Rock music is a voice, a guitar, drums. Or sometimes, surprisingly, cello or flute. (Who remembers Jethro Tull?)
I imagine the flute in this song, saying, “Come with me to the Winged Isle.” Maybe you are called by a different sound…
Acres Wild
I’ll make love to you
In all good places
Under black mountains
In open spaces.
By deep brown rivers
That slither darkly
Through far marches
Where the blue hare races.
Come with me to the Winged Isle—
Northern father’s western child.
Where the dance of ages is playing still
Through far marches of acres wild.
I’ll make love to you
In narrow side streets
With shuttered windows,
Crumbling chimneys.
Come with me to the weary town—
Discos silent under tiles
That slide from roof-tops, scatter softly
On concrete marches of acres wild.
By red bricks pointed
With cement fingers
Flaking damply from sagging shoulders.
Come with me to the Winged Isle—
Northern father’s western child.
Where the dance of ages is playing still
Through far marches of acres wild.
Poetry Prompt
Choose a rock instrument and put it in a poem. Speak as the instrument itself, and invite someone, “Come with me.” Or be the person who is called by the instrument, and give your answer.
Thanks to our participants in last week’s poetry prompt. Here’s one we recently enjoyed from a rock-poem comment box:
revival
let me remember things i love
walking along the river road at night
see how good the water tastes
when you can’t have any at all
it will rain a sunny day
then who will take
the salt from the earth
till forever on it goes
shinin’ down like water
shinin’ down like water
Photo by chad_k Creative Commons, via Flickr.
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Maureen Doallas says
Great to see Nance’s poem featured!
Richard Maxson says
Saffron
From out of the cockled skirts,
the heels and castanets,
you found me,
your crimson threads,
the passion of guitars.
I might have been a gypsy,
the light, ascending flames,
Paseo del Prado,
Madrid transformed,
as evening did all things mortal,
beyond the courtyard,
collecting the esplanades
of great trees into forests,
the fountains into rivers.
Flower of the fall,
with your feast of flesh,
your gentle tongue on mine,
soft and lingering kiss,
my sultry Spanish dancer.
L. L. Barkat says
nice, Richard. So many things to like, but I especially like…
“Paseo del Prado,
Madrid transformed,
as evening did all things mortal”
the specificity of it. And the great slant mirror sounds between ‘Prado’ and ‘mortal.’
How long have you been playing around with poetry? Curious about your history with it 🙂
HisFireFly says
I posted on my blog, the wail of saxophone pulsing in my blood – http://hisfirefly.blogspot.ca/2013/07/saxy-songs.html
saxy songs
I never knew the way
to Baker Street or
San Jose or any of those
too hip to show your hand
hang outs
captured by the wail
down paths wide
and slow
or up narrow, fast
calling me home and
pulling me back
to dark streets
alleys, drawn
with magnet force
to the wild side
sax cries hot sweat,
passion drips
into veins throbbing to
live here now
L. L. Barkat says
i think what I love about this (and the one we featured before) is that they seem to be bringing out a side of you that you don’t usually work with. I am really enjoying this!
My favorite lines here…
“I never knew the way
to Baker Street or
San Jose”
Maybe you do, after all 😉
HisFireFly says
my rock and roll heart is leaking out
L. L. Barkat says
i like what’s making its way 🙂
Donna says
Ah…. love it! Saxy!
My favorite part:
sax cries hot sweat,
passion drips
into veins throbbing to
live here now