"bluesy" poems
I'm writing this poem to be ignored
like many of you
I enjoy being a poet
of keen irrelevance
a literary luminaire
of solitude
a lost writing ghost
a megalomaniac haunting himself
a waiting oracle
waiting
for the occult muse door mouse to tap dance
whispering night babble
or having a cooked chicken fly into my mouth
while i take searing snapshots
of erratic images
puzzling them into words
from boundless burdens
of heaping intestinal bluesy aftermaths exodus of conscience
bruising my self like a ********* in heat
on out of control run-on rants
and blood razor drenched mysticism
while real men drive earth movers
drink bruskies
and kick ***
hustling time share Chinese handcuff contracts
and up sell social justice platitudes
fit for pie in the sky levitating hysteria
lives shatter like red ice
in endless cacophonies of skull clobbering effacement
I'm writing this poem to be ignored
and no one lets me down
Mar 20, 2019
Mar 20, 2019 at 3:32 PM UTC
I Hate You, My Love
No longer together, in a world of madness;
Just sat alone, in my world of sadness.
So come with me, on this journey through life;
I'll enlighten your eyes and I'll open you mind.
Open your mind,
Open your mind,
Open your mind, to another kind.
Something new, old, bluesy or rocking;
Musically free, from you becoming damning.
Criticisms needed, if your work is wrong;
But you’re perfection in a glass, so I wrote you a poem.
Softly bang your head and break your neck;
Live a life of missed opportunities, but have no regrets.
Hold me in your arms, because I've become contagious;
Come die with me…nobody can save us.
And save us from what? This living Hell?
Your perfumed body has begun to smell.
No longer the fresh smelling roses from Heaven;
You’re disgustingly ***** since you let me in.
No longer a ****** do you think they can tell?
Your mothers lead you to believe, you’re condemned to Hell.
I see through your eyes, as you describe what you see;
You've now become a part of me
And now I've let you, smoke my ****
I've now shown you, all I need.
Everyday I'll write you a song;
Everyday the words will be wrong.
Everyday you'll see that you hate me;
Everyday we'll disagree.
Everyday I'll want to **** you;
Everyday you will **** me.
Everyday is a whole new day;
And everyday is wrong for me.
Everyday I kiss you with passion;
Everyday I get satisfaction.
Everyday we drift apart;
Everyday you break my heart.
Everyday I **** myself
And everyday I need your help.
Everyday you must die with me;
Everyday we must both believe.
So everyday let's both fall to the ground
And everyday the lyrics will crumble down.
Ashes to ashes and blunts to blunts;
Come die with me ***** you ******* ****
I love you dearly, but I hate your guts;
You drive me crazy. Completely nuts!
I'll love you forever, until I don't;
This is my suicide letter, now I have to go.
**** it I didn't go through with the plan;
Because of you ***** you held my hand
And told me that you understand
And told me that I'm your only man.
Can you not see how much I hate you?
Can you not see how much you hate me?
Why don't you believe, what I say is true?
Why are you here, when I told you to leave?
You’re a punk rocking beauty, but completely false.
You’re a grunge kissing psychopath, that I completely love.
I have to say I hate you, so I don't feel we’re too close;
But promise me Angel, you will never go.
(C)2005 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 10:01 AM UTC
strait crazy
saintly mania raving.
new age jainist phasers
sang they praises
like
'hey mr bojangles,
go mangle up the angle,
shake shake shake the frame
& they'll thank you later.'
...sorry not today.
I'm feeling under the
earthquake weather.
wallowing wonder
following the devil
thru the desert
on great endeavors
to make it rain feathers
that sound like thunder.
famous as ever
nameless as heaven
to say the least
I'm slaying beasts that
came from me
in the first place.
this is lovehate.
lovehate lovehate.
& it's useless.
just lemme set the mood.
it's stupid
brutish beauty
mooing truly bluesy
marks & bruises
infused with martian
harmony incarnate,
caramelized carnage
set to soothing violent music.
broke record store cliché
faded to frustration feeding
a creaturely need for creation
& hellish lust for selfdestruction.
-nothing special-
just an absolute mess who
dilute the stress through allusion
allegory alliteration
hallucination delusion
***** it's a celebration.
tell the rest those losers
that got left I'm doing my best
even though I'm pretty upset
with how it's all panning out.
oh well I guess.
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC
Hey Danny, I droped it twice but this one is just as nice
On the fly a small hummingbird on flittering wings just dusting the room
With dann dust and goodwill.
A quiver filled with curative pin point healing
She is wheeling and dealing
Danielle I presume is the full story.
Acufeel good. Feelgood ancient curative
Sent from the far east.
Miniature
Magic whipping about in sea blue scrubs
All good news .
Never gave me the bluesy tude.
Cool runnings miss danny.
Nuff respect.
A short poem for a big spirit. In. Small spirit
Country.
Seek and ye shall find I am inclined to believe
She has a good vibe.
Cool runnings hummingbird.
See you at the water cooler
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 5:56 PM UTC
Going left a smile
green* bluesy* drift___
Getting out of debt
The heartedly so flowery
rosy ring around
Gifted box
Valentine Rosy
I box heads over
puppy tails
cozy firey
Love diary doing the
Cutesy
Bow Wow parade
Those red hot lips
cascades
she's... the... lie...
The hue (Anchor- Blue)
Gotcha "Eyes Baby blue
Clue"
To cross my red heart
And hope not to die
The Lady's
finger (Godiva)
I-spy finger*
Heartless Diva
The fork of the road
Lies of the
dead ringer
He points his finger
Face to two face
facelift?
Boom-Boom___
a car crash just a dash
Her beats and hearts
What a crush to her
___left
Tell me sweet lies
I box gift
Oh! Yes you're___ right
Like the scoundrel
The damsel in distress
sweet morsel
I sir box like spots spread
Like the (Chickenpox)
Hearing lies tons of
squirrels
Like Botox Plastic
Rascals
I-box ties
Hallmark, I love you lies
Superman Clark
Outfoxed the ballpark
Little lies blue
big shark
Smartphone I Sir bark
Red Valentine love walk
People are the luckiest
I- wish
Close your eyes sweet lies
Sweet I-Box in Trio
CEO Watching "TV FIO"
Podcast little lies turn
into big lies
Ballot Political list
Romantic cutout card lies
Tell me, Little Lies he trips
Electric lips music chair
Open eyes full shut lips
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 8:35 AM UTC
The graduation party
with fried aubergine, croutons and rye whisky
has raised the hairs of the alumni.
Kismets afoot about forming a band,
named after actress Alice White,
intuitive bluesy Psychedelicia.
Devonport's dappling on bass
and Schemtar's already on drums.
The devils in the details with the lead singer,
for the want of a lead guitarist
they are gyved.
But if they practice like clockwork
the turnaround will resonant .
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 11:19 AM UTC
Start with a tin box guitar—
plucking tortured notes like
he’s known this kind of agony all his life.
Stretching bluesy licks
that bend and overlap—
braiding every bunch of heart strings.
We listen.
Tune into something that seems to be
cooing fluently in a language
only the involuntary celibate can speak.
No, we’re not getting any.
But at least we get this.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 4:25 PM UTC
everyone has gone back to suburbia,
city streets are dangerous, if you look
at someone cross eyed, it earns you death.
don’t celebrate this madness,
mourn it in black, it has a taken
a pandemic to school me again.
this a broadcast, shout out, email me
if you know how I’m feeling and can
share what other mutualities crisscross.
Do you like Jazz? Me neither.
Flouncy bouncy dresses? Nah!
Sweats? Unnecessary, I can sweat
just by concentrating.
You like me, own soulful bluesy singers,
femme fatales, who coax and croon,
wet the spun threads of subtle emotive,
who live by light of candles votive,
I live in black, day and nighttime,
write in midnight blue, a woman who!
takes no b.s. and doesn’t ever take no
for an answer...
Aug 23, 2020
Aug 23, 2020 at 2:10 PM UTC
Soulful Mention
Beautiful white women I’m asking you to stand down this time your well noted in the cool cats book of
Love you electrify and defy all true description as all magic does and native American woman copperas
Skinned you bend and lend yourself to the exotic natural wonders your long black hair moves along the
Prairie grass up over the foot hills into the mountain wilds with a sight that is spellbinding you go so far
And when you can go no higher than the powerful eagle carries you aloft where sight is lost and you
Cause faith to enter because otherwise it’s unbelievable the effect you have on me no this is for the
Ones that their voice was first heard among the lions roar who else could have the power and courage
To endure such injustice and burdens dark like your ebony skin it would take men like Sam Cook and
Otis Redding with raw emotion and deep soul to travel out of Georgia through the dark store fronts and
Neon club lights of Harlem flow through the big Easy take your current at flood stage through
Birmingham Mobile the projects of St Louis on through the gateway to the west Kansas City where you
Pick up speed and the drawl is covered by the sprawl through it all your name is being called slow down
Baby turn and stop within those songs and voices your glory is resounding your life goes unbounded the
Honey drops it causes all males to stop you’re in the presence of true ladies they can be soft as cotton
Candy or have an edge that is smoky bluesy best referred to as a trumpet blast that can also smolder
Drift down city streets the horn is sounding oh how appealing the girl has got her groove on listen your
Being called by the most brilliant voices of our time Zelma heard and for a time lived an immortal dream
The transference of sorrow would extend extol these women into heartfelt heroes you truly can’t
Create such ignorance and grim circumstance without creating the rarest black Rose stone walls laden
Fields plantations was their birth place they are the one point that our race has been raised to
Exemplary Character
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 8:17 PM UTC
A recipe
I wrote one of those in my head today;
some of it was half-baked,
but what is edible will say:
something about instructions,
something about parts making a whole,
something about convection,
something about mixing in a bowl,
something about dough
and something about kneading
something about confections,
something about breathing.
An epitaph
I wrote one of those in my head today;
some of it was rotten,
what wasn't will rise and say:
something about a journey,
something about fate,
something about love and
something about hate,
something about laying on a gurney
and something about decay,
something about destiny,
something about history,
then it might yawn
and lay back in its grave
A pamphlet
I wrote one of those in my head today;
some parts were mute,
others that weren't will speak and say:
something about tolerance,
something about abuse,
something about inhalants
and something about a noose.
A brochure
I wrote one of those in my head today;
some of it was fake,
but what is real will last and say:
something about a lawyer,
something about curruption,
something about justice
and how it serves a function,
something about admittance,
something about plastic surgery
and breast reduction,
and a catholic priest mumbling
something about perjury.
A eulogy
I wrote one of those in my head today;
some of it was dead,
but what was alive will stand and say:
something about a life
and something about living,
something about a wife
and something about a thing worth giving,
something about a family
and something about foes;
something about winning
and something about woes.
A book
I wrote one of those in my head today;
some of it was filth;
but what was clean will shine and say:
something about character,
something about freedom,
something about development
and something about respect
something about supplement,
something about unity,
something about revolution
and how I think the world should be.
A song
I wrote one of those in my head today;
but it was a bird and it flew away,
If all that's left is just one dying wing
it would flap around
on the ground
and try to sing:
something in near-pefect pitch
something bluesy and
about a *****
then probably something about flight
and finally something about a
bright white light.
A poem
I wrote one of those in my head today;
the lines were seeds
I planted before the cold;
some froze out, some took hold
but what remains grows bold and will say:
something about a heart,
and how you had it from the start;
something about sunlight,
and how you make it seem less bright;
something about the wet wet rain
something about willingness
and something about refrain.
Oct 16, 2011
Oct 16, 2011 at 7:12 AM UTC
After John Prine:
**“There's flies in the kitchen,
I can hear 'em there buzzing,
And I ain't done nothing since I woke up today”**
Mr. John Prine
<£>
There's flies in the kitchen,
all around my eyes and head,
they’re just gossiping bout me,
why most mornings
I’m still laying in bed
at almost near
noon-time, why too, them
angels and their a-fluttering wings,
a-flapping, still hanging around,
when they’re so far from home
truth be told, I kinda like new combinations,
the musical vibes, magic incantations,
boogie woogie, fuzzy buzzy eyelash sounds,
bluesy background harmonies against the
harps them angel wings are playing,
I’m getting every note writ down so,
I can play it well on the morrow, on my
following them higher up, all the ways up
on that glowing shining stairway to heaven,
guarantee-damn-teeing entrance through the
pearly gates for the flies and a lazy, no-account
worthless S.O.B. like me
Jul 17, 2020
Jul 17, 2020 at 3:02 PM UTC
I blow tiny
jazz kisses
onto your
sweet petunia
lips
flutter delicious
notes into
lazy daisy ears
soft breath
puffs bluesy
tunes onto the
nape of a
lovely
curvy neck
I smell
bold begonias
whisper pink
secrets through
gyrating eyes
I roam
the flowers
blooming from
every luscious
groove
I pluck
the bows of
deep swing
heart strings
I blow
rose pedal
jazz kisses
from my
tippy tip
to teeny toe
Music Selection:
Esperanza Spalding, Little Fly
Oakland
3/1/12
jbm
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 7:39 PM UTC
There is a note that lives between thought and slumber,
That’s when I thought of you today
A harmonica lay in my hand, the reeds looking at me silly,
Play, I imagined it say, and imagined it was really there.
In my mind we are still walking a dusty bluesy road, our jeans torn and worn
In this midday dream the blues is red and wore a hat; I let out:
This, is not the blues from which my hippie son was born.
I sigh, at the sight of a synthesizer kissing a harmonica, the synth in your head, the harmonica pregnant with my heart.
Our blues drove us to momentary madness, because Syd Barrett was always jealous
Like fights that happened on Sundays and when we choose to mock, then cruelness.
Come midnight someone awakes and someone is being wakened,
And outside, nothing is lit, But she's not afraid, just letting you know she was waking.
Your bedside was colored, certainly psychedelic, but was almost always red
I lay there, like a pregnant harmonica making love to a trusty guitar, the guitar thrusting, the harmonica trusting.
I confront salvation with a straight face, a cigarette now intruding
No, I yell, the harmonica sounds the same, still on the key of C,
But by a synthesizer you sat, the harmonica lay there, heavy with child, looking at me,
And as I stare back, I've seen: indeed you have chosen the synth.
A note creeps in between the high and dry of low, I insist that kismet needs a little shove
Just a push, a new pair of eyes, another heart and a memory that knows only love,
Spiralling in Syd's Milky Way, me drowning, me begging in exchange for you,
I tried moaning a tune but the blues have discolored and turned simply blue.
I face the devil now, I try to bargain, but he sings, 'the blues trusts no one, no longer.'
The devil makes a face, sings to me then says, 'you've forgotten that I'll always remember.”
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 10:10 PM UTC
my love for you
is the wildest rivers of my poetry
where the night melts into
oblivion and all i can feel is your
love, devouring me, desiring me,
uncovering me, until
i am but blood and bone,
a bluesy wind instrument
serenading the skies.
in your love everything that
i need, every tender star
a bird gliding in
the night, moon-ful,
soulful, wrapped in silvering
dream. climb, climb to the
running hills where i’ll reach you,
leave me burning feverish
and excited, wrap me in your love.
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 6:26 AM UTC
Like water, like flowing rivulets,
notes fly from fingers fast on frets.
Slippery sinuous shimmering tones
(complemented by brash bluesy Bones).
Like storm’s thunder and lightning a chord
brings the sky to us on earth—
or is it that we fly , then die until the rebirth
in gentle reverb of a note two octaves higher?
Strange how rain coexists with fire.
Drench us in the cascade born from your desire.
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 8:03 PM UTC
“Lord have mercy,”
you dolefully sigh,
your song awaiting
my reply.
”Have Mercy on me,”
each chord explains,
your baby is lost
and torn heart pains.
With tired feet
I softly croon
my dark agreement,
a bluesy tune.
I stir my cocoa –
a condoling toast –
and welcome you in
as your lonely host.
Suspended in your
mournful zephyr,
I bear the wounds
you’ll always suffer,
the Atlas burden
that breaks your back,
your scarlet letter
weathered black,
and offer you
my own lament
of how my stormy
Monday went.
Then, like a
wing-footed Gabriel,
he sings his
holy madrigal.
With merciful swiftness
my beloved appears,
and whispers,
”Darling, I am here,”
Then our duet becomes
one person less,
As I am
undone
with
happiness.
May 30, 2011
May 30, 2011 at 9:34 PM UTC
And for your love
and the romance
of our lives
I've decided to
attempt dancing
and all the glories
that come along.
For, this romance isn't
the aroma of accordion music
filling the Paris streets at nighttime,
while a couple dances
under the streetlights,
as rain begins to fall.
It's a romance about humanity
and desire and its heartache
that tries to tango in the suburbs
and tap in the slums,
whose clumsy movements cause
embarrassment for any party involved.
This love has a rhythm unlike
a big band hit or a bluegrass hand-clapper.
It has a rhythm all of its own.
Closest to, maybe, jazz.
The real jazz. The Harlem jazz.
Sparatic and unpredictable.
Upbeat, swinging cymbals and trumpets.
Then a slow sax,
with bluesy vocals crying out in pain.
Because you can't two step
or foxtrot
or tango
to that.
You must step carefully.
For this romance is fragile.
You cannot choreograph in advance
or synchronize moves
with your lovers'.
You simply must listen, feel, and move.
This dance of love
must cause you to cry
and smile
and melt
and ache
and desire to make love
all in the same motion.
Or it's not love.
It's an imitation
aimed at the beautiful and elegant.
And we aren't that.
We're humans with souls and flaws
who desire these false
motions and harmonies
of love,
but who need to still understand
love's true tender
and heartbreaking steps
that have no
recognizable rhythm,
but that promise
a lifetime of love.
So, I will not learn
love's romantic moves
for they are unteachable,
but I will attempt,
for your love
and romance,
my dear,
to sway to the music
and stay beside you
and follow your lead
as we wait for the
drums and the horns-
and the music to begin.
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 6:27 PM UTC
_Spin me some velvet,
Scuff me over with gravel,
Pick me some bluesy strings;
Tie me a bunch of wildflower quavers,
Let’s hear how your phoney sax sings.
Dip me in treacle,
Needle me with soul,
Groove me some dirt and some bass;
Blow me your ***** devil’s pipe strong,
Let’s play us some bourbon and lace.
Spin me some velvet,
Scuff me over with gravel,
Lay me down in meadowsong;
Rent me a dime’s worth of old dust and daydreams,
Honey chil’, you cain’t do me no wrong._
Jul 3, 2019
Jul 3, 2019 at 9:13 PM UTC
Now there is this small cool joint called the Jokers Lounge
You can come on in and play around just dont act like a clown
Its pretty sweet ya hear and some **** fine folk
Just have a seat and get a drink some fun will soon begin
Oh groovy is this place with the smoke and bluesy sound
They have the sax and trumpet to and yes that cool *** base
But dont forget about that guitar and that smooth kat on the drums
You see we're all a bunch of characters cool as cool can be
And if you come on a friday night you might find B. B. King
Its a home away from home with our good friend Bobby Rush
We like to joke and kid around but we're all just family
They have good food and music to and the best **** company
Now put on your clean cut suits and your blue suede shoes
Get your woman lookin good in her best **** summer dress
Cause we're all be on the dance floor until night turns to day
Its a simple little place with posters of the greats hangin on the wall
John Lee ****** Memphis Minnie, and T-Bone Walker just to name a few
There be songs of *** and naughtyness and gettin on the floor
So if your shy and a little ***** I suggest you hit the door
See we're down to earth we sing of hurt and only speak the truth
So come on out its not that far your find us on the corner
Bring some friends and pack um in its that place out by the water
Nov 2, 2011
Nov 2, 2011 at 4:00 AM UTC
~
steps beyond his stalwart hedge,
white pickets lined with flowery speech;
’cross a boulevard of words,
the shade of tree-lined poetry;
he’s drawn to her celestial sound,
seeks comfort in her sultry voice.
pandora's lounge, her nightly stage,
in every breathy note she sings.
their presence here he’s prearranged,
respires her palette’s offerings;
each tapestry-a-washed crescendo,
her every soulful whispering,
incites his heart to joyous tears;
his ev'ry sense engulfed, aflame,
her afterglow, like sun's refrain;
to hers, two eyes an opening,
his ears to sounds beyond;
the tongue to taste, a bounty waiting,
her touch too sweet, his blood is racing.
spellbound by her bluesy song,
raptured by her fragrant breath;
to her rhythm his heart beats strong,
he's captured in her blue’s caress.
~
*post script.
i make no apologies in the admission that i'm easy prey for a bluesy voice, the feminine variety in particular. add a British / Euro tone and my soul may just melt. Norah’s... i’ve a jones for hers!
~
**Come Away With Me
Norah Jones
Come away with me in the night
Come away with me
And I will write you a song
Come away with me on a bus
Come away where they can't tempt us, with their lies
And I want to walk with you
On a cloudy day
In fields where the yellow grass grows knee-high
So won't you try to come
Come away with me and we'll kiss
On a mountaintop
Come away with me
And I'll never stop loving you
And I want to wake up with the rain
Falling on a tin roof
While I'm safe there in your arms
So all I ask is for you
To come away with me in the night
Come away with me***
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 2:22 AM UTC
I would sit on the back
Of my little red Pontiac
And sing you bluesy love songs
And strum on an old guitar
And ask you to join me in the back of my car.
But never mind.
I'm not musically inclined.
I think if I ever tried
A stunt like that I would die.
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 8:05 PM UTC
from the mud
a bluesy mood
bruisings coloured
in butterflies
fire flight
all but smoke
this choke
short circuited
words from
a hat
withdraw
the shorter straw
her fate
the cave
no translation
available
for the opacity
of that night
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
Mississippi, Mississippi River
rocking washed up young souls on the rocks of chemical throws
where i laid my feet and childhood from the shivers -- cold cold never.
oh life you made me think about the memories
and death you made me think about the could it be's
sunlight moonlight lovesight midnight tripping
bluesy tunes and muddy water anthems
fire pit light of this overwhelming
can not breath can not breath i'm falling
into my self into my heart i'm seeing
your faces twist they look so fake and ugly
and still the light is red and overwhelming
take it back here i'm back--
forever was just a moment.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 2:16 PM UTC
Patience, fate
Trees and treasures of kind
The tale of inclined sate
Has a sunny disposition, as if time
Care for a threshold of dissuasion another day?
Real regret, is the purpose behind our musings
Anger and delves of uniqueness, are to begin with may
A choice of shoulders, save itself for what patience looses...
Salt, is a final run to safety, a hug in the wind?
Curious speed, the irony of candor, to exist
Bred upon balance and the common, the tone of a new voice
That was a care, the towardness of you, an embarrassed list...
With no man's land, came the wish of potential
Sulking and denoted to be, the vice of remembering
The otherwise certain specific, the tongue of quintessential
Looks of responsibility for a question to guidance, sometimes humbling...
Will you marry me?
Places of blossoms, and the callous through and due, today
Of a quiet simplicity, for the anecdote of when boding is anarchy
Isn't a world of itself, the only reason a challenged voice, was anyway?
Persist and pout
The devil and the deed of the bluesy's...
Right to contain and contemplate another good intent, shout
Upon a caring rainbow found in the mere, all more, and me...
Oct 12, 2022
Oct 12, 2022 at 10:24 PM UTC
Some of us long to sing the blues.
We hear life sharply in those tunes.
The guitar sounds with lifes despair.
And whiskey takes you to the lions lair.
Ignorance bliss? That's what they say.
Sometimes I like to be that way.
Empty glasses distort the view,
And with the music I am subdued.
I listen deeply for what is true,
It's easy when you've had a few.
Oh heaven help the ones like me,
That sway to lifes bluesy key.
The bass guitar is right on cue.
Oh how I love to sing the blues.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 6:56 PM UTC