"tuba" poems
The tavern roof was smokey
with a pall of blueish ash.
The juke box was a- booming
as it played "The Monster Mash".
A giant puffed a burning witch
whilst smoke rings he exhaled....
While victims of our neighbor,
Vlad...on stakes were all impaled.
The Faceless Man was grinning...
from ear to missing ear.
The hanged man turned his twisted neck
to sip a mug of beer.
The Headless Horseman shouted
for an aspirin or three.
He popped them down his gullet
where his head was meant to be.
The zombies waited tables
and the werewolf tended bar.
Mothra was the carhop
and took orders car to car.
Godzilla worked the griddle
and served burgers ala carte.
Dracula complained about the steak
caught in his heart.
Ghosts and ghouls were dancing
with abandon on the stage
While cyborgs did "the robot"
'cause they thought it was the rage.
The mummy came unraveled
as we took him for a "spin"
As Frankenstein played tuba
to contribute to the din.
Igor brought "the monster"
and then Freddie brought his claw.
Jason brought his butcher knife
and his buddy from "The Saw".
The guillotine was working
and the raven refereed
So nevermore would pardons
be
allowed to intercede.
The pendulum was swinging
to the beating of my heart.
I hoped that I would wake up soon...
then did so...with a START!
Halloween is coming. So, I guess
I should prepare.
Watch out for bars with men from Mars...
'cause BEASTIES party there!
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 6:45 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 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 **
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 11:06 AM UTC
BAND concert public square Nebraska city. Flowing and circling dresses, summer-white dresses. Faces, flesh tints flung like sprays of cherry blossoms. And gigglers, God knows, gigglers, rivaling the pony whinnies of the Livery Stable Blues.
Cowboy rags and ****** rags. And boys driving sorrel horses hurl a cornfield laughter at the girls in dresses, summer-white dresses. Amid the cornet staccato and the tuba oompa, gigglers, God knows, gigglers daffy with life's razzle dazzle.
Slow good-night melodies and Home Sweet Home. And the snare drummer bookkeeper in a hardware store nods hello to the daughter of a railroad conductor-a giggler, God knows, a giggler-and the summer-white dresses filter fanwise out of the public square.
The crushed strawberries of ice cream soda places, the night wind in cottonwoods and willows, the lattice shadows of doorsteps and porches, these know more of the story.
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The clock strikes 3:30 and the pit behind the school opens.
We feast on the smell of burning skin and sunscreen.
There is chaos as instruments are strewn across the back room,
No exits and the doors are blocked.
My eyes slide past his but I'm too burned out to care.
Freshmen are the worst,
Insisting on acting as if
They are four year olds.
Not a second late, for Whit is never late.
I have lost feeling in my legs
Still I have perfect
Technique just as he does. Water.
Water does not have an existence in this world.
Heat and sun have taken over.
Our tuba players have given up,
There they lay down in the burning
Grass. He never complains.
As I'm close to my breaking point,
Air no longer passes my
Lips and not one note escapes my keys.
The perfect string of notes and rhythm
Sound from my left. He never missed
A note.
March it back,
March it back,
March it back sixteen counts.
An endless routine.
Opening set.
These single words are bitter sweet.
In ten minutes I am free to go home
And write poetry about him.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 2:21 PM UTC
the world soul
an insane asylum
sediment the guts can't hold
makes me wretch
as the years bend this ridge poll
to the breaking point
a tuba plays booming
it is raven girl and singing skulls
swaying hips
all breath and heat
attended by carnivory
little Fuzzy Mijmark
necrophilia's friend
while men love sheep and bone
in shady coves
and droves of groves
hungry spiders' patient for obese flies
wait in shrouded silk
for the healing power of death
and their soul's new sunrise
in golden mourning's paradise
loving those they eat
marrow deep
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 11:21 AM UTC
Agnes McDuff collected strange stuff,
Or so the story goes:
There were old pots and pans,
String, rubber bands,
Boxes and boxes of clothes,
Newspapers, plates,
Books stored in crates,
And candlesticks lined up in rows.
Some mason jars,
Toy trucks and cars,
A model train with a whistle that blows,
Needles and spools,
All kinds of tools,
And shoes with holes in the toes.
There were tables and chairs,
Bookends in pairs,
A grandfather clock that was broke,
An old brass spittoon,
Some Sunday cartoons,
And a bicycle mssing a spoke.
Four or five hundred old wooden blocks,
Twenty-three pair of grey woolen socks,
A Christmas Edition bottle of Coke,
A board game missing directions,
A bat, a ball, a catcher’s mitt, two baseball card collections,
And a great big rusty tuba. What a joke!
There was other stuff, but you’ve heard enough;
About what was stored in
The Attic of Agnes McDuff.
Part 2
Agnes’ attic was quite special
But not for the things it contained
But for how she had to get there
Please let me explain!
Agnes had a one-story house
A flight of stairs led to the attic.
When she opened up the door,
The light came on automatic.
It opened to a hallway
Where there was another door
Another light, another hall, and more stairs, which
Led back down to the first floor!
Where an elevator waited
To take her up again?
But it had just one button
And it was numbered “10”.
When she pushed it, it was crazy
The elevator turned upon its side,
Grew wheels and drove out on the street
For an amazing ride!
Across a long suspension bridge,
Then underneath a tunnel,
And then it went around and round
Like circling down a funnel!
It dropped upon a railroad track
Hooked onto the caboose
And followed to the roundhouse
Where it finally broke loose.
It turned around a couple times
And ran out toward the street
The elevator ran, of course
Because it had grown two feet!
It ran across an avenue,
Around a lake, and through a park
And then through another tunnel
Where it was very dark.
A mile later it emerged,
At Agnes’ house, by her front door!
The elevator walked inside,
And was on the second floor!!
So that’s how Agnes reached her attic,
Perhaps someday you’ll go there too,
Push the elevator button,
And you’ll find my story’s true!
Part 3
Agnes stood there in her attic
And smiled at all her stuff
That almost ends the story of
The Attic of Agnes McDuff.
But Agnes’ story can never end
Her smile turned to a frown,
Because you see poor Agnes
Forgot how to get back down!!
PwL May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 8:17 AM UTC
While My Guitar Gently Sleeps
boogie woogie is on my mind
my toe tapping a thousand times
slapping snare and top hat crash
back to sleep dreamy night fade away
is it a festival of jazz marching by
raz-ma-taz New Orleans style
clarinet and trumpet and tuba blow
blind melon singing do-dah do-dah-day
Latin fever makes me thrash
trying to remember the tricky steps
the cha-cha of the island girls
watching how the shapely hips sway
Spanish marimba mambo twist
taps clacking as the flamenco flies
big box acoustic cat gut strings
fingers twitching wanting to play
square dance cowgirls and dudes strut
thumbs in their pockets stomping boots
fiddles and steel race through my heart
gonna do it all do it all someday
roll over and change the world another day
dreamy night fade away once again
screaming guitars in triple tones
while my guitar gently sleeps away
Gomer LePoet...
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 3:45 PM UTC
I will be learning how to play the tuba soon!
I am so excited!
I bought one yesterday!
It is bigger than me!
...It has fallen on me twice.
That's okay though,
I have always wanted to be 2 dimensional...
kind of...
anyway.
There once was a musical sloth
Who got distracted by a moth
that made him fall off a chair
and the natural thought progression from there
was obviously to learn to play the tuba... I also might go goth.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 12:56 PM UTC
hmmm hm hmmm
you've left again,
and truth be told it's best
so don't tell me that you love me still
that you just need to get some things in your head straight
hmm hm hmm
because you had your head on the entire time
you just wanted to rest it for a while
and I was your soft pillow
a punching bag if you must
you flipped me around when I was too hot
you seem to always like me better when I'm cool
my silence will always be reassuring
the heat will make you nervous.
hmm hm hmm
I cope by talking
so let me talk to people that are like you
my ex
exes.
girls that have wanted me from the beginning, am I really
that charming?
I have three, four if you're counting the girl i sent nudes to last night
i'm disgusting
I should have kissed her in that bathroom, you know.
i should have took advantage of the situation
I don't like that you're the last person my lips tasted
hmm hm hmmm
running my fingers across the keyboard
they dance in a rhythm only I can figure out
I've got plans, a future, and a pack of cigarettes waiting for me at home
I should have listened when people said to stay away from you
I'm mad because you let me believe you when you said
i love you
because i always meant it
i love you more, most, forever and always, that was the promise, the deal.
I was supposed to be loved by you and you alone.
and you for me.
maybe you left
hmm hm hmmm hm
because you have other people that you want.
but you'll never in your life find someone like me
but maybe that's good because
hell I know that i'm actually very toxic.
manipulative.
dramatic.
draining
i've heard it all before
i'm too sensitive.
these are truths
i'll fix it.
i'll get better.
and you will too
hmm hm hmmm
i shouldn't still be writing about you. i've been broken for a while
but it feels easier now.
i can just pretend that you don't exist, that's easier for me
that is how i have to cope now.
after Justin, i thought i wouldn't love
i should have focused on getting hurt again.
i know that it's possible now.
well sorta.
after him, i went numb.
hell. what am i ever talking about
i guess what i'm meaning to say is
we'll be a lot happier without each other
at least we were long distance.
you don't have to see me or hear me everyday.
I have you blocked on social media for that reason.
but i can't block your number
i like knowing that you'll come back eventually.
and if not knowing, then hoping
when you find out what you've ****** up don't be textin' my phone
i like you better when you leave me alone.
hmm mhm hm
Feb 1, 2021
Feb 1, 2021 at 4:02 PM UTC
The tuba player in a park walking, shouting through an amplified medium of open air.
You are the park, I am the tuba.
Who is the author?
I ask this not to pander or to interest you, but because I honestly do not know.
Why are there so many questions asked these days without the realization that the answer is unobtainable.
Why do we think that by putting a curved line over a period we’ll find the truth.
I am tired of asking and expecting a reply?
I am tired of telling others what I want to hear back “that’s what everybody wants.”
If that’s what you want so much, then stop going to malls.
Stop pumping fossilized plant life into your gas tank.
Stop buying new clothes and cell phones and computers.
Stop telling your parents you love them just because they’re the easy ones to love.
If god so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son, then who's our ******* father?
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 5:11 PM UTC
Get me down to the local band stand
traditional and modern grand
Cornets, Euphoniums and tuba's in tune
I love the sight I'm so immune
from the pits of Yorkshire and round the globe
Scores resounding from Adobe
The Conductor's baton keeps the beat
and if its wrong they stamp there feet
from amateur to championship
all you have is brass to lip
contests regional every year
and music reading not play by ear!
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 7:44 PM UTC
An emporium full of visual delights, moonbeams bounce and dance, around a pitted cloud clear site.
A shooting star shining, a whooshing sound if heard, lights the sky as it blazes bright, starting in the east, accelerating, disappearing out of pleasured sight.
Stars blaze illuminating dark, the galaxy forming its magical map of horoscopes in this glorious orb, Its North Star guidance for some who navigate upon our planet earth be it on land air or under the sea, a million or more miles the distance should we achieve the ability to or want to go see up close these glowing planets of rock, gas and ore.
Dying stars growing in their brightness, as if, a last attempt of holding life,
Glowing brighter than before their internal charges disperse, fading no longer able to ignite.
Dancing colours in the north and south, painted great abstracts wide and far,
Hues of fusing reds oranges yellows greens across dark blue,
Spectacular moments for those with time to sit, observe and view, these magical electrically charged special dancing hues.
Reflections distorting down below, hues shading, appearing blushed as oceans gush and light rides upon a moonlit magnetic heaving tide, a tide awaiting, a stage set for two
Only you can see the magic being created in front of misted, barely woken if open eyes,
Only you can see the rising spirits coming up to play upon the core of sphere,
Under the kaleidoscope twinkling melee filled bustling sea and sky.
Rise up, a beckon, a call to you, come join this light filled orb of invisible tunes,
Where a piano plays a serenade and the orchestra complements with
Soft sounds of Trombones, cello’s, violins, tuba’s, drums and flutes
A tempo set to sweep excited people off their seat and on into their dancing shoes
Rise up in your sparkly dancing dress and shoes for you are floating Imagination growing with every timeless move
Twinkling stars blinking approval, reflections in the agreeing tide as it ebbs and flows.
Rise up, move, dance, sway, step and jump to those imaginary magical tunes
A prince of darkness, a dreaming queen
A loving scene, a glory electrically charged night time dancing dream.
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC
Part 4
When we last left poor Agnes
In her attic all alone
She couldn’t find her way back down,
And she had no telephone.
No light switch and no stairway
She couldn’t find the hall
The elevator disappeared
(It had sunk into the floor)
And to make her situation worse,
She couldn’t find the door!
But Agnes McDuff was pretty tough;
She didn’t mess around
She thought of stuff that she could use
To help her get back down.
First she lit the candlesticks
So she would have some light -
For an attic with no window
Is black as darkest night.
With candlelight, she now could see;
She dumped the clothes from all the boxes,
Put the boxes on the table,
Next she stacked the wooden blocks.
She found some nails and a hammer
In her Grandma’s toolbox.
She nailed it all together
And on top she nailed the chairs
Now Agnes had a set of crazy, crooked
Homemade stairs!
Agnes went back to the toolbox,
She saw a saw was there,
She carried it very carefully
As she climbed the crazy stair.
Now you might have a feeling
Of what she was going to do
Yes, she climbed up to the ceiling, and
Used the saw to cut right through!
She climbed back down and looked around
Found the rubber bands and string
Added several woolen socks
And made a giant sling!
She rummaged through the dumped out clothes
Found a wedding dress and suit
And with the needle and the spool of thread
Made a great big parachute!
She hooked the parachute to the bicycle
(The one without a spoke)
And tied the back wheel to the tuba
And that was NOT a joke.
The tuba was quite heavy
So it kept the bike at rest
Once again climbed up the crazy stair
And performed the final test.
She nailed both ends of the slingshot
Around the opening she’d sawn
Hooked the sling around the bicycle
Moved the stair, and then got on.
Somehow the clock was working!
It was ringing Three, Two, One
And just as Agnes cut the tie she thought
Boy! This could be FUN!
The slingshot worked!
Shot Agnes out, on the bike, way up into the sky,
And she looked around in wonder thought,
Boy! I’ve never been this high!
She went up a mile or so
Before she dared look down
She saw the long suspension bridge
And the other parts of town.
She saw the entrance to the tunnel
(The rest was under ground)
She saw the roundhouse and the avenue
The park and then the lake
Finally, she saw her house
There was no mistake!
So she deployed the parachute
And gently she descended
And this is where the story
Of Agnes Attic should have ended.
She walked up to the doorway
Turned the handle, now you see?
The door was locked from the inside,
Agnes McDuff forgot the key!
PwL May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 8:58 AM UTC
Axel, who never had a rocking horse, once rode a bright blue tricycle. He called it his ‘Athenian Rhapsody’. He loved to play the tuba in bed, and when he was feeling particularly happy, would sit on the loo in the outside shed, pants around his ankles oompa-pa’ing till the cows came home.
That was quite a while ago; the tuba and the tricycle have gone, yet he can still hear the triangle sound the bell made on his tricycle, and still remembers the scraping of the old keys on the ancient tuba.
Axel listens to old sounds very well (all the time): he loves Bach, Mendelssohn and Donovan. He loves to eat crumpets with honey and drink a large white mug of milky tea; it reminds him of summer fishing trips to Lake Eucumbine, mushrooms and gnats in the full-sun morning air, (he loves to talk fishing when he’s playing chess with Carl the orderly, often quoting from his favourite magazine, ‘Modern Fly Fishing’).
Axel was once an expert at fly fishing; tying the ‘super moonshadow’ to perfection (he named the fly after what he thought was a Donovan song, written by Cat Stevens).
When the hospital staff remember to buy him a new box, Axel loves to drink Lady Grey tea made from tea bags, he prefers tea bags, he feels that somehow they bring clearer definition to tea making.
Axel thinks a lot about definition, noting how the edges of his bed are very clearly defined by the clean-blue hospital blankets that drop suddenly to the ocean of the grey linoleum floor. He likes the smell of cleanblue, it’s somehow a new sea to sail and sometimes the feel of his favourite jumper when he was a boy: a definite edge of beginning and end. He knows that soon he’ll cross the floor-grey ocean, sailing under a white sheet. But this is not a thing Axel dwells on for very long, he prefers to think of such things as his next chess move and flirting with Miriam the night nurse.
—
Axel has just beaten Carl in a game of chess. He’s said goodnight to Miriam, a long quiet goodnight, a good long, good night. He won’t wake again, he senses this – and is peaceful.
When his last breath comes he hears; a faint scraping sound and a single precious note from a triangle bell on a bright blue tricycle.
They’re good sounds.
They are old sounds.
They bring him…
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 8:10 AM UTC
For Denis Joe
Alas, poor Pluto
I knew him slightly
Dangling out there
On the sun system's edge
Unsung by Holst
Who knew him not at all.
Furl browed tribunes smack their gavels
And in a nano - second
Planetary glory dashed to asteroids.
Mighty Pluto busted to dwarfhood!
[Brief moment of silence]
Well, the dwarves will have to have
Their own music now -
Nothing Earth shattering
like THE PLANETS.
A humbler essay, say a trio
For tuba, autoharp and cello.
Modest but catchy tunes
For little orbiters and shakers:
XENA (warrior princess)
CERES (goddess of grain)
PLUTO (mythical silver smith)
CHARON (underworld boat jockey)
Oops, almost missed the big send off.
There he goes now with Charon at the oars.
Arrivederci
little
fellow.
SNIFF!
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 6:20 PM UTC
our part of Guintarcan
where family and relatives resided
was called, Li-og Li-og 1
a very large boulder at area’s end
resembled a disembodied head
lending the name, “small neck” 1
before the war
a peaceful private paradise
miles from town
beautiful birds
coconut trees
all sorts of seaside foliage
young married women
walked barefoot and *******
wearing only a sarong
wound at the waist
they carried round, flat baskets
atop their heads
full of food and other things
early morning, noon or just before dusk
men would be out fishing with nets
sometimes signaling each other
by blowing into conch shells
Father would come home with large conch
baby conch called bucawil
scallops and oysters in their season
he kept a jar of large black pearls
and small white ones
harvest time gathered us all together
Father would go fishing
to bring home a good catch
Mother, aunts and Grandmother
would prepare the treats
sweet potato, cassava and other goodies
men would bring chicken
and pigs to roast
and plenty of tuba to drink
they would build a big bonfire
by the shore
to light up the festivities
women would roast newly harvested palay 2
men would take turns pounding it
in a large mortar and pestal
starting slow then faster and faster
till they had to rest
and let someone else take over
onlookers cheered them
hooting and clapping
it would get so noisy
as the children watched in awe
after the pounding the women took over
shaking and shaking palay in flat oval baskets
tossing husks to wind with movements like artwork
what remained was placed in earthenware bowls
for all to enjoy this delicious 'pilipig'
singing and dancing into night
revelers went home drunk and happy
supporting each other as they staggered
waving goodbye to host and hostess
with a heartfelt and hardy
“Salamat!”
2 - rice with husks
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 2:46 PM UTC
we can paint this whole city gold like a giant oil spill,
blinding and much much heavy on your tongue
and enlist a gleaming marching band whose buttons are falling off,
the tuba player is a gum chewer, there are mint chunks caught inside, barely playable
all she can do is honk
we’ll get limos with cracked windows and yellow fire trucks,
with flat left tires
acrobats in risqué costumes that little boys will point and giggle at
with sick clown faces, sick clown faces white, 7 or 10 layers of powder
and people from the slums of Uganda/Somalia/Niger or something, poor areas won’t be hard to find,
foreign tenants who live in dirtied-down shacks and
we will release from plastic cages, doves that have lost their pure color
that have been injected with toxic who-knows-what to be captured
hookers with big hair from the streets of large cities, they will blow kisses at the children and
wink at grown men
pigeons will **** on the windshields,
and the air will be so thick with pollution and filth that no one will be able to see
the deflating balloons of Mickey Mouse.
it will be The Biggest Parade the-world-has-ever-seen.
Aug 1, 2010
Aug 1, 2010 at 2:28 PM UTC
white roses and Jacob's Coat
purple bearded irises and ferns
dark red wax begonias
scents of night jasmine
French lavender
antique tea roses
loquat, plum, guava and lemon trees
all swaying with an ocean breeze
casting shadows in the setting sun
memories of childhood
bamboo and nipa houses
coconut groves and fragrant banana
witches, faeries and wok-woks
a favorite white haired grandfather
living off land and sea
harvesting root crops and fruit
fishing for viand
barefoot and ******* sarongs
in a private paradise miles from town
bonfire festivities
tuba wine and drunken salamats
an open adoption
a house tiled with affluence
and visits back home
a war's interruption
people lost or found
married off to life in America
lumpia, pancit, beefsteak and beeco
spaghetti, burgers, *** roast and pizza
dinner's table set for eleven
the house on Wagner street
the loss of husband and son
advancing age and declining health
ER's and ICU's
a final farewell
a garden of children
grand children and great grand children
branches in Lala's family tree
her progeny sprouting roots
looking to the future
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 9:56 PM UTC
(tales of my mamasita)
after breakfast
father would tend his tuba
father and mother
would then forage the farm for
cassava, sweet potatoes, green bananas
tarot roots and fruits
sometimes harvesting enough
for two days
while mother prepared lunch
father would fish for viand with
his fishing net
going to the far side
of our part of the island
or staying not far from the house
sometimes big brother and little brother
would go with him
to carry large baskets for catch
father was an artist with
his fishing net
circular and hand knotted
lead pieces sewn to the rim
his fishing net
was carried folded over his shoulder
the tip held in front of him
the heavy weighted part hanging behind
eyes shaded with hands
he searched for schools near the shore
in the clear turquoise
putting it down on powdery dry sand
his fishing net
was supported on his forearm
grabbing another part with his free hand
he would turn and fling
his fishing net
over the blueness
seemingly effortlessly
arms stretched skyward
his fishing net
would expand in mid-air
arcing like a geodesic dome
hovering like a frisbee
floating down to the water
in slow motion
finally sinking into sea
father would wade waist deep
stir the fish with his hand
then haul
his fishing net
full of mullets and other small fish
we would feast for lunch and dinner
with a plentiful catch both
father and mother
would scale and clean
sun dried, smoked or salted
preserved for tomorrows
everything was cleaned up
and put away after lunch
siesta time
afterwards, mother would
do her pottery
fix the tree bark for father’s tuba
or repair
his fishing net
using a tatting device
father and mother
always kept themselves busy
never whiling away the time
till dark
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC
i fell in love with a guy once
let's call him
The Boy With The Tuba
he had the most charming smile
and beautiful eyes squinted
from happiness
he was (still is) my definition of
perfection; head to toe
my heart belongs to him
but
his heart doesn't belong to me
(a.s)
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 3:24 AM UTC
Piano, piano, soft as moonlight
silken fingers on ivory skin. Glissando --
run your hand up my thigh
plucking every string. Arco, arco.
Softly, softly, the clarinets breath in, breath out
arms envelop me in the tune up,
four notes each fifths apart. Your voice
chimes lovely, the conductor flicks start.
A symphony, a symphony, a whole opera
house inside this bed. Observe me through
small binoculars, roll back your eyes into your head.
Violins slow crescendo, your sigh
an answering phrase from the cello,
listen to the tuba and the piccolo
and the mounting tension. Crescendo, crescendo,
forte, forte. Presto boy, presto. Ritornello.
Fin. Dream with me. Belissimo.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 7:30 PM UTC
Grizzled-brown sound of tuba walking,
In the way of circles you wobble step, inverse,
As does a broken waltz, bearly graceful.
You sniff your way a crush alpine meadows
And making sense for you are lowly berries,
Rude as any intruder might be in the foothills
Of the Gods. 'More wine for the great Polyphemus,'
Say the drunk brambles, brighty doomed sailors
All a wash by behemothing jaws which hang
Them over. Yet Ursa, if in minor you must play
By the cosmos' stilted view, great major, it is they
Who glare more distant, as if you really cared.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 5:00 PM UTC
Oxford one Thursday before Christmas.
Down Ship Street for lunch,
sticking to what we know.
Inside, into warm familiarity,
away from the chirp of bike-wheels,
tuba players and cold latching
onto our cheeks.
A trio of guys, one female at the back,
preppy students sipping coffee,
crumbs scattered like sesame seeds
over white plates and laps.
Smashmouth on the stereo,
a choice between Coke or pink lemonade
(Coke it is),
a flapjack for one-seventy if I wanted.
My stomach growls for grub.
I think of winter drizzled everywhere,
scrawl all this upon a scrap of paper
using my father’s pen.
Then a black-haired girl
with a sincere smile hands over
my baguette, chopped in two
and I think of her until we are finished,
well out the door
with my coat zipped right up.
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 2:16 PM UTC
Maybe it bores you
how I drone on about
my firm belief in
the oxford comma,
but I'll always care
about the propper maintenance of a tuba
because I know how you spend your days
in your grandpa's shop
repairing the broken instruments
but not your broken heart
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 12:11 PM UTC