"recorders" poems
Hello Poetry
Yearned.
Ached.
For so long, for a community,
That values the ineffable wonder
Of a wordsmith's creations, intended to
Repair himself and the world with bullets of
Verses.
And here you are.
Like/Dislike, matters not,
So long as we value each others work,
And the the heart echoes within
What the eyes read and the mouth whispers.
The array and disparity of your names,
A delight,
Each name a poem
In its own right.
So I resubmit a question for your consideration,
The answer is now known,
The answer is all of us.
May 2013
---------------------------------------------------------
Who's Who In Poetry
T'is a curious thing,
these verbal peddlers, tribal members,
famously well known to no one,
perhaps at best,
a kindred few, fellow-travelers.
Each a troop,
bloodied, purple hearted,
word-wounded,
anonymous unto each other,
yet all bonded intimates,
in solitary struggle united,
yet sea-parted by the very nature
of the solitude of composition.
All poets are Cain scar-marked,
purposed for everyone to see,
a warning to rabbled boors,
imagination suppressors!
World:
cherish these flawed ones,
gentle these frail but gritty,
the Lord has tasked them
to be prophets in one tongue untied,
undo the strife of Babel's division.
Poets!
Be the harpooners
of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody,
comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy
to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders
into crinkly eye-lined smilers.
With clinical observation,
dense and demanding,
make us laugh at
the comedy of our situation,
teach us our free-to-see peep show,
reveal, unseal us
with **** empathy!
For who's who in poetry
is all of us!
saviors and failures,
recorders and decoders,
night writers of the oohs and aahs
of dreams and nightmares.
When this poet cannot,
no longer, anymore,
tastes his poems upon your lips,
keep your poems within his heart,
then he breathes no more,
and becomes one who was,
yet is,
because of you,
in poetry.
---------------
Postscript (1/25/17)
Even more true today, than four years ago.
Thank You.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 1:40 PM UTC
T'is a curious thing,
these verbal peddlers,
these tribal members,
famously well known to no one,
perhaps at best,
a kindred few, fellow-travelers.
Each a troop,
in the army of orphans,
bloodied, purple hearted,
word-wounded,
anonymous unto each other,
yet all bonded intimates,
in solitary struggle united,
yet sea-parted by the very nature
of the solitude of composition.
All poets are Cain scar-marked,
purposed for everyone to see,
a warning to the rabbled boors,
the imagination suppressors!
World:
cherish these flawed ones,
gentle these frail but gritty,
the Lord has tasked them
to be prophets in one tongue untied,
undo the strife of Babel's division.
Poets!
Be the harpooners
of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody,
comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy
to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders
into crinkly eye-lined smilers.
With clinical observation,
dense and demanding,
make us laugh at
the comedy of our situation,
teach us our free-to-see peep show,
reveal, unseal us
with **** empathy!
For who's who in poetry
is all of us!
saviors and failures,
recorders and decoders,
night writers of the oohs and aahs
of dreams and nightmares.
*When this poet cannot,
no longer, anymore,
taste his poems upon your lips,
keep your poems within his heart,
then he breathes no more,
becoming one who was, yet still is,
because of you,*
because of poetry.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 4:53 PM UTC
She bore no children of her own, because her insides
Were turned to stone.
She had been abused so much before, till she walked out the door.
A woman who was as timid as a mouse, beaten and abused by her spouse.
How much more can you take, before it becomes much too late?
He was abusive in every way and she knew she could not stay.
She recalled the threat that he had said
If you leave I’ll hunt you down and bury your bones in the ground
She had to beat him at his own game; otherwise her life would stay the same
And she had to put a plan in action that would meet her satisfaction.
No one believed that she was being beaten for he was able
To leave her with no scars or black and blues, and she knew just what to do.
She saved her money and had camcorders put all around that
Could record every move and sound
When he came home drunk that night and started to abuse her and fight
All the recorders were at work recording every punch and ****
When he left for work the next day, she took it to the police
So they could watch it play.
That was all that they needed to arrest him on site
With the news she jumped with delight’
She filed for divorce and started a new life
Remarried and is living a good life.
© L. RAMS 120614
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 11:13 PM UTC
The tape recorders sitting out, the button pressed is pause
Take a minute to rewind and catch all of my flaws
If you could turn the world around, I know you wouldn't do it
Once perhaps, you had the chance, but you just went and blew it
Now the ice is melting and it has no where to go
Now the race is over but what do we have to show
The medal discs around our necks weigh us down to earth
Metal in those dreadful eyes remind us what we're worth
All I want to know is peace, and love and satisfaction
I can't divide by zero, so I multiply a fraction
What remains is just a simple shadow of itself
Two divided by two equals my heart back on the shelf
Mathematically, we have no hold over the science
Not even when we meet the world with such defiance
If only I could hold the will of nature in my hand
I could stop my crystal ***** from turning into sand
Did they mean it when they said they wanted to undress
Just because the want surpassed the need by so much less?
Who's the one who said that love was something meant to be?
I forgot, that foolish persons name was you and me
Nov 8, 2010
Nov 8, 2010 at 3:46 PM UTC
it's the smallest voices that scream the loudest
I've never been a fan of the trending hero
or the underground superstar.
slam poets make me sick.
your attitude is a well concocted ploy
to touch indie hearts and
I hate it.
I love the ignored
the militants
the trashman painter,
the gas station attendent that
makes ****** artcore ******
in her boyfriend's garage
the sixteen y.o. with a tape recorders
and a circuitbent casio
howling blood into an old
speakercummicrophone
slash and burn
leave your best work sitting
on a park bench for me
ignore the plight and shove
your fingers down your throat.
I love the broken. the hurt.
the misanthropes the schizoids
**** victims
homeless
suicidal
single mothers
drug addicts
if that fire is in your shattered
legs reflecting the age of
a
billion dead scaffolds
soul of revolution raging
knife in paw
I will fall in love with you
and sigh at the detrious
in your wake.
let me see you naked and crying
my own wounds fester quiet
when everyone else is asleep.
have a drink,
you earned it.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 3:09 AM UTC
Reality isn't what it seems to be
it isn't touch, nor sound
it isn't a taste, nor is it visual
reality is what is perceived
what is believed
what is understood to be true
even when the memory is not
when the heart makes up its mind
and the mind draws up its own conclusion
then that is reality
even when its wrong, unjustly created
what is real? what is not?
why what one person sees isn't the same
as what the next person saw? felt? heard?
is one of them wrong? if so, than how is it proven
or how is it dis-proven? video tapes and voice recorders
can only prove or disprove the event.
not the feeling that was felt, or the mental strain
that was placed. How can something feel so right
to one person, yet complete tear down another?
one thing felt so good, yet it was so bad for you?
there is no spoon, nor is there a hand to hold it
for as your mind bends to the force of your own thoughts
the labyrinth that it creates spins your reality into something
different, irrecoverable, irrevocable, irresponsibly
I stand here, looking terrible in your eyes, and with love
mirroring the effects of the icy stare
I stand here, looking terrible in my own eyes.
this is reality
unfixable? unforgivable? unimaginable?
maybe
but if there is a chance to fight the reality
to bend the spoon
to show you that my reality is not your reality
then...maybe
for this is real, with two different realities
Feb 12, 2011
Feb 12, 2011 at 7:28 AM UTC
A kaleidoscope of plastic, drafted in the
layers of trash. The sights of a landfill,
the smells of hell.
Containers filled with grime, broken recorders
in baby dolls, apple cores, a slew of condoms,
paper products, burnt out computer parts,
bottles that held night life, while diapers full of
tired mother’s yawns; light bulbs that quit working,
family photos that hold too much, dog ****
The things that matter most are torn,
purged, and poignant with purpose that we’d
rather forget the existence.
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 2:06 PM UTC
these old books and all those boys
tripping on squeaking baby toys
your mother's last apartment floor creaking
under seven or eight count teenage weight
spilling boxes of recorders and claves
from the highest shelf and a xylophone
crashing onto solid oak table
spilling the last standing mug of tea
steaming, staining, spitting varnish
resolving to small puddles
in the divets on the table
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 10:06 PM UTC
Concept:
youlovemeback.
The ingredients of cleanse
make their way
to your house.
There is
a
strobe,
two stones portioned off
a Ziggurat,
a present thing —
like wheels,
a teardrop,
nail clippings.
My father
would trim his nails
and bury them —
as seeds.
Stared
at that ***
all days and evenings.
Monsoons and
summer heat echoed.
Time circled back and forth.
Sometimes,
I would gargle
father’s beer and
spit into the ***
Maybe it needed
Acrid, it needed
Strong. It needed
Disgusting,
Toxic. It wanted
wrong.
I turn 22.
The ***
Disappears. My father
too. Militants
took him away,
or so the chatter goes.
He wore Chinos, sun-dried
eyes, a hat.
Mice ate
the matchsticks
used for kindling.
The Queen Termite
Gave birth to more
hungry little ones
under the sink.
Dark, musty,
collapsing.
Memory, time,
fingertips. Thyme
rhymes
with mime,
I copy my father.
Trims nails.
Plants.
Waters.
Concept:
trytounderstand
This was only the nourish
he could give. It was
a copy of the nourish
his father could give —
Or so
The chatter goes.
Gather the stones.
Get the strobe.
Pound the nail clippings
and
an enzyme flows
Through, like tape recorders whirring
as they wind back to
play recorded confessions
one more time.
Free baptismals
at the church service
for hurried teens.
Free shirts for
the Insufficient.
Free lessons for
the young boy
who can’t read women.
Free at long, long last.
Concept:
fixtheheart
Jan 23, 2018
Jan 23, 2018 at 3:16 AM UTC
It’s too comfortable to write
In light so bright my sarcasm wont bite
So I’d rather wax intellectual in the freezing cold
Let my icy lungs ****
In some tar and I’ll
Hold everything I say
As
True
If only we could compile clues
We’d see
All the bodies we buried to be moderately happy
But still I’ve done worse things
While eye’s rolled in the back of their heads
Averting your vision
Can be the only tactic in your book
Of smarmy one liners
That all seem to be blunt remarks about my size
Which is fine
Worse things have been said
During diner conversations
We counted off the ways in music how we’d be a bonnie and Clyde
And if the220 razor wires grins sewed of mouths off cheating friends
88 sharp teeth gleaming, of devilish plots we were scheming
52 white knuckles clenched over getaway cars, or benches in parks watching false stars
36 black stares something about face mauling and bears, but I didn’t care that we only had
7 seconds to make it out with the money
5 eye’s wide open to ceiling fans or a lack their of
1 reason to wake up
And in such a way we could be writing pings on sound recorders put it just goes silent with the senseless bashing of fists on porcelain/.
but in the end we can only hope it means nothing
or as empty as air
or as simple as breathing
-Kevin T
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 10:19 PM UTC
....No man is an island, entire of itself...any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee
No man an island
yet we stand with brand
in hand, waiting
to set set alight all bridges
as we make our stand
for ourselves
over our fellow man.
We stand and watch as
killers **** then
turn the channel
seeking the next
momentary thrill.
Less and less we involve
ourselves with others
in a meaningful way
we are more likely
to be engaged in
digital play
as we die
a little more
each solitary day
If it sounds
like I am preaching
it is because I am
More to myself
than others
but then again
perhaps I am reaching
to you and others like
to those who understand
the carillion is a ringing
that, the sounds of bells
are stealing up upon us
as we ignore calamity to play,
tetris and zombie clan
"All mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated.
we the poets of consciousness,
are the translators ....
of the thoughtless thoughts
and long lost creeds
we are the heart that cries
as this world bleeds
from razors cuts
by the many thousands,
we are the recorders of the deeds
both small and large
important an seemingly insignificant.
scribes and libraians we be both
noting written word and oral oath
we partake, we give to all
but at our best we are the accord
of action and thought, deed and word
so that we reflect upon
ourseleves and others
the joy, the hate,
the hurt, the succour
the wonderment and ease,
the love and loving care
we make the hard easier to bear
we make the horrible, we make crazy
we have the ability to make the hard person care
those in despair hope...those at the end of themself
reach once more for the dangling rope
we are the fabric, the paper
on which this world is printed
we are the old gold coin
and the newly minted
we are islands with bridges between
we are understanding,
between commoner and queen
we are those who stand ready
to extinguish harmful flame
yet we are those to set hearts alight
we are those who call others
away from the game
and into the heart of the heart
into cognizant frames
we are listeners
and bell ringers both
we refine the languages
we create the quotes
we are the fresh morning
we are the new start....
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 7:50 PM UTC
The roaring sound of applause is becoming too boisterous to bear.
A flock of cameras and video recorders begin to huddle at the corners of the platform set behind the curtains of the stage. Actors, dancers, stage crew, and all of those who smiled, slowly line up for the grand finale.
But not this girl.
This girl sits on top of the railing of the things that hold up the set. Waiting, seeking, and wistfully watching. An actress, without a doubt. One of the best, they say. Although this girl had no plans to take that step and accept gravity as her master and plummet to her death, she won’t deny that she hasn’t thought of that before. This time, she had other things on her mind. Something radical? Well, maybe. Spontaneous? She was too lazy to move. Dark and twisted? Not in that sense. Nonetheless, she was thinking of something with importance.
For instance, she was thinking about the homemade cookies her mother used to give her, if she behaved perfectly, quiet, and still. Since she loved the feeling of success and food in her stomach, she fought back the longing of playing games and having fun.“Too perfect a child” some might say, but that never got into her. All she wanted was the sky, moon, stars, and nothing all at once.
Years go by, mistakes are done, and nothing is made whole again. The girl is woven in a snare of lies and is drowning in a bathtub full of the blood of swine. She swims and floats and tries to escape the demons that haunt her very soul. Breathe in, breathe out. She continues to sit perfectly, quietly and still. Never talking, only listening, to the sounds of rules and* rules and rules and rules and rules and rules that mess up her insides.*
The girl performs an act that no one has ever seen. Taunting and terrifying, but beautiful and graceful all together. The mask shows her perfection, the mask shows you nothing. Jump, then fall, tumble to the ground. Tick, tock, tick, tock, the sound as time goes by.
Tick
tock
tick
stop.
The roaring sound of applause from the demons in her head is becoming too boisterous to bear.
A flock of cameras and video recorders begin to huddle at the corners of the platform set at the unseen bottom of the pit. Actors, dancers, stage crew, and all of those who tell her, slowly line up for the grand finale.
She takes that step.
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 1:07 AM UTC
Clocks spring forward and watches, too... computers follow suit,
So nine's now ten, it's true, it's true... when Spring comes, that's quite cute...
And so, this day, time Marches on... this hour changes hands,
And blessed are those who know it's gone... according to Man's plans...
I'll change each clock at home today... each watch that's working still,
From nine to ten, yes, straight away... and won't that be a thrill?
Then my recorders I'll reset... so that they're up-to-date,
So that the programmes I still get... not early or too late...
Has my TV updated now? I wonder, yes or no?
If not, I'll change it soon, somehow... if I must make it so...
Must I change Freeview and Freesat... and others just like Sky?
If yes, at least, when I've done that... I'll prove how time can fly...
It's only once a year for this... till Autumn's back again,
Then it's all change! Oh, my, what bliss... when nine replaces ten...
Denis Martindale Sunday the 25th of March 2018.
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 10:55 AM UTC
These dreams fade as westerly whispers,
in a soft eastern rain.
Unremembered by morning's light
filtered by reality's coldness,
leaving only colored shadows,
we must walk alone through.
Shadows that sullenly settle
like colored chalk dust,
covering all,
but easily blown away.
These dreams fade as westerly whispers,
in a soft eastern rain.
We are the dreamtesters,
recorders of our life's events
to be read by God.
Upon our day of reckoning...
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 2:56 PM UTC
I am from black cats and silly smiles,
From senseless sisters and lazy Sundays
I am from coarse yellow grass
That brushes my legs and tickles my feet
I am from chlorine pools and fast flowing rivers
Sunny days and stinging nettles.
I am from tall trees and ripped jeans
Barbie band-aids and tireless energy.
I am from warm afternoons,
Bike rides and best friends,
Whole orchestras and squeaky recorders
I am from a place that is never silent
Pattering feet and clicking paws.
I am from snow days and sled rides,
Pillow forts and fragrant pines
I am from puppy dogs and Christmas gifts.
Spilled drinks and soaked towels.
Cool winter nights, curled up with a book,
Overstuffed sofas and Friday movie nights.
I am from daddy-longlegs
And chasing butterflies
Cicadas
Clinging to my shirt,
And caterpillars
Crawling up my arm.
I am from lemonade stands
And (I must admit) overpriced craft sales
Cozy blankets,
And widescreen TV’s.
I am from stories and pictures,
Scissors and glue,
Colossal messes and unstoppable laughter
Setting suns and shining stars
New days and new beginnings.
Memories I will forever cherish,
And new ones made every day.
Arguments,
Agreements,
Opposites,
And perfect matches.
Photographs that make me giggle,
Smile,
Cringe,
And remember.
My home is not a place.
I have made a home in my memories.
A place I can go whenever I want to smile.
I am from everywhere,
I am from anywhere,
And this is the place I call home.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 6:21 AM UTC
My grandpa listened to 'rpm' records
closed his eyes
and bathed in the shower of music.
My mom took us to concerts,
played cassettes in tape recorders
and the tunes paved our way to growth.
My children are used to view music
silent imagination of old days lose trail,
baton of flight of fantasy rests on choreographers.
9th October, 2017.
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 9:22 AM UTC
they always say
the second time you fall in love
will be far different from the first
diffrent from the usual you had grown accustomed to
did you notice the second time,
how your bones didn’t ache from hurt
but instead they whistled like those recorders
you used to play in 4th grade?
how your bones became empty and hollowed?
how they weren’t trying drown you in their heaviness
like the first did?
they always say
the second time you fall in love
will be far different from the first
because the first is like a freight train collision
but the second,
the second is a sigh of relief someone cared enough
to pull you out from that same wreckage
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 3:41 PM UTC
When my hands become too shaky too write,
and my eyes too crusted over to see,
be sure to buy me a tape recorder,
because for the rest of my life,
my emotions will be set free.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 4:33 PM UTC
Iphones,ipads,ipods
3d,4k,Imax
E-books,online music and movies
Herbal tea,Green tea...and what not health drink
Six-packs,designer clothes,diamond-studded watches
E-mail,video chat,social networks
Selfies,groupfies,swimfies(God help us!!!)
Racism,discrimination,advanced weapons system
Fast cars,fast motorcycles,fast life
The modern day advancements and sophistications at times baffle me
Have they actually made life simpler?
Or have in fact complicated it?
The era i grew up in
We didn't really have that much choices
We had to be content with whatever was around
And we were
In fact we were pretty happy
And now look at us..we are spoilt for choices
We don't know what to leave and what to take
I miss the era of the '80s and the '90s
We used to look forward to going to the fair
We loved playing out in the sun
We loved reading
I miss writing letters
I miss looking at black and white photographs
I miss taking autographs
I miss cassetes and tape-recorders
I miss taking a walk at night without the fear of getting mugged or shot
The kids today at times they scare me
The things they do....
...At times it's hard to tell whether they are super-intelligent or super-dumb!
Computer games,getting laid and smoking pot...that's what a lot of them seem to think about!
They seem to be so engrossed in their phones..that at times it's hard to tell whether they realize that there is a world outside of their phones
And the norm now just baffles me
You wanna dump someone..just text that person
No calling or even meeting that person
They don't even got time to talk their parents!
Sometimes i wish that i was born in the early 1900's and i died in the same era
Agreed that back then there wasn't so much amenities or facilities like we have today
But life was much more simpler and peaceful
And most of all people in general were much more tolerant
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 2:55 AM UTC
If News be Truth, then Prompt those Words with Rage
By all Concepts infect Facts with such Charge
Though cause-admitted did Foredraw the Sage
Despite these Attacks by Support at-large
Still Welcome be my Martyr's Fort allow
Though expect more Rallies and Protests come
To breathe-in Peace; And Peace be Forged below
The Hammer's Soft Skill train the Anvil numb.
And in that Sense must the Doctor's Palms take
To Prognose which Infected Parts must Heal
Subtract the Ruse; As Silence frosts your Cake
Which Dull Recorders use your Prompt to Steal.
Stain your Male with Gold; Best be left un-morphed
Yet Scroll your Bearings; And Direct your Torque.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 5:48 AM UTC
Let us come into his presence with thanksgiving; let us make a joyful noise to him with songs of praise! —Psalm 95:2
Giving thanks after a “Hail Mary” touchdown
or before downing a meal of turkey and all the
fixin’s ‒ not what the psalmist had in mind when
writing about being in His presence.
Here we are – days from the cross – not much
time to rejoice and give thanks for the real story,
the passion play to end all spectacles, worldly
narratives or daily newscasts.
It’s time to set the stage – polish the bells and
warm up the recorders, get out the metronome
and clear your throats – the opening chords of
St. Matthew’s Passion are in the air still.
The celestial chorus has no patent on singing –
the angel choirs we hear on high every Christmas
do accept new members – and going solo on
timpani or viola is pleasing to God.
Many of us – largely children – agree that when
making noise, we should be joyful, loud and
yes, not be afraid to do it in public: sometimes
gangs even march on their way to forgiveness.
As we look around in the confusion of our
world – have you looked lately? – it’s very
helpful to read the psalms, the songs of David,
it is said, can be of comfort and enlightening.
Close your eyes and imagine a mystical figure
playing the lyre and singing the words of this
psalm – give thanks, sing, praise – the words
call us, an invite to worship.
This is the liturgy you can have every waking hour
– in the house of the LORD and in yours: you can
praise the LORD in any key – anywhere – as long as
you practice the steps of faithful allegiance to the one
who gave himself for us. Amen.
Lewis Bosworth, 2-2017
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 9:03 PM UTC
we ate discarded instruction manuals for washing machines, video recorders and calculators
we learnt new things
we stalked the rabbits
and followed dogs in the shadows
salivating at the prospect
of meat
days spent hunkered in the bunker with tin food and a transistor radio that could only pick up the sound of a sobbing man
and static fuzz
all our memories fused into one long dream
we thought of the astronauts miles above us thinking can they see the Great Wall of
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 10:48 AM UTC
lookin for me
____
But
I AM REAL
'&
I AM HERE
;;;
lost summer day
The sacred battlefield
On and on
We say that we want love
WHO COULD BELIEVE (?)
It's really hard to see
That you are even here at all
///
( love is more than the accidental meeting
Of genitals
That you don't seem to know this is Strange ! ! )
:;:
Of course
That you don't really know
ANYTHING !
is also strange
:::
little tape recorders !
Repeating what we are told !
Trying to teach others
To ****
On command
//
And
All
This
with me right here !
:::
what a ****** !
( and then we go & dump the **** - ***
in the street ! )
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 3:47 PM UTC
Wide wake trying to sleep,
Won't do good as am awake,
Thoughts hammering bursting my brain,
With eyes numb and tears fall like rain,
I guess am a victim of insomnia,
Disturbing my sleep causing hypochondria,
It's another word to say having sleep disorders,
Where mind sets unrest and messes with my recorders,
Begging sleep to come as I try to shut my eyes,
Remembering you and your honest white lies,
Looking at the clock and watching how time flies,
Indeed am awake looking at the night skies,
However am determined with the sleep remedy,
Soft tunes and instrument playing its melody,
Surely earphones plugged in my ears,
Listening to such music eats away my fears...
©sim
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 5:00 AM UTC