music
Exploring now a structured voice,
Stripped off all melody yet so,
Confined does bloom as all tied artists do.
Now, to the movement voice,
Now, to the statics weight,
The roars of armies beside the nuanced cries of man.
Music seen as the taming of the heart,
To turn its immense force to measured pulse,
To turn unsteady thought to structured speech,
To turn the empty space into a rest,
And so the tamed heart begets a song,
Transcending beautifully it's prior noise.
Ever hung on my own strings,
A puppet of bare inspiration,
It's faint echo far off sings,
Plumbing out a pleasant agitation,
To grasp a fleeting melody which comes in part,
I will learn my hands again and take the strings.
Torn finger pads ashore in foaming rings,
Dashed in and all upon my frantic surge,
To mastery and melody the hope,
That I would fall again away in time,
Leave all the music from my soul in place,
Sharpen such thoughts beyond the measure of,
The mind, that it would simply play the strings.
Truespeak in the crashing stack,
The deep rumblings of the heart,
Bared down on thick metal cords,
A potent humanity too hefty for
A perfect line, but by grace substance,
Given to be seen in part. The life,
The true face of a man, his passions,
Converge on such a miraculous medium.
The end of putting off,
The strings do sag in sight,
Too full of understanding I forwent,
But now I'll learn it right,
I'll memorise to see it fresh,
In technicolour glaze that layers on,
Fashioning a seat for future knowledge and finesse.
Rudiments and polyrhythms,
Proceeding from my mind,
From mind to mouth, from mouth to hand,
Ever ringing out into the air,
Muffled taps become new cries as they -
Do learn to walk and slowly march,
Breaking rank in novelty of unfamiliar ways.
Surprised to see it come so soon,
A muscle memory taking root,
Undershadows in my hands of dialed in tweaks,
That wade through depths of time until they find a leak,
To pounce upon and drip into the present fold,
On my hands impress a budding finesse.
Detuned horns - mad brass constrained,
Chaos bent into transcendent order,
Birthing passion, fiery beauty -
Redeeming disjoint registers to fill the world with sound.
I fancy myself a mad pianist,
Striking measured fragments on the keys,
Growing ever familiar with my dear motifs,
Which layer into paragraphs and scripts,
To run as sprites through copper wires,
And swell into a bare-metal dream.
A resonant hum layers the air,
Evening pipes blown gently without care,
For what reason do they chime?
In their descent my silence is entrapped,
Through all the textured hum collapsed,
For what reason do they chime?
Oh wisened bells I cannot comprehend,
Perhaps your learning drags your even' calls,
From melodies past to cryptic volleys,
Which strictly remark the short hand's deft fall,
Surely now this the very same remark,
Punctuates a different essence of the time,
The day is short, dusk ever on our heels,
Yet every tone is struck as if to rhyme.
Six strings become like friends,
Laughter resonant at the trembling edge,
Air scattered at their emptied lungs,
Silence is pricked upon their sharp ripostes.
Orchestrating a chiptune symphony,
Cueing eager silicon to hum,
I tinker in the plain text,
Seeking out the playfulness in all the noise.
Noodle soup but not the usual kind,
Instead a flowing melody I find,
In it a beauty and complexity,
A challenge and conformity,
An exploration of the frets,
A remark of phrases and their sets,
A little herbs as chords freshly picked,
A little pepper as runs I deftly flicked,
Into the noodle soup but not the usual kind,
Instead I find a flowing melody.
I'm truly glad you're strung along,
For all my wandering and song,
I'm tickled that you dare to stay,
For my artistic whim and varied play,
I find that when I open up,
My empty head into the cup,
Of wordy thoughts, it crashes out,
A poem on the talk of poems -
A poem found in mental drought.
Tuning strings alternatively,
A tuning old but sparsely seen,
At least by me - I talk from hats,
But yes I haven't language like this,
Of strings that sound a little lovely -
Different and resounding.
Musical madness,
And all these walking melodies,
That wander to and fro upon the frets,
That mark mathematical sequence on the page,
That turn a motif into a movement,
And scatter like mist into their many permutations,
Musical madness,
A gift I get to hear from nations here and there,
From nations I have never seen.
Guitar strings six,
Wobble at my passing tips,
They resound with slips,
Hammer-ons and runs to fix,
A beautiful tune -
A melody that begets a smile.
The melody maker,
Plucking the resonaces from the air,
Laying them out in lines and rows,
Making beautiful praises to the lamb,
Drawing out creation into echoed glory,
Bring forth metal pans and plastered walls,
They too shall hum at melody's call,
In praises to the living God,
Sing praises to the living God.