"duets" poems
we smoked our cigarettes
and belted out car duets
never listened to any advice
figured trial and error would suffice
we ate past when we were full
and felt life's strange alluring pull
but we learned it was never enough
to sit back and relax and love
you can't repeat the past, Gatsby
I wish someone would have told me
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 9:47 PM UTC
(To my sisters and brother)
I will always miss …
Our sunset ending quarrels
Our never-ending teases
Christmas’ shared carols
Warm hugs
Through sweet gazes
The sarcastic smiling faces
The growing-up races
Revenge taking chases
Greed over goodies to be hidden
In unpredictable places
And I will always miss …
Competitions and crazy bets
Singing hilarious duets
Of made-up songs in the shower
This innocence
Of our childish humor
Screamed from a room to another
That art of tricking eachother
To cleverly stay in control
Or wrestling over the remote control
And I will always miss …
Decades of shared history
Amplified joy and divided misery
Bursts of laughter on old tapes
Creatively imagined games
Of whirlpools in drapes
And goalkeeper leaps
Random costume parties
Daily role-play stories
Sega sagas from dusk to dawn
Alliances and conspiracies
Sisters, my lovely sisters
Wise, you have become
Loving wives, caring mothers
Soon, you will become
Make sure your kids relive
What we used to live
Their uncle will make you proud
Just like you fill him with pride
Brother, dear brother
I secretly looked up to you
As I grew older
I kept resembling you
It doesn’t matter
If you’re a little far
Brotherhood’s a matter
Of unbreakable bond
And I will always admire, respect, love and cherish …
Every single one of you
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 12:06 PM UTC
There's nothing wrong with la la land,
But,
For me,
It is a reminder that there just aren't movies like that,
For me,
That display my love,
Accurately.
I don't get,
Musicals,
Or duets,
Or colorful sets,
I don't get pretty dresses,
Twirling in an over head shot,
I get over sexualized,
And movies,
That are not,
Actually,
For me.
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 2:16 PM UTC
After ***
Abela
likes to lie
in the bed
listening
to duets
from that guy
Puccini
-I get us
some coffee
from the small
kitchenette-
isn't it so
romantic?
She asks me
from the bed
sure it is
but what are
they singing
about it's
foreign words
I reply
carrying mugs
to the bed
where she lies
**** naked
invitingly
words are words
it's the sounds
that move me
she tells me
I put mugs
on both sides
of the bed
on small side
cabinets
I climb back
into bed
Puccini's
getting her
in the mood
she eyes me
runs fingers
down my thigh
kisses me
on the lips
on the chin
on the cheek
my pecker
stirs himself
from slumber
not knowing
what hour
day or week.
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 1:33 AM UTC
There’s a concert in my back yard
solos and duets all day
a circus with acrobatics
clowns painted with reds, blues and browns
just feet from my perch
here as I peck on the keys
the stars fly in
then flit away with ease
as if to tell me:
you can’t hold me long
with your seeds and your eyes
we are free to dive the skies.
May 12, 2022
May 12, 2022 at 9:31 AM UTC
A sun, shinning through looking glass
Broken pieces of me are glowing with remorse
Can you tell, how lovely tea leaves are singing
Duets with crows and ravens
Everything shines in glory, shines in regrets
Falling in reverse, crying in reverse
Gone are the ghosts, gone are dreams
How lovely are the birds' beaks
Integrating with the sea's edge
Joining the dead ships and shells
Keeping the diseases, keeping the rain
Low sounds, do you remember how it felt when we said goodbye?
Melodies discharging tears from their eyes like a funeral's crowd
No more remorse, no more regrets
Opening their mouths but the words are trapped like birds in cages
Pills are choking them, stuffing their bodies
Quite was the day, loud was the night with screams from within
Run for your life, or run for your death
Sick were my dreams, sick with my insanity
This birdsong, it's haunting you, haunting me
Under pressure, under which gate is the key?
Vaulted were their smiles, like an ancient city
With sorrow it is, vaulted is the gate to you
Xeroxing my needs, every inch of my pride
You have set my soul on fire, I'm burned to the ground
Zonked out, exhausted by the lies that lingered through your skin, through mine.
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 7:06 PM UTC
I want to move on,
But I am stuck.
Stuck on the memories.
Stuck on what could've been.
Stuck on wondering what went wrong.
Stuck on wondering what more I could've done.
I am stuck on the way you made me laugh.
I am stuck on the way you held my hand.
I am stuck on the way you held me in your arms, as we gazed up at the stars on a cold December night.
I am stuck on our roadtrips and our perfectly imperfect duets.
I am stuck on who you empowered and encouraged me to be.
I am stuck on how you made me feel and who you were when I was falling in love.
Now, I see you,
And every time I do,
My heart breaks all over.
I see you talk to everyone else in the room, and bit by bit I fall apart inside.
I see you with other girls, encouraging them the way you did me at the beginning.
I see you moving on, completely unstuck,
Completely unphased by the torment I am in.
You made me genuinely happy.
Happier than I've ever been.
And I can choose to be joyful
and patient
and kind
and humble
and good,
But happiness is stuck in the past with you.
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 12:06 AM UTC
.*i can think of one cool job... a nighttime DJ on a radio station... anything more cool than being a DJ between the hours 12am through to 5am? honestly... can't think of a cooler job... all the song requests are gone from the classical.fm show between 3pm and 5pm... now one is telling you what to do... **** me... as a kid... either a veterinarian, or an owner of a music shop... now? an insomniac DJ... they would never play Christopher Young's Something to Think About in the afternoon... sorry... i'm a Hellraiser cult-follower of the first two movies... and that song? why? i just can't be bothered with listening to that Braveheart over-scratched Song of / for a Princess... it's good... once in a while... but, come, on!*
just one of those nights...
having listened to the scoops
from the alternative...
worried your to hell
about not having *******
enough concerning
the previous day's load
which would make the pleasures
of **** *** look tame...
perched on a windowsill -
solving a sudoku -
and listening to
Frank Zappa's occam's razor...
and wishing:
making sure it was never
hot in the city
by Billy Idol,
or Kiss' crazy nights
to usher in the night,
and the watchman...
why?
it's not your standard
guitar solo...
it's a medley...
big difference...
guitar solos are bound to
a strict return to the rhythm
section...
they are caged beasts...
composed of a restricted
time constrain in a song...
but a guitar medley?
**** me...
it's what obliterates
a need for vocals...
the guitar medley is
the vocals substitute...
and that aspect of music?
mm... gummy bears...
jelly in the knees...
which is why i like
the fact that jazz is the antithesis
of classical music symphony...
sure... i get the Schubert / Schumann
piano duets...
nice...
but jazz?
the breakdown of the quintet?
**** let me count...
piano, drums...
bass... horn... sax...
yep, a quintet...
that moment in a jazz
song? where each instrument
player gets his solo?
genius!
the same with a guitar medley...
neither solo,
nor the rhythm section...
what a beautiful opening
to what i expect to be,
a beautiful night:
as the watchman once said.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 6:34 PM UTC
Pellets of rain pestered the cotton swagged
sky, cloudy purses grew black with scowls
coldly spelling their injustice. A chapter of
sunrays shot shamesless shards, irony perched
between chaperones; a truce maybe, rains restless
pathways of rays bleating their appeal, rooming in,
black balaclavas, rooting for blue beams,
itching bony beads of cloudy sweat, out of reach
In turn, limbs colour coated grassy spaces
tides of sun worshippers laughed out loud
their inner duets, hand in hand the sweltering
dance floor bathed them, sidling cotton clouds
Swiftly passing the sunscreen, laying back, beckoning
the sun from beneath neatly positioned cloud baubles.
Within an inch of our lives the splodges began, light
heavy, heavier, to the swell of April in full tune
Instantly the greedy green spaces groaned, ejected
sweet harmony, rolled out goodbyes, tongued stiff
breeze longing for its thirst to be quenched, and so
torrents rushed in where fools once lay
A lonely sunscreen bottle, remnant of warm
minds soaking heat, long days teasing into belief.
Yet April fooled us once more with beguiling banter,
chorused a chanting cheating lullaby of lamentation
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 1:04 PM UTC
Summer rainbow ribbon still stretches in the blue rain
As green snakes dance to the tune of charmer’s jazz flutes
Blue butterflies chase velvety bumblebees singing duets in vain
Summer laughs around red velvety roses and green fruits.
As green snakes dance to the tune of charmer’s jazz flutes
Summer ends her path over meadow, with a dream of green
Summer laughs around red velvety roses and green fruits
Moon shines behind the barrier of cloud's fence, as a queen.
Summer ends her path over meadow, with a dream of green
Into the autumn's sky with puffs of cotton clouds and floating light
Moon shines behind the barrier of cloud's fence, as a queen.
And dancing green shadows sprites appear all round the sight.
Into the autumn's sky with puffs of cotton clouds and floating light
Blue butterflies chase velvety bumblebees singing duets in vain
And dancing green shadows sprites appear all round the sight.
Summer rainbow ribbon still stretches in the blue rain.
Dec 19, 2011
Dec 19, 2011 at 2:54 PM UTC
Cool kid euphoria with our pastel colored pants and our Raybans on is what we all are in the basement of the 50’s house.
Our phones blowing up while we sip whiskey and wine.
Trying to get the attention of the cars on the main road
By handstanding and flashing and cheersing our beers
And we receive our victorious honks.
Guitar clock radio with numbers around the fretboard and Sir Paul smiling and crooked, acid-trippin’ guitarist/violinist/celloist looking product of orange and gold look down upon as our patron saints.
Swingin’ low, Sweet Chariot words stares up at me from the 70’s floral carpet.
Ralph Stanley and Eric Clapton singing solos and duets in my head keep me company as the boys play and figure out key changes.
Painted screen hiding the Etta James microphone stands forgotten in the corner—
As I take in the teals and roses and golds.
Give me a heart shaped box where I can store my love
I fly so high in the world above
I’ll come back down eventually.
Lava lamped water stain engulfs the ceiling. As fingers go up frets
And they go down frets
And they go up frets
And they go down frets.
As you don’t enunciate when you sing.
We all mourn our fallen brethren, the base of the telecaster with no strings and no head and it weeps silently from its place on the water pipes, hearing his cousins WAAAIIIIILLLLLL.
As Cool kid euphoria is created with our pastel colored pants and our Raybans on in the basement of the 50’s house.
We work all day so we can drink all night
Getting high off the drug that is each other
Chain-smoking Pall Malls like it’s our job
Listening to oldies as we shoot the eight ball in the corner pocket.
Garden tools and Lawn Mower parts as a sweet, creepy décor in the dank basement
As we breathe in mold and dust and cigarette smoke.
We are gloriously young.
So **** off.
We still think we can change the world.
Not through politics or through fear or by means of war
But by doing just enough to get by and loving everybody for who they are, even the parts or religions or particular ways of life we don’t like,
Because people aren’t what they do or what they believe
They’re who they are.
We still think we can change the world
And Maybe one day, we will
But for now
We’ll just be here,
In the basement of the 50’s house with our pastel colored pants and our Raybans on.
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 11:38 AM UTC
And when that love song came on we both knew.
You weren't thinking about me,
and I wasn't thinking about you.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 6:26 PM UTC
She is a girl
She has two sisters, a dog
And a pair of worn-out headphones in her pocket
She is fifteen
She plays violin in the school orchestra
And sings duets in the sun
She is left-handed
She’s also pansexual
(Just thought you should know)
<><><>
She is a girl
(A different girl, mind you)
She has bright hair and dark eyes
And a sky of freckles spanning her body
She is a netball player
She listens to everything that’s said
And laughs at everything in response
She is an Aquarius
Her girlfriend is an Virgo
(Is this what they call diversity?)
<><><>
He is a boy
He is on the males’ baseball team
And recites prophetical speeches in the dugout
He is an early riser
He likes old-fashioned comedy movies
And his favourite colour is either orange or black
He is graduating next year
He’ll finally get to ask his school’s star pitcher to prom
(Finally is the right word)
<><><>
‘She’ is a boy
(A different boy, mind you)
‘She’ lives in the countryside
And travels 2 hours to campus each morning
‘She’ is a realist
‘She’ studies human relations
And has wanted to visit Rome since 'she' was eight
‘She’ is a part-time barista
‘She’ prefers the pronoun ‘he’
(No big deal if you forget though)
<><><>
They are people
They have people they love
And people who love them
They are people
They may have changed to you
And yet they haven’t changed to themselves
They are people
They are still people
<><><>
(Just thought you should know)
<><><>
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 9:33 AM UTC
Stubborn boy
Let loose the shackles of your smile
This world is far too holy for you to
Hide that half halo of your grin
The sound that comes in the crumbling
Of your childhood is the same one
That speaks in the secret wanderings
Of your soul
So listen close
When we walked around
The old bronze heart of this city
I wish you could hear
The rising pitch tuning
Of your veins as it readies
You to perform inside the
Same arena as a thousand
Broken down Cleopatras
Playing with snakes
Stubborn boy
Succumb to the silver smile
This city speaks in
A language I will never know
I am a scholar
That studies only the whispered
Tongues of crescent streetlamps
But you
You can learn all the languages
That have ever crashed into the moon
Close that book you have buried you eyes in
And in this city plant
The waiting bud of your billowing heart
So it can blossom like flames of windswept cherry trees
While there are still days left in spring
Stubborn boy
They taught you how to sing
And you memorized the melodies
Of such foreign stars
Open the cannon of your throat
This world is a two bit theater
That buries bodies
In the same seats they were born
But you
Son of a thousand
Secret subway duets
Will one day find yourself
Sitting next to the soul of this city
And she
She will ask you to sing for her
And you
You will learn why the tides chase the moon
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 8:19 PM UTC
My neck is cricking and so are the crickets outside.
The bike rack shuffle, the dance of the bars and wheels.
The knuckles dancing- mini solos and bold duets?
Cars driving by, up in my room, so fluid, so loud.
Hard to swallow, gravel chunks bouncing off the waterfall throat.
Sticky fingers, itchy ears.
No similarity- just parts of the process.
The marriage.
The system.
Massive zits and oddly placed hickeys.
Misplaced zits and famous hickeys.
Hickets.
**** water, stubbed toe.
NO MORE LISTS!
No bruises, no needles and pins.
But what is poetry without listing?
Words that work and form and portray, nothing gray-
Light and beauty and all that is write about the word.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 3:24 PM UTC
on the ruined side of town
from an old unsettled score
1970s melodies drift
shadowlines shift
in love's unfinished war
lay the greatness of your time
in a hollow bend by a tree of skin
and bones
under air tides of sea
and summer duets
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 12:18 AM UTC
Twisting and turning
with phantom grace,
the apparition moves
through the waste of space.
Chanting and humming,
a voice carries through.
The walls are too thick,
it couldn't be you.
Listen for the knocks.
One, two, and three.
They grow from soft to loud,
They were meant for me.
I could feel the presence
sink into my bones.
I transport to solitude,
a place full of unknowns.
The walls are thin here
and shadows move on their own.
The room is empty,
but the silence does not mean alone.
Breathing could be heard
but was it mine? I'm not sure.
The chanting starts again,
the sound of the voice is mature.
With timid breaths I sing
to the spirits surrounding me.
The strength must come now
so I can just be.
The essence of the song
would rip my mind to bits
for the Phantom sings of misery
in these ghostly duets.
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 1:02 PM UTC
you're different.
for some unknown reason.
when i see you
i just get this sudden urge to
joke around with you
sing duets with you
or simply just talk.
there's just something about you
that drives me to feel things
i've never felt before.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 11:09 AM UTC
Of nature's pairing hearts that love renowned
shall I compare the depths of those duets
to virtues won, betrothed and then have bound
this noble cause and gift, that none forgets.
As doves through ether, we ascend delights
no frost shall haze the wings on truest path
tho' wind and rain befits the winter nights,
near maple leaves we warm; as singles bath.
The Swans devout will glide the lakes unknown
we two abound, prevailed by mantras vows
and when apart in bevy we have flown
shall wait till night when lovers dance allows.
As rare as diamonds forged for cupids' stone
is love we found alike - the emblems own.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 12:55 PM UTC
nerves eat away the confidence I have left,
little butterflies trying to escape,
knowing what a desperate soul I am.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 3:58 PM UTC
And when the time dwindles,
and that same body stumbles,
your world all around you
may not or may crumble.
A love-keeper's journal,
written with lust
is not a love journal at all,
bound by false trust.
But no trust
doesn't mean lies.
Maybe misunderstanding
or a misread eye.
Birthed into routine
and taught by repetition.
Opened up hearts
with new intuition.
Raised in a world
where everything is expected,
and anything different
is highly disrespected.
How much is enough?
Whether gentle or rough,
when your time is spent
and you're done being tough.
Who will spend your time?
Whether negative or right,
in the future or past,
it will be in your sight.
But can one ever-changing soul
just settle down?
Does one choose a favorite song,
and ignore all other sounds?
You may never be different,
but may never be the same,
and to find one person
with one certain name,
Would you be content,
never turn away?
Is it so wrong to wonder?
We swing and we sway.
From one love to another,
from hours to days,
I linger indifferent,
to so many things.
Love is love is love,
and we share it aloft.
Is three such a crowd,
in a bed that's so soft?
From partner to parody,
repeat, and repeat,
we go from one to another,
retreat, and retreat.
Back to square one,
alone all along,
but in the months to come,
love like a song.
Some are sick of duets,
and some like to stand alone,
and some like to see many,
and some like to see clones.
A triangle of fun,
an octagon of plays;
A partnership hole,
with so many days.
You lust what you must,
and you think what you might.
You go with your trust,
and you follow your light.
A variety of comfort,
spread across the globe,
with people being human
and that's how it goes.
Some have no idea,
and live inside the box.
Some see the sticky tape
but would rather see not.
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 10:43 PM UTC
in infancy,
vienna waited for me.
before bedtime,
i stood on my father’s feet
and put my tiny hands
in his large ones
as we danced around the livingroom
to billy joel.
i learned to read at two;
while young, my father taught me
how to gently set a record on the turntable,
move the arm, set the needle down
and i read the lyrics, memorizing:
war child, dark side of the moon, sports.
we made our fingers walk on a thin line;
we made our faces angry with grins.
he, via ian anderson, showed me
how to carry a sword and take a stand,
told me to be who i really want to be
and taught me what to do
when i join the good ship earth.
older yet, we sang duets,
his deep “by the hand, hand, take me by the hand”
to my “i wanna hear some funky dixieland—”
his “no sugar tonight”
to my “new mother nature.”
now, at fifty-six and twenty-five,
we sing about shiny teeth and having
nothin’ but a good time.
we teach the midwest
not to mess with a son of a *****
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 10:12 PM UTC