Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Matt Nov 2021
Steam ghost

  The ghosts of leftover heat cling to the nets on her silk lined legs
  She tries humility, but everything she’s wearing comes from Rags
  And all the men in their cardboarded suits
  Empty hands to her they impute
  But she, on her Yellow Brick way
  Won’t peek a blind she just looks away
  Oh, how tall she stands amongst them all
  Down her red carpet, how they wait for her to fall
  Oh, Baby
  ‘Round her finger she has me
  And she doesn’t even know it
  Why won’t she submit

  Down the howling streets where the light don’t sleep, restless, I try not to fight it
  And a thousand faces they pass me by in the quick blink of an eye
  You can see the night women dangle rabbits feet asking you to pay for their lies
  But no, I’d rather pass them by
  Not loveless love I‘d idle my time
  And it all just makes me realize, so dear
  That my baby’s not here
  Her card, the Queen of hearts
  Howls throughout the night in spades
  Her poker face, carved so deep
  Oh, she slowly abates

  Perched on my stoop, she gets so close, sings beautifully
  But when reaching my hand out, she flys away mysteriously
  And when bringing his name up
  She leaves without an apology
  She’s afraid to begin
  And she’s still thinking of him
  Hiding in a place we’ve all been
  Oh, how can I win?
  Still I hypothesize
  About moving it on
  Just like Louis, oh the Sun King
  But there’s a hole in my wings
  Inside of Hell’s Kitchen, she gins for me a glass of ***
  I offered her some, she looked at me and told me “no,” I said “how come?”
  “I don’t drink, and nor should you,” she preaches to me as if she really knows
  Oh, the “wisdom” of a young crow
  She leaves for me a silver heart shaped lock
  With no picture, it’s her reminder, there’s no fee for the finder
  Like the cars that pass the alley
  She’s always there, and always gone
  But these visions of that girl
  They make them all seem so wrong

  Miss Understood has died, they found her all alone by the riverside
  A note crumpled in her hand had read, it said no one could hope to understand
  The sound of the silent night, it just left me feeling kind of crucified and I’m not too sure why
  And, oh, how the way the pavement rolls
  Leaves a dozen cracks in my fragile bones
  And I prayed to God to please have them sewn
  Without her I’m not sure where I’ll go
  Just a brown dirt cowboy on a stone cold road
  Watching them dig graves in the town of Sodam and Gemorra
  And these visions of my baby who’s now long gone
  And these visions of my girl
  It’s always been for her
Inspired by Visions of Johanna
leechyna Jul 2021
Time is like a shuttle
Leaving in spring, coming back in autumn
Blame flowers whiter and blossom
Whose mind is buried by time

If this dream is like a bird
Can’t fly across the ocean
scared after the dawn
memory is also blank

Even if love is the weakest existence
I still dispel all the haze
Who is waiting for whom
Who couldn’t bear to blame
Time hurriedly go away and come back

I don’t blame
because of you, the dust is falling
I’m not afraid
Be with you, across the mountains anf the sea

Listen to the wind and rain outside the window
toast disappearance of sorrow without restraint
hard to say secret without reservation
who can understand
Whenever time flies
wait for a lifetime
Fearless of past and future
Leone Lamp May 2021
Skipping class, ****** off his ***,
Never showed and never passed
Teacher was teachin' it
But Dylan never needed it,
Writ to his own beat
And now he's free wheelin' it
On down the road
A heavy moss laden load
Sixty-one routes
And that stone keeps a-rollin',
The times keep a-changin'
The river keeps flowin'
Rainy day women
And legalized growin'
Bob cantcha spare,
A nickle or rhyme?
A solid gold medal,
Nobel poet sublime?
Sing us a song
Jingle jangle along
The Luckiest Wilbury
In the Wilbury throng
Singin' so right
It must be wrong
Keep doin' your thang
You'll never get gonged
My wife's grandpa had a writing class at MSU (Minnesota State University) with Bob Dylan, but Dylan never showed. He turns 80 on Monday (05/24) and I threw this together in his honour.
biche Dec 2020
“Our conversation was short and sweet
It nearly swept me off my feet
And I'm back in the rain, oh
And you are on dry land
You made it there somehow
You're a big girl now

Bird on the horizon, sittin' on a fence
He's singin' his song for me at his own expense
And I'm just like that bird, oh
Singin' just for you
I hope that you can hear
Hear me singin' through these tears

Time is a jet plane, it moves too fast
Oh, but what a shame if all we've shared can't last
I can change, I swear, oh
See what you can do
I can make it through
You can make it, too

Love is so simple, to quote a phrase
You've known it all the time, I'm learnin' it these days
Oh, I know where I can find you, oh
In somebody's room
It's a price I have to pay
You're a big girl all the way

A change in the weather is known to be extreme
But what's the sense of changing horses in midstream?
I'm going out of my mind, oh
With a pain that stops and starts
Like a corkscrew to my heart
Ever since we've been apart”
Simon Carter Nov 2020
Dylan Thomas went wearily, windily to the sea,
Where dogs ran and tongues wagged saltily,
Sea battered boats sang shanties to the bearded shore,
As the sea legged gulls barked and cried hungrily
The shadowy sun surrendered to a once bitten moon,
And the sand stood still by the windy wet dune
A tribute in the style of Dylan Thomas
Pockets Aug 2020
Birmingham I am your first born Ex husband
Birmingham I am 3rd avenue north
Birmingham I am the hands of Vulcan
Birmingham I am an abandoned race course
Birmingham I am your Bob Dylan
Basquiat and Bukowski
Birmingham I am nothing
Birmingham I am blue
Birmingham I’m yours if you let me
Birmingham I am you
Simone Gabrielli Aug 2020
The gypsy hymns and railway trails
which you followed into the valley of your trials
Lady Luck brought you enough street child wisdom and thief given kindness
to turn the tracks around and the train whistle to wake me.
Desert saint of your weathered ways
with your thin wrists and moon gleaming lips
Hope to you was like a blinding sunrise, painful to acknowledge, yet sorely lacking without
Never could be without your Larkspur boquets and marigold wreaths
August heat heavy with the scent of cypress trees
Apollo of the dusty sea, flooded the cliffs with light like withering flames
born from boxcar visions and a desperate hunger for that windblown hallelujah we chased down the starlit trestles like missionaries. Summoned from our streetcar medallions, vagabond nymphs, rumbling through moth-eaten states and barren dusks, lazy moon gazing upon our dolorous times and wild days and all our rough and rowdy ways.
No need to heed the judgements of the stars.
With the arid land so wild and lonesome- we weave our own muse into the railway line- followed back to when you were my home, and the streets were the laurel crown of your vagrant fortune.
Tom Waiting Jun 2020

reversed a verse from “Like a Rolling Stone;
~complements to Mr. B. Dylan, a Nobel man~

you, me, hear what you’re hearing, feeling it,
you, me, hear what you’re thinking, feeling that,
regenerating, excising, pinching a single word of Bobby’s
lyricizing, knowing, you’ve just handbag-snatched a poem full.

the rolling stone sings of next meal scrounging,
he’s talking to you, knowing you, you customizing
his lyrics modifying-jiggering, for your purposeful brain,
emotional crazed notions, your monsanto seed of needs and strains.

nah, I’m fibbing, polite-ly lying,
like clover waves springing up
overnight after a night’s soaking,
raining, picking up hints, misdirections, clues,
***, poem titles dripping from my glassy eyes!

des idées for the next poem, the one, in the garden hereafter,
now called thereafter, all arriving in tranches, backyard bunches,
just to write down the titles fast enough, sometimes, trouble,
oft easy, sometimes rough, but always a fast rush jiggling job.

yeah, I’m liking that word, scrounging,
got character, internal noises aclashing,

so I’m scrounging
while lounging , it’s so ******* easy,

it’s getting borrowed till you! steal
it out from under me,
like an ill reputed
good poet should...

P.S. don’t keep me waiting!
let the scrounging commencin’

Trev Fisher Jan 2020
I have heard the tautologies of the rich,
the shifty and the shallow
when told of their impending fate
in a medical review

I’ve seen them torturing themselves
over the unfairness of it all
as though it were a deal, to negotiate.
But The Reaper always calls

They don’t go gently into that dark night
but not like that drunken poet meant
many pass with a look that begs
One question, was that it?

It was
I am not a Dylan Thomas fan, I was a palliative care nurse though, these two things are not unconnected. Drunks bore me, never ore so than when they're being brave or deliberately controversial.
Garrett Johnson Nov 2019
Granite mistakes.

Toasting in a rubber slumber.
Quick to act the marrier.
Sliding to creak upon the sullen trips.
Of all the trips that you’ve seen from.
They care not for you.
Only for the oils in your wrist.
& you say nothing.
& stand barren.
Alone with no one to guide you.
With nowhere to go.
& Nothing to see.

Garrett Johnson.
Next page