Poems about harmony




He suddenly felt a sadness that only a letter might lighten. Thoughts of her he carried variously in and from the spaces and places this hot day had taken him. The morning had been warmer than in previous days, and even at 6. 0am there was a heaviness present carrying a threat of thunder and rain.

He knew she was not at her best in the leaden heat of this hemisphere, whilst enjoying the dry, brittle heat of Africa and beyond. He remembered a hot train journey and a busy day moving boxes into a studio space. They were fond memories because in such heat she took on a delicacy about her. He would perceive her features and movement to be finely drawn, and that perception revealed her profound beauty. Such recollections were foundations in his love for her.

Today he had decided to avoid that daily confrontation with the project that lay invisibly on his desk, locked up in his computer, though unsorted sheets of graph paper, populated with planning, were evident on his drawing board. This project was a ‘book' of studies for an ensemble in Chicago whose performances were marked by such energy and virtuosity; the music was growing steadily, but he felt suspicious that it had been contrived. He hoped his precise positioning of pitch and rhythm would have brought forth a surface colouring and texture. It had not. He would often imagine symbols and words he could not yet define lying on a transparent sheet over the rather bland matter-of-fact notation of his scores. He had known only occasional moments of such graphic invention, and when they appear ‘right', they enlivened and enhanced his work.

He had put aside today as a listening day, an opportunity to listen carefully to a group of new compositions presented in a series of broadcast concerts and available to re-audition over the Internet. Didn't Van Gogh write to his brother about the need to rest during a period of intense creativity and spend a day copying another's work? This was an equivalent to his ‘active listening', listening with a pencil and paper, taking a shorthand of the music's action and journey.

The first piece on his listening list was a four-minute composition for chorus and orchestra. He had been intrigued that the composer had set words by Richard Jeffries, a 19C author who had written children's adventures about a parochial natural world and had become admired by today's new nature writers. It was said Jeffries had instigated Henry Williamson's closely observed prose. He had set about finding the words – hardly discernable in the rich sonic accumulation of voices and instruments in the broadcast performance. Eventually, thanks to a brief comment by the composer in his introduction and a line that leapt with clarity from the music (the butterfly floats in the light-laden air), found a passage in a book called A Study of My Heart.

Recognising my own inner consciousness, the psyche, so clearly, I cannot understand time. It is eternity now. I am in the midst of it. It is about me in the sunshine; I am in it, as the butterfly floats in the light-laden air. Nothing has to come; it is now. Now is eternity; now is the immortal life. Here this moment, by this tumulus, on earth, now; I exist in it. The years, the centuries, the cycles are absolutely nothing; it is only a moment since this tumulus was raised; in a thousand years it will still be only a moment. To the soul there is no past and no future; all is and will be ever, in now. For artificial purposes time is mutually agreed on, but is really no such thing. The shadow goes on upon the dial, the index moves round upon the clock, and what is the difference? None whatever. If the clock had never been set going, what would have been the difference? There may be time for the clock, the clock may make time for itself; there is none for me. . . . There is no separation-no past; eternity, the Now, is continuous. When all the stars have revolved they only produce Now again. The continuity of Now is for ever. So that it appears to me purely natural, and not super natural, that the soul whose temporary frame was interred in this mound should be existing as I sit on the sward. How infinitely deeper is thought than the million miles of the firmament!

The text chosen by the composer did not appear to follow the author's words only weave a way in and around the paragraph, pulling out key words and phrases, creating a poem from the images. He could imagine doing this himself, making a poem of the text.

This business of time, and how it was to this author, ‘all about me in the sunshine', was the same for him. As he read it, he would think of the warm early morning light on the stone façade of the building across the road. He could turn away from his desk and see a quality of glowness that all but stopped his own thoughts of time. This quality of and in things that nature could bestow, even to the inanimate, held a wonder all its own.

And so he had listened several times to this bright, newly fashioned work, enjoying the sustained and acoustic beating of more than eighty voices (he thought) singing in close clusters. And with and against those clusters, were flurries and cascades of high woodwind, as though such figures were birds flocking into the sun on a summer's sky. This music seemed to be about immanence, existing in the everything of itself, but unlike Jeffries' reverie music was governed by time, and when finished, with an inconclusiveness that surprised him, would rarely, he felt, ever be performed again.


Author: Nigel Morgan
Date: 07/04/2020


Slow Harmony

The slow autumn presses
At the window,
As geese give a melancholy voice
To leaving
Their dark v-shape
Splitting a cloudless sky

The sun spreads
A quiet space
Of tangerine orange
And rosy pink
As it slips below the horizon

When darkness closes in,
Stars shiver
In the distance
Ghosts perhaps since
Some have died

The moon's shimmer follows
The river's winding path
Complacent river in lament
Mingles with powerful sea

Ending and beginning
Combined in poignant

harmony,  slow.

Author: Mary-Eliz
Date: 31/03/2020



I'd like to dance with
Fred Astaire,
And have him twirl
Me through the air.
I'd like to sing with
Alfie Boe,
I'd have to practice
First I know!

I'd like to stay as
Young as young,
And do again the
Things I've done.
I'd like to dine
With Orson Welles,
And listen to the
Tales he tells.

I'd like to meet
My future kin,
I'd like to speak
With Luther King.
I'd like to end all
Hate and fear,
All enmity to

I'd like to feed
The starving few,
And make their
Lives as good as
I'd like to make
The whole world
Give pleasure,
Gladden and

I'd like to find a
Cure for all,
No more sickness
To befall.
But most of all
I'd like to see,
A world of peace
And harmony.


harmony,  peace.

Author: Darryl Ashton
Date: 28/03/2020


Harmony in a couple

Harmony in a couple is not breakfast in bed
Or flowers as the first thing handled in the morning,
But farting at the same tempo
Just before awakening.
No sheep to count when bedtime comes,
But my teeth biting your nipples
Til I bleed you to sleep,
Half of my lips left to mark
This flesh forever.
If you fucked me as much as I wanted
The next dlr stop before Bank in my head
Would be renamed SHAGWELL.

couple,  harmony.

Author: Neptunian Poetry Maker
Date: 15/03/2020


Harmony Hit

Little bit
Large bit
Infinite dip
Colors n' shit

harmony,  hit.

Author: Emanuel
Date: 13/03/2020


Love And Harmony

We kiss under
The moonlight
At 12 at night
Holding each other
With pure delight
Touching her
Gentle neck
My true love
My utter love
I'm truly
In love with you
She touches my
Face we kiss
And embrace our
Love our hearts
Beating in harmony
Together birds
Singing in harmony
Our hearts beating in
Harmony I've found
My perfect women
And together
Forever we shall
Love each other in
Love and harmony.

harmony,  love.

Author: David P Carroll
Date: 11/03/2020


Ink Of Harmony

The mind possess the tempo
Of each poem that will grow
The poet hums silently as
The inks of harmony flow

Silence within its aging pages
In an attic of hurt and true pain
It sits all alone just an old notebook

Silent for too long
Trying to make sense of things
Hoping to unleash the
Unspoken thoughts
Pouring words onto paper

Shhhhh!!!... I need silence...
I'm asking the lines
Please allow ink
From my pen to purge
My emotions into its spaces

harmony,  ink.

Author: Lady Bird
Date: 07/03/2020


Harmony and the question

Chances are you've met your soul mate already
But if your soul's corrupted
Your unproductive
And you have to wait your turn
When your new soul is ready
You be met your soul's mate again
But maybe they've corrupted
But corruptives soul like the one that you used to be
So usually
That soul corrupts you
And unadjusted you
Until you see met your soul's mate again
3 times its been
4 times it will be
How many times until
The souls are in harmony

The law of attraction
Past lovers
Future friends
Wether it be mental
Or physical
This attraction exist
And persist
In spite of loyalty

Face the fact that I could attract and be attract while keeping intact that if rather know you
Then not
Care for you
Then hate you
Or think indifferent
But this meaning is different if its differently expressed I digress

Can men and women be friends?

harmony,  question.

Author: CommonStory
Date: 07/03/2020