"earbuds" poems
Due tomorrow:
Lab report
Argumentative essay
Group project
39 textbook pages
I can do this.
Get some coffee and caffeine
Lock the door and close the windows
Put on those sound-blocking earbuds
FOCUS
Keep in mind the future good grade.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 8:07 AM UTC
One day I rode upon an Autumn train.
The sky was slate, the wind was cold and blue.
I saw stark trees and brilliant leaves and rain,
and yet I only thought again of you.
I'd come out on this trip to hide myself.
I thought I'd not be found right in plain sight.
Music I had, and earbuds from the shelf,
I soothed myself with them all through the night.
And when the morning came, all cloudy cold;
all still and sad and broken I became.
For in my heart, I'd suddenly grown old
and all I'd left to whisper was your name.
I droppped my hat down low upon my eyes,
and hid in Love's most distressing disguise.
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 3:56 AM UTC
we lay together, 6:00am, body warmth touch-sharing,
as the June morning summer chill coming off its night nadir coolness
surrenders very reluctantly,
full length pajamas, blankets and coverlets in use,
keeping cold out while bodies touching generate heat -
a big difference
through these layers of cotton controversy, my right arm,
my cunning, falls awkwardly upon her, advising I am woken
and aware she is as well, hear her earbuds emplaced, make shushed
whispering noises re the future of artificial intelligence
and other such mental knottings
my awkward angled arm rests on her landscaped outline of shape,
coming to rest where legs meet at the top of an upside down V spot,
which makes no request, but accepts my bequest of steady
stroking of her ****** as an unnecessary
but atheist-acceptable to her
morning prayer ritual, kept at the intersection of the
physical and physics theorems
funny how some prayers,
where recitation comes thoughtlessly and routine,
uttered without any contemplation are yet
deep comforting for their inherency,
so I pray a stroking repetitive on her body,
well hid neath a summer coverlet,
wordlessly chanted, wordlessly accepted, silence connoting approving permission
I comfort her,
above and through a floral coverlet for her floral coverlet,
till the sun rises enough to truly warm up our plot,
my praying reaches the end of its rope,
where quality and quantity achieve unanimity resolution
no longer needed,
but am appreciated, besides my arm is cramping,
not designed for the rising, unleveled angle of her breathing bodice
my comfort is her extra comforter,
an offering of coffee my reward,
for my daily work has begun,
and I have many more poems stillborn
that require coaxing stroking
to become
witnesses to living
Jun 17, 2019
Jun 17, 2019 at 7:32 PM UTC
I was asked today "what
are you really into?"
while I was walking to film
class.
He had changed direction
with a flair of drama
and was walking along,
interrogating me.
I had to think.
I wondered how
I would answer his
question, were it posed
by someone I was interested in.
"I like the smell of hormones
colliding, omnipotent in their
decision to do so and in doing
it."
Could I say that?
"I like to feel like a hormone,"
or
"I like being a hormone."
Were these answers?
"I like patting my contracted
******* against the *****
majora of my partner."
"I like sewing," I might say.
That is, the idea
that if I push
and she opens
both testicles
and ******** may pop inside.
Like a **** needle pulling
a ***** thread
through a tight weave.
I laugh, imagining what the little man
would say, but
he doesn't know why.
"Stitch her up, Doctor!"
I'm
laughing.
He just says "you know, I'm into
chemistry, biology. Just tell me what
you're into."
I've been silent.
Is he still walking with me?
All I think to say is
"music" pointing to the earbuds
dangling over my chest, song
interrupted
by his pedantry.
He says "you've always liked music"
as if we've had this conversation before.
As if we know each other.
And it seems like he will follow me
to class.
And sit by me.
And talk about chemistry
and biology
while we discuss Singin' in the Rain.
Hormones, sewing and music.
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 12:50 AM UTC
Sept. 29th, 2014
Is combing and brushing your eyebrows in the morning.
It's leaning on the cold car window with earbuds
and as the last notes play, thinking
"Please don't make this a happy song
I don't deserve a happy song."
It's seeing ads for a clearance sale
plastered on a store that almost never is occupied
and seeming to just know that it's
it's subtle way of going out of business.
It's knowing and not believing.
It's breaking out in a cold sweat when you finish a book.
It's wishing I could go home
and lie on my carpet
and peel all my skin off
then crawl back inside
and maybe feel comfortable this time.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 5:35 PM UTC
i find myself curious about a boy
that stares at me as if he knows
i don't know what he knows
but he knows something
i think its about me
but he stares
and be blushes when i catch him
which is quite often
he has big sad puppydog eyes
and honestly
i would like to see happiness in them
i want to see a smile on his lips
that would match his eyes
he looks at me
behind square glasses
and white earbuds
shoved into his ears
playing loud music
and i am curious about him.
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 10:58 PM UTC
men and their egos (I turned twenty this summer) are
inseparable
insufferable
begrudgingly
they admit “guess you were right”
believing that will make them heroes,
by full on confessing they are ********
I turned twenty in the summer
my tan legs in cutoffs (it’s summer) drives them to madness,
accused, you are pitiless, for their dreams of you involve ransom
still, you
search and quiet plead like Abraham, to the heated air,
while listening to Whitney Houston and Ed Sheeran,
(on your earbuds just so nobody knows your weakness)
for just that one good man in the township of
***** and Gomorrah
my mother bitter sneers good luck with that,
forgetting I am now twenty years
so old, so advanced,
that my hopes and aspirations are no longer those
the ones in my high school yearbook
my poetry fills pages,
a human urban renewal,
laying out a city of hope
recalling that ***** and Gemorrah were destroyed
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 11:49 AM UTC
daily provisioning
wallet watch testicles spectacles
cash (single bills) cell phone
bottle of water hairbrush with vanity attached,
personal technology baggie
(earbuds, variety of charging cords etc.)
loose change in order to fall from pockets & annoy yourself
sunglasses (idiot! summers half over) and something else...
pocket tissues!
skin and bone, muscle, all flavors and multilayers,
a language of music only you hear,
the pumping station internal, the gaga motion
product of the palette of body following souled emotions,
the antacid pills after that burrito;
and that strangely named thang called
libido?
your teeth your smile, your shyest guile,
to catch that lady’s hopefully.
reciprocated pearly whites delight,
pen and pad to record being a sad and mad good lad,
a Swiss Army knife if the tube or bus
should (will) breakdown,
your tiny little bottles of
inspiration perspiration and perspective,
that you forgot to
label
the list to do and the list
to add to the to do list
and good heavens,
a serious writing utensil
to fool yourself when
thinking serious thoughts like
these
the last but should be first,
the house keys!!
keys just an enabler
to do it all again
tomorrow
July 11, 2018 10:22pm
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 9:15 AM UTC
on cloud nine from the sound of you voice speaking the three syllables of my identity directly in my ear but i'm not one for gettin' played so i fix my lips to ask you the question that my whole body is dreading,
"what do you want from me?" my heart, so loud, thumping in my ears as the future threatens the demise of this bliss that i have been waiting eight painful eternities for,
to this question, you reply "i want yo love & affection," did i ever tell you that you speak in song lyrics? your voice is the instrumental beat and the melody on this unforgettable tune on the soundtrack of my life
i'ma put my earbuds in
so i can vibe to you again
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 3:23 PM UTC
One of my favorite hobbies
is watching people
on the train.
Some on their
daily commute,
dressed in suits,
hurriedly sipping
coffee,
checking their
wrists with
frequency,
ensuring they
arrive not even a
minute late.
So many,
myself included,
travel along to
their own
soundtracks,
earbuds helping
them to tune out
the cabin noise
around them.
Bodies swaying
back and forth,
movement in sync,
limbs dancing
the train's tango,
left, right,
forward, and back,
and for the encore,
we all jolt and jive hard
as the wheels
screech to a stop
halfway down the
green line.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC
on account of you:
she says: do you know you often smile when, day dream dozing?
me says: on account of you
she says: c’mon sweet talking man, ain’t gonna fall for that hooey!
me says: hooey, phooey, on account of you
she says: nah, you writing poetry, no fooling me no more!
me says: on account of you
*she says: I bet you got one of your girl friends singing to you, through
those wireless earbuds, doncha? who is it this time? a Sara or Joni?*
me says: on account of you.
*she says: you think big shot, you can multitask b.s. me? doing three things
at the same time!*
me says: on account of you
*she says: on account of you, I’m seriously ****** you don’t tell me anymore
sweet lies and alibis, probably writing an ode to one of your poetry gf babes!*
me says: on account of you, can’t count no more, how many love poems in my lifetime written, and this one too, going out to you, charged to my tab, you babe,
are my account, my accountant, my accounting....
Jun 21, 2020
Jun 21, 2020 at 1:43 PM UTC
childhood memories are
speckled with the scent of summer sunsets
formed with the bonds of friendship
and late night promises with giggling faces
childhood memories are
climbing crooked trees in the spring
the smell of freshly cut grass
and sleeping in until 10
childhood memories are
snowflakes blinding the humongous ski goggles
pressed against the large frames of thick glasses
and the promise of hot chocolate by a cozy fire
childhood memories are
marred by the yelling from downstairs
tightened faces and clenched fists
shattered glass and crimson splattered on beige tiles
childhood memories are
earbuds plugged tight in small ears
books clutched in trembling hands
herding confused brothers up creaking steps
childhood memories are
sadness leaking from the soul
withdrawal into the land of silence
an unhealthy obsession with escaping into fiction
childhood memories are
nostalgic
terrifying
what shaped me to be me
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 6:47 PM UTC
I close my eyes
as I climb my way
through a portal.
But not just any portal.
A magic portal.
I like to go alone
and keep it all to myself.
This is where I can be free
and hide from the monsters.
This is where I belong.
Why can't I stay here forever?
But when I'm ready to go back
I unplug my earbuds
and my beautiful magic portal
shuts down.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 10:20 PM UTC
I run a dotted line around this block,
traces of me are everywhere though they
are hidden under the footsteps of 100 feet
stamping my poor identity in to the ground.
C'mon, You know me.
You've seen my face many a times
I'm the one with the earbuds in
smokin' the cigarette
strolling through the park,
And the one with the white collar
sittin' at the bus stop
waitin' to start another Tuesday.
I'm the one with the fist in the air
and a joint between my lips
at the rock show.
You know me.
Maybe you haven't seen me
because you just look right through me
every time you walk past me.
I am just another face in your daily grind,
Not even a familiar smile or a friendly display
Just eyes, a mouth and a nose
placed in contemporary fashion
to give enough background color
for your masterpiece painting.
How thoughtful,
You're really using just one piece of me.
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 1:20 AM UTC
You are my everything.
You heal me of my internal wounds
Relax and relieve me from the days stress
You block out all negativity in my life
And swerve away my press
When we touch we merge together to form one being
Although your person is small enough to fit in my pocket
Your soul surpass mines and when we're together we're equal
Soaring up like a rocket
And you and I are unstoppable...
Until we hit a comet and your left brain stops working. .
Then I'm forced to find another more suitable to please all my needs
But I still got love and hope for you and me
And you and I and I can't do it
I feel so stupid without my music
I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm truly am
But I need new earbuds to put it.
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 7:03 PM UTC
Where it all started...
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2018179/only-a-dumbass-man-could-love-a-smartass-poodle/
<•>
The Obvious Fact: Dogs Have Souls
******** poodle, of prior fame, suggests*
"surely this ditty will trend before one reads to the very end"
1. as everyone loves dogs
2. especially smart poodles
3. who writes soulful poems
really, here we are talking and you are gazing into my brown eyes adoringly,
and
you humans
still debate if there is a
god?"*
and then dog yawned,
a gigundo doggy yawn,
which is a supernatural,
miraculous biblical thing to behold
<•>
for no reason other than gravity
man says,
sometimes my earbuds fall out of my ears,
without provocation, of their own accord,
to remind that though they're in,
the music isn't in,
and neither
am I anywhere real, concrete,
existential,
to be found
which prompts a furious philosophical poodle to man discourse,
as to my exact whereabouts
badass poodle quotes Joan Baez (Diamonds and Rust):
"My poetry was lousy you said,"
and to verify my geo-physical locus,
and his opinion of the human's written hocus pocus
poetry,
gentle farts and adds, low growling,
"there your are!"
how I love that
centered, down to earth,
in my bed, in my heart
dog
<•>
"Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action."
Goldfinger
a favorite phrase from a movie of one's youth.
that rises to the surface, when smartass-u-know-who
reads my weak human mind and yes,
farts twice more, adding poetically:
*"the best things in life always
come in threes,
her, me, and you"*
"glad to be included," I replied,
to which he licked his
privates publicly,
adding lowly,
*"every smart poodle need a leashed human,
as if any self-respecting poodl could or would
type their own poems,
who's
the *** now!"*
and we got up, got the leash
(for human to carry)
put our earbuds in,
went for a sunrise
sniff-walk-and-compose
on the beach
the two **********
arguing
which Pandora station to turn on,
two only love poets, both thinking of their shared
her
finally, compromising, in tail wagging agreement on,
The Righteous Brothers
<•>
p.s. lol, only a ******* man could love a ******** poodle.
~
8:33am
8/11/17
Aug 11, 2017
Aug 11, 2017 at 6:32 PM UTC
you spent an hour alone in the pouring rain
fifty degrees and dropping
waiting, waiting
blocking out the chaos
with those borrowed grey earbuds that bruise your ears
maybe you wanted someone to see you
and ask why
or maybe you just wanted pneumonia
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 11:08 PM UTC
Would you mind if I related a story to you
about how my headphones picked me up when I was Ohhhhhhhhhh so blue?
When I cried like a baby
until I. could block out the world and listen to my first love daily?
Well peep the scene I had just turned 13
and I was in middle school
away from my friends and family
it took a lot to resist doing something rash and being tossed out on my a$$.
Anyway for the first time in my life,
the prime time of my life at that
I was alone, my only friends right then being the clothes on my back
and the headphones I had put into my backpack
Well my MP3 at the time was on shuffle,
after I got out that day and avoided a scuffle
I put my earbuds in promptly and what did I hear?
RHCP under the bridge, a song I still hold dear
"Sometimes I feel like my only friend"
was a lyric that described exactly the situation I was in.
I was being pushed right then to end my life and become food for the crow or raven
but that song saved my life
and even after all the tears I cried that night
I got up. stronger. ready to carry on life's grand fight.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
The forest green of the trees
contrasts so greatly
against the soft pastels in the sky;
Did someone paint this neighborhood?
The odors of garlic & parsley
wafting from across the
charcoal street.
Hums of today's news,
all the latest gossip,
ooh'ing and ah'ing;
endless snippets of candlelight chatter.
Occasional dollops of light
peering up from sedans passing by.
Sounds of zooms
blocked out by the steady pulsating
of white earbuds.
Dogs yipping, sometimes a real bark.
Neighbors come and go,
reciprocating cordial hello's.
Street lights slowly coming alive,
for at 8:37, the sun has begun
its transition to slumber.
They always say,
TGIF, thank god it's Friday.
As day slips to nigh',
the crackles and pops of vinyl come alive
behind a slightly rusted window pane.
Tonight's secrets not yet revealed,
a couple strolls by
holding hands,
sipping coffees, decaffeinated.
A man drunk with regret
and a 40 in his belly,
he breathes a clumsy, "Hey."
Malted liquor questions,
their smell & sound, unmistakable gurgling.
Street lights now fully illuminated,
glances exchanged from
passer-byers.
He opens the car door for her,
and into the dusk they drive.
Vehicles come by in even
greater numbers,
and still searches the young man
for $9, a toothbrush, and a shower,
even cold.
Just another night of
just another day,
in just another city,
in just another neighborhood
on just another street.
Silence, loud, ominous silence,
filtering the senses,
the stories,
the magic;
Isn't ordinary extraordinary?
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 8:52 PM UTC
I was in a
dreamy state
as we drove through the
mountains,
the bright
Colorado sun reflecting
almost too bright
off of the frozen creek.
The ridges of the
giant turf were
a little too brown for what
I had expected this time
of year,
but the snow had not been
as bountiful as
winters past.
My cell phone lost
service as we glided
along a windy
highway,
so I was left to nothing but
my earbuds and
the thoughts I had avoided.
I felt a strange sensation
of relief as
I realized I didn't have to
speak to anyone,
how I could be left alone
in the midst of a wide expanse of nature,
perhaps the humble surroundings
I needed to
recollect myself.
In the company of
my loving family and
in the presence of
my grandfather's wisdom,
I was bound to find some
sort of peace,
gain some sort of clarity,
for if you couldn't find
serenity in the
Rocky Mountains,
surely something was wrong with you.
I spotted elk in the far
distance beyond the car windows,
and, despite the frigid
single-degree-weather that enveloped them,
I was weirdly envious of
their tranquil presence in the snow,
their freedom to be lost in the wilderness,
their security in the pack that accompanied them.
In that moment,
I wanted to be one of the elk,
running free
into a realm of wild openness,
running free
in the mountains and valleys.
In that moment,
I wanted to be
free.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 1:26 AM UTC
I feel for you, really I do.
Alone in the center of attention.
All eyes watching your actions,
Not for example but for laughs.
I’m tired of attempting to provide you with satisfaction.
Especially when you care not for the feelings of mine.
A favorite quote that you express,
“Well then throw the first stone.”
It’s not about destroying another,
But understanding there are differences.
Not all follow what you claim is right nor agree with your beliefs.
I am sorry to be the one to tell you; however, someone needs to.
As two earbuds resting within the canal of sound,
You constantly express disappointment.
Yet however much I am disappointed in you,
That cannot be true for you embody perfection.
Perfection apparently has graced your presence,
But you attempt to play it down with scriptures.
Words are what I choose to divulge,
Yet yours are tainted with bias.
Hypocrisy drips off your lips,
As drool from a dog’s mouth.
Return to what you know so intimately,
The need for self-affirmation and praise.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 2:30 PM UTC
Trees always have to go out with a bang, don't they
explosions of bursting color
freeze-framed fireworks of fall
bursting and cascading,
leaving ashes and hot coals to cool in soft grass
...I used bursting twice, didn't I?
alright, let me go open up my thesaurus...
blast? pop? rupture?
just replace it with one of those and call it good.
Back to the poem:
my popped-collar peacoat straightens my back
gotta match my posture to the pompous portrait
black wool on an over-scratched scratch paper
might as well just pick it all off
allow the color some room to expand
(I don't even own a peacoat, I just like the metaphor and imagery)
you could set the sentinel alight for the same effect
a more smokey atmosphere, sure,
but the color would be a little brighter
and I'd have the mushroom of smoke to match my coat
I've substituted my earbuds with the crunch crunch crunch
of leaves
crunch crunch crunch crunch crunch ––––
shoot that one looked good but it just flattened
crunch crunch crunch
invariable sound
back to my Beats by Dr. Dre
The arrow of geese points south
...
that's really all I have to say about that
some sort of metaphor about flapping my arms and following them?
I like jacket weather though
better stay grounded
hands in pockets; arms in long sleeves
insert some connection to death to match nature's descent into winter
Gosh, this season is too good to stand for something so sad
let's go jump off the roof into a pile of leaves
drink hot soup and get cuffed
watch steam and frost paint picturesque mornings
read in a dogpile of blankets
Winter may be coming
but so is spring ya goof
get off your melancholic horsey
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 12:10 AM UTC
And every single day, I'm sitting in the bus, my head against the windowpane.
Watching the cars passing by, following the raindrops running down the windows with my eyes.
Listening to those beautiful words coming out of my earbuds and the mouths of my favorite artists.
My eyes are closed and people might think I'm sleeping, but really, I'm just thinking of everything you said to me and how you looked me in the eyes.
I'll try to remember the moments when I felt safe, because they're so rare, remembering is a very special thing to do.
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 11:38 AM UTC
I met a woman
with a trumpet tongue
who played her words on
paper, white as truces.
she told me through my stereo
"we've both had days
where the phoenix didn't rise".
we' have all had days
where the phoenix did not rise.
but thank goodness
my birthday was the first time
I heard your lips part
and saw your teeth spill oceans
of blue blankets across my jellyfish eyes.
I wish everyone understood the irony
of writing love poems to a lesbian,
but my hands never seemed to reach
the ends of my arms
like I want them to.
They always get stuck dancing somewhere
in the middle.
playing a tune only they can sway to
knowing all the steps
bouncing off every syllable
while others let their wrists go limp
as if the puppeteers needed strings
to tune their fiddle
for a happy song
somewhere far far away.
so take my breath again
keep it wherever it is that you keep
the gasps our ears give you
as your words pull the
heartstrings we forgot we had
that we forgot how to play
to wave our wet-noodle fingers and
conduct a life worth living
so full of blatant love
not afraid to make no sense
my chest was an rusty locket
the day before I heard you
and now I am so full of echoes
from it's tiny, timid click.
For Andrea,
you are a sketchbook muse,
something I have to guess at on my
worst days when there are no words
and the rain smells like a swan song
from the sky.
you kept me writing when there
was nothing left to draw
or sing or smell or see anymore.
when there was black smog
between my eardrums pounding out
the dying breath of clouds
you held me through tinny earbuds
and poems I etched in the moss
running over back roads in my mind
so I hope
you find peace
every time you find a microphone
and that someday, I'll play you a tune
which echoes through you,
with a tiny, timid
click
and a full breath
that resuscitates the open blue
until we are both whole beneath it
until, again, we are true.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 11:38 AM UTC