“Leise rieselt der Schnee…”
-Eduard Ebel (1839-1905)
Photographed by Sheryl @ Flowery Prose.
New writing prompt-
1. Listen to your favorite song.
2. Pick a phrase or two, a line or many lines, from the song.
3. Write a poem including those phrases/lines.
Here is mine-
Song:- Way back into love by Sabrina from the movie Music and Lyrics
Phrase/Line:- I know it is out there, there is gotta be something for my soul somewhere…
Something out there…
I find myself wandering around
with no aim or goal in mind,
with the knowledge that
there is something out there,
there is gotta be something
for my soul somewhere,
that would bring me
the faith I so desire,
that would set it alright.
I find myself hoping
that it is out there
for my soul somewhere.
I saw this today, provided as a form of farewell tribute for a sweet woman, Marianne Matthews, that had just passed. Included was her rendition of The Last Rose of Summer, sung in 1954. I found it touching enough to share.
‘Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rosebud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter,
Thy leaves o’er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from Love’s shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie withered,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?
The temperature is dropping,
Summer’s heat is gone,
The leaves are going golden
and winter won’t be long.
We’re pulling on our sweaters,
donning thick big coats,
and pulling out our tissues to
blow a drippy nose!
Don’t worry, don’t scurry, don’t hurry time along
Sing the song of love with me-
The song which you know by heart
but have hidden within the valleys of your heart,
let it come to you, let it guide you.
Sing the song of love-
The song that will end all this pain.
Let’s sing it together,
let us all sing it together
so as to engrave it in all our hearts.
Sing the song of love with me,
for it will bring the joy, the beauty in our souls.
Sing it with me- the song of love.
He sits down.
Melodies unfurl with a twitch, a light trill,
And the man leans back, savouring every note
Cloaked in black, and stained with tears,
Winter’s gifts a forgotten sight. Under the stars,
He bows his head, straightens his back, and the haunting
Begins. He slams on the piano keys, sorrow a dark cloud.
He remembers lying down, watching the clouds,
He remembers the chirping birds’ magnificent trill,
He remembers her – her bright green eyes haunting
His own. Her hand, knotted
With his. He remembers lying down, watching the stars
As each twinkled, then faded, merely a tiny tear.
Yet her soulless body besieged his mind, tattered and torn.
Each passing bar, a doubtful cloud.
He sees not the stars.
He hears not the trill.
But only senses the funeral of the notes.
Like death angels chanting, dancing, haunting.
He plays to hunt
Her spirit, to guide her to fill the tear
In his heart. Each note
Forms her silhouette, dimly glowing against the black clouds,
Against the wintry mist. She smiles at each familiar trill,
Her eyes are gold, like the stars.
The music makes the fair moon and stars
Weep, for its haunting
Siren beseeches attention. Hark! Music flows like a rill,
As his fingers dance over the piano. Too abruptly, it stops. The air tears.
He hovers on the piano, like a cloud,
Contemplating. contemplating. contemplating. Too soon the notes
for your reference:
Word 1: trill
Word 2: note
Word 3: tear
Word 4: star
Word 5: haunt
Word 6: cloud
From Poseidon’s clutches
Deliver thy torn sail!
Hear thy cry,
Echoing – ing.
like it? I
appreciatedemand constructive criticism! >:)
All of a sudden I was pinged after so long,
I thought I have been forgotten like an old song.
I wasn’t going to reply any soon,
But I took it as a boon.
Getting to say ‘hey’ to some one,
While eating a stale bun.
It isn’t bad to do so,
But I won’t take a bow.
I had been forgotten so long,
But I must tell I ain’t an old song.
The clock ticks out the hours around its face,
the repetition without grace.
Yes, I’ve been here before
through nighttime’s door,
of dejà vu I can no longer shake.
The never-ending circlings take
me to the mornings, nights
in all its flights.
and sweep reorganize off-kilter life,
removing all the fear and strife.
Upon each phase’s stage
I turn the page.
cuts into well-filled mornings, afternoons
or midnights. Perfect timing croons
its melody, the song
that rights all wrong
the orchestra of minutes into hours.
Vast gardens show their blooming bowers
with foliage and tree.
Take time to see
Speaking of the truth, I have now realised truth is not important because it holds no significance in how we perceive things today. So, what is important? Important is the thing we believe is true even when it is not…
Something to ponder about…
Haven’t got much to share, so, here’s the song I have a Dream by West life.
A young girl brushes her hair, humming.
Perhaps she is alone.
A canary will stop singing
if you put a mirror in its cage
finding in the reflection a mate,
company, its creation the cobblestone
along the narrow lane of loneliness.
Perhaps she is in love. Consider
the singing plants of Damanhur,
so connected to the earth
they sing an otherworldly song
on electric frequency that
can be heard with electrode and microphone.
And what of music borne of fight
or on the rhythm of the sailors’ oars
the beat of birds’ wings
a clatter of prejudices falling to the floor.
Perhaps creation, found in each part,
pain the hedgerow for a house of love,
struggle comes and goes like weather,
faithfulness a lamp in a window.
A young girl brushes her hair, humming.
Forget about the staccato
talk about the legato
of the fields
With green tracks
Y and X axis
a measure at a time.
Liaisons from blue to blue
flowing from the same
root which brought rhythm
and the streams
The land is severed and fixed again
ask the wind about it.
Thames, Seine, Volga . . .
Toes dipped from
Greece and Africa
into the middle of the world
is the East River
the kvetching of Brooklyn
and giving reason
to bridges, tunnels.
* * *
here the fish don’t tire
before reaching other side
nor do birds
but songs are forgotten
come to completion.