"records" poems
little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
instead
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and i won't use it
yet.
368.9k
nobody loses all the time
i had an uncle named
Sol who was a born failure and
nearly everybody said he should have gone
into vaudeville perhaps because my Uncle Sol could
sing McCann He Was A Diver on Xmas Eve like Hell Itself which
may or may not account for the fact that my Uncle
Sol indulged in that possibly most inexcusable
of all to use a highfalootin phrase
luxuries that is or to
wit farming and be
it needlessly
added
my Uncle Sol’s farm
failed because the chickens
ate the vegetables so
my Uncle Sol had a
chicken farm till the
skunks ate the chickens when
my Uncle Sol
had a skunk farm but
the skunks caught cold and
died and so
my Uncle Sol imitated the
skunks in a subtle manner
or by drowning himself in the watertank
but somebody who’d given my Uncle Sol a Victor
Victrola and records while he lived presented to
him upon the auspicious occasion of his decease a
scruptious not to mention splendiferous funeral with
tall boys in black gloves and flowers and everything and
i remember we all cried like the Missouri
when my Uncle Sol’s coffin lurched because
somebody pressed a button
(and down went
my Uncle
Sol
and started a worm farm)
131.9k
cedar planks line the dim lit hall
morning snow begins to fall
sepia print in a chipped wood frame
embers spark from the franklin flame
rustling sounds from bunks below
records play in a tight alcove
bacon grills on an iron sheet
gloves are warmed by baseboard heat
bean bags tossed on colored ****
papka placed as a punching bag
red brick wall with mounted poles
windows filled with glacier bowls
whiskey jack on the southern rail
a frozen patch of wine and ale
pine cones fall in gathering white
brothers bathed in firelight
sleighs are on the table top
canyon road is at a stop
northern winds that bite the face
lines are up the gondola base
cornice clipped by gully goats
the rubber man appears to float
alpine depths are on the rise
peaking sun through parting skies
triple ropes and nordic luge
honored guests from baton rouge
gelande jumps on rainbow drive
nostalgia’s light and warm reply
Jan 2, 2017
Jan 2, 2017 at 5:50 PM UTC
I am slowly learning to disregard the insatiable desire to be special. I think it began, the soft piano ballad of epiphanic freedom that danced in my head, when you mentioned that “Van Gogh was her thing” while I stood there in my overall dress, admiring his sunflowers at the art museum. And then again on South Street, while we thumbed through old records and I picked up Morrissey and you mentioned her name like it was stuck in your teeth. Each time, I felt a paintbrush on my cheeks, covering my skin in grey and fading me into a quiet, concealed background that hummed “everything you’ve ever loved has been loved before, and everything you are has already been,” on an endless loop. It echoed in your wrists that I stared at, walking (home) in the middle of the street, and I felt like a ghost moving forward in an eternal line, waiting to haunt anyone who thought I was worth it. But no one keeps my name folded in their wallet. Only girls who are able to carve their names into paintings and vinyl live in pockets and dust bunnies and bathroom mirrors. And so be it, that I am grey and humming in the background. I am forgotten Sundays and chipped fingernail polish and borrowed sheets. I’m the song you’ll get stuck in your head, but it will remind you of someone else. I am 2 in the afternoon, I am the last day of winter, I am a face on the sidewalk that won’t show up in your dreams. And I am everywhere, and I am nothing at all.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC
i.
I intentionally failed to wish you
a happy birthday this year,
though I know significant dates,
hours, moments, people,
by heart.
I still search for you in boys
I mistake for bandages,
the ones with eyes almost
the same shade of your hazels,
lips resounding your laughter,
resembling a wisp of your smile,
But they aren't you.
ii.
Sometimes I pretend you're dead,
because it's less painful
to stop reaching out into voids.
iii.
My mom still blames you
for everything that preceded that year.
Though you probably had no idea what happened
when we stopped talking altogether.
Can you believe it's almost been three years?
iv.
My dad wonders who was my 'one that got away'
Though, I'm pretty sure he knows
it's you.
v.
Remember how I mentioned Sylvia Plath?
How most everything she wrote
brimmed with melancholy?
How I loved every single word?
Especially that piece
where she talked about expectations
and disappointments.
You'll never know that
up to this day I still think
people are selfish enough to
always, eventually turn into the latter.
Even you.
vi.
It's sad I never got the chance
to tell you about Ted.
How she loved him so much,
she just had to figuratively dive headfirst
into the flames-- burning herself,
what was left of her--
after she found out
he never really loved her
the same way
she loved him
in the first place.
vii.
*truth is,
some of us
never learn to accept
the love we think we deserve.*
viii.
I don't know if you still read my poems
or if you still think about me,
about us, sometimes.
Every time you fall asleep past eleven,
a part of me hopes you do.
because I always remember you--
in birthday candles, red ribbons,
off-tune voice records, golden arches,
concrete sidewalks, pedestrian lanes,
the last flickers of city lights
softly fading out of the blue.
I remember you
in everything, in everywhere,
in everyone.
It's useless, no matter how much I try to forget.
No matter how much I just want to forget.
I want to forget.
But, how could I?
When forgetting means forsaking
the very memory of you.
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 6:00 AM UTC
Mirror, mirror on this wall, I’ll remember you as you fall.
In slow motion you crumble, you stood so strong.
Keeping all records of their wrongs, but why?
Your burden was what you reflected, what you surround.
You fell in the open, but no one heard a sound.
Discouraged and misplaced, you shattered
All of your pieces scattered.
Broke apart to create a work of art
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:26 PM UTC
Time: 7:30 pm
Temp.: 68F
~~~
overlooking the runways,
festooned by
accidental heavenly whimsy,
or humanistic whimsical inten-sity,
all the the planes and trucks are flashing
electrifying speckles, of eclectically synced
red and green
it is not my holiday,
but no matter,
like every New Yorker this day,
I am happily celebrating its
double U,
unique, unusual
"record breaking warmth"
yes, the Fahrenheit is outtasight, and by the dawn of
early eve~night,
the Centigrade is spiraling in reverse retrograde,
as the temp eases on down, just below seventy degrees,
on this dewinterized twenty fourth day of
December, two nought and fifteen
traffic is light, the terminal, an unbusy, slim shadow of itself,
the maddening crowds gone, now all are among
the dearly departed and either/or, the newly arrived
so composition of the observational, brings cheer and smiles to my faith,
(I mean my face),
the crowning quietude of clear skies, the absence of street smart
city bustle and hustle,
the languid atmosphere at the gates,
(where seldom is heard an encouraging word)#
makes me reconsider the true meaning of
the au courant phraseology of this day
"record breaking warmth"
for there is indeed
a calm invisible warmth suffusing all tonite,
chests glowing from fireplaces within,
contentment chamber containers in both hearth and heart,
and I am thinking
miracle,
about all the human warmth
on this celebrated evening,
holy night
indeed,
it is breaking records of
recorded human fusion,
the united commonality of millions warming
his and her stories world-over,
that your personal poet is
warming to record
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 8:21 PM UTC
The girl who would rather spend her Friday night at home organizing her room than at the parties.
The girl who would rather curl up and read at lunch than sit and socialize over talk of nothing but "people".
The girl who would rather drown out the world with music than sit in class and be involved.
The girl who would rather work alone and finish her homework in class, than sit in the big social groups making weekend plans.
The girl who would rather be independent and be judged as a loner than be friends with people who will secretly judge you.
The girl who would rather collect books and records than makeup.
The girl who would rather study astrology than watch every show on Netflix.
The girl who would rather thrift shop and buy $3.99 boots than buy top of the line $80 boots.
The girl who realizes that all of this does not make her any better than them.
The girl that realizes she is only trying to impress herself; confidence is key.
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 8:13 PM UTC
*We all
Dance around
A fire with lipstick
On our cheeks in lines
Powdered in patterns that* will
Accentuate the contours of our bodies
Symbols written in eyeliner so daintily
Adorned like ink meeting paper we are
*Decadent 287 temptation 285 ****** 307* flame 300
*The savages you have created with media we chant
Eninimef eninimef eninimef eninimef we chant*
In a circle circulating the world with our starving
Bodies that whisper of synthetic beauty and
Neglect naked and perverse we are posing
For your cameras capturing exploitation
And degradation because ****** 307 we
Are ****** 307 temptation 285 the savages
You have created with media eninimef we chant
We are the heat of broken records and burnt out cigs
Play us like your out of tune guitar our G-strings are so
Much more loose unlike the noose of your hands grazing*
Our skin we sing what you want no matter how deep
No matter how long the song we are exactly what
You want *the savages you have created of me –
The savages you have created with media –
Eninimef eninimef eninimef eninimef
We chant – we chant – we chant – we
Decadent 287 temptation 285
****** 307 flame 300*
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 3:48 AM UTC
I battle my identity,
As people try to label me,
My mum tries to show me the right path,
But is this really destiny?
9-5,
Zero hours,
Holiday and sick pay impossible to claim,
Expected to work for 20 hours a day,
Minimum wage,
This society makes me insane,
On the weekends I can I run away to raves,
Take what ever I can to create waves,
Not like the sea, like to much Dizzle,
Party all night society says that's crazy,
But whats crazy is the war on drugs,
Some users just victims,
Can't get enough.
Instead of giving criminal records,
Affirming our behaviour,
Turning us riot, ruckus,
snapping wires,
How about a little support?
After all how bad must life be,
That children as young as 13 turn to drugs to escape?
It's medical,
Some say medicinal,
But when your mums crying,
Her heart dying,
Because her baby boys been lying?
No one wants police at the door,
But it was gunna be the last night you swore.
A new batch, strong stuff, you didn't believe
And now your six foot under
Rotting, deceased.
But maybe this could change?
If the right support was in place,
For all those getting spaced,
People will always seek a fix,
So why not monitor, control and safe proof it.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 9:01 PM UTC
if "you are what you eat"
was true
i would help myself
to a bouquet of sunflowers
everyday,
because
i want to learn how to shine
like the street light
outside my bedroom window
i'd line my stomach
with old leonard cohen records
so i could sing all my "i love you"'s
i would stuff my face
with the pages of your favourite book
so i could regurgitate the words
you love so much
whisper them in your ear
while you sleep
i'd take a bite
out of an oak tree
cut me in half
& count my rings
there are so many things
i wish i were
i am not graceful
i'd like to make a toast
to every day that i haven't fallen down
or slipped
or tripped
on my words
see, i am full of mistakes
i never learned
how to ride a bike
god, my parents really tried
but the ground was so unforgiving
& i was too afraid of falling
now,
i would eat those training wheels
so i could keep my balance
walk in a straight line
i'd swallow my watch
so i'm always on time
don't be surprised
if you see me
tucking into those sunflowers
please,
come & bask
in my rays.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 6:02 PM UTC
My hometown
is a place
of rustic beauty
and simple people
a population
under 200
meant that
everybody knew everybody
farmer Neville
and his sheep
always on the loose
and the quiz night
at the pub
just another excuse
to get drunker and drunker
and the private boarding school
which I attended
so rich with false academia
we learned the lessons
which would prepare us
for the false prophets yet to come
and the public school
and their ***** uniforms
where I found my friends
friends who at this point
have arrest records
ranging from assault
to petty larceny
and criminally wasted potential
oh how I miss that town
even now,
because despite the racism
and xenophobia
which infest my kinsmen
I still have to believe
that things can get better
that life there
can match the beauty
of North Yorkshire farm lands
and woodlands
and friendly knowing smiles
My hometown isn't perfect
and I wouldn't have it
any other way
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 3:13 AM UTC
~for lovejunkie, who loved this poem best~
*so many reasons,
so many stones
yet unturned,
for each poem
a season,
for every season,
a given reason
eyes, dimmer,
hearing, harder,
memories, ha,
disappear as fast as
footsteps upon
my island beach
this then
my log,
of places momentarily visited,
capturing the of,
of me,
the exactitude of
where, when and what
I felt
what felled me,
the long and lat,
of the attitudes
of breeze and currents,
the happenstance that carries
a desperate soul
eager and afraid
to remember*
"how fragile we are"
*so memorized records here,
for his storage and his places,
both filled and unfulfilled,*
***poems, nothing more,
flawed each,
product of a flawed man,***
here, for all to see,
most of all,
for the man,
to see himself
when the eyes of his mind
at last be shuttered
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 8:06 AM UTC
Even though a lion is trained to keep it's mouth shut, it doesn't mean it can't learn around it.
Stardust has seen and tried to stop me clean of these things that could be.
That blackhole won't solve anything,
Neither will exploding or imploding myself to wits ends.
So let me brief you just this once so listen good and listen well.
Like the lion, find your pack.
No matter how much the storms rain down hell, find a way to dispel.
Write these records, create a contraption to annoy the rains away.
But if there's nothing you can do, and trust me I know cause it's something we've all been through, go to shelter and let the damage be done.
Tomorrow we begin a new, and work around it with your crew, they may know what to do.
It's an experience we all handle.
It's a long life battle.
But at least we're not alone.
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 6:35 PM UTC
I cut an avocado in half
and give one half to the visitor;
and I carefully scoop
the avocado
gently, gently
with a teaspoon
(the Aztec records show
this is, ahem! the fertility fruit)
and I savor each scoop
and eat like a pig
(ah well, like a graceful pig);
and at last
I have the skin left
in the palm of my hand
and it’s tough
and shaped like a boat;
and it has rained
and there’s a puddle of water
on the lawn
and an ant that’s been irritating me
wandering about on my naked foot
and I put the ant
in the avocado boat
and I set the boat in the puddle
and I give it a gentle push
and I say:
“Bon voyage, Monsieur!”
And then I look at my visitor,
and that silly guy is still staring at his half
and I ask, ever gently,
“Do you need help
with your fertility fruit there?”
The visitor replies, “No" –
and I wonder if I should get him brain food
or perhaps set him off on another avocado boat…
Oct 10, 2010
Oct 10, 2010 at 12:37 AM UTC
“I remember the bed just floating there” is how Phil Kaye started his ‘repetition’ poem.
I remember pausing the youtube video after the poem ended.
I remember burying my feelings under 3 blankets and 4 hours of binge watching spoken word poetry.
I do not remember the dreams I could have had.
I remember the set of nightmares that visited religiously like the downstairs neighbor tired of how loud my heart pounds at late evenings.
I remember, very clearly, how they went.
I do not remember if I have written them down.
Dream one: he peels my freckles off my skin; he says he needs them because his coffee is too light. I scream while he calmly adds pints of the cheeks to his cup. He says I can never be as quiet as the girl who managed to sneak into his ribcage and build herself a bedroom.
Dream two: We are standing in the great library of Alexandria. He pulls the sea from underneath my feet and stuffs it into his back pocket. He says he needs it because he is tired of drowning himself in uncertainty. I start to cry and he says: Aries is the god of war, and women born under this sign confuse war for love.
I remember the mole on his left ear growing bigger in my nightmares without me ever watering it.
I remember he smelled of tangerine trees and broken records.
I do not remember if his face looked like the man I almost fell in love with last winter, or my father.
I remember the first time I saw my father after he came back from Ukraine.
I remember his brown leather shoes that oozed of old spice cologne and neat scotch.
I remember his hardly worn pair of glasses and the pieces of me they never cared to read.
I remember the wrinkles that seemed newer than his glasses slowly colonizing his hands... the hands that never held me as tight as the dress I wore to my school prom hoping it would catch my ex’s attention.
I remember that dress.
I remember it had a floral print reminiscent of the season that I was named after hoping maybe it would remind him I’m part him.
I remember realizing he will never remember.
And now, I sit on a carpet of autumnal leafs as crisp as my tied tongue and as dead as my fears, trying to turn my love for him into more than just a memory.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 4:00 PM UTC
Just know...
He’s had lives & loves before you
Remember that when the bricklayer or the mechanic
Asks for your hand
You’ll receive one flower
Instead of a dozen roses
Picked on his way home
Handwritten notes in your shoes
Instead of Hallmark greetings
Elaborate dinners cooked by him
Where he said he’d clean
Afterwards
But didn’t
Spur of the moment
Road trips
Instead of planned vacations
The opening of windows
For the springtime thunderstorms
Listening to the beat of his heart
While the rain drops
Drip
Drip
I
N
T
O
The drain
He’ll write you with jazz playing
Wine in his bottle
Records in his head
Absorbing you into his world
And if he dies before you
And you bury him
And you mourn over him
Lasting for years
Remember his flower
His notes written just for you
And if you see his ghost
Haunting you
Then the Poet
Has fallen forever for
...You...
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 5:21 PM UTC
Love is patient
Love is gentle and kind
True Love is never near-sighted or blind
It never boasts
It never brags
It doesn't matter
If your in riches or rags
Love is not rude
It does not say, "Me!, Me!, Me!"
When two become one its, "We!, We!, We!"
Love is not easily angered
It keeps no records of ugly words & wrongs
It only cries out, "How Can We Make It Strong!"
It does not dance with darkness
But serenades the light
To grow stronger is its only appetite
Love always protects
Always hopes and trust
True Love, will never rot or rust
It always perseveres
Through life's storms of thorns & nails
Because, True Love Never Fails.
By Buddy Williams
Sep 28, 2010
Sep 28, 2010 at 10:21 PM UTC
I L U like my ***** clothes
Love being forgotten
On my bedroom floor
I L U like chores love the
music that helps them
forget they're chores
I L U like ***** dishes
Love hot showers and
the other side of the sink
I L U like I love spilling
Salt, and warding off the evil,
By tossing some behind my back
I L U like I love
Breaking rules about
my own supposed
non-Superstition
I L U like black cats love
Bad luck, cause to them,
It's just Friday, you know?
I L U like the hot dog bun
Loves staring at the beef patty,
Wishing "if only, if only"
I L U like bread loves
Being forgotten till we're really hungry
And then we're all ungrateful, like
"Hey bread, you remember us?"
And bread is high above us, like
"Always."
Not even a hint of scorn
I L U like the first time I saw
Jurassic Park, The dinosaurs
Were real enough
sans chicken feathers, and
Who needs modern science anyways
when love has no fossil records?
I L U like the weather loves
Surprise parties.
I L U like painful
surprise party memories love
being forgotten on my bedroom floor
I love you like Mayflies love living,
oh so briefly, once a day, every single day,
Chapter one to chapter none
I love you like mayflies love themselves,
brevity and all, stirred by nothing but
the glow of Dawn's light,
Dead by dusk, the Mayfly never
knows its final form.
It dies
in complete
incompletion,
but that's okay.
It drank the salt ocean,
it breathed the living air,
And that's how I want to L U
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 4:26 PM UTC
Complete, four wings stretched for you as an obsticle, big and ominous, they block the light of the sun as it crosses your way,
He will promise you that over walls you will go if you obey him,
Paying from the rule and standing proud with spiteful intent,
Or maybe he will make you believe to be able to shoot over the sky,
What a trecious act of misleading lies, leading to greater falsities,
The cards of fate are already dealt, do not sell your soul, do not lose,
Filth comes in many classes and ranks which cannot be conveyed,
Evil knows tricks into your heart which cannot be explained at all,
His footsteps will leave their mark on you once purgatory is served,
Burning up and feeling priceless now would simply be foolish, dull
Waiting for the cracks of a shady eternity once he breaks his promise,
Beware, the sweetest words might be a game of seduction for you,
Clouded, lost, uncertain of its outcome, struggling for the light inside,
Make another move, you won't be able to turn back, broken light finds no place in this realm of unending decisions to be made today,
You will see it is true, but then it will be far too late for realisation,
Each soul has it's given date, now as beneath the soil do you want to be laid with your records flawed, at last it comes to heaven or hell,
Will you decide now or will you delay, my precious treasure,
He will promise you wealth from amongst the heavens, to lead to poverty from the deepest hell, a cricle you won't escape from,
His promises are transient lies, all he wants is your soul which dies
Do not listen, turn away, do not become a silly devils prey
~ Umi
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 12:30 PM UTC
there lives a little white boy across the street,
i swear the chaps' got wings on his feet.
but he grovels around in charcoal and mud,
cos they say he hasn't got athletics in his blood.
he breaks British records, doesnt seem to stop,
but the Jamaican colours flutter from his rooftop.
Olympics the dream,but more than that,
little master Owens just wants to be Black.
there lives a little black girl just next door,
i can hear her tap dance on the linoleum floor.
she sings the opera from dusk to dawn,
she prances and twirls on the family's front lawn.
"your dancings' awkward, your voice baritone,"
it's not in your blood, leave the dreams alone.
she smears fairness creams day and night,
little miss Britney just wants to be White.
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 11:37 AM UTC
why would
you want me?
i am broken and
damaged,
just like your
old records,
the ones you
don't even
listen to anymore.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 4:26 PM UTC
there is nothing i love more
than being
a girl
i love the way i speak,
with slang only teenage girls use
i love wearing dainty clothes,
feeling beautiful wearing them
i love collecting,
knick-knacks, records, crystals
above all
i love
the wonder of girlhood
romanticizing my life
perceiving my monotonous existence,
as a life worth writing about
Dec 4, 2022
Dec 4, 2022 at 9:53 PM UTC
The beloved country Africana can boast of is Ghana. The manana of Africana black star is Ghana A nation rich in culture and natural pasture.
Its nature reflects the creatures’ caricature
We are black reflecting our true beauty.
And we are packed with captivating ability. The typicality of our nationality brings unity. Who knows whether our safety lies in our variety?
This unity amidst our diversity is our reportage. About twenty-four million are surviving in our age. Over sixty ethnic groups and fifty-two major languages. There are hundreds of dialects which are to our advantages.
In W/A, Ghana records the highest percentage of Christianity… Yet the modernity of our sanity portrays minds of malignity. But the fraternity of our humanity builds our community. The variety of our morality and privity builds our society
Who said Ghana cannot be capaciously superfluous? We have the very illustrious and exuberant resources. The elites and the voracity are harnessing the recourses. The destitute remains poor and the gentry linger the forces
Our democratic government is an African paradigm. Our peaceful political regime is of no pantomime. Who of course would help us measure corruption? The whole nation would have tensed up to eruption.
If not the gargantuan wayomelogy of the wayometer. Who knows whether the next tool would be attameter? Who wouldn’t love to be a proud Ghanaian to enjoy our hilarious fila and jargons tongue can employ
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 7:52 PM UTC
I'm taking it kinda hard--
Not having you around any more.
Sometimes my heart stops
And I have to remind myself
That living isn't just a thing I have to do
But something I want
Even more than getting you back.
So to that end,
I gave all your favorite records
To the local vinyl shop
And donated your sweaters
To the thrift store down the street
And sold your bike for twenty bucks
To the neighborhood paper boy
And finally bought myself
A new set of dishes (after breaking
All of yours).
I think I'm finally ready to say
Regardless of what you think of me,
My life is my choice.
Like the poetry I write just for me,
I'll live each day in just the same way:
For me.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 5:32 PM UTC