"banjo" poems
don't feel sorry for me.
I am a competent,
satisfied human being.
be sorry for the others
who
fidget
complain
who
constantly
rearrange their
lives
like
furniture.
juggling mates
and
attitudes
their
confusion is
constant
and it will
touch
whoever they
deal with.
beware of them:
one of their
key words is
"love."
and beware those who
only take
instructions from their
God
for they have
failed completely to live their own
lives.
don't feel sorry for me
because I am alone
for even
at the most terrible
moments
humor
is my
companion.
I am a dog walking
backwards
I am a broken
banjo
I am a telephone wire
strung up in
Toledo, Ohio
I am a man
eating a meal
this night
in the month of
September.
put your sympathy
aside.
they say
water held up
Christ:
to come
through
you better be
nearly as
lucky.
137.2k
I am the ******
Singer of songs,
Dancer...
Softer than fluff of cotton...
Harder than dark earth
Roads beaten in the sun
By the bare feet of slaves...
Foam of teeth... breaking crash of laughter...
Red love of the blood of woman,
White love of the tumbling pickaninnies...
Lazy love of the banjo thrum...
Sweated and driven for the harvest-wage,
Loud laughter with hands like hams,
Fists toughened on the handles,
Smiling the slumber dreams of old jungles,
Crazy as the sun and dew and dripping, heaving life
of the jungle,
Brooding and muttering with memories of shackles:
I am the ******
Look at me.
I am the ******
17.4k
I know that I will never marry Jimmy Fallon or Donald Glover or Joseph Gordon-Levitt.
I know that despite the myths, Brussels sprouts taste awesome.
I know that one too many tequila shots will automatically turn you into a philosopher.
I know that the sun sets in the East and rises in the West (or is it the other way around?)
I know that I am most happiest when I'm surrounded by amazing friends in the unseasonably warm March sun and a banjo is playing.
I know that a smile straightens everything out.
I know that although you can't forget the past, you can't let it dictate your future.
I know that having *** for the first time is weird, and so is ****
I know that my hair is golden, my eyes are blue and I will never be stick-thin as hard as I try.
I know that there are 24 hours in a day, 7 days in a week and 12 months in a year. But it never seems to be enough time to figure out who you are.
I know that people come and go but those that love and care for you will stay glued next to you no matter what.
I know that as much as it hurts, you will get over love.
I know that I will never have the courage to rap publicly.
I know that Kim Kardashian's *** is most likely not real.
I know that travel truly broadens the mind.
I know that I'm insecure and over analytical and anxious and easily frustrated.
But I know that I'm also passionate and determined and a hopeless romantic and a picky eater and a restless sleeper.
And above all:
I know that when I look at you I see past your eyes.
I know that when you're around I smile wider and laugh louder and flip my hair more often.
I know I dress nicer to remind you how beautiful you think I am.
I know that I forget to inhale and that the butterfly on my shoulder has to fly up to my ear and remind me to breathe.
I know that I care about you more than anyone.
I know that I let you into every pore of my body, every opening: my heart, my head, my...
I know that I am willing to jump in with my whole body and risk being drenched in water for you.
I know that I can make you as happy as you make me
But I know that you're scared and vulnerable and hurt
But if I'm sure of anything (and mind you, I'm not sure of much)
I know that I will hurt and be afraid and breathe with you to make you love me.
Apr 24, 2012
Apr 24, 2012 at 2:53 AM UTC
I'm a rocker who likes country
But lately what I find
is that whatever I am hearing
turns to foggy mountain breakdown
in my mind
I listen to Nirvana
And I love to hear it fuzz
But right now Dave Grohl's music
has got foggy mountain breakdown
kind of buzz
Someone saved my life tonight
Elton, don't you know
That right now when I hear it
it's got a foggy mountain breakdown
old banjo
Rock and Roll forever
That's always been my line
But now it doesn't matter
there's a foggy mountain breakdown
it sure don't sound like Motown
there's a foggy mountain breakdown
in my mind
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 4:57 PM UTC
Cue the banjo solos
and the violin swells.
Sleeping children in
withering weeping willow
high chairs
covered in creamed carrots.
Young cherry blossom lovers
shout curses,
shatter floodgates,
let tears flow;
petals are brushed away
by the wind.
Widows and over-easy eggs,
crossword puzzles and
sad irony on fifteen across -
"Murdered, 'Ides of March.'"
The weight of their fatigue
growing dark and heavy
under their eyes.
A waitress breaks silence,
"More coffee?"
A sleeping child awakes,
crying under the brightness
of the morning sun.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 3:18 PM UTC
Me, I play the piano
said one
me, I play the violin
said another
me the harp, me the banjo
me the cello
me the bagpipes, me the flute
and me, a rattle.
And they talked talked
talked about what they played.
No music was heard
everyone talked
talked talked
and no one played
but in a corner one man remained silent:
"And you, Sir, who remain silent and say nothing,
what instrument do you play?"
the musicians asked him.
"Me, I play the barrel *****
and I also play the knife,"
said the man who until now
had said absolutely nothing
and then he advanced knife in hand
and killed all the musicians
and played the barrel *****
and his music was so true
and so lively and so pretty
that the daughter of the house’s owner
came out from under the piano
where she lay bored to sleep
and said:
"Me, I played hoop
ball, chase
I played hopscotch
I played with a pail
I played with a shovel
I played house
I played tag
I played with my dolls
I played with a parasol
I played with my little brother
with my little sister
I played cops
and robbers
but that’s over over over
I want to play assassin
I want to play the barrel *****
And the man took the little girl by the hand
and they went into towns
into houses, into gardens
and killed as many people as possible
after which they married
and had many children.
But
the oldest learned piano
the second, violin
the third, harp
the fourth, the rattle
the fifth, cello
and they all took to talking talking
talking talking talking
so that no more music was heard
and all was set to begin again!
7.2k
IT'S a jazz affair, drum crashes and cornet razzes
The trombone pony neighs and the tuba ******* snorts.
The banjo tickles and titters too awful.
The chippies talk about the funnies in the papers.
The cartoonists weep in their beer.
Ship riveters talk with their feet
To the feet of floozies under the tables.
A quartet of white hopes mourn with interspersed snickers:
"I got the blues.
I got the blues.
I got the blues."
And ... as we said earlier:
The cartoonists weep in their beer.
6.3k
there is a scene
where the wind cant be kept from the ocean
and introverts
are sitting
they are fishing at the end of a moon
lit
and artificially lit
pier
the only thing they have caught so far
is a banjo shark
and
they blamed each other
i am out there with them
i am reading a book about humanity
contemplating hope
and simplicity
where there is a world
that people pick a book off
their shelves
and say
it's yours!
or pull out a drawer full of pens
and say
take your pick.
there are places
where people are nice.
there is hope
in the tiniest glimmer of light.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 8:04 AM UTC
Born in these hills, taken away
when I was three.
Son of a coal miner who took
my mother, my brother, and me.
Drove west to the ocean, Pacific.
The kids there called me "hillbilly" and "hick."
Said I talked funny. Punched me, kicked me,
generally tried their best to make sure
I knew I didn’t belong there.
And I did not.
Eventually, though,
I learned to speak like them,
dress like them, act as if I was not
from Kentucky, my daddy
was not Appalachian, that
these mountains had no part of me.
My only recourse was
after the pledge of allegiance…
I never sang the “Oregon” song.
I sang, "Kentucky."
But, my father, he wouldn’t change.
He was proud of his heritage.
He played banjo; he played mandolin;
he went fishing, a lot.
Grew the best garden in the county,
ate soup beans and cornbread.
He did not give a hang for their Yankee ways.
I hated him. I hated my father.
until I returned to these hills.
Now I see them,
I see him,
in me.
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 6:53 AM UTC
The city makes my heart beat change
To a speed I can't endure
I start to sweat and I can't breathe
To me there only is one cure
I have to leave the city life
Leave the commotion far behind
I've got to hit the country
For that is where I'll find
I have got a hillbilly heart
It's beats in banjo time
I have got a hillbilly heart
Out here, I feel just fine
City roads, and shopping malls
Get me riled and confused
I go home feeling *****
I go home feeling used
I've got to get away from here
Or I will lose my mind
I've got to hit the country
For that is where I'll find
I have got a hillbilly heart
It's beats in banjo time
I have got a hillbilly heart
Out here, I feel just fine
I have got a hillbilly heart
It's here that I belong
I have got a hillbilly heart
And it sings a bluegrass song
I have got a hillbilly heart
And it sings a bluegrass song
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 6:35 PM UTC
here comes the fishhead singing
here comes the baked potato in drag
here comes nothing to do all day long
here comes another night of no sleep
here comes the phone wringing the wrong tone
here comes a termite with a banjo
here comes a flagpole with blank eyes
here comes a a cat and a dog wearing nylons
here comes a machine gun saying
here comes bacon burning in the pan
here comes a voice saying something dull
here comes a newspaper stuffed with small red birds
with flat brown beaks
here comes a **** carrying a torch
a grenade
a deathly love
here comes a victory carrying
one bucket of blood
and stumbling over the berry bush
and the sheets hang out the windows
and the bombers head east west north south
get lost
get tossed like salad
as all the fish in the sea line up and form
one line
one long line
one very long thin line
the longest line you could ever imagine
and we get lost
walking past purple mountains
we walk lost
bare at last like the knife
having given
having spit it out like an unexpected olive seed
as the girl at the call service
screams over the phone:
"don't call back! you sound like a ****
5k
I'm trying to meet new people and everything in between.
I like to get drunk on patios, porches, tailgates, and float trips, and any outdoor scenario.
I have a definite weakness for all things sweet.
Pipeline rig welder in the making.
Ask me, voted most likely to succeed in highschool.
I watch too much netflix and enjoy crying over Frank Ocean.
I am going to sue the **** out of you.
I'm a guy that sometimes carries a pocket thesaurus.
Socially conscious dude who probably drinks too much.
Amateur chef. Banjo Jedi.
New to this Midwest life.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 3:19 AM UTC
THE SAXOPHONE STORY
BY RAJ NANDY
The Saxophone is perhaps the most expressive
instrument next to the human voice.
Was made by Adolphe Sax, a Belgian, through
a deliberate choice!
He wanted to offset the tonal disparity, -
Between the string, wind, and brass instruments,
with musical clarity !
He felt that the strings ones were overpowered
by the wind instruments.
While the wind instruments got overblown by
the brass ones instead !
Now what would happen if the best qualities
of these three instruments types,
Could in a fusion blend and coalesces into a single
instrument type ?
So finally at the age of 20 years, in March Eighteen
Hundred and Thirty Four,
Adolphe Sax created a magical instrument for the
World to hear and adore!
It had the power of the brass, the flexibility of the
strings, and the woodwind’s variety and tone;
Which got christened after Adolphe Sax as the
SAXOPHONE !
Adolphe’s famous composer friend Hector Berlioz
in Paris City,
Gave this new instrument wide publicity!
In 1844 the Sax was presented in the Industrial
Exhibition at Paris;
And subsequently got patented on 20 March 1846.
It soon got adopted by the Bands of the French Army.
Making other instrument makers to become green
with envy!
The Sax was 80 years old when it became part of the
musical instruments of the Jazz Band.
A small bore mouth piece was created to suite the
varying tonal qualities required by Jazz.
Initially, 14 different sizes of Sax was created by
Adolphe.
Today only five types are in use for us to hear and
see;
The Soprano, Alto, Tenor, Bass and the Baritone
Saxophone.
They now form a part of our Jazz music's backbone!
- By Raj Nandy
FOOT NOTES :
Adolphe Sax (1814-1894) , son of famous musical instrument maker
Charles Joseph Sax of Belgium. Woodwind Instruments = Flute, Clarinet, Bassoon etc. Brass Instruments = Trumpet, Tuba, Cornet etc. String Instruments = Violin, Guitar, Harp, Banjo etc. The Saxophone today has become the very backbone of Jazz Music!
** ALL COPY RIGHTS ARE RESERVED BY: - RAJ NANDY **
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 11:06 AM UTC
De time is nebber dreary if de darkey nebber groans;
De ladies nebber weary wid de rattle of de bones:
Den come again Susanna by de gaslight ob de moon;
We'll tum de old Piano when de banjo's out ob tune.
Chorus:
Ring, ring de banjo! I like dat good old song,
Come again my true lub, Oh! wha you been so long?
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तत् त्वम् असि
*for sitar, mridangam, vina, musical spoons,
washboard, Jew’s harp and banjo*
(*the names Swami and Guru-ji can be replaced by
any other mystic names the reader wishes to substitute*)
Swami and Guru-ji went to the river
to wash their souls in the ***** water
filled brass pots while they were at it, singing:
“These are Gods –
worship them, worship them,
these are Gods –
won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami-ji flexed contortions
twisted minds and limbs in knots
sold each other secret mantras
to erase akashic records when the body rots
Swami and Guru-ji taught disciples
how to fast and hum and chant;
bound their ***** with priestly garments, saying
“These are Gods – worship them, worship them,
these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami-ji swallowed prana
purged their guts, then farted light
launched their chakras into oneness
in the ida and pingala of their third-eye sight
Swami and Guru-ji built a temple
around a monstrous calf of gold
bowed before the six-armed idols chanting
“These are Gods –
worship them, worship them,
these are Gods –
won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami-ji studied parchments
by the dim light of a feeble ray
railed and wailed at the sinful heathen
in the filthy Kali-yuga of the dying day
Swami and Guru-ji made ablutions
offered incense and holy foods
ate their share and smoked the profit, humming
“These are Gods – worship them, worship them,
these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami’s blissed devotions
entwined their members with the temple belles;
stuck their yonis up their lingams
in the twenty-seventh circle of the seven hells.
Swami and Guru-ji offered puja
wrote it all off as a karmic debt –
forced a shudra to bear the burden, screaming
“These are Gods –
worship them, worship them,
these are Gods –
won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami-ji meditated:
pure omniscience in eternal now –
drank fresh ***** from a heifer’s bladder
for they knew that it was soma from a holy cow.
Swami and the Guru merged with Brahman –
then went home to the wife and kids.
Told the servants to polish statues, saying
“These are Gods – worship them, worship them,
these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”
THE MORAL:
(slower solemn rhythm, no banjo or Jew’s harp)
Aaron’s calf is ground to powder,
cast upon the Ganges’ tide.
Every tribe shall taste its poison.
“This is God –worship Him, worship Him –
this is God – let us worship Him now…”
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 8:33 AM UTC
DJ turn it loud
DJ slow it down and go silent
DJ rev it up
DJ cool down a bit
I'm the DJ who drops the beats
The bass trembles in your tendons like a banjo string being played
And vibrates your collar bone like a cell phone in a theater
I'm the DJ who shoots arrows into hearts
The guitar solo swirls your vision like a sheet of fog
And pulses through your entire body like a defibrillator
I'm the DJ who ramps up the emotion
Sorrow courses through the crevices of your brain bringing you back to the world outside
Giddiness is wired through your toes and fingers and guides you away from worries
Anger pounds in your heart when that special pattern of drum beats and guitar chords remind you of your ex.
DJ turn it loud
DJ slow it down and go silent
DJ rev it up
DJ cool down a bit
I'm the DJ who drops the beats...
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 11:19 PM UTC
*** Wee Hunt
he carries his trombone
everywhere he goes
blows with puffy lips
right below his nose
they say that it's the jazz
that makes him strut and prance
whatever you might call it
seems more like a dance
he was born in Ohio
and also played the banjo
even had his own band
and sometimes played a tango
he did the 12th street rag
it made number 1 on the chart
he played until he could no more
he played with his heart
Gomer LePoet ....
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 10:00 AM UTC
At his little hippie college
he shows me a *** that looks like a wall
in a Rwandan museum, all skulls, he
learned clay in the Rift Valley
boarding school, on a kick wheel,
still his favorite
My brother is a potter
multicolor plaid shorts
little goatee
Banjo
Japan dreams
girl from Mozambique.
When we were little in Loiyangalani
we made tiny huts out of obsidian
while our Rhodesian Ridgebacks
sniffed the ground for cobras
sand vipers
scorpions
while twenty camels
walked by in a row
followed by tiny replicas
My brother is a potter, says to me
'When I am doing this I am
doing what I was created to do'
He makes a green and blue
candleholder for me which he calls
'The Islands,' light escapes through many holes
which look like sea turtles
pockets of air and
an atomic bomb just gone off
we turn off the lights
in my room in the hood,
snorkel in candlelight
My brother gives me
Rumi, incense, peace flags
We walk the silent night
smoke a clove
look at stars
like we used to do in the African riverbeds
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 6:50 AM UTC
There they are
drooping over the breakfast plates,
angel-like,
folding in their sad wing,
animal sad,
and only the night before
there they were
playing the banjo.
Once more the day's light comes
with its immense sun,
its mother trucks,
its engines of amputation.
Whereas last night
the **** knew its way home,
as stiff as a hammer,
battering in with all
its awful power.
That theater.
Today it is tender,
a small bird,
as soft as a baby's hand.
She is the house.
He is the steeple.
When they **** they are God.
When they break away they are God.
When they snore they are God.
In the morning thet butter the toast.
They don't say much.
They are still God.
All the ***** of the world are God,
blooming, blooming, blooming
into the sweet blood of woman.
2.9k
Was waiting to be solitaire,
Would cease every possible chance.
Like my mind wished, I'd be
But heart still yearning for company.
Of that of a beast,or a beauty.
Who'd take me farthest on this land,
On the sacred shoulders of my country.
The hills,winds and barren land,
They all giving me one big hand.
Thumping across the roads,
I could hear the Banjo chords.
The beast I'd ride on,
Or the beauty who'd ride on me,
Was still a nostalgic dream.
Sink me in,deep in you
Be the beauty or the beast.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 2:38 PM UTC
'In China there lived a little man,
His name was Chingery Wangery Chan.'
'His legs were short, his feet were small,
And this little man could not walk at all.'
'Chingery changery ri co day,
Ekel tekel happy man;
Uron odesko canty oh, oh,
Gallopy wallopy China go.'
'Miss Ki Hi was short and squat,
She had money and he had not
So off to her he resolved to go,
And play her a tune on his little banjo.'
'Whang fun li,
Tang hua ki,
Hong Kong do ra me!
Ah sin lo,
Pan to fo,
Tsing up chin leute!'
'Miss Ki Hi heard his notes of love,
And held her wash-bowl up above
It fell upon the little man,
And this was the end of Chingery Chan,'
2.8k
Part1
This body is full of worms
Glowing
And moving forever
If I could match their movement
I might know what it means to be still
This body is afraid of rusting
I shave ***** red banjo strings
From the creak in these joints
This body moves like a song
String snap at a high note
I want you to kiss me with your brake lights
Fast enough to snap a knee cap
Reset my gait
This body is falling apart
Like an old Volkswagen in your dad’s front yard
All rust and ***** engine rumble
Even at red lights
We idle like earthquakes
Feels like a bike rider taking up his own lane
In front of you
Makes you nervous
It takes patience
Not to speed up
It takes patience to stay
Part2
She smiles like I am a child
Asking silly questions
Think softly she says
Your body is dust
Swirling in daylight
There is your rust in the soft glow
It is free
And you are alive
You are still like water
A steady current
Your body is fish and worms now
They move and eat
They are free
And they are alive
Your body is a furnace for glass blowers
The men inside make marbles
They are blue
And gold
And green
And warm
Let her hold you awkward now
You are free
And you are alive
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 1:09 AM UTC
The Super Heroes of Rock!
There’s a little person named Gem, with a banjo in his hands;
But he’s too drunk to play.
There’s a guy with one arm and he’s slamming the drums
And I think his name is Dave.
Jenny plays the Bass, with a rash on her face
And she’s going to die today.
The lead guitarist (Jimmy) has no legs,
But he always tries his best.
But his lack of fingers and thumbs,
Is starting to become a pain
And the fact I can’t sing!
Well it doesn’t mean a thing,
Because we’re not even getting paid to play.
No we’re not, getting paid to play.
Because we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we came to save the day.
Yeah we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we came to save the day.
When Kurt decided today was the day
And put a bullet hole in place of his face,
They called the Super Heroes of Rock!
To come and save the day.
And when Black Sabbath crashed the plane
And Axl cancelled the show again.
They called the Super Heroes of Rock!
To come and save the day.
The little person, Gem, he used to sing,
But a girl named Lisa broke his banjo string,
So now he simply comes to our shows
And joins us up on the stage.
He used to be the ladies favorite,
But now he’s lost all of his confidence.
Because he hit the bottle hard
And he hasn’t been the same since.
But we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we’ve come to save the day.
We’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we’ve come to save the day.
And if there’s nothing else I can say,
I guess we’ll just rock the show our way.
Because we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we came to save the day.
And ladies there’s no need to fight;
Just come and form an orderly line.
Then come and be the bands groupies;
With us back stage.
And the fact that I can’t sing!
Well that doesn’t change a thing.
Because we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we do this voluntarily, anyway.
We jump into empty gigs slots,
When a band’s singer has lost the plot.
We’re the rehab missionaries
And we don’t get paid to play.
Because we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we’ve come to save the day.
Yeah we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we came to save the day.
And if our music isn’t your thing;
Well we already know we stink.
But we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we only came to save the day.
Could you give us back Jimmy’s false legs?
He only wanted to try and crowd surf.
Things are already bad enough for him,
What with the leprosy and he’s just lost his girl
And I think Jenny has died,
I can see Dave’s put a drumstick in his eye.
But we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we’ve come to save the day.
Yeah we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we’ve only come to save the day.
Yeah we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And our music will never be stopped.
Because we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we’ve only came to save the day.
(C)2011 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Jul 4, 2018
Jul 4, 2018 at 5:02 PM UTC
Good grades will buy my
ticket to the New Town
where there's sun and golden sand.
Good grades will save me from
the homework I am drowning in.
One day I'll count my change
to buy a banjo like my
runaway uncle owned.
Each strum will create
my Freedom Song.
Toes in seawater,
Strings beneath my fingertips;
I'll have found my escape.
While the tide goes out it will
carry my worries in its waves.
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 7:01 AM UTC