for providing “The Sound Coming from the Cellar” for our writing prompt.
John Lightle is a Texas writer, poet, and photographer who spends many hours sitting on his woodpile contemplating. When away from his frame shop, he schleps his artwork among area art shows. The job takes him across the countryside, occasionally overseas, photographing the quiet resolve found within the golden hours.
The monitor beeping in critical care reminded her of the accordion he had gifted her on their wedding. He was in a coma. They had given up and so allowed her to play. At the sound of the instrument his eyes fluttered and they exchanged looks for one last time.
The Creator strummed His cosmic guitar. With every note, every chord, every reverberation bouncing through the universe, a new star was born, and a new world brightly transformed. The breath of life formed from His divine instrument, producing a song on the lips of men. Together we perform in concert.
As the sun slides down the wide prairie sky, she stands in the pasture playing her guitar, singing to the cows – her only audience, in a clear, sweet voice. They follow her siren song back to the barn. She’s their reluctant Lorelei, but her dreams and her future lie elsewhere.
He disliked the coins sheen under the artificial light and the dirty subway and the crowds of people that walked by his guitar case. He wanted to be in a smoky bar. He knew the difference. He knew how the people looked at him and how they looked at themselves.
As the planets turned into alignment the solar system hummed with resonance. Vibrations grew across the galaxy. The stars chimed in unison, harmonics and overtones bridging the void, filling empty space as the final note fell into place. Perfect harmony reigned; God had finished tuning. And a chord rang out...
The first time I ever performed a song I wrote publicly was at the Great Hudson River Revival, honoring my recently departed musical (and life) hero, Pete Seeger. I almost chickened out, but my young son offered to sing with me, and gave me courage. I hope Pete heard us.
The times when the Beatles played gigs in the Liverpool cellar is where I want to go when we time travel.
Cellars have the perfect acoustic, darkness and mood. They create the right atmosphere and the cosy comfort needed for a successful show. I close my eyes, turn on a CD, and I'm there.
We were passing through this idyllic town. We followed the music two blocks down the street. There he sat on a chair with his open guitar case sitting on the ground. He was old with a scraggly beard. A crowd gathered. We stopped, listened, and threw him a few bucks.
Some fabulous contributions; great prompt, Justin.
The Brave
The top of the famous stadium was higher than he’d imagined as he perched, towering above eighty thousand expectant patriots. The breeze ruffled his heavy dress kilt and his magnificent flame-red beard. His chest expanded and Scottish hearts swelled as the skirl of his bagpipes stirred them into song.
This is excellent! Those final two lines capture the opposing viewpoints perfectly. (If this is true, did you ever settle on a music school, or did you change course entirely? No need to answer if you don’t want to…I’m simply curious!) 😄
Pushed into majoring in music by my mother (who had always wanted to be an opera singer), mom flew me around the country for piano auditions at music schools. At almost every campus, some older male student flirted with ME!?! I heard grand crescendos! Mom heard only the ‘deceptive cadence’.
The 8-year-old playing the recorder directed his full attention to the music he was performing. The repetition of the notes that represented “we will, we will rock you” were punctuated by the resolute expression on his young face. Today a recorder, tomorrow a trumpet. The love of music is born.
The times when the Beatles played gigs in the Liverpool cellar is where I want to go when we time travel.
Cellars have the perfect acoustic, darkness and mood. They create the right atmosphere and the cosy comfort needed for a successful show. I close my eyes, turn on a CD, and I'm there.
Finding His Beat, fiction
The bell rang.
“Danny, stay after,” Mr. Maddox said as the room cleared.
The kid couldn’t help his tapping: pencil, thighs, ruler—calculator cover.
“Instead of coming to math tomorrow, I want you to see Ms. Sweeney.”
“The band teacher?”
Mr. Maddox grinned. “You’re a drummer…you just don’t know it.”
The accordian lives ( Fiction )
The monitor beeping in critical care reminded her of the accordion he had gifted her on their wedding. He was in a coma. They had given up and so allowed her to play. At the sound of the instrument his eyes fluttered and they exchanged looks for one last time.
Majestic Music, fiction
The Creator strummed His cosmic guitar. With every note, every chord, every reverberation bouncing through the universe, a new star was born, and a new world brightly transformed. The breath of life formed from His divine instrument, producing a song on the lips of men. Together we perform in concert.
PASTURE SONG, 1935 - a prose poem from 🌿Leaves
As the sun slides down the wide prairie sky, she stands in the pasture playing her guitar, singing to the cows – her only audience, in a clear, sweet voice. They follow her siren song back to the barn. She’s their reluctant Lorelei, but her dreams and her future lie elsewhere.
A Different Place-fiction
He disliked the coins sheen under the artificial light and the dirty subway and the crowds of people that walked by his guitar case. He wanted to be in a smoky bar. He knew the difference. He knew how the people looked at him and how they looked at themselves.
As the planets turned into alignment the solar system hummed with resonance. Vibrations grew across the galaxy. The stars chimed in unison, harmonics and overtones bridging the void, filling empty space as the final note fell into place. Perfect harmony reigned; God had finished tuning. And a chord rang out...
Appearances, fiction
“Does it matter if it's in tune?”
“Huh, hadn't thought about that”
“He's not actually going to play it, just be buried with it.”
“I don't know, he'd never go on stage without tuning and this is the biggest stage of all”
“But…he's dead”
“So?”
“Fair enough, I'll tune it”
New Orleans Beat, poem
My piano keys dance and sway,
Creating musical works of art.
On my piano I riff night and day;
Fingers moving like a second heart.
From Congo Square to Bourbon Street,
Notes flow Mississippi deep,
Those rhythm and blues can't be beat.
Sounds that never fail to make me leap.
The Musician (poem)
There he is again.
On the sidewalk
With his guitar and cup.
Why doesn’t he get a job?
He is barely surviving
On the meager donations.
I stop a moment.
I listen and contemplate.
He nods, as usual.
And we know
That I envy him
More than he
Envies me.
Little Ditty 'Bout Jack and Diane, non-fiction
Bob died at forty-eight.
He sang his heart out til it gave out to “Jack and Diane”.
His band played on.
John Cougar Mellencamp’s ditty “Oh yeah, life goes on, long after the thrill of livin’ is gone.
A steel guitar and a raspy voice echoes on.
I miss him.
Riverside Serenade, CNF
The first time I ever performed a song I wrote publicly was at the Great Hudson River Revival, honoring my recently departed musical (and life) hero, Pete Seeger. I almost chickened out, but my young son offered to sing with me, and gave me courage. I hope Pete heard us.
The Girl of the Guy in the Band
You were passionate for both:
Pluckin’ that banjo
An’ lovin’ me.
Hummin’ and pickin’ out the melody on the 6 string
You’d say, “I got an idea.”
“Listen,”
And murmur a tune.
Stop, start again,
Each time a little different.
Never did play the club
Where Somebody’s agent hung out.
"Love...Love me Do" --Fiction. Psy-fi.
The times when the Beatles played gigs in the Liverpool cellar is where I want to go when we time travel.
Cellars have the perfect acoustic, darkness and mood. They create the right atmosphere and the cosy comfort needed for a successful show. I close my eyes, turn on a CD, and I'm there.
Charity, Fiction
We were passing through this idyllic town. We followed the music two blocks down the street. There he sat on a chair with his open guitar case sitting on the ground. He was old with a scraggly beard. A crowd gathered. We stopped, listened, and threw him a few bucks.
Some fabulous contributions; great prompt, Justin.
The Brave
The top of the famous stadium was higher than he’d imagined as he perched, towering above eighty thousand expectant patriots. The breeze ruffled his heavy dress kilt and his magnificent flame-red beard. His chest expanded and Scottish hearts swelled as the skirl of his bagpipes stirred them into song.
The Telecaster, CNF
It stands in the corner, always in view, always at the ready. "Play me!"
And it happens. The dust cloth dusts, the strapping on, the plugging in, the flip of the power switch, and the standby.
And my Tele sings like there was no yesterday and there is no tomorrow.
---
(That's a Stratocaster guitar in the picture. An old one. Very nice!)
Stay Tune
Baby-sitter frets.
"He yelled all evening."
"Oh?"
"You said music calms him."
'I said 'Jazz ."
"I put on Raffi. Willowby Wallaby.He hated it. He cried.He vomited."
"No!"
"YEAH,I MEAN YES.
"Wow!'
" He kept screaming 'ROACH!! ROACH! crawling to the system,
Christ, nearly knockit over!"
calmscalms him"."
This is excellent! Those final two lines capture the opposing viewpoints perfectly. (If this is true, did you ever settle on a music school, or did you change course entirely? No need to answer if you don’t want to…I’m simply curious!) 😄
Pushed into majoring in music by my mother (who had always wanted to be an opera singer), mom flew me around the country for piano auditions at music schools. At almost every campus, some older male student flirted with ME!?! I heard grand crescendos! Mom heard only the ‘deceptive cadence’.
Poem/CNF Music in the Night
as a teen under the blankets
hugging a transistor radio
playing a Canadian station
near Detroit very late at night
so exciting, a new world beckoned
such bigger world than my little town
felt so excited to be part of this boogie
endless musicians to be added to my dreams
Young Love, Fiction
The 8-year-old playing the recorder directed his full attention to the music he was performing. The repetition of the notes that represented “we will, we will rock you” were punctuated by the resolute expression on his young face. Today a recorder, tomorrow a trumpet. The love of music is born.
A Lucky Breakdown • Fiction
Jimmy’s Chevy Loadmaster overheated.
Not again, he thought and pulled over.
Two hours later, a car stopped.
“Hey, man. You need a lift?”
“Sure do.”
“I see your drums. You in a band”
“Probably not anymore.”
“We ain’t got a drummer. Wanna play?”
“Why not? I’m Jimmy.”
“Hi. I'm Elvis.”
Ode to My Drummer, Poetry
drummers
beautiful noise
a heartbeat
controlling, each
movement
loud, soft
yin and yang
humming.
In time
with the universe
the rhythm of my heart
my life.
Pulsating through my arteries like
the rush of a carnival ride as it's swoops to earth and takes my breath away.
Energies
converging
Quiet.
Thanks Justin!
"Love...Love me Do" --Fiction. Psy-fi.
The times when the Beatles played gigs in the Liverpool cellar is where I want to go when we time travel.
Cellars have the perfect acoustic, darkness and mood. They create the right atmosphere and the cosy comfort needed for a successful show. I close my eyes, turn on a CD, and I'm there.