"cline" poems
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
Betty Coutu drives a mean Rambler
takes us public school, heathens
to catechism on Saturday morn
Smokes a cigarette like a prima-ballerina
Shifts three on the wheel
drives that clutch to the floor
with her thick leg
Makes the engine roar
a little
“to warm it up”
Turns with the grace of swan
Pavlova or belladonna
Something of beauty
just to watch her
three-finger the wheel through a turn around
all while taking a drag
exhales to ceiling
to music on the radio
Elvis? Roy O, Patsy Cline
circa 1959
Betty's hair is short, uncombed
but she's not without lipstick
lights her smoke with amazing matchbook skills
Calm
like a woman who does it often
takes on wear
with I'm in love, and I don't give a care
She shifts and turns
cigarette balanced like gossip on lips
or between
those first two fingertips
Smoke swirling
amid kids squabbling and whining
in the back seat
No belts back then
till Dad got home
to keep them in line
But, I bet on Betty every time
to get us there
I want to drive like her, so badly!
I sit beside her-- ossified
watching
her smoke and handle
like a total expert
I am distracted
and will surely fumble
my catechism answers
for the nuns
cataclysmically
She drops us off by an icy foot slide
I swear to God to stop back later when we're done
...with prayer and penance
recitation... and resolvings
to sin no more
Once we're out the door--
back to that forbidden foot-slide
Always had a plan for fun
So did Betty's son
the hemophiliac
Bless myself like an Olympian
and pray for Johnny
before he joins me for a run
hemophilia:
a medical condition in which the ability of the blood to clot is severely reduced, causing the sufferer to bleed severely from even a slight injury. The condition is typically caused by a hereditary lack of a coagulation factor, most often factor VIII.
Mar 24, 2019
Mar 24, 2019 at 7:31 PM UTC
There's a little boy
crying out into the night,
His mother's arms
hold him tight,
He puts his head
on her shoulder,
Nightmare dreams,
They disappear,
With a shudder he begins to feel,
a little sanctuary
so near.
There's a homeless man
sleeping outside tonight
behind the mall,
His beard is long,
His hair is *****
He changed his clothes
in a thrift store
late last week,
the voices scream his name,
All he's looking for is
a little sanctuary.
There's a politician on
the stand
had *** with another man,
Tried methamphetamine
religion too,
Even hypocrites
are looking for
a little bit of sanctuary.
There's a woman on the road
tonight,
Two kids sleeping tight,
Johnny Walker's asleep
in front of the tv,
There's an internet
between her and her lover,
She turns up the music,
Patsy Cline's singing
Stand By Your Man,
All she's looking for, though, is a
little sanctuary.
The money's gone
the house is going,
The ***** is flowing,
The tears are rolling,
He steps outside
on the deck,
looks up at the stars,
Smokes a cigarette,
Looking for a little sanctuary.
Lover's up in a cabin loft,
twist and shout,
Grasping at straws,
Grasping each other,
Holding on tight,
For a moment of bliss,
Come on in,
Give'em a little sanctuary.
Insomniac mind,
Racing thoughts,
Won't shut off,
The days are long,
The nights are longer,
Every fear and dread,
Keeps raising their ugly head,
Quiet her thoughts,
She would if she could,
But all she can do is wait,
For a little sanctuary.
Soul survivor knocking on
the gate,
Waiting for the light,
Waiting for a world just right -
Putting away all sin and vice,
Hoping for a little sanctuary.
Garden Buddha sits on the path,
hands unfolded,
Quarter smile on his lips,
Serenity's smile,
Mastered the art of waiting
and just being,
A little sanctuary.
These poems I write tonight,
Words all tumbling
through my hand,
I don't know what I write them for,
I don't know where they go,
Where they land,
Only trying to see through
sanctuary's door,
maybe there's a little more,
A little bit left for me and you.
It can be so hard to find,
Maybe it's just a state of mind,
Sometimes so close
Sometimes so far,
We long for the day
to have the night,
We long for the night
to have the day,
But either way,
We're all just looking for
a little sanctuary.
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 10:51 AM UTC
Folksy blokes, like ya struttin’ ya thang
If you’ve come out of da Grand Ole Opry
But, won’t stay around for any old music sang
If it’s causing their head, to bob up and down and go all floppy
While rugged mountain men riding in some country rodeo
Can just step right up, to a Appalachia recording studio
Put down several tracks and become a worldwide pop star
They sing about hillbilly ways, while cogging or flatfooting from afar
Talking ‘bout wild hogs, gators, foxes & how so many more
Taste so great, using leftovers as bait & making real men roar
Old fables, told through pictures and patterns, upon knitted quilt
Even showing the feuding days of the Hatfields versus McCoys
From both sides of Tug Fork stream, with many unemployed
Although Asa and Devil Anse, said, ‘they hadn’t much guilt’
All because of a judge and 5000 acres of unusable swamp land
Once owned, by a close kissin’ cousin named, Perry Cline
Who didn’t even get any blood on his hand
They started a war, that could’ve been stopped
By a bottle or two, of good ole mountain moon-shine
Both clans almost wiped out, if last man standing had accidentally dropped.
Sep 26, 2019
Sep 26, 2019 at 10:40 PM UTC
and in the world of unknown,
the boy sat alone,
he was so much on his own,
and he wanted a friend so bad he was willing to make a clone,
and he thought more about making a friend in his mind,
because he didn't know his own cline,
and when he saw her,
chills went up his chine,
she made jaws drop,
and sweaty chins,
and you imaging what her love was like,
like raw sugar cains,
and you give me so many pains,
in all my veins as you come closer,
are you walking to me? does someone care?
do you want to stop being alone and be like, umm... pairs?
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 11:16 PM UTC
the place was *****
***** like only the South can be
i was drinking bud lights
drinking the daylight away
drinking the outside, and the noise, and the heat away.
i was sitting amongst several gray-haired men
and i knew i didn't belong, but
they didn't seem to know,
or care.
they had toothless sisters living in trailerparks in Alabama
they had sons they had not talked to in years
most had seen war and death and destruction.
"vietnam!" yelled a man in the corner,
and threw his prosthetic leg on the table
the men nodded their heads,
and mumbled in secret agreement.
they were all missing some body-part or another
i guess that's what made them whole.
outside, wild chickens were roaming the dusty parking lot,
pecking on cigarette-butts and empty beer-cans.
we laughed, we drank, and we hid our tears
and as the bar closed down, Patsy Cline was singing from the jukebox
or maybe that's just how i want to remember it.
"i'll be ****** if this ain't the greatest nation on the planet" i said
and they all agreed.
then we stumbled out into the night
a night filled with crickets and fire-flies
and the occasional fist-fight
all in all it was a fine night.
one for the record books.
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 3:43 AM UTC
..[O]..
:::::::and
:::::::::::::::::shy
some moths dare
hang around a light,
dim, peeping....a lone
terra cotta lamp........not
bright enough....to guide a
journeying mind.....through
some dark paths......one....two
more lamps could help stop the
tripping..... .on life's many humps,
it makes the air....stale......with sighs,
uncomfortably moist, with cold sweat
the window curtains are a shield, a weak
wall, pregnant with longing
and apprehension.......soon
it will collapse, more moths
will fly free........the fleeing
the healing.......could make
nights longer...........the air
staler...............in this dark
conquering.............silence
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Evening rain showers merge with the
humid air.......the strong scent of the
growing pine tree...the scarce light
the aroma of chicken, simmering
in a mix of vinegar, soy sauce
...............garlic and spices
penetrate my nostrils and
infuse the atmosphere,
and.....disconcert me
i'm taken back, i gulp
i salivate...a late solo
dinner awaits...glass
of wine.......beckons
i give in....i sit by the
garden table.......raise
my wine glass.......i say
"Cheers!"...........tonight's
.................not so full moon
..........is shy............and hazy
as i hum....Patsy Cline's, "Crazy."
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::Sunday moon, May 1, 2016:::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Sally
Copyright May 1, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 8:14 PM UTC
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Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 12:54 AM UTC
I got my guitar
i'm sittin' here
writing songs
and drinking beer
written nothing
you'd want to hear
really...nothing...squat
no one bugs me
working hard
the kids are
playing in the yard
the dog is sleeping
keeping guard
I've nothing...bupkiss...squat
I've got the writers block blues
can't write nothing...'cept bad news
I've got the writers block blues
got nothing to lose
while I've got the writers block blues
had some words
but no melody
not a **** note
has come to me
i'm writing
a silent symphony
I've got bupkis,, nada,,,squat
last one I wrote
wasn't mine
nice and easy
in three quarter time
turned out it was
Patsy Cline's
I've got bupkiss, nada, squat
I've got the writers block blues
can't write nothing...'cept bad news
I've got the writers block blues
got nothing to lose
while I've got the writers block blues
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 3:56 PM UTC
The atmosphere today was ****
Los Angeles County Dept. of Public Health
Communicable disease cline SPA 4
Many of them didn't want to be here
Some didn't even know they were here
And myself, well, I'm on my 7th ****
5th bottle of water, 10th patient
My lunch was barely going down
No **** just the fact
It' only 1p.m. here in LA LA LAND
Last time one of these crazy *****
Reached around my desk and called 9-1-1
I liked her, she had style
She said "SOMEBODY TRYNA **** MEH!"
What in the actual ****
She had been the only one in the room
I felt her pain.
Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 5:52 PM UTC
Anne came and left but I remember the sweet cider and the wood stove, the smell of her paints. She sings songs from Chicago, and brings to life the northern lights on the canvas, the wolves, the scenes. Her songs, the guitar she plays. She croons about damaged men and neglected love. Country and blues, telling me about the costume she has for her next bar song night, her singing partner will be a Patsy Cline look alike. Anne makes Saskatoon jam, tucks me in on the couch, and tells me stories.
We walk along the trails on the acridge, Anne tells me about plants we see, like the pea vine. She encourages me to climb the tallest trees. She hears me sing and sees promise, talent, a dream waiting to happen. She gets me into theater, one of the greatest gifts I've ever received.
She brings me flowers to my shows and I always find her in the big crowds.
I remember the painting, the beautiful field with billowing clouds lazily crossing the sky in the wind. It was in the apartment that she shared with her boyfriend. He had an awful temper and it took more than it should have for Anne to finally leave him.
She stayed with us for a while, a few lovely months before leaving.
It was a few years after she disappeared before I found the demo CD of Anne singing her country and blues. Sometime I just sit and play it on repeat, its a treasure, a gateway to all those memories.
Memories of a proud and beautiful woman who helped shift my life in the direction of art and creation. A woman who was there when I was an infant and when I was a child.
I love Anne and the memories she left in her wake. Anne came and left but I remember everything.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 10:43 PM UTC
I went down to my local bar
It was country music night
I sat and listened for a while
Then, called it a night
I didn't get the music
It was poppish, bubblegum
I finished up my beer and left
I wished I hadn't come
When did we lose Western?
When did Western cease to be?
They may call it Country music
But, it don't sound right to me
All I saw were baseball hats
On backwards I should stay
Kids were doing jello shots
And the "band" just couldn't play
They didn't sing of horses
Old Glory, or the West
They sang of drinking on a plane
And getting drunk and messed
When did we lose Western?
Where did Western go?
This isn't country music
It's something I don't know
On Tuesday I went back again
Open Mic night would be fun
I came in with my guitar
But, I didn't bring my gun
I got on stage and started out
Singing songs...all Western
I was the only one without a cap
I was wearing my old Stetson
When did we lose Western?
Where did Western cease to be?
This wasn't what I grew up on
It isn't right to me
Cowboys, farms and Johnny Cash
Willie Nelson, Patsy Cline
That is what I like to hear
That's the music that is mine
Next time I go in there
And it is Country night
I'm gonna ask "what country?"
And I'll end up in a fight
When did we lose Western?
When did Western cease to be?
This may be Country Music
But it don't sound right to me
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 11:22 AM UTC
Hot summer ending
In late evening listening
To loud Patsy Cline
© 2019 Jim Davis
Sep 12, 2019
Sep 12, 2019 at 1:30 PM UTC
Custom, tradition, and the twang of steel guitars
Strongly suggest I should embrace my station
As the woman done wrong,
Weeping quietly in some dark corner
At the Come On Inn,
Or, even better yet,
Wailing in a full, tear-stained voice.
Know this; I will not Patsy Cline for you,
Any man or moral of the story,
Nor will I indulge myself
In some country-crossover measure of revenge.
I will march into that bar,
And play that song for whoever on the jukebox,
Dancing without a trace of regret or malice
And I will leave that old roadhouse
In the same manner I will live
The rest of my days here on earth;
Head high, chin forward, shoulders straight
Alone or accompanied
As I—and I alone—see fit.
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 9:45 AM UTC
So far the ground appeared
never thought I would see again.
World seems so much nicer
from afar.
All it took was one sparkle
from one star.
Clouds swept through
and through--
a transparent bloodstream
casting me into delirium,
dancing the sky
carelessly.
But flight isn't my course,
I cline with
the wind's will
and wisp.
This descent
all too familiar.
I will not return to
what grips me down,
that which grips us all.
Let this coming clenching
have but one final victim:
My breath.
Allow my exhale
to rise in its departure
so it may stay
lost in the cloud,
a haven I forever seek.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 12:28 AM UTC
Another grey, rainy day
in Somerville
maybe that's why Patsy
Cline loops back
in baby's arm
bringing back Tom
ole Brentwood roommate shortly
after OJ murdered Nicole
and Bob who wrote the song
died in 2014 but it didn't
ripple through any brook
of our shared nook
Strange
Strange how we can only tell
stories with other peoples
stream
Strange how yours still in all
my dreams
How strange
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 9:08 AM UTC
The sign on the marquee says "Live Tonight",
But the lights they have been dimmed,
For the stage it will be empty,
And the curtains have been trimmed.
The plane was lost in Tennessee,
And the golden voice was stilled,
The disc-jockey held back the tears,
As he announced that Patsy Cline was killed.
Country stars and fans alike,
Were saddened by the news,
For a woman whose love of life,
Was to sing the country blues.
The Grand Ole Opry is silent,
At the loss of a good friend,
But the music from this country star,
Will last till time does end.
The sign on the marquee says "Live Tonight",
And Patsy Cline will sing,
For the lord so loved her beautiful voice,
That to heaven, Patsy, he did bring.
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 10:39 PM UTC
She says
She listens
To Patsy Cline
To pass the time
And I wonder
What it is
Now
That you will
Do
To pass time
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 10:19 PM UTC
(Audaci Favet Fortuna)
sum
are
won,
sum
are
earned,
some are,
funny, some
are burned
and the smoke is moved
heaven-
ward, with open hopeful hands,
cupping the wind,
like wings...
Sending the
remnant wishes
home giving
feet to dreams.
Sums lost, some cost
lives of the unfortunate,
inhale the wisp on the wind,
to guide, a way from the ashes,
and hot coals heaped on the heads of the guilty, inspiration from any source better not back an unlucky horse, a trifecta;
there is no handle on reality, there is no night dreams that succeed once exposed to the light of day traitor trials, and you think that once
you get on your knees to pray you will be stuck and stay that way, you your voice to the heavens, will be invisible smoke, a clear cold thermo- cline,
that there is no help there; but you'd be wrong; the choice you chose before you burnt your fortunes, fortune which favours the bold, a silent tattoo, not a noise until the needle hits a nerve.
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 12:39 AM UTC
That ragged blue couch
Is held together by nothing
more than habit.
You walk towards me,
a warm drink in hand.
The steam floats up, up, up,
twirling and dancing
like the ballerina in my old music box.
The window hangs open,
a summer breeze blows in.
The air is soft and blue,
cooling with each darkening hour.
Do you remember it so?
No?
It was the last summer before the funeral
and speeches, each word with less meaning
than the next.
It was the last summer of sun
and silence so sweet.
Of iced tea and long walks through the streets.
The last summer of fires and marshmallows,
and of Patsy Cline, oh so fine.
It was the last summer
on that old, blue couch,
a summer wind blowing,
with you there.
Mar 30, 2018
Mar 30, 2018 at 1:58 PM UTC
Bamboozle
Con
Hoax
Hoodwink
Delude. Deceive
Snooker
Mislead
Fake. Out
Dupe. Fool
String Along
Spoof Trick
Bluff. Burn
Jaded souls will concede
An Ex-lover cannot be believed
A dagger to the heart, To the core
Blow by Blow, keeping score
No middle ground in Sight
When both demand to be right
If you’re nursing a break up,
take the time to listen to these classics songs
Inspired songs
1) go your own way 1977
By Fleetwood Mac
2) she’s gone 1973
By Daryl Hall and John Oates
3) band of Gold 1970
By Freda Payne
4) sorry seems to be the hardest word
By Elton John 1976
5) how can you mend a broken heart?
By Al Green 1972
6) tracks of my tears 1965
By Smokey Robinson and the miracles
7) I Fall to Pieces 1960
By Patsy Cline
8) tears of a clown 1967
Smokey Robinson in the miracles
Mar 14, 2025
Mar 14, 2025 at 3:55 AM UTC
twas stupid
Buck whom
stump this
cline and
ways are
clear then
to hear
horror stories
confabulate his
sign into
a marking
he'll soon
come to
like in
this mire
that love
will aspire
Mar 30, 2018
Mar 30, 2018 at 4:34 PM UTC
I feel like Patsy Cline,
walking alone at midnight searching for her love.
Replaying the soundtrack of us over and over in my head.
Having too much fun taking showers together,
laughing our heads off on the couch.
Going for a drive and ending up in our spot overlooking the highway.
Early morning and late night trips to Tim Hortons, Waffle House and IHOP.
Listening to The Beatles, Daft Punk and Alt-J.
I wish I could remember the sound of your voice when you called me beautiful.
I wish I remembered what it felt like to be in your arms.
I wish I remembered your laugh.
However I do remember how proud, how elated, I was to be standing next to you.
You are sunlight and everything good in the world and everyone knew it.
I wish I knew if you missed me.
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 4:25 AM UTC
It's so nice to put my song book on the shelf again
.
Novelty
.
C+
.
Appointments
.
Sad and sleepy, Billie Holiday plays
.
What matters is that I love myself
.
And all of the children and all of the townspeople and all of the angels and all of me told him happy birthday
.
Don't play house
.
I feel like a failure
.
"One of the most dangerous things you will ever do in your life is actually listen"
.
I love the smell of white noise in the afternoon
.
Three sets of keys all piled into one
.
I don't want to be a maybe, I want to be a dream
.
Lovers?
.
Ke$ha concert
.
I trapped him in my hips
.
I never knew how bad I wanted to slow dance to Patsy Cline until it happened with him
.
I fold up the second time and put it in my pocket
.
Happiness
.
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 5:27 PM UTC
Luis was lured from the chicken coup
by a cold lunch meat sandwich
Luis who knew nothing of clothes or care
nor when to eat
nor what to do
nor who to love
Nor how to plead
nor what to say
Where does love go...
Sweet love...?
...for the boy
...become man
"mentally deficient"
of a Mom
"mentally deficient"
confined to the scraps...
in that hospital
of days...
such as they were
of cold and lack
of anything approaching care
____________
At a group home at last
with what was allotted, allowed
in a room of his own
A record by Patsy
played over and over and over again--
“Crazy, I'm crazy for feeling so lonely
I'm crazy, crazy for feeling so blue”
Why might-- your little heart be so broken?
Till the Sunlight came
in the woman
"The Mommy "
of dinners
and Christmas
and music
and showers and bedtime
Dropping your pants in the bank for attention of--
"Mommy"
whose scoldings you craved
whose lap was a pillow
for flicking your ear lobe
to smiles and giggles and singing
so desperately missed as she washed the dishes--
"Mommy"
of part time and sometime
of someone
who loved you
a while
while she could
in the aching of life
For what it meant for a minute
to Luis--
a lifetime of love in your voice
that the angels of heaven could never replace
so they envy
so you go
so she comes
to you Luis
a gift
of the God
who could never forget you
“I'm crazy for trying and crazy for crying
And I'm crazy for loving you”
To my daughter Phoebe, the bright and shiny one, for the time she gave in this group home.
Lyrics by Patsy Cline
Sep 23, 2019
Sep 23, 2019 at 9:43 PM UTC