"oboes" poems
Flower petals fall from trees
In a kaleidoscope of colours
Red, pink, blue, white, lavender,
Orange, and yellow
Different instruments
Chime out a melody sweet
Harps, violins, and oboes
Fill the air
Along with violas, cellos,
Acoustic guitars, pianos,
And many more instruments
Each one sounds beautiful in it's own way
But Fairies play and create a melody
That sounds so heavenly
Beautiful rainbows
Fill the sky with a maze of colours
And raindrops refresh the earth
Which feels so nice and warm beneath our feet
Dewdrops kiss those flowers
The same dew that sparkled
On the grass like a million jewels
Enchanted by those honeyed rays
Of earthbound sunshine
Dancing and waltzing in the morning air
We walk down those paths
That seem so large to us
And are spellbound by the shade of the forest
We sit down to rest
On those mushrooms that grow
Alongside that forest path
We love to appear
In front of your eyes
And make you look at us
In a dazzled sort of way
In Winter we love to fly
And walk upon the blanket of snow
And play a tune upon the frozen icicles
Hanging from the pine needles
Covered in white snow
We love to fly about
Those falling snowflakes
And dance with them
Through the grey sky
In Spring we love
To fly and dance
In a meadow of flowers
I could go on forever
But here I stop
~Marian~
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC
SUMMER MARCHES IN
(Movement no. 1)
It comes crashing down
like doom.
A martial fanfare
begins a long conversation
questioning fate,
arguing for the human condition,
and for death's open invitation,
which we dare not deny.
WHAT THE MEADOW FLOWERS TELL ME
(Movement no. 2)
Their blooming voices
are oboes and lush violins.
The sun is surely brassy bright
in the sky above.
Radiant alpine flowers
and woodwinds
from deep within their burrows
make the case
for a music well tended
and serenely fed
by sweet springs emerging from the depths
here below.
WHAT THE CREATURES OF THE FOREST TELL ME
(Movement no. 3)
The life force
tends to run amok.
Yet things do not fall apart,
the center still holds.
And though it is mundane -
pedestrian, at times -
we cannot deny the joy in this life,
nor do we wish to.
But know, traveler,
that submerged in every caldron of joy
is a small *** of darkness.
And it will find you
or you will find it -
not only because it is fated,
but for the sake of your sanity.
WHAT MAN TELLS ME
(Movement no. 4)
Here darkness sings.
Again the plucked string.
O Mensch!
You tell the tale!
You take this story
back to the mountain.
A woeful tale you bring,
but it is gilded with joy.
A chorus exalts your condition.
Deep is its grief,
but joy is deeper still.
WHAT THE ANGELS TELL ME
(Movement no. 5)
Bimm Bamm
Bimm Bamm
the children's choir
sweetly intones.
And what, pray tell,
do Angels have to say to us?
I've heard about love
I've heard about emptiness
I've heard about absence
without presence,
about nothingness and the void.
But I have never heard such singing!
WHAT LOVE TELLS ME
(Movement no. 6)
Sweet the air we breathe.
Pleasant the sights before us.
Words are stilled,
anxious thoughts banished.
There is nothing on Earth
or in Heaven
that disputes this sweet resolution
all the parts made whole
Nothing that could possibly
speak against it
(though French Horns will have
their interests heard).
But here it is.
The end.
O Mensch
come to your last and best
resting place.
Also sprach Gustav Mahler.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 9:19 PM UTC
Bonobo oboes
Bongoes goes
******* agent
Bonny nymphomaniacs
Bonanza 'za
Bonbon bones
Bonker kerosene
Bonsai saints
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 11:10 AM 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
I have been urged by earnest violins
And drunk their mellow sorrows to the slake
Of all my sorrows and my thirsting sins.
My heart has beaten for a brave drum's sake.
Huge chords have wrought me mighty: I have hurled
Thuds of gods' thunder. And with old winds pondered
Over the curse of this chaotic world,-
With low lost winds that maundered as they wandered.
I have been gay with trivial fifes that laugh;
And songs more sweet than possible things are sweet;
And gongs, and oboes. Yet I guessed not half
Life's symphony till I had made hearts beat,
And touched Love's body into trembling cries,
And blown my love's lips into laughs and sighs.
1.8k
The audience, silent, took a breath in unison
Included in the orchestra was every instrument imaginable
Banhus and Gadulkas played folk and polkas
The brutish brass, bodyguards and protectors of stringed melodies
Included in the orchestra was every instrument imaginable
A concert harp, plucked by fingers long, smooth and sharp
The brutish brass, bodyguards and protectors of the woodwind class
Saxophones provided a melancholy lilt, the timp was traditionally built
A concert harp, stroked by running fingers, smooth and sharp
Every sharp and flat note was passed through the throaty reeds of oboes
Saxophones reminiscent of ‘jive’, the timp in its size had nowhere to hide
This exhibition of musical traditions played late into evening with no intermissions
Every sharp and flat note accounted for, motifs carried whispers of folklore
Banhus and Gadulkas, swapped stories with bassoons and bagpipes
The exhibition had finished, piano keys rested, every note has its operatic death
The audience, silent, took a breath in unison
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 8:56 PM UTC
Movement no.1
Andante con moto
Farewell.
I am leaving you
with the sweetness
and the sadness
of every creature on this earth
draped over my shoulders
as a shroud
We rest now
before the final struggle
looking down upon our lives
from a precipice
The wind calls up
a faint sound
a song
of healing
as resignation
So bring forth the dirge
let dogs and oboes
cue the horns
as we embark
upon a tender struggle
We are whipped back
and forth
between grief and glory
in this life
an indifferent life
lush with raw power
But thankfully
at the end of every day
there is sleep.
Movement no. 2
Im tempo eines gemächlichen Ländlers. Etwas täppisch und sehr derb.
Dance returns
and goes mad
Who could lift a leg
that high?
Not I.
The music careens
off the walls
in a dissonant minuet
of the hours
The clenched teeth
of each and every minute
grind here
as if time itself
took heel
and made a sparkling trace
across the pines
of this exalted floor of dance.
Movement no. 3
Rondo Burleske: allegro assai. Sehr trotzig.
A music major's delight.
Fugues against fugues.
Dense contrapuntal figures
and sarcastic counterpoint
shouting out
from the back of the class.
And then
just love
confused perhaps
but real love indeed.
Movement no. 4
Sehr langsam und noch zurüclhaltend
The violin
noblest of instruments
takes its place
In bitter sorrow
life soon lost
the fruit of the tree
is extinguished
the promise of green days
burned by drought
All is withheld.
There is peace at the end
but no joy
the abyss is only silence
and a taut string
connecting us
to eternity.
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 10:47 PM UTC
What does infinite longing
sound like?
Where is the vault that holds
the seed corn of sadness?
And how can we mute our fear
when the barred owls in these
dank woods sob in perfect
sympathy
with the night?
Here
the tense oboes find their range
silence pervades their thoughts
the drum marks a beat
while the string section weaves
a hieroglyph of grief
and resignation.
This symphony is called
the song of the night
and night proves to be
full of whispered life
rustling leaves
and the courage to face it.
But night is not synonymous
with darkness.
Its ways and means
harmonize with the light
render half the whole
parcel our sleeping hours
into dreams
and fitful moments
beneath the staring moon.
In the morning
a plaintive bird song
stirs thought
brings the sun into the east
and wraps night's dreams into
a silk handkerchief
where dreams are tightly bound
and forgotten.
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 9:42 PM UTC
as a whole I have
{been listening to your godawful racket}
ruminated
for an entire rehearsal number
{though it felt like six}
and have a few things I would like to address
as a
{brutal bandslaughter}
kindly input
for your improvement
flutes
{come on now,
have we ever heard of a tuner}
great job, watch your pitch on the A, though
again
{scratch that, where's the shotgun}
...right.
clarinets
first parts play
{no, stupid, you are SECOND part
you got demoted last week
when you couldn't play the riff in
measure nine}
wonderful, now could we take it from letter B
just first clarinets, okay
{FIRST clarinets
FIRST FIRST FIRST
god where's my coffee}
right. let's just move right along, shall we
oboes
oboes, I--
right.
let's have that F again
{you're flat you're sharp and
both of you
just plain ****
okay, one at a time
{oh my LORD my ears are bleeding
who the hell invented this thing}
you're a little sharp
can you fix that
...your reed is old
{you bought it last week}
...you've got spit in it
{you just took an entire twenty measures
of the last movement to
pull out your swab}
...someone broke your horn.
right.
okay French horns
let's hear the G
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 1:44 PM UTC
the sky
is
an orchestra of
oboes, clarinets
cellos, strings
and
brass instruments
we make
the
sound of
thunder and lightning
before
the
coronation of storm
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 9:19 AM UTC
Success & Excess,
the double-headed goliath
atop the mountain drinking wine
laughed with all the slop-eating swine
at the ant-sized pilgrims
crafting their shrine.
But soon the mountain cracked
under the lives spent toiling
over construction & protection
of their collective prison--
the bitter stench of cynicism
wafted freely through its halls
& prisoners prayed for the crumbling
to bring them fresh air.
The mountain did crumble, success
& excess met pilgrims in fate
as the trumpets of creation harmonized
with the oboes of destruction
to wring out a nocturne
for the newly born babes.
Cynicism dissipated
& their souls grew
stronger, their will followed
& filled the void of Excess with
imagination to create
the world again.
Success, the wounded foe,
was forced to strut around town--
pilgrims & prisoners
laughed and poked, yet
at the nucleus,
Success whispered: "nothing can stop me."
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 5:43 PM UTC
At the old downtown Theater a curious group of performers appear after closing time , a little after sundown !
The pipes of the grand pipe ***** make the stage their own ...Large ones , tiny ones and gadgets the likes you've never ever known !
Instruments of various heights , shapes and sizes ! Teeny weeny flutes and big oboes answer and call ! Vox humanas sing like the choirs above , Rooga horns from old cars sound off , little blue birds twinkle lovely alms ! Wood Flutes tower sixteen feet high ! Brass trumpets heard from miles around , contra bassoons big enough to blow a man down !
The clap of wooden horses crossing covered bridges , antique telephones and drumhead switches !
Lovely diapasons lead the show , big burly Reeds make the stage their own !!
The mops , buckets , brooms and dust pans dance as the entourage bellows , the music grows louder as the pipers come together !
As all the pipes blow a beautiful song , debonair Sir Console graciously invites you all to sing along !
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 7:23 PM UTC
*The Devils popping the bubble wrap
Hail is bouncing off the front door steps
Blustery tree lines wrapped in sheets of lightning
blue , rivers forming at downspouts , thunder
growing louder
Cars come to a crawl
Peace and violence are poised to draw
Suddenly showers stall , a lull ensues
Quiet resumes , the night is rescued
The treefrogs strike a tune , the June bugs swoon
The timid moon looms , the insect musicians balloon
The oboes , the clarinets , the piccolos and the cellos
Sweet voices , the harps , the guitars and the pianos
A whippoorwill calls the orchestra to order ,
the thrushes , mockingbirds , the katydids , the cricket
chorus , the coyotes , the bobcats , the hoot owls and
the sprites
The jays , the cicadas and the songsters of night
Goodbye Old Man Squall , may the creatures of the eve
now come to call , may the maidens of the forest render
ballads of rest , may the fledglings of the morrow lay
peacefully in their nest* ...
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 8:19 PM UTC
Children’s voices crying out
and laughing loud and clear
Like an orchestra of sound
for everyone to hear
The bass starts first, parental leave
gives go ahead to play
The marching beat as kids go forth
and out into the day
A trumpet hail for company
is raised from door to door
The flute returns, the oboe too
accompanied by more
The fun begins on strings and swings
go back and forth with speed
All cares and woes are flung away
percussion takes the lead
A drumroll raises up the stakes
a dangerous new move
Chromatic scales, gymnastic fails
the cymbal’s sharp reprove
The roundabout reveals the chorus
repeating the refrain
The highs, the lows and all between
All voices sing again
The seesaw conversation starts
bassoons begin up high
The oboes and an English horn
ascend into the sky
A far away note penetrates
the happy symphony
A lone voice trills with increased speed
and calls out ‘Time for Tea’
As kids go home the conductor
Bows and takes his leave
The park is left in quietness
notes floating in the breeze
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 7:41 AM UTC
Érase un cura, tan pobre,
que daba grima mirar
sus zapatos descosidos
y su viejo balandrán.
Érase un cuasi mendigo
que solía regalar
a los más pobres que él
con la mitad de su pan.
Un cura tan divertido
para hacer la caridad,
que si daba el desayuno
se acostaba sin cenar.
Érase un pobre curita
llamado el Padre Julián,
a quién vían como a un perro
los grandes de la ciudad,
pues era tan inocente
y era tan humilde el tal,
que en la casa de los grandes
daba risa su humildad.
Un día amaneció muerto,
siendo causa de su mal
no se sabe si mucha hambre
o alguna otra enfermedad.
Entonces un gran entierro
se ofreció al padre Julián,
donde sólo en cera y pábilo
se quemara un dineral.
Y se vieron coches fúnebres
y hubo un lujo singular,
a los ecos de las marchas
de la música marcial.
Y cuentan que los timbales
y oboes al resonar,
hacían burla del muerto
pobre de solemnidad...
Y que el muerto se reía
pensando en su balandrán,
con una de aquellas risas
que dan ganas de llorar.
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The bass fades in, nice and slow,
fading out again for a moment of silence.
The flash of a flute in the distance,
a slow cymbal shaking into existence,
cellos driving out a deep and quiet rhythm.
The tin whistles of frightened seabirds
fly for shelter from the rising and falling
of bassoons floating in the dark sky.
The conductor unleashes a mighty roar
from his orchestra and gone again,
the violins with their staccato
carrying on for a bit longer
before the orchestra erupts again,
playing a few more notes than before,
the oboes constantly playing.
Drumsticks beat down steadily
on a cymbal held in a gloved hand,
rising up in crescendo and accelerando,
harder and faster they fall,
harder and faster they strike,
the orchestra blares again
as we in the wings start to get unnerved
but the storm has used all its power,
the players are tired tonight
and all that is left
is the tambourine man
shaking his hand as he walks off stage.
Jul 21, 2017
Jul 21, 2017 at 10:52 AM UTC
The moon and stars they wept.
The grey blanket of clouds covered the light source.
The morning sun was dead.
In a bunked lowly chair I sat as I stare the first drop of sky's tears fall in the windowpane.
It's like watching a full played orchestra.
The loud crackles of every droplet hitting my roof sounded like violins.
The wind steered the tempo of each cello sounding raindrops.
Marvelous harmonies of saxophones, bassoons, oboes, clarinets and flutes symphonized the silence.
Sky, the orchestra conductor is crying.
So am I.
Then I remembered, that I'll play a function too.
I'm the orchestra's vocal soloist.
Oh, here's my part . . . I screamed.
Aug 12, 2017
Aug 12, 2017 at 3:52 AM UTC
Woke up way to early this morning
went to sleep too **** late
but the universe was already awake, loose and free
eons before my eyes opened this day.
The sun was up
and around walking in the garden
searching for weeds among the flowers and onions
he trod the mulch to fertilize creation -
he is at home there
in the dirt and clay
in the failures of the day.
So when I arrive in the garden room
and sit at my little computer
amidst the plants and shells and cats and angels
I feel as if I have come home
from the misty crazy regions of sleep
to find my deeper self
here in this tiny dot in the universe.
Here I listen to Chopin and Indian flute
and music from beyond
awakened from somewhere
in the shadows and blood
circulating and populating my organs
playing the grand pianos , cellos
violins, flutes
and mellow mysterious oboes
within.
The sun is present
in the clattering molecules
of stone and bone
infiltrating
crashing
creeping
and propagating
making life and death
into a great and glorious symphony.
Before I woke this morning
the sun was wandering
the creases and crevasses of my brain
preparing me and making me whole
taking my timid self and making it bold
for the vagaries and variations
of this day
ready to climb
into this small moment
of time.
Feb 23, 2019
Feb 23, 2019 at 11:38 AM UTC
If she
did hollowly
aggress me
in distemper
she's but
a shoe
in these
oboes then
a girl
as somebody
that shan't
belay my
forethought in
ways that
shapely her
heart that
matters more
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 3:33 PM UTC
*Tuesday pouts like a stubborn child
Gale fervor and weather wild
Staccato cellos and violins , oboes blaring in the wicked wind
Mischievous elves rattle the hickory branches
Bullfrogs shout with glee as the rain advances
Old man Sunshine takes a nap
Picklenose Pappy has a cat in his lap
Kingfishers tap dance in the shallows
till black becomes blue with evening day-glo and
puffy marshmallow* ...
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 12:43 PM UTC
Los pianos golpean con sus colas
enjambres de violines y de violas.
Es el vals de las solas
y solteras,
el vals de las muchachas casaderas,
que arrebata por rachas
su corazón raído de muchachas.
A dónde llevará esa leve brisa,
a qué jardín con luna esa sumisa
corriente
que gira de repente
desatando en sus vueltas
doradas cabelleras, ahora sueltas,
borrosas, imprecisas
en el río de música y metralla
que es un vals cuando estalla
sus trompetas.
Todavía inquietas,
vuelan las flautas hacia el cordelaje
de las arpas ancladas en la orilla
donde los violoncelos se han dormido.
Los oboes apagan el paisaje.
Las muchachas se apean en sus sillas,
se arreglan el vestido
con manos presurosas y sencillas,
y van a los lavabos, como después de un viaje.
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