"lamped" poems - Hello Poetry

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.

0

Jun 13, 2012

Jun 13, 2012 at 11:38 AM UTC

ecpollick

“Magic school bus graveyard is where we all go to die.”

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.

38

She broke the lamp over my head screaming lights out

0

Oct 29, 2013

Oct 29, 2013 at 9:52 PM UTC

soul-in-torment

lamped 10w domestic violence

She broke the lamp over my head screaming lights out

4

Walking one day some sidewalk in a downpour, The gentle kiss of rain on face and hands, Amidst a million identically imperfect droplets, I spot one, darling Snowflake in the sky. Thrusting with my hand I catch the fragile beauty; Behold her limpid, gleaming crystal form; Learn in my warm palm her unique glow; Hope never to take from her my eyes again. But far too hot with fire was licked my flesh, Far too bright and burning lamped my gazing eyes— *My tender wet snowflake like a lonesome tear Left my trembling palm and ran back to the sky.* When even now I walk in gentle rain, Many years since and many soggy days; Sometimes my tears will join the falling drops— How could I love them, after knowing her?

0

Jan 6, 2012

Jan 6, 2012 at 2:23 AM UTC

walter-louis-holohan

What is sad and wet?

Walking one day some sidewalk in a downpour, The gentle kiss of rain on face and hands, Amidst a million identically imperfect droplets, I spot one, darling Snowflake in the sky. Thrusting with my hand I catch the fragile beauty; Behold her limpid, gleaming crystal form; Learn in my warm palm her unique glow; Hope never to take from her my eyes again. But far too hot with fire was licked my flesh, Far too bright and burning lamped my gazing eyes— *My tender wet snowflake like a lonesome tear Left my trembling palm and ran back to the sky.* When even now I walk in gentle rain, Many years since and many soggy days; Sometimes my tears will join the falling drops— How could I love them, after knowing her?

16

Here a single woman staying. Her cottage area was on top of hill. In only December that old woman lamped her house. One night the lamp light seen. People went up to her house, saw thousands creature were dancing. These were ready to sent outside the solar system's planet for to fool the Earth residents.

0

Jan 11, 2019

Jan 11, 2019 at 3:15 AM UTC

inchol-poem

Old woman's lamp

Here a single woman staying. Her cottage area was on top of hill. In only December that old woman lamped her house. One night the lamp light seen. People went up to her house, saw thousands creature were dancing. These were ready to sent outside the solar system's planet for to fool the Earth residents.

25

I'm high on the anonymity Twisting and shifting outside my sight But it's fine Because I'm drifting Past lighted windows And lamped streets A million people Have all done this before I will not be the first And I will not be the last How many people Will I only ever see once?

0

Feb 24, 2018

Feb 24, 2018 at 6:08 PM UTC

mlock

Anon

I'm high on the anonymity Twisting and shifting outside my sight But it's fine Because I'm drifting Past lighted windows And lamped streets A million people Have all done this before I will not be the first And I will not be the last How many people Will I only ever see once?

12