"trombone" poems
I'll tell you the story of Cloony the Clown
Who worked in a circus that came through town.
His shoes were too big and his hat was too small,
But he just wasn't, just wasn't funny at all.
He had a trombone to play loud silly tunes,
He had a green dog and a thousand balloons.
He was floppy and sloppy and skinny and tall,
But he just wasn't, just wasn't funny at all.
And every time he did a trick,
Everyone felt a little sick.
And every time he told a joke,
Folks sighed as if their hearts were broke.
And every time he lost a shoe,
Everyone looked awfully blue.
And every time he stood on his head,
Everyone screamed, "Go back to bed!"
And every time he made a leap,
Everybody fell asleep.
And every time he ate his tie,
Everyone began to cry.
And Cloony could not make any money
Simply because he was not funny.
One day he said, "I'll tell this town
How it feels to be an unfunny clown."
And he told them all why he looked so sad,
And he told them all why he felt so bad.
He told of Pain and Rain and Cold,
He told of Darkness in his soul,
And after he finished his tale of woe,
Did everyone cry? Oh no, no, no,
They laughed until they shook the trees
With "Hah-Hah-Hahs" and "Hee-Hee-Hees."
They laughed with howls and yowls and shrieks,
They laughed all day, they laughed all week,
They laughed until they had a fit,
They laughed until their jackets split.
The laughter spread for miles around
To every city, every town,
Over mountains, 'cross the sea,
From Saint Tropez to Mun San Nee.
And soon the whole world rang with laughter,
Lasting till forever after,
While Cloony stood in the circus tent,
With his head drooped low and his shoulders bent.
And he said,"THAT IS NOT WHAT I MEANT -
I'M FUNNY JUST BY ACCIDENT."
And while the world laughed outside.
Cloony the Clown sat down and cried.
12.1k
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
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 10:39 AM UTC
IT'S a jazz affair, drum crashes and cornet razzes
The trombone pony neighs and the tuba ******* snorts.
The banjo tickles and titters too awful.
The chippies talk about the funnies in the papers.
The cartoonists weep in their beer.
Ship riveters talk with their feet
To the feet of floozies under the tables.
A quartet of white hopes mourn with interspersed snickers:
"I got the blues.
I got the blues.
I got the blues."
And ... as we said earlier:
The cartoonists weep in their beer.
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The poorest juggler ever seen
Was clumsy Clara cleech,
Who juggled a bean, a nectarine,
A pumpkin, and a peach.
She juggled a stone , a slide trombone,
A celery stalk, a stick,
A seeded roll, a salad bowl,
A bagel, a boot, a brick.
With relative ease she juggled a cheese ,
She juggled a lock, lime,
Yes, clara juggled all of these
. . . But just one at a time
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 10:03 AM UTC
It was a restless night denuded of sleep
So since it was warm and windless
I hit the streets
Walking under ancient oaks draped in Spanish moss
My path inevitably led to where
Everything was at a complete loss
Crescent Moon Memorial Cemetery
For the dead
Where all lie below earthly care
Was where my feet had somehow led
Row upon row of forgotten names
In all of their endeavors
Have been eased of their earthly pains
And now as I trudged by at a quarter to three
A low chorus and chords of music
Through the mists came floating to me
It startled and intrigued
What now is this ?
So I had to go see for myself
And I silently crept to where came the origins of bliss
In a circle of bench seats and monument stones
The strangest thing I saw , that of the unborn
Ghosts and skeletons playing with bones and singing in moans
A see through piano , trombone , bass , saxophone and a silver cornet
And one wailing guitar completed the set
On the translucent petal bass drum
Was the name of the ethereal band
And to a catchy tune I began to hum
Crescent Moon Memorial Buried Blues Band
The epitaph on the vaporous drum stated
And I soon found myself a loyal fan
What seem like a lifetime they continued to play
Quaint rthyms and lyrics now made my day . . . and night !
As the sounds drifted across the river out onto the bay
But far off I heard the mornings cock's call
Then phiff . . . vanished all into the fog
Not a trace as if covered by an invisible pall
And then a ray caught the gleam in my eye
And I knew that when the time comes
Here's where I want to be placed after I die
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 8:38 PM UTC
musical walls of throbbing
meaning
makeshift footsteps
escaping tendons
lashing tongues
notes of splendour
****** in my trombone-chills
whats the wizardry
in those piano fingers
belting blues
rainbow ecstasies
oozing ****** gyrations
three minute *******
splitting night into slivers
for tomorrows takings
lets dance
jam together
touch each others souls
with promise.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 5:39 PM UTC
Out of a **** he made Great Art
It was no ordinary **** no!
It was straight from the heart, that
****
It had lain too long in the dark
Now was it's time to start
To make its bid for freedom... and for stardom.
It flew like a dart that **** from the
heart
Like an arrow strung from Cupids
bow
Little did it know how luminous it'd
glow
Becoming one of the Greats in the
Farting Canon.
It was probably the greatest **** poem
ever written
In my own humble opinion
It was very daring and it smelt of
onion
It was certainly the fairest fartiest
poem I ever seen
If it was one of the three Musketeers
It would have to have been
D'artagoine.
It inflated like a balloon, blew up like
a great glass bubble
Then it popped and headed off
toward England
Flying further afield than any ****
had ever flown
It touched people's hearts, bewitched
every nation
Resounded around the world
Yea! was heard in every Kingdom.
It flew long, it rounded the Horn
Like a Lark, that **** it soared and
sung
It was no boring old ****
It was far fartier and fruiter than that
It was a King of Farts
Way above the fartiest of farters and
all the farting Arthurs
It was the real King Arthur
The King Arthur of all farts and
Farters.
A real Belter was that **** that came
from the heart
That had all the Angels singing in
their cloisters,
A real work of Art just like Mozart
Or remember... remember your
Shakespeare
"Hark! A **** a **** Whereforth art ?
Thou ****
It played its part, that **** yea! it
wielded its Excalibur.
O! there's nothing I'd rather do than lie here blowing sweet bubbles next
to you
You! on your little flutey flute flute and
Me! on my big Bass Trombone.
Jul 24, 2020
Jul 24, 2020 at 7:24 PM UTC
'I am of Ireland,
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on,' cried she.
'Come out of charity,
Come dance with me in Ireland.'
One man, one man alone
In that outlandish gear,
One solitary man
Of all that rambled there
Had turned his stately head.
That is a long way off,
And time runs on,' he said,
'And the night grows rough.'
'I am of Ireland,
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on,' cried she.
'Come out of charity
And dance with me in Ireland.'
'The fiddlers are all thumbs,
Or the fiddle-string accursed,
The drums and the kettledrums
And the trumpets all are burst,
And the trombone,' cried he,
'The trumpet and trombone,'
And cocked a malicious eye,
'But time runs on, runs on.'
I am of Ireland,
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on,' cried she.
"Come out of charity
And dance with me in Ireland.'
3.9k
lyrical rhymes, beats in epic time
dance around ten times the dime
that's beats per minute, 100 plus
wonderful noises reminiscent of us
dark poets sing of ravens and owls
while I sing of roars and howls
serenades in escalades, roll down the powershades
Dubstep beat-drops, guitar string heart-throbs
all of them blast through my Skullcandy's
dance the dance of wine and brandy
drunken and wild and not so mild
spark animal instincts, to hunt and mate
mangled sheets and broken beds
lie below the newlyweds
as the saxophone and trombone
softly sweep around their home
Deadmau5, Skrillex and Nero
party hard to Guitar Hero
while I slave over my laptop
listening to the beat drop.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 12:05 AM UTC
*** Wee Hunt
he carries his trombone
everywhere he goes
blows with puffy lips
right below his nose
they say that it's the jazz
that makes him strut and prance
whatever you might call it
seems more like a dance
he was born in Ohio
and also played the banjo
even had his own band
and sometimes played a tango
he did the 12th street rag
it made number 1 on the chart
he played until he could no more
he played with his heart
Gomer LePoet ....
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 10:00 AM UTC
Nothing dies, it bursts to birth
Before the requiem is half done,
Before the suitable tears are shed
Or the mourning of the underbred
Nags out its course, the death is dead.
The sighs shoot into the long trombone
It blows so hard it shakes the earth.
The flowers in a breathless rush break through;
If one has collapsed, then out spring two,
Insatiable for things to do.
It is unnecessary to atone
For sin: he is the losing one;
With all his conjuror's cheap disguise
No geese fly north because of his lies
No cause is lost, and nothing dies.
3k
Silence
inside a train
is the only sound
of life outside.
Along a road
a melody grows
flirting
with the countryside.
The river
wide and turgid
flows
to a relentless rhythm.
Sometimes
a flute plays
between rays of sunshine
and whispering winds.
Clouds swell
in a darkening sky
to the groans
of a sombre trombone.
Inside
listen to the rain
watch it slash
at the window panes.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 6:58 AM UTC
I'm working I tell my mom
staying up late at night as she thinks I'm doing homework
while I actually waste time on youtube and 9gag.com
search cultures, and histories, and groups
wanting to belong
and be a part of
a community, a group, find myself
and then I feel so selfish sitting in my room starting to pity those who don't have food
when the pity turns on my for having no sense of culture nor community
I go to school everyday wanting to learn about everything that I don't hear
about space and stars, histories, wars, and of people who belonged with friends in proximity
I can't work, I try to but I can't
I search up how to look more pretty and attract my crush
and then how we shouldn't care about looks from someone who loves to rant
I listen to punk rock, ska punk, celtic punk, and rock because I can't work
I play my trombone because I can't work but I can do music homework
I read books about history and stars because I can't work but I can learn
You can't go anywhere without good grades they say
so if only i was marked on things I wanted to learn
things I wanted to present for things I wanted to earn
I'm only 15 and don't know where this is going
and now I'm resisting the temptation to erase this whole non-poem that I'm to and froing
with info about my life that only I care about
while I procrastinate like most kids do my age
when I hear my mom shout
telling me to not stay up too late and that she's proud of me working
when I'm actually wasting my time and her dreams
so I'll get back to my can't working
ending this not-a-poem with something it's not doing- flowing
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC
friday night
a veritable heat wave
and i'm getting
a trombone smack down
girl is tearing it up
on saxophone
and i hear the rhythm
i've never heard
such a sensitive trumpet
seen such a true believer on bass
bring it
you crazy kids
bring it
legends of jazz
i will listen
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 10:37 PM UTC
that’s the thing with those trophy wife types,
never really mandible in *** like a jaw ought to be,
too stiff, too anorexic model type:
pooch pooch a handbag full of duck quack pouts of the lips.
i like mandible women, scary scarred women,
the types that will grow into fond babushkas
and cook you a broth.
ah all this crap with daddy longlegs walking into a paparazzi
web of flashes is ruining the red carpet,
i was about to frizz it up into cushion afro softness
that would be quicksand for high heels.
i need blotches i need survival skills that hold the skin together,
every wrinkle, every passing jest of “irrelevance,”
every amulet glow of feeling through the kaleidoscope of depression,
jet-lag i call it, although i rather call it trombone,
with the numbers it was bound to happen, leaving the mammalian
kingdom and entering the insect kingdom, it was bound to happen,
the lost identity tiling the earth, ploughing the eardrum for symphonies,
it was just waiting... just waiting... like a spider waiting
with the flies of the urbanisation of green & green...
can’t change my mind... blotches on skin and bulges of missing protein
on the hips... perfect girth for child rearing...
i don’t like perfect... it’s supposed to have an aesthetic aura of an art
gallery... instead it has an aesthetic aura of hygiene of a hospital;
i arrested all the beauticians while talking to the paediatricians
painting my nails with u.v. liquorice in this hospital of hygienic looks
but unhygienic romping pompoms that swayed man to chlamydia.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 11:14 AM UTC
Sinbad’s sea-battered ship was
poised on the edge of annihilation,
The Sultan's brow furrowed with curiosity,
then without warning
Scheherazade stilled her narrative
and lived to see the morning sun.
When the moon and stars next owned the sky,
Sinbad was snatched from the jaws of death
then the saga of Prince Kalandar
seized the king's soul with wonder
but Scheherazade left the tale unfinished
and sang with the birds at dawn.
Rimsky-Korsakoff turned the pages at his desk -
consumed by Scheherazade’s charms
then etched his pen across the waiting staves:
The violin must weave her spell once more
and bassoon and oboe take the prince’s part.
Trombone and trumpet led the martial call
and all the rest enlisted for the cause.
Russian bravura fused with the seductive allure
of exotic tunes born of the dust on the silken road.
A sonic whirlwind filled Saint Paul Church,
as winds and tremolos grew to cyclonic force.
A wall of brass completed Kalandar’s tale.
capped by an exuberant clash of cymbal plates.
The silence yielded to tender violins
chanting a hymn to the princess in all her grace.
Tambourine and winds wove a tapestry
of her debonaire and most virtuous prince.
As the final pizzicato chord faded, the Sultan
turned to Scheherazade with tear-filled eyes
and beheld his immortal princess
and she her valiant and eternal prince
and so it would be as long as night preceded dawn.
She kissed away his tears of joy and whispered in his ear,
“My beloved husband, I will tell you stories forever.
Tomorrow you shall learn of the Feast at Baghdad.”
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 11:27 PM UTC
Thomas, Tommy baby,
you are both hot,
and sweet.
Tom Cat you’re red hot--
when I catch you in your Tom Cat Strut,
sauntering across campus,
strolling like it ain’t no thing,
cuz it don’t meant a thing
if it ain’t got that swing baby.
So dig this, Tommy Gun,
you groove with the best of ‘em
when I spot you strollin’—
Your head, teetering left and right like a seesaw, boppin’ baby,
arms hangin’ loosely, swinging freely, wildly, go! go!
legs scooping forward in boisterous trombone slides--
Groooooove Tommy baby!
You’re Louis’s best blows--
ten feet from the mic and the Fives baby,
you’re hot, red hot,
any closer and I'll burn up!
Go!
But you’re cool, real cool,
and oh so sweet.
Super sweet--
in your beard like a pepper and salt shaker tossed across the table,
I look to see those rosy lips part,
and peep those pearly whites shinin' like the bell of Louis’s cornet
brandished in the air, under those ballroom lights--
you’re screamin’ Tommy!
Let me hear that laugh that shakes the room,
punches like Blakey’s bass drum,
thumps like Mingus--
T-Bird you’ve got that hard bop in your soul,
you’re gonna bop to the top TB,
into the third heaven where the angels fall in line to your swing,
that incessant strut that keeps the devil at bay,
Blow! Blow! Blow!
And I see you now Tom Cat,
up there in the clouds,
digging your way across eternity,
bopping and jiving, swinging and blowing,
in your faded khaki pants and worn tennis shoes,
loosely buttoned collared shirt,
tight rectangular glasses that glistened the bell of your eyes even more--
I gotta stand twenty feet away Tommy baby!
You glance down at me and wink,
rearing your head back to let loose that Mingus and Blakey
bottom-end laugh,
guffaw guffaw guffaw!!!
--so hearty and rich,
the backbone of every nervous first-year classroom,
and the sniggering seniors you continued to befuddle and dazzle
with your mysterious ways
and insatiable swing.
So blow, Tommy Gun, blow!
Go Tom Cat go!
Dig T-Bird dig!
Let loose Tommy boy!
Swing for us, swing swing swing--
Hot and Sweet, Tommy baby,
hot and sweet.
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 1:55 AM UTC
( To the tune of Jailhouse Rock )
Party night came to the hp site
Singing and dancing till late at night
Friends dropping by said count us in
Man you shoulda seen them poets swing
Let's rock
Everybody let's rock
They all got together in a flock
Rockin at the hp hop
Well I didn't know you played the saxophone
Frank Zappa Davis on the slide trombone
Along came Embers with a whole brass band
Man that thing was getting out of hand
Let's rock
Everybody let's rock
We were rockin and we couldn't stop
Boppin at the hp hop
Music getting louder as the night wore on
Hands clap feet tap sing that song
Grab hold o' somethin just to play a tune
If you don't play the piano play the wooden spoon
Let's rock
Everybody let's rock
We were givin it all we'd got
Boppin at the hp hop
Someone made a speech, said we're all friends here
We all shed a happy little single tear
Then she said oh for goodness sakes
I love everybody in the whole **** place
Let's rock
Everybody let's rock
Keep it up y'all don't stop
Boppin at the hp hop
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 4:44 PM UTC
I miss having the entire upstairs.
I miss sitting on the futon on the landing outside of my room and writing.
I miss having three closets.
I miss the old fashioned doors I had upstairs.
I miss climbing outside of my window onto the roof at night.
I miss the outdated pink-ish red carpet.
I miss the 70’s wallpaper and how the wall by my bed was different.
I miss the silence.
I miss the sound of the train going right by.
I miss going out to the barn to practice trombone and play pool.
I miss summers there.
I miss walking home from school to the house.
I miss how close town was, yet it had a special seclusion.
I miss riding my bike to the cemetery.
I miss the long gravel road behind the barn.
I miss the willow tree.
I miss the neighbors. Even “keep off my lawn” Mike.
I miss the feeling I got pulling up to the house.
I miss being 13.
I miss the parties.
I miss my brother and sister sharing friends.
I miss living on Finn Street.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 11:19 PM UTC
Spring. Same plants, same order.
Monday morning, open for business.
Tractor-trailers, day care centers.
Every leaf that’s coming out is out.
To tonight’s town meeting I will go unaware and foolish.
It’s delicious, the unimportance of my feelings.
Even our particular war was small.
Europe had one last a century.
Hubble photos of events 13 billion years ago
Do not put me in mind of the species’ insignificance.
Just the opposite having witnessed the universe’s birth.
But birth from what preceding state? God again rears his hoary head.
They say one must let go and will let go,
God will decide what tragedy you need.
Not every seed becomes a flower,
Not every branch breaks out a truelove knot.
While the ancient Romans wrote of love
The ancient Britons wrote of war.
The Romans should have been perfecting their republic.
No god could do that work for them.
The November moth's the fall cankerworm
Slender-bodied, beige, beginning life as the well known inchworm.
In our war more children may have died than would have had
the tyrant lived in fear and awe.
We'll never know because we can't help being here.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 11:28 AM UTC
The jukebox plays that old time swing
What a wild sound, a jumping fling
I've got it bad today, a fever for you
Think of us, when I'm feeling blue
Sinatra say that having it bad,
Well it ain't good and I'm so glad
So when I'm down and out, I'll turn you on
That old timey jazz, for me it's the only one
Art Tatum I'll turn you up loud
Swanky Szabo, amasses a crowd
Slim Gaillard, that crazy sound
Teagarden's trombone all around
Mingus and Ayler, Rollins and Miles
Dalindeo and Niechęć all those styles
I'll dance the moonlight serenade
and these hepcats, will never fade
Dry up daddy-o and focus on sanity
Sonny still struttin' with such vanity
Wayne Shorter quartet on a starry night
Jazz has me goofy but feeling alright
I've been feeling grummy for far too long
Remedied with an old Billie Holiday song
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 10:34 AM UTC
I just hit my trombone
Playing out the tune
For all the world to listen
On a summer day in June
I just hit my trombone
And let the music play
For all the crowds there
On that June summer day
Feb 24, 2010
Feb 24, 2010 at 6:50 PM UTC
I forgot a fork
So I'm eating my salad with a spoon.
I didn't feel like sitting in the cafeteria,
Where it's too loud and busy,
So I went home,
Where I'd rather hear a muffled trombone lesson
Than my best friends's stories.
(I'm in one of those tired-sad moods
Where my whole body feels fatigued
And my face feels sad
And I shuffle around;
No motivation.)
So,
I went where I am.
I wish I could spend all day in home
--the band room--
The place I go to hide.
I have to remind myself
It's just a classroom
That I'll probably
Never
Set foot in after I graduate.
But, those are thoughts for
A later date
When I can remember
A fork.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 7:46 PM UTC
You just don't notice
The wrinkles an' lines
She's covered them in fun
Coz her easy smile
Will her airbrush be
Until her race is run
Gold trainers
Worn with blue jeans
Are the icing on the cake
As she boogies
With her old man
With the bar-room in her wake
An' the dixie-band
Don't miss a beat
Black jeans, black shirts, deep south
'Cept the double-bass
On whose poker face
Someone's stuck a smiley mouth
And the clarinet
Awaits his cue
Eyes shut in swaying bliss
While Goldie,
She's gone freestyle
And the front-man gets a kiss
So the trombone slides
An' the susa-phones
Just as cool as a cu-cumber
And the 'Judges rocks
as the chorus rolls
“Your Age Is Just A Number”
Mar 20, 2011
Mar 20, 2011 at 2:21 AM UTC
Music maker, trombone player
Master-to-be of all instruments
For my passion
an educator in the making
Those notes that live within
Their stave homes on the aged paper
Are composed of the very things
that run through these well-played veins
They are the building blocks of my being
That brought me to world-class stages
Music maker, trombone player
I am a future Great
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 3:26 PM UTC