Say Lie Tux
Say Lei Tux
Say Lute Xi
Say Exult I
At Yules Xi
At Yule Xis
At Yule Six
Tau Lyes Xi
Tau Lye Xis
Tau Lye Six
Tax Yules I
Tax Yule Is
Ax Lieu Sty
Ax Yules Ti
Ax Yules It
Ax Yule Tis
Ax Yule Its
Ax Yule Sit
Ax Lye Suit
Ya Isle Tux
Ya Lies Tux
Ya Leis Tux
Ya Lutes Xi
Ya Exults I
Ya Lute Xis
Ya Lute Six
Ya Exult Is
Ay Isle Tux
Ay Lies Tux
Ay Leis Tux
Ay Lutes Xi
Ay Exults I
Ay Lute Xis
Ay Lute Six
Ay Exult Is
A Lyes I Tux
A Lye Is Tux
A Ex I *****
A Ye Xi ****
A Ye Xi Lust
La Yes I Tux
La Yet Xi Us
La Ye Is Tux
Las Ye I Tux
Lax Yet I Us
Lax Ye Ti Us
Lax Ye It Us
Lay Ex Ti Us
Lay Ex It Us
As Lye I Tux
Say El I Tux
At Lye Xi Us
Tau Ex I Sly
Tax Lye I Us
Ax Lye Ti Us
Ax Lye It Us
Ax Ye I ****
Ax Ye I Lust
Ax Ye Lit Us
Ya El Is Tux
Ya Let Xi Us
Ya Ex I ****
Ya Ex I Lust
Ya Ex Lit Us
Ay El Is Tux
Ay Let Xi Us
Ay Ex I ****
Ay Ex I Lust
Ay Ex Lit Us
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 12:38 PM UTC
794
A Drop Fell on the Apple Tree—
Another—on the Roof—
A Half a Dozen kissed the Eaves—
And made the Gables laugh—
A few went out to help the Brook
That went to help the Sea—
Myself Conjectured were they Pearls—
What Necklace could be—
The Dust replaced, in Hoisted Roads—
The Birds jocoser sung—
The Sunshine threw his Hat away—
The Bushes—spangles flung—
The Breezes brought dejected Lutes—
And bathed them in the Glee—
Then Orient showed a single Flag,
And signed the Fete away—
3.9k
Lets have rough ***
in the courtyard of our kingdom
while the peasants and jester watch.
"Is that the king?"
"Yes. Both of them,
**** Did he just hit h~?"
"Yup. That was a moan."
Pan flutes.
Lutes.
purple green and gold garb.
There's a bunch of knights training in archery
and somebody in a far corner of some ocean
plotting to ride their horses here and declare seige.
But right now
it's the first of may
and we're just throwing each other around on the grass
under the flag of our castle
that we founded on voyeurism and being good at what we do
Which today is rough ***
In the grass
Of a game of thrones set.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 7:39 PM UTC
861
Split the Lark—and you’ll find the Music—
Bulb after Bulb, in Silver rolled—
Scantilly dealt to the Summer Morning
Saved for your Ear when Lutes be old.
Loose the Flood—you shall find it patent—
Gush after Gush, reserved for you—
Scarlet Experiment! Sceptic Thomas!
Now, do you doubt that your Bird was true?
3.8k
So smooth, so sweet, so silv’ry is thy voice
As, could they hear, the damn’d would make no noise,
But listen to thee, walking in thy chamber,
Melting melodious words to lutes of amber.
3.6k
There's a hidden sweetness in the stomach's
emptiness.
We are lutes. No more, no less.
If the soundbox is stuffed full, there is no room
for music.
If the brain and the belly are burning clean with
fasting,
Every moment a new song comes out of the fire.
The fog clears, and new energy makes you run up the
steps before you.
Be emptier and cry like reed instruments cry.
Emptier—write secrets with the reed pen.
When you're full of food and drink, an ugly metal
statue sits where your spirit should.
When you fast, good habits gather like friends who
wish to help.
Fasting is Solomon's ring.
Don't give it to some illusion and lose your power.
But even if you have, if you've lost all will and
control,
They come back when you fast,
Like soldiers appearing out of the ground, pennants
flying above them.
A table descends to your tents, Jesus' table.
Expect to see, when you fast, this table spread with
other food,
better than the broth of cabbages.
~Jalal ad-Din Rumi
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 11:40 PM UTC
WRITTEN FOR HIS MOTHER
Dame du ciel, regents terrienne,
Emperiere des infemaux palus....
Lady of Heaven and earth, and therewithal
Crowned Empress of the nether clefts of Hell,—
I, thy poor Christian, on thy name do call,
Commending me to thee, with thee to dwell,
Albeit in nought I be commendable.
But all mine undeserving may not mar
Such mercies as thy sovereign mercies are;
Without the which (as true words testify)
No soul can reach thy Heaven so fair and far.
Even in this faith I choose to live and die.
Unto thy Son say thou that I am His,
And to me graceless make Him gracious.
Said Mary of Egypt lacked not of that bliss,
Nor yet the sorrowful clerk Theopbilus,
Whose bitter sins were set aside even thus
Though to the Fiend his bounden service was.
Oh help me, lest in vain for me should pass
(Sweet ****** that shalt have no loss thereby!)
The blessed Host and sacring of the Mass
Even in this faith I choose to live and die.
A pitiful poor woman, shrunk and old,
I am, and nothing learn'd in letter-lore.
Within my parish-cloister I behold
A painted Heaven where harps and lutes adore,
And eke an Hell whose ****** folk seethe full sore:
One bringeth fear, the other joy to me.
That joy, great Goddess, make thou mine to be,—
Thou of whom all must ask it even as I;
And that which faith desires, that let it see.
For in this faith I choose to live and die.
O excellent ****** Princess! thou didst bear
King Jesus, the most excellent comforter,
Who even of this our weakness craved a share
And for our sake stooped to us from on high,
Offering to death His young life sweet and fair.
Such as He is, Our Lord, I Him declare,
And in this faith I choose to live and die.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti, trans.
3.1k
There's a Poet who dreams of a Gateway to Heaven
Not some cold austere Gate bolted and closed in your face
As if to say "Clear off! You're not wanted here anymore"
But instead a lovely warm welcoming Gate
A brightly colourful Gate with lots of bunting and ribbons on it
And a big banner over the top announcing
"Welcome Great Poet"
It'd be a bit...a bit like Noddy in Toyland
And there'd be all these pretty young girls with bowls in their hands
Spreading rose petals on the ground for me to walk upon
A beautiful path laid out before me, a carpet of sweet scenting loveliness
And there'd be other boys and girls there too strumming lutes and harps
Like beautiful critics... singing my praises
Inside the Gate it'd be like this wonderful Park
With lovely flowers and shrubs and trees
With marble fountains and statues and quiet flowing streams
With radiant kids and beautiful people and lovely marquees like as if you were attending some wonderful party or banquet,
And then you'd hear a bustle in the hedgerow
But it's only a bunch of publishers vying with one another
Trying to get my signature on a multi million dollar contract
Suddenly ahead of me there'd be this wonderful magnificent throne
It'd be offered to me... offered to me as my true place... my true home
And then a man would come and he'd humbly bow and kneel before me
He'd be offering something to me....
Why! It's the Nobel Prize for Literature
I'd smile and say "Ah shucks guys sure I was only doin' a few rhymes... and a few stories".
Apr 26, 2023
Apr 26, 2023 at 2:55 PM UTC
Wayfarer,
walk with me
down the open, crumbling road.
We’re two surviving souls--
billion year old
molecules binding
our hearts, muscles,
bones and nerves winding--
let us go back to the beginning,
before the time of sinning,
to the start of our creation,
before government or nation,
to find the garden and lose regarding--
regain our innocence.
The sun, rain and wind will test us--
we’ll build shelters of hides and bones,
pick berries and sharpen knives with stones,
play bone flutes and gut-stringed lutes,
and **** nothing without reason
and prepare for each change of season.
We’ll take our water from the glacial melt.
Our fashion will be the furry pelt.
Of course, we’ll remember poem and song--
for they were never wrong;
art was blameless.
It was the only thing
“Civilization” left us.
We’ll spark fire with pegs and strings
whirring, friction, small kindlings
into fire; we'll sit round and tell our history--
marvel at our ancestors’ folly, what mystery...
We’ll write dramas and dance;
we will honor this second chance.
English we will remember.
And French and Arabic, Latin and Hebrew.
We’ll start a new language, or two.
We’ll wash and sew condoms from intestines;
this time, what we’ll invest in
will be sustainability.
No need to propagate the earth--
it is fruitful enough already.
Only to be in harmony, a place neither above, nor below, others--
the animals and plants, who are our sisters and our brothers.
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 10:33 PM UTC
Between the hands, between the brows,
Between the lips of Love-Lily,
A spirit is born whose birth endows
My blood with fire to burn through me;
Who breathes upon my gazing eyes,
Who laughs and murmurs in mine ear,
At whose least touch my colour flies,
And whom my life grows faint to hear.
Within the voice, within the heart,
Within the mind of Love-Lily,
A spirit is born who lifts apart
His tremulous wings and looks at me;
Who on my mouth his finger lays,
And shows, while whispering lutes confer,
That Eden of Love’s watered ways
Whose winds and spirits worship her.
Brows, hands, and lips, heart, mind, and voice,
Kisses and words of Love-Lily,—
Oh! bid me with your joy rejoice
Till riotous longing rest in me!
Ah! let not hope be still distraught,
But find in her its gracious goal,
Whose speech Truth knows not from her thought
Nor Love her body from her soul.
1.9k
Like when they found the chariot
wheels at the bottom of the
Red Sea so was I surprised
at the faint reaching of the
fig tree, clinging to life amidst
so much dust, as it reached
ever upward in an infinite dance,
unaware of its eventual wanweird fate.
But I tracked on, crunching through
the ancient dirt, scrolls strapped
upon my back, coarse leather digging
through my camel's hair robes, sandy
grit forced in the gaps of
my toes. I cracked the locusts
and devoured them, dampening their bitterness
with the sweet warming explosion of
wild honey. So with bound Pleiades
above me, I gave witness to
Jerusalem, saying "After me will come
one more powerful than I, the
thongs of whose sandals I am
not worthy to stoop down and
untie." And I took them into
the Jordan and made them new
men. As the chill waters numbed
their muscles, their hairs pricked up
like gooseflesh, the night echoing with
splashing water and murmured voices. But
slowly the people trickled away, back
to the twang of lutes, their
ladles of soups, and I was
left alone, sitting, contemplating, always waiting.
So I sent forth the ravens,
carrying my message, to meet at
the Brookhollow no matter the obstruction,
to come by wagon or camel,
no matter of rain or flood.
But they were stubborn and prideful,
and would be moved from their
couches probably by no less than
one of Archimedes' great battleship levers,
and even then with massive groaning
like the coarse wooden hulls of
those monolithic ships. Because the sweet
taste of pastries is lodged upon
their tongues, keeping them occupied with
this world instead of the next.
So here I'll stay, always waiting.
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 1:02 AM UTC
*Where is that inner child,
why did it depart-
And take with it the stories,
That were close unto your heart*
From Mother Goose to Tennyson's
"Idyll's of the King",
folklore and fairy tales-
Of which the minstrels sing
Knights in shining armor,
atop their steeds of grace-
Protecting king and country
as they ride from place to place
There’s Jack and his stalk of beans,
“Lil Red and her hood-
Hansel, and his sister-
traips'n thru the wood
Rainbows and leprechauns,
elusive pots ‘o’ gold,
Oh, how many, many times have these
tales been told-
Fairies ‘neath the mushroom caps,
elves in their acorn hats,
Dancing 'neath the moon-ring light-
as fireflies flicker, to the “music
of the night”
And from the heavens, a horse appears-
adorned with wings of flight-
And from its head, a single horn-
the pure, and blessed, unicorn.
The minstrels, with their lutes and lyres-
amused the population-
But, could it be, these tales be true,
or just your imagination?
*That inner child, it's still there
It hasn’t gone away-
It just needs to be awakened-
on perhaps, this very day.*
r.riddle December 18, 2010-Copyright
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 10:25 AM UTC
If black is a curse and white the Cause;
Then blank is the page of rationality in a God that’s white.
If a pest fixed pies in the past;
Then its taste lists lies in the cast.
If the bulk lifts a tool and dies;
Then luck befits a pool of dice.
If a kith licks his kins like a broth;
Then the mouse clicks and nibbles like a crook.
If a thief runs away with the loots;
Then our chief grunts with harps and lutes.
Then our land wakes up with hopes and heals;
If the lost takes all the dope on his heels;
And if the thief never comes back to steal our wealth;
Then the land ever in bliss rests from the West.
amazon.com/author/odosimonagbo; for more of similar poetry.
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 6:01 AM UTC
Can you see? Can you see?!
Where the Faye roam free,
Where the earth and the sky are one in the night.
Can you see, can you see?
Where the Faries fly free,
And dance in the light of the moon shining bright.
Can you hear? Can you hear?!
The laughter of the lutes,and the songs of the Stars.
As they pull you to their world, too enchanted to run.
Can you hear, Can you hear?
The songs of the Sirens trying to beguile,
And the tunes of the Naiads calling you to drown,
Into the depths of the water, of which they both ware the Crown.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 12:15 PM UTC
XXVI
I lived with visions for my company
Instead of men and women, years ago,
And found them gentle mates, nor thought to know
A sweeter music than they played to me.
But soon their trailing purple was not free
Of this world’s dust, their lutes did silent grow,
And I myself grew faint and blind below
Their vanishing eyes. Then THOU didst come—to be,
Beloved, what they seemed. Their shining fronts,
Their songs, their splendors (better, yet the same,
As river-water hallowed into fonts),
Met in thee, and from out thee overcame
My soul with satisfaction of all wants:
Because God’s gifts put man’s best dreams to shame.
1.1k
Dancing forms – wings askew
Balancing on one foot or flying?
Pipes or lutes?
Heads bowed to the music
Or to see the love drops
Floating?
The geodesic dome
Grows from the foliage
The silver hexagons over a
Glass biome – layering,
Mating
From within the prickly pines.
The love drops – like candy liquid,
Oranges and reds and yellows
All for the girls.
They’re eaten so quickly.
Only a few blue for the boys.
The boys would rather climb
The glass surface gripping tightly
To the steel pipes
Then jump hard – diving
Into the shallow pool – hoping
To gobble up a little girl
Before she tastes Love.
Pan laughs and plays his pipe
Watching the children play.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 11:36 AM UTC
A drop fell on the apple tree,
Another on the roof;
A half a dozen kissed the eaves,
And made the gables laugh.
A few went out to help the brook,
That went to help the sea.
Myself conjectured, Were they pearls,
What necklaces could be!
The dust replaced in hoisted roads,
The birds jocoser sung;
The sunshine threw his hat away,
The orchards spangles hung.
The breezes brought dejected lutes,
And bathed them in the glee;
The East put out a single flag,
And signed the fete away.
Emily Dickinson. 3/22/2016.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 2:57 PM UTC
When you visit this Nativity
you pass through room after room;
five centuries of painting
ablaze with colour
and the human form.
When it’s as far as you can go
from the melee of the constant crowd,
that Saturday we were rewarded
by a space empty, but for three paintings
and our silent selves.
Silenced by its wonder
my son caught its breath:
the smell of the studio in Arezzo
and perhaps the shadow of the artist
barely sighted, blind at the end.
The painter, so the Polish poet says,
who hid so thoroughly behind
his work that one cannot invent
a private life, his loves or friendships,
passion and grief. His being was his ouevre.
And these faces (from the street perhaps?)
marked in the mind’s memory
with the miracle before them.
And for me: the silent music of the angels,
a choir with lutes haunts and haunting
always.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 11:34 AM UTC
*Where is that inner child,
why did it depart-
And take with it the stories,
That were close unto your heart*
From Mother Goose to Tennyson's
"Idyll's of the King",
folklore and fairy tales-
Of which the minstrels sing
Knights in shining armor
atop their steeds of grace-
Protecting king and country
as they ride from place to place
There’s Jack and his stalk of beans,
“Lil" Red and her hood-
Hansel, and his sister-
traips'n thru the wood
Rainbows and leprechauns,
elusive pots ‘o’ gold,
Oh, how many, many times have these
tales been told-
Fairies ‘neath the mushroom caps,
elves in their acorn hats,
Dancing 'neath the moon-ring light-
as fireflies flicker, to the “music of the night”
And from the heavens, a horse appears-
adorned with wings of flight-
And from its head, a single horn-
the pure, and blessed, Unicorn.
The minstrels, with their lutes and lyres-
amused the population-
But, could it be, these tales be true,
or just your imagination?
*That inner child, it's still there
It hasn’t gone away-
It just needs to be awakened-
on perhaps, this very day*
r.riddle December 18, 2010-Copyright
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 1:02 AM UTC
in a battle of hymns
synonymous lying
relying
on ***** thrusts,
deep fully orchestrated,
lutes and harps playing
the climbing cries to heaven,
four-part cacophonies
adapting Eastern chants
with Western modalities,
proceeding
altars, of which
ring with decepting cries
force a singular theme,
if not followed
your voice is heard in hell.
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 12:48 AM UTC
*Where is that inner child,
why did it depart-
And take with it the stories,
That were close unto your heart*
From Mother Goose to Tennyson's
"Idyll's of the King",
folklore and fairy tales-
Of which the minstrels sing
Knights in shining armor
atop their steeds of grace-
Protecting king and country
as they ride from place to place
There’s Jack and his stalk of beans,
“Lil Red and her hood-
Hansel, and his sister-
traips'n thru the wood
Rainbows and leprechauns,
elusive pots ‘o’ gold,
Oh, how many, many times have these
tales been told-
Fairies ‘neath the mushroom caps,
elves in their acorn hats,
Dancing 'neath the moon-ring light-
as fireflies flicker, to the “music
of the night”
And from the heavens, a horse appears-
adorned with wings of flight-
And from its head, a single horn-
the pure, and blessed, unicorn.
The minstrels, with their lutes and lyres-
amused the population-
But, could it be, these tales be true,
or just your imagination?
*That inner child, it's still there
It hasn’t gone away-
It just needs to be awakened-
on perhaps, this very day.*
r.riddle December 18, 2010-Copyright
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 5:51 AM UTC