"lansing" poems - Hello Poetry

Down in the Hills of the Mississippi River Valley Between the Bluffs and The river bank in Lansing Is a Friend named Joe Price, Born to Play the Blue's Raised on Farming as a Boy, Yet was a need he could not lose He listened to Muddy Waters And ran out to buy a Guitar An old 1947 12 String National Resonator with the Steel Core He rapped his fingers around Till his blues skills got honed He was Destined to play with Legends like John Lee ****** Willie Dixon and Clifton Chenier Sonny Terry & Brownie McGhee Along with Muddy Waters and Me I know I'm no legend but I can't Refuse When Joe ask me to Sit in on a Knee Slappin' Hand Clappin version of the Hobo Blues His work boot stomped a beat On an old flat piece of wood As that steel Slide made that Guitar Cry A Legend behind the Scenes he's Played from the North down to The Louisiana Back Bayous And everything in Between You'll Never Know that feeling As the Hair stands on your Neck This hardly known old Hobo Was a Legend what the Heck Till you get a chance to listen To his Train whistle slide Moan That 12 string Steel Guitar Tone That sounds so very Nice From an Unknown Legend Name of Joe Price His Music can be found on http://www.joepriceblue.com/

0

Feb 25, 2015

Feb 25, 2015 at 5:11 PM UTC

ShamusDeyo

HOBO BLUES MAN

Down in the Hills of the Mississippi River Valley Between the Bluffs and The river bank in Lansing Is a Friend named Joe Price, Born to Play the Blue's Raised on Farming as a Boy, Yet was a need he could not lose He listened to Muddy Waters And ran out to buy a Guitar An old 1947 12 String National Resonator with the Steel Core He rapped his fingers around Till his blues skills got honed He was Destined to play with Legends like John Lee ****** Willie Dixon and Clifton Chenier Sonny Terry & Brownie McGhee Along with Muddy Waters and Me I know I'm no legend but I can't Refuse When Joe ask me to Sit in on a Knee Slappin' Hand Clappin version of the Hobo Blues His work boot stomped a beat On an old flat piece of wood As that steel Slide made that Guitar Cry A Legend behind the Scenes he's Played from the North down to The Louisiana Back Bayous And everything in Between You'll Never Know that feeling As the Hair stands on your Neck This hardly known old Hobo Was a Legend what the Heck Till you get a chance to listen To his Train whistle slide Moan That 12 string Steel Guitar Tone That sounds so very Nice From an Unknown Legend Name of Joe Price His Music can be found on http://www.joepriceblue.com/

40

I kissed you, once. Twice. Three or four or five Ecstatic times, or maybe more. I kissed You once when I shouldn't have, many more When I should have. In a park and with Red October on the tee-vee and Sean Connery Somehow pretending to be Russian. I kissed you under the fireworks On the Fourth, and in a caboose At your family reunion. Remember How we'd walk around at high school Football games, back when anything Was possible, and AIM was popular? Over six times: there were marshmallows, And the old, broken, Charlotte High School gym. When I asked you out, I'd been dared. The first time I kissed you, I was dared. That kiss, Cliche and on the bleachers, brought Butterflies that I only just fought off. You, Ashleigh, were my first love, not named "Wrestling"-- but I went to you-ess-enn-ay And you went to em-ess-you. You moved To greater Lansing from Port Huron Just as I packed up my stuff to crisscross My way over four years to San Diego. I kissed you, once-- or was it more?

0

Apr 22, 2014

Apr 22, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC

k-m-hanton

In Ports Huron and San Diego

I kissed you, once. Twice. Three or four or five Ecstatic times, or maybe more. I kissed You once when I shouldn't have, many more When I should have. In a park and with Red October on the tee-vee and Sean Connery Somehow pretending to be Russian. I kissed you under the fireworks On the Fourth, and in a caboose At your family reunion. Remember How we'd walk around at high school Football games, back when anything Was possible, and AIM was popular? Over six times: there were marshmallows, And the old, broken, Charlotte High School gym. When I asked you out, I'd been dared. The first time I kissed you, I was dared. That kiss, Cliche and on the bleachers, brought Butterflies that I only just fought off. You, Ashleigh, were my first love, not named "Wrestling"-- but I went to you-ess-enn-ay And you went to em-ess-you. You moved To greater Lansing from Port Huron Just as I packed up my stuff to crisscross My way over four years to San Diego. I kissed you, once-- or was it more?

25

. Grasping to the sky With ever reaching Branches, leaves spirit Themselves to sacred Airs. Old tree, a star set Truncated with sprite earth, Stolid, touchstone spark, Place, feeling all waves Dripping by like clouds. In some underworld, Bathing with Gods, Are immortal roots Divining water, laid In ceremonious soil, Digging out golden, Unfallowed tombs. Old tree in the sun, Great soul barking Skywards each day, Joyous arms clench, Lansing, higher out, Embracing heavens.

0

May 17, 2017

May 17, 2017 at 4:49 PM UTC

ormond

Old Tree in the Sun

. Grasping to the sky With ever reaching Branches, leaves spirit Themselves to sacred Airs. Old tree, a star set Truncated with sprite earth, Stolid, touchstone spark, Place, feeling all waves Dripping by like clouds. In some underworld, Bathing with Gods, Are immortal roots Divining water, laid In ceremonious soil, Digging out golden, Unfallowed tombs. Old tree in the sun, Great soul barking Skywards each day, Joyous arms clench, Lansing, higher out, Embracing heavens.

24

Grasping to the sky With ever reaching Branches, leaves spirit Themselves to sacred Airs. Old tree, a star set Truncated with sprite earth, Stolid, touchstone spark, Place, feeling all waves Dripping by like clouds. In some underworld, Bathing with Gods, Are immortal roots Divining water, laid In ceremonious soil, Digging out golden, Unfallowed tombs. Old tree in the sun, Great soul barking Skywards each day, Joyous arms clench, Lansing, higher out, Embracing heavens.

0

Jul 12, 2016

Jul 12, 2016 at 12:23 AM UTC

ormond

Old Tree in the Sun

Grasping to the sky With ever reaching Branches, leaves spirit Themselves to sacred Airs. Old tree, a star set Truncated with sprite earth, Stolid, touchstone spark, Place, feeling all waves Dripping by like clouds. In some underworld, Bathing with Gods, Are immortal roots Divining water, laid In ceremonious soil, Digging out golden, Unfallowed tombs. Old tree in the sun, Great soul barking Skywards each day, Joyous arms clench, Lansing, higher out, Embracing heavens.

23

American Sermon I am uniquely privileged to be alive or so they say. I have asked others who are unsure, especially the man with three kids who’s being foreclosed next month. One daughter says she isn’t leaving the farm, they can pry her out with tractor and chain. Mother needs heart surgery but there is no insurance. A lifetime of cooking with pork fat. My friend Sam has made five hundred bucks in 40 years of writing poetry. He has applied for 120 grants but so have 50,000 others. Sam keeps strict track. The fact is he’s not very good. Back to the girl on the farm. She’s been keeping records of all the wildflowers on the never-tilled land down the road, a 40-acre clearing where they’ve bloomed since the glaciers. She picks wild strawberries with a young female bear who eats them. She’s being taken from the eastern Upper Peninsula down to Lansing where Dad has a job in a bottling plant. She won’t survive the move.

0

Apr 14, 2015

Apr 14, 2015 at 7:34 PM UTC

mike-essig

Jim Harrison

American Sermon I am uniquely privileged to be alive or so they say. I have asked others who are unsure, especially the man with three kids who’s being foreclosed next month. One daughter says she isn’t leaving the farm, they can pry her out with tractor and chain. Mother needs heart surgery but there is no insurance. A lifetime of cooking with pork fat. My friend Sam has made five hundred bucks in 40 years of writing poetry. He has applied for 120 grants but so have 50,000 others. Sam keeps strict track. The fact is he’s not very good. Back to the girl on the farm. She’s been keeping records of all the wildflowers on the never-tilled land down the road, a 40-acre clearing where they’ve bloomed since the glaciers. She picks wild strawberries with a young female bear who eats them. She’s being taken from the eastern Upper Peninsula down to Lansing where Dad has a job in a bottling plant. She won’t survive the move.

23

Boys and friends, family and school. These are the things I knew in my hometown. It never changed. It was always the same. When things went well it was the same. When things went bad, they never changed. I’ve seen the same dull faces everyday of my life. But the day I saw his face, it was like I moved to a whole new town. He made the simple, daily, places exciting because whatever happened, I couldn’t wait to tell him about it. But one day he didn’t care what I had to say. He stopped inviting me over and I knew less and less. I didn’t know how his day was. I just wanted to know how his day was. I used to think I was so miserable in my hometown. I got sick of the same daily routine. But when he left, it was a whole new town again. This town was always burning. Burning, burning, burning then rebuilding. Rebuilding, rebuilding, rebuilding. It changed when he left. It wasn’t the same. He was a paradise in this otherwise boring city. But no vacation can last and now I’m stuck where it always storms. I want my sunshine back. I want my best friend back. I want him back. There isn’t a place in this washed up town that doesn’t have a memory of him and I and the time we spent together. When he left, he took so much of me with him and I want it back. I want to play my favorite songs and not cry because it was the song playing when he told me about his family. I want to watch movies and not think about how we joked along with the plot and made it our own. I want to go out and not wish he was there with me. I want to sleep and not wonder what it would be like to have his arms wrapped around me. When he left, everything changed. Nothing was the same.

0

Feb 7, 2015

Feb 7, 2015 at 10:20 PM UTC

gretchie

Lansing, MI

Boys and friends, family and school. These are the things I knew in my hometown. It never changed. It was always the same. When things went well it was the same. When things went bad, they never changed. I’ve seen the same dull faces everyday of my life. But the day I saw his face, it was like I moved to a whole new town. He made the simple, daily, places exciting because whatever happened, I couldn’t wait to tell him about it. But one day he didn’t care what I had to say. He stopped inviting me over and I knew less and less. I didn’t know how his day was. I just wanted to know how his day was. I used to think I was so miserable in my hometown. I got sick of the same daily routine. But when he left, it was a whole new town again. This town was always burning. Burning, burning, burning then rebuilding. Rebuilding, rebuilding, rebuilding. It changed when he left. It wasn’t the same. He was a paradise in this otherwise boring city. But no vacation can last and now I’m stuck where it always storms. I want my sunshine back. I want my best friend back. I want him back. There isn’t a place in this washed up town that doesn’t have a memory of him and I and the time we spent together. When he left, he took so much of me with him and I want it back. I want to play my favorite songs and not cry because it was the song playing when he told me about his family. I want to watch movies and not think about how we joked along with the plot and made it our own. I want to go out and not wish he was there with me. I want to sleep and not wonder what it would be like to have his arms wrapped around me. When he left, everything changed. Nothing was the same.

70

. Grasping to the sky With ever reaching Branches, leaves spirit Themselves to sacred airs. Old tree, a star set Truncated with sprite earth, Stolid, touchstone spark, Place, feeling all waves Dripping by like clouds. In some underworld, Bathing with Gods, Are immortal roots Divining water, laid In ceremonious soil, Digging out golden, Unfallowed tombs. Old tree in the sun, Great soul barking Skywards each day, Joyous arms clench, Lansing, higher out, Embracing heavens. .

0

Sep 22, 2018

Sep 22, 2018 at 2:23 PM UTC

ormond

Old Tree in the Sun

. Grasping to the sky With ever reaching Branches, leaves spirit Themselves to sacred airs. Old tree, a star set Truncated with sprite earth, Stolid, touchstone spark, Place, feeling all waves Dripping by like clouds. In some underworld, Bathing with Gods, Are immortal roots Divining water, laid In ceremonious soil, Digging out golden, Unfallowed tombs. Old tree in the sun, Great soul barking Skywards each day, Joyous arms clench, Lansing, higher out, Embracing heavens. .

24

He was holding court between sets at the Texas Bar (Not his usual stomping grounds, necessarily, But the owner was a decent guy whose checks were good, And a Wednesday night gig pretty much found money) Going slow and easy with a scotch and soda of uncertain labels, Having come to rest at that station where, as he sighs it, Wallet tells me I prefer well drinks to the top shelf. He’d been, if not a name name, at least recognizable (He has posters showing him sharing the bill with the heavies, Redding and Bo Diddley and Jackie Wilson, Smaller font for sure, but there nonetheless) Getting a little air play, Even outside of niche Detroit and Chicago stations, And one song which peaked All the waaaaay up at seventy-eight on the chart. *Lotta uncertain buses and club owners Who never quite caught me later,* He muses, a touch ruefully, but he finds some solace (Indeed, he has become quite adept At finding comfort where he can) But, if he has not exactly prospered, he has carried on carryin’ on, Getting steady work here or Chicago or Gary, The odd campus Motown nostalgia gig in Lansing or Ann Arbor, Even six or eight weeks in Florida (Nice to be the young guy in the room for once, he all but cackles) Covering the tunes the headliners sang in his day, And perhaps one could say he is a Fleance or Percival, Plodding onward from the wreckage of great man all around him, But such contemplation is a luxury, The province of lake houses and brokerage accounts, Though he is fond of holding his thumb and forefinger Spread apart just so, And telling the listener I was this close to hittin’ it big, Invariably following that assertion with a chuckle, ‘Course, that might not be measured to scale.

0

May 16, 2018

May 16, 2018 at 12:14 PM UTC

wk-kortas

get it, man, get it

He was holding court between sets at the Texas Bar (Not his usual stomping grounds, necessarily, But the owner was a decent guy whose checks were good, And a Wednesday night gig pretty much found money) Going slow and easy with a scotch and soda of uncertain labels, Having come to rest at that station where, as he sighs it, Wallet tells me I prefer well drinks to the top shelf. He’d been, if not a name name, at least recognizable (He has posters showing him sharing the bill with the heavies, Redding and Bo Diddley and Jackie Wilson, Smaller font for sure, but there nonetheless) Getting a little air play, Even outside of niche Detroit and Chicago stations, And one song which peaked All the waaaaay up at seventy-eight on the chart. *Lotta uncertain buses and club owners Who never quite caught me later,* He muses, a touch ruefully, but he finds some solace (Indeed, he has become quite adept At finding comfort where he can) But, if he has not exactly prospered, he has carried on carryin’ on, Getting steady work here or Chicago or Gary, The odd campus Motown nostalgia gig in Lansing or Ann Arbor, Even six or eight weeks in Florida (Nice to be the young guy in the room for once, he all but cackles) Covering the tunes the headliners sang in his day, And perhaps one could say he is a Fleance or Percival, Plodding onward from the wreckage of great man all around him, But such contemplation is a luxury, The province of lake houses and brokerage accounts, Though he is fond of holding his thumb and forefinger Spread apart just so, And telling the listener I was this close to hittin’ it big, Invariably following that assertion with a chuckle, ‘Course, that might not be measured to scale.

35

Soy una pieza de limado acero. Mi borde irregular no es arbitrario. Duermo mi vago acero en un armario que no veo, sujeta a mi llavero. Hay una cerradura que me espera, una sola. La puerta es de forjado hierro y firme cristal. Del otro lado está la casa, oculta y verdadera. Altos en la penumbra los desiertos espejos ven las noches y los días y las fotografías de los muertos y el tenue ayer de las fotografías. Alguna vez empujaré la dura puerta y haré girar la cerradura.

0

289

Jorge Luis Borges

Una llave en east lansing

Soy una pieza de limado acero. Mi borde irregular no es arbitrario. Duermo mi vago acero en un armario que no veo, sujeta a mi llavero. Hay una cerradura que me espera, una sola. La puerta es de forjado hierro y firme cristal. Del otro lado está la casa, oculta y verdadera. Altos en la penumbra los desiertos espejos ven las noches y los días y las fotografías de los muertos y el tenue ayer de las fotografías. Alguna vez empujaré la dura puerta y haré girar la cerradura.

14