"grooved" poems
The rose is obsolete
but each petal ends in
an edge, the double facet
cementing the grooved
columns of air—The edge
cuts without cutting
meets—nothing—renews
itself in metal or porcelain—
whither? It ends—
But if it ends
the start is begun
so that to engage roses
becomes a geometry—
Sharper, neater, more cutting
figured in majolica—
the broken plate
glazed with a rose
Somewhere the sense
makes copper roses
steel roses—
The rose carried weight of love
but love is at an end—of roses
It is at the edge of the
petal that love waits
Crisp, worked to defeat
laboredness—fragile
plucked, moist, half-raised
cold, precise, touching
What
The place between the petal’s
edge and the
From the petal’s edge a line starts
that being of steel
infinitely fine, infinitely
rigid penetrates
the Milky Way
without contact—lifting
from it—neither hanging
nor pushing—
The fragility of the flower
unbruised
penetrates space
5.5k
His fist scarred, beat-red fistful of intention
Rugged, crass unchiseled wonder wrapped in a gentle smile
A bear of a man, broad shouldered hulking bent
Stuffed-fluff heart tattooed with the echo of love
The times he grappled in sweaty- slick tangle of arms and drew blood blooming bright-crisp-apple-red upon white mat.
Beat, Beat, Beat, down
Tap, Tap, Tap, out
White knuckle-grasp uppercut
Full mount, disengage
Joint locked, feet hooked, Triangle hold
Submission.
The times he brought grown men to their knees, and humbled himself on his own
The times he never gave up and the times he gave in
To the fight
To the system
To the sweet draw of relief
The times he fought not for the thrill but to make it by
Rage hot-red facing the injustice of poverty
His steel spine riddled with the rust of life, the rust of reality
The corrosive sludge of hate, and words left unspoken.
Busted well-worn hands held soft smooth skin
Grooved fingers and velvet mouth
The scratch of bearded stubble, red-lined skin prickled with goose flesh, slick coated in sweat
A new fight, wrapped knuckles cushioned with the promise of forgiveness
Of acceptance a force to be reckoned with in her own right.
Broken hand, dreams stunted, depressed-mind-numbing
Lost in his own thought, out of the fight
Desperate to be back in the game mind and body
Envy-red, drawn to the fight of others
Soft smooth hands, short-small-painted nails calm bristled hair
Growling bear, baring teeth in silent-wounded pride
The time she bandaged pride, and encouraged humility
The times she scalded his senses the raw-red liquid fire of love
His shade in the heat of a red-blistered sun
Cooling, and igniting inspiration
The time she became a fight worth winning.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 12:03 PM UTC
patterns pressed
in old vinyl
needle-scratched
pop and crackle
background noise
just genetic ambiance
old as the blues
smoky aftertaste
blessing curse
lost fortune
lured fate
lessons earned
the hard way
long playing
at 33 1/3 rpm
I'm humming
no resistance
my will altered
I submit
to inevitable vacillation
accept ambiguity
as sweet song
lyrics unknown
an uneven melody
I can't deny
or disown
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 11:06 AM UTC
she touched up untended walls
all alone, no party assembled
attempting to create reactions
with her color selection
and inspire sunken eyes
with the antonym for
"you are worthless" and "no one cares"
...but the paint is peeling
and her motivation runs constant
as she prepares her endurance
to spackle and smooth grooved surfaces
prime marks and hide pitted edges
to place appropriate strokes adequately
and try a little color contrast
on previously blended door and window trim
...but the paint is peeling
now bubbles form and fall flakily at her feet
as a sleight of hand starts its mischief
of defacing the layers of her self-affirmation
with synonyms for the premature initiative she displayed
so, she drops her tools and starts peeling
removing the pain that is hindering her renewal
and covering the constant decay correctly
working toward a strengthened surface
that maintains its finish against the cruelest force
and accepts loving, touches
without turning them to criticism.
Jan 22, 2011
Jan 22, 2011 at 12:47 PM UTC
WOODSTOCK
They came from The South, The North and The West Coast
450,000 together for peace and music, half a million at most
Richie Havens inspired all while singing his "Freedom" song
Country Joe McDonald dropped "F" bombs his whole set long
Carlos Santana amazed us, as he gave all and sacrificed his soul
Arlo Guthrie with Woody's **** packed his pipe and smoked a bowl
Canned Heat and The Bear asked us to work together united stand
Levon Helm pounded skins and sang "The Weight" with The Band
Joe Cocker warned us more than once that he might sing out of tune
One after the other, CSNY, Alvin Lee, Sha Na Na midnight 'til noon
Janis gave a piece of her heart along with a "Ball and Chain"
Jefferson Airplane sang about Alice out in the pouring rain
The Fogerty's sang about where they were born and two girls one proud
And for the life of me I can't figure out why The Who played to this crowd
Jimi capped it off with The National Anthem and "Purple Haze"
the perfect ending to four long daze of rock and roll blaze
So if your travels take you to New York Up State
Stop at Bethel Wood, the place where Rock History was written in Slate
"1969, when music was grooved in vinyl and carved in Rock"
inspired by the song "Woodstock"
written by Joni Mitchell
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 2:10 PM UTC
I now have a funky heart,
My nurse calls it a ***** heart.
All seemed well,
And I felt swell-
Until I stood, that is.
The funky heart grooved,
The ***** heart moved.
I fell,
Oh hell-
The nurse's name was Liz.
The doctor told me I'd be fine...
But he cannot feel the pain that is mine.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 6:13 PM UTC
The rose is obsolete
but each petal ends in
an edge, the double facet
cementing the grooved
columns of air—The edge
cuts without cutting
meets—nothing—renews
itself in metal or porcelain—
whither? It ends—
But if it ends
the start is begun
so that to engage roses
becomes a geometry—
Sharper, neater, more cutting
figured in majolica—
the broken plate
glazed with a rose
Somewhere the sense
makes copper roses
steel roses—
The rose carried weight of love
but love is at an end—of roses
It is at the edge of the
petal that love waits
Crisp, worked to defeat
laboredness—fragile
plucked, moist, half-raised
cold, precise, touching
What
The place between the petal’s
edge and the
From the petal’s edge a line starts
that being of steel
infinitely fine, infinitely
rigid penetrates
the Milky Way
without contact—lifting
from it—neither hanging
nor pushing—
The fragility of the flower
unbruised
penetrates space
1.8k
People would tell me I looked skeletal
Not necessarily in an overly skinny sort of being
But in an organic, carbon matter fashion
Bone colored
Grooved
Plated
My ribs shone through my abdomen, still
My stomach protruded tightly
Translucent skin like a lampshade revealing
Three beams of muscle tissue
I should have been observed in a science class
I thought this while walking down the hall, away from the shower I left behind
Into my cave colored bedroom
Head first, body soon to follow
An archaic method-
My stack of literature playing the role of mammoth
About to be speared and eaten by my fingertips
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 12:57 AM UTC
Fascinating how people swim in our steam.
A beautiful soul recently grooved into mine.
Before you swam along,
I was eager to confide.
Someone to recognize why I am the way I am.
Surviving a parallel pain.
A victorious warrior princess.
Someone like me.
Deciding to re-direct my flow.
Putting my words out in the world.
I stumble upon your poem called “waiting to happen”
Powerful words matching my thinking.
I comment… You reply.
Words united, feeling liberated.
Trusting a stranger, clashing off beat.
An unlikely friendship immediately cultivated.
Admiring your strength and journey.
3000 miles apart, still like-minded harmony.
A sweetheart, I chirp to with indulgence.
You are an unexpected gift in my life.
© Jl 2016
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 8:38 PM UTC
On and off, on and off,
Lights are on,
Now it's dark.
This is the reason for my despair.
On and off, on and off,
Lights are on,
Now it's dark.
This is my love affair.
Light's are on,
Everything is great,
You and I,
A pair destined by fate.
Creating memories for us to forever know,
Neither of us wanting,
For this love to go.
It seemed the sun always shined,
You could make me smile anytime.
You knew my ins and outs,
All of my mental routes.
On and off, on and off,
Lights are on,
Now it's dark.
Light's are off,
Everything is covered in dark.
A giant part,
Is missing from my heart.
And as for the memories,
They are being painfully hammered into my head,
Every time I remember, one is nailed in deeper,
Causing me dread.
Can't be removed,
Can't be soothed,
My heart is now grooved.
On and off, on and off,
Lights are on,
Now it's dark,
Light's are on,
Everything is fixed.
Couldn't be happier,
I really missed this.
We decided that this wouldn't happen again,
Let's keep our love safe.
It seemed our thoughts wouldn't bend,
Closer and closer we got.
All my feelings of darkness,
I had forgot.
But then you stopped caring,
If the lights were on.
Claimed you could see in the dark,
You said that I was wrong.
This really is your fault.
But the sad thing is,
I wish it was mine.
So I could say sorry,
And we can flip the light switch on,
For one last time.
On and off, on and off,
Lights are on,
Now it's dark.
This is the reason for my despair.
On and off, on and off,
Lights are on,
Now it's dark.
I need someone that can have my heart repaired.
On and off, on and off,
The light bulb is broken,
Now it's forever dark.
This is my love affair.
Oct 16, 2011
Oct 16, 2011 at 8:10 PM UTC
There's a shower of rain
Yet the sun still shines
There must be a rainbow
Somewhere
An old man nods in his chair
He came from nowhere
And went nowhere else
Journeying all the way
Now he journeys through time
Down the aching years
Things that he's seen and done
Some good and wondrous
And some of them terrible
An old man nods in his chair
Travelling
Behind closed eyes
All the things he's seen and done
The people he's known
All the things he's said
Within his nodding head
Tears pour down his face
Down the canyons grooved by time
And yet he smiles
Gently and softly
There must be a rainbow
Somewhere
By Phil Roberts
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 7:26 AM UTC
Soft and alluring,
Filled with an essence of love,
So dense from outside,
Sometimes moulded,
Sometimes crushed,
Melts when heated,
Freezes in cold,
So delicious and yet so bold,
Sometimes stabbed,
Sometimes craved,
With new flavors to delight,
Dark,brown and white,
Just like a tough bourbon,
Her mind was hell stubborn,
Along with broken pieces,
Her value remained the same,
She was like a chocolate,
So grooved and yet so great. ♡
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 2:09 AM UTC
The rain fell, delicate as muslin
heavenly threads, coming undone
From pearly gates of paradise.
Weaving fluid intricacies underneath
The grainy sands, grooved with drops
And canopies laden with silken film
dewy, with crystal orbs suspended
a diamond mosaic radiant
Under the ashen clouds.
Crystalline drops clung
Onto ends of leaf blades
Forming a grand chandelier
Hundreds hung
On slender boughs
And the tree stood with
an embellished crown
Bedecked with clear dew
Jun 8, 2020
Jun 8, 2020 at 1:33 PM UTC
Thin she looks, like stippled wheat
With anxious eyes and crippled feet
Flaxen hair and halting way
But Jesus baby.. Can she play?
A siren song on notes of gold
Floats out and lets the dark enfold
The lovers as they dance & sway
And kiss & smooch the night away.
She bends way back and holds the note
That muted trumpet starts to float
You’l never hear a better sound
From any jazz man in this town.
Exquisite is the word I’d use
Enticing is her favourite ruse
Alluring now in shades of gray
Her silky sequence soars away.
The song entwines your heart & soul
The moment stops, your pulse on hold
Fantastic senses start to reel
Hot n sexy’s how you feel.
You glide your way around the floor
Feel the rhythm, seek for more
That lady makes the music move
She’s making magic, in the groove
Swinging at the local hop
You’ll never want this night to stop
Thin girly with her magic horn
Convinces us we’re all reborn
You wake up in the light of day
Haggard, spent, bereft of hay
But Jesus boy.. You had a ball
You grooved that ladies trumpet call.
So count your blessings, share a smile
You’re winning by a country mile
When you did hear that lassie play
You stretched your life another day.
Thin she looks, like stippled wheat
Anxious eyes and crippled feet
Flaxen hair and halting way,
But Jesus brother….can she play!
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
29th. September 2007
Dec 3, 2009
Dec 3, 2009 at 10:48 PM UTC
My grooved waxy skin
wraps around the swivel chair
eyeing the needle
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 10:17 PM UTC
Water trickling, grooved patterns of bark
darkening drinking up
Bright yellow creeping
maple leaves losing green
fallen or hanging on
A wind gust
little rush of swirls
tiny leaves come to rest -
wakes the nightjar
from her evening nest
Wet wings, flickers fly
stellar jay looks on,
Roses withered, ages gone
petals on the
ground
Nov 24, 2012
Nov 24, 2012 at 12:17 AM UTC
You know that little
Grooved space
Just above
Your cupid bow
Lip?
I read somewhere
It can be
Dangerous
Feb 13, 2024
Feb 13, 2024 at 7:23 AM UTC
I want to make an icicle
From rain drops
That have fallen for miles,
Through clouds
With linings of every color,
Just to crash like cars
On old shingles
Gritty and grooved with age.
Those drops would converge
As they weave their way down
A maze of gables and smoking vents
Finally to pool in rusty gutters,
That have not been cleaned out in years.
It’s cold in December, and windy in Manhattan.
Now All I need is discipline.
I must overflow,
Precisely.
Forming my icicle like a tooth
Slowly, and from the inside out
longer, sharper.
Until…SNAP
It’s no longer mine.
------------------------
My hope is that it hits,
Through hair, flesh and bone,
An unsuspecting mind.
Instantly frozen and rearranged.
Or if not hit
Shatter close enough to move
Those that crowd below.
Feb 18, 2010
Feb 18, 2010 at 12:46 PM UTC
There's a shower of rain
Yet the sun still shines
There must be a rainbow
Somewhere
An old man nods in his chair
He came from nowhere
And went nowhere else
Journeying all the way
Now he journeys through time
Down the aching years
Things that he's seen and done
Some good and wondrous
And some of them terrible
An old man nods in his chair
Travelling
Behind closed eyes
All the things he's seen and done
The people he's known
All the things he's said
Within his nodding head
Tears pour down his face
Down the canyons grooved by time
And yet he smiles
Gently and softly
There must be a rainbow
Somewhere
By Phil Roberts
Jan 15, 2021
Jan 15, 2021 at 1:21 PM UTC
To see the world through fairie lens,
The scrying pool, the artist's pen,
To live in such a wond'rous world
Will feed the lover's soul, unfurled,
Will free the heart to catch the moon
Will start romantic hearts to swoon.
So Percy, young and free at heart,
Who from his love was torn apart,
Walked the woods in shadowy gloom
Proclaiming death of love, and doom,
When stepped he into fairy ring
And heard the satyrs ***** sing.
He watched the dryads flow'ry dance.
He saw the fairie happ'ly prance.
And in the midst of this he met
A vision out of Heaven sent
In form of twinkling, thoughtful eyes
And skin as clouds that grace the skies,
Skin much softer than the wind, and smooth
As stone that's by the water, grooved.
By magic fire a dance began.
By this spell, lost was the young man.
With eyes the color of the sea,
Began to court the fairy sweet,
Did Percy, past his other love.
By one touch from enchanted glove
Worn on hand of Percy's goddess
His heart did swoon and heave his chest.
That night the pair was lost in song
And Percy laughed and loved 'ere long.
At light of dawn the blue eyed youth
Received a kiss that spoke of truth
From elven maid, enchanted.
By the sun the fairie panted,
Shrinking from the light of morning,
And vanished fast, without warning.
Percy, in the wake of magic
Was abandoned. Feeling tragic
He lay prostrate upon the hill.
As days did pass he lay quite still
And slowly, overcome by woe,
He begged the Earth, upon him, grow
And take his weight, his sky blue eyes
And help his tortured soul to die.
Upon the spot where once he lay,
So aided by the sun and rain
Did grow a pair of flowers, blue.
The Earth had taken up the youth.
When one year passed, on Eve of Saints
They Fey returned, with colored paints.
The girl who danced with Percy, young,
When all the singing had begun
Did find blue petals, growing strong
And wove them in her hair, so long.
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 9:16 PM UTC
i am free to be me;
i want to ride a bicycle,
so i will: kick the pedal,
ride out to sea
i will listen to the
sound of the waves
and i will take it with me
in my pocket, pink slips
of seashell, grooved like
the sand i will
lie down in.
i will float in the sea -
no rope tied around
my waist or my neck
or my wrists attached
to an anchor, no
there's nothing to hold me
down; there's nothing
to hold me at all
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 8:05 AM UTC
When we made love with the record playing.
Our heart beats were in sync.
And the rhythm was sweet.
As we moved to the static of the needle hitting the record.
And we grooved to every chord.
I loved that night and I love that song.
Because you were the right one all along.
The feeling of your body up against mine.
As I traced my fingers up and down your spine.
The record had stopped and the song was over.
But we were so infatuated with each other.
We looked into each others eyes until we drifted off to sleep.
And the next morning you woke up and hopped into your jeep.
I never saw you again, and I wonder why.
For that song was so perfect and that night was so divine.
So I put that record on and listen to it again and again.
And remember the feeling of your hand rubbing my head.
I want you to come back and listen with me.
Oh to that record so soft and so sweet.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 10:25 PM UTC
♪♫♪♫♪♫♪♫♫♪♪♪♫
I: Lyric Line of Flight
Cavern Club / black leather / German rockers / proto-youth culture groped its way from Liverpool / TV slowly sped up / modernity invented / flown in planes / swallowed in pills / I watch the second Kennedy funeral on the screen in shades of gray rain / warming to mid-60’s hues / into the stratosphere / a lysergic surge / retinal after-images / intensities of nostalgic color / that British courtesy in understatement / Paul’s voice a bassline / George a guru of six-armed confusion / tasteful: now a meaningless word / it was Apollonian-Dionysiac / my childhood’s soundtrack
II: Poem
They grooved—as our world became another
up from caverns to psychedelic flight.
They look so young in melancholic light
harmonizing black and white to color.
So distant—yet within our life’s short span
they grow apart as the hair grows longer
(The West’s resolve to expire grew stronger.)
Quadruplex visage: young god sold to man.
I crack up beholding the mid-Sixties
lost in late-night YouTubes, I start to break.
time past: removed from the complexities
Recalling every song, the beat, the shake…
They sang the primrose path to confusion
nostalgia replacing resolution.
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 7:57 AM UTC
Mark’s hands are grooved by ***** handles
grown on trees in the garden. He fastens bundles
and plains the best, saves leftovers for autumn piles.
The forks and tangles become a bonfire
where his children pull on woollen ears, spin red cheeks
with tumbling songs, watch Mark butter tinfoil spuds.
The children sneek off into adulthood and play catch
with a gilt wooden box, the pick of the grain
from the trees in the garden where a new ***** fills in gaping holes.
The box throws out branches in a cobwebbed cupboard.
Green hands with grooves droop in summer
then yellow and fall in the middle of autumn.
The bottom of the cupboard mulched with bones
and the children’s cheeks still burn.
Dec 15, 2010
Dec 15, 2010 at 10:38 AM UTC
I used to love rocking
with him in the gaudy
nightclubs, sea-green eyes
drifting into dance jams,
drunk rhythms, spinning
inside burning Mars, his
feet moonwalking through
the crowd, waiting for the
blazed beat to sound off,
as he bopped his head
to the hypnotic music,
flashy shoulders moving
in the breeze, embracing
the iridescent chemistry.
And as I hopped onto the
dance floor by his side,
electrified rhymes rumbling
through my muscles, so raw
and pounding, a bursting bomb
of atomic funk, I grooved inside his
galaxy, hips twisting and turning
into intensifying dynasties,
funky legs breaking down
to the ground, whipping it
around and around, going
downtown, spine-igniting highs,
cool consonants skyrocketing
towards Mount Olympus.
Our bodies spun, the nightlife
shining within our souls,
faces floating in extreme fever,
knees rising in paradise,
crowned, intoxicating,
hands wild-waving,
lost in this amazing
enchantment.
Jun 13, 2019
Jun 13, 2019 at 8:49 AM UTC