"mandolins" poems
i will be
M o ving in the Street of her
bodyfee 1 inga ro undMe the traffic of
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uddeni
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the curvedship of
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….kiss her:hands
will play on,mE as
dea d tunes OR s-crap p-y lea Ves flut te rin g
from Hideous trees or
Maybe Mandolins
1 oo k-
pigeons fly ingand
whee(:are,SpRiN,k,LiNg an in-stant with sunLight
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ing all go BlacK wh-eel-ing
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80.3k
Kung walked
by the dynastic temple
and into the cedar grove,
and then out by the lower river,
And with him Khieu Tchi
and Tian the low speaking
And “we are unknown,” said Kung,
“You will take up charioteering?
“Then you will become known,
“Or perhaps I should take up charioterring, or archery?
“Or the practice of public speaking?”
And Tseu-lou said, “I would put the defences in order,”
And Khieu said, “If I were lord of a province
“I would put it in better order than this is.”
And Tchi said, “I would prefer a small mountain temple,
“With order in the observances,
with a suitable performance of the ritual,”
And Tian said, with his hand on the strings of his lute
The low sounds continuing
after his hand left the strings,
And the sound went up like smoke, under the leaves,
And he looked after the sound:
“The old swimming hole,
“And the boys flopping off the planks,
“Or sitting in the underbrush playing mandolins.”
And Kung smiled upon all of them equally.
And Thseng-sie desired to know:
“Which had answered correctly?”
And Kung said, “They have all answered correctly,
“That is to say, each in his nature.”
And Kung raised his cane against Yuan Jang,
Yuan Jang being his elder,
For Yuan Jang sat by the roadside pretending to
be receiving wisdom.
And Kung said
“You old fool, come out of it,
“Get up and do something useful.”
And Kung said
“Respect a child’s faculties
“From the moment it inhales the clear air,
“But a man of fifty who knows nothng
Is worthy of no respect.”
And “When the prince has gathered about him
“All the savants and artists, his riches will be fully employed.”
And Kung said, and wrote on the bo leaves:
If a man have not order within him
He can not spread order about him;
And if a man have not order within him
His family will not act with due order;
And if the prince have not order within him
He can not put order in his dominions.
And Kung gave the words “order”
and “brotherly deference”
And said nothing of the “life after death.”
And he said
“Anyone can run to excesses,
“It is easy to shoot past the mark,
“It is hard to stand firm in the middle.”
And they said: If a man commit ******
Should his father protect him, and hide him?
And Kung said:
He should hide him.
And Kung gave his daughter to Kong-Tchang
Although Kong-Tchang was in prison.
And he gave his niece to Nan-Young
although Nan-Young was out of office.
And Kung said “Wan ruled with moderation,
“In his day the State was well kept,
“And even I can remember
“A day when the historians left blanks in their writings,
“I mean, for things they didn’t know,
“But that time seems to be passing.
A day when the historians left blanks in their writings,
But that time seems to be passing.”
And Kung said, “Without character you will
“be unable to play on that instrument
“Or to execute the music fit for the Odes.
“The blossoms of the apricot
“blow from the east to the west,
“And I have tried to keep them from falling.”
4.6k
When a black sheet has been
thrown over the moon
and a million lazy stars
have fallen from view
I hear the wind has
grown tired of traveling
I hear the sound of mandolins
crying in the mountains
I hear the rattle of
gypsy wheels
I hear the heavy hearts
of horses upon the
restless roads of
broken poetry ...
Clay.M
Feb 25, 2025
Feb 25, 2025 at 10:17 AM UTC
Cabana, cheese and mustard sauce
Do grace the tablecloth,
White puffy clouds and warm south breeze
And joy in chilled beer's froth.
Hot sun doth bake these stony walls
Sweet mandolins do play,
And the pigeons peck at breadcrumbs caste.
And all fares well today.
Young darting men on Vespa's
Ply their arrogant good looks,
And those stunning senoritas
Strut their stuff while momma cooks.
Monsignors in scarlet robes
Do scurry through the town
Dispensing Catholic action
To any soul who is around.
Madonna's guard the roadside shrines
Where hot seal winds aloft
Toward the craggy mountain pass
And pastured alpine croft.
The peasant woman bends her spine
Trudging forth with strain,
Wood ******* piled upon her back,
Up hillward bound with pain.
Old men sit and ruminate
And watch the young girls pass,
Whilst nursing dark retsina
In an opaque thimble glass.
The olive trees look stately
In their crooked ancient way,
And cast a darkened shadow
Where the roosting chicken's lay.
And out across the mounded hills
The patchwork quilt of farm
And out beyond that deep azure
Of Italian coastal charm.
Seaward to horizon
The aqua blue intense
Extends as far as eye can see
Mediterranean immense.
Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
23 January 2010
Jan 23, 2010
Jan 23, 2010 at 2:30 AM UTC
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
would
in the screaming breeze,
a whistles sound forms,
in the winds,
the hibernated scorn of hidden violins,
strung together the suspense.
In the aftermath of silenced stare;
the glare from colours crystalline,
the subtle manipulation of light beams,
in nice dreams,
across the shallow lake,
whilst opaque clouds fade, pale.
In the sound of the backgrounds snarl;
in the woods darkness, black,
the music chooses ehoes between branches,
dangling in tone in the malarkey of
the pain of the mandolins gaze;
each pieces together with tiny,
frost bitten childs sized fingers.
The icy touch lingers for the seconds of death,
that last a pastime,
a lifetime of lust,
in the blink of the dust in the wind.
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 7:51 AM UTC
High voltage poetics,
Planting words seeds
In a field of nomadic minds,
In a sky of dreams
Bursting above the magnetic stars,
The skin of words
Peeled from flesh of life,
The page is a silken weave,
The words threaded in a void,
Syllable construction
Of a spiraling flame that invents
A city
In a day
In a life
In a person-
The thought deconstructed
Into metaphysical metaphorical,
Musical mandolins,
The mandolinist touches the foreheads,
A pack of wild people
In the wild city nocturnal,
The spectrum of voices
In a rainbow of verbiage,
A wonderful desolation
As the hours fly as a writer flies,
The Sunstone's dial
Burns time at the crossroads of midnight,
We are a gallery of echoes,
Our history lives today
Hushed into memory,
Diaphanous vision
Accumulated into the mind
Vast as the moment,
The mirrors reflect the Word
And the Word is life,
Reasons are a geometric anomaly
With morality at the center
Of the theoretical poem:
I choose to inspire,
Which means to live and observe
Daily reconstructing in the poems,
But the poem is not truth;
Poetry like history is made,
Eyes of language,
The truth is to walk it,
Inspired to live and the dream
Is written in verse.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 9:03 PM 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
In a town just up the mountain
straight out of an old John Wayne movie
where there's no parking lots
just places to tie up your horse
and the jail has one cell
and you'd expect to see Billy the Kid
breaking out of it any minute now
joshua trees
and tumble weeds
and all the bars have swinging doors
and there's a coffin leaning up against one of the walls
of the bar with the swinging doors
that's where you took me to your favorite place in the whole world
a restaurant
where a different band plays every night
with a different sound and a different look
from ones composed of old hippies and cowboys
playing their accordions and mandolins
singing old folk songs that everybody just knows
you don't know how you know
you just do
and then to the band of kids
straight out of suburbia
singing songs about ******* and heartache
with their hair slicked back
and their pants rolled up
and their moms are sitting right there
in a table right in front of the stage
eating burgers and salads and talking about the burgers and salads
then there's the girl from New York
she spells her name real weird and keeps her hair long and flowing
just like her dress
and she sings about empty motel rooms
and the Bhagavad Gita
and she tells stories in between songs
and there's writing all over the bathroom walls
little gems like
"what would Joan Jett do?"
or
"punks not dead, punks sleepin' drunk"
but mostly
just names of lovers in hearts
sometimes just initials like a secret code only they know
and the dates that they became lovers
there's paintings on all the doors
horses and hookers and cowboys under the stars
and all the walls around the stage
are covered in license plates
one from California from 1939
one shaped like a bear from Canada
one from Saskatchewan
wherever that is
and all the drinks
come in mason jars
and all the candles on the tables do too
and none of the chairs match
but that just makes them all unique
you're sitting in a one of a kind
but the whole place is really one of a kind
and that's why it's her favorite
she finds all these things to be just beautiful
not to mention the bartender keeps giving her free drinks
because it's her birthday and they take her word for it
and she's making friends with all the hippies
and she's dancing under the strings of lights
and we're kissing under the dark black sky
and I've never seen her so happy.
s.mndi
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 12:07 PM UTC
In first grade, I brought my music box and
baby frame from we lived in Italy to show-and-tell.
The frame showed me bald like an egg, half-smiling
with my length and weight written
with my full name across the middle.
It was something small to prove
something I couldn't remember.
Before I went home, I put the frame
with my music box on the floor by my locker--
Then I turned and found under my shoe
the shattered pieces of the frame.
A sense of loss twisted my insides,
like when you can't find your cell phone,
with all your photos and
messages you treasure
A piece of your life is stolen.
But a friend lends you a phone,
you break up with the boy
who sent you those messages and meet someone else.
That was how I learned to do it,
by gathering up the broken pieces
and bringing them home in a paper grocery bag.
When my mom said it couldn't be fixed, I believed her.
When she said not to worry, I still did.
She said everything was going to be OK and it was.
She lifted the lid of the music box,
and we heard mandolins playing once more.
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 12:26 AM UTC
* -for Sonia*
if I could
I would fly away
to be with you
I would like to hear
the sounds of mandolins
once again
by your side
smiling
laughing
but today
I do not smile
because it is days like this
which remind me
of how much I miss you
even when my husband is with me
even when my children are with me
I miss you
I miss you
I am yours
and even in the distance
you are mine
my love...
my family
Dec 14, 2011
Dec 14, 2011 at 4:01 PM UTC
~
I am so in love with you! I feel it, I taste it, and say it as a herald of Love would! So in love with you, with your sugar coated skin of many naked nights! comparing you to a flower, to a rubi, to a queen, is absurd! I look at you with all my senses in a vertical mood. ***** to be seen. with the flag close to the sun.
And if I sing, if the soul rises above clouds, if the wind comes with its flutes and mandolins, I will be carving the air, the air!
a monument to your beauty!
~
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 1:37 PM UTC
The valiant fiery heart of youth
Still throbs inside my *****
No poetic verse to mourn long-lost days
Is being sung in melancholy’s dark chasm
The bird’s tune wakes with the dawning sun
And the morning leaves softly hiss their sacred hymns
Whispering enchanting tales of a shiny golden age
Yearning for precious harmonies and rampant wild rhythms
The strings are strung on God’s graceful majestic violin
And mighty sounds soar in celestial realms summoning all the angels
Melodious harps, otherworldly lutes and unimaginable lyres vibrate in perfect unison
As gracious singers sing high poems and pluck their heavenly mandolins
Let’s chant a song divine, let’s pay homage to a world sublime!
Begin the music, play the joyful tambourine
Behold and see how all the grief is no longer in me!
It's been cast out, dissipating completely
In the sky’s mesmerizing blue and the earth’s bright dazzling green!
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 10:02 AM UTC
The only place we could be alone was by the brook.
Beside an oak tree
You and I lay, enveloped.
It makes me feel odd that
We were once shy.
There was a flute playing a blissful melody in the distance, lulling us to sleep.
It was a Celtic fantasy. Blushed cheeks, entrancing mandolins, serene violins.
You whispered delicately in my ear:
'Forget everything. Enjoy now.'
But how can I forget and enjoy now, when I am alone, my tears rusting my guitar strings.
That girl you once layed with by the brook is shattering...
Deep
Blue
Nothing
Left
Inside
Here
Now
Pointless
Effort
Redundant
Love
Obsolete
Maiden
Glass
Broken
Severed
Heart.
Farewell to light and all things bright.
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 4:28 PM UTC
I realize I'm home.
A cool draft
smacks my face
this early morn.
It's eye-opening,
so stark,
I've been gone
way too long,
I remember our song
and softly hum
its hypnotic-tune.
Such gentle
soothing mandolins
in beautiful rhythm
with the birch blades
twirling constantly,
like they always do.
As I lie here
listening,
I hear the thermostat
intermittently
kick in
and I curl up
all alone.
My chin is nestled
in my palm,
already
dreaming,
wishing,
hoping for your light.
I think,
if you only knew,
I silently scream,
"My kingdom
for my fair Lady....
to greet the rising sun,
this raw glistening."
I search the ceiling,
my entire universe,
for your sparkly starlet eyes....
I miss you so much,
my Queen.
Loneliness is not regal....
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 6:23 AM UTC
From the incrimination of the whole
they gave us a paved road to nowhere
the Victorian homeless cougars
have only recently found their hearts
(undoubtedly to the honkys)
and who escaped
for the sky
was not alive
or sopping
or green
this miserable workplace
over the edge
for butcher's lines
~was not raven black
the spoons
or forerunners
(from dazzling peninsulas)
left alone
off the center
of the parking lot
the real city
of buggy stalled wanderings
~was not flesh stained
off the front of
private beaches
stood resplendent bottoms
sprung off low ebbs
for the dark world
and our fathomless silences
trumpets and banjoes
and electric mandolins
are thrown from the solitude
ear studs
and obscurity
out of the footsteps of
spontaneous supporters
the vital blood arrayed
without moonless stasis
and desert buckets
woodlands unkempt
against the mountain run
halted plains straightened
after the catch
***** martinis
and stiff bowlers
valley the single marcher
shetlands
and peasants
see clear to the horizon
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 9:56 PM UTC
You really want to know
how any of us feels,
this long line of broken hearts.
It's melodic,
the sound of mandolins
& cymbals.
Every single one of us
is scared.
They always go away,
our lovers,
those sacred ones
who chained us
with heartstrings.
There is never enough time
not to be afraid.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 7:10 AM UTC
1.
A certain stasis of shapeless days
backlit a little by obscure sport
leave a lot of room
for double-edged thought
2.
I’ve bought two mandolins
one cut my fingers
the other cast them too fat,
what’s up with that?
Aug 5, 2021
Aug 5, 2021 at 6:48 AM UTC