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Cardboard-Jones Mar 2020
Hearing the words but they don’t come out my mouth.
I can’t work up the nerve
To ask her to dance and maybe buy her a drink,
I think I might throw up.
Another song, hope I’m not wrong,
I’m leaning on the jukebox.

Standing in place like nobody is there,
I can’t believe myself.
A million reasons I should go over there
But I hide in my cup.
Another song, hope I’m not wrong,
I’m leaning on the jukebox.
I’m pleading with the jukebox.
Georgie Mar 2020
We lock eyes across the bar
Hit pool ***** with sticks
Clink glasses filled with drinks
And dance badly to songs on the jukebox

We buy shots with our friends
Gossip on the stairs
Hug when the night ends

The student soundtrack to our love story
Went to a writing group, wrote this
Kelsey Ann May 2019
when music was
pure & uncut,
when we were all users
trying to survive?

addicted to
the crack-le of
the needle
as it hit the 45?

back when the
natural high of
heart & soul
was enough to suffice?

we’re just
some junkies
looking to score

excuse me mister,
could you spare a dime?
Ronnie May 2019
there are times when
all you can feel is nothing
no rhyme or reason
no rhythm
no melody

not a single note in sight
no colour to be heard
no breeze to savour
although the aftertaste
is bittersweet

so you try them on
feeling after feeling
discarded on the floor
in a pile of ***** laundry
the broken records

and then they spin
out of control
there's no order
and no queue
the tapes won't rewind

the sink is still broken
your words still sting
the jukebox remains silent
a moon
on dusk
flattery would
sprinkle Saturday
to swing
in the
auto tunes
and flash
the songs
heard with
ear and
capture her
rhythm with
the exposé
surreptitious in
a wager
of synergy
cuteness display
Sally A Bayan Jul 2018
The pile is ever ready
whatever type of music we dig...a ditty,
old songs, contemporary...all in a jiffy,
instruments will be playing
words, vocalizing all feelings
maybe, a song of calm
coming before, or after the storm...
Notes hover above the piled 45s
look closely...find your desired jive,
let's find our favorite tunes
and take turns in  dropping coins,
record is pulled out...shortly, our song will play
hold disruptive elements at bay and i, we're gonna sway
as a full moon....rises from the bay
allow our feelings to speak
while we're cheek to cheek,
as much as we want, we may croon,
after we dance, maybe we'll swoon
the world is ours...we'll be alright
"there'll more lonely nights!"


© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
    September 4, 2017
(recapturing memories of the's a feel good poem,
esp. when paired with Paul McCartney's
  No More Lonely Nights...)
Frank DeRose Jul 2015
The seconds tick away,
Yet the clock stands still.
At the end of the day,
Where did the hours go?
And the world spins 'round,
Yet we're rooted to the ground.
Life goes by,
And we're blown away
By the hours wasted,
In a precious day.
See how the world spins (!)
And the people run around,
Living busy little lives,
Running into the ground.
All for nothing,
All is lost (!)
For the people know the minutes,
But lose sight of time.
At the end of the day,
What will you leave behind?
Stop. Go back and read it to the tune of Juke Box Hero, by Foreigner.
Yasha Harkness Apr 2015
Something in us shivers
Slides up our throat
Tasting like metal, crushed rain-bugs we can almost smell
Cascading along our nerves
They are so dreadfully taut
They feel like a stranger's body
In the dark pub, in the corner
with few couples dancing to a jukebox.
thinking of strangers and strange things
Elizabeth P Aug 2014
A boy he was
Long, long ago
As he glided into the chromed and teal druggist shop
1950s it was
Vintage years
Women in pert dresses
Men in sharp taupe suits
Filled the shop with a smoky manner
On that summer Sunday afternoon
Fan bladed just a-turnin'
Right through time itself

He saw this box before
Jeweled, valuable big music box
Been here not too long
Breathing in a flavored breath
He saw another it
The black round of pure bliss
"Blue Suede Shoes" by Elvis Presley
The white letterin' said
Letter G
Number 4
Hands ***** cold metal from warm pockets
Slipping them into the maiden's shelter
Fingers to buttons,
Arm to record
Music to shop
"Well, it's one for the money,
Two for the show,
Three to get ready,
Now go, cat, go."
Floated in mass commodity
Away the ears and mind blew in the wind
Far from his hometown
Far from his school
And far from everything he already knew...

Daydream ended too soon for his comfort
The boy stared at the flashy box
And spoke a quiet goodbye
Tile guided him out the ringing door
Concrete guided him home
Where now the older him
Lives crooked, but happy
With a dear old woman who loves him more than anything else
And a jukebox
With many records in it
But one is still on top
"Blue Suede Shoes" by Elvis Presley
In chipped, faded lettering
Vintage poem for the past :)

— The End —