This musical clip is a little longer than I’ve shared before at eleven minutes but I find lots of interesting emotions welling up when I listen. Let’s see what you hear in the comments below.
Living Poetry
A group of poets and poetry readers.
May Musical Poetry Prompt
Living Poetry 
i like your music
a rarity for me
glad i found you
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Posted by Cressida | July 4, 2022, 2:35 AMThanks! I’m just posting old classical pieces that I think might be good prompts. Hope they’re inspiring.
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | July 4, 2022, 12:24 PMFarewell My Lover
The tangerine sun sets on our last night together
The breeze is humid
an excuse to our moistened eyes
Your skin still burns on mine
My hair is still soaked in the summer heat
Tonight the song is sorrowful
Tomorrow you’ll saddle for a foreign land
leaving my wanting heart behind
How much slower a second can be
split in half, even a quarter
The moon shows her sad face
glistened with tears blotting the sky
My soul wilts
Latching on your strength
till the morning glow bathes our sin clean
The last sight of you
Combing the mane before your journey
My hair become fragrant and sleek
Dust and cracked soil takes you away
Our love is tainted all over again
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Posted by Cassa Bassa | June 6, 2022, 6:29 PMBeautiful! You had me at “tangerine sun”. Great work!
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | June 6, 2022, 8:20 PMVery nice analogy with the hair of the speaker and the mane of the horse! A quiet glimpse from another time, with a great resigned tone.
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Posted by ts19page | June 7, 2022, 9:53 AMThe music took me to an older cowboy so to speak days
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Posted by Cassa Bassa | June 7, 2022, 6:10 PMGuitar strings rumble
their vibration up my spine
and into my heart
Feed me tapas
and paella senor
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Posted by JeanMarie | June 5, 2022, 2:58 AMLove it! Very visceral.
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | June 5, 2022, 12:41 PMNow my appetite is back!!!
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Posted by Cassa Bassa | June 6, 2022, 6:29 PMWe are all kin
from the steppe
to the caves of Sidron
beyond all the known lands
to find a place
keeping what is dear
thoughts of home
fragrance of hearth
lost to memory
but ever present
in their calling
as we are the heirs
of all that have come before
and in time
we too will raise
our silent voices
in the music
of a time
still to come
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Posted by Chris Clarke | June 2, 2022, 5:17 PMLove those last three lines. Great work!
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | June 2, 2022, 9:04 PMBeautiful imagery of the ‘call’ that we feel at the hearth, which used to be the heart of the home.
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Posted by ts19page | June 3, 2022, 4:05 PMBeautiful blog! Would love for you to check out mine and let me know what you think.
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Posted by Isha | June 2, 2022, 1:12 PMThanks. I hope you’ll share some poetry written to one of the prompts.
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | June 2, 2022, 8:57 PMThe wandering deserts spill some rain
wetting the hopes of a new love
oiling the wheels of our endless fate
to love and to lose and to live
with the winds kicking us in the face
in gritty, rustic, paprika blows
as the red sunset merges into the black night
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Posted by utopicdystopian | May 30, 2022, 10:19 PMGreat work. Love those last two lines!
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | May 30, 2022, 11:06 PMWoodland Music
The forest dwellers grew tall and thin,
by concordance, likely.
Everything is vertical
where the slim trees grow high,
Branches try for upward,
and the water flows in narrow streams
which green-like in the deep woods light,
are hard to find, but by sound.
She, from the wide horizontal plains
with arms tight to her sides
angled between the trunks,
walking sideways.
The music in the trees
was high, thin,
and rose
as if to resonant space.
She murmured a flat tune,
rippling like wheat fields
rough, and productive
carrying heavy summer sunlight,
When a nest-like clearing appeared
she lay down, arms outstretched,
touching bark with one finger
and moss on the trunk, with the other.
It was clear why the birds
only seemed to rise above
the high tops of trees,
nothing was above the trees.
She, far below, was no bird.
more akin to small mice,
that tittered
about her hair.
High up where tops of trees
left small spaces of grey light
where one could search for sunbeams,
and watching fall asleep.
Curled on her side
she woke to see shoes,
legs, and far above
black hair crowning a face.
She jumped up, speechless,
he was smiling,
brushing the moss from her hair
she was ready to run.
Silently, he held out
a most astonishing
thing,
a white rose.
The single ray of sunlight
caught it head on,
it was impossible not to stare,
his eyes sparkled with shadow and light.
He beckoned, she followed.
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Posted by ts19page | May 31, 2022, 12:11 PMA lovely story!
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | May 31, 2022, 7:14 PMLike the ‘paprika’ allusion with the red sunset.
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Posted by ts19page | May 31, 2022, 10:54 AMThank you so much
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Posted by utopicdystopian | May 31, 2022, 7:26 PMPaprika blows! Yes, the last two lines are great.
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Posted by JeanMarie | June 5, 2022, 2:40 AM