"sharps" poems
bravery is not just going into war or running into a burning building.
bravery is also standing on a stage.
or giving up your sharps.
or eating in front of people.
or singing.
bravery has many different forms.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 5:21 PM UTC
'O babbling brook,' says Edmund in his rhyme,
'Whence come you?' and the brook, why not? replies.
I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a valley.
By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.
Till last by Philip's farm I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.
'Poor lad, he died at Florence, quite worn out,
Travelling to Naples. There is Darnley bridge,
It has more ivy; there the river; and there
Stands Philip's farm where brook and river meet.
I chatter over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles.
With many a curve my banks I fret
By many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set
With willow-weed and mallow.
I chatter, chatter, as I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.
'But Philip chatter'd more than brook or bird;
Old Philip; all about the fields you caught
His weary daylong chirping, like the dry
High-elbow'd grigs that leap in summer grass. [grig = cricket - m.]
I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a ***** trout,
And here and there a grayling,
And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me, as I travel
With many a silvery waterbreak
Above the golden gravel,
And draw them all along, and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.
5.2k
I come from haunts of coot and hern;
I make a sudden sally;
I sparkle out among the fern
To bicker down a valley.
By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.
At last by Philip's farm I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
I chatter over stony ways
In sharps and trebles;
I bubble into eddying bay;
I babble on the pebbles.
I chatter, chatter as I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a ***** trout,
And here and there a grayling.
And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me, as I travel
With many a silvery waterbreak
Above the golden gravel,
And draw them all along, and flow
To joing the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
I steal by lawns and grassy plots;
I slide by hazel covers;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeams dance
Against my sandy shallows.
I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;
I loiter round my cresses;
And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
~Alfred Tennyson 1809-1892~
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 9:24 AM UTC
step one: find someone with the correct qualifications. make sure he has taken the correct courses and has credentials.
step two: if your lawyer has a double major in medicine, run away.
step three: he is a person, not a house. do not treat him as such. don’t begin to use his bones as beams and his heart as a generator.
step four: you are a person, and just because you have legal issues doesn’t take away from that statement. you are a person, not a project. make sure your lawyer realizes this too.
step five: if he tries to fix you, run away. go back to step one and pay extra attention to step two.
step six: doctors are bad news. stay away from them at all costs, even if they are a good lawyer too.
step seven: don’t try to fix him either, even if he needs the help. he needs the help, but he’ll never actually accept it.
step eight: he’s just a boy. not an angel, not a superhero, not a saviour, not a lawyer, not a doctor, not a repairman.
step nine: he is not a song. don’t make him a song. he is not a song. don’t compare him to “broken crown” by mumford and sons or “ice” by lights.
step ten: if you need legal advice, a professional works but ultimately a convicted girl is the best advice.
step eleven: whatever you do, don’t hurt him because you’re afraid of being hurt.
step twelve: don’t give him your sharps. save yourself. you don’t need him.
step thirteen: don’t **** yourself because he doesn’t care.
step fourteen: he cares.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 9:07 AM UTC
The soft rustle of pages consume me,
all that I can hear,
small sharps whispers,
passed along from ear to ear.
Then silence,
eerie and quiet,
Shelves collecting dust and must,
causing not one riot.
no one can disturb me here,
now and forever more,
my quiet little sanctuary,
the place that I adore.
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 11:47 PM UTC
Your left claims my right’s rest—
knuckles hum, sweat salts the air.
Sharps snag—a tangle—undressed,
metronome skips our heart’s fanfare.
Breath clots where sighs arrest,
heel hooks what the pedal bare.
Skin maps chords upon our *******
Teeth script scores we swear.
May 6, 2025
May 6, 2025 at 9:30 AM UTC
Never have I wanted to use your body like a piano until now,
play it vigorously until it breaks.
I don't know many chords
but the effort could be beautiful.
I could become devoted to your keys,
your sounds,
the difference between your sharps and flats.
I've learned to take pride in simplicity,
like three notes coming together to sing your moan.
Was it the right keys or an accident?
I've heard symphonies made out of you,
but i am still unaware of how to make you play for me.
My hands aren't big enough to play you properly,
there is always one key missing.
No matter how carefully i play,
I find it difficult to produce the same melody twice.
You were never meant to be replayed.
Instead, you are captured in one vast fleeting moment
praying to be heard by the ears of the restless
in hopes of making them complete once more.
But how can you yearn for the wholeness of others
if you will not fill me up first.
I long to fill this room with your music,
I want to hear you just one last time.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 1:23 AM UTC
I feel the tendrils creeping in
Wrapping around my core, my neck
The muscles slowly strengthen, suffocating me
Making my calls so muted they’re virtually nonexistent.
I’m shouting though I can’t breathe,
But no one can hear my screams from the
Deep, dark trenches of the shadowy sea
As unbeknownst creatures emerge,
Leaving their places of sweet asylum
And intruding upon mine,
Yet, I still am stranded here in this place.
I don’t even know where I am,
But the voices of fear and insecurity in my mind,
Tell me what I need to do - when, why, how -
Steadily I hear a crescendo of a piano some distance away,
So far, almost on the outskirts of the complex town inside my mind,
Though I discover the music is waiting just around the bend.
A flats, F sharps – getting louder, louder!
“Stop!” I am screaming now
Or at least I think that’s me.
But the music blocks out my voice
That tender little voice of mine.
Suddenly, as I see a blonde-haired head pop up,
I lose my balance, and I begin to fall
Deep into an abyss, a magical abyss
With walls that close in more and more the farther I drop.
As the yellow light above me slowly dims,
I expect a rope, a ladder, anything,
But there is no one there to save me.
I realize the opening I see is a barrel,
And I am staring directly into its wide-eyed face.
A click tells me that the trigger is ready,
As the melody overtakes me and
I am caught in a whirlwind of music.
Spinning, spinning, everything going round and round
All I can see is the darkness behind my eyelids.
So I cry out loud yet again
But no one comes to my side,
Which doesn’t matter, I guess –
I don’t want my skin to be a bulletproof sheath,
Protecting and preserving my unyielding wall.
I want the demons to infiltrate my soul and strip me of this agony
So that I can finally smile amidst the ocean’s fury
As the tornado destroys my mind
And the tendrils of the music pull me in.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 8:29 PM UTC
DIMASH THE SHEPHERD
(Story of One Sky Conclusion)
I am
Shepherd
Cloaking myself
In God’s soft simplicity
My tasks complete
Songs sung
Light shone
Souls ignited
Each day seven wheels
Revolved their full degrees
Now the Awakening
know that Love is the Strike
of Light on the sleep
of a hundred thousand
years of wrenching knots
I return to You
to dissolve again
in your gentle
Ecstasy of knowing
Yourself as Voice
Each of Your atoms
in a chant or falsetto
resonated in freedom’s
True radiant White
How you ached to know
if You could go further
than planets not yet discovered
You did through each of my
Harmonic breathes
Now I’m done to
cuddle frolicking lambs
and hold my staff
as heaven’s drumstick
It will beat the
silent space between
Resonating genes
You are well pleased
Our art of evolution
continues to vibrate
in every fingertip
each sea-sponge and
Sand grain
Refreshed I will descend
then ascend again
as You instruct
to expose muted layers
My F-sharps alchemising
wolves with nightingales
I bow to You
As I hood !
©GhairoDanielsPoetry2022
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 4:52 AM UTC
It's not just the piano notes
It's not's its sharps or should I say it's flats
It's not the music sheet
It's obviously not my E major voice
Neither is it how well our voices blend
When the concertmaster says start to
Lady Antebellum - Need You Now
It's not just the Violins
G3, D4, A4, and E5 soothing notes
That keep us playing even when the rest stop
It's not our audiation that keeps as late
Into the night writing,meditating,singing
Laughing at each others crazy lines.
Or your masculine tattooed arms, Strumming the guitar
Neither is it your ability to manipulate your voice to both
Tenor and a Countertenor,so that when the concertmaster says start
To Michael Bolton - When a Man Loves a Woman
It feels like heaven has just opened its doors.
It's not how high I can hit the yala leyo notes
Neither is it my ability manipulate my emotions
So that when the concertmaster says to me Start To
Loren Allred - Never Enough
I give the crowd both my voice and my emotion
It's the memories the two of us make
That lead up to this moment
When the concertmaster says Start
The memories trickle in
The laughs,the anxieties,the fun,the fights
Even the shared pizzas and movie nights
That are all joined with the one thing that we share
Our passion for music,it's culture and giving it life
It's beauty and how freeing and liberating it's words can be
Things we both want to say but really can't
So we use the most basic language we both get
Music
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 1:00 PM UTC
Little sparrows show off their agility,
dancing up and down violin necks.
Pecking staccato notes out of the air.
Making tea and dropping ceramics
behaving clumsily and babbling nonsense
even after they've been told
sit down and be quiet.
Imitation ducks sit squat,
quiet, muddy, decoying
singing water stains,
spitting curses from their bills.
Pulling bed sheets up to their chins,
nesting between the covers.
Very anonymous in their colours,
not a deviation among them.
Cold wax and dry glue
flake off creases and folds.
These lovely imitations,
cuckoo plaster cast knuckles
snowflaking to the ground,
useless with fine motor skills.
Peeling off like dead leaves,
parasitic nest components.
All my fingernails are different lengths,
evolving finches’ beaks
on isolated islands
With scratches on the vinyl of my thumb,
sand beneath my cuticles,
scrapbooks between my fingerprints.
Piano keys team up in groups of two,
sharing sharps and flats.
Filed and polished,
pink budgies dispose of portfolios apathetically,
slamming filing cabinets shut.
Cuttle bones rattling,
mirrors cracking.
Irritable thighs complaining,
they hunker with bad posture,
frowning on their perch.
Squat salient warbles
clamoring sharply down corridors
over whistling loudspeakers.
Poster orioles elbow aside crowds,
bright bones flashing
neon signs
keratin streaked or spotted
for biological attention.
Weaponry painted exciting colours,
friendly hues and enthusiastic tints.
Lies dressed in curiosity,
attracting intrigue.
My heron neck in the air
searches for information,
explanation, observation.
Greedy for projections,
living in the tree tops,
reflected in shop windows,
my skinny anisodactyl talons
for walking on mud,
wading through marsh,
boggy water.
My hands are geese
jabbering back and forth
across my chest.
its very distracting
to have these conversations
going on between palms,
arguing the best way to fold paper cranes,
whether chocolate pudding
should be stirred clockwise or counter.
Take a gander at the world you don't touch because your fingers are too flightly
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 3:50 AM UTC
#*The Violin’s azure strings wept softly,
from inside of a mind made cell;
musical echoes lamenting,
a poignant abyss too vast to fill
each and all silenced reverie,
leaving the philosopher’s stone
unthrown
Blue guitar minor chord changes,
bent notes phrasing sharps and flats;
memories ― gently weeping confirmation
as a repressed flow of soul
pensively leaks out
The spirit's currents eddy
suffused within written verve;
silently purging the soul's fountains ―
musical rivulets swell
quietly overflowing
an alchemist’s soul unfurled*...
© harlon rivers ... all rights reserved
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 9:17 PM UTC
You sit at the table with your blue and yellow crayons
Quietly coloring tigers and waving the fingers of your left hand.
You proudly show your decorated notebook; the one you alone created.
Safety plans, behavior charts, conflict resolution, and coping.
You're asked if you understand rules and regulation,
The look on your face as you color a second tiger purple, tells me different.
Searches coming and searches going looking for sharps.
Supervision daily, hourly, minute by minute
How then, can this be self-harm?
You sit in the van with your ninja turtles backpack
Quietly whispering, repeating, comforting words.
You proudly show your decorated notebook; the one you alone created.
Tigers, elephants, horses, cars, houses, and nostalgia faces.
You're asked if you understand stability and foster families,
The look on your face as you chew on your shirt, tells me different.
Days gone and months in this new place
You are doing so well, so great
Bedroom upstairs in the corner
All your favorite things have their space
Tell me one thing gained here?
Saturday Morning
Pancakes
Sprinkles, and
Maple Syrup.
© Jo Tomso
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 10:27 PM UTC
oh, the sun is burning hot
as the waves rise up off of the black top
forming the familiar distortion
distinctly laced with humidity.
the young man marches, toes exposed
with flip-flops smacking down
and on the verge of melting
to the grand avenue sidewalk.
fuzzy memories like warped records
spin their sharps and flats in awkward places
and bring scent trails of teenage years:
bonfires, exhaust, lingering birdcages.
kreckel's still serves the same lemon ice cream,
but the billiards out back have been closed for a time.
quarters spent on raiden fighters rust in time
as the men muttering in the background play bumper pool.
the heat still feels the same in present summer,
and some of the same faces stay on the card.
routine and commitments are starting to build,
blurring the expressions of familiarity into fog.
the young man marches, face exposed
to the blistering light of day
as lines start to form where charm has twinkled
in the schoolyard and stagnant hallways.
years spent in sleep are pulsating
as the lull between cicadas
seems to stretch the summers south
to the screeching of metallic showcases.
he's buckled to the cracks in the concrete
that bulge upward and trip drunks after last call.
unshackled only to ride shotgun with the few
that still remember their seventh grade summers.
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 11:51 PM UTC
GERONIMO wherefore
are thou now?
what scaffold have you fallen
from & stared
w/milk-pale eyes
at Reverend Cacey
(who stands murmuring ,
4
pound golden crucifix in out
stretched hands ? )
(the world is very scared
o
f
you..)
(why else would
ol' blood hound
Joe Horn
be put on yr trail ? )
raise thy sharps rifle 'bove yr head & eat out
th'sun !!
(i declare you are a mountain poet.)
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 10:50 AM UTC
Chaos
The buzz of constant sound
Heavy percussion beating, beating
My heart that longs for you
The music of my love grows;
Crescendos, at the mere grace of you
Every chord is consonant, never dissonant
As is the good character of your person
Love, like music, is never perfect
It's full of too many sharps and flats
Accidentals. Accidents. Mistakes.
But sound pleasant to the unknowing ear
These mistakes are what make us unique
Different from anything composed before it
For isn't that what love truly is?
A perfect melody only we can share
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 6:25 PM UTC
claws and jaws that set their song
are open, loud and do no wrong
and *** and drugs and rocks and rolls
and circumstantial dancing poles
are all of no great consequence
in the face of endless circumstance
when beggars, pleaders take their chance
to lace their shoes and start to dance
Perfect faces lie and cheat
to make their loss into defeat
a poor man's song is no one's thrill
and honest people learn to ****
the eye of love is gouged out raw
by frozen winters yet to thaw
and siren's music looses tune
in sharps and flats under the moon
So try and love me when I'm wrong
it's harder when the road is long
we're stuck inside a goldfish tank
with no one left for us to thank
so please be kind to artist's minds
and try to hard to cross our lines
between your temper and your sighs
and free the world of senseless lies
It's in the greenhouse growing ***
we're senseless with the things we've got
and honest work for honest pay
is swept away with yesterday
hide your lover in the brush
you can always look but never touch
a hard truth born from Ferris wheels
and the easy listening way you feel
So tell me when you're on your own
if love is all the same alone
and holding hands with air itself
is worth those trophies on your shelf
so miss me while I'm gone, my friend
this deal was always meant to end
think me pretty, tarnished gold.
It's easier.
Or so I'm told.
Jul 13, 2011
Jul 13, 2011 at 9:27 AM UTC
The gentle breeze of the light melody
Frolicking in my ears
Dancing and laughing as it sways its path into my subconscious
Whole notes stretch out and lay their long bodies
Beside me on the fields
As sticottos run and play in the tall grass.
Half notes brush by
Moving the vibrant flowers into their own beat.
The sharps laugh
as they swing the quarter notes high into the vast sky
Flats let out a chuckle as they push the melody
down the gleaming silver slide.
Music entrances me in their fantasy
Weaving their dreams
Into the very life around them.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 5:36 PM UTC
It's not just notes.
It's the pain in the low notes
And happiness in the high
It's the way people take their pain and sadness and sorrows and push them all out through the notes of a song
It's the anger in the sharps
It's the finally cadenza
It's not just notes
It's how you express them and make them you
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 9:39 PM UTC
Scars up and down my arms
memories of the pain
come flashing back
like a whirlwind
of nightmares haunting
my dreams
the sharps screams
of agony and pain
so vividly playing back
like a camera capturing lies
the black abyss
at where you lie
for all eternity
like the death
that is slowly creeping in
Aug 8, 2011
Aug 8, 2011 at 11:33 PM UTC
Point of No Return
all in or all out
make a decision
is this what you want
or only
what you thought you wanted
it looked so shinny from over there
but now, up close
there appears to be tarnish
funny how that works out
all too often
they were the cool boys
or so I thought
they snapped their fingers
to the tunes of the blues
but now
they appear rather ugly
hypocritical
the music no longer has melody
too many sharps
too many flats
did I fall asleep
and awaken
back in high school?
They were wolves
in sheep clothing
not what they pretended to be
not friends
imposters
narrow minded
imposters
all in or all out
the point of no return
Gomer LePoet...
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 2:09 PM UTC
Over my dead body
She brushed the grit and grime
From her swollen hands
You're a lost cause little lonely boy
You ain't got nothing
If you got nothing left to lose
Nothing
If got nothing left to prove
If you're all out of moves
You're just a lonely boy
A lonely boy crying wolf
I've played with them
Them weary wolves
They'll sink those sharps in it
Get up on it
Pack of howls they are
No beatin
Wise as owls they are
Comes to eatin
So over my dead body
Little lonely boy
You play with bees you get stung
You play with them wolves
You wont dry out
You'll be strung up and hung
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 4:31 AM UTC
Sandwiched through
two cloudy loaves
made of breath
I observe
the purest of blue
one nudges a sharp line
gently from below
draws her dream silhouette
an imaginary residue of slopes
she
the one who allows me
to miss you now
when I am away from mystery
and because I am mystery
lives in there
uninterrupted as a dot
where planes cross
to create dashes
same color as the mare’s tail
the one above on the contrary
is as unpredictable as
the contours of the flowers in cotton fields
where you would be the breeze
to jolt the atmospheric
as the indigotic immerses languidly
she gets bluer than the blue untouched
thinning
at the end of the suggested tail
deeper and fiercer so as not to disappear
but leaves an echo
of its trail
in your mind
soon that will also be shut
the port to and of another realm
the whitening molds subtly the shapeless
pales the light to an analogous fluid
all sharps – lines – flowers - fields melt
into an underwater blurring sea life
where creatures are so small or just hide
not from us but from contrasts
slowly darkening we forget
about ourselves and the girl’s dream fades
she forgets
the you and I
becomes tuningly unimportant
we know so well now
it is not for us
illusions of light
of reflections
are just about
other worlds far aways
while
night falls
along the earth’s curve
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 7:22 AM UTC
NZ
lightning strikes
but once never
again
shall not the rod
conduct the heat
and weld us both
transfixed
in light
immortality
seconds per volt per death
a pain
releasing
joy to the wind itself
throwing up shade
on the universe
unified with the skylark
ground to the hedges
hogged by Z
N by 3
south by northwest
too true
to hold calimity
cola
amity
CALAMITY JANE!
sharps rife
with ills
shot down by the freedom
to lie
to marry never
and die twice
once every day
and
then at 87
said promised
oriental accidents
of falling loads
to those who claim others
are ant
hinge
thing but WHYS
whi
wi
why?
we no
death
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 3:24 PM UTC
I don't slam well on love
It slams on me
A drumming thrumming arrhythmia
Ba-bump ba-bump ba--- bump-ba-bump
A little loss here is a little gain there
Only, it doesn't work that way
My stopwatch heart hiccups then echoes
Like odd flats and sharps
Seemingly out of place among the expected
A beat that needs to be acquired over several listenings
Like a new food that needs to be tasted up to 12 times
Before you can truly decide if you like it.
It take more than 3 licks and a bite to get to my center
One, two three, you're not for me
Four, five, six, a few more licks
Seven, eight, nine, out to dine
Ten, eleven, twelve, you can delve
And yet... Here it sits in my chest with its arrhythmia
Patiently waiting for that defibrillating current
That shock that will set it right
Or perhaps it's never meant to be that way
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps
It's perfect in it's imperfection
My heart's a stereo,
and we can dance if you want to,
because the rhythm is gonna get you,
on re-pe-pe-pe-pe-peat.
Nov 28, 2018
Nov 28, 2018 at 9:29 AM UTC