The guns were loud, but he couldn’t hear them anymore. Just a numbing sensation for every bullet that escaped. The wound in his chest stung painfully, though, it wasn’t so bad. He could finally lay in peace with the distant sound of drums playing in the background.
What an odd way to put it. They had never thought about life as being a marching band. Nothing about living seemed to be so straightforward, so orderly. They had never felt that they marched at all…not even to their own beat. Life was about running, hiding, winding, searching; none of this “in a straight line” business.
Step after step, on and on. Nothing to see, nothing to do but to take yet another step. “Oh, when will it stop!” Thought the little boy miserably. “Please, when will it stop!” He whispered. A soldier next to him shoved him forwards and grunted “It’ll stop when we get there! But for now, why don’t you cheer us soldiers with that toy drum you’ve still got.” He smiled cruelly. The boy looked down at his sore, chapped, bleeding feet “But I’m, I’m tired.” He said quietly. The soldier looked up surprised. “Oh, you’re tired, are you?!” He jeered. “Do you think we care! No! Now pick up them sticks and play that drum!” The boy sobbed with pain and embarrassment, as he lifted his drumsticks and started to play. A somber, slow, beating tune. Other Jews looked up startled, then smiled at the little boy with the drum. Soon something amazing happened. A young woman had brought her precious flute with her. As soon as she heard and saw the little boy beating his tiny drum, she lifted her flute to her lips, and started to play a wilting, sad, but beautiful tune. The little boy’s drum and the young woman’s flute played on, dancing a heartbroken song of longing. A man heard the beautiful music and was moved to tears. He lifted his head and let out a magnificent voice. Singing an old traditional Jewish song. Slowly others joined in, until it became a most wonderful choir singing their sadness, yearning and hopeful song. Being lead by the little boy’s drum and the young woman’s flute.
i met this boy and found out much about him. I one day found he is a drummer. He has not played the drums in a while and i long to hear him…. this boy is a drummer, and I did not know. He must play for me, he is a drummer. whom i love… and know
I am in a band and my name is fred, I have a 16 piece drum set and I enjoy playing it and rocking out in my dad’s basement. It’s a pretty dope place to play, there’s those cool Christmas lights up and elaborate rugs and sheets all over the room. It’s cozy.
The dead-eyed drummer tapped, rapped, banged, patted on his little drum set as he gazed across the barren canyon. No one heard him. No one came. Only birds cried in the distance.
The little drummer boy got lost last night. He drummed and drummed, humming along as he marched off into the setting sun. I saw his shadow swallowed up by the forest, but come daylight, his drumming was long gone. The dogs ran the paths, searching for his tracks, but they could not agree on a direction. No body has been found, but that little drummer boy is presumed to be drumming in heaven.
Drums. Drums. Drums. The beat of the sticks against the skin echoes in my heartbeat, and I feel the rhythmn flowing in my bloodstream. My bones are a beat, my soul a fire. The music makes me whole.
Drummer up! was the cry from the crowd.
Up came a lookalike named Ringo, next in line.
He beat those drums into oblivion.
He shattered the skin on the drum.
He shattered the eardrums of the audience.
He was drummed out of the stadium.
And he was never allowed to come back.
His last name was Drumpf.
Do I march to the tune of a different drummer? Yes. I’d say so. I’ve always felt off-kilter, not quite “one of the pack” no matter what the situation. It could be just the depression that has been part of me for most of my life.
the rhythm of the music, was like the rhythm of her heart. Her eyes smiled like the curve drawn between her cheeks. She had never felt such internal peace. Her feet tapped along to the beat that drown the entire room in the sound of passion.
conflagration dismays his cognation when drums sit alone
in a dark corner
lights never gleamed upon them
until he felt them
in his sleep
rem
or non
a fat kid with out his cinnabon!
The drummer of my heart sitting, unnoticed quietly tapping the beat of my steady journey. My mundane life so still and shallow of the music that plays, I cry, I pray to become one of them. Their beat so fast and so lively the never ending tapping of the up beat drummer pacing themselves though a life of pure wonder. The desire to never stop comes from within their carefree drummer, they don’t care what we think, they don’t care that we judge. They are loud, ugly, odd and obnoxious – but in contrast to simple me, they are the world. I’m sure that’s what being alive feels like.
The drums in the distance matched the tempo of the crowd. She hugged her knees closer to her and stared out over the arena’s light bleed on the hills. She wasn’t much for football. She would rather have been anywhere but there. But now that she wasn’t, an immense loneliness filled her.
the drummer slammed back on the brakes that which overtake his stakes
a wink at hidden inimical-fanatics he knew were ecstatic
with hum-drum quakes in her tears
splash, smear,
went her queer-filled days where she sat in his garage
now all that’s a mirage
up on stage, he takes fright like freight with no weight
readily anticipated by her salient, soft cheer, lengthening so loudily in drums centered in his ear.
After their night show, three sixes made these two connected lipids
one bond
one love
tri-trust
relations beat our hearts, but grief lives short, with “ifs”, “ands” and “buts”
the little girl sat in the back garden. high in the branches of a tree. tapping a rhythm only she could hear as she stared up at the falling sun. her heart beat in time to the music that surrounded her
drums, drums, drums in the distance. pounding over and over, rhythmically, so rhythmically they may not be real. perfection in their performance, defining the steady beat of the heart.
The drummer boy was shot. The drummer boy didn’t know the name of the party that had him march in war. drummer was from the village smaller than villages. drummer was 15 and knew nothing but drumming and hunger. Love was a myth to the drummer boy, as was a life without the threat of war.
My best friend is a drummer. She also plays the piano. This may give you the impression that she is only a musical person, but she is also amazing at hockey and excels academically. She has a beautiful personality and is fun to be around. She’s always there, unless she’s stolen my lunch and is off searching it! ;)
We needed a drummer for our band, and I made the mistake of informing my father of that fact while we were sitting at the kitchen table, eating cold scrambled eggs and drinking really bad coffee. I saw his eyes light up beneath his jungle-like eyebrows, and instantly I expected the worst.
“Well,” he mused, “he hasn’t performed in a while, but there is Larry.”
“Larry?” I blinked. “Your buddy with only a thumb on one hand?”
The drummer smiled at John after the show. He was slim, handsome and had a mega watt smile that was to die for. He asked in a sweet tone if he liked the show making him nod with a silly smile. He was curious about the man, to say the least.
Night comes like a thunderstorm, washing over us in a pulse of light and sound. My heartbeat is screaming in my ears; I am the ocean, the ebb and flow of it. Red strobe heat lighting, timpani ribcage, cheap liquor shot rattling hot and loose in the hollows of my chest.
She dances like a deluge, like rain falls after the roar; when her eyes meet mine, my everything stutters.
The drummer paraded up and down the street, watching for the sign that his conductor had given. Something was off, something wasn’t right.
There! A glimmer of light! Was that the Unbalancer that was haunting this band?
Thump, Thump, Thum. The drummers drummed calling all soldiers awake. “AWAKEN SOLDIERS, NOW!”, the commander yelled into his bullhorn. China is strong, but we are stronger, I kept saying to myself, although I didn’t believe it.
Usually Punk like, loud, and bold. Almost always very young and probably have very long hair. Usually in punk bands. My favorite type of people. Very rude mostly. Dumb one of the group.
Er kloppt auf die Trmmeln, er hat verschiedene in allen möglichen Größen. Er hat die Augen geschlossen, sein Körper schlägt mit, hin und her, der Kopf nickt, die Haare wippen. Ich stehe davor, ich fühle mich so klein, so unnütz, so unkreativ, so … daneben.
Everlasting peace,
Never could we achieve here?!
Demands a soldier
War, Drought, and Famine
Are the things everlasting!
Reply the children
—————————————–
Si aad kuwa dhaawici by dilalka ee Muqdisho dhawaan, joogo xoog, oo waxaa laga yaabaa in aad mustaqbalka ka dhergi doonaan nabad meel walba, walaalayaalow iyo aan gabdhood.
The guns were loud, but he couldn’t hear them anymore. Just a numbing sensation for every bullet that escaped. The wound in his chest stung painfully, though, it wasn’t so bad. He could finally lay in peace with the distant sound of drums playing in the background.
There was a drummer boy about 16. He’d been playing since he was little and it was only natural because he group up in a family of musicians.
“They march to the beat of their own drummer.”
What an odd way to put it. They had never thought about life as being a marching band. Nothing about living seemed to be so straightforward, so orderly. They had never felt that they marched at all…not even to their own beat. Life was about running, hiding, winding, searching; none of this “in a straight line” business.
He drummed his fingers on the desk. Students turned and glared at him, disapprovingly. It didn’t matter. He was bored and his dreams stayed strong.
Step after step, on and on. Nothing to see, nothing to do but to take yet another step. “Oh, when will it stop!” Thought the little boy miserably. “Please, when will it stop!” He whispered. A soldier next to him shoved him forwards and grunted “It’ll stop when we get there! But for now, why don’t you cheer us soldiers with that toy drum you’ve still got.” He smiled cruelly. The boy looked down at his sore, chapped, bleeding feet “But I’m, I’m tired.” He said quietly. The soldier looked up surprised. “Oh, you’re tired, are you?!” He jeered. “Do you think we care! No! Now pick up them sticks and play that drum!” The boy sobbed with pain and embarrassment, as he lifted his drumsticks and started to play. A somber, slow, beating tune. Other Jews looked up startled, then smiled at the little boy with the drum. Soon something amazing happened. A young woman had brought her precious flute with her. As soon as she heard and saw the little boy beating his tiny drum, she lifted her flute to her lips, and started to play a wilting, sad, but beautiful tune. The little boy’s drum and the young woman’s flute played on, dancing a heartbroken song of longing. A man heard the beautiful music and was moved to tears. He lifted his head and let out a magnificent voice. Singing an old traditional Jewish song. Slowly others joined in, until it became a most wonderful choir singing their sadness, yearning and hopeful song. Being lead by the little boy’s drum and the young woman’s flute.
i met this boy and found out much about him. I one day found he is a drummer. He has not played the drums in a while and i long to hear him…. this boy is a drummer, and I did not know. He must play for me, he is a drummer. whom i love… and know
I am in a band and my name is fred, I have a 16 piece drum set and I enjoy playing it and rocking out in my dad’s basement. It’s a pretty dope place to play, there’s those cool Christmas lights up and elaborate rugs and sheets all over the room. It’s cozy.
The dead-eyed drummer tapped, rapped, banged, patted on his little drum set as he gazed across the barren canyon. No one heard him. No one came. Only birds cried in the distance.
The little drummer boy got lost last night. He drummed and drummed, humming along as he marched off into the setting sun. I saw his shadow swallowed up by the forest, but come daylight, his drumming was long gone. The dogs ran the paths, searching for his tracks, but they could not agree on a direction. No body has been found, but that little drummer boy is presumed to be drumming in heaven.
Drums. Drums. Drums. The beat of the sticks against the skin echoes in my heartbeat, and I feel the rhythmn flowing in my bloodstream. My bones are a beat, my soul a fire. The music makes me whole.
Drummer up! was the cry from the crowd.
Up came a lookalike named Ringo, next in line.
He beat those drums into oblivion.
He shattered the skin on the drum.
He shattered the eardrums of the audience.
He was drummed out of the stadium.
And he was never allowed to come back.
His last name was Drumpf.
Do I march to the tune of a different drummer? Yes. I’d say so. I’ve always felt off-kilter, not quite “one of the pack” no matter what the situation. It could be just the depression that has been part of me for most of my life.
the rhythm of the music, was like the rhythm of her heart. Her eyes smiled like the curve drawn between her cheeks. She had never felt such internal peace. Her feet tapped along to the beat that drown the entire room in the sound of passion.
conflagration dismays his cognation when drums sit alone
in a dark corner
lights never gleamed upon them
until he felt them
in his sleep
rem
or non
a fat kid with out his cinnabon!
a drummer is someone who plays in a band. The drummer also keeps the the music going when the rest of the band stops.
The drummer of my heart sitting, unnoticed quietly tapping the beat of my steady journey. My mundane life so still and shallow of the music that plays, I cry, I pray to become one of them. Their beat so fast and so lively the never ending tapping of the up beat drummer pacing themselves though a life of pure wonder. The desire to never stop comes from within their carefree drummer, they don’t care what we think, they don’t care that we judge. They are loud, ugly, odd and obnoxious – but in contrast to simple me, they are the world. I’m sure that’s what being alive feels like.
The drums in the distance matched the tempo of the crowd. She hugged her knees closer to her and stared out over the arena’s light bleed on the hills. She wasn’t much for football. She would rather have been anywhere but there. But now that she wasn’t, an immense loneliness filled her.
the drummer slammed back on the brakes that which overtake his stakes
a wink at hidden inimical-fanatics he knew were ecstatic
with hum-drum quakes in her tears
splash, smear,
went her queer-filled days where she sat in his garage
now all that’s a mirage
up on stage, he takes fright like freight with no weight
readily anticipated by her salient, soft cheer, lengthening so loudily in drums centered in his ear.
After their night show, three sixes made these two connected lipids
one bond
one love
tri-trust
relations beat our hearts, but grief lives short, with “ifs”, “ands” and “buts”
He wants to be the Meg to her Jack.
Only they’re from two entirely different genres.
More over, she claims she’s a visionary soloist.
Even when he mentions that everyone needs a way to keep the beat.
the little girl sat in the back garden. high in the branches of a tree. tapping a rhythm only she could hear as she stared up at the falling sun. her heart beat in time to the music that surrounded her
drums, drums, drums in the distance. pounding over and over, rhythmically, so rhythmically they may not be real. perfection in their performance, defining the steady beat of the heart.
always thought if i were to ever learn an instrument, it would be the drums. i like the sound of drums.
A beating heart.
I deep-throated voice.
Breaths going in and out.
A high, sweet voice breaks the low, deep beat.
Weaving around the song.
The drummer boy was shot. The drummer boy didn’t know the name of the party that had him march in war. drummer was from the village smaller than villages. drummer was 15 and knew nothing but drumming and hunger. Love was a myth to the drummer boy, as was a life without the threat of war.
My best friend is a drummer. She also plays the piano. This may give you the impression that she is only a musical person, but she is also amazing at hockey and excels academically. She has a beautiful personality and is fun to be around. She’s always there, unless she’s stolen my lunch and is off searching it! ;)
We needed a drummer for our band, and I made the mistake of informing my father of that fact while we were sitting at the kitchen table, eating cold scrambled eggs and drinking really bad coffee. I saw his eyes light up beneath his jungle-like eyebrows, and instantly I expected the worst.
“Well,” he mused, “he hasn’t performed in a while, but there is Larry.”
“Larry?” I blinked. “Your buddy with only a thumb on one hand?”
the beat of the drum is impeccable. It disguises all else in the backround. noise roars in as the hit fades out arms swinging lyric
The drummer smiled at John after the show. He was slim, handsome and had a mega watt smile that was to die for. He asked in a sweet tone if he liked the show making him nod with a silly smile. He was curious about the man, to say the least.
Night comes like a thunderstorm, washing over us in a pulse of light and sound. My heartbeat is screaming in my ears; I am the ocean, the ebb and flow of it. Red strobe heat lighting, timpani ribcage, cheap liquor shot rattling hot and loose in the hollows of my chest.
She dances like a deluge, like rain falls after the roar; when her eyes meet mine, my everything stutters.
little drummer boy
march, march
to the beat of other drums
because hands are unsure
and futures are uncertain –
frightened drummer boy,
our hearts beat in the same timbre:
I’m afraid to exist,
but too pained to disappear.
Nobody drummed better that Charles; the tallest, most handsome, man in all of the land. Nobody could match his coolness. Never!
The drummer paraded up and down the street, watching for the sign that his conductor had given. Something was off, something wasn’t right.
There! A glimmer of light! Was that the Unbalancer that was haunting this band?
Thump, Thump, Thum. The drummers drummed calling all soldiers awake. “AWAKEN SOLDIERS, NOW!”, the commander yelled into his bullhorn. China is strong, but we are stronger, I kept saying to myself, although I didn’t believe it.
Usually Punk like, loud, and bold. Almost always very young and probably have very long hair. Usually in punk bands. My favorite type of people. Very rude mostly. Dumb one of the group.
the drummer was a quiet young boy, contrasting his loud music.
The drummer plástico very well and he is tal, thin
Er kloppt auf die Trmmeln, er hat verschiedene in allen möglichen Größen. Er hat die Augen geschlossen, sein Körper schlägt mit, hin und her, der Kopf nickt, die Haare wippen. Ich stehe davor, ich fühle mich so klein, so unnütz, so unkreativ, so … daneben.
I watch Jeopardy
I’m great with geography
bad with band drummers
Little DRUMMER Boy
is a traditional song
I forgot the words
Too early for Xmas references?!
Everlasting peace,
Never could we achieve here?!
Demands a soldier
War, Drought, and Famine
Are the things everlasting!
Reply the children
—————————————–
Si aad kuwa dhaawici by dilalka ee Muqdisho dhawaan, joogo xoog, oo waxaa laga yaabaa in aad mustaqbalka ka dhergi doonaan nabad meel walba, walaalayaalow iyo aan gabdhood.