Tag Archives: composing music

Imagined Music

Imagined Music

Begin. Horns from the hills, pipes from the mountains,
harps from the sea, flutes from the forests,
drums from the clouds, then mount with choirs
from the pebbles on the shores,
violins from the spray of waves of the ocean
till land, water and the celestial are in tune.
False fade to underground baritones.
Beyond. Wake to a harmonica from a hay field,
lutes from a wooden hall, accordions from fountains,
a guitar from a balcony, a triangle from a loft,
tambourines from a nursery, a piano from a music room,
organs from cathedrals, an oud from an Armenian market,
sitars from a Himalayan dawn, zithers from a Greek tavern.
Interlude. Banjo from a riverboat, clarinet from a basement bar,
cittern from a folk club floor, brass band from a village hall,
xylophone from an attic, trumpets from a rehearsal studio,
a lyre from a temple ruin, twitterings from bushes and trees
of nesting birds, honks from geese migrating over marshes,
beeps from passing traffic, fade to whale and dolphin signals.
Return with hill horns, mountain pipes, sea harps, forest flutes,
shore choirs, wave violins. Fade to space silence.
Final fade. Skylark cries from summer skies,
nightingale songs from wooded vales, bugles from battlefields,
tubas from towers, piccolos from autumn parks.
Fade on a flute and a whistle, drones from a flugelhorn,
cello tones, a far off hush of the horns and the choirs.
The fortress structure clears, the ear hears
the music of the spheres.
End. Natural sound. Wind and waves.

Original Rag

Original Rag

Scott Joplin played piano,
he had all the notes in the bag.
Wish I could compose a similar tune,
my own original rag.

A tune a tonic to play,
a remedy to mend a mood,
a jangly round to summon happy times,
a refreshment interlude.

A vacancy in the air,
a hollow ache in the heart,
wait to feel the pulse of my melody,
heal by the strum of my art.

I sit and play my guitar,
find the right rhythm, random chord,
the shallow place in this rapid river,
stable stones to help me ford.

Must not yield to winter cold,
must continue to use my gift.
Subtle syncopations are not my skill,
I have my simple load to lift.

I plunge my mind in the pool,
and gather the notes from the bag.
Time to turn the tap on my wayward tune,
my own original rag.

The Works of Dudley Duo Flush

The Works of Dudley Duo Flush

Dudley Duo Flush, little known composer,
was known and was little,
let his reputation rust,
until it was quite brittle.
Made his own hand harpsichord
out of coral, sea shells,
silver wire and honey brown barked wood.
Its sound and his compositions were unique.
Even high critics agreed,
they admitted they were good.
They asked him why
he did not play his tunes on piano,
organ or violin.
“I cannot play a note on them,”
he answered with a grin.
This rather baffled them,
but on he swam in his own seas,
a fish with golden gills,
and flashing silver fin.
“While the wheels of the world
turn against love,
still you must make the heart vulnerable,”
he said. “And uncage the dove.”