"tenor" poems - Hello Poetry

"tenor" 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.

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The Choirmaster’s Burial

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.

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Revolution is a confiding smile that reaches from deep within the heart An outstretched hand up and out to give a life forsaken a new start To seek and search far beyond and glimpse a brightly shining path Yet then to look behind and back again to be assured that all will know the way Rebellion is a knowing look a glance from eye to eye A slight inflection of radiant joy in the tenor of a sigh The quietly warm and whispered word with a gentle breeze of hope Revolution is a beautifully harmonious triumphant tune that just won't leave you alone -R. (06) -TX

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Oct 21, 2017

Oct 21, 2017 at 4:08 PM UTC

Revolution is a confiding smile that reaches from deep within the heart An outstretched hand up and out to give a life forsaken a new start To seek and search far beyond and glimpse a brightly shining path Yet then to look behind and back again to be assured that all will know the way Rebellion is a knowing look a glance from eye to eye A slight inflection of radiant joy in the tenor of a sigh The quietly warm and whispered word with a gentle breeze of hope Revolution is a beautifully harmonious triumphant tune that just won't leave you alone -R. (06) -TX

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Since the last time you touched me... All I want is to feel your hands on my skin. On my face and through my hair. Feeling your body heat up against mine. Taste barely contained anticipation on your breath. Smell the comfort that you emanate. Drinking the passion from your lips. I want you... Anchoring me down, Vulnerability plunging into my eyes. Stealing the air from me. Swallowing the noises you incite. Tangling feet and twisted fingers. Embracing and submerging in honey junction. Just the sound of your tenor, Erupts a burn that speeds throughout my veins. Heart stuttering and dizzy and trembling, All from the presence of you. Wanting to lose myself with you. Forget all reason...but then what is reason? Since the last time you touched me... I long for the next. © NDHK

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Sep 17, 2012

Sep 17, 2012 at 3:45 AM UTC

Since the last time you touched me... All I want is to feel your hands on my skin. On my face and through my hair. Feeling your body heat up against mine. Taste barely contained anticipation on your breath. Smell the comfort that you emanate. Drinking the passion from your lips. I want you... Anchoring me down, Vulnerability plunging into my eyes. Stealing the air from me. Swallowing the noises you incite. Tangling feet and twisted fingers. Embracing and submerging in honey junction. Just the sound of your tenor, Erupts a burn that speeds throughout my veins. Heart stuttering and dizzy and trembling, All from the presence of you. Wanting to lose myself with you. Forget all reason...but then what is reason? Since the last time you touched me... I long for the next. © NDHK

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We had come to see him, the aging Tenor sing. He was as good as he had always been. But half way through, a woman appeared, Moving gracefully in bare feet upon the stage. Entering the ring of bright spot light near him. Long blond hair, falling loose around her neck, Held back both sides by Turtle Shell combs, Reflecting the light. Adorned in but a simple, low cut black dress, Her with a face beautiful as a new spring day. Held in her left hand an ebony hued violin, Touched fondly, like a well accustomed old friend. Her right hand holding a bow, ready and waiting. The Tenor’s and her eyes met and conveyed a message Only they understood. Then starting slow and low, The full Orchestra commenced. The woman in black Brought instrument up to her chin, lovingly resting her face upon it, as if comforted by it's touch to skin. The fetching violinist, like a graceful reed, In summer breeze, began to gently sway, Laid Bow to strings and a transcended beauty, The voice of both her Instrument and from within she, Emerged through her fingers, completely filling the hall. With eyes closed, the slight movements of expression On her face registering the feelings the musical notes made, As if those gestures too, guided the bow's musical cords. Slender precise fingers lovingly caressing the strings. For nearly a minute, she and her violin played alone. Her actions of body, hands and head in concert, To her music, unavoidably hypnotic it could be said. The Tenor started to sing, and yet my eyes stayed Locked on her, as if no one else in the room was there. The blond woman in the black dress owned the stage. I have no idea how long that piece of music lasted, I could not attest to what contribution the Tenor made. Fully my attention and eventually my heart belonged To that lovely, evocative young woman in the backless, Little black dress. It’s true that I may never see or hear her play again, I know not, even her name. And yet, I’m sure that I will never forget those Few minutes mesmerized by her magical spell. Hopelessly caught in her enchanting web. With me sitting, third row, isle seat left, Worshiping as I did, at her so pretty, Slightly ***** naked feet, the striking Blond woman in the black dress.

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Nov 6, 2013

Nov 6, 2013 at 4:01 PM UTC

stephen-e-yocum

The Woman In a Black Dress

We had come to see him, the aging Tenor sing. He was as good as he had always been. But half way through, a woman appeared, Moving gracefully in bare feet upon the stage. Entering the ring of bright spot light near him. Long blond hair, falling loose around her neck, Held back both sides by Turtle Shell combs, Reflecting the light. Adorned in but a simple, low cut black dress, Her with a face beautiful as a new spring day. Held in her left hand an ebony hued violin, Touched fondly, like a well accustomed old friend. Her right hand holding a bow, ready and waiting. The Tenor’s and her eyes met and conveyed a message Only they understood. Then starting slow and low, The full Orchestra commenced. The woman in black Brought instrument up to her chin, lovingly resting her face upon it, as if comforted by it's touch to skin. The fetching violinist, like a graceful reed, In summer breeze, began to gently sway, Laid Bow to strings and a transcended beauty, The voice of both her Instrument and from within she, Emerged through her fingers, completely filling the hall. With eyes closed, the slight movements of expression On her face registering the feelings the musical notes made, As if those gestures too, guided the bow's musical cords. Slender precise fingers lovingly caressing the strings. For nearly a minute, she and her violin played alone. Her actions of body, hands and head in concert, To her music, unavoidably hypnotic it could be said. The Tenor started to sing, and yet my eyes stayed Locked on her, as if no one else in the room was there. The blond woman in the black dress owned the stage. I have no idea how long that piece of music lasted, I could not attest to what contribution the Tenor made. Fully my attention and eventually my heart belonged To that lovely, evocative young woman in the backless, Little black dress. It’s true that I may never see or hear her play again, I know not, even her name. And yet, I’m sure that I will never forget those Few minutes mesmerized by her magical spell. Hopelessly caught in her enchanting web. With me sitting, third row, isle seat left, Worshiping as I did, at her so pretty, Slightly ***** naked feet, the striking Blond woman in the black dress.

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Can I write you a love song I’ll sing it softy in your ear all night long Blow gently without words on my saxophone Diamond and Pearls behind the throne A beautiful ensemble meant for only you As I give credence too Take my hand Cross this journey with me as I sing about faraway lands Past Egypt pyramids shifting Morocco sands Lay back my love, allow your mind to silently drift Feel the enchantment of my piano keys as it spiritual uplifts I’ll sing love songs of old A cappella chorus echoed from deep within my enlighten soul I’ll sing to you about the blues, society’s injustice, and elements of darken storms Keep your heart warm, while playing my French Horn Enrapture foretold from this dedicated symphonic poem A music sheet of percussion, woodwind, brass, keyboard, and strings Harmony carrying the mind away as the joy of coming spring I’ll hum your favorite beats, can you feel the crescendo now Fiddle from the heart by the sweat of one’s brow Submerge your cerebral cortex, lose yourself in the sultry tunes Harp sounds bathe of light kissed from the illuminating moon Destiny overcasts in the lyrics Fate floating stratospheric Karma of others handled in the eyes of satiric Opera, I give you so grand in its grace French Creole dialect murmured among silk and lace Sounds of my flute resonant to face Allowing my Cello sounds to thoroughly embrace Can I write you a love song Body and soul serenading soprano to keep you standing strong My guitar stringing your philosophies along An equal equation, one plus one equals two Emotions, feelings, sentiments, its tenor expressed only for you No compass to my heart, my seasonal love found in hidden melodies Trombone guiding back and forth breathless as it please Orchestra sounds Ascending minds, bodies, souls, pass the opening clouds, divine and profound The last note sung by me as we gradually come down Beautiful music embraced, needs never to make a sound Shh, close your eyes Meditate on the music for a little while Hush sweet baby don’t say a word My heart softly tweets to a mockingbird If that mockingbird don’t sing Can I write you a love song created only for your being As minds are sightseeing Hearts fleeing Timpani drums guaranteeing Entwined of our divine wellbeing Emotions freeing Crooning of bodies heard as the day is long Can I write you a love song

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Sep 9, 2018

Sep 9, 2018 at 10:39 AM UTC

Can I Write You A Love Song

Can I write you a love song I’ll sing it softy in your ear all night long Blow gently without words on my saxophone Diamond and Pearls behind the throne A beautiful ensemble meant for only you As I give credence too Take my hand Cross this journey with me as I sing about faraway lands Past Egypt pyramids shifting Morocco sands Lay back my love, allow your mind to silently drift Feel the enchantment of my piano keys as it spiritual uplifts I’ll sing love songs of old A cappella chorus echoed from deep within my enlighten soul I’ll sing to you about the blues, society’s injustice, and elements of darken storms Keep your heart warm, while playing my French Horn Enrapture foretold from this dedicated symphonic poem A music sheet of percussion, woodwind, brass, keyboard, and strings Harmony carrying the mind away as the joy of coming spring I’ll hum your favorite beats, can you feel the crescendo now Fiddle from the heart by the sweat of one’s brow Submerge your cerebral cortex, lose yourself in the sultry tunes Harp sounds bathe of light kissed from the illuminating moon Destiny overcasts in the lyrics Fate floating stratospheric Karma of others handled in the eyes of satiric Opera, I give you so grand in its grace French Creole dialect murmured among silk and lace Sounds of my flute resonant to face Allowing my Cello sounds to thoroughly embrace Can I write you a love song Body and soul serenading soprano to keep you standing strong My guitar stringing your philosophies along An equal equation, one plus one equals two Emotions, feelings, sentiments, its tenor expressed only for you No compass to my heart, my seasonal love found in hidden melodies Trombone guiding back and forth breathless as it please Orchestra sounds Ascending minds, bodies, souls, pass the opening clouds, divine and profound The last note sung by me as we gradually come down Beautiful music embraced, needs never to make a sound Shh, close your eyes Meditate on the music for a little while Hush sweet baby don’t say a word My heart softly tweets to a mockingbird If that mockingbird don’t sing Can I write you a love song created only for your being As minds are sightseeing Hearts fleeing Timpani drums guaranteeing Entwined of our divine wellbeing Emotions freeing Crooning of bodies heard as the day is long Can I write you a love song

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Pleasure, oh pleasure sitting in silence Among the lime trees The silence of delight A perfect pardon Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees No hurry, no hurry To go anywhere While strangers offer smiles Such perfect smiles Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Magic a specialisation A practical specialisation Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees People of all kinds Come streaming by Pilot people Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees People passing with such power Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees All power is violence Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Pleasure, oh pleasure Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees No power is needed here Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Only truth and justice Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees No grievous ache remains a mystery Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees That purple mass made clear Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees An aroma here Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees An exuding stupefying aroma Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees That startles the sparrows Identical sparrows Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Other silence is unequal Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees A quivering tenor of silence Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Gilded silence that flashes Hazily across the vision Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Frenzied silence, irresistible silence Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Silence split into fragments Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Fragments that remain intact Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Silence that vanishes from sight Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees A severed silence That remains infused Golden and deceptive Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Like split up bandits On the run Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Who race up two Different boulevards Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees A day return silence Always nervous and irritable Sitting her in silence Among the lime trees A softening handsome Lilac colored silence Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Regal in its resonance Of romance Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees A silence of scarlet kerchiefs Wears a tail coat Has black raven hair Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Trying to catch spiders Rats, little devils and dogs Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Day breaks Inexorably in silence Over the poet Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees The unstoppable Silence of silence Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Such silence once started Is unstoppable Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Such as the strange silence One finds in snow Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Silence in a deserted shout Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Oh such silent noise Such silent noise Silent noise, silent

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Sep 28, 2012

Sep 28, 2012 at 3:46 PM UTC

edgar-whitman-wilde

Silence among the lime trees

Pleasure, oh pleasure sitting in silence Among the lime trees The silence of delight A perfect pardon Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees No hurry, no hurry To go anywhere While strangers offer smiles Such perfect smiles Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Magic a specialisation A practical specialisation Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees People of all kinds Come streaming by Pilot people Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees People passing with such power Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees All power is violence Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Pleasure, oh pleasure Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees No power is needed here Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Only truth and justice Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees No grievous ache remains a mystery Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees That purple mass made clear Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees An aroma here Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees An exuding stupefying aroma Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees That startles the sparrows Identical sparrows Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Other silence is unequal Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees A quivering tenor of silence Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Gilded silence that flashes Hazily across the vision Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Frenzied silence, irresistible silence Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Silence split into fragments Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Fragments that remain intact Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Silence that vanishes from sight Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees A severed silence That remains infused Golden and deceptive Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Like split up bandits On the run Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Who race up two Different boulevards Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees A day return silence Always nervous and irritable Sitting her in silence Among the lime trees A softening handsome Lilac colored silence Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Regal in its resonance Of romance Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees A silence of scarlet kerchiefs Wears a tail coat Has black raven hair Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Trying to catch spiders Rats, little devils and dogs Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Day breaks Inexorably in silence Over the poet Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees The unstoppable Silence of silence Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Such silence once started Is unstoppable Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Such as the strange silence One finds in snow Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Silence in a deserted shout Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Oh such silent noise Such silent noise Silent noise, silent

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*Forbidden Beauty Velvet touch was her beauty Sweet, nonsensical, magical sin In her clandestine dreams Detecting her whisper voice In beauty times does swell Her silence breathes come alive With beauty to match no other ... Her eyes had more beauty than any rose with dreams of supreme gifts her man would explode with her kiss as a pill she sings notes of her love voiced keys and intervals of tenor she closes her eyes in search of a remedy ... She's healed his lonely heart with only a smile as she leaves him in awe of her soul~he drives many a mile.... As a woman of divine magnifications her ambiance, majestic with song medicine of melody tune ~ she is one of a kind..... He realized with sadness she's his lost fantasy he escapes from the harshness of reality~ knowing oh knowing ~ she was Forbidden for all to touch ...* Debbie Brooks 2015

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Oct 2, 2014

Oct 2, 2014 at 10:10 AM UTC

deborah-brooks-langford

Forbidden Beauty

*Forbidden Beauty Velvet touch was her beauty Sweet, nonsensical, magical sin In her clandestine dreams Detecting her whisper voice In beauty times does swell Her silence breathes come alive With beauty to match no other ... Her eyes had more beauty than any rose with dreams of supreme gifts her man would explode with her kiss as a pill she sings notes of her love voiced keys and intervals of tenor she closes her eyes in search of a remedy ... She's healed his lonely heart with only a smile as she leaves him in awe of her soul~he drives many a mile.... As a woman of divine magnifications her ambiance, majestic with song medicine of melody tune ~ she is one of a kind..... He realized with sadness she's his lost fantasy he escapes from the harshness of reality~ knowing oh knowing ~ she was Forbidden for all to touch ...* Debbie Brooks 2015

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Envy is not green but something perhaps a little more sickening to me than chartreuse and a spoiled ego. Envy is when i see boys walking by, looking down at myself again, i see my curves and i hate them. i don’t want them. i want to look like the boys. Envy is seeing other girls more androgynous than i; girls with broader shoulders and with more angular faces. why can’t I look like that? i hear voices deeper than mine: tenor, baritone— and I shred my throat day-by-day, trying to come close to the pitch. Envy is the aches in my body when changing my posture from legs to shoulders; from changing my stride and preventing my hips from swaying. i want to look like them. seeing these people makes my insides feel like they’re being twisted with a red-hot fork; and it hurts, oh God, it hurts. it hurts to know i will never look like how i see myself.

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Feb 4, 2015

Feb 4, 2015 at 8:00 PM UTC

Envy is not green but something perhaps a little more sickening to me than chartreuse and a spoiled ego. Envy is when i see boys walking by, looking down at myself again, i see my curves and i hate them. i don’t want them. i want to look like the boys. Envy is seeing other girls more androgynous than i; girls with broader shoulders and with more angular faces. why can’t I look like that? i hear voices deeper than mine: tenor, baritone— and I shred my throat day-by-day, trying to come close to the pitch. Envy is the aches in my body when changing my posture from legs to shoulders; from changing my stride and preventing my hips from swaying. i want to look like them. seeing these people makes my insides feel like they’re being twisted with a red-hot fork; and it hurts, oh God, it hurts. it hurts to know i will never look like how i see myself.

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Monet was painting up my vision while the droves were driven out. We stepped out to the derision of a tenor waterspout. The town outside is dancing in the ruddy neon hues and I’m ****** whilst Amsterdam-ing by the slam-dunk cognac blues. And a cap was shaking coppers in an out cove by the way, where instruments and owners had begun to play. The bar stools are all swaying whilst the festival ensues, and I’m ****** whilst Amsterdam-ing by the slam-dunk cognac blues. With the rhythm of the rimjhim and the stamping our feet we sing our drunken-whim hymn whilst we stagger down the street. And we had sunken five; still sinking Im strung out, slammed, and stinking Four sheets to the wind and freaking about what I had to lose. so that’s when I got to thinking had an inkling to the linking between my errant drinking and the slam-dunk cognac blues…

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Aug 12, 2015

Aug 12, 2015 at 6:37 PM UTC

adam-cornleius-tuffey

The Slam-Dunk Cognac Blues

Monet was painting up my vision while the droves were driven out. We stepped out to the derision of a tenor waterspout. The town outside is dancing in the ruddy neon hues and I’m ****** whilst Amsterdam-ing by the slam-dunk cognac blues. And a cap was shaking coppers in an out cove by the way, where instruments and owners had begun to play. The bar stools are all swaying whilst the festival ensues, and I’m ****** whilst Amsterdam-ing by the slam-dunk cognac blues. With the rhythm of the rimjhim and the stamping our feet we sing our drunken-whim hymn whilst we stagger down the street. And we had sunken five; still sinking Im strung out, slammed, and stinking Four sheets to the wind and freaking about what I had to lose. so that’s when I got to thinking had an inkling to the linking between my errant drinking and the slam-dunk cognac blues…

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white clouds swell up anvil bloom a lowering gloom scuds by stacatto drops on the windshield punctuate powerline sway radio crackle sparks sheets of tenor sax and blunt gusts of cool I lower the window and steer into the storm Tom Spencer © 2018

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Jul 8, 2018

Jul 8, 2018 at 8:33 PM UTC

white clouds swell up anvil bloom a lowering gloom scuds by stacatto drops on the windshield punctuate powerline sway radio crackle sparks sheets of tenor sax and blunt gusts of cool I lower the window and steer into the storm Tom Spencer © 2018

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THE SAXOPHONE STORY BY RAJ NANDY The Saxophone is perhaps the most expressive instrument next to the human voice. Was made by Adolphe Sax, a Belgian, through a deliberate choice! He wanted to offset the tonal disparity, - Between the string, wind, and brass instruments, with musical clarity ! He felt that the strings ones were overpowered by the wind instruments. While the wind instruments got overblown by the brass ones instead ! Now what would happen if the best qualities of these three instruments types, Could in a fusion blend and coalesces into a single instrument type ? So finally at the age of 20 years, in March Eighteen Hundred and Thirty Four, Adolphe Sax created a magical instrument for the World to hear and adore! It had the power of the brass, the flexibility of the strings, and the woodwind’s variety and tone; Which got christened after Adolphe Sax as the SAXOPHONE ! Adolphe’s famous composer friend Hector Berlioz in Paris City, Gave this new instrument wide publicity! In 1844 the Sax was presented in the Industrial Exhibition at Paris; And subsequently got patented on 20 March 1846. It soon got adopted by the Bands of the French Army. Making other instrument makers to become green with envy! The Sax was 80 years old when it became part of the musical instruments of the Jazz Band. A small bore mouth piece was created to suite the varying tonal qualities required by Jazz. Initially, 14 different sizes of Sax was created by Adolphe. Today only five types are in use for us to hear and see; The Soprano, Alto, Tenor, Bass and the Baritone Saxophone. They now form a part of our Jazz music's backbone! - By Raj Nandy FOOT NOTES : Adolphe Sax (1814-1894) , son of famous musical instrument maker Charles Joseph Sax of Belgium. Woodwind Instruments = Flute, Clarinet, Bassoon etc. Brass Instruments = Trumpet, Tuba, Cornet etc. String Instruments = Violin, Guitar, Harp, Banjo etc. The Saxophone today has become the very backbone of Jazz Music! ** ALL COPY RIGHTS ARE RESERVED BY: - RAJ NANDY **

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Apr 10, 2016

Apr 10, 2016 at 11:06 AM UTC

THE SAXOPHONE STORY

THE SAXOPHONE STORY BY RAJ NANDY The Saxophone is perhaps the most expressive instrument next to the human voice. Was made by Adolphe Sax, a Belgian, through a deliberate choice! He wanted to offset the tonal disparity, - Between the string, wind, and brass instruments, with musical clarity ! He felt that the strings ones were overpowered by the wind instruments. While the wind instruments got overblown by the brass ones instead ! Now what would happen if the best qualities of these three instruments types, Could in a fusion blend and coalesces into a single instrument type ? So finally at the age of 20 years, in March Eighteen Hundred and Thirty Four, Adolphe Sax created a magical instrument for the World to hear and adore! It had the power of the brass, the flexibility of the strings, and the woodwind’s variety and tone; Which got christened after Adolphe Sax as the SAXOPHONE ! Adolphe’s famous composer friend Hector Berlioz in Paris City, Gave this new instrument wide publicity! In 1844 the Sax was presented in the Industrial Exhibition at Paris; And subsequently got patented on 20 March 1846. It soon got adopted by the Bands of the French Army. Making other instrument makers to become green with envy! The Sax was 80 years old when it became part of the musical instruments of the Jazz Band. A small bore mouth piece was created to suite the varying tonal qualities required by Jazz. Initially, 14 different sizes of Sax was created by Adolphe. Today only five types are in use for us to hear and see; The Soprano, Alto, Tenor, Bass and the Baritone Saxophone. They now form a part of our Jazz music's backbone! - By Raj Nandy FOOT NOTES : Adolphe Sax (1814-1894) , son of famous musical instrument maker Charles Joseph Sax of Belgium. Woodwind Instruments = Flute, Clarinet, Bassoon etc. Brass Instruments = Trumpet, Tuba, Cornet etc. String Instruments = Violin, Guitar, Harp, Banjo etc. The Saxophone today has become the very backbone of Jazz Music! ** ALL COPY RIGHTS ARE RESERVED BY: - RAJ NANDY **

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*The woodpecker wouldn't reveal, the secret kept closer to her chest, but the telegraphic messages meant nothing else I gather it thus: "Don't you give up midway slog, till you are fully satisfied, that you've reached there where, what you are searching is found" In wooden notes, she proclaimed thus, goes on pecking making, the noise louder and louder, it's now more and more clear- that in standards she'd never compromise, never would she lower her esteem even if her sense of urgency sometimes creates some discordant notes that she accepts as her fault and keeps her ears perked up for tone and tenor.*

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Jan 16, 2014

Jan 16, 2014 at 6:19 AM UTC

The woodpecker is adament

*The woodpecker wouldn't reveal, the secret kept closer to her chest, but the telegraphic messages meant nothing else I gather it thus: "Don't you give up midway slog, till you are fully satisfied, that you've reached there where, what you are searching is found" In wooden notes, she proclaimed thus, goes on pecking making, the noise louder and louder, it's now more and more clear- that in standards she'd never compromise, never would she lower her esteem even if her sense of urgency sometimes creates some discordant notes that she accepts as her fault and keeps her ears perked up for tone and tenor.*

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A child wakes up , to mosquito bites, and Christ-on-a-bike-it’s-diwali , the fiesta of lights. the welcome vibes of halcyon tarried as hugs and gifts and smiles are carried, and waving her wrinkles mid-air ,daadi says today! god , to his land was ferried. Afar, the bronze herald of worship time, the temple bell goes off in a celestial chime. and cometh the priest , for the fire-ritual, line my pockets now , come on , be spiritual. but duh! your dhoti hast no pockets , saintly dummy; tsk.. fret ye not , for it goes straight into my tummy. mid-morning now , and mummy’s high-strung; ‘dust it well and dust it thorough and dust it till you burst a lung’. ‘garam pakode’ !! cries papa in his croaking tenor , ‘but one by one’ and now he begins with the manners. mummy is the last one , picking over the bones, she always has been , for what a family she owns. A muezzin somewhere cries the holy decree heads bow down and a pigeon flies free, from the onion dome , below the staccato claps ‘Ooparwala ! … ‘ the muezzin gasps , and ‘Ooparwala!.. ‘ a crowd chants in tow , and ‘Oops ! … ‘ the bird sheds it’s something and ***** soars high , and takes a bow . hey presto! the night has come. the moonless night of the homecoming lord. sweetmeats and sugars and syrups and us , laddu-barfi , well , that strikes a chord . Lakshmi , her owl , the glutton god with his mouse , revered an’ pleased an’ fed an’ flattered , and coaxed never to leave the house while out there , bombs and crackers burst and batter. The witch’s hour already , and the man ain’t home yet the lord is home , to get things straight, while the men all out on a greedy conquest; pennies on the dollar , unwavering faith still, for the beckoning bait . A child wakes up , to mosquito bites gone now is the carnival of lights. a goddess fled , a father bled a child scrapes off the waxy remains , the leftovers of candles ,pains, and no gains.

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Oct 19, 2017

Oct 19, 2017 at 3:15 PM UTC

WAXY STAINS FROM DIWALI

A child wakes up , to mosquito bites, and Christ-on-a-bike-it’s-diwali , the fiesta of lights. the welcome vibes of halcyon tarried as hugs and gifts and smiles are carried, and waving her wrinkles mid-air ,daadi says today! god , to his land was ferried. Afar, the bronze herald of worship time, the temple bell goes off in a celestial chime. and cometh the priest , for the fire-ritual, line my pockets now , come on , be spiritual. but duh! your dhoti hast no pockets , saintly dummy; tsk.. fret ye not , for it goes straight into my tummy. mid-morning now , and mummy’s high-strung; ‘dust it well and dust it thorough and dust it till you burst a lung’. ‘garam pakode’ !! cries papa in his croaking tenor , ‘but one by one’ and now he begins with the manners. mummy is the last one , picking over the bones, she always has been , for what a family she owns. A muezzin somewhere cries the holy decree heads bow down and a pigeon flies free, from the onion dome , below the staccato claps ‘Ooparwala ! … ‘ the muezzin gasps , and ‘Ooparwala!.. ‘ a crowd chants in tow , and ‘Oops ! … ‘ the bird sheds it’s something and ***** soars high , and takes a bow . hey presto! the night has come. the moonless night of the homecoming lord. sweetmeats and sugars and syrups and us , laddu-barfi , well , that strikes a chord . Lakshmi , her owl , the glutton god with his mouse , revered an’ pleased an’ fed an’ flattered , and coaxed never to leave the house while out there , bombs and crackers burst and batter. The witch’s hour already , and the man ain’t home yet the lord is home , to get things straight, while the men all out on a greedy conquest; pennies on the dollar , unwavering faith still, for the beckoning bait . A child wakes up , to mosquito bites gone now is the carnival of lights. a goddess fled , a father bled a child scrapes off the waxy remains , the leftovers of candles ,pains, and no gains.

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It is early. and the world hangs silent, but the birds chirping their chime, An angelic choir of vibratos And tenor beaks humming sweet to the early tangerine crest of sun slivers a powerful bar of light over the peaks to a newly brilliant horizon. Sweeping the dredges of darkness away as the stars fade like coal dust back again, packed into their cupboard of night one by one, lanterns snuffed and sent into the vibrating blue as if the whole sky should erupt into fire azure, hallowed morning pyre Encircled by the gradient hues of coral pink and castille yellow Mediterranean teal A symphonic cacophonic **** of birth Good Day, Sweet mother earth. Squeezed through the valleys canals allies every nook and forlorn cranny kissed with her blissful photonic army And the infantile creatures cry with glee. The dewdrops clutch the blades the tender palasade of petals remembering their darkened escapades slipping tender rain to feed the dirt, the lonely detritus elixirs of the lovely night. And the world bursts into a veritable kaleidoscope of life With a trillion pairs of eyes accessing the mother dream

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Aug 8, 2018

Aug 8, 2018 at 2:48 AM UTC

Rise and Fall (Incomplete)

It is early. and the world hangs silent, but the birds chirping their chime, An angelic choir of vibratos And tenor beaks humming sweet to the early tangerine crest of sun slivers a powerful bar of light over the peaks to a newly brilliant horizon. Sweeping the dredges of darkness away as the stars fade like coal dust back again, packed into their cupboard of night one by one, lanterns snuffed and sent into the vibrating blue as if the whole sky should erupt into fire azure, hallowed morning pyre Encircled by the gradient hues of coral pink and castille yellow Mediterranean teal A symphonic cacophonic **** of birth Good Day, Sweet mother earth. Squeezed through the valleys canals allies every nook and forlorn cranny kissed with her blissful photonic army And the infantile creatures cry with glee. The dewdrops clutch the blades the tender palasade of petals remembering their darkened escapades slipping tender rain to feed the dirt, the lonely detritus elixirs of the lovely night. And the world bursts into a veritable kaleidoscope of life With a trillion pairs of eyes accessing the mother dream

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I’ve ordered and carried my steaming cup of brown to my table to ignore the falling snow beyond the walls of this box. My clothes are wrong, my hair as well. I just cut it, and everyone knows which mistakes I made. A man sneezes and the song changes. Better not make eye contact with anyone; I am not in their league, here at the muddy spoon cafe. Chewing so loudly in the de-creeping silence, these safe, polite, quiet ones. I am the creep here. I am different. My thighs are tense. Hunching over the paper, arms tense and clutching a gnarled red pen-- It’s probably self-indulgent to even sign my name. Someone’s shuffling cards. I almost forgot. The awkwardness I’m filled with breathes out a short sigh when I realize --my part’s over. “Do you know Sanskrit? Do you know what that is?” A woman asks another. I want to choke on the pretension The tenseness, I adjust my leg to relieve pressure on my ankle. Why can’t I just enjoy the snow? That’s all I really came here for-- well, and the coffee. I hear a woman cough with an unaffected tenor, which would convey her gender to an interested party but to me carries no intonation. I wonder if the girl I recognize from class thinks I’m following her. I came here for coffee, sweetheart! Is it yet too hot for me to dare a drink? I can see it, the steam, rising out of the corner of my eye. I haven’t looked away from my hand in twenty minutes. “Who am I?” they may be asking myself for me. I don’t have a clue. They can think about that problem for themselves while they’re lonely in their forties. I’m lonely now and I hope not to live that long. Here, we pretend not to see each other’s faces in the gleaming presence of steaming cups. “I don’t want to wonder about that.” I realize there’s nothing I even deem worth writing down.

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Feb 5, 2012

Feb 5, 2012 at 4:13 AM UTC

sansara-justinovich

I’ve ordered and carried my steaming cup of brown to my table to ignore the falling snow beyond the walls of this box. My clothes are wrong, my hair as well. I just cut it, and everyone knows which mistakes I made. A man sneezes and the song changes. Better not make eye contact with anyone; I am not in their league, here at the muddy spoon cafe. Chewing so loudly in the de-creeping silence, these safe, polite, quiet ones. I am the creep here. I am different. My thighs are tense. Hunching over the paper, arms tense and clutching a gnarled red pen-- It’s probably self-indulgent to even sign my name. Someone’s shuffling cards. I almost forgot. The awkwardness I’m filled with breathes out a short sigh when I realize --my part’s over. “Do you know Sanskrit? Do you know what that is?” A woman asks another. I want to choke on the pretension The tenseness, I adjust my leg to relieve pressure on my ankle. Why can’t I just enjoy the snow? That’s all I really came here for-- well, and the coffee. I hear a woman cough with an unaffected tenor, which would convey her gender to an interested party but to me carries no intonation. I wonder if the girl I recognize from class thinks I’m following her. I came here for coffee, sweetheart! Is it yet too hot for me to dare a drink? I can see it, the steam, rising out of the corner of my eye. I haven’t looked away from my hand in twenty minutes. “Who am I?” they may be asking myself for me. I don’t have a clue. They can think about that problem for themselves while they’re lonely in their forties. I’m lonely now and I hope not to live that long. Here, we pretend not to see each other’s faces in the gleaming presence of steaming cups. “I don’t want to wonder about that.” I realize there’s nothing I even deem worth writing down.

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My song, a melody composed, on heartstrings of each passing day. This ballad’s mine, and mine alone, a verse of life, to sing my way. T’was never plain and seldom free, as tempos often changed and rush, but always, I’ve been greatly blessed with life’s vast treasures mostly hushed. The strains that I have sung through life, at last have finally found their ground: A tenor voice, in senior years, the songs I sing, with value found. I lift my voice, the world to hear, for ne’er will it be heard again, as long as there is life on earth, and time has reached its final end.

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Sep 26, 2018

Sep 26, 2018 at 11:05 AM UTC

My song, a melody composed, on heartstrings of each passing day. This ballad’s mine, and mine alone, a verse of life, to sing my way. T’was never plain and seldom free, as tempos often changed and rush, but always, I’ve been greatly blessed with life’s vast treasures mostly hushed. The strains that I have sung through life, at last have finally found their ground: A tenor voice, in senior years, the songs I sing, with value found. I lift my voice, the world to hear, for ne’er will it be heard again, as long as there is life on earth, and time has reached its final end.

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It is so measured that rising arpeggio, only to fall and rise again in quicker values, through the dominant seventh to the heartache moment of that minor ninth, a very apogee of dissonance. Then it goes higher still to the fifth, holding to that Phrygian harmony before returning to the tonic minor and a measured fall in the bass. This is a deliberate descent to the sub-mediant, and Bach’s touch of magic, the equivalence with the dominant minor ninth. But then he gives us hope: an extended and joyful play through sequences that rise and fall within each bar, to rest finally on the mediant’s echo of that opening, that measured rise and the quickening fall. We have hardly smiled with relief when Bach pulls us back into the insecurity of the dominant of the subdominant, that V of IV acting like a bridge to a long, long discourse in the dominant, a pedal E holding firmly to itself whilst rising arpeggios and falling decorations and sequences pull and pull through innocently related keys. Longer and longer play the rising passages until short motives of imitation interrupt, treble to bass, tenor to alto, until: a first inversion arpeggio of the dominant seventh measures out the opening rhythm. This happens twice in short succession, as though holding the progress of the music to account. A questioning perhaps before a four-fold sequence asserts the dominant and a chorded caesura. There is a pregnant, though faintly resonant silence as Bach spins the dice of tonality and chooses the subdominant to bring the music towards a waiting Allemande. The music moves through a play of subdominant to dominant, minor to major, the mix of flattened fifth and flattened ninth. It is those intervals that determine Bach as the father of ambiguity in the 20C school of jazz harmony, Arpeggio then a falling scale, and repeat and repeat again, but moving ever higher by sequence. At last five chords – merely a shorthand for closure via the expectation of a right display of the performer’s improvisatory prowess. They prepare us reverently for the tonic minor before the stately Allemande leads the music into the elegant steps of its walking dance.

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Jan 5, 2013

Jan 5, 2013 at 3:13 AM UTC

On playing the Prelude from Bach’s Second Suite for Violoncello

It is so measured that rising arpeggio, only to fall and rise again in quicker values, through the dominant seventh to the heartache moment of that minor ninth, a very apogee of dissonance. Then it goes higher still to the fifth, holding to that Phrygian harmony before returning to the tonic minor and a measured fall in the bass. This is a deliberate descent to the sub-mediant, and Bach’s touch of magic, the equivalence with the dominant minor ninth. But then he gives us hope: an extended and joyful play through sequences that rise and fall within each bar, to rest finally on the mediant’s echo of that opening, that measured rise and the quickening fall. We have hardly smiled with relief when Bach pulls us back into the insecurity of the dominant of the subdominant, that V of IV acting like a bridge to a long, long discourse in the dominant, a pedal E holding firmly to itself whilst rising arpeggios and falling decorations and sequences pull and pull through innocently related keys. Longer and longer play the rising passages until short motives of imitation interrupt, treble to bass, tenor to alto, until: a first inversion arpeggio of the dominant seventh measures out the opening rhythm. This happens twice in short succession, as though holding the progress of the music to account. A questioning perhaps before a four-fold sequence asserts the dominant and a chorded caesura. There is a pregnant, though faintly resonant silence as Bach spins the dice of tonality and chooses the subdominant to bring the music towards a waiting Allemande. The music moves through a play of subdominant to dominant, minor to major, the mix of flattened fifth and flattened ninth. It is those intervals that determine Bach as the father of ambiguity in the 20C school of jazz harmony, Arpeggio then a falling scale, and repeat and repeat again, but moving ever higher by sequence. At last five chords – merely a shorthand for closure via the expectation of a right display of the performer’s improvisatory prowess. They prepare us reverently for the tonic minor before the stately Allemande leads the music into the elegant steps of its walking dance.

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Symphony No.9 in d – minor, opus 125 Allegro ma non troppo The silence gives way gently to quiet tremolos rustling beneath the beckoning call of distant horns. A melodic cell, nascent in violins, spirals down to the somber depths of cello and contrabass. A sudden cataclysm shakes the hall like thunder heralding our universal birth. Gales of sonic force splashed like turbulent waves against the rocky shores. Drifting sans glass or sextant on a sea of expanding mystery, we gaze to the heavens in hopes for a glimpse of our father’s aetherial dwelling. Molto vivace With hands intertwined, we dance in a ring to the capricious airs of the laughing gods with Zeus himself on timpani. So pass the wine and kiss your neighbor and fill your glass to the brim! For today is yesterday’s morrow and tomorrow’s history. Adagio molto e cantabile There is no greater and more healing light than the candles that shine in the eyes of a friend or loving spouse - tenderly lighting our paths through the storms and fogs that cloud our lives. Peace abides in a friend's embrace. An die Freude Against raging storms of strife and sorrow. we hear a healing voice A calm cello hymn - that migrates up to higher cords of violas and violins - breaking into joyous song sung by trumpets, winds and drums. Casting all shrillness of discord aside, a baritone lines out Schiller’s ode - and sings of Elysium’s daughter. Quartet and chorus enter in proclaiming hope for the human family, A tenor raises a stein to valor in the company of his friends. The quiet pulsing of horns and winds ushers in torrents of ecstasy. Arms clasped in communal embrace, we gaze to heaven on bended knees then rise with a majestic fugue that illuminates our souls like a blazing Alpine dawn. In a cyclone of passion, Schiller's words and Beethoven's notes entreat us to restore what custom has rent apart that each of us may live our lives as brothers in heavenly sanctuary. May 25, 2007

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Sep 20, 2013

Sep 20, 2013 at 1:33 PM UTC

robert-c-howard

Beethoven and Schiller

Symphony No.9 in d – minor, opus 125 Allegro ma non troppo The silence gives way gently to quiet tremolos rustling beneath the beckoning call of distant horns. A melodic cell, nascent in violins, spirals down to the somber depths of cello and contrabass. A sudden cataclysm shakes the hall like thunder heralding our universal birth. Gales of sonic force splashed like turbulent waves against the rocky shores. Drifting sans glass or sextant on a sea of expanding mystery, we gaze to the heavens in hopes for a glimpse of our father’s aetherial dwelling. Molto vivace With hands intertwined, we dance in a ring to the capricious airs of the laughing gods with Zeus himself on timpani. So pass the wine and kiss your neighbor and fill your glass to the brim! For today is yesterday’s morrow and tomorrow’s history. Adagio molto e cantabile There is no greater and more healing light than the candles that shine in the eyes of a friend or loving spouse - tenderly lighting our paths through the storms and fogs that cloud our lives. Peace abides in a friend's embrace. An die Freude Against raging storms of strife and sorrow. we hear a healing voice A calm cello hymn - that migrates up to higher cords of violas and violins - breaking into joyous song sung by trumpets, winds and drums. Casting all shrillness of discord aside, a baritone lines out Schiller’s ode - and sings of Elysium’s daughter. Quartet and chorus enter in proclaiming hope for the human family, A tenor raises a stein to valor in the company of his friends. The quiet pulsing of horns and winds ushers in torrents of ecstasy. Arms clasped in communal embrace, we gaze to heaven on bended knees then rise with a majestic fugue that illuminates our souls like a blazing Alpine dawn. In a cyclone of passion, Schiller's words and Beethoven's notes entreat us to restore what custom has rent apart that each of us may live our lives as brothers in heavenly sanctuary. May 25, 2007

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A plant outstretches its frame, in steady growth and tenor; A new leaf still wrapped unto itself, must unfold to meet the world. A universe appears, and another dissipates; Yet a leaf is born, between the stars and dirt - from the dust and decay. A sapling reaches for sun and rain, as I search for pen and paper. After all, We all do what we can.

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Apr 8, 2021

Apr 8, 2021 at 5:49 PM UTC

One Universe to Another

A plant outstretches its frame, in steady growth and tenor; A new leaf still wrapped unto itself, must unfold to meet the world. A universe appears, and another dissipates; Yet a leaf is born, between the stars and dirt - from the dust and decay. A sapling reaches for sun and rain, as I search for pen and paper. After all, We all do what we can.

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Oh, deem not they are blest alone Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep; The Power who pities man, has shown A blessing for the eyes that weep. The light of smiles shall fill again The lids that overflow with tears; And weary hours of woe and pain Are promises of happier years. There is a day of sunny rest For every dark and troubled night; And grief may bide an evening guest, But joy shall come with early light. And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low bier, Sheddest the bitter drops like rain, Hope that a brighter, happier sphere Will give him to thy arms again. Nor let the good man's trust depart, Though life its common gifts deny,-- Though with a pierced and broken heart, And spurned of men, he goes to die. For God has marked each sorrowing day And numbered every secret tear, And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay For all his children suffer here.

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2.7k

William Cullen Bryant

Blessed Are They That Mourn

Oh, deem not they are blest alone Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep; The Power who pities man, has shown A blessing for the eyes that weep. The light of smiles shall fill again The lids that overflow with tears; And weary hours of woe and pain Are promises of happier years. There is a day of sunny rest For every dark and troubled night; And grief may bide an evening guest, But joy shall come with early light. And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low bier, Sheddest the bitter drops like rain, Hope that a brighter, happier sphere Will give him to thy arms again. Nor let the good man's trust depart, Though life its common gifts deny,-- Though with a pierced and broken heart, And spurned of men, he goes to die. For God has marked each sorrowing day And numbered every secret tear, And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay For all his children suffer here.

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I don't recall the moment responsibility grew arms hugging with gnarled fingers, while burdened skies wrap like a promise, with its soft tenor of lies and seduction. Disowned, I remember the drunk old lady who hung over my shoulders puking responsibility, as if to discharge toxic waste on a pre-mature baby struggling in labor, while death chokes the innocent, lost in love's knowledge. She could have warned me, even better, ridiculed me rather than put my head on a bludgeoned block allowing me to become a scapegoat for all the past, present and future mistakes: Some, of which was manufactured in threads of innuendo by off-loaders. These bones of mine are exposed in the twilight of their naked prejudice, and 'I swear I could hear clouds' curse my name, chanting wrath, creating chaos through veins of pride, before darkness fell feasting off my flames. There is nothing like hollow skeletons of the dead rustling around in graveyards alone. I stopped to think despite efforts of going solo; how I miss the stony silence of that skull, bent with anger seeking solace from my venomous touch. It would be a blessing to retreat into silent reveries where I am alone, I am alive, the dead are no more, to wrestle ghosts with words spoken into the heavens asking, "is there enough forgiveness left for me?" I don't want to remember her dead face, how it looked when her neck snapped while life drained from her stiffened eyes. I want the abstracts of my life to fit. So, I howl upon her bitter pill - release me... 7/11/2012

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Nov 6, 2012

Nov 6, 2012 at 3:46 PM UTC

Beautiful Imperfections

I don't recall the moment responsibility grew arms hugging with gnarled fingers, while burdened skies wrap like a promise, with its soft tenor of lies and seduction. Disowned, I remember the drunk old lady who hung over my shoulders puking responsibility, as if to discharge toxic waste on a pre-mature baby struggling in labor, while death chokes the innocent, lost in love's knowledge. She could have warned me, even better, ridiculed me rather than put my head on a bludgeoned block allowing me to become a scapegoat for all the past, present and future mistakes: Some, of which was manufactured in threads of innuendo by off-loaders. These bones of mine are exposed in the twilight of their naked prejudice, and 'I swear I could hear clouds' curse my name, chanting wrath, creating chaos through veins of pride, before darkness fell feasting off my flames. There is nothing like hollow skeletons of the dead rustling around in graveyards alone. I stopped to think despite efforts of going solo; how I miss the stony silence of that skull, bent with anger seeking solace from my venomous touch. It would be a blessing to retreat into silent reveries where I am alone, I am alive, the dead are no more, to wrestle ghosts with words spoken into the heavens asking, "is there enough forgiveness left for me?" I don't want to remember her dead face, how it looked when her neck snapped while life drained from her stiffened eyes. I want the abstracts of my life to fit. So, I howl upon her bitter pill - release me... 7/11/2012

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There was a vicar from Crewe Whose congregation were few To make amends he brought in his hens And they all lined up on a pew Then he compiled an avian choir (For the singing voice of the hens was dire And the only song the cockerel knew Was cock-a-doodle-do) The church fell silent as we heard The Lord is my Shepherd from the minor bird The vicar invited us to pray And we got the Lords Prayer from the African grey There followed a rendition of psalm thirty four Performed without fault from the tenor macaw The parakeets squawked and scratched their fleas As they jumped up and down on the ***** keys The vicar was thrilled it was going so well The geese gave a honk as they pulled on the bell But then there appeared right at the back An evil sparrowhawk poised to attack Calamity reigned inside the church The African grey fell off his perch The first to escape was the tenor macaw As fast as he could through the open door The chickens shrieked and went home in a flap The minor bird had a heart attack The geese walked away back to their pen And the church fell silent once again

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Apr 19, 2014

Apr 19, 2014 at 1:28 PM UTC

The Easter service

There was a vicar from Crewe Whose congregation were few To make amends he brought in his hens And they all lined up on a pew Then he compiled an avian choir (For the singing voice of the hens was dire And the only song the cockerel knew Was cock-a-doodle-do) The church fell silent as we heard The Lord is my Shepherd from the minor bird The vicar invited us to pray And we got the Lords Prayer from the African grey There followed a rendition of psalm thirty four Performed without fault from the tenor macaw The parakeets squawked and scratched their fleas As they jumped up and down on the ***** keys The vicar was thrilled it was going so well The geese gave a honk as they pulled on the bell But then there appeared right at the back An evil sparrowhawk poised to attack Calamity reigned inside the church The African grey fell off his perch The first to escape was the tenor macaw As fast as he could through the open door The chickens shrieked and went home in a flap The minor bird had a heart attack The geese walked away back to their pen And the church fell silent once again

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~ ***TRAVEL TIME TROPICS TRIP TOURIST TOWN TUNNEL TOLL TICKET TAKER TAXI TOKEN TRANSIT TRAIL TRANSPORT TRUCK TRACTOR TRAILER TRAIN TRACK TROUBLE TEST TERROR TRAP TRIBAL TURF THINK TALK TRY TRANSLATE TONGUE TIED TEMPER TAMPER TIMEBOMB TICKING TRINKET TRADE TARIFF TERMS TWINKLE TAX TREASURE TOTAL THEFT TAKEN TWISTING THROBING THIRSTY THROAT TECATE TAVERN TWO TEQUILA TRES TACOS TASTY TORTILLAS TEN TEQUILA TABLE TAB TIP TINA TAWDRY TROLLUP TATTOO TABOO TOE TAP TICKLE TEASE TERRIBLE TUNES TENOR TONES TRUMPETING TROUBADOURS TWENTY TEENS TICK TOCK TARDY TIME TIRESOME TESTIMONY TOTALLY TRANSGRESSED TUMULTUOUS TRAVELER***

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Jan 1, 2014

Jan 1, 2014 at 5:25 PM UTC

THE TUMULTUOUS TRAVELER (revised)

~ ***TRAVEL TIME TROPICS TRIP TOURIST TOWN TUNNEL TOLL TICKET TAKER TAXI TOKEN TRANSIT TRAIL TRANSPORT TRUCK TRACTOR TRAILER TRAIN TRACK TROUBLE TEST TERROR TRAP TRIBAL TURF THINK TALK TRY TRANSLATE TONGUE TIED TEMPER TAMPER TIMEBOMB TICKING TRINKET TRADE TARIFF TERMS TWINKLE TAX TREASURE TOTAL THEFT TAKEN TWISTING THROBING THIRSTY THROAT TECATE TAVERN TWO TEQUILA TRES TACOS TASTY TORTILLAS TEN TEQUILA TABLE TAB TIP TINA TAWDRY TROLLUP TATTOO TABOO TOE TAP TICKLE TEASE TERRIBLE TUNES TENOR TONES TRUMPETING TROUBADOURS TWENTY TEENS TICK TOCK TARDY TIME TIRESOME TESTIMONY TOTALLY TRANSGRESSED TUMULTUOUS TRAVELER***

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Across the ice a baritone Projects his notes of steel, A tenor’s harmonizing Adds that melancholy feel And the glory of the voices Flows out through alders bare And the listeners weep for Russia’s soul And the tragedy found there. The tragic melancholy Found in every Russian heart Liberated by the sadness A fine harmony can impart. Of the monolithic yesterdays, Those forgotten fields of dead And that fire within the ***** Which numbs the agony of the head. Dark stains along the timber wall Wood fire’s stones make steam It fills the room with stifling heat Which sweats the bodies clean. Red wheals raised on shoulders Birch branches whip the back Whilst companion tones of maleness Speak in vectors women lack. Red larches in the foothills Gold lantern light on snow, The vastness of ancient steppes Of Central Asia grow. A viola’s velvet passion Sighs beneath a cottage door And the sadness in sensation Brings grown men to weep once more. The vastness of the terrain The hardness of the land, The bitter cold of northern wind, Each freezing winter spanned By Siberia’s lashing gales, White snow is metres deep And turquois ice as hard as steel Beneath which... rivers creep. Dostoyevsky,Kruschev, Rasputin and the Tsars, Great Lenin, Marx and Trotsky And the swords of Horse Hussars. Gorbachev the great redeemer, Poor Yeltsin’s pale white skin And the ****** found in Stalin's smile Span the politics of sin. This great Russian melancholy Lies deep within the soul It’s a legacy of yesterday Of her history's brutal goal. It’s a product of the suffering Inherent in the past Endured by legions of the people Then dispensed with… With a laugh! Marshalg @theBach Mangere Bridge 13 April 2009

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Jan 27, 2010

Jan 27, 2010 at 10:46 PM UTC

Melancholy Russia

Across the ice a baritone Projects his notes of steel, A tenor’s harmonizing Adds that melancholy feel And the glory of the voices Flows out through alders bare And the listeners weep for Russia’s soul And the tragedy found there. The tragic melancholy Found in every Russian heart Liberated by the sadness A fine harmony can impart. Of the monolithic yesterdays, Those forgotten fields of dead And that fire within the ***** Which numbs the agony of the head. Dark stains along the timber wall Wood fire’s stones make steam It fills the room with stifling heat Which sweats the bodies clean. Red wheals raised on shoulders Birch branches whip the back Whilst companion tones of maleness Speak in vectors women lack. Red larches in the foothills Gold lantern light on snow, The vastness of ancient steppes Of Central Asia grow. A viola’s velvet passion Sighs beneath a cottage door And the sadness in sensation Brings grown men to weep once more. The vastness of the terrain The hardness of the land, The bitter cold of northern wind, Each freezing winter spanned By Siberia’s lashing gales, White snow is metres deep And turquois ice as hard as steel Beneath which... rivers creep. Dostoyevsky,Kruschev, Rasputin and the Tsars, Great Lenin, Marx and Trotsky And the swords of Horse Hussars. Gorbachev the great redeemer, Poor Yeltsin’s pale white skin And the ****** found in Stalin's smile Span the politics of sin. This great Russian melancholy Lies deep within the soul It’s a legacy of yesterday Of her history's brutal goal. It’s a product of the suffering Inherent in the past Endured by legions of the people Then dispensed with… With a laugh! Marshalg @theBach Mangere Bridge 13 April 2009

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you cannot be serious man in what you say that is what the brat was heard to say on the court he'd remonstrate about the call he objected to the linesman's placement of the ball you cannot be serious man in what you say that is what the brat was heard to say in tennis circles he had a no good reputation for engaging in all manner of disputation you cannot be serious man in what you say that was what the brat was heard to say unsporting behaviour he'd frequently show other competitors didn't much like the tenor of his bow you cannot be serious man in what you say that is what the brat was heard to say another of his ilk presently applies the same guttersnipe stuff he's a right royal smarty-pants with his racquet's guff you cannot be serious man in what you say that is what the brat was heard to say

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Oct 24, 2016

Oct 24, 2016 at 7:03 PM UTC

ElizabethSquires

You Cannot Be Serious (Sports Poem)

you cannot be serious man in what you say that is what the brat was heard to say on the court he'd remonstrate about the call he objected to the linesman's placement of the ball you cannot be serious man in what you say that is what the brat was heard to say in tennis circles he had a no good reputation for engaging in all manner of disputation you cannot be serious man in what you say that was what the brat was heard to say unsporting behaviour he'd frequently show other competitors didn't much like the tenor of his bow you cannot be serious man in what you say that is what the brat was heard to say another of his ilk presently applies the same guttersnipe stuff he's a right royal smarty-pants with his racquet's guff you cannot be serious man in what you say that is what the brat was heard to say

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