"mandolin" poems
The first time I saw you it was in math class.
I didn't notice anything about you at first I just memorized the back of how your head was.
After all, I had an hour to ****
The second time I saw you were in English class.
You sat next to me but not by choice.
But I was happy about it.
It took me about four to five weeks to talk to you,
and I wasn't even the one to speak first.
You introduced yourself and then we worked together on an assignment.
It's been two weeks and I haven't said another word and I probably won't out of random.
My anxiety swallows me whole
and I'm sorry I can't even say hello.
But I have had time to notice you.
And let me just say
I'm in love with your taste in music
I'm in love with the way you hold your books
thinking that if you change the sound of your voice when the diagonal changes,
or if you struggle reading words you've never seen before and sit there for a few seconds trying to piece together what they mean.
I love how you can play the mandolin, you should show me sometime.
As I think about these things I also pick up how you would never even think of me.
I mean really,
you probably want some girl that's outgoing and can strum a guitar solo at midnight with you.
You probably want someone with long hair you can intertwine your fingers in,
or someone you can spend an afternoon together after church with.
I can't move mountains
and I can't even speak without looking like a fool,
but even if nothing will ever happen
It would be just as quite exciting being friends with you.
We could trade books and make each other mixtapes.
It hasn't even been a month yet and I'm already writing mediocre poetry about you.
I'm sorry about that by the way.
I'm not asking for a relationship but a friendship with someone like you would feel just the same.
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 6:46 PM UTC
As the voice of a dead man might sing
From the depths of his tomb,
For you, Mistress, my tuneless voice rings
False in my heart’s catacomb.
Open your soul and hear the knell
Of my mandolin strings:
This song I wrote, for you, which tells
Of cruel and childish things.
I will sing of your eyes, onyx and gold,
Purged of every shadow,
Then the Lethe of your breast, the cold
Styx of your hair’s dark flow.
As the voice of a dead man might sing
From the depths of his tomb,
For you, Mistress, my tuneless voice rings
False in my heart’s catacomb.
Then I will praise, above all
Flesh that heaven did bless
Whose opulent perfumes recall
Nights long and sleepless.
Finally, I will speak of the kiss
Of your sweet red lip,
Oh, how my martyrdom is bliss,
– My angel! – My Whip!
Open your soul and hear the knell
Of my mandolin strings:
This song I wrote, for you, which tells
Of cruel and childish things.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 10:01 AM UTC
my sonnet is A light goes on in
the toiletwindow,that’s straightacross from
my window,night air bothered with a rustling din
sort of sublimated tom-tom
which quite outdoes the mandolin-
man’s tiny racket. The horses sleep upstairs.
And you can see their ears. Ears win-
k,funny stable. In the morning they go out in pairs:
amazingly,one pair is white
(but you know that)they look at each other. Nudge.
(if they love each other,who cares?)
They pull the morning out of the night.
I am living with a mouse who shares
my meals with him,which is fair as i judge.
10.4k
1005
Bind me—I still can sing—
Banish—my mandolin
Strikes true within—
Slay—and my Soul shall rise
Chanting to Paradise—
Still thine.
7.6k
Born in these hills, taken away
when I was three.
Son of a coal miner who took
my mother, my brother, and me.
Drove west to the ocean, Pacific.
The kids there called me "hillbilly" and "hick."
Said I talked funny. Punched me, kicked me,
generally tried their best to make sure
I knew I didn’t belong there.
And I did not.
Eventually, though,
I learned to speak like them,
dress like them, act as if I was not
from Kentucky, my daddy
was not Appalachian, that
these mountains had no part of me.
My only recourse was
after the pledge of allegiance…
I never sang the “Oregon” song.
I sang, "Kentucky."
But, my father, he wouldn’t change.
He was proud of his heritage.
He played banjo; he played mandolin;
he went fishing, a lot.
Grew the best garden in the county,
ate soup beans and cornbread.
He did not give a hang for their Yankee ways.
I hated him. I hated my father.
until I returned to these hills.
Now I see them,
I see him,
in me.
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 6:53 AM UTC
The curtain frays at the edges
Unwinds, disobedient
Only to reveal
No bed (where one should be)
Dainty white muslin
Conflicted, floats
Away from the pane
More like a halo (than a shroud)
Here, in the cage of your mind,
Lies a mandolin
Hollow (with no music in its heart)
Towards another window
Its brother may lie
Born of nothing (but of itself)
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 7:51 PM UTC
.university was such a bad idea... i'm starting to think... isn't university the place where only women and rapists are admission worthy?! forget the men... you're on your own!
gorgeous lisp...
Fionna
from Fraserburgh...
worked in
a nightclub to
pay for a mandolin,
and play her maggie may...
outside her window...
her sweetness imbue of
honey and the letter G
stumbling into a "stutter"....
and?
one detail...
she loved
queen's innuendo...
the ooh ooh bit
and the otherwise
Spanish rodrigo
in-between composer...
i left Edinburgh...
because my heart was
not into it...
my eyes were...
but in my heart...
i was not standing on
an island, but an iceberg...
too many English
private school educatde kids...
too much interconnected
meritocracy bargains...
said via grandfather earned
ditto position through
the connectivity of his, father's
father...
no...
i won't have that
******** hanging before
me like a carrot, while
i play the donkey...
sorry... no...
shouldn't have lied
about your mother being your sister,
and your grandmother being
your mother...
then?!
Leningrad would
have made sense!
thankfully?
it still doesn't!
and doubly thankful for it
that i am, in saying:
it, never, will!
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 10:15 PM UTC
“Love is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake and then subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion. That is just being “in love” which any of us can convince ourselves we are. Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident. Your mother and I had it, we had roots that grew towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossom had fallen from our branches we found that we were one tree and not two. - Captain Corelli’s Mandolin.
nov 1, 09
you had me standing with chattering teeth in the novemeber chill. the first time i had spoken to you in weeks. i was holding myself together so well. and then i broke. like you knew i would. hell we both knew it.
red box.hat.scent.shirts.skin.warmth.silence.depth.heart.wrecking.
were held to the touch of wrong. the sweet eyes of hidden truth. you have now set me up twice but i like being taken advantage of when its you taking.i am the perfect descripiton of your sweetest downfall, your only downfall.i want this all to come. come straight into me again like you always did. i mean i saw you smile when you wanted to walk away. but something in you made you stay.you could have broken my grip in half but instead you laughed at the jokes you wished you didnt have to hear. and i know this never happened. we never happened.ever. so im writing about a night that didnt exist.your hands slipping over skin.trembling under the brush of your hand.shaking all over like it was happening all over again.
“everything is so ****** up now. what do we have to lose now? everythings all ****** up.”
“am i just going crazy cuz i miss you?”-atmosphere.
i think you were impressed by the outcome of my words.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 1:38 PM UTC
Take my saxophone
Take my piano
Take my guitar
Take my mandolin
Take my washboard
Take my harmonica
Take my sunglasses
Take my hairbrush
Take my Bible
Take my clothes
Take my trophies
Take my baton
Take my ballet shoes
Take my cane
Take my sword
Take my monkey
Take my collections
Take my cat
Take my house
Take my memories
Take my plans
My, that was a heavy load.
I feel so light.
Nov 25, 2010
Nov 25, 2010 at 9:01 AM UTC
My fingers pluck the strings
Of willow wood mandolin
Upon my knee it sits
The wood of willow
As smooth as a feather pillow
Atop my knee sits
In steady posture
In my heart of hearts
There tears a lonely hollow
My voice shrieks shallow
The willow wood mandolin
Shatters into splinters
Splinters pierce my skin
Filling through my body
From my heart of hearts
A willow chisel carves
Away the organs
That flow and break
From my eyes
Bleed wood chips
My tongue drools
Sawdust
A girl no more sits
Under this willow
But a wood sculpture
Of steady posture
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 7:32 PM UTC
IT'S going to come out all right-do you know?
The sun, the birds, the grass-they know.
They get along-and we'll get along.
Some days will be rainy and you will sit waiting
And the letter you wait for won't come,
And I will sit watching the sky tear off gray and gray
And the letter I wait for won't come.
There will be ac-ci-dents.
I know ac-ci-dents are coming.
Smash-ups, signals wrong, washouts, trestles rotten,
Red and yellow ac-ci-dents.
But somehow and somewhere the end of the run
The train gets put together again
And the caboose and the green tail lights
Fade down the right of way like a new white hope.
I never heard a mockingbird in Kentucky
Spilling its heart in the morning.
I never saw the snow on Chimborazo.
It's a high white Mexican hat, I hear.
I never had supper with Abe Lincoln.
Nor a dish of soup with Jim Hill.
But I've been around.
I know some of the boys here who can go a little.
I know girls good for a burst of speed any time.
I heard Williams and Walker
Before Walker died in the bughouse.
I knew a mandolin player
Working in a barber shop in an Indiana town,
And he thought he had a million dollars.
I knew a hotel girl in Des Moines.
She had eyes; I saw her and said to myself
The sun rises and the sun sets in her eyes.
I was her steady and her heart went pit-a-pat.
We took away the money for a prize waltz at a Brotherhood dance.
She had eyes; she was safe as the bridge over the Mississippi at Burlington; I married her.
Last summer we took the cushions going west.
Pike's Peak is a big old stone, believe me.
It's fastened down; something you can count on.
It's going to come out all right-do you know?
The sun, the birds, the grass-they know.
They get along-and we'll get along.
2.1k
Mandolin harmonies
trailed up Bear Hair Gap,
echoed between
the chestnuts, hickories
& sweet blackberries.
Lodi & a bad moon rising
stifled the cool air,
wood spirits whispered
secret incantations
to the fairies & sprites
flying amongst the fireflies.
This is the sacred
Coosa place,
where bricks have names,
where the wolf man
drove his Impala
spooking summer campers
& where old blackie
got trapped.
Two are gone now,
one succumbed to the bottle,
the other still stalking hikers
near the Raven Cliffs
o'er near Helen.
The bricks will remain forever
'neath the phases of the moon
beside the maiden Trahlyta,
up from Blood Mountain.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 3:22 AM UTC
Whenever my family and I,
Prepare to embark on a fair drive,
I grab my phone with my playlist along with my headphones.
Filled with excitement that nobody knows.
We set out on our excursion,
I put my headphones in,
I turn on my music,
And let the symphonies enter my head.
If I close my eyes,
I can visualize,
An ancient city filled with song and dance,
Amidst a sacred feast with the finest band.
I see the dresses swirl, and I smell the wheat in the fields,
Along with the fresh bread that they created with their yields.
The song changes to a more melancholic melody,
I envision a final stand, one with honor and dignity.
The knight fights its hardest, but is overrun,
The piano’s keys, haunting me, as it dies under the setting sun.
Another change, more upbeat, a comforting, catchy symphony.
I wish to dance, but I am confined to the car seat.
I open my eyes and look to the right,
At the sprawling landscape we’ve been passing by,
But instead of farmland and trees, guess what I see,
The same mind-boggling envisioning!
More songs play, various tones,
From joyous to somber, sacred to monotone,
Threatening to empowering, all on their own.
The drums beat to the piano’s keys,
As a rare mandolin strums in harmony.
A glorious symphony,
An undertone for creativity.
Oh, the power of envisioning!
Sep 18, 2025
Sep 18, 2025 at 7:17 PM UTC
Picasso reported a theft
By art thieves who barely had left.
"Did you see them?" cops prodded.
"I think so." He nodded.
"Perhaps you could sketch them
To help us to ketch them."
So he sat down to draw
And they watched him with awe.
After they knew
What Pablo drew,
Arrests swiftly came.
I cite them by name:
Mandolin, guitar, and horse.
But do I jest? Of course.
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 12:36 PM UTC
*Will you stroll with me
This path of Autumn leaves
Crunching underneath
Both our melodic feet
Said the Harp to the Six String Guitar
Come walk with me...
Will you dive with me
Into the open sea
Together we will swim
An enchanting melody
Said the Mandolin to the Violin
Come swim with me...
Will you float with me
On this cool night breeze
As fireflies flicker on and off
To our quaint melody
Said the Piccolo to the Saxophone
Come fly with me...
You can hear the melodies
Playing free
From one end of the other
Sea to shining Sea
As the instruments are all beckoning
Come play with me...*
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 7:31 AM UTC
Pluck both wings off a butterfly twin
Toss five bones into a black stone cauldron
Pull three strings of a skeleton puppet
Draw a white circle around a mandolin
One burning needle, carved into a coffin
Six long shadows swing the pendulum
A dagger to the chest, weave the mortal flesh
Pierce the embryo outside the yolk of death
Feb 3, 2021
Feb 3, 2021 at 11:28 PM UTC
I’m learning to travel light. A backpack, a mandolin case, and a water bottle. That’s enough. A black skirt, an extra pair of wool tights, and a teeshirt big enough to sleep in. Headphones.
my sister asks me when and where and why I’m coming and going and leaving and staying
I’m packing up
I’m always packing up
but my suitcases are getting smaller, more efficient, less attached.
I can’t keep track myself
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 11:01 PM UTC
When Twilight falls the Fairies
Play gracefully upon their
Enchanted instruments
Celtic harps and violas
Join in this beautiful solo
Double basses and violins
Ring out through the calm Night
The Fairies play from Twilight
'Til Midnight
Then move on somewhere else
And play upon their instruments
'Tis the Fairies' melody
For they love living in
Instrumental harmony
With happiness and smiles
From little pink lips
They play upon the prettiest
Bells and chimes ever
Celestas and harpsichords,
Pianos and organs
Raise their beautiful
But meek and humble voices
Creating a tapestry of music
The mandolin also follows
And lifts its voice
And the flute comes next
Beautiful sounding oboes
Sing sweetly on the Night breeze
Next come the wood winds and brass winds
And their beauty cries out
A bittersweet paradise
The most beautiful music
Played while
All humans are asleep
But when Fairies are awake
~Marian~
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 11:18 PM UTC
IV
Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floor,
Most gracious singer of high poems! where
The dancers will break footing, from the care
Of watching up thy pregnant lips for more.
And dost thou lift this house’s latch too poor
For hand of thine? and canst thou think and bear
To let thy music drop here unaware
In folds of golden fulness at my door?
Look up and see the casement broken in,
The bats and owlets builders in the roof!
My cricket chirps against thy mandolin.
Hush, call no echo up in further proof
Of desolation! there ’s a voice within
That weeps . . . as thou must sing . . . alone, aloof
1.8k
everything about it
the raising waves of sound
and the pluck of the violin
the fiddling fingers on the mandolin
and the swell of the drums
his voice bows like a singing saw
and curls down into the depths of his own feeling
and art not only in the poetry
but poetry in the very sound
*i want to see the things you see
because i like the way you breathe*
it pulls a soul onto its toes
both of the mind
and of the feet
and sends it dashing down the snowy roads lined by broken corn stalks
and gray buildings
and fairy lights of the city
brings us one with the buskers
and into the hearts
of every other person
who has heard it
my god, it has made us into a pool of humanity
each soul touching
in ways deeper than this
to my dear violins
and violas
and basses
and mandolins
and drummers
thank you for the gift
of sound
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 6:25 PM UTC
It slowly continues to argue with me day in and day out.
Like a creep following in the shadows,
it decides to elude me no matter how I feel.
As the mandolin plays its sad tune,
and the guitar only remembers the sound of minor chords,
the melancholy erodes the wall that has protected the people since birth.
Taking its time to analyze and devise,
making plans and biding its time.
The edge defines the lie that it says is inside.
Maybe the next ship will take me along.
Maybe it will sail farther away than the last one.
Maybe its anchor will drop on more pleasant shores.
As I scream at the city that has been my home for so long,
As I stare into its ugly face,
I no longer know which way to go.
Do I go to the harbor and board the boat?
Do I search for my creeper in the alleys and roads?
Or do I stay where I am and take heart to the fact that I am still taking breath?
Why are you staying by my side?
You should go.
Why are you still waiting with me in line?
Don't you have better places to be?
When the night is angry and the clouds block out the moon,
I wonder if it will find me?
When the weather is sour and the day looks like the night,
I wonder if it will find me?
Anyway, I choose you, stay by my side.
Any path I take you have loved me despite the tide.
Any time I wept you were there with me and you cried.
Why do you stay when I am in the fray,
When my anxiety shoots you like a gun,
or when my anger manifests and stabs you like a knife?
I look over my shoulder and the creeper is there.
Always ten paces behind no matter which way I twist and I turn.
I look over my shoulder and I see you coming up beside.
You're reaching for my hand and telling me to trust.
I close my eyes and let you guide me to where I should go.
I release any semblance of control.
The sun finally breaks the clouds and the creeper steps aside.
Still, ten paces behind but comfort are by my side.
The sun brightens my face and I begin to cry.
For the night was long and the day has finally come.
The day is finally the day,
and I can see the bay.
The boat is right where I left it.
I look to you and you say it's okay.
So we take our steps and board the boat looking for better shores where we can play.
Jun 18, 2021
Jun 18, 2021 at 2:32 PM UTC
Palm trees sway in the breeze as waves crash on the beach. The sun sets low over the horizon as the boat gently rocks just off of the shore. Paradise to some an escape to others. Cabanas are decked with blinking lights as people dance to the sound of the steel drum and the Mandolin. Coconut drinks are mixed with local spirits to bring good cheer. Dark and White *** are the mixers of choice as fish bake on open coals and ***** boil in a *** Gifts are exchanged by the light of Tike torches and bon fires. The moon rises over the ocean and a starry sky is beset like jewels in the night. All is at peace with a tropical Christmas .
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 7:15 PM UTC
you played me like a mandolin,
striking notes like broken glass
in the space between your wayward sheets.
your hands were my compass,
your eyes the Adriatic Sea-
and I plunged into the depths
like an albatross,
fawning over wide open spaces
and beautiful colors.
yes, you played me like a symphony,
my body ebbing and flowing
in ghastly syncopation.
notes like honeysuckle and lilac
coursing through my bloodstream-
capillaries to venules to veins to the vena cava
and straight on into my heart.
and you'd be ecstatic to know
that I haven't heard such a haunting refrain
since you went away.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 11:05 AM UTC
Sweet Oriental Angels
with your cloth-thread harps
play your song on dizi flute and
mandolin echo soft
in the foreground
to the cruel industrial drum
of a new world.
This palace orchestra scrawled on scriptures
now a specter of labors
and dawns coated in smog.
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 10:36 PM UTC