The Poem thread
- Thread starter Contratrombone64
- Start date
marval
New member
A musicbox is playing
in a distant room
I hear the faded whisper
of an old familiar tune
and suddenly I'm whisked
to another place and time
and I relive the memories
that are racing in my mind
I see us embracing
underneath a starry sky
the world stands still
as I look into your eyes
reflections of the moon
shine on the deep blue sea
and I hear you making promises
of only loving me
Then I see us walking
slowly by the shore
the moonlight on your face
only makes me love you more
we step onto a ship
and sail off far into the sea
and I hear you making promises
of only loving me
We dance to the music
of an old familiar tune
we hold each other tightly
underneath the giant moon
you reach for the sky
and say you'll give the moon to me
and you make solemn promises
of only loving me
Now I hear the faded music
from a distant room
I look up to the sky
and I see the giant moon
and she seems to be laughing
as she looks down at me
she remembers all the promises
you made of loving me
I hear the musicbox
play that old familiar tune
and I look all around me
expecting to see you
but you're further from me now
than that giant moon above
you're gone and so are all
your promises of love
I hear the faded music
and I wish that it would stop
it brings back memories
I thought that I forgot
But they're just as vivid
as when you were with me
when you made all the promises
of only loving me...
Carmen Colombo
in a distant room
I hear the faded whisper
of an old familiar tune
and suddenly I'm whisked
to another place and time
and I relive the memories
that are racing in my mind
I see us embracing
underneath a starry sky
the world stands still
as I look into your eyes
reflections of the moon
shine on the deep blue sea
and I hear you making promises
of only loving me
Then I see us walking
slowly by the shore
the moonlight on your face
only makes me love you more
we step onto a ship
and sail off far into the sea
and I hear you making promises
of only loving me
We dance to the music
of an old familiar tune
we hold each other tightly
underneath the giant moon
you reach for the sky
and say you'll give the moon to me
and you make solemn promises
of only loving me
Now I hear the faded music
from a distant room
I look up to the sky
and I see the giant moon
and she seems to be laughing
as she looks down at me
she remembers all the promises
you made of loving me
I hear the musicbox
play that old familiar tune
and I look all around me
expecting to see you
but you're further from me now
than that giant moon above
you're gone and so are all
your promises of love
I hear the faded music
and I wish that it would stop
it brings back memories
I thought that I forgot
But they're just as vivid
as when you were with me
when you made all the promises
of only loving me...
Carmen Colombo
Contratrombone64
Admiral of Fugues
sunwaiter - lovely, is it yours?
marval
New member
AT A SOLEMN MUSIC.
BLESS ' D pair of Syrens, pledges of Heaven's joy,
Sphere-born harmonious sisters, Voice and Verse,
Wed your divine sounds, and mix'd power employ,
Dead things, with inbreathed sense able to pierce;
And, to our high-raised phantasy, present
That undisturbed song of pure consent,
Aye sung before the saphire-colour'd throne
To Him that sits theron,
With saintly shout, and solemn jubilee,
Where the bright seraphim, in burning row,
Their loud up-lifted angel-trumpets blow;
And the cherubic host, in thousand quires,
Touch their immortal harps, of golden wires,
With those just spirits, that wear victorious palms,
Hymns devout and holy psalms
Singing everlastingly;
That we on earth, with undiscording voice,
May rightly answer that melodious noise;
As once we did, till disproportion'd sin
Jarr'd against natures chime, and, with harsh din,
Broke the fair music, that all creatures made
To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'd,
In perfect diapason, whilst they stood
In first obedience, and their state of good.
O may we soon again renew that song,
And keep in tune with Heaven, till God, ere long
To his celestial concert us unite,
To live with him and sing in endless morn of light.
John Milton
BLESS ' D pair of Syrens, pledges of Heaven's joy,
Sphere-born harmonious sisters, Voice and Verse,
Wed your divine sounds, and mix'd power employ,
Dead things, with inbreathed sense able to pierce;
And, to our high-raised phantasy, present
That undisturbed song of pure consent,
Aye sung before the saphire-colour'd throne
To Him that sits theron,
With saintly shout, and solemn jubilee,
Where the bright seraphim, in burning row,
Their loud up-lifted angel-trumpets blow;
And the cherubic host, in thousand quires,
Touch their immortal harps, of golden wires,
With those just spirits, that wear victorious palms,
Hymns devout and holy psalms
Singing everlastingly;
That we on earth, with undiscording voice,
May rightly answer that melodious noise;
As once we did, till disproportion'd sin
Jarr'd against natures chime, and, with harsh din,
Broke the fair music, that all creatures made
To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'd,
In perfect diapason, whilst they stood
In first obedience, and their state of good.
O may we soon again renew that song,
And keep in tune with Heaven, till God, ere long
To his celestial concert us unite,
To live with him and sing in endless morn of light.
John Milton
Tûrwethiel
New member
Hope no one minds if I lower the tone. This has made me giggle since childhood.
What shall we do with poor little Tigger
If he never east nothing he'll never get bigger
He doesn't like honey and haycorn and thistles
Because of the taste and because of the bristles
And all the good things that an animal likes
Have the wrong kind of swallow or too many spikes
But whatever his weight in pounds, shillings and ounces
He always seems bigger because of his bounces
A.A. Milne
Can't remember which Winnie the Pooh book it's from. There's another entitled Noise by Pooh which always reduced us kids into fits of laughter because we had grubby little minds.
What shall we do with poor little Tigger
If he never east nothing he'll never get bigger
He doesn't like honey and haycorn and thistles
Because of the taste and because of the bristles
And all the good things that an animal likes
Have the wrong kind of swallow or too many spikes
But whatever his weight in pounds, shillings and ounces
He always seems bigger because of his bounces
A.A. Milne
Can't remember which Winnie the Pooh book it's from. There's another entitled Noise by Pooh which always reduced us kids into fits of laughter because we had grubby little minds.
marval
New member
Hear is a poem about a bear, well a teddy bear.
A teddy bear is a furry friend
whose love and support never end;
keeps your secrets, never lies
friendly, fuzzy, cozy, wise.
Tell it your secrets
it'll keep them well
you don't have to worry,
it won't ever tell.
Whenever you need one
it will always be there
the same old teddy bear
with the same old stare
ready to listen, ready to care.
Good friends are just like teddy bears,
you can tell them everything, anything or more
they'll keep it privy forever more.
They are always there for you,
through the good times and bad,
whether you're angry, upset, or just really sad,
they comfort you when you're lonely,
they know just what to do,
they'll have you feeling better
in a single minute or two,
just remember to thank them,
to comfor them next time, and to write them a poem,
or maybe just a rhyme.
Jon Wimer
A teddy bear is a furry friend
whose love and support never end;
keeps your secrets, never lies
friendly, fuzzy, cozy, wise.
Tell it your secrets
it'll keep them well
you don't have to worry,
it won't ever tell.
Whenever you need one
it will always be there
the same old teddy bear
with the same old stare
ready to listen, ready to care.
Good friends are just like teddy bears,
you can tell them everything, anything or more
they'll keep it privy forever more.
They are always there for you,
through the good times and bad,
whether you're angry, upset, or just really sad,
they comfort you when you're lonely,
they know just what to do,
they'll have you feeling better
in a single minute or two,
just remember to thank them,
to comfor them next time, and to write them a poem,
or maybe just a rhyme.
Jon Wimer
[SIZE=+1]T-E-D-D-Y[/SIZE]
Tender
Endearing Friend
Down Right Cute
Delicate
Year after year by my side
Endearing Friend
Down Right Cute
Delicate
Year after year by my side
Tûrwethiel
New member
I must admit I always felt a bit sorry for Winnie getting his head bump, bump, bumped while going up the stairs with Christopher Robin, but he didn't really seem to mind.
marval
New member
IF
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!
Rudyard Kipling
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!
Rudyard Kipling
Contratrombone64
Admiral of Fugues
The pro-musica antiqua
I'll sing you a song of the Cloisters if you hark.
I'll sing of the Cloisters in Fort Tryon Park.
Where I used to go in the month of June
To listen to the riddle of an ancient tune
At a concert given in the afternoon
By the Pro Musica Antiqua, the Pro Musica Antiqua
The Pro Musica, the Pro Musica, the Pro Musica Antiqua.
It was at precisely such a recital I recall
That I met a young man, like an oak tree, straight and tall.
As we sat there together, and we spoke no word
As within our hearts ---Ah, something stirred
As we listened there to Buxtehude, Purcell and Byrd
At the Pro Musica, the Pro Musica, the Pro Musica Antiqua.
He invited me to his flat
For a cup of tea and a chat.
For he said he had a batch of recordings to play
Of Dufy and Dupres, so what could I say, but "Yes"!
What a fool I was to go.
What an idiot from tippy-top to toe.
For behind that face and charming smile
Lay a motive base and a manner vile.
What a fool I was to go!
But how could I nonny nonny nonny know?
Well he took me up to his flat as he had said
And he locked the door and he sat on his great double bed
And he looked at me with eyes that lied
And I knew when I saw that look in his eye
That he had no recordings of Dupres and Dufy
From the Pro Musica, the Pro Musica, the Pro Musica Antiqua.
Well there I stood. I was rooted in my place.
As I viewed with dread my deceitful lover's face.
For I knew from the lovesick look in his eye,
He could lay me low with a single sigh
Well he laid me low...and he laid me high
At the Pro Musica, the Pro Musica, the Pro Musica Antiqua.
Now if you go to concerts on the grass
And you're overfond of Gabrielli brass
Or a gay Bonsel, Beware! Beware!
Of what may come to pass.
Of what may come to pass.
Now the sound of a consort of viols makes me ill,
And the lute and the zither make me sicker still.
And every morning at the crowing of the cocks
I wash my face and I comb my locks
And I brush my teeth and I put a pox
On the Pro Musica, the Pro Musica, the Pro Musica Antiqua.
Now maidens take fair warning from my tale.
Beware! Beware of the music-loving male.
You can go to the Cloisters if you choose
And seek enchantment in the muse
But I hate to tell you what you might lose
At the Pro Musica, the Pro Musica, the Pro Musica Antiqua
I'll sing you a song of the Cloisters if you hark.
I'll sing of the Cloisters in Fort Tryon Park.
Where I used to go in the month of June
To listen to the riddle of an ancient tune
At a concert given in the afternoon
By the Pro Musica Antiqua, the Pro Musica Antiqua
The Pro Musica, the Pro Musica, the Pro Musica Antiqua.
It was at precisely such a recital I recall
That I met a young man, like an oak tree, straight and tall.
As we sat there together, and we spoke no word
As within our hearts ---Ah, something stirred
As we listened there to Buxtehude, Purcell and Byrd
At the Pro Musica, the Pro Musica, the Pro Musica Antiqua.
He invited me to his flat
For a cup of tea and a chat.
For he said he had a batch of recordings to play
Of Dufy and Dupres, so what could I say, but "Yes"!
What a fool I was to go.
What an idiot from tippy-top to toe.
For behind that face and charming smile
Lay a motive base and a manner vile.
What a fool I was to go!
But how could I nonny nonny nonny know?
Well he took me up to his flat as he had said
And he locked the door and he sat on his great double bed
And he looked at me with eyes that lied
And I knew when I saw that look in his eye
That he had no recordings of Dupres and Dufy
From the Pro Musica, the Pro Musica, the Pro Musica Antiqua.
Well there I stood. I was rooted in my place.
As I viewed with dread my deceitful lover's face.
For I knew from the lovesick look in his eye,
He could lay me low with a single sigh
Well he laid me low...and he laid me high
At the Pro Musica, the Pro Musica, the Pro Musica Antiqua.
Now if you go to concerts on the grass
And you're overfond of Gabrielli brass
Or a gay Bonsel, Beware! Beware!
Of what may come to pass.
Of what may come to pass.
Now the sound of a consort of viols makes me ill,
And the lute and the zither make me sicker still.
And every morning at the crowing of the cocks
I wash my face and I comb my locks
And I brush my teeth and I put a pox
On the Pro Musica, the Pro Musica, the Pro Musica Antiqua.
Now maidens take fair warning from my tale.
Beware! Beware of the music-loving male.
You can go to the Cloisters if you choose
And seek enchantment in the muse
But I hate to tell you what you might lose
At the Pro Musica, the Pro Musica, the Pro Musica Antiqua