Learn more about other poetry terms

A day in August; hot as hell. mark time mark! and I'm not doing well. But I'm doing my best. and that's very good. but you're not the best.
Why? That's what I ask When I see you frown Every. Single. Day. You never fail to intimidate others With your apperant foul mood Hasn't anyone told you
Rows, rows of music Three people higher then the rest High brass, melody in hand Low brass, big white notes The sweat, working hard as a unit The wood of over used reeds My mouth warm against my face
Step on the field Adrenaline rushes The announcer begins The crowd quickly hushes The music begins Perhaps a simple note Left foot first Listen back to percussion Stay in line
When marchers stand in a two-by
I watch the leaves across the field fall as if in slow motion My arms and hands raise in a flourish The fading light of day glintsoff their instrumets
A chill runs down my spine But I do not feel cold.   A slap across the face With no pain.   Black and blue covering a once perfect skin And I see nothing.  
Here I stand. Only to be moved by a sturdy hand. A force, a revolution. Making us change, evolution. Here I stand with others. Against the words and hatred of our brothers.
The mallet strikes a key, One resounding note. The crowd grows silent, Holding their breath.       A forty-five degree angle, The mallets are still.
We are told that what we do is not a sport We are told that we are not athletes Yet we are the ones that spend hundreds of hours working Yet we are the ones that are sweating, sun burt and tired
Stiff, rigid stance I hold.
Eyes open. Chest out. Back straight. Shoulders back. Closed mouth, open mind. Now be ready for attack. All the words flow through my mind. So distracting, I’m so behind! Out of tune, out of time,
All year, we've been preparing for this moment. The grueling practices, The difficult performances, The friendships formed. This is our time to shine.
Subscribe to marchingband