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"oldies" poems
Oh Generational gap, a cancer of to all mankind. The father of lack of communication between the young and the old. A difference brought about the tastes and values. The pain faced between young and aged but can’t be touched. It started by 1960’s the decades of revolutionary change. It cut across the world in values of *** religion and civil rights. The disease the emerged earned its self a name by social scientists. It then became “Generational Gap” I would love to quote a man of great thoughts, Alexis De Tocqueville, who commented that; “Among democratic nations, each generation is a new people” I have come to appreciate these words. When I walk down the streets noticing the rising incompatibility existing in our society Though I admire the old days when the old and young associated freely, working on the same farms Grandparents telling stories to their little ones; what a lovely society they had. With the invention of television and computers some families were bonded in communication While others live in agony especially the illiterate. The old desire different designs from the youth, whose trends change per living day of nakedness Young people prefer working in executive places like offices compared to the donkey farm work considered to be for the old Another cause of generational gap is decay in morals; the young people feel like they know everything and don’t like to be corrected thus taking information from old people as outdated, young people finding lots of hardships to great their elders In the field of music elders prefer oldies and more preferably educative songs, and as for the youths they delight in Hip-hop and dancehall, am sure those present here can testify to this a term with no disco dances makes us dull students. When it comes to religious issues, youth find it a burden to go to church and if they offer to go they prefer it to be in a club way. Praise and worship accompanied by jazz unlike the old days where drums are the centre of music. Cultures in this way have greatly faded away; the trend of western culture has flamed up the world. Drugs and *** are a hobby and celebrated amongst the youth, yet *** to the old was for companionship and co-creation. But when we came to medical technology we all applause in general, young or old there is easy treatment, use of scanners, and medical facilities cuts across.
0
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 7:58 AM UTC
GENERATIONAL GAP
Oh Generational gap, a cancer of to all mankind. The father of lack of communication between the young and the old. A difference brought about the tastes and values. The pain faced between young and aged but can’t be touched. It started by 1960’s the decades of revolutionary change. It cut across the world in values of *** religion and civil rights. The disease the emerged earned its self a name by social scientists. It then became “Generational Gap” I would love to quote a man of great thoughts, Alexis De Tocqueville, who commented that; “Among democratic nations, each generation is a new people” I have come to appreciate these words. When I walk down the streets noticing the rising incompatibility existing in our society Though I admire the old days when the old and young associated freely, working on the same farms Grandparents telling stories to their little ones; what a lovely society they had. With the invention of television and computers some families were bonded in communication While others live in agony especially the illiterate. The old desire different designs from the youth, whose trends change per living day of nakedness Young people prefer working in executive places like offices compared to the donkey farm work considered to be for the old Another cause of generational gap is decay in morals; the young people feel like they know everything and don’t like to be corrected thus taking information from old people as outdated, young people finding lots of hardships to great their elders In the field of music elders prefer oldies and more preferably educative songs, and as for the youths they delight in Hip-hop and dancehall, am sure those present here can testify to this a term with no disco dances makes us dull students. When it comes to religious issues, youth find it a burden to go to church and if they offer to go they prefer it to be in a club way. Praise and worship accompanied by jazz unlike the old days where drums are the centre of music. Cultures in this way have greatly faded away; the trend of western culture has flamed up the world. Drugs and *** are a hobby and celebrated amongst the youth, yet *** to the old was for companionship and co-creation. But when we came to medical technology we all applause in general, young or old there is easy treatment, use of scanners, and medical facilities cuts across.
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17
a grandchild    for her 9th birthday very happy     to be away from her older    as well as her younger sister   for a while spent a  long weekend with her grands    they picked her up    schoolbag and bathing suit    and guitar & everything else she had already mentioned    that French Toast for breakfast would be REALLY nice and that’s what she got together with chocolate milk    1 minute in the microwave,    according to her wish patiently reading her book while the oldies got their act together    in their slow morning routine they all went birthday shopping    & out for lunch she read her book again while the oldies     were snoring their nap & then they all had great fun     swimming and horsing around in the public pool watching some TV      & improving her ping-pong game happy & tired after dinner some goodnight reading doughnuts and hot chocolate for breakfast next morning    and then     with grandma’s help printing out a card for Mom on Mother’s day AND baking real  brownies as a gift…. a happy & proud 9-year old    was delivered to her parents & presented her mother with the card    & the brownies & the new dress    & the homework all done somehow the guitar practice had gotten lost yet she was the envy of her siblings for the day            * * *
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May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 10:03 AM UTC
birthday child
I listen to music that matches my mood The music is like color to my senses Pink: A happy tune Blue: A sad song Green: A song with lots of energy Purple: A song that makes me feel joyful Black: A depressing tune that I cry to Mixing them would be like a rainbow after the rain A mixture of happiness, joy and pain, what remains is mood music, let it play I sometimes want to play something with a rocking beat, to clean to, to make the time fly by Other times I want to really personally connect with the lyrics, when I need to cry There are times when I will listen to some oldies, i will not lie to reflect on days gone bye There are times I’m in the mood for a country tune In my lifetime , i have often sung the blues when the problems of life knocked me down I try to brush off the dust and get back up and listen to something I can dance to I sometimes don’t want to hear words and like to listen to Classical music, like Bach I sometimes will listen to pop I also like some experimental electronic music created by a friend I Love music and may the Love never end I sometimes need to unwind after a tough day and listen to something inspirational I take off my shoes and my socks and listen and relax or just dance in my own unique way I say whatever my mood I Love the tunes and I like to play it Loud and be swept away It is all Mood Music , Let It Play!
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Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 1:47 AM UTC
Mood Music Revised
On a long car ride home, I'll lean into my backpack and jacket and nap... but before i fall asleep, i look out the back window, up into the cold dead sky and watch as the clouds move above me. I'll wake up an awkward 20 minutes later with a kink in my neck and some lines from seams in my cheek. The radio plays oldies that the driver knows all the words to, and i've heard too many times. I imagine the same song being played off the same record over and over every time it was heard and think about use and age and wear and tear then rips in reality then movies and the matrix and the force and all the forces that weigh us down... like gravity responsibility or obligation. I wouldn't be in this car if it wasn't for force. I wouldn't be in many situations if it wasn't for force. I imagine how different i would be or how different everyone would be if it wasn't for the push of civilization or money and being proper. My face like a thunderstorm.
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Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 9:12 PM UTC
Roadtrip
It was the whole universe on the surface area of the white wires that took me home. I like the oldies. Sometimes I’m just too tired to learn a new song. The old songs are just as good, just as beautiful, perhaps more. And it’s not that I’m mad at you, I’d just rather hear Elton’s voice than yours. I know that your story is important, but I’ve heard it before. Yeah, I’ve heard his too, but his is more interesting, and I like it better. So please to don’t call me self- centered, like the uninteresting, dependent generation that I was born into. So I don’t think I’ll take out my headphones right now. I like hearing the music.
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Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 11:50 AM UTC
Headphones
My head is reeling What a feeling Bass line pounding through my brain Skull is cracking Quite nerve racking I need something to help dull the pain Images horrific Pressure is terrific Listening to what the station plays Eyes are burning The world is turning It's like it is the end of days I need to spend some time relaxing Getting my music back into my head Listening to ABBA oldies followed by David Gates and Bread An afterword or two by Chapin With The  Carpenters along as well Will help me clear my mind of what's there And take away the images of hell KHEL, hour of power The station of the hour Killing my braincells by the day Hard Rock bottom feeders Rotten Singers, silly bleeders I don't know why I stay Thrash and Metal Brain won't settle My head is almost set to burst Glass and Glitter Makes me twitter I no longer think disco was the worst I need to spend some time relaxing Getting my music back into my head Listening to ABBA oldies followed by David Gates and Bread An afterword or two by Chapin With The  Carpenters along as well Will help me clear my mind of what's there And take away the images of hell Hey There DJ That's what the kids say I do it just to help to pay the bills Super sonic I need a tonic To help me swallow down the pain pills Every morning Without warning The pain begins in my head Metal grating Music hating I guess I'll feel alright when I'm dead I need to spend some time relaxing Getting my music back into my head Listening to ABBA oldies followed by David Gates and Bread An afterword or two by Chapin With The  Carpenters along as well Will help me clear my mind of what's there And take away the images of hell
0
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
I am the morning dj....
My head is reeling What a feeling Bass line pounding through my brain Skull is cracking Quite nerve racking I need something to help dull the pain Images horrific Pressure is terrific Listening to what the station plays Eyes are burning The world is turning It's like it is the end of days I need to spend some time relaxing Getting my music back into my head Listening to ABBA oldies followed by David Gates and Bread An afterword or two by Chapin With The  Carpenters along as well Will help me clear my mind of what's there And take away the images of hell KHEL, hour of power The station of the hour Killing my braincells by the day Hard Rock bottom feeders Rotten Singers, silly bleeders I don't know why I stay Thrash and Metal Brain won't settle My head is almost set to burst Glass and Glitter Makes me twitter I no longer think disco was the worst I need to spend some time relaxing Getting my music back into my head Listening to ABBA oldies followed by David Gates and Bread An afterword or two by Chapin With The  Carpenters along as well Will help me clear my mind of what's there And take away the images of hell Hey There DJ That's what the kids say I do it just to help to pay the bills Super sonic I need a tonic To help me swallow down the pain pills Every morning Without warning The pain begins in my head Metal grating Music hating I guess I'll feel alright when I'm dead I need to spend some time relaxing Getting my music back into my head Listening to ABBA oldies followed by David Gates and Bread An afterword or two by Chapin With The  Carpenters along as well Will help me clear my mind of what's there And take away the images of hell
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60
Imagery of our childhood, Way back when, are patterns good? Did we get the pieces to fit? Is there closure, to get 'over it'? We're only humans, can make mistakes, As forming lives, our oldies shaped-- Environment versus heredity, What is their true legacy? Is there no closure on way back when Are puzzles really what childhood meant?
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Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 3:39 PM UTC
CHILDHOOD PUZZLE....
Covered feet on black clicking the time of walking stride The fume of frozen gas sticking to my throat The late winter leaves having stuck to guttered sidelines Their huddled swaddled backs burdened with the soft shell of academia I missed this place As much as it is a sign of failure it also holds triumph Where I found my mind when I thought the world Was defined by a god long dead That I was lost in a sea of faces Who prayed, believed and spread faith Like a soothing blanket Their thoughts where not troubled They didn't not question They had hope As false as I believed it to be Even now as I watch them Flocking to bus stop shelter How they hold a happiness beneath their chilled skin Glowing with some assurance I feel I'll never have But I'm pushing for that feeling That place to belong Somewhere between down to earth and too consumed with my study But not quite there enough to fall into that group That speaks academics but knows when to let go But I can't let go When it is a matter to the existence of even having a soul Why do others not feel this need to know what constitutes their own being Why do I scream out silently to persons whom I had not hoped to know For we all know that faces on the web are less real than those we see Everyday Every moment waiting for that moment they would reach out and cure the ache of loss They slow the footfall pavement When passing the stop Hearing the lively chatter The silly matters that don't haunt an old soul not looking trouble As if their frequency vibrates on a different level Fm to my Am Where the genuine character of my self turns back on itself And I become the shy Confused not knowing how to approach them So instead of humiliate I walk by Singing my oldies and rhyming my rhyme
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Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC
Frequency
Covered feet on black clicking the time of walking stride The fume of frozen gas sticking to my throat The late winter leaves having stuck to guttered sidelines Their huddled swaddled backs burdened with the soft shell of academia I missed this place As much as it is a sign of failure it also holds triumph Where I found my mind when I thought the world Was defined by a god long dead That I was lost in a sea of faces Who prayed, believed and spread faith Like a soothing blanket Their thoughts where not troubled They didn't not question They had hope As false as I believed it to be Even now as I watch them Flocking to bus stop shelter How they hold a happiness beneath their chilled skin Glowing with some assurance I feel I'll never have But I'm pushing for that feeling That place to belong Somewhere between down to earth and too consumed with my study But not quite there enough to fall into that group That speaks academics but knows when to let go But I can't let go When it is a matter to the existence of even having a soul Why do others not feel this need to know what constitutes their own being Why do I scream out silently to persons whom I had not hoped to know For we all know that faces on the web are less real than those we see Everyday Every moment waiting for that moment they would reach out and cure the ache of loss They slow the footfall pavement When passing the stop Hearing the lively chatter The silly matters that don't haunt an old soul not looking trouble As if their frequency vibrates on a different level Fm to my Am Where the genuine character of my self turns back on itself And I become the shy Confused not knowing how to approach them So instead of humiliate I walk by Singing my oldies and rhyming my rhyme
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42
The sadness is to much to Handel, on the couch of my humble home. I'm listening to oldies songs, but sitting all alone. There's only one thought running circles in my head. If that's what it comes to, I'll die comfy in bed. No one cares, and no one tries. No one knows I'm dying inside. I'm frozen and stuck, don't know what to do. People have their own problems, I'm nothing new. The agony builds, day by day It's physical now, not going away. I think of all of my favorite things, those I cherish and moments I favor. Right now I believe that I would be fine to not see them again. To be gone forever.
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Jan 14, 2018
Jan 14, 2018 at 11:02 AM UTC
The strength of the weak
Do you ever wonder? Wonder if there's someone right now forgetting their keys and getting locked out? experiencing their very first kiss? looking warmly at their loved one? asking for directions in broken French? dancing to oldies with their best friend? looking at the stars and smiling? kissing their boyfriend in an alleyway? reading your favorite book? listening to indie songs in their car? singing their baby girl to sleep? taking their first breath? or their last?
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May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 1:24 PM UTC
Do you ever wonder?
her makeup made a tiny mocha stain on the inside lip of my yellowed sink as I drove home and listened to the oldies a man stumbled through crosswalks under the old railroad his shadow looked noosed through the beams the next day I watched a squirrel eating styrofoam like cotton candy I wonder if we feel how everything moves around our heads *molasses and lightning the surf and the coast* I don’t always feel drowned I don’t always feel whole
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Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 7:52 PM UTC
I've been trying new things.
You were my gangster And i was your little princess We always listened to oldies on the radio Those lonely nights, nothing to choose You know, I love the silence But silence without you is not a silence Karma came around Like I knew it would Look, she's laughing And you laugh like you have never been lonely Pretty girls are spinning around you But loneliness is our queen Let's go to the miss America 'Cause Jeff Buckley is my second daddy You said "We are not alone" But you are a lier I loved you thousand times and i still love you, honey I thought you are too good for me, but I was wrong You are a bad boy, aren't you? And I love the way you talk with me Look, she's laughing And you laugh like you have never been lonely Pretty girls are spinning around you But loneliness is our queen Look, she's laughing And you laugh like you have never been lonely Pretty girls are spinning around you But loneliness is our queen
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Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 8:28 AM UTC
Gangster's Girl
I'm going to L.A. and I'm going to smoke and wear black What a rainy day I would be safe and warm is I was in L.A. Flower's dancing in the rain Dream brother, dream brother, dream brother is on my mind Jeff Buckley, hell yeah Oh how sad It's too cold to wear only my ******* and long t-shirt Only Emerald Cat can save me I don't feel inspired anymore Gimme that tiara, princess everywhere Honey, welcome to '50s That soft and jazzy sound on my mind You know, when I get tired of life I listen to Elvis I need my man, I need somebody I don't want to listen to oldies all alone anymore Only Emerald Cat can save me I don't feel inspired anymore Gimme that tiara, princess everywhere Honey, welcome to '50s My red, velvet party dress Feeling **** killing you Feeling '50s queen in my heart Living like a homeless, but c'mon My red, velvet party dress Feeling **** killing you Feeling '50s queen in my heart Living like a homeless, but c'mon Only Emerald Cat can save me I don't feel inspired anymore Gimme that tiara, princess everywhere Honey, welcome to '50s Only Emerald Cat can save me I don't feel inspired anymore Gimme that tiara, princess everywhere Honey, welcome to '50s
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Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 8:38 AM UTC
Emerald Cat
Strangers in the night Cold mid July Pop, lock and drop out of high school This is what i really want I dress like I'm going to a red carpet Or like I'm a homeless drug addict Say no to the bad days This is what i really want Crystal wine, disco ball He always calls me princess She was a superstar, superstar Oh, honey, make my eyes sparkle again He brushes my hair so slowly Don't stare at me like this, sweetheart Hold me closer, tiny dancer And I will find love, and pleasure And tenderness, and passion Hard to believe you are not mine anymore You mean the world to me Lilac mermaids on my mind Listening to oldies on the radio with you again Crystal wine, disco ball He always calls me princess She was a superstar, superstar Oh, honey, make my eyes sparkle again Crystal wine, disco ball He always calls me princess She was a superstar, superstar Oh, honey, make my eyes sparkle again
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Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 8:33 AM UTC
Lilac Mermaids
Our silly state of paranoia, Are leaders here to annoy ya? Ghosts of government past, We've had enough drivel to last! Our systems need to improve, Building bias, not a good groove. Kids are born colour-blind, They teach oldies their great minds, We're ashamed of our politicians, Any excuse today? Like superstition, Then there's youth unemployment, Disaffected youth for deployment, Mendicants at charity, welfare dependents. Our silly state of paranoia, Are politicians sent to annoy ya!
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Aug 4, 2015
Aug 4, 2015 at 9:11 PM UTC
SILLY STATE
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
“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.
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38
My rages Tearing pages Going Cray Ripping pages My flow Changing phases Amazes On stages Front row Front pages Your rapping, verbally attacking Any Enemy slacking Riff Raff'em Taking charge Like a captain Ice challenge Chilling living lavish Way Above average About to fix me a samwich Let us with cabbage Went H.A.M. Over some beef Got bread Hand some  cheese Hate spam Love trees Cool breeze In Belize Blowing Lush Kush In blush trees Across seas They love me See a tree huggers bush Land and strip; No leaves I'm cooler than an oldies, in his ****** Eating Coco puffs watching ice-t In a wife-tee, drinking iced ice-t. Spiking spike, while playing Exite Bike on an old PC Laughing so hard I *** *** I wish you Could see me On HD with an HD With At&T; Getting my P.H.D. Figure it out Too late Quarter past three Then they Passed me
0
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 2:44 PM UTC
Freestyle Flow
since I last rode a bus, no, poems aplenty have poured and dripped from ink-saturated fingers, here there and  everywhere, disguised by many a nom de guerre the bus riding infrequently, as work no longer demands me, I ride for the occasional occasion, when legs won’t carry me the far away distances they say violence in the city is random, and just seems worse, seemingly a newspaper creation, but I know better, and random violence & poetry inspiration do not walk or talk hand in hand, not for the hands that write… in every crack, lamppost, festooned with flyers for concerts years ago, poems reached out to me, write, right? I too am papered with memories of long-ago city travels, picking up scenes & dreams that became poems, instantaneously, scrambling, to get home with them retained, untainted, preserved with the freshness of city smells, city swells, homeless, rowdies & oldies shuffling, the interwoven of disparate desperate humans, fodder once and now for Walt Whitman’s leaves, each distinct needy for something else, but for me, just one city big view, a Cloister’s museum tapestry, remade, rewoven anew every moment of every day and a poem-rough tumbles from without & within ,
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Oct 24, 2023
Oct 24, 2023 at 8:55 AM UTC
it’s been awhile...
We smoked our first cigarette together And our first joint too, The first time I got really drunk I was with you. When I was with you life didn’t seem so bad, Around you I never felt lonely or sad. We listened to Bon Jovi and Tracy Chapman too We liked all the oldies that no one else knew. We finished each others sentences and each others smokes, We listened to each others problems and laughed at each others jokes. We swore to be friends till death do us apart, You were like a sister to me, I gave you a piece of my heart. Over the past few months our friendship has aged, You avoid coming to see me you say that I’ve changed. But what you don’t realize is you have changed too, You don’t seem to be the same person that I once knew. I need this old train to breakdown so that I can tell you the truth, I’ve missed you everyday since I left, you’re more than a best friend you’re a sister… I love you Dude…
0
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 12:47 PM UTC
You still have a piece of my heart
Saying words meaning nothing, transfixed with "I" it's startes every sentence, and if i could i'd end with I. Only opinion that matters is my own, mastery is a poem. syncing lines with words and words weighing me down like stones. Thoughts so sad they corrode my morals like acid. sitting on my bed, it starts and i become homesick. Pathetic as i once was and even more so, can you believe it? still smiling and laughing at jokes never said, hoping to break even. We're going out, it's all on me, except for the money and the driving. your phone is probably blowing up from all the numbers you're dialing. never not gonna do what we did last weekend, eh? Slow jamming to oldies in a "Smoke that bud" kinda way. Chain smoking for fun, and laugh at silent jokes. planning our next unknown move, totally stoked. A Queen is just a pawn with fancy moves, you say. those weren't queens but it doesn't mean we're not kings, i say. They were ordinary but we made them out to someone extra-ordinary. Alright lets stop this nonsense, thinking about people who don't deserve it. my emotions are swelling and empty, complicated i don't know how else to word it.
0
Aug 13, 2012
Aug 13, 2012 at 1:12 AM UTC
A Queen is just a pawn with fancy moves.
We're golden oldies, you see, This is a concern for thee and me, When your friends look so desperately, Found the car but lost the keys! Welcome to senility!
0
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 7:29 PM UTC
CAR KEYS
Melancholy is sitting in front of me My man is hiding from me, hell yeah I don't want to live that way anymore 'Cause yesterday I was a different person Melancholy is holding my hands My man is unware about me, hell yeah I don't want to live that way anymore Trying to hide my indecent past I'm really trying, but it's harder than I thought Every girl is like a mad gun Have I gone mad? I want to empty my home I want to empty my life of Max I will be wearing pink pyjamas And listening to oldies Melancholy is living in my neighbourhood What should I do now? I just wanna drink, hell yeah Save me, my man! Melancholy is knocking on my doors Trying to escape, hell yeah I'm really trying, but it's harder than I tought Oh please don't drop me home, my man Every girl is like a mad gun Have I gone mad? I want to empty my home I want to empty my life of Max I will be wearing pink pyjamas And listening to oldies Take me to your place, anywhere I don't care anymore I don't care I don't care I don't care Every girl is like a mad gun Have I gone mad? I want to empty my home I want to empty my life of Max I will be wearing pink pyjamas And listening to oldies
0
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 8:36 AM UTC
Sad Party
Old movie stars have come and gone Those films were there for everyone Despite the passing of those times Those talking pictures will always shine. Those talking pictures have all come back With ghosts of film stars from the past They are still alive within our minds Those talking pictures we rewind. When looking at those bye gone days Those talking pictures will always stay The golden oldies that we all can see. Are there and they will always be. Those talking pictures stand the test of time Deep within our hearts and minds Those movie stars have come and gone But those talking pictures will still live.
0
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 8:15 AM UTC
Those talking pictures,
*they are my famiglia they are italian, polish and maltese, probably a lot of other things too we're basically mutts there are five of us, if you include the dog they are the best there's my mom; i call her "ma" or "woman" or "mom" or "mama" or "rochelle", if i want to irritate her she's the best cook in the world she always calls me her "bambina" and sings me songs and writes me cute notes she's my best friend and biggest fan (sorry dad) i'm convinced she can read my mind, even when i'm 2 1/2 hours away, she can tell when something's wrong she's the best mom in the world and then, there's my dad; i call him "dad" or "daddy" or "bob" because he doesn't seem to care he's hilarious and actually tells good dad jokes he loves talking about government conspiracies and new health trends he's trying he calls my mom just to say "i love you" and buys me flowers on valentine's day because "i want you to know what a man should do for you one day" he's so great, i hope i marry a man like bob one day and there's my brother; i call him "bro" or "broski" or usually just, "bobby" he loves me with all his heart but cannot hug me because his ocd clouds his mind he's funny and loves the oldies he also loves trips to chipotle with me he won't tell me about girls because "you'll tell mom," but will talk to me about everything else gosh i love him with all my heart too and there's my dog; who we all call "boo" and sometimes i call him some random nickname he's so cute, but super vicious one minute he'll be curled up in-between your legs and the next? he's attacking you and biting you in the lip he's scared of thunderstorms and fireworks and people, really he's scared of everything he's not perfect, but he loves me and i love him and then, there's me; they call me "dee-dee" or "aubs" or plain old, "aubrey" i'm the first born pain in the **** who's dream is to marry a nice christian man, own a cafe, adopt children, have children, and just have a great family currently, i'm in college, missing my great family my current dream would be, sitting on the couch with my dog on my lap, my mom cooking in the kitchen, my dad hanging out in the garage building something cool, and my brother playing video games and complaining about me taking over the bathroom we share. can you tell i miss them? can you tell i love them?*
0
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 2:51 PM UTC
untitled-04/06/17
*they are my famiglia they are italian, polish and maltese, probably a lot of other things too we're basically mutts there are five of us, if you include the dog they are the best there's my mom; i call her "ma" or "woman" or "mom" or "mama" or "rochelle", if i want to irritate her she's the best cook in the world she always calls me her "bambina" and sings me songs and writes me cute notes she's my best friend and biggest fan (sorry dad) i'm convinced she can read my mind, even when i'm 2 1/2 hours away, she can tell when something's wrong she's the best mom in the world and then, there's my dad; i call him "dad" or "daddy" or "bob" because he doesn't seem to care he's hilarious and actually tells good dad jokes he loves talking about government conspiracies and new health trends he's trying he calls my mom just to say "i love you" and buys me flowers on valentine's day because "i want you to know what a man should do for you one day" he's so great, i hope i marry a man like bob one day and there's my brother; i call him "bro" or "broski" or usually just, "bobby" he loves me with all his heart but cannot hug me because his ocd clouds his mind he's funny and loves the oldies he also loves trips to chipotle with me he won't tell me about girls because "you'll tell mom," but will talk to me about everything else gosh i love him with all my heart too and there's my dog; who we all call "boo" and sometimes i call him some random nickname he's so cute, but super vicious one minute he'll be curled up in-between your legs and the next? he's attacking you and biting you in the lip he's scared of thunderstorms and fireworks and people, really he's scared of everything he's not perfect, but he loves me and i love him and then, there's me; they call me "dee-dee" or "aubs" or plain old, "aubrey" i'm the first born pain in the **** who's dream is to marry a nice christian man, own a cafe, adopt children, have children, and just have a great family currently, i'm in college, missing my great family my current dream would be, sitting on the couch with my dog on my lap, my mom cooking in the kitchen, my dad hanging out in the garage building something cool, and my brother playing video games and complaining about me taking over the bathroom we share. can you tell i miss them? can you tell i love them?*
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You don't hear it much My music, my muse My soul was taken away That's something big to lose Contracts signed and sealed Delivered...not to me Money never came my way Not a penny did I see Follow the music and you will find Musicians like me, We all went and signed Contracts worth nothing Not to us, not a cent Follow the money And see where it went We poured our emotions Our hearts and our souls We gave them our music Which they all then stole Producers, execs all down the line All made the money On songs that were mine I heard all the rumours But, they must be wrong Then I wrote and signed off On another hit song Follow the music and you will find Musicians like me, We all went and signed Contracts worth nothing Not to us, not a cent Follow the money And see where it went I was not famous But, there must be some sales Just follow the money From the bargain bin pails Somebody, somewhere Was raking it in As companies folded In the business of tin Houses of cards Fold and collapse on the floor But, the money went somewhere 'Cause I'm still in the stores Follow the music and you will find Musicians like me, We all went and signed Contracts worth nothing Not to us, not a cent Follow the money And see where it went Somebody made out Like a bandit with me My albums still selling From around sixty three Just follow the money And see where it goes Into some execs houses And some dj's nose I'm too old to go And do a oldies rock show I'm always invited But, I never will go My voice is all raspy And one thing's still wrong I get paid for the singing But, I don't own the song I know that I made it But I hate the sound Of my music creations That I sold by the pound Every time that they surface On late night FM I know somebody else Made cash off of them Just follow the money And then you will see The thousands of others Who were ripped off like me
0
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 11:40 PM UTC
just follow the money
You don't hear it much My music, my muse My soul was taken away That's something big to lose Contracts signed and sealed Delivered...not to me Money never came my way Not a penny did I see Follow the music and you will find Musicians like me, We all went and signed Contracts worth nothing Not to us, not a cent Follow the money And see where it went We poured our emotions Our hearts and our souls We gave them our music Which they all then stole Producers, execs all down the line All made the money On songs that were mine I heard all the rumours But, they must be wrong Then I wrote and signed off On another hit song Follow the music and you will find Musicians like me, We all went and signed Contracts worth nothing Not to us, not a cent Follow the money And see where it went I was not famous But, there must be some sales Just follow the money From the bargain bin pails Somebody, somewhere Was raking it in As companies folded In the business of tin Houses of cards Fold and collapse on the floor But, the money went somewhere 'Cause I'm still in the stores Follow the music and you will find Musicians like me, We all went and signed Contracts worth nothing Not to us, not a cent Follow the money And see where it went Somebody made out Like a bandit with me My albums still selling From around sixty three Just follow the money And see where it goes Into some execs houses And some dj's nose I'm too old to go And do a oldies rock show I'm always invited But, I never will go My voice is all raspy And one thing's still wrong I get paid for the singing But, I don't own the song I know that I made it But I hate the sound Of my music creations That I sold by the pound Every time that they surface On late night FM I know somebody else Made cash off of them Just follow the money And then you will see The thousands of others Who were ripped off like me
Continue reading...
81