"encores" poems
I wanted to eat you alive with my heart,
Disseminate my love for you,
soul coughing a Heimlich dance routine
that struggled to keep us one.
You were to busy ignoring the coward
that kept me alive
to see the bravery fighting chance
and drawing curtains against fate
There was feeling in these young bones
where the medicine was make believe,
all sugar coated fiery tales to drive us to the well,
wishers of hope forgot that love is an effort.
Liars will tell you that there is just one,
and that one and one is one, and I too,
will lie to you but only to keep the placebos
sweet jesus if you knew the truth.
There's a colourful cobweb
I tangled round us
And yeah, I'd take the floor away,
if it would keep you falling for me.
There is not a thing I wouldn't do
to keep the demons from your door
And the wolves in docile dream states
Nodding yes to your every request.
But Memory lane is no place to build a future,
Lets move past all the haunted houses
and build the home from more than cards
glued together with coffee stains.
Fits of laughter and pits of passion
litter landscapes of love in foreign places
where speaking in tongues
becomes common language.
Blissfully aware of our ignorance
We turned a blind eye to status chorus,
breathing freeform jazz into
independent harmonies,
Shards of Shotgun Showers
Add bass to blissful dreams,
A sense of the real, reeling us in,
A foundation shaken in eternal sin,
As the sax plays us out,
its a standing ovulation,
that keeps us on course,
encores are for failures, and things that... stop.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 4:25 PM UTC
A man saw the whole world as a grinning skull and
cross-bones. The rose flesh of life shriveled from all
faces. Nothing counts. Everything is a fake. Dust to
dust and ashes to ashes and then an old darkness and a
useless silence. So he saw it all. Then he went to a
Mischa Elman concert. Two hours waves of sound beat
on his eardrums. Music washed something or other
inside him. Music broke down and rebuilt something or
other in his head and heart. He joined in five encores
for the young Russian Jew with the fiddle. When he
got outside his heels hit the sidewalk a new way. He
was the same man in the same world as before. Only
there was a singing fire and a climb of roses everlastingly
over the world he looked on.
2.1k
For I did not come here in hopes of a hello
Of a simple stroll down our village
Or an acknowledgement of my existence
I came here because I care
I care
I see in your eyes the difference
Cover up with words soothing to the ear
But actions onset on hindrance
I did not come for a duet
Or a memory that we’d never regret
A heart to heart throughout the night
I did not come for my own benefit
I come because I care
I care
I worry, in fact
That you do not realize
How much you are
Who you are
Or your worth
Because the things you do show otherwise
But see in my eyes, and the eyes of others
Too concerned while we watch the beautiful eagle continue to believe he’s just a worm
You’re too distraught by the blindfold in front of yours
To realize the cries for help
Drowned out with insanity
Because the world is stealing your flame
While you continue to be baffled by the pickpocket’s show
"Do not take it!" I scream
“Do not let it take you!”
but those eyes
So precious, full and alive
are
still
blindfolded.
The procession goes on while the main attraction continues to burp out synthetic love and false hopes
Temporary
enjoyment
And you have become the fool of the show
With that blindfold
Darned, pestering blindfold.
I will still scream for its demise!
I will still plead for the final scene!
I will rip away the curtains held up with burgundy lies!
I will still care.
The show must eventually stop!
For actors must be given a break and plays must be forgotten
To not be cliche
There will be a time when there are no more encores
An end to the grand show
scattered flowers on the first row
And utter silence in an empty space
A dangerously
Dark
Desolate
Stage
But I will still be there
Holding a match for a new flame
And a warmer smile
For I care
I truly care
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 8:57 AM UTC
No saintly tears for this belted
asteroid 208 .
A rock headed into
insignificance , as it twirls
around some son/sun of long
forgotten already tomorrows .
Life's long road ,
crushed rock , hopes , and dreams ,
are tarred into
submission ;
driven madly over in derision .
Yet you dare crave more
than time , and space , and memories .
When we know that tears from heaven
saintly flow forever .
And will wash all traces away .
Like the riders of the storm
that deluge the three rivers charged
with pain , forgotten love , and time's
indifference .
Hush now , the last flickers of light dim ,
thy song was beauteous , but there are never encores granted
by the Angel that never cries .
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 2:36 AM UTC
After cocktails at Luigi's Bar, and then The Golden Bowl,
I proposed we play a gig of jazz-inspired rock and roll.
We all thought we'd make the fans cry out for encores every night.
But our schemes were dreams that faded in the morning's ruthless light.
My blue guitar should captivate the people every night.
But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled.
My dream faded out of sight.
Playing keyboards was Patricia. (Never 'Trisha', never 'Pat'.)
She'd a taste for gracious living in her small art deco flat.
She would practice chord progressions, sipping lapsang souchong tea.
Then she played away at weekends with her special friend, Marie.
She trained her dainty fingers to explore new grooves each night.
But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled.
Her dream faded out of sight.
We had Ritchie on electric bass, with tap-and-pull technique.
Such a clever devil — Ritchie almost taught the bass to speak.
Ralph the drummer's backbeat cymbal crashes measured out the bars.
We agreed the speed — then found we could not play like superstars.
Would the crowd be wowed by passion from my lovely blue guitar?
No, the dream crumbled, as the band stumbled.
Our dream faded overnight.
The Blue Guitar Quartet
was as close as we could get
to our vision for the music of today.
But we bumbled and we fumbled,
our aspirations humbled.
So we slowly put our instruments away.
"The Blue Guitar Quartet
is down, but not out yet.
With practice you will crack it," said Marie.
"Let Patricia be your singer;
she's a musical humdinger,
and as soulful as a solo girl can be".
"She can improvise a blues
based on any riff you choose.
Let's have handshakes and embraces —
this quartet is going places!
Here's to jazz-rock, and The Blue Guitar Quartet!"
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 2:19 PM UTC
please wait for me.
Save me a space
right in the center
where the mornings smell
like black coffee; and
the afternoon air
carries cigarette smoke
all the way up to my open window,
where Mason jars full of
loose change, paper stars,
and wanderlust sit;
and the romance after dark
twinkles just as brilliantly
as the city lights.
Dear New York,
don't stop listening.
My name is resounding everywhere,
from curtain calls on Broadway
to Madison Square Garden encores—
from the horns of taxicabs
to men in booths on street corners
that offer you half-priced dreams
and happy memories.
Dear New York,
keep your eyes open.
I'm in everything you see,
from statues in museums
to the architecture on every block,
from marks made in alleyways
with spray-paint cans or brushes
to fashion off the sidewalks.
Dear New York,
stay aware, of all of it.
You never know
exactly when
something like love
can open the door,
or hope can rise
from the remains of ruined towers,
or the train station underground
can mean a lot more than
traveling from Point A to Point B.
Dear New York, you're everything.
The silver lining
behind all my dark clouds,
the reason to keep trying
though the Midwest is enough
to make anyone give up.
Dear New York,
please wait for me.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 1:18 PM UTC
there's a story on the wind
can you hear it?
an ode to a classic hero
facing enemies at every turn
a ballad from a love struck sailor
to his land locked dame
the lamentation of a tired soul
ready to exit stage left
epics bound in flesh
breathing the same air
walking the same earth
yet completely unaware
of when plot lines intersect
one persons sunrise
is another sunset
riding off to where the sidewalk ends
a stunning view of Mars in all his glory
from another window
an example of an empty vessel
hungry for content
with each step we act our the script
the world's a stage
the plays the thing
let's pan out and take into view
the aspect ratio in conjunction
with our soundtrack
monologues
dialogues
analog has less room for falsehood
than these digital lives
digital lies we lead
rewriting the scope and depth
of the narrative
without changing pace
or thinking to replace
certain key elements
like setting and grace
peace comes when the curtain closes
don't fret
encores are in order
but on the b-side of the single
we must note
with remixed emotion
that the stories we live have no sequel
so we must trust and ******
ourselves into every opportunity
paving the way to success
not just for us
but for those that read the synopsis
and hit rewind
Jul 7, 2012
Jul 7, 2012 at 7:51 AM UTC
Tormented fingers
clenched tightly in a fist
of condescending blues.
Maple leaves and acorns
strewn about the landscape,
and I, on my knees
reaching longingly and hopefully
for a past I’ve left behind.
Understanding and nurturing
those thoughts of ambiguity,
the reckoning of the present
resonates soundly within and
encores prevail from
future reverberations.
I continue to question,
while on my knees,
all that is worthy and good
and yes, even meaningful.
I often stand corrected,
like a blizzard’s whiteout,
however confused I get, and
you, always on my mind,
and again, you find me
floundering on my knees,
searching, groping, exploring
the world...on my knees,
trying to rise and be counted.
While on my knees,
bloodied and wounded
from the heat and the pavement of life,
and the hardness and complexities of time
and the unyielding fact that
I must remain on my knees forever,
if I am to survive another day.
Aug 22, 2010
Aug 22, 2010 at 7:06 AM UTC
i can't escape you in my head
with worried words you always said
the ones about us not foreseeing
what this Love could end up being
today i felt you as i woke
the Sun it shined on words revoked
the poems they just come to me
flowing from this heart that beats
the one you opened up for me
and now my head is stuck at sea
hooked on all the Love we'd be
i can't forget your humble might
you had the light when i lost sight
you shined upon my darkest nights
but now we're far apart in time
oh tell me that you think of me
when happy couples dance and sing
and kiss out on the wooden floor
the one where you struck me with more
more Love than i had known before
more Heart than any Soul had worn
it is that moment i adore
i'd give it endless more encores
i swear i'll find my way back to you
i'll travel far and wide to do
those things you promised me, i knew
one day i'd fly away for you
i'll leave this country and all i see
if only it means _You and Me_
the _Magic_ we had felt will be
eternal and our losses we
had carried heavy will all flee
as you join them there with me
we'll bury them in _Sand of We_
Nov 22, 2017
Nov 22, 2017 at 1:23 PM UTC
They threw boulders at glass house and roasted marshmallows AT the cookouts. MEDIUM RARE.
The troglodets, they put on a.show, sang four part harmony in the round in open air.
Fred Flinstone dropped in for a cameo and Barney held the door.
the show went over pretty well.
To three or four encores or more
I dont know who sent in the clowns
But slapstick ruled the day.
The animal act was
Kind of wack
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 2:55 AM UTC
ephemeral laurels,
those lullabies of may,
became fungi while i was still asleep;
none preserved for the non-punctual
who dreamt of spring through spring–
another missed migration.
i walk along the ridge alone at noontime,
songbirds seemingly on strike against the straggler–
the prairie warblers so persistent in july
have gone, with august, silent,
nestled against the mountain walls
of cicadas’ seventeen-year symphonies,
those long encores–
i listen but do not hear.
i press my ear to the escarpment
and feel i’m missing something–
like ice ages are whirling still within the cool conglomerate
in spite of summer and sweaty palms,
like the passenger pigeons blurred
and smudged into oneness under the strata
have become,
without my knowing, the stratus clouds above–
or perhaps there is no spite in spindly evergreens
that flower for flowering’s sake;
that wilt to wilt;
that winter with or without listening.
Aug 20, 2025
Aug 20, 2025 at 12:31 PM UTC
**"MISTAKE
There's nothing wrong in making a mistake.
As long as you don't follow it up with encores.
Keith Wilson. Windermere. UK 2016.;"**
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1559961/mistake
Except - this has been published, already. In 2005 - not 2016. And not by Keith Wilson. See for yourself:
How to Develop a Positive Life
By Bob Mangroo, 2005
Links provided in group: http://hellopoetry.com/collection/19619/plagiarist-problems/
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 1:15 PM UTC
Insanity engraved in
Exhibition is going on
Madness instill
Paradox of false learning continue!
Nature encores its own functions
So called exhibitionism never inspire
to learn, unlearn and relearn!
So, madness continue
to engraved its own coffer for exhibition!
Jun 24, 2020
Jun 24, 2020 at 10:34 AM UTC
***Steamy ink boiled over
the kettle of opportunistic metaphors
poison'd doses in gray's gangrene slur,
don't attempt to sleep in my mouth
like a w***e in head, the sword in bed
taboo artistes in monotonic ambivalent jaws
clamping down without remorse
chomp'd away at an asunder analogy
piss'd in my jeans and expect'd to get fed
spit it out on the polar opposite cafe floor
unicorns dwellings of butter'd blessings
broken bread & barely berry wine of Monet's encores
bite the ear that fed you preaching van Gogh
perhaps they'll listen for insanity to be set free
confining rules taught us naught to stutter
pay your monopoly dues in bleakest sermons
pass the bucket of superiority's conquests
bled of analgesic ego's epic divided faction's fiction
don't forget to wipe your shadow on the way out***
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 9:20 AM UTC
The lights are dim, conductor bears the brunt,
So now ten weeks’ hard work to entertain.
Allegro molto at the starting gate,
My tuning fork and pipe right here in front.
But choir’s five songs are causing my descent.
Their off-key pitch a momentary slide;
So harmful do I find it to my pride
That autoharp and banjo I will rent.
If music I don’t wish to circumvent
And tracks or melodies to take in stride,
Then practice every day til I’m bug-eyed!
Perfection is the prize self-evident.
No tuba player’s yawn will stop the train,
Nor second movement snores encores abate!
The lights are dim, conductor bears the brunt,
So now ten weeks’ hard work to entertain.
Allegro molto at the starting gate,
My tuning fork and pipe right here in front.
© Lewis Bosworth, 2018
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 9:48 PM UTC
*Winter ends in bows
Now burst the cheerings to Spring
Leaves budding in trees*
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 10:07 PM UTC
happy birthday me when i'm dead...
all those balloons had helium in them,
and all your celebratory encores
and choir fancies were but chipmunks
in my imagining how,
otherwise, the celebrations took place:
i told the Japanese army to
bomb that ******* Tsunami...
did they listen?
noo.
for ordinary
people like me, the only chance to see
organised crime, is to look out for
Jehovah's Witnesses knock on doors...
ginger! ginger! Swahili in Haiti!
that's the closest we'll ever get to seeing
the Italian mafia in practice -
and who the hell writes poetry in order
to wait for an interview?
she publishes me... she ends up in hospital
with water in her lungs.
you heard of the fascination
with those old migrant to the English coast,
central European pelicans on these isles?
took them over 2000 years to come back,
and they're shy creatures...
whoever thought about writing poetry
to not utilise their shyness by otherwise waiting
for media interviews: is a ******* potato-head
stump worth a piñata bashing.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 9:28 PM UTC
Under the bleached bluff
sea shells shape the bay
the grey and white
like seagulls
shines in sun
each tuft of grass is hardy
rough
tousled by sudden wafts
of salty gusts
that ride the waves towards the land
where
free as air
the litter flies across the sands
swung in the sky
the birds are tossed
their cries
those far off saddened screams
that make the coast their theme
a contrast to the balmy days
when summer winds are warm
and breeze
a welcome sense of calm
the tide comes in
now challenging
its rattle of those shells
percussion in the out of doors
a band that takes repeats
encores
for granted
while it roars
until the change relieves its chores
receding back again
to join the great wide ocean main
Margaret Ann Waddicor 25th December 2015
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 6:14 AM UTC
We are South Africans
We live in a real live circus
The Clowns run around acting serious
just one look at them walking proud
and the World laughs out loud
The Chimpanzees run amok
Their handlers ail of Culture shock
Chasing Trapeze artists round the ring
Men on stilts are finally suffering
The Lions have sold their claws and roars
For a few extra child subsidy encores
The Tigers crouch in fearful shame
The latest casualties in the Blame Game
And the crowd just stares on dazzled
As everything fails, likely embezzled...
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 11:39 AM UTC
burgeoning geniuses of rhythm and song
hugging the blues with their guitars
on street corners or in ghetto blues bars
that cry forth clinging laments, soulful chords rising tolling
ancient sadness, exquisite madness
musicians finding their identity
as troubadours of the anguished heart
by way of a beggar's cup
a little luck
and those shouted encores worth more than a million bucks
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 10:47 AM UTC
.*i've seen cover songs
being overplayed:
t.a.t.u.,
snake river conspiracy...
of the smiths': how soon is now?
mind you... do you feel that
chernobyll itch? do you?
i like this quote:
the loudest applauses
craft the most silent encores...
who was it? i guess it must haven been
me,
if it wasn't me, then...
we have a problem.....
well thank you,
the danes found out...
the warsaw pact attempted to keep
it hush hush....
i am:
the sleeping diatribe*...
such a spectacular disobedience
to having fathomed
the obedience
to the last remaining iota
of a purpose....
friend to boyo fiend,
and the jargon buste (adjunct)....
while toying with
being enemy to the squish
and the tentacle lover
of lost
& last concerns...
serves you a: counter sushi
masterpirece with a worth
of herrigs....
to mind a counter with...
you know how "god" abhors
"original" sin..
what becomes "sin"?
well... "unoriginality"...
i too hate & abhor the platitude
of plagiarism;
i'm a blatant Evangelist
at this point...
i'd rather die...
before i'm reborn...
then again... i'd slso act
like Jack Nicholson....
but then again my demands
are worth are shutters squat...
to mind...
what becomes a Led Zeppelin
"original" sin...
tobacco shutters...
taping-course:
wet tobacco...
not chewed, rather, smoked...
whatever...
people will never believe the victim...
they will, when there's
a dead body... otherwise...
dead wise no war no death sold...
apparently the dead
are "wise" when there's no war....
then again...
when war...
the "wise" also claim:
there are no casualties....
who needs them?
no one can recognize them, anyway...
mother death justice earth:
who can blindly recognize either!
the twin justice,
that justifies encompassing both...
the joy that originates
from wet.... tobacco;
i don't care who's to blame...
all i care about is that...
someone is actually claimed,
as requested
for being made to claim blame.
now god, now no god,
now the infantile man
with a belief in a god,
now a memorable
now a seriously acclaimed man
of concrete disbelief...
that... pristine atheist...
i too hold my claims
to be of barren wastelands
in order to have them
be made for the worth of them
being cherished.
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 11:04 PM UTC
Music brought me into this world
It only grew during childhood
To be something important to me
To hear voices who understood
The words they reach me
The words they teach me
The beats they fill me
The beats they thrill me
I think of all the people I've met
Only to be never seen again
We had bonded over talks of music
Getting excited by the hits of then
The rhythm it takes us
The rhythm it makes us
The melody it soothes us
The melody it moves us
I have the discs I have the tapes
I have the audio escapes
I have the files I have the streams
I have the digitalised dreams
I have the music
The music has me
I find that it's never enough now
Always trying to find the hidden gem
Finding the old hearing the new
Living my life by the rpm
The chants I will speak
The chants I will repeat
The encores we demand
Encore we want the band
I have the discs I have the tapes
I have the audio escapes
I have the files I have the streams
I have the digitalised dreams
I have the music
The music has me
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 4:37 AM UTC