"prine" poems
She don't like her eggs all runny
she thinks crossin' her legs is funny
she looks down her nose at money
She gets it on like the Easter bunny
she's my baby
I'm her honey
Never Gonna Let Her Go
He ain't got laid in a
Month of Sundays
I caught him once
and he was sniffin' my ******
he ain't too sharp but he gets things done drinks beer like it's oxygen
and he's my baby
I'm his honey
Never gonna let him go
In Spite of Ourselves
we'll end up sitting on a rainbow
Against All Odds
honey were the big door prize
We're going to spite our noses
right off of our faces
there won't be nothin'
but a big ol' Hearts
dancin' in our eyes
she thinks all my jokes are corny
convict movies make her *****
she likes ketchup with her scrambled eggs swears like a sailor when
she shaves her legs
she takes a lickin'
she keeps on tickin'
I'm never going to let her go
He's got more ***** than
A Big Brass Monkey
he's a whacked-out ******
and a love bug ******
Sly as a fox
crazy as a loon
when payday comes
he's howlin' at the moon
he is my baby
and I don't mean maybe
I'm never going to let him go
In Spite of Ourselves
we'll end up sittin' on a rainbow
Against All Odds
honey were the big door prize
we're going to spite our noses
right off of our faces
there won't be nothing
but big ol' Hearts
dancin' in our eyes
In Spite of Ourselves
Written by John Prime
Cherie Nolan- A favorite wedding tune
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 9:35 PM UTC
it's you.
i would have never known
unless i saw
the light meet your face
that morning.
neither of us are early risers,
but i couldn't waste
a second.
above me,
at 6:40 in the morning,
a perfect blend of
blue, gray, and sincerity,
which was born
on the rising sun,
peered through an ivory curtain,
and landed on a gentle face.
infinity soaked gaze,
honey coated touch,
your color was
the crisp mountain air
through a rolled down
Jeep window.
your color was
a John Prine record
and local barbeque
your color was serene.
it was the light's reflection of
a summer enveloped
by two people
in love with
right now.
-Anna Blake
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 5:14 PM UTC
Every morning at 9
She puts on the
banker's disguise
puts her poetry
in a sacred jar
next to the ashes
of
her husband
her dad
her mom.
She's a river of currents
behind the smile
darkly ******
phantasims
fly and flower
She not only carries
the keys to the vaults,
but also
the keys to wisdom
sublime
She can see right through you
when
she wants to
She can read your mind
Smilies
Metaphors
Haikus
Rap
Manifestations
of
all that makes us human,
These are the currents she rides
while
she
files
e-mails
signs
floats loans
defaults
default swaps
The whole time
she's got on
John Prine's illegal smile
She's watching secret movies
inside
she's alive.
It took many years
to learn to hide
the images
the colors
thought dreams
which flow inside -
while in meetings
behind her eyes
flows
the poetry
from herself, she cannot hide.
The commute ends
The day ends
She unscrews the sacred jar
pen to paper
the currency of poetry
resurrected
she comes alive,
All disguises
hide.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 10:28 AM UTC
I'll probably go visit my parents on Thanksgiving. I'd hate to miss the way my father nods at my mother's sisters and brothers then steps backward into the shadows until he becomes them. We're having the mess at my aunt's in Seminole. Dad always drives separately. He makes his escape without saying goodbye. Leaving my mother, my sister, my brother, and I to explain the hermit.
I never ride with him. Haven't rode in a car -- just him and I -- since high school. I would lay my head against passenger window. Listen to tires press gravel deeper into the red earth. He never asked my thoughts on God, though a minister. He never asked about my classes, though a former teacher. He never asked about girls, though my father. Glen Campbell, however, he'd talk about Glen Campbell. Claimed I always looked like him. When I was a child, he'd even part my hair sharply and take pictures. What a good, little Glen Campbell. If he took his eyes off the road long enough to hone in on a power line, "Wichita Lineman" inevitably became the topic of conversation. That song would delta off into "Rhinestone Cowboy," "Gentle on My Mind," "By the Time I Get to Phoenix." Soon we'd be in town, knowing each other no better than before the departure. But we arrived. That's something.
To this day, no occasion could coerce me into parting my hair. With the exception of Mr. Campbell's funeral of course.
Tim will love your family. As I did. Still do. I thought he might only be a consolation, but looks like he's a trophy. Happy Thanksgiving, Ms. Anna Prine. I thank you. The fowl of the air thank you. The beasts of the field thank you. Tell them they're welcome.
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 6:22 PM UTC
by which I of course am referring to this keyboard
that i’m writing on now
funny how that works ain’t it
62 minutes until my shift ends
John Prine & the Korean war don’t quite match where I am
clicking pool cues penetrate my headphones
I wonder how many bad games of pool it takes to shake a man’s confidence
by my estimate the answer is never enough
guys that can’t shoot love teaching girls how not to shoot
but the girls don’t usually seem to mind
how very 60’s highschool of it all
maybe Mr. Prine does have something here to say
47 minutes until my shift ends
people trust engineers warns my engineering professor
people trust you to know things he furthers
people trust us to explain
I wish they wouldn’t
tech support & translators for parents & grandparents
people want answers but only when they thought they already knew
40 minutes until my shift ends
pretty good, not bad, I can’t complain
seeing my old highschool teachers at the burrito place where I worked
sinking in the mire of chicken, brown rice, & black beans for minimum wage
ain’t it funny
I can smell the 45 pieces of steak & chicken I grilled when I get home
ain’t it funny
the outrage over the price of guacamole
33 minutes until my shift ends
Dec 5, 2021
Dec 5, 2021 at 5:31 PM UTC
My son told me that I had a worse singing voice
than Neil Young, Bob Dylan, Townes Van Zandt and John Prine
all combined.
I just smiled and said "Thank you, son".
r
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 8:05 AM UTC
After John Prine:
**“There's flies in the kitchen,
I can hear 'em there buzzing,
And I ain't done nothing since I woke up today”**
Mr. John Prine
<£>
There's flies in the kitchen,
all around my eyes and head,
they’re just gossiping bout me,
why most mornings
I’m still laying in bed
at almost near
noon-time, why too, them
angels and their a-fluttering wings,
a-flapping, still hanging around,
when they’re so far from home
truth be told, I kinda like new combinations,
the musical vibes, magic incantations,
boogie woogie, fuzzy buzzy eyelash sounds,
bluesy background harmonies against the
harps them angel wings are playing,
I’m getting every note writ down so,
I can play it well on the morrow, on my
following them higher up, all the ways up
on that glowing shining stairway to heaven,
guarantee-damn-teeing entrance through the
pearly gates for the flies and a lazy, no-account
worthless S.O.B. like me
Jul 17, 2020
Jul 17, 2020 at 3:02 PM UTC
Goodnight my sweet dark prince
And whisper to me as I sleep.
For this time I may offer myself to you
With silver and scarlet
But take pity on me for I must be fixed
I've been broken like a window and a stone
If you don't come to me then I'll
Run to you because...
I need the extra push off the ledge
To fix me so that I can truly smile
I'll give myself to you completely and
willing even gladly
I'm tired and I'm ready to sleep
In my bed of black six feet underground
So Goodnight my sweet dark prine
And kiss me goodnight on my last night of eternity
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 11:59 PM UTC
The trees overlapped
overhead creating a warm
cloister.
Harvey's car cooed past
the vibrant green
and sputter-stopped
at the plastic, fishhead
mailbox.
He drove up the grey gravel drive,
hopped out of his car and
with eager stride
headed toward
the door of the widow Prine.
"Hello, Harvey," Mrs. Prine
greeted from behind the screen
in her always-sugary-hushed tone.
"Hey, Mrs--I mean hello, Margaret."
"Haha, you remembered this time.
C'mon in, sweetie."
Harvey's steps matched gentle creaks
in wooden floor.
Pictures of Mrs. Prine's
three children lined the walls.
"That's Mattie, Cindy's baby. My first grandbaby,"
Mrs. Prine beamed.
"She's a cutie."
"Well thank you," Mrs. Prine picked up
some magazines lying on the couch,
"feel free to sit here. Can I get you something to drink?
Some wine, maybe? It's a red."
"Sure, sure. Sounds good."
Mrs. Prine stepped into the kitchen,
as the evening news played at a barely
audible volume.
"Oh Lord. I forgot to put the wine in the
fridge, Harvey."
"That's okay, Mrs. Prine. I can--"
"Margaret."
"Margaret, I can drink it warm."
"How about some ice cubes?"
"That works too."
Mrs. Prine's husband died
driving an 18-wheeler,
six-miles outside of Dallas
two or three years ago.
One of the few times
a sedan won a war
against a big engine.
Her cheek bones
jutted sharply from
her face,
deep crimson lipstick
and light eyeshadow
emphasized her
few deep wrinkles,
as if she wore them
with pride.
They sat sipping lukewarm
red wine, saying nearly nothing--
touching only during commercial
breaks.
When the news ended,
Mrs. Prine grabbed Harvey's hand,
led him to the bedroom,
filled with pictures of her and her husband.
The love they made--
textbook in its precision,
light in its passion--
finished chapter,
Harvey reached for his cigarettes.
"Sweetie, please don't smoke in here."
"Oh, I'm sorry, Margaret."
Harvey stared at her old life's relics,
wrapped his arm around her,
pulled her naked flesh against his,
a summer breeze crawled through
open window,
and Harvey said,
"So, tell me more about your husband."
Mrs. Prine smiled, brushed her hair
out of her eyes,
and with a retrospective sigh,
she began.
May 19, 2011
May 19, 2011 at 5:31 PM UTC
"Did you want to smoke that cigarette?"
Mrs. Prine asked as she covered her skin
in a black velvet nightgown.
"That'd be good. Just to be outside."
"Right. It's pleasant this evening."
Harvey climbed out of the sweat-drenched
sheets, slid into his jeans, tossed on a t-shirt,
and stumbled behind the widow Prine.
The field behind Mrs. Prine's home
stood tall -- a rich green sea, with
islands of yellow dandelions and
splatters of Indian paintbrushes.
The two sat down in the tall field.
Mrs. Prine closely watched Harvey's
moves.
Her eyes followed him with
gentle observation and understanding--
much like his own mother.
A cloud of dust perpetually hung over
the Prine place.
Mr. Prine chose the abode
to escape the hum of cars and exhaust-teeming air,
but his reconnaissance was poor.
Mr. Prine picked a house that was less than a mile
from Kiev, Oklahoma's hidden gem:
Sugar's Sweethearts.
Sugar's Sweethearts prided itself on being
the only strip club in 50-miles.
The girls were much older than young,
the ******* suffered from much more sag than they did once,
and the bar sold nothing
but light beer and throat-dicing whiskey.
"I think Cindy is going to live with me for awhile," Mrs. Prine's voice whispered then dissolved in vapor. Harvey sat on her words a moment,
"Your daughter?"
"Yes."
"I thought she just had a kid. You acted like it was all fine and dandy
less than an hour ago."
"It is fine. I don't mind. Her husband cheated on her. *******
"What about--"
"Us? Harvey, I know better than to believe this means anything remotely tangible."
"It's our escape, Mrs. Pri--dammit--Margaret."
"Sure. You and I have a healthy understanding of our needs,
while the rest of this overly-religious town
empties its restlessness at Sugar's."
The suns rays bulletholed through the clouds.
Harvey put out his cigarette on an anthill.
An interstate of ants led Harvey's eyes to
a dead blue jay.
Flies and ants alike covered the bird's body.
"I love you, Margaret," Harvey got up,
dusted off his jeans,"See ya Monday."
"I'll see you then, Harvey."
May 26, 2011
May 26, 2011 at 2:58 PM UTC
Xmas light angel sparkling bright
Walkin on the rooftops
Got someone in sight
Gunna flitter and flutter
All through the night
Eyeing a weary sparrow
till all is well
till all is right
till that lil sparrow
be ready to take flight
Bonnie Raitt &John Prine
Angel From Montgomery
Puyallup
4.24.20
jbm
Apr 24, 2020
Apr 24, 2020 at 6:30 PM UTC
~for teach~
tell me, are you ok?
yeah, more or less;
like everybody else,
wires get crossed,
static builds up,
the speakers bleat
when they should blat,
and you try to stop thinking,
cause why hurt yourself
too much?
what’s wrong?
nothing to specific,
that seems to be the problem,
like aches and sharp pains
that come without reason,
on a schedule all their own,
no prior consultation,
permission slip sig forged,
so badly, it’s insulting
it’s 3:14 am, woke up with
headphones on, every tune,
reandomly selected, saying,
only the lonely, solitary man,
miles to go, it’s probably me,
long monday coming,
gonna spend it
looking for the summer
now look at this, me done wrote
another impoverished poem,
just by stringing together
song titles that were selected
just for me by an artificial intelligence,
it’s closing time, in the fields of gold,
prine singing a blues lullaby, just for me,
so I won’t have to think so hard for an answer to
tell me, are you ok?
me?
got no complaints that
ain’t my own fault,
my guilt is plugged in
always charging,
sleep comes in dreams of many colors,
eclectic eclipses, electrifying and elicited,
words come spilling so easy, pre-selected,
elocuted and executed, with madding ease.
two more lines, then calling it quits, but at least
got an answer, why for me it’s so easy,
the being hard
<>
3:32am and the moonlight so bright,
it’s making shadows on earth, left behind
like good graffiti announcing I was here,
maybe I’ll find these words, when I wake up,
wonder who wright these, twasn’t me,
I’m a sound sleeper, can never remember,
dreams, or nightmares, even those in technicolor,
wake up a blank slate, to see,
gotta answer somebody’s question,
if I’m ok?
Sep 7, 2020
Sep 7, 2020 at 3:44 AM UTC
~for John Prine~
she’s eye closed, playing sleepy possum,
so I stealthy stroke her cheek, she, all smiling,
then I nose tickle my sweet-love, now frowning,
till I cease and desist, go back to stroking,
then I’m her good loving man once again
tune comes in my head from out of left field,
start to tap the beat, pic my guitar strings, roaming
all over her smooth features, now she’s all aroused,
cause she knows what I’m about and this strumming,
why that ain’t allowed, so she knocks my fingers away
later, sneak into the kitchen, she’s fussin’ - could be,
cleaning, could be cooking, but soon she ain’t moving,
cause she’s just listening to the new tune first played
earlier that morn, on her features born, a love song,
calling that song “Playing with My Love’s Face”
now she’s grabbing the biggest knife I ever seen,
waving it to and too close to fro, in my direction general,
waving it like a baton, conducting my song, singing along,
making up her own lyrics, whole stanzas, now it’s her song,
**** if that ain’t “the way the world goes round”
Apr 12, 2020
Apr 12, 2020 at 8:39 AM UTC