He leads me through East London,
docks, pubs, among the stray dogs, the
River Thames lapping at low clouds.
We find the second-hand player in a street
where the shops are dusty holes under the arches
of viaducts and railway bridges,
Me carrying the portable Dancette record player
in its hard Bakelite box,
lifting it by its leatherette handle, and I,
small for my age
but wanting so much to lug it all the way home.
The plastic cuts my fingers,
sharp corners bark my shins.
Father talks of his life here, the blackouts
and bombs, rationing,
and the bloody Saturday night street fights.
He whistles tunes
from a songbook of dead crooners.
That evening sitting together, with Sinatra -
watching the dark blue Capitol label
spiral and blur,
hearing the unseen belt under the bobbing needle
as it chewed vinyl -
reliving the clunk-clunk of our boots
as we pushed back fog-muted miles.
Years later, finding that player again
in mother's attic, lifting the machine
feeling how light, it is,
willing to take another walk with him
yet not knowing how to catch up.
“birds care not for whom they sing” - Silent One
You have your place in nature's choir,
Singing creation's songbook.
You're divine when you sing what you desire,
Like water in a brook,
Or leaves when a quaking aspen shook.
When you worry about the listening crowd,
You're no longer in tune.
If you feel sunshine, forget the cloud.
Forget about the moon.
The throng doesn't know, but it needs sun this June.
A bird sings not to lilt a melodious song,
But, because he's a bird.
To be who you are is never wrong -
When a wolf's mournful howl is heard,
He is what he is, and someone's soul is stirred.
Why please the milky orb on the sky's black roof
Unmoved by the wolf's plaintive song?
Her job is to be mysterious and aloof
To him, as he cries out so long,
But he feels content to bay his feelings, strong.
So, Painter, poet, singer, actor -
Whoever you may be,
Disregard every detractor.
Because they cannot see
Your beauty, and your place in God's tapestry.
The oldest version dates from Tom Thumbs' 1744 songbook. Modern versions keeping with times, caused 'Mistress' to go dark. 'Cockle' is a seashell.
Mistress Mary sang like canary,
When they surround her stronghold,
Swiped silver bells, hid pearly shells,
And pretties weigh all in gold.
X marks the spot - teeny fingers tap colors.
Youngster’s attentive to the rainbow bars.
Language of a rambunctious or prissy toddler.
Oscar music songbook exalts experience.
Potent stick and head, of a kinetic hammer,
Hones in on the eight tones, piercing the eardrum
Of the voracious student sounding the glockenspiel.
Newness of counting, colors, pounding, music;
Eyes, ears, and fine motor skills titillated.
4/28/2023
Contest: Writing Challenge - Words with 'X'
Sponsor: Constance La France
Her song is the luring of a beloved beast
with a soft black, blond coat, and sunflower eyes.
Her song is the colors captured
within any sky,
every sky within the celestial sphere
that adorns the heavens.
Her song is the sky at night..
a queen's crown is the night sky.
The woman, girl, plays the piano.
She is enchanted, a stream flows
with reflections of light that are slivers of silver..
that are bursting stars over the yellowed keys.
The songbook is a swapped copy,
with corrupt printing of the notes,
to blind her reading of the songs,
to cripple her melodies.
The wild creature chases the sinking
sun, to return to her home...
Melodies remain
Uncontained by time's goodbyes
Songbook of refrain
Immersed with dim, nimbus eyes
Chorus chords immortalized
5-19-2021
TANKACROSTIC Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Andrea Dietrich
(The contest filled before I could enter.)
If you look at Stephen Foster,
who wrote songs for the minstrel shows,
you wouldn’t expect a genius
that all of the world would know.
He was another bookkeeper
for a steamship company,
until he started writing tunes
that to this day sound masterly.
Today those same minstrel shows
seem quite insulting to good minds,
they weren’t exactly ‘High Culture’
way back in Foster’s time,
but the man wrote Old Susanna,
and My Old Kentucky Home,
the Swanee River, Camptown Races,
and Hard Times Come Again No More.
Even Beautiful Dreamer,
and Genie With The Light Brown Hair,
the amount of hits this man wrote
can drive musicians to despair.
From throw-away entertainment
that never got a second look,
this man alone wrote the core of
The Great American Songbook.
That he still remains relevant,
even known at this late date,
show that we never can predict
who exactly will be great.
History is the mirror through which we see tomorrow.
She is the apartheid portrait and silhouette of liberty in Port Elizabeth.
In Cairo, the pyramids would show you her hidden hollows.
Through the Niger River, she led Frederik Lugard to Lagos.
She is the archeologist's land-mark of Blood Diamonds.
You could ask the Congo’s, Angolans, Liberians, and the Ivorians,
They would tell you that Free Town was never a free town.
Yes! Freedom is never free at all.
We were rivers of blood and forests of bones.
We were snapping twigs and broken glasses.
We were these and more, in search of a big Tomorrow.
Hurray now, the Tomorrow is here
Maybe not so ‘big’ (correct me if I’m wrong).
'Children are the leaders of tomorrow',
a songbook we were forced to buy at school many years ago,
My father had no money, ergo, I was forced to borrow.
It was the only way I could learn and sing along with my peers, damning my ego.
Alas, the leaders of today are still yesterday-leaders’ alter-ego
Are people not born because others should be gone?
How then would the beautiful ones come
when the ugly ones are still very much in form?
When exactly shall we see this big Tomorrow?
The great American Songbook
whose words march off the page
Its music now a footnote
—to a century of rage
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)
We are still at the mercy
of the elements
despite our technological advances
Today the city is
covered in snow
No cars moving, no mail
Inside I am warm and
watching beautiful women
on my TV
Late I'll turn on the radio
and listen to the
great American songbook
I'll take the time inside
make it into something nice
The city is reeling
But New Yorkers have know
adversity in the past
and have always come out on top
Gotham houses some sturdy people
Who don't give up easily
You may feel about the planet what
you feel about a great baseball team or band:
that once there was a moment when, unknown
to us at the time, we convened
and lost and found ourselves in what we created.
Who should I thank for this day?
A fresh-mown lawn is a robin's repast.
A bear a black bear a rolling delicately dancing
graceful as silence sailing through the ferns and understory
unafraid and in no hurry.
My musician referral service, vacation rental business,
nonprofit management system, plant identification database,
great American songbook and anthology of poems. Coach says
in a thousand years back and forth games like lacrosse and soccer
will be played against genetically engineered primates
but baseball will be played solely by humans.
In a thousand years, amen.
This songbook that I'm thumbing through,
uplifts my soul, I sing anew.
""Amazing grace how sweet the sound,
that saved a wretch like me."
(John Newton, thank you for this song,
you changed your life, you righted a wrong)
"At the cross, at the cross, where I first saw the light,
and the burden on my heart rolled away"
(With Jesus, your sins, too, will roll away,
and the joy in your heart will grow stronger and stay.)
"Love lifted me! Love lifted me!
When nothing else could help, love lifted me."
(Jesus is a lifter of souls.
When sins are forgiven, heaviness goes.)
"This little light of mine, Yes! I'm gonna let it shine;
Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine."
(Everyone of us in our own unique way,
can shine their light for Jesus today.)
"Take my hand, precious Lord. Hear my cry, hear my call,
hold my hand lest I fall. Take my hand, precious lord, lead me home."
(When you need a hand to hold,
know His touch is more precious than silver or gold.)
"When we all get to heaven, what a day of rejoicing that will be!
When we all see Jesus, we'll sing and shout the victory."
(This world is not our home.
Someday we'll see Jesus sitting on His throne.)
blueberries gasoline and prostate gland
breast cancer Wonderbread and pacifier
controlled experiment space travel and honey
peanuts inductive reasoning and electricity
tornadoes torture chamber and biscuits
copyright car radio cantaloupe
golden eagle lunch break tomato
Romanian songbook rhubarb and barbed wire
always hungry nevermind meat loaf
goosefoot mango juice Ipad
mosquito bite city street and broccoli
Chinese cabbage female sex drive water sport
pure contralto goat yogurt new year
black death white light and green tea
motley crue song book
to the top,we are redhot
thats the religion
She reaches far into my chest
And pulls out a handful of emptiness
Our embrace, enough to drive a master lockpick to madness
Both our hearts, pounding rock hard
Hard enough to shake leaves from the tallest, wisest tree
She has hair like wild lava
Eyelids of a butterfly's wing
Petals of rose dance in her cheek
Lips lush as fresh blood born of the finest sabre
Her lobes are the very first droplets of morning dew
And her voice, one hundred children running through a hilly field
Laughing and falling and falling and laughing
I am a harrowing tradgedy
I have lost her
Now I must wake everyday, until I meet the end of time
The sunset took her hand held high
She slipped from my arms, while the lockpick laughed menacingly
My eyes conquered by a salty ocean
Burning like a lick of the sun
All colour left everything my vision falls upon
All I see now are black rainbows and grey sunsets
With her, she took spring and summer
A bird's songbook and scents of eucalyptus woven on warm breezes
I live every hour at the beginning of fall
In the middle of long graveyard-cold winters
And ending only when fall wakes again
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