When all the prompts fail me,
when there is no inspiration,
I turn to you: music.
When I feel the words fading,
when the poetry sounds odd,
I turn to play a song.
When I turn, something comes.
Poetry | Stories | Photography
When all the prompts fail me,
when there is no inspiration,
I turn to you: music.
When I feel the words fading,
when the poetry sounds odd,
I turn to play a song.
When I turn, something comes.
The rain begins to fall. The cold wind moves through your hair as you watch the person you love descend into the soil.
The raindrops roll down your pale face as you hear a song you both loved.
No longer visible, the wind blows as the music comes to an end and you walk away.
Howling through the houses,
insect music plays us a song.
The windows rattle and shake,
fluff balls whoosh from hiding.
The clouds move undecidedly,
sun, grey, sun, grey, sun, grey.
We have a lazy mixed-up day,
undecided about what to do.
You cast a spell on the crowd
with the rhythm of your metre.
Your words danced around the hall,
whooshed into their ears like waves,
galloped along wildly in their minds.
You spoke the last few words,
no more than a sea whisper.
Clouds of fresh grey days
A heated house feels too hot
Rain music playing
Neverending days.
The workdays never stop, and
the news churns out the worst of us.
Sleep won’t come.
You listen to music in bed;
when the discord starts, sleep takes you.
You sink into chaos.
The madness of the music
accompanies your terrifying dreams.
Pot planted flowers
grumpy at their owner’s taste
in music, singing
You invited me to take a voyage on the notes you love.
We journeyed together, listening to the way songs changed over time; we embraced our favourites and kept an open mind.
Now, I remember you by a series of your favourite songs, which I sometimes play alone.
After many years of love the bow broke,
then the music of love stopped playing;
we began to drift apart and separate.
Littered among the remains of
the two of us
are the ashes of music instruments.
All the music we played for each other
is now burnt
to the ashes on the floor of our parting.
Wind from the hills moves down,
moving across fields of colour.
Waves of the sea move through
the spring blossoming flowers –
moving, swaying, blooming.
A melody plays in the wind,
a song from the many birds.
Whispers of so many scents
dance in a poem on the wind –
melody, music, movement.