If life gets too staccato,
simply insert a rest
and slip into three-quarter time.
Advice from a musician . . .
music
Character Sketch
She enjoyed a staccato existence,
never a sustained note
ecstatically percussive.
High on life,
she jived from one gig to another
town after town,
no stage too small.
Showmanship and flair,
nothing static in her repertoire.
Gender be damned,
she was a one-man band.
Quadrille (poem of exactly 44 words, sans title) written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Mish is hosting and asks us to include the word “static” within our poem.
Note: I ecSTATICally included static twice!
Photo by Erriko Boccia on Unsplash
For the Love of Sound
The only job she could land
landed her in an out-of-the-way town.
She’d cajoled and connived her way
to a choir of four.
Refusing to admit defeat,
she would not
call them a quartet.
David, eyes cast down interminably,
droned a background hum
for whatever tune was sung.
Delilah, the defiant one.
Deliberately off-pitch to shine,
spotlight stolen by default.
Dissonant in life as well.
Miriam, the honey-blonde.
Sensuous red lips
licked and dewed before each word,
mouthed dulcet tones too late.
Behind in every measure,
she flashed her thigh for all to see
beneath unbuttoned robe.
And Carl, the rapper.
Lordy, what a snazzy guy.
Snapped his fingers
while chanting words.
Smelled of weed with eyes glazed,
unwilling to shed
his percussive beat.
She smiled and waved her baton,
directing the motley crew.
Sweat dribbled down her chest
to that delicate spot
between her ample breasts.
Music is as music does,
always music to her ear.
She’d defied the warnings,
music her one true love.
So here she stood,
tone deaf and proud.
Her quartet, after all,
was magnificently loud.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets across the globe.
Today, Laura asks us to write a “sound poem” choosing one word from five lists she provides. She also points us toward Hart’s Thesaurus of the Senses, a valuable resource for poets. Laura, I ordered a copy yesterday. The words I used (or forms of the word) were drone, dissonant, dulcet, dribble, and chant. I also added a fifth word from the list, honey. Truly had fun with this prompt. Thank you, Laura! Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
PS: dedicated with humor to my daughter and son, both of whom direct a chorus and/or choir; and son-in-law, who composes choral music.
Image from A Scrub’s Life, February 1, 2017: “Sometimes We Can Be A Little Tone Deaf”
Still Hearin’ That Swing
It was the big band era, lots of brass.
Billy whalin’ on the drums
while Johnny waited for his riff
makin’ the saxophone swing.
And me, standin’ on the riser
my long arms waitin’ too.
“Wing span of a hawk,” mama said.
Just the ticket for a trombone man.
Yeah, I could slide that brass,
hear the notes strong and clear.
No strings or keys,
just that long smooth glide.
And Mabel at the mic,
feathers clipped in henna dyed hair
sultry voice in the sweet spots.
Hips, always swingin’ to the beat.
Never made it big like Glenn,
but we had our gigs.
Glass of gin between sets
and smoke swirlin’ round our heads.
They’re all gone now.
Pawned my Tbone long time ago.
But sometimes, while I’m sittin’ here,
I can put myself back there again.
Close my eyes imaginin’ and start to sway,
feel Mabel lean in real close like she did.
I wheel this chair around a bit
and I can feel us back there again.
Swingin’ to that big band sound.
THIS POST IS BEST IF READ ALOUD!
Rewritten a bit from an older post. Shared at OLN by reading aloud at our online dVerse pub event. dVerse is a virtual pub for poets around the globe – except that once a month we have a live Zoom-like gathering where we read aloud a poem and can actually see and hear the creators of all the words we’ve been sharing for so many years at this amazing virtual pub.
Three Chord, Twelve-Bar Blues
You loved me Joe
braggadocio
impresario,
only to go.
I’m singin’ these blues,
you still my muse.
But I remember long ago
I pleaded, don’t go.
But you left me alone
strummin’ the twelve-bar blues.
My spirit so damn low,
heart’s dyin’ like indigo.
I had fun with this one…..tried to write a poem as a 12-bar blues composition.
The chord progress of a 12-bar blues is I – I – I – I – IV – IV – I – I – V – IV – I – I
Translated to a rhyme scheme, I used AAAA-BBAA-CBAA.
The video is a short description of how to create and play the 12-bar blues chord progression. Fun to listen to.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Kim hosts and asks us to include the word BLUE or a form of the word in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.
Harbinger
A gift unwanted, disdained,
sat untouched.
Please. Pleaze. Pulllleeeze.
Pleas for lessons.
When you can reach the pedals
we said again and again.
And then . . . young fingers
explored the keys.
Eager feet
moved left then right.
Fingers began to dance
and feet to pump.
Hymns at church
rang out loud,
ten year old dwarfed
by massive pipe organ.
Appendages in synch
matched broad grin on face.
Thank you dad.
Your gift, unwanted once,
became our daughter’s future.
If only you could see her now.
Sarah hosts Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. She asks us to write about a harbinger…..a sign of something to come. This posts tells a true story. When my parents retired, they basically sold all their worldy goods and traveled the states in a motor home. My dad gave us his very small Lawrys organ and gave my brother a beautiful antique school clock he’d refinished. For years, I was furious that I was stuck with this musical instrument that no one could play and my brother got this fabulous clock! And then our daughter started to beg for lessons. The rest is history….as you’ll see by this one minute video!
At an early organ competition. Love the knee socks!
Sing Me Some Jazz
Time’s long shadow
scats and sings.
That ole pendulum
forever swings.
Doo-ya doo-ya
doo-ya bop.
Tickety tickety
tickety tock.
That grim reaper,
got no soul.
But shit my honey,
he’s got control.
Doo-ya doo-ya
doo-ya bop.
Tickety tickety
tickety tock
Now listen good
while I’m tellin’ you.
Doo-ya doo-ya
doo-ya boo.
Live it up baby
while we can.
Stompin’ and dancin’
that’s the plan.
Jazz it up baby,
come on now.
Do some lovin’
fore he takes his bow.
Snappin’ and poppin’
and rockin’ strong.
Singin’ doo-ya doo-ya
doo-ya bop.
Ain’t no way
we’re ready to stop.
Sharing with dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, on Open Link Thursday. Image by freepik.com
Quadrille Passion
Murmur me
sweet poetic words.
Play softly
fingertip arpeggios.
Mirror my passion.
Bounce you to me to you,
rhythmic cadence
tonal harmony.
Blood moon
burns ebony sky.
Come lie with me
in lunar lust.
Staccato.
Allegro.
Crescendo.
Nighttime symphonic love.
Created for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where it’s Quadrille Monday (poem of exactly 44 words, sans title). Kim hosts, asking us to include the word “egg.” I’ve included “egg” within a word: arpeggios. Past prompts for this quadrille series have included burn, murmur, poet, and bounce: all are included here. We may always use a form of the word . Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us! Postscript: I think this may not include all the words afterall….as in I think there may be others in this Quadrille series and I may even have listed some wrong ones. I claim Bermudaful scenery outside my window as an excuse….but the poem stands as is 🙂
Jive with Me
This score’s for you.
None of that silent reading please,
move your mouth and loose those chords.
This gig is made for jumpin’ jive
words like notes, should come alive
Drum set movin’ stickin’ strong
keh-nock that rim
keh-nock, keh-nock
keh-nockin’ smooth and stickin’ strong.
Brushes swishing smoothing so
brushing brushing softly go.
Brushing cymbals smoothly now
brushing brushing, soon to splash.
Two feet pumping work the set
bouncing, grooving rhythms’ beat.
High hat moving by the left,
bopping bass drum boomed by right.
Trumpet blaring bleating high
sax is sobbing, crooning low.
Clarinet steps up to lead,
fingers pop and swing that reed.
Trombone arm moves in and out
o-o-o-o-zing up
and o-o-o-o-zing down,
gliding in and sliding out.
Pedal pumping, player plunking
blacks and whites bring pure delight.
Fingers fly then magically join
chords crescendo, conclude the jam.
So come my friends and keep it movin’
snap your fingers, sway your way.
Don’t just sit there silently still,
find your groove to rock your day.
I’m hosting Tuesday Poetics over at dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets. Asking folks how they feel today. Suggesting that they find their groove somehow and create a poem of any form, that uses the word “groove” or a derivation of the word. Come join us! Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time.
Edvard Grieg
Concertos orchestrate dawn to dusk,
etudes study dancing shadows.
Sonatinas spring wildflowers,
octaves ripple cross the lake.
Confident fingers crescendo,
crossing ivory and ebony.
Norwegian master of the keys
and lover of the land.
Photos taken in Bergen, Norway as we visited the lake home and composition hut of Norwegian composer, Edvard Grieg. Bergen averages 280+ day of rain a year. We had incredibly beautiful weather!
lillian the home poet 