"headstock" poems
Beat
Beat back the urge
Beat it back to the Stone Age
You nerd!
I got a motor mouth
A mile a minute
It's a song and dance
But I'm not in it
Bite
Bite your lip
Fool yourself into thinkin'
You've beat it
I got a tigger finger
No gun to pull
A fragile headstock
Lost my cool
I'm tic tock tic tock tic tock tickin away
I'll blast off like a rocket into outer space
You can keep it down for a little while
But soon enough you'll be forced to smile
Keep
Keep your cool
Keep it locked up tight
One rule
I got a worn out shirt
It Never fits right
I shift my shoulders
Under the lights
Make
Yourself do better
Make it all go away
It's the weather
I'm a bit twitchy Don't touch me
I need you to love me
You're so far above and I'm so far below
I'm losing control and it's just not enough
My nerves are aching to just get rough
I'm worried what happens if I'm in freeze
I get up the itch and I need a release
There's so much to manage to do and to say
My mouth is just in the way
I'm tic tock tic tock tic tock tickin away
I'll blast off like a rocket into outer space
You can keep it down for a little while
But soon enough you'll be forced to smile
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
Beat
Beat back the urge
Beat it back to the Stone Age
You nerd!
I got a motor mouth
A mile a minute
It's a song and dance
But I'm not in it
Bite
Bite your lip
Fool yourself into thinkin'
You've beat it
I got a tigger finger
No gun to pull
A fragile headstock
Lost my cool
I'm tic tock tic tock tic tock tickin away
I'll blast off like a rocket into outer space
You can keep it down for a little while
But soon enough you'll be forced to smile
Keep
Keep your cool
Keep it locked up tight
One rule
I got a worn out shirt
It Never fits right
I shift my shoulders
Under the lights
Make
Yourself do better
Make it all go away
It's the weather
I'm tic tock tic tock tic tock tickin away
I'll blast off like a rocket into outer space
You can keep it down for a little while
But soon enough you'll be forced to smile
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 6:58 PM UTC
The Church Belfry at Catherine Cross
Was known for its ancient bells,
They’d peal on out before Sunday Mass
And wake the monks in their cells,
The bellringers were a hardy crew
And their timing was superb,
But Joe and John, they didn’t get on,
And nor did the Bellman, Herb.
For Herb worked up in the belfry, with
The bells that he thought were his,
He’d tend the stock and the clapper stays
So the clapper wouldn’t miss,
He’d set each rope to the ringer’s height
To a fraction of an inch,
And woe betide if a ringer died,
Or another called in sick.
He’d call on down to the bellringers,
‘Go easy on those ropes,
You wouldn’t want to be stretching them,
They’re after all, the Pope’s!’
But John would glare at his form up there
And call up, between spells,
‘Don’t interfere with our work down here,
It’s we who ring the bells!’
He’d do his best to unsettle Herb
Would leave him in the lurch,
Then try, by ringing the tenor bell
To knock him off his perch,
The bell weighed upwards of three long tons
Would leave John out of breath,
But over time with its endless chime
Herb was going deaf.
Then Herb would leap from the belfry stair
And knock John to the ground,
The bells would ring out of sequence then
And make a terrible sound,
And while they struggled and punched and swore
The villagers would smirk,
‘That’s Herb and John got a punch-up on,
That Herb is a piece of work!’
So John had gone to the Synod, asked
That the Bellman should be sacked,
‘There’s nothing he needs to do up there,
I’m sick of being attacked.’
And so the word was carried to Herb
That their need of him was done,
Gave him a week to collect his things
And then, he must be gone.
His final Mass at Catherine Cross
Herb clambered up in the tower,
He’d show them all in his hour of loss
He’d have John in his power,
He loosened the nut that held the bell
To the headstock, up above,
And as it rang with a mighty clang
He gave it a final shove.
Then John strode into the centre, cursing
Looking up at the bell,
But what he saw would forever haunt him
Like some scene from Hell,
The bell was hurtling down towards him
Herb astride the crown,
His eyes a-gleam with revenge, it seemed
As the mighty bell came down.
Herb is buried at Catherine Cross
Not far from the place he fell,
While John was trapped for three long days
Under the dome of the bell,
It took the arm of a crane to lift
And set John free from his pain,
But from then on it was ‘Crazy John’
For he clambered out insane!
David Lewis Paget
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 6:06 AM UTC
An hourglass, tightly bound,
fused grain in streaks;
each one taking on a different stain
giving the illusion of a thousand horizons
stacked to make up a body - empty but aching
to be filled by waves.
From knots wound into a headstock
grows an addiction: a need to revive
the skin left behind between grooves -
skin which serves to soften the break,
but also feed character to the swell -
granting purpose to decay.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 8:50 PM UTC
Industrialised glam, digitalised intimacy
Rich aroma, dancing lights;
implicit wonders are unexplored
as they hide beneath the headstock
obeying society's stream of thought.
Rigour movements, sundried streets
hustling and bustling with only time to beat;
withering moments drape the paved sidewalk
just like the bland orange tainted tree in
your grave backyard (which many have described to be hollow and large)
Lingering spirits have strewn themselves over your covered sheets,
cementing their curtains as the bright white light
of haven glistens above their unblinking eyes
constricted by the deafening silence,
untoned to the faint hymns of children's laughter.
"Stop to smell the roses", the wise men speak:
confidence is their ruse; do not let it deceive you.
They hide amongst the similar thousands of men,
yet never raising a head to any of them.
These are the children of our future.
Senseless to surroundings, spray them fresh air,
Move their cognitive gears to move their oil-rigged limbs;
Let their creative minds sway to the rhythm of rustling trees,
Revive the diverse culture of our people for these brainwashed folks;
Deny the irony of being consumed, when you are the consumer.
Sep 7, 2017
Sep 7, 2017 at 1:58 PM UTC
I got my first guitar when I was 10 years old.
It was a navy blue Ibanez from guitar center.
It was used and when I played it
It sounded like a shriek more than anything of music, but it was mine.
I’ll never forget the first time I sat in a soundproofed room at that music school
With Jimi Hendrix posters on the wall, playing the riff of “Satisfaction" by The Rolling Stones completely off beat
and thinking to myself that I had found magic.
Back then, metal strings still made my fingers bleed
and I used to forget song formats and my rhythm was horrible no matter how often I used a metronome.
My second guitar was a matte black Jackson with a sharp headstock.
I drew flowers on it with a white sharpie and took out springs in the back
Which made the bridge float until it was almost unplayable.
But I didn’t notice and I didn’t care because it was mine and
I still played with my eyes closed and sang off key
I used to scream the lyrics to Green Day songs and I felt like I knew who I was
I used to be unafraid and though
Posters on the walls were replaced, white walls were painted dark gray somehow that school still felt like home
With music blaring through practice rooms
I think I’m always going to miss the sound of music
Not professional, produced
Not crisp and clean, but raw music played by teenagers who could eat 6 boxes of pizza in 20 minutes.
I remember walking in the rain to the CVS across the street
Joking and laughing
I remember growing up with friends that became a family
My third guitar was a Fender Stratocaster, sea foam green.
I bought it used and the fretboard is chipped but its mine.
Now my hair is its natural, bleak dark brown and I prefer indie to hard rock but I am still me.
And I don’t think I’ll ever become the musician I once wanted to be
But I know that music is seared into my soul
And that’s the only thing that hasn’t changed.
Jul 24, 2019
Jul 24, 2019 at 8:28 AM UTC