"crooner" poems
The night sounds of fallen angels
Building stairways back to home
And the radio plays softly
Like a crooner left alone
As the night falls into the velvet shades
And beats down the bedroom door
Of all the visions that come to me
It's of one I'm hoping for
The postman closes up the station
And the buses get cleaned with rain
The asylum rests and barely breathes
As the countryside goes insane
Prophets speak of peace
On the dim hue of TV screens
Of all the moments that seem real
I still wait to watch my dreams
Imposed upon the westward wall
Are the silhouettes of weeping oaks
Swaying in the wind that talks
But they only tell me jokes
Swept beneath the silver stars
Sleeping on blanket clouds
Of all the space above me
I feel as if I can't get out
Headlights and passing trains
Sound like time passing by
Gone are the hearts inside
Like the years beyond my eyes
Sounds from the suburb city
Blow like sirens in my mind
Of all the thoughts within me
Only one freezes time
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 1:20 AM UTC
I'm not a writer... Or anything resembling that
I am just me... Sharing my words picked out from life's hat
I can't find the most accurate to say
So letters I dabble in various permutations
Layers of letters turn into words and come to play
Could call them journals, these text-laden creations
But I'm not a writer... Or anything resembling that
I am just me... Penning the words picked out of life's hat
I'm not a poet... Or anything mimicking that
I am just me... Relating experiences out of life's hat
I can't conjure poems... About anything or everything
Can't use my words to incite or inspire
These are just ideas and I just like rhyming
They are just experiences that fuel my fire
But I'm not a poet... Or anything mimicking that
I am just me... Spouting rhymes out of life's hat
I'm not an artist... Or anything pretending to be that
I am just me... Drawing scenes from life's hat
I can't sketch a portrait with a simple pencil
Can't put together an installation and call it art
I can paint fairly well; of which I have done several
I can draw out emotions and depictions from the heart
But I'm not an artist... Or anything pretending to be that
I am just me... Producing paintings out of life's hat
I'm not a musician.. Or anything fantastic like that
I am just me... Playing melodies from life's hat
I don't have the quality of voice to match that of a crooner
I can't play instruments that could earn a place in a band
I can sing in key without the help of a tuner
I enjoy music best with a guitar in my hands
But I'm not a musician.. Or anything fantastic like that
I am just me... Singing songs from life's hat
I'm not a writer, poet, musician or an artist...
I do a little of everything, not excelling at any one title
Although I wish to have everything clenched in one fist
All I ever really do is just dabble....
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 9:34 AM UTC
He was a poet,
She his poetry.
He was a crooner,
She his melody.
He was a painter,
She his masterpiece.
He was a monk,
She his inner peace.
He was a captain,
She his ship.
He was an admiral,
She his fleet.
He was a laddie,
She his missy.
. . .
. .
.
Now there's no more she.
Forlorn is he.
W e e p i n g.
G n a s h i n g.
W a n d e r i n g.
Stripped of...
"E v e r y t h i n g"
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 12:03 PM UTC
babbling bard's borrowed blabberpolished performers jibber jabberpinching published stolen cultureverse of a cuckoo, parrot, or vulture thespian thrush corally crowspilfered produce of past masters proseperfect posture, prancing croondotty damsels sigh and swoon shakespearian showman strutting stagesobtaining material from dead poets pagesstudious stealer's theatrical thirstrapturous robber, magpie of verse wisely walter mundane mittypoetical poacher prancing prettyempty shallow pretentious crookcrafty criminal compiling book robber of rhyme from archival shelfcopy-cat crooner can't do it himselfrouted teeth spout from mouth like a troutaudience wonder, what is he on about any question's? the laurete quizzedyes said one,...do you know where the bog is? this is a true story, i was there. and the **** concerned is the editor of poetry wales magazine. who told me that i should study other peoples work for at least five years before i put pen to paper. i promptly answered, .... too late butty, i've already published 3 books, and sold the lot (only locally mind, but did'nt tell him that). he read other peoples poems that night, that were converted from english to welsh, and no one round here speaks or understands welsh.
Mar 2, 2010
Mar 2, 2010 at 12:36 PM UTC
There's a guy dressed up as Freddie Kruger for Halloween
Freddie Kruger can't sing the high part during Eye Of The Tiger
I murmur something to my friend
Me: Freddie Crooner
My friend laughs more than he needs to
We aren't sure whose whiskey sour is whose anymore
My roommate doesn't want to sing in front of people
She'd rather hide in her glass and mingle with the ice
But I make her duet a Nirvana song with me
Which we scream and she starts having fun
The crowd claps with relief when we're done
Freddie Kruger offers me a fist bump
A group of sweet plump ladies takes turns singing love ballads
They all have pretty voices and work at Bubba Gump on the pier
The one that sang the Adele song is studying business
She tells me while we smoke outside during Wonder Wall
I sing nine minutes of Meatloaf
My voice cracks and growls like feedback
This guy buys me a shot afterwards
My throat is so dry that I have to drink it in tiny sips
This guy thinks me and my friends are fun
I duet Desperado with him and we knock over stools and laugh
He has clearly never heard the song Desperado before
Me and my friends invite the whole bar to sing an Aerosmith song together
I think that this may be the only way to really appreciate Aerosmith
I drive my roommate and my self back to our apartment
I'm drunk but I pretend I'm sober so she won't get scared
Then sometimes I laugh bizarrely to scare her a little bit
But always end up lying and reassuring her that I'm sober
We start talking about Lou Reed because he had died that day
I guess Lou Reed didn't like when people said RIP
Which I had written in my facebook status about him dying
I don't really care much because Lou Reed wasn't really a friend of mine
I just liked his music
And he never mentions in any of his songs anything
About people saying RIP
When we got to the bar the first thing I did
Was to look for a Lou Reed song to sing
But there weren't any
So I sang other songs instead
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 6:04 PM UTC
When he speaks, I hear the sound,
a president who's been around
speaking of the wife with cankle
not that she could care to rankle
Yo, BT, he fights for freedom
Rocky would be pleased to meet him
late at night when lights are lunar
on the road back home, a crooner
fools rush in, no longer Bing
the king of rock, old Pop can sing
a whispered line from any song
but suddenly I'm in the wrong
and one tough stooge I hear he bought a
tommy gun, and "why I oughta"
tell you something you don't know
it's Ahnold Schwanal ** dee doe
and then another voice will join
it's Raymond with his tenderloin
this sailor's gal has quite a name
he cooks his spinach in the same
a wealthy man on distant isle
who's wife is Lovey, makes me smile
Every single voice he's got
is good but when he's best it's not
the person he'll impersonate
but his own voice...it's getting late
but wait, there's more, but I am spent
on telling of the way it went
or so it goes and what'll come
the truth is, well, I love the ***
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 12:48 PM UTC
I always feel
where there are many people
love can easily happen
every meeting of eyes
will touch the soul
it makes you tremble
on the day of Valentine's day
the city is ecstatic and
in a kind of turmoil
the bars are full
coffee shops are out of seats
cheesy hotels are out of beds
the night is charged with sensuality
lovers embracing on a street corner
moist lips inhaling cheap love
the draft of it is
bouquets of fake roses
love codes sent out by cell phones
illusory lovers on the network
obsessively typing those exciting words
tapping and clicking and fiddling with
incredible flirtation
love was initially innocent and lovely
but then came the flowers
the chocolates
the money and power
fairy tales and fables
even a wolf can fall for a sheep
love has changed its tone
soul has changed its note
lips have changed colors
before the gold of the player
the voice of some crooner
is floating in the sound store
the same cry is heard
from thousands of hearts
"Baby please come back to me"
every minute and every second
becomes a burning thirst
middle aged lady on the last train
carefully holding her gift
holding with a certain devotion
smile on the corner of her mouth
seems to be telling a story of
romance that has not grown old
yet.
Nov 21, 2022
Nov 21, 2022 at 7:34 AM UTC
~for old, recovered, & new
tunes ‘n friends~
Lord I’m one…
<>
the lovely old tune ease on in,
infiltrating, harmonizing, my soul with
just-the-ice
of another
glorious
sunrise,
inching over the North Fork
soon enough, the body~mind continuum,
will ask me to slide~glide,
move over, make room
for a new tune,
here, asking you to call me,
if you need a friend, find place,
a chair & navy cushion,
to We observe as
one
mine own carnival of animals,
do their morning exercise,
jumping from here to crazy, squirrel~crazy,
the flitting flighty birds, back and frothy forthing,
pointless lyrically zooming from tree to tree,
their AM calisthenics
an ancient crooner sings of knowledge
of how lonely life can be, and I soft retort,
this morning forbids lonely, come to me,
you my dear ones,
who welcome me into your hearts…
kiss my words
with affection, stating
everything will bring a chain love,
a tear of joy,
& everything is and will be alright
yes there is something happening over here,
so when you ask,
what’s it all about Natty,
my reply is easy,
how sweet it is
to be with
you,
my words unrehearsed,
and I brim with
anticipation of Us together,
sipping our coffees,
giving Our silence to be
part & parceled out to the
superior quietude of our surroundings, where
the sounds, well,
they infiltrate our conjoined beings,
I think~sing-enjoy deeply,
that old tune
“Lord I’m One”
800am
Mon Aug 12
2024
by the Sound…
Aug 12, 2024
Aug 12, 2024 at 8:32 AM UTC
My father's old Cadillac,
"Betsy", was an old champagne color,
With fabric that hung from the roof
As Betsy carried us
From our small East Texas town
To a slightly bigger town that
Actually has a Luby's
Garrison Keillor's "Prairie Home Companion"
Is coming through the dulled speakers,
As it does every Saturday evening.
I lay my head against the cool glass of
My window in the back seat and
Close my eyes and listen to Keillor's
Crooner voice softly and gently take
Me to the shores of Lake Woebegone.
I loved the stories of Lake Woebegone
Before I knew it was not a real place.
Before I even realized the name
Was itself a pun.
I still do,
But back then I would listen
And imagine moving and
Living there one day.
My father eventually
Sold Betsy to the only
Place in town that would
Take her,
A junkyard.
I'm not sure what he saw
In that old Cadillac
But whatever it was
Stuck with him.
Betsy's hood ornament sits
On his mahogany desk in his office and
Overlooks the bay.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 11:22 PM UTC
Hound-dog swallowing poly-coated pills, filling up, bloated, falling off stage, and into a more permanent and lasting Graceland, to be surrounded by another’s verse.
I only enjoy what comes from my own head, a modern Samuel Johnson, no matter what happenstance brought about to be said, a cage free Bronson. Hearing false verse through a syllable count, hoisted onto adverbs easy to mount. Congratulate a lesser mind, reaching commonalities most could find. Ease in creation, opens floodgate doors, distributing specs of grace through misworded spores. Life, love, and the pursuit of vanity, leaves simplified lumps of prosperous thought riddled with anonymity. The invention of despair overwhelms those ungifted, and leaves them erecting stale forgeries they grifted.
In the wee small hours of escaping light, a crooner steadies his hands as he falsifies his originality, reading off the music from another’s sheet.
A change in topic is something to hold as worthy, though in a modern context of prosaic prose, such good fortune can be exceptionally elusive. Broken hearted symptoms shared through a hash-tag, rerouted and worded, to fit an illiterate youth’s lesser diction, reposted to approach validity, only to be called forth as an original soul, one to revere, and hold as an entitled fraction of logic.
The piano man knocks out a tune, hit in stride with vocal conduct, inspired and laid in pen by a lesser man propelled by better wording, given up for another’s career.
Market’s over-saturated with teenage sonnets, weeping over cut wrists, ended (Victorian inspired) trysts, refreshed and brought back around until sentimentality vomits. Themes used to run rampant with fresh ingenuity, made extinct, occurred in a blink; now every poem has some congruency.
The grapevine got entangled, getting involved with a troublemaker, providing the soundtrack, using another’s words.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC
He sings
And she loves him more deeply
He croons
And lulls her in peace
A bard
Who sings for his Goddess
His voice
Keeps her heart skipping beats
He speaks
In hushed tones of a lover
He watches
With love in his heart
He sees
The joy that he brings Her
He knows
That they'll never part
He can't
Understand how he moves her
He'll sing
'Til she tells him to cease
His voice
Like a choir of angels
She swoons
Inhibitions release
He sings
And she loves him more deeply
He watches
With love in his heart
A bard
Who sings for his Goddess
He knows
That they'll never part
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 6:44 AM UTC
"Oh, I've finally got you right here
Tonight I'll ease your mind,
That's why I'm calling on you
and ooh,
soft your love's desire
it's hard to stay away
you keep me calling on you"
I could walk upon these words again and again
maybe that flew over your heads,
that was the bridge my friends
and after all this time he probably thought he was dead and forgotten
but listen here that "ooh"
of a crooner that simply learned it from you
resuscitated a gem from the archive just to prove
that your song made an impact.
Not just the sample but the words themselves live on in a tribute to you
and I was just one of those kids who loved those songs about love
you know because I'd imagine I'm the one singing to her like:
"baby you,
my darling only if you knew
these things that you do
when your simply smiling for me
but even more you
bring illumination to my days
when the skies aren't the right hue of blue
like the blessing of the sun's rays
after it's rained a few days
you, always seem to pick up my mood,
and I can do nothing but thank you
and show you how much you mean to me".
Just a few lines to describe a groove
a song to hold her tight and slow dance to
maybe a light a fire, just romance boo
because when the chorus comes around
I'll be all up in your ear like,
"Oh, I've finally got you right here
Tonight I'll ease your mind,
That's why I'm calling on you
and ooh,soft your love's desire
it's hard to stay away
you keep me calling on you"
~Just Another Reason To Adore The Art~
[Inspired by the music of Jon B.'s: "Calling On You" and Drake's: "Cameras/Good Ones Go Interlude"]
Written By: James Desire
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC
I stroll along a fragrant country lane
With honeysuckle perfume on the air -
And feathered crooner's warble to revere -
Then cross a golden sea of flowing grain
In empathy - it seems to sense my pain
Of knowing all was done with my affair -
Her empty meaning now the solitaire
She cast away - betrothment all in vain.
But oceans team with many fish to catch
So I must up and hoist another sail
And seek the one that really waits for me,
For soon auspicious breezes will prevail
In guiding forth to find a truer match:
The one to take my hand as wife to be.
Mark R Slaughter
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 9:33 AM UTC
No brazen sign
On his smartphone,
No token of friendliness!
What portable solitude,
What mobile loneliness!
© LazharBouazzi, Carthage, May 20, 2016
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 6:44 PM UTC
the fast car evaporates into the inky darkness
like a hazy thought
in the summer night
like a fervent wish to endure
it rides some backroad near the county line
with some stratocaster echoing sweetly
and a crooner of these latter days
sing-talking bout all some love he had stumbled upon
in the backwoods of childhood
and the flame that endures in his soul for her sweet hand
this song fills the air of the empty road
as the fast car
plymouth grey with primer
her wheels spinning on the dust road
the river run by the metro north tracks
the stratocaster hits the end of its song
but some part of you just wants that song
to go on forever
you just want that midnight run to last forever
cause shes there with you
and she has smiles for you alone
your just like that stratocaster looking for
the opening notes of that song
that'll last forever
that'll be on her lips
be her song
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 9:51 AM UTC
i get that change is meant to hurt, to push
and pull at all of those bits that need it
i understand that i made the choices i had to,
that i'm strong, and that i live life for myself-
but the truth remains, none of this feels like love
i wake up cold and sweating, the echoes of you
bouncing around the room
sometimes i wish that folding was as easy as it seemed,
that we could climb back into my princess bed
and fight the chills with our body heat, that you
would wake me with kisses on my eyelids before
you caught the early bus to work, that you'd
hold my waist and dance barefoot with me as i
whispered old crooner songs to you in my kitchen
instead my backbone bends, but somehow the
weight of this loss doesn't break it
i know you go on living, but it's hard to define
what you're doing as life, i worry always that
the unknown number is someone calling to tell
that you've finally lost your physical self,
just as you lost your spirit so long ago
my strength isn't made for two, just me,
even though i lent it to you each and every
time your eyes became glued to the floor and
your body shook so much you lost your sense of self
i know now that i'm no jesus, that lover isn't
synonym for savior, that i did everything i could
there is no reassurance in reinvention, you see,
this time around i already know who i am,
the decision was long and labored, but came
about without question or hesitation
comfort doesn't come just because i could
see the fissure coming, instead the pain
is slow and deliberate, a dull ache in my bones
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 1:12 AM UTC
Zace crooned something
about rocking her gypsy soul,
back in the days of old.
I get it man.
I get it you rocking crooner,
I feel as free
as I'll ever be.
And I feel that way,
everytime
I rock her soul.
She's that hot.
Thanks Zac.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 12:18 PM UTC
~for old, recovered, & new
tunes ‘n friends~
Lord I’m one…
<>
the lovely old tune ease on in,
infiltrating, harmonizing, my soul with
just-the-ice
of another
glorious
sunrise,
inching over the North Fork
soon enough, the body~mind continuum,
will ask me to slide~glide,
move over, make room
for a new tune,
here, asking you to call me,
if you need a friend, find place,
a chair & navy cushion,
to We observe as
one
mine own carnival of animals,
do their morning exercise,
jumping from here to crazy, squirrel~crazy,
the flitting flighty birds, back and frothy forthing,
pointless lyrically zooming from tree to tree,
their AM calisthenics
an ancient crooner sings of knowledge
of how lonely life can be, and I soft retort,
this morning forbids lonely, come to me,
you my dear ones,
who welcome me into your hearts…
kiss my words
with affection, stating
everything will bring a chained love,
linked by tears of pearl drop-down,
a necklace of joy,
& everything is and will be alright
yes there is something happening over here,
so when you ask,
what’s it all about Natty,
my reply is easy,
how sweet it is
to be with
you,
my words unrehearsed,
and I brim with
anticipation of Us together,
sipping our coffees,
giving Our silence to be
part & parceled out to the
superior quietude of our surroundings, where
the sounds, well,
they infiltrate our conjoined beings,
I think~sing-enjoy deeply,
that old tune
“Lord I’m One”
800am
Mon Aug 12
2024
by the Sound…
Aug 12, 2024
Aug 12, 2024 at 4:28 PM UTC
Dear Poet friends, kindly listen to Alan Dale's song 'Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White' - available on the 'You Tube' for free! Thanks, - Raj.
A TRIBUTE TO ALAN DALE :
Prince Of Baritones (1925 – 2002)
Long, long, ago, as the story goes,
A cherry tree had grown next to an
apple tree!
And underneath them a boy had met
his bride to be!
As he looked into her blue eyes, the
breeze began to blow,
And blossoms fell on their heads gently
so.
And as he held her tight, the branches of
both the trees got intertwined!
And ever since then it has been said,
On a full moon night, when young lovers
meet,
Under that Cherry and Apple blossom tree,
One can hear Alan Dale the crooner’s voice,
singing, “ Cherry pink and apple blossom
white”, -
Echoing through the moonlight night!
-Raj Nandy
Notes:
*Alan Dale, the Prince of Baritone from the 1950s, became popular for two of his all time hits of 1955; ‘Sweet and Gentle’ and
‘Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White’! The last three lines of his famous song, has been modified by me as way of a compliment!
Born in Brooklyn, NY, his parents had migrated from Italy. He had featured in TV reality shows & movies with Bill Haliey and his Comets! After a Mafia attack in 1958, his career went gradually on a back slide! But his evergreen song survives!
** ALL COPYRIGHTS RESERVED BY RAJ NANDY**
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 1:52 PM UTC
When we parted,
it split my soul in two,
half of me was so in love,
the other half was through!
Sara~
Please. don’t talk about me when I’m gone,
Even if the things I said were wrong.
You know my heart was true and this love belonged to you,
So ~ please don’t talk about me when I’m gone.
When you’re feeling lonely, sad and blue,
You know this lonely heart belonged to you.
You know my heart was true and this love belonged to you,
So ~ Please don’t talk about me when I'm gone.
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 3:29 PM UTC
Living near the ocean should inspire happiness,
remaining caged in my bedroom,
I hear the ocean call my name.
A siren draped in golden satin with red lips,
she combs my hair for awhile.
Moves her hips to an old crooner's song,
that plays in my mind-
the sun is so full of **** so full of lies.
Telling me, "I'm gonna be fine."
Why's it always in my eyes?
Everything’s just "fine" for the sun,
loved by everyone.
She is mocked by its presence,
she does what you wanna do.
Sings a solid hymn with the understanding
in life,
nobody wins.
The siren kissed my hand while,
taking pins out of her hair.
She unfurls the waves of an ocean-
revealing a black case with red felt
in her arms.
And she sang,
"The sun will come,
I will melt."
Red felt held
two ethereal stones.
"Sweet sadness cannot be escaped,
you are not fine,
this was only ever fate"
I've tied the stones around my ankles,
the brush is in my hand.
I feel the coolness of her hair in my palms,
my hands wince from the pressure upon
my face.
The sun is just a lesson never learned.
Feel the sadness lift,
before I can rush ashore,
it's too late.
"Come
sweet sadness cannot be helped,
you are not fine,
this was only ever fate."
Jul 26, 2017
Jul 26, 2017 at 7:52 PM UTC
Too much information
and my mind goes Crash!
a crouching canvassed crooner
bracing for the Splash!
Kept alight, at bay at night
to hone a zone of Vision.
Clarity ablaze despite
this Schism o' division.
Engrossed in battle weary thought
Art of War, ideally fought
We ring a ring o' roses,
Hang a wreath upon Death's door.
Inibriated image in a former
blurry self-defensive, nearest Sight
Autopilot megalotross
Keep it real and run it tight!
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 10:20 AM UTC
Mrs Oldham
on the slow train
to the castle
held your hand
between her thigh
and yours
beneath her coat
although it was summer
and the day was hot
in case some one saw her
and told her husband
hey I saw your old lady
with some young guy
holding hands
but no one did
and as you walked
around the castle later
listening to the guide
looking at pictures
and furniture
and suits of armour
you couldn’t get out
of your mind
the picture of her
taking you home
while her husband
was working
and her dog barking
and her saying
shut up Napoleon
he’s here as a guest
and taking your jacket
and sitting you down
on the sofa
and offering you drinks
and talking of babies
and how her husband
didn’t want them
and all he wanted
was the *** side
and the *****
and cigarettes
and you sat there
thinking of how tight
together her **** were
under her pink top
and wondering
how she made love
and if she enjoyed it
as she brought you
coffee and sat beside you
her hand on your thigh
rubbing it upward
and downward
all the while talking
some music playing
some crooner
called Como
or some such guy
and her lips on your neck
******* and kissing
you wondering
what her husband was doing
and what he was missing.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 2:29 AM UTC