"bluegrass" poems
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
I returned home
on Palm Sunday
to find knockout roses
behind my brick mailbox
parading their first blossoms of spring.
I found candytuft
faded to green,
safeguarding scattered sprinkles of white
for me to view one more day.
Fallen pink petals from dogwood trees
fluttered through a whimsical ballet
to entertain me on a ballroom floor
of Kentucky bluegrass.
Dogwoods, azalea, and periwinkle are different.
Something happened
while I was away,
while I snapped photographs
of starfish captured by the sand
when evening tide
quickly rolled out to sea.
Blossoms opened
as other petals
faded and fell.
Fresh blossoms flowered
and youthful buds now greet the sun.
Did you care that I was gone
in the midst of your glory
to savor other beauties
different joys --
did you even miss me?
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 9:36 AM UTC
You’ve got your ragtime, got the blues
Got country, rock, dubstep, each a different hue
Hip-hop, rap, Americana, funk
Disco, electronica, they all go bump
Indie, groove, folk and heavy metal
Screamo, emo, punk, they’re for the rebels
Pop, classical, tribal, thrash
Dark wave, bluegrass, techno, acid
Garage, roots, acoustic, dance
Alternative, jazz, ******** trance
Afrobeat, christian, reggae, jam
Honkey-tonk, surf, ska, big-band
Ambient, industrial, club, tin pan alley
But who’s ever heard of plow music?
Jul 18, 2012
Jul 18, 2012 at 10:51 PM UTC
I thought I might be a musician
Mom couldn’t afford my lessons
My eyesight wasn’t great
I couldn’t read notes fast enough
Practicing annoyed the family
I only managed last chair, 2nd violins
But still
I got to play in High School concerts
In shiny dresses with glitter in my hair
However
I haven’t held a violin in years
I loaned mine to a Bluegrass band
The leader died - and it was gone
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
I thought I might become a dancer
But my fingers can not touch the floor
I couldn’t kick much higher than my waist
Choreography was hard for me to learn
I had the stamina if not the skill
My partner wanted someone else
But still
I danced on stage in a college play
And Morris Danced at the Old Globe Theatre
However
I’ve forgotten how to keep the beat
And all the dance floor moves I made
I’m too self conscious now to try
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
I fancied I could be a singer
I knew the words to all the songs
And I could keep the melody in tune
But I had a voice with no vibrato
And the quality was thin
My range was very limited
But still
I sang Blueberry Hill at a talent show
In a black lame’ dress and surprised a few
However
I couldn’t get the hang of harmony
And found I fit best in a choir
My family wouldn’t hear my solos
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
I thought that I was born an actress
I practically got that one right
I had a lead in an Ibsen play
And toured the state with Macbeth
But Hollywood was one big casting couch
And I could see no way around it
But still
I got to be on TV shows
Winning games and merchandise
However
I sold the Firebird Convertible I won
I needed rent money more than a car
And rules allow you only three shows in a lifetime
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
I always thought I was a poet
I started young and never stopped
But family ignored and scoffed
Then I got trapped inside my mirror
And only wrote when all was beak
Somebody said my stuff was dreary
But still
I stumbled on the HP website
And found a group who like the words I write
However
When I read the others’ writes
I realize how limited my skills
And fight the need to run away and hide.
∞
It seems I dabbled in all the arts
Looking for the one that fit me
And finding they all needed alteration
And I never had the proper needle
∞
Still, a moment in the sun
Is better than a lifetime in the shade
I had a taste of everything
Though the banquet was not mine.
ljm
Jul 8, 2017
Jul 8, 2017 at 12:24 PM UTC
The Man in Black
The Silver Fox
Brad Paisley shows
That Country Rocks
Western's gone
But Country's not
Remember those
Who time's forgot
From Red Georgia Clay
To the Tennessee Hills
From Kentucky Blue Grass
I still get the chills
When the music goes through me
It's a feeling so strong
That can only be born
From an old country song
Loretta Lynn
Dottie West
Patsy Cline
They were the best
Old time country
Tennessee tunes
Mountain Bluegrass
My favorite tunes
From Red Georgia Clay
To the Tennessee Hills
From Kentucky Blue Grass
I still get the chills
When the music goes through me
It's a feeling so strong
That can only be born
From an old country song
The singers change
The tunes do not
They still sing the music
That others forgot
Williams and Jones
Acuff and Dickens
Old Buck and Roy
Still Pickin' and grinnin
From Red Georgia Clay
To the Tennessee Hills
From Kentucky Blue Grass
I still get the chills
When the music goes through me
It's a feeling so strong
That can only be born
From an old country song
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 11:19 AM UTC
I walk out the back door and see a doe
rise from bluegrass as two bucks
follow her into the timber,
she looks back and flags
her tail at the sound of
of my breath.
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 6:28 AM UTC
We bounced a blue ball,
It broke a blue glass.
We banged on blue drums
and called it bluegrass
Dec 15, 2016
Dec 15, 2016 at 1:01 AM UTC
My foggy mouth tries to hide behind rain-smacked glass.
She says goodbye with complacent stares
and with the sudden flash of an umbrella.
The red of her dress doesn't belong in my life.
Each of her strides carry my resentment and weariness,
alongside the melting grey of the Seattle skyline.
So, I don't yell for her or imagine our lives,
as the windshield wipers sweep her image, out of sight, but not out of my head.
I return home, the half I was for decades.
The tread of my shoe mashing bluegrass,
digging up seeds and insect carcass, with every step.
Storm-soaked magazine subscriptions lay on the porch,
and her name is tattooed on every one.
The dog lays on the carpet, ears and eyes perking up at me.
And he knows he's truly alone, because I'll depend on him.
Eggshell kitchen cabinets are jammed with her:
Vermilion, saffron, and burgundy glasses hold
half-empty hangings of golden flat draft,
keeping her day-old, dried saliva smothered on the edges,
like transparent ocean waves dying on a glass coast
and buried in the bottom of the sun-pierced vortex.
What I couldn't realize is that the cup was me:
marked in so many ways,
letting decaying memories burrow and stay.
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 12:19 PM UTC
Independent Grammy
Ameripolitan Billboard
CMA Triple Play
Indigenous K-Love Fan
Austin YouTube
Loudwire MTV Video
GMA Dove iHeartRadio
Canadian Country
Stellar BBC Music Magazine
Americana Blues
Tennessee Songwriters Association
Soribada Best K-Music
Texas Country
APRA Western Heritage
Texas Sounds
Academy of Country Music
Wine Country
Carolina Teen Choice
Pulitzer Prize
Latin American Unsigned
Alternative Press
International Western
People's Choice
American Tejano
ASCAP Country Soul Train
Soribada Best K-Music
Texas Country
American Songwriting
Branson Terry
Nashville Industry
International Bluegrass
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 6:27 PM UTC
Something about being 151 miles from home
walking around barefoot all day
in Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, California
wearing a vest and some black cotton pants,
drinking good Cabernet and lots of water,
eating homemade pasta salad and chicken sandwiches,
in the early-Autumn Summer-esque temperatures,
the third day of the 2013 Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival,
witnessing Gogol Bordello and The Devil Makes Three,
with my great Friends, and also Roomates, Abdul and his Wife,
and their friend and her 20 month old Son
makes me feel sort of ... *****
Funny how that works;
Unprotected feet on very Public grounds
Unprotected feet on verily treded grounds;
Going barefoot is nice, though.
(Except the ******* sidewalks, incidentally.
Even the streets are nicer to walk on barefoot. Even pineneedles!
I am disappointed, San Francisco! I thought you were on the side of the hippies!)
If anything was learned from the Sixties,
it's that unprotected anything
in San Francisco
is easily a hazard.
-
Now, that was a ******* amazing day.
Now; to the shower and then directly the **** to bed!
Away!
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 2:39 AM UTC
We’re all just dancing.
That’s life, an infinite and cosmic dance.
The sound waves that the world produces wanders from polka
to jazz
all the way over the Appalachian mountains
to finger picking bluegrass.
Yes, life is simply a dance
But dancing is not simple.
What is the goal?
To feel good!
But for who to feel good?
Is it enough that my endorphins rise
To the rhythm of experience?
No.
To dance alone is beautiful,
But not enough.
So the point of the dance:
To feel good!
I
and
you
and
her
and
them
and
all.
But how?
Cause that is important.
Well, first you have to hear the music
Then you have to listen to the music
Then you have to feel the music
Then you can live the music
We’re all in this beautiful dancehall
I believe it’s called, The Universe
And the music is soft
So we have to listen close
And we have to get close
Cause we wanna get each other high
But we have to watch out for each other’s toes
Happiness for the individual is only possible
When everyone is dancing to the same tempo
The song can be different
But the tempo must be the same
Everyone moves in syncopation
Toes are in tact and souls are in communion
And there it is
The cosmic dance
To get my high
I get you high
And to get us high
We get the neighbors high
And it can be a beautiful cycle
Just, when your neighbor steps on your toes
Pretend you don’t notice
Life is a dance
Dancing is fun.
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 8:47 PM UTC
the soft grass tickles
my bare feet
as I walk across the bluegrass
and I realize that it may be
a bit sterotypical for a girl like me
a sundress wearing
sweet tea drinking
southern girl like me
to tell you that Kentucky
is not a place i want to leave
but heres the thing
I've got all my teeth
a pretty full vocabulary
and a 28 on my ACT
and here in Kentucky,
we're hobbits, not hillbillies
we're more than just a basketball team
and maybe in the dictionary,
its Daniel Boon and geography
and home of the KY Derby
but hell we've got Johnny Depp and George Clooney
and the beautiful mountains and trees
in Eastern Kentucky
and we have culture and cuisine,
and so many things
that if you still think I'm stereotypical, then maybe
I dare you to see what youre missing.
Jun 21, 2012
Jun 21, 2012 at 9:34 AM UTC
daffodils sprinkle their magic
fairy dust along tufts of whispering bluegrass.
her laugh skips across the rocky driveway,
as she watches her best friend balance on a skateboard.
panting spotted dogs lap cool water from their
brightly colored bowls as they lounge on the wrap-around porch.
next-door-neighbors splash into their pools, the scent of
grilled hotdogs and charred hamburgers wafting across the
aquamarine sky. children with floaties splash at their
parents, tiny mouths bursting into sun-soaked smiles.
sunscreen-toting mothers drag beach towels embroidered with
superheroes and princesses to dry off their young ones.
warm-bodied babies cry on bouncing knees as storm clouds
gather across the stainless steel skies. little girls squeal and
parents scoop their plates filled with food into the house, as
lightning sings in the afternoon.
Sep 27, 2010
Sep 27, 2010 at 6:47 PM UTC
YES, the Dead speak to us.
This town belongs to the Dead, to the Dead and to the Wilderness.
Back of the clamps on a fireproof door they hold the papers of the Dead in a house here
And when two living men fall out, when one says the Dead spoke a Yes, and the other says the Dead spoke a No, they go then together to this house.
They loosen the clamps and haul at the hasps and try their keys and curse at the locks and the combination numbers.
For the teeth of the rats are barred and the tongues of the moths are outlawed and the sun and the air of wind is not wanted.
They open a box where a sheet of paper shivers, in a dusty corner shivers with the dry inkdrops of the Dead, the signed names.
Here the ink testifies, here we find the say-so, here we learn the layout, now we know where the cities and farms belong.
Dead white men and dead red men tested each other with shot and knives: they twisted each others' necks: land was yours if you took and kept it.
How are the heads the rain seeps in, the rain-washed knuckles in sod and gumbo?
Where the sheets of paper shiver,
Back of the hasps and handles,
Back of the fireproof clamps,
They read what the fingers scribbled, who the land belongs to now-it is herein provided, it is hereby stipulated-the land and all appurtenances thereto and all deposits of oil and gold and coal and silver, and all pockets and repositories of gravel and diamonds, dung and permanganese, and all clover and bumblebees, all bluegrass, johnny-jump-ups, grassroots, springs of running water or rivers or lakes or high spreading trees or hazel bushes or sumach or thorn-apple branches or high in the air the bird nest with spotted blue eggs shaken in the roaming wind of the treetops-
So it is scrawled here,
"I direct and devise
So and so and such and such,"
And this is the last word.
There is nothing more to it.
In a shanty out in the Wilderness, ghosts of to-morrow sit, waiting to come and go, to do their job.
They will go into the house of the Dead and take the shivering sheets of paper and make a bonfire and dance a deadman's dance over the hissing crisp.
In a slang their own the dancers out of the Wilderness will write a paper for the living to read and sign:
The dead need peace, the dead need sleep, let the dead have peace and sleep, let the papers of the Dead who fix the lives of the Living, let them be a hissing crisp and ashes, let the young men and the young women forever understand we are through and no longer take the say-so of the Dead;
Let the dead have honor from us with our thoughts of them and our thoughts of land and all appurtenances thereto and all deposits of oil and gold and coal and silver, and all pockets and repositories of gravel and diamonds, dung and permanganese, and all clover and bumblebees, all bluegrass, johnny-jump-ups, grassroots, springs of running water or rivers or lakes or high spreading trees or hazel bushes or sumach or thornapple branches or high in the air the bird nest with spotted blue eggs shaken in the roaming wind of the treetops.
2k
They stood across the battlefield
Facing against each other these days
When the guns silenced they'd meet
One wore blue and one wore gray
The two men shared coffee and smokes
Talked about family and life as soldiers
Laughing at some crude little jokes
And what they'd do when the war was over
Every conversation ended the same way
They'd look at each other and say
'I'll see you in hell Johnny Reb'
'I'll see you in hell Billy Yank'
They both knew that someday soon
Their paths may cross through the haze
And see each other across the way
Through that ****** and deadly space
So far luck has been their lady
Seemed like the war will last an eternity
Both longed for home and their family
Born brothers but now they're enemies
They both remembered it the same way
They'd look at each other and say
'I'll see you in hell Johnny Reb'
'I'll see you in hell Billy Yank'
Every battle could be a very tough time
Back home for their dear mother
She always just asked herself why?
What if her only children killed each other?
She was all alone in bluegrass Kentucky
Shielded herself from the news of war
Always praying for them to be lucky
Her poor heart just couldn't take it anymore
Her final words were written in ink
As she mumbled the words to say
'I'll see you in heaven Johnny Reb'
'I'll see you in heaven Billy Yank'
Cannons boomed from a nearby hill
Bullets whistled like hornets overhead
The ground was red from blood that spilled
One can't walk without stepping on the dead
The smoke cleared as the sun fell away
Two wounded men lay beside each other
One wore blue and one wore gray
Morality wounded they held one another
The brothers struggled for a final breath
They looked at each other to say
'I'll see you at home Johnny Reb'
'I'll see you at home Billy Yank'
© 2020 Michael Messinger(All rights reserved)
Jan 15, 2020
Jan 15, 2020 at 9:22 PM UTC
If hip-hop is the night club of music,
The place where everyone wants to be,
Then, metal, you are the abandoned trainyard,
The gritty reality of close friends,
Bonding over empty cans.
Bluegrass might be a picnic,
With blankets in the park.
And rap might be the ghetto,
Urban streets,
Perpetual fear.
However, you have a different touch.
Sure, phat dubstep beats sound great,
When blasted by waves of bass.
But what of the feeling,
From uncountable bass pedal strikes.
Creating a wall of hard-pressed consistency.
And when the bass drum stops,
You know you'll hear a well-practiced,
Well-executed,
Well-written fill.
From the snare, to the toms,
To the chinas and splashes.
32nd notes all around.
And if punk is a bunch of teens,
Landing one out of twelve tricks,
At the local skate park.
If reggae is a house party,
The place your parents don't want you,
But where you feel happy.
Then metal is where you feel REAL.
A darkened elementary school,
Yours for the weekend,
Reminding you where you came from.
Years and years of practice,
All leading up to a perfectly nailed arpeggio.
You don't even hear the pick as it sweeps,
String to string.
You only hear notes and scales,
Arranged just so.
Pure dedication,
Displayed by the clean solos,
And harmonies,
Which fall back into downtuned chugging,
Rhythms,
Simply rhythms,
True unison,
The brotherhood dynamic,
Of a lesser-liked genre.
And the sounds of the world,
Are the way you go to school,
To work and home again,
And silence,
Is nights spent alone,
Silence is the absence of passion,
Silence is suicide,
Death.
Metal, you are my resonance.
My threshold.
And the words,
Repeated throughout my mind,
Are not shrill notes on the treble-clef.
They are not auto-tuned, worthless.
The words I feel,
The words I live,
Are the common words and phrases,
That no one can understand,
The deep grating and churning,
Of vocal chords that learn not to ring,
But to shout.
To scream.
To growl, like the guttural and primordial calls.
Of our wild side.
This growling echoes,
From throat to mind.
Metal is my flag,
My skin,
My pyre.
Jul 24, 2010
Jul 24, 2010 at 7:51 AM UTC
two summers ago,
I found myself under a cabbage leaf
curled beneath the sun.
circled in slumber,
like there was never an end to anything.
then, I grew wings
and left my warmth for speed
sacrificing my calm breeze for cold storms
and windy nights.
on my flight home,
I sit through red lights and
look for tear tracks on the
faces of strangers
kissing their cheeks with my eyes
and pretending I can see the salt.
because there is hope left in
loss, my friends.
sometimes, you just have to let
the best things fall.
(how do you think storks still fly?)
so, I spend rush hour
untying the cloth diapers from my ankles
and when the highway pulls
my hills away from me,
I send them flying out the window
like dead birds
knowing
I will never see the seeds
fertilized through their bones
praying God thinks this
is a gesture of my good will.
let us all pray that God notices
our empty hands when we give up
the deepest now for an uncertain future.
Personally, I am praying for a cardboard-box
collection of home movies documenting
the growth of all the people I left,
of all the places thrown behind me
like stale cigarette smoke,
the homes I have broken with
my ever moving feet, my restless
guilty wings.
I will project the shaky film
all over my internals until my
gut is soaked with light
and the last shocked thought
of my quickly fading mind
will be of the things I could have seen,
the memories I would have made
if I had not gone away so much.
If I had just stayed.
but the wind is a vicious thing,
especially the updrafts
especially the hot breath under wings
which gradually convinced me
that my home was a cold dead thing
that there was no life left in my town
that the only world worth seeing was
far far away.
I have burned the eyes
of bluegrass Beethovens dying
slowly on a stage just to prove
that I never needed a quiet place.
that I was above all the country songs
and overalls and camouflage,
but we all need to hide sometimes.
even from ourselves.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 11:39 AM UTC
I wrote this poem with oil, vinegar, and fine foods.
My pen did not.
I drew this picture with eyelashes, mustaches, and tears.
My paintbrush did not.
I thought this thought with lip balm, pine trees, and mosquitoes.
My brain did not.
I do not dream with REM but with caterpillars and manure.
Oh, Jack Kerouac, take me to bed and ease my itching.
Listen to that bluegrass play...
Fall asleep...
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 3:08 PM UTC
I'm singing a song from back in the old day
I'm singing the song of today
'Cuz time never changes with nothing unrevealed
No matter what they say, time is grey
I live in a society just as all the other ones
I live in the cultures of today,
Cuz time never changes with nothing old or new
No matter what they say, time is grey
I'm calling on a God, the one from forever ago
I'm calling on the God of today
'Cus God never changes, (while) traditions have their phases
No matter what they say, time is grey
I'm fighting a war that was fought many years before
I'm fighting the war of today
'Cuz war never changes, just a day with different faces
No matter what they say, time is grey
I'm dying a death, no surprise we'll all forget
I'm dying the death of today
'Cuz death never changes, with us stands be still
No matter what they say, time is grey
I'm singing a song from back in the old day
I'm singing the song of today
'Cuz time never changes with nothing unrevealed
No matter what they say, time is grey
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 1:54 AM UTC
Bluegrass sprouts a brow,
When Kentucky’s one crow left;
Feign drawl and bourbon.
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 10:30 AM UTC
poets possess
dreamy romantic hearts
with notions enough to
stitch a quilt of love
to blanket the world
poets possessed
of cracking wit
and sharp tongue,
by darksome reveal,
spur us on towards
a bold new frontier
poet's possession
immeasurable wealth,
freely distributed.
the mighty pen sways
hearts and minds.
treasures inherent,
readily bestowed.
poet's possessor
the world own's her heart
and she, the world's
through words, none new
arranged fresh for you:
delight and beguile,
awaken again the senses,
as morning dew strewn
on Kentucky bluegrass
or creep up behind
and steal a kiss,
bringing pure bliss
to dry, parched lips
or rush and attack,
leave you flat on your back,
wind knocked from your chest,
in a state of unrest
words own her heart,
they always have,
right from the start
--bruised orange
Oct 3, 2011
Oct 3, 2011 at 11:59 PM UTC
like a hot-wheel guided by
a holy hand above, he makes
impossible feats as if the car
creates the road, his free hand
is just as busy making
fanatic gestures to guide
scrambled linguistics
or it rests out the window
seeking a courtship
with the wind
clasping the door handle, wide-eyed
the passenger rides safely adjacent to Fear,
but at every turn Momentum carries Fear deep into the heart
where its is pumped via veins, icing the body
with awe inspiring visions.
Visions controlled by the last true
American Driver.
He drives like only a thief
can, poised by paranoia, pure thrill
achieved only through the drive, race or
getaway.
in a past life,
Neal was a great Outlaw
outrunning potbelly sheriffs
to plump on the saddle to rival
the great horsemen of their day
he’d chase trains down,
taming and taunting them
with speed and skill.
or
perhaps
he was a horse himself.
a terrific thoroughbred
bluegrass fed.
tritting
trotting
his way to a Triple Crown.
trainers fed him Benzedrine
to gage the beast. they feared
he would run through the finish line
and straight across the country
like a maniacal madman
looking for the last
true road
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 9:22 PM UTC
Mysterious , Tennessee nighttime wind , what fables do you bring on a cool Spring eve .. Tales of Mountain 'lore , of whispering rivers and moonlit hollers , black Bear antics and coonskin chapeaux , pristine valleys and hillside shanties , Memphis Riverboats and Elvis Presley .. Cascading brooks , foggy morning dales and Bluegrass pickers , Dulcimers , twisting highways and Nashville Telecasters ..
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 8:52 PM UTC