"lucille" poems
if I suffer at this
typewriter
think how I'd feel
among the lettuce-
pickers of Salinas?
I think of the men
I've known in
factories
with no way to
get out-
choking while living
choking while laughing
at Bob Hope or Lucille
Ball while
2 or 3 children beat
tennis ***** against
the wall.
some suicides are never
recorded.
17.1k
Walking to work, I saw Joan Rivers
Blowing me a kiss today
Through a store window on Indian
With that smirk you can't mistake
I crossed on Tahquitz Canyon drive,
Said "hi" to Lucille Ball,
and passed a smiling Elvis Presley,
rested against the Welwood wall.
This is where the ghosts of Hollywood dwell
Is this a Hollywood Heaven or a Hollywood Hell?
But this is where the ghosts of Hollywood dwell
the Shangri-La where the angels fell...
On a fountain's edge across the street,
Sits a grinning Sonny Bono,
and just north of there you'll find 26 feet
of Marilyn Monroe shadow.
and Frank Sinatra's voice is still heard
Crooning through the air at night,
while here forevermore at the El Mirador,
you'll find the pensive eyes of Albert Einstein.
This is where the ghosts of Hollywood dwell
Is this a Hollywood Heaven or a Hollywood Hell?
But this is where the ghosts of Hollywood dwell
the Shangri-La where the angels fell...
When the stars die,
they might fall from the sky,
but they never truly disappear
cuz you'll always find them here.
This is where the ghosts of Hollywood dwell
Is this a Hollywood Heaven or a Hollywood Hell?
But this is where the ghosts of Hollywood dwell
the Shangri-La where the angels fell...
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 7:15 PM UTC
Verse:
Eleanor Roosevelt, Rosa Parks, Ghandi, Lucille Ball
Quiet and soft-spoken
Take the spotlight
Every bone in their body tells them not to
They took it not because they wanted to
Not because they enjoyed directing others
Not out of the pleasure of being looked at
Because they had no choice
Because they were driven to do what they thought was right
Chorus:
Roosevelt and Ghandi
Rosa Parks and lovely Lucy
Inner peace is what we all need
You're not a failure if you can believe
Verse:
Steve Martin, Ella Fitzgerald, Nicole Kidman, Lucille Ball
Shy actress was an oxymoron
In the so-called Golden Age
Let's make today the real Golden Age
And stop being so mean to each other
Take a walk in another person's shoes
Play the role of the person terrified to speak
Turn a party around so you can see it the way we see it
As a battleground
As a place of judgement and fear
Verse:
Einstein, Lincoln, Edison, me, you!
Laughed at in their classes and by the masses
When they had the ideas to change the world
If you would ever let them read their books
How many people have given up their dreams?
Just because they were shy?
There has to be a better way to deal with this
And someday I know you will get there
Touch the sky, touch our hearts
And find the love you always wanted
Bridge:
Solitude
Solitude
Inner peace is what we all need
The ability to be you
The ability to be the original
Not the knock off
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 5:10 PM UTC
Dear Prudence, Julia, Michelle, Mr. Moonlight, Eleanor Rigby, Dizzy Miss Lizzy, Lady Madonna, Lovely Rita, Rocky Racoon, Lucille, **** Sadie, Clarabella, Her Majesty, Nowhere Man, Penny Lane, Carol, Long Tall Sally, Maggie Mae, Johnny B. Goode, Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds, Moonlight Boy, Martha My Dear,
You Like Me Too Much. It’s All Too Much. I’m So Tired. The Night Before Yesterday Memphis, Tennessee, I Saw Her Standing There. Polythene Pam.
Not A Second Time She Said She Said “Hey Bulldog. I Want To Hold Your Hand. Why Don’t We Do It In The Road. Here, There and Everywhere. Something.”
I Want To Tell You I Should Have Known Better. “Wait. Slow Down. I Just Don’t Understand. Tell Me Why.”
“Because I’m Down. I’m Happy Just To Dance With You. Hold Me Tight”
“I’ll Be On My Way”
“Please Please Me”
“Get Back. Help!”
And I Love Her
All My Loving,
Mean Mr. Mustard
P.S I Love You
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
I remember when we first met, downtown crossroads.
The streets were filled with people shuffling from one art gallery to the next. Jazz was played on the corner of the streets, causing the noise pollution to die down a bit. People listened and danced.
You grabbed my hand and swung me towards you, and I realized, just in the shortest time, we were swing dancing.
We ****** We couldn't dance, but just the fact that you were touching me and I was touching you created a gate that held back all my negative thoughts and feelings. You were the only thing that was there. It was just the music... And you...
This "relationship" we had was slowly turning into a war. You cheated and I stayed.
Staying with you was a simple mistake that I had made only because I thought that I loved you, and you made me believe that you loved me back. Every single day since you forced your lips against that other girls, I have been nothing but jealous and hurt, but I didn't distribute my jealousy as much as I did my sadness and anger.
You, put me through more than I asked, In fact I asked for nothing that involved pain and suffering. I only asked for love and caring.
We had many good memory's, and many photographs were taken. I will never forget the great times we had.
I will never forget you.
By Audrey Lucille Pendergraft
10/22/20013
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 4:29 PM UTC
Wakey Wakey, rise and shine
greet the morning with a smile
wide awake and feeling fine
dancing with this boy of mine.
Twisting on the kitchen floor
the monkey, the jive and many more,
the mashed potato, the hustle too
he follows my lead with a giggle or two.
There's a hound dog, a jailhouse, some blue suede shoes
as we Rave On with Buddy and Peggy Sue
Reet Petite makes an entrance and whips up the crowd
"Turn it up Daddy, I want this real loud!"
Then on to the Land of a Thousand Dances
even the dog's grinning wide as she prances
we take Three Steps to Heaven and meet Cathy's clown
then on to the next one, no time to sit down.
So I'll fry up the bacon as my little bug jitters
and poach us some eggs with some sweet 'tato fritters
as I sing of Lucille, Maggie may and Delilah,
then Shake Rattle and Roll to those Great ***** Of Fire.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
We met three times
Over fifteen years.
The disagreement paled
In light of his diagnosis.
He unexpectedly appeared
At my door, then stood in my kitchen.
He had a few serious questions
About brotherly affections,
And after spitting into my sink
(the poor man)
He wondered if I thought less of him
For not sending cards at Christmas and birthdays.
Is that what he came to say?
Next was at our last family wedding.
He was still steady on his feet.
We were five Irish lads.
The sisters said he was the handsome one.
He was.
There are six of us posing in this final shot.
He's wearing a Lucille Ball tie,
Losened around his neck,
Yet covering the gill-like scar
Running from lobe to lobe.
His hands are buried deep
In his pants' pockets.
His smile says Good-bye.
I saw him for the last time
A few weeks later,
Standing, bent and coughing
At the intersedtion of the roadway and Nature Trail.
His rib cage raging from contortions.
He waved off an offered ride.
And then he was gone.
It took us years to get here.
Nov 8, 2024
Nov 8, 2024 at 9:47 AM UTC
don't weep above this hatred
this plague shall soon be through
while we climb the ladder into the heavens
breathe the sweet and childish laughter
whistling this new profound and beautiful truth
may the capsules of stardom be removed
lest the gold of you be unglued
then we'll play our shows on mountaintops
and draw them in the millions
beyond all the written pleasures that exist for just a few
when this crystal city's completed
sparkling sapphires in royal blue
emerald's with the faces of the Aegean
barely touch on the euphoria, on the eyes I've looked into
there is electricity in this symphony of humanness
pale or black and blue
then these melted flavors of our curses
may dissolve between us too
Until your mouth is dry of spit
and our lips are numb from use
let's dance inside the venom
dear lucille pulls us through
miss heroine and her guiding rays
beat the storm away
A journey that had never been
aurulent skin she didn't see herself in
tied to a chair, while she choked and I pulled her hair
I found a real good girl there
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 3:20 AM UTC
I miss Buffalo Bill and Jersey Lil'
Jesse James among other names
Like Hopalong and Big John Wayne
Cooper,Cagney and,
What's that Indians name?
Oh yes
Cochise.
The man of war, the man of peace.
Jimmy Dean and Johnny Ray
Otis,Sammy and Doris day all yesterday
And yet
I bet there's no one quite like them
Not like Borgnine,Heston or Glen Ford.
Rememeber West and Ward
The caped crusaders
Or Roy Thinnes and the Martian Invaders?
I miss them all
The magic of the casting call and Lucille Ball.
Where did they go?
Moved on no doubt to another show and more greasepaint
Ain't life dull Without it full
Of these great stars.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 4:32 AM UTC
How Much Gets Me On A Bus? to the City?
(I live 30 minutes away)
more than this ever will - POETRY
I’ve been writing ‘poems’ ever since I remember
ever since 11 –
reciting these phenomenal words of wisdom
to any and all who would listen
forcing family-members & friends
that’s the thing about poetry,
it makes you feel like it’s important,
makes you think the words you sling together
aren’t really yours
it comes to you, through you, needs to come out of you,
and when its over you’re just as amazed
as they should be.
but they’re not, I mean
they like poetry, admire it,
even enjoy it sometimes,
but they could honestly
give it up in a heartbeat,
live without it.
You know what I mean?
I’m like you
like all the people who come here
I'm part poetry as poetry is me
A Dodge Poetry Attendee many years –
my arm once around Gwendolyn Brooks,
cried in a church with Lucille Clifton
talked Newark to Baraka –
know the honorable Slammer, Patricia Smith!
I’ve sat many years with the Lords of Literature - my professors
who all seemed to know “whose got it”
the intellectuals of American prose who seem to be searching for a rookie,
the next best troubadour college-student that will grace their faculty-doors…
The poetry I read here is incredible
Some of the best stuff on the net,
poignant, painful , honest, raw, sensual, serious – provokingly real
words I read here startle me, stun me at times
so clear in meaning, well-crafted, chosen words
unusually strong
They’re the kind of words the got-it people have,
the poet people (probably all people have)
poetry is just another way of finding an infallible song –
(I still say we should go sing it on the bus!)
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 11:29 PM UTC
Go outside after breakfast
Come back for lunch at noon.
Come inside at suppertime
And even then, it was too soon.
Never permitted to be late
We ate dinner at six each day
Eat every bite on our plate.
About the menu we had no say.
We had baking soda submarines
Popular Mechanics magazines
And that was technology back then.
Decoder rings and roller skate keys
Shooting marbles on our knees
And playing crooks and G-men.
Those days we had three channels
On all black and white televisions.
Just the same thirteen inch boxes;
Nothing like 3D or Panavision.
Loved Uncle Miltie and Lucille Ball
And considered Korla Pandit a waste,
But we must be forgiven because
Back then, no one had much taste.
We could spell Kula, Fran and Ollie,
Said words like “gosh”, and “by golly”
And were anxious to see flying cars.
Many movies were in Technicolor
But you always had to take your brother
And he didn’t recognize the stars.
After school we played sandlot ball
Saturday were TV cartoon shows;
Dancing trees with belly buttons
And a local clown with a red nose.
We joined Cubs and Boy Scouts
Had lemonade stands by the street,
Matchbooks in bicycle stokes
And used bottle cap taps for our feet.
It seemed like days were longer then
And summer was slow to come again.
Those were the days when we had fun.
We built our forts and hooked up swings
Kids did all crazy kinds of things
Before these modern times had begun.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 7:55 PM UTC
The Miss, Misters and Mrs.,
And the St. Joseph's Sisters,
Made me a Bluejay,
Jay- jaying and soaring
Over Wrens and Robins
Below in five rows.
Teeth marks on Ticondarogas,
Initialed pink rubbers,
Toothpicks and fingers
Solved all those problems.
Sister Lucille showed me Sarnia
On the Neilson Wall Map,
With the Malted Milk,
Crispy Crunch bars staring back.
They looked too delicious,
Her reprimand was contritious,
I'm doing time during recess,
Ninety minutes til lunch.
We stood in a crooked line,
Like a snake, to get marked,
With her drawer a crack open
We'd get a peek at her strap.
Black or red, correctively cold;
Sister Roseangela, we'd heard,
Cried, Quid Pro Quo.
We had football baseball,
And hockey dreams,
Volleyball, basketball,
And funeral teams;
Field Days, Holy Days,
Days needed at home;
Teachers were coaches,
With little time to complain;
But the kids back then
Just weren't the same.
There were skirmishes, fouls,
Strike outs and time outs;
We were sliced white bread,
No rye or whole grain.
We'd march double file
Once a week to the Church,
To genuflect and reflect
At the Stations and Cross.
To confess, get redress,
Display penitent remorse,
Though keeping a secret
From the Confessional box,
A comfort and curse.
Their objective succeeded,
The lessons went deep;
Using the three Rs,
The ABCs, 1, 2, 3s,
To impart and ingraine
How to carry one's cross.
I remember by name
The Miss, Misters and Mrs.
And St. Joseph's Sisters
Who gave their all,
Each day, and always.
They've gone or retired,
But recalled in tranquility
For the life-lessons I admire.
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 12:06 PM UTC
"I love you more than buttercups!" Said little Mary Liu
Said Tiny Tim to Mary Liu, "I love you more than glue!"
"I love you more than applesauce." Said Betty to Lucille.
Lucille replied, "I love you more than wet banana peel!"
"I like you more than broccoli." Said Kimmie to her mom.
Her mother smiled, "Kim I love you more than lemon balm."
"I love you more than ****** Debbie told her boyfriend Don.
Donny looked at her and said, "Me too! I wish that you were gone."
So in the end, it seems to seem that Valentines are not
Anything more than people who just like to spend a lot
Valentine's Day isn't quite as glorious as we
Swoon and croon and quite as big as we make it to be
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 11:51 PM UTC
When all summed her home was
immaculate, like pearl polished
porcelain and her maple floors
smelled of good soap and wax;
between Sunday lunch and
dessert, she would stroll
to the bathroom
to throw-up.
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 8:53 AM UTC
There is a girl inside.
She is randy as a wolf.
She will not walk away and leave these bones
to an old woman.
She is a green tree in a forest of kindling.
She is a greeen girl in a used poet.
She has waited patient as a nun
for the second coming,
when she can break through gray hairs
into blossom
and her lovers will harvest
honey and thyme
and the woods will be wild
with the **** wonder of it.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 6:10 AM UTC
**** MY FIST COPYRIGHT 2011 DAVID EHRGOTT
Lucy Lucy What have you done
******* a kid
well it ain't no fun
Bashing and gashing
covering him
My right forearm hurts like sin
Lucy Lucy Kiss me kiss
Match the left one by doing this
Just
**** My Fist
**** My Fist
Yeah
**** My Fist
**** My Fist
Lucy Lucy ******* me blue
Here is all that she did do
Slapped me around; Put me through walls
That ************* Lucille Ball
So
**** my Fist
Yeah
**** My Fist
just
**** My Fist
**** My Fist
**** My Fist
**** My Fist
**** my Fist
**** My Fist
Tuesday Weld was not a Ball
She frigged herself and that was all
But Lucy had a *** playpen
For children around the age of ten
so
**** MY FIST
**** MY FIST
**** MY FIST
**** MY FIST
Surviving this is not a bliss
and my arm, it hurts like ****
I raise it up to tell the world
That Lucille Ball was my first girl that
****** MY FIST YEAH SHE
****** MY FIST
****** MY FIST YEAH SHE
****** MY FIST
SO
**** MY FIST
**** MY FIST
**** MY FIST
**** MY FIST
**** MY FIST
**** MY FIST
**** MY FIST
**** MY FIST
JUST **** IT BABY YEAH **** IT
SAID **** IT BABY YEAH **** IT
JUST **** IT BABY YEAH **** IT
SAID **** IT BABY YEAH **** IT
Little boys of only ten
Should not be used like that again
But you know Hollywood and them
I'll save the world and tell them just to
**** MY FIST
**** MY FIST
**** MY FIST
**** MY FIST
Lucy did it why don't you just
**** MY FIST
**** MY FIST
**** MY FIST
**** MY FIST
Hollywood Hollywood just kiss this
I've really had enough of your **** so
**** MY FIST
**** MY FIST
**** MY FIST
**** MY FIST...
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 6:26 PM UTC
I gave you my heart
you gave me a fabrication of yours
I gave you my body
you strummed it like B.B. does Lucille
I gave you my trust
and you made a fool of me
I gave you me
you gave me games, manipulation and control
Seeing all this at my front door
i chose to close it
after i let you in
when everyone else chose
to walk around a black hole
I chose to jump in.
Once all my fruit spoiled
I recognized the parasite
in my midst was you
like an Indian giver
I took my gifts back
and i beseeched you to leave
with a facade of hate
Impersonating the reaper
you created a nightmare
your greediness was your downfall
you tried to take it all back and
were trying to take my soul
forcing me into battle with you
Now, though I will triumph in the battle
I struggle to piece together
my heart, my body and me
like before without battle scars
to prove you ever
existed to me
Apr 20, 2012
Apr 20, 2012 at 11:18 AM UTC
How odd you look, Madame Olga
with that ridiculous turban
wrapped around your graying head
and that careless slash of red lipstick
that does nothing for you
(unless you're channeling Lucille Ball)
The truth is you're stuck here,
Madame Olga,
in your tiny, seedy parlor
with its stained floral wallpaper and
dim lighting from a feeble lamp
Do you find your "client" vulnerable
today, Madame Olga,
a lonely widow waiting nervously
for you to speak,
waiting for you to tell her about a
tall, dark, handsome stranger
coming into her life,
a man residing in an unnamed
wonderland, a savior eager to
share his vast fortune with her?
You ask her to come back tomorrow
after she cleans out her savings account
and pawns her QVC jewelry collection
It will be then when you plan to take
her money and regale her with
prayers, chants, incantations,
when you attempt to dazzle and
divert her and make her money
vanish like the proverbial rabbit
in an old-time magic show
But I have to question your fading
psychic power, Madame Olga
You seem NOT to know intuitively
that your creation of her mythical lover
and his nonexistent wonderland is
headed for extinction once the hidden
wire she's wearing performs
its own
inimitable
trick
Abracadabra indeed!
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 5:19 PM UTC
141 to 160 of 3251 Poets
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Mariposa
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Lidia Torres
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Cecilia Vicuña
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Jack Agüeros
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Jessica Hagedorn
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Tan Lin
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Sally Wen Mao
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Patrick Rosal
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Jeffrey Yang
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Rachel Contreni Flynn
The Yellow Bowl
Dana Bisignani
Bankruptcy Hearing
Gary Metras
Lint
Jeff Worley
On Finding a Turtle Shell in Daniel Boone National Forest
Lucille Lang Day
Tooth Painter
Nancyrose Houston
The Letter From Home
Lyn Lifshin
The Other Fathers
Joette Giorgis
(Untitled)
Tim Nolan
At the Choral Concert
Picasso
Kathy Mangan
The Whistle
Michelle Bennett
Western
«6789»
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 9:00 PM UTC
Made you Breakfast Eggs, yolks pooling
Slipped into that Lucille ball coat.
I wear it well
Like Pretty Woman level.
But in the midst of
these folded clothes
Tangled toddler hair and budget restraints
late at night,
I watch over your troubled dreams, kissing demons away.
Yours always, but forever furled in my
Ultimate Soul
Lies a Wild gypsy Queen
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 9:32 AM UTC
The King of kings
********* licks
With Lucille,
Has ascended.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 11:51 AM UTC
It always starts with a Woman;
a woman with skin like sweet milk chocolate.
A woman with a voice like warm honey on a cold dark night
And brown eyes in which a man might comfortably lose his soul.
The club was cold; not much of a club really;
A drafty old barn of a building somewhere in Arkansas
A big barrel half filled with Kerosene was lit to heat the hall.
The Young black folk of the town were gathered around
Young B.B. King was playing the blues, on a guitar with no name.
That was when the fight broke out on the dance floor.
two strong men doing battle over a woman who worked at the club.
It always starts with a woman.
Punches were exchanged; in the melee someone kicked over that barrel
And fire, like a river, roared across the floor.
Everybody started to run for the only open exit.
B.B. King ran too, until he recalled he had forgotten his guitar.
She was nothing special except for the man who played her
The man who coaxed sweet sad sounds from every catgut string.
King wasn’t a rich man and that guitar was his meal ticket
So he raced back through the flames.
Just as he retrieved his guitar, the building began
Its slow sad collapse into ash and embers
He barely escaped with his life and his guitar.
Standing outside in the cold night
Looking on the ruins of what had been a good paying gig.
That was when he met Lucille;
She was the barmaid with the sweet milk chocolate skin
And a voice like warm honey on a cold dark night;
Those two men had just fought and died over
a pleasure that neither would ever possess.
That was when B.B. King christened that old beat up guitar
“Lucille”:
To remind him of this night he almost died.
to remind him never to do something that stupid again.
Like I was saying, it always starts with a woman.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 6:13 PM UTC
Heavy
blues in the room.
Through the haze, ash and sound,
he caresses Lucille and then
plays on.
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 10:51 PM UTC
Her parentage was a thing of considerable comment
Though a good deal less circumspection,
Mama's identity relatively sure, as everyone knew her mama,
Her father one of a laundry list of unpromising gardeners,
Yet she was a child of grace--no, more than that
An outlier in every sense of the word,
The dazzling unintended consequence
Resulting from a series of unwise and unhappy choices.
She sauntered (though there are those romantically inclined sorts
Who would insist she outright floated,
Her feet rarely if ever touching ground)
By the courthouse in Okolona most afternoons,
And though her dress was from the house of Ralston and Purina
And her jewelry courtesy of Sailor Jack and Bingo,
She neither shrunk nor slunk self-consciously
Nor walked with eyes ablaze and fists clenched,
In a manner asking Mebbe you wanna make sumpin' of it?
Simply walked her own walk,
Such things as poverty and pedigree
Trvial matters beneath her concern,
Though she was always provided for, as a seemingly chosen child,
Judge Hibbard giving her a store-bought doll from Jackson
When she turned seven, others providing her pop and bubble gum,
And later Miss Lucille Brisker sewed her a bright-blue silk dress
Plus gave her forty-two dollars for a Greyhound ticket
To Los Angeles via New Orleans
(When she hopped the bus in front of the K &B,
She gave her a peck on the cheek, and said
*Miss Lucille, you take care, but I doubt
I'm much likely to pass this way again.*)
Her whys and wherefores after that were lost to time and tide:
Perhaps she made it in L-A, perhaps she thought else-wise
And hopped off the bus in Hattiesburg or Bogalusa
Though most were of the opinion that it mattered little if at all,
As she allowed them, leastways for a little while,
To be in her orbit while she shone in such a manner as pleased her.
Mar 26, 2018
Mar 26, 2018 at 4:27 PM UTC