"rubin" poems - Hello Poetry

Under silver wing San Francisco's towers sprouting thru thin gas clouds, Tamalpais black-breasted above Pacific azure Berkeley hills pine-covered below-- Dr Leary in his brown house scribing Independence Declaration typewriter at window silver panorama in natural eyeball-- Sacramento valley rivercourse's Chinese dragonflames licking green flats north-hazed State Capitol metallic rubble, dry checkered fields to Sierras- past Reno, Pyramid Lake's blue Altar, pure water in Nevada sands' brown wasteland scratched by tires Jerry Rubin arrested! Beaten, jailed, coccyx broken-- Leary out of action--"a public menace... persons of tender years...immature judgement...pyschiatric examination..." i.e. Shut up or Else Loonybin or Slam Leroi on *** gun rap, $7,000 lawyer fees, years' negotiations-- SPOCK GUILTY headlined temporary, Joan Baez' paramour husband Dave Harris to Gaol Dylan silent on politics, & safe-- having a baby, a man-- Cleaver shot at, jail'd, maddened, parole revoked, Vietnam War flesh-heap grows higher, blood splashing down the mountains of bodies on to Cholon's sidewalks-- Blond boys in airplane seats fed technicolor Murderers advance w/ Death-chords Earplugs in, steak on plastic served--Eyes up to the Image-- What do I have to lose if America falls? my body? my neck? my personality? June 19, 1968

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4.5k

Allen Ginsberg

Crossing Nation

Under silver wing San Francisco's towers sprouting thru thin gas clouds, Tamalpais black-breasted above Pacific azure Berkeley hills pine-covered below-- Dr Leary in his brown house scribing Independence Declaration typewriter at window silver panorama in natural eyeball-- Sacramento valley rivercourse's Chinese dragonflames licking green flats north-hazed State Capitol metallic rubble, dry checkered fields to Sierras- past Reno, Pyramid Lake's blue Altar, pure water in Nevada sands' brown wasteland scratched by tires Jerry Rubin arrested! Beaten, jailed, coccyx broken-- Leary out of action--"a public menace... persons of tender years...immature judgement...pyschiatric examination..." i.e. Shut up or Else Loonybin or Slam Leroi on *** gun rap, $7,000 lawyer fees, years' negotiations-- SPOCK GUILTY headlined temporary, Joan Baez' paramour husband Dave Harris to Gaol Dylan silent on politics, & safe-- having a baby, a man-- Cleaver shot at, jail'd, maddened, parole revoked, Vietnam War flesh-heap grows higher, blood splashing down the mountains of bodies on to Cholon's sidewalks-- Blond boys in airplane seats fed technicolor Murderers advance w/ Death-chords Earplugs in, steak on plastic served--Eyes up to the Image-- What do I have to lose if America falls? my body? my neck? my personality? June 19, 1968

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Fog Horn Crowning Light Upon the Unseen Revealing Star Sorrows Journey Broken Promises Flesh Dyin Gods Promise Still Alive Rubin.... A Man By the See A Lover .......and a Friend Life unfolding Two Paths Now Cry For Me Lover Pain Of a Shattered Kingdom And The Violence Of a Stolen Heart A Wife's **** Rothko's RED Caste Out Before The World For Nothing.. Unwillingness Betrayed Heart Torn Open Refusing The Violations Of a False God HORROR Unveiling Fighting for Life Fires of Dismantling Families Betrayal Eternity I keeping Power of Prayer CLAIM me NOW AMMA Mary GAIA Lakshmii Bridgette ISIS Demeter KALI Rachel GoddesSes All And Yet there is only ONE Marry Me

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Apr 9, 2016

Apr 9, 2016 at 1:50 PM UTC

kw3

Wailing Wall

Fog Horn Crowning Light Upon the Unseen Revealing Star Sorrows Journey Broken Promises Flesh Dyin Gods Promise Still Alive Rubin.... A Man By the See A Lover .......and a Friend Life unfolding Two Paths Now Cry For Me Lover Pain Of a Shattered Kingdom And The Violence Of a Stolen Heart A Wife's **** Rothko's RED Caste Out Before The World For Nothing.. Unwillingness Betrayed Heart Torn Open Refusing The Violations Of a False God HORROR Unveiling Fighting for Life Fires of Dismantling Families Betrayal Eternity I keeping Power of Prayer CLAIM me NOW AMMA Mary GAIA Lakshmii Bridgette ISIS Demeter KALI Rachel GoddesSes All And Yet there is only ONE Marry Me

51

The manic pixie dream girl of my youth Curving and tight, scampering along the beach Her wild black hair flying about as she danced Teasing all the boys with her sunlit joys I read to her Rod McKuen by candlelight While Joni Mitchell on the turntable mused We played and smoked, and drank good screwcap wine And played some more, and then she went away And now - an old lady in a funeral home pew And I’m not so sure of myself anymore (“Manic pixie dream girl” is a neologism attributed to film critic Nathan Rubin)

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Apr 28, 2019

Apr 28, 2019 at 3:05 PM UTC

lawrence-hall

Manic Pixie Dream Girl at Somebody Else's Funeral

The manic pixie dream girl of my youth Curving and tight, scampering along the beach Her wild black hair flying about as she danced Teasing all the boys with her sunlit joys I read to her Rod McKuen by candlelight While Joni Mitchell on the turntable mused We played and smoked, and drank good screwcap wine And played some more, and then she went away And now - an old lady in a funeral home pew And I’m not so sure of myself anymore (“Manic pixie dream girl” is a neologism attributed to film critic Nathan Rubin)

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Unshaven, old, and nearly spent, He slouched in his kitchen chair, Lungs rattling each wheezing breath, Radiation doing little then, To control the mass within, or To prevent the Mass he knew Would soon begin. Hard to believe a man So tough as Rubin always was Sat stubble-faced and wan In that early morning sun. Two years ago, At 65, He and his son Put a ****** on, Fought a cop, Nearly won, Stayed a week in jail, Paid a $7000.00 fine, Then bragged it all Was worth the time And memories. I saw him jump, At 66, From a moving van, Six feet up Like a younger man, Hell bent to take his fill, Shovel hard, cursing still, Cigarette hanging loose Even with a rattling cough (He shrugged it off), And stop. Always 67, His last remains crave no nicotine, No ***** wayward fights, No carousing old man libertine Out with his son at night, And we who watched Old Rubin's days, Paid our respects and went our ways.

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Apr 30, 2014

Apr 30, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC

don-bouchard

Stubble

Unshaven, old, and nearly spent, He slouched in his kitchen chair, Lungs rattling each wheezing breath, Radiation doing little then, To control the mass within, or To prevent the Mass he knew Would soon begin. Hard to believe a man So tough as Rubin always was Sat stubble-faced and wan In that early morning sun. Two years ago, At 65, He and his son Put a ****** on, Fought a cop, Nearly won, Stayed a week in jail, Paid a $7000.00 fine, Then bragged it all Was worth the time And memories. I saw him jump, At 66, From a moving van, Six feet up Like a younger man, Hell bent to take his fill, Shovel hard, cursing still, Cigarette hanging loose Even with a rattling cough (He shrugged it off), And stop. Always 67, His last remains crave no nicotine, No ***** wayward fights, No carousing old man libertine Out with his son at night, And we who watched Old Rubin's days, Paid our respects and went our ways.

40

open window a cold breeze a dusty box and a poem in a book 50 years his ashes blown by the winds who remembers norman morrison? the children who write with chalk on the sidewalks don't nor the ****** who walk 42nd street in the rain manamarra and westmoreland he s not one of their nightmares any longer and jerry rubin has too much on his mind: college speaking dates stocks and bonds his shadow long scrubbed from the steps of the pentagon norman kissed his wife and daughter good bye doused himself with gasoline and set himself on fire on the steps of the pentagon he cried out in pain like a mother screams giving birth like a baby cries being born and when the sun rises all the flowers of the field weep who remembers?

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Jun 17, 2019

Jun 17, 2019 at 10:44 AM UTC

guy-scutellaro

smoke in an old book

open window a cold breeze a dusty box and a poem in a book 50 years his ashes blown by the winds who remembers norman morrison? the children who write with chalk on the sidewalks don't nor the ****** who walk 42nd street in the rain manamarra and westmoreland he s not one of their nightmares any longer and jerry rubin has too much on his mind: college speaking dates stocks and bonds his shadow long scrubbed from the steps of the pentagon norman kissed his wife and daughter good bye doused himself with gasoline and set himself on fire on the steps of the pentagon he cried out in pain like a mother screams giving birth like a baby cries being born and when the sun rises all the flowers of the field weep who remembers?

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I promised myself I wouldn't drink This morning, but Ring of Fire was playing on the Radio as I showered. I guess we shared some demons, J. Well, here's to us. To how My father played your songs For me when only my mother's Skin and bones were between us. Here's to you and me, John. How I cried when June passed, but Drank to your joining her. To How you boom-chika-boomed to The taste of the ice cold beer on her Warm lips in New Orleans As we stopped among the piles of Katrina rubble just to take it all in (Including each other); That we were there. Together. Here's to you, John. To how Rick Rubin was a prophet sharing your light One last time with the humble masses Before it went out. As it should be. As it **** well should be. To How my father loved you his whole life And never got to shake your hand (But I brought him to meet Willie, Which was almost as intense to the old man.) No rest for the wicked, John. So I'll Never pray that you rest in peace. I pray that you rock on -June at your Side- Going to Jackson, when it's Springtime in Alaska. Remembering Forks wedged in the walls of San Quentin And gritty glasses of water served. I'm putting on my black shirt after This drink. Then guitar, boots that could Kick out the foot lights at the Grand Ole, And an attitude I've adopted with honor. Here's to us, John. Walking the God- ****** Line.

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Aug 4, 2014

Aug 4, 2014 at 5:19 AM UTC

sgholter

Here's to us, John

I promised myself I wouldn't drink This morning, but Ring of Fire was playing on the Radio as I showered. I guess we shared some demons, J. Well, here's to us. To how My father played your songs For me when only my mother's Skin and bones were between us. Here's to you and me, John. How I cried when June passed, but Drank to your joining her. To How you boom-chika-boomed to The taste of the ice cold beer on her Warm lips in New Orleans As we stopped among the piles of Katrina rubble just to take it all in (Including each other); That we were there. Together. Here's to you, John. To how Rick Rubin was a prophet sharing your light One last time with the humble masses Before it went out. As it should be. As it **** well should be. To How my father loved you his whole life And never got to shake your hand (But I brought him to meet Willie, Which was almost as intense to the old man.) No rest for the wicked, John. So I'll Never pray that you rest in peace. I pray that you rock on -June at your Side- Going to Jackson, when it's Springtime in Alaska. Remembering Forks wedged in the walls of San Quentin And gritty glasses of water served. I'm putting on my black shirt after This drink. Then guitar, boots that could Kick out the foot lights at the Grand Ole, And an attitude I've adopted with honor. Here's to us, John. Walking the God- ****** Line.

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"In a spiral galaxy, the ratio of dark-to-light matter is about a factor of ten. That's probably a good number for the ratio of our ignorance-to-knowledge. We're out of kindergarten, but only in about third grade." Vera Rubin In questioning existence It's purpose and Our place in the universe The disprover looks for evidence from the Galaxy No matter how extraordinary the measurements Such as the size of the sun and it's distance from the earth The ratio of dark to light matter The number of atoms in each molecule of carbon The countless number of solar systems The disprovers will find no evidence of purpose or cause I wonder if they might be looking In the wrong place MChallis @ 2015

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Jan 30, 2015

Jan 30, 2015 at 9:36 PM UTC

martin-challis

The Disprovers

"In a spiral galaxy, the ratio of dark-to-light matter is about a factor of ten. That's probably a good number for the ratio of our ignorance-to-knowledge. We're out of kindergarten, but only in about third grade." Vera Rubin In questioning existence It's purpose and Our place in the universe The disprover looks for evidence from the Galaxy No matter how extraordinary the measurements Such as the size of the sun and it's distance from the earth The ratio of dark to light matter The number of atoms in each molecule of carbon The countless number of solar systems The disprovers will find no evidence of purpose or cause I wonder if they might be looking In the wrong place MChallis @ 2015

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Unshaven, old, and nearly spent, He slouched in his kitchen chair, Lungs rattling each wheezing breath, Radiation doing little then, To control the mass within, or To prevent the Mass he knew Would soon begin. Hard to believe a man So tough as Rubin always was Sat stubble-faced and wan In that early morning sun. Two years ago, At 65, He and his son Put a ****** on, Fought a cop, Nearly won, Stayed a week in jail, Paid a $7000.00 fine, Then bragged it all Was worth the time And memories. I saw him jump, At 66, From a moving van, Six feet up Like a younger man, Hell bent to take his fill, Shovel hard, cursing still, Cigarette hanging loose Even with a rattling cough (He shrugged it off) And then, At 67, His last remains crave no nicotine, No ***** wayward fights, No carousing old man libertine Out with his son at night, And we who watched Old Rubin's days, Paid our respects and went our ways.

0

Apr 18, 2016

Apr 18, 2016 at 11:16 AM UTC

don-bouchard

Stubble

Unshaven, old, and nearly spent, He slouched in his kitchen chair, Lungs rattling each wheezing breath, Radiation doing little then, To control the mass within, or To prevent the Mass he knew Would soon begin. Hard to believe a man So tough as Rubin always was Sat stubble-faced and wan In that early morning sun. Two years ago, At 65, He and his son Put a ****** on, Fought a cop, Nearly won, Stayed a week in jail, Paid a $7000.00 fine, Then bragged it all Was worth the time And memories. I saw him jump, At 66, From a moving van, Six feet up Like a younger man, Hell bent to take his fill, Shovel hard, cursing still, Cigarette hanging loose Even with a rattling cough (He shrugged it off) And then, At 67, His last remains crave no nicotine, No ***** wayward fights, No carousing old man libertine Out with his son at night, And we who watched Old Rubin's days, Paid our respects and went our ways.

40

You and me love like a memory moving forwards backwards up down side no need to count the ticks of the clock of life better to feel them listen tickle like every beat of the short life we call love one quasar to the next frogpond thoughts lost and found more quickly than a political flip flop chasing the dream of living life decently without much mean drama you and me one kiss at a time and us one shake one tear one laughter at a time fighter combatting the evils of the humans splurging out of the news like no tomorrow but you and me and us we cant afford to dwell on every moment of that vector or the quasar might combust from their rancid hearts You and me love like a memory moving towards the better times for you and me now and them maybe some day so you and me kid kissing our way out of their problems with this love and us yall and them taking the trickle that we took from them the good ones Stephen Jules Rubin Santa Fe NM late feb 2018

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Feb 28, 2018

Feb 28, 2018 at 12:09 PM UTC

stephen-jules-rubin

You and me love like a memory moving

You and me love like a memory moving forwards backwards up down side no need to count the ticks of the clock of life better to feel them listen tickle like every beat of the short life we call love one quasar to the next frogpond thoughts lost and found more quickly than a political flip flop chasing the dream of living life decently without much mean drama you and me one kiss at a time and us one shake one tear one laughter at a time fighter combatting the evils of the humans splurging out of the news like no tomorrow but you and me and us we cant afford to dwell on every moment of that vector or the quasar might combust from their rancid hearts You and me love like a memory moving towards the better times for you and me now and them maybe some day so you and me kid kissing our way out of their problems with this love and us yall and them taking the trickle that we took from them the good ones Stephen Jules Rubin Santa Fe NM late feb 2018

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My Answer To A Request By Rosanne Cash To Sit In For A Performance At The Rubin Museum Of Art I’m flattered of course but I must confess I don’t play guitar or a wind instrument the nylon strings of the Silvertone I practiced on a cats cradle beneath my fumbling fingers the school trumpet that always left me kind of blue. Let me be up front about my limited vocal range pathetic inability to carry a tune in a bucket amplified by a fear of public speaking a crippling shyness going back to my peripatetic youth. But I can see you won’t take no for an answer, not surprising you, daughter of the Man In Black me, a man possessed of subtle dormant talent waiting only for a spotlight stool and tambourine.

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Oct 4, 2016

Oct 4, 2016 at 7:53 AM UTC

dave-hardin

Untitled

My Answer To A Request By Rosanne Cash To Sit In For A Performance At The Rubin Museum Of Art I’m flattered of course but I must confess I don’t play guitar or a wind instrument the nylon strings of the Silvertone I practiced on a cats cradle beneath my fumbling fingers the school trumpet that always left me kind of blue. Let me be up front about my limited vocal range pathetic inability to carry a tune in a bucket amplified by a fear of public speaking a crippling shyness going back to my peripatetic youth. But I can see you won’t take no for an answer, not surprising you, daughter of the Man In Black me, a man possessed of subtle dormant talent waiting only for a spotlight stool and tambourine.

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Passing by those owners of sad lost eyes like Rubin's faceless slumping on kerb ridges body bridges between pavements and shuttered shop cages where the cast of a streetlamp gets swallowed up by dime bag shadows, 30 to 1 outsiders and washed up wannabe beatniks too wild for Kerouac pages. I'm sure there's a beauty somewhere there below the crust of the surface late in the a.m. between stiletto heels clip and echo and the strike and flare of cigaretted fingers if I only dared to thread and seek out where a different twist of choice nearly led.

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Jun 15, 2020

Jun 15, 2020 at 7:35 PM UTC

grumpythumb

3.40 am on Gideon Rubin Street

Passing by those owners of sad lost eyes like Rubin's faceless slumping on kerb ridges body bridges between pavements and shuttered shop cages where the cast of a streetlamp gets swallowed up by dime bag shadows, 30 to 1 outsiders and washed up wannabe beatniks too wild for Kerouac pages. I'm sure there's a beauty somewhere there below the crust of the surface late in the a.m. between stiletto heels clip and echo and the strike and flare of cigaretted fingers if I only dared to thread and seek out where a different twist of choice nearly led.

21

so once the flirting duo moved along to the electric ballroom down the road for some jiggy-jiggy wiggles i walked into the world's end and headed straight for the toilet, started talking to a mate while taking a **** ended up buying him a drink, with the offer he asked: are you gay? no... i just feel like talking... he further inquired: why are these barmaids looking at you as if they know you? so i replied... i just have one of these faces... people remember me like they remember birthdays and Christmases... so i bought a round, he bought a round, but.... hmm... the whole encounter pinnacled on: nothing short of a nuance of a brief encounter... music producers... he asked me who i thought was the best producer... so i said, rick rubin.... he countered with timbaland... because whatever he did with justin timberlake & nelly furtado... to which i countered... come on... what didn't rick rubin do with johnny cash?! and there was nothing original about it for most of the time... just the covers... we parted in good spirits and... oh **** yeah... snogging that girl... i still don't know how i'm somehow appealing, when i have the chance to... charm.

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Oct 14, 2018

Oct 14, 2018 at 9:39 AM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

that same night in Camden Town

so once the flirting duo moved along to the electric ballroom down the road for some jiggy-jiggy wiggles i walked into the world's end and headed straight for the toilet, started talking to a mate while taking a **** ended up buying him a drink, with the offer he asked: are you gay? no... i just feel like talking... he further inquired: why are these barmaids looking at you as if they know you? so i replied... i just have one of these faces... people remember me like they remember birthdays and Christmases... so i bought a round, he bought a round, but.... hmm... the whole encounter pinnacled on: nothing short of a nuance of a brief encounter... music producers... he asked me who i thought was the best producer... so i said, rick rubin.... he countered with timbaland... because whatever he did with justin timberlake & nelly furtado... to which i countered... come on... what didn't rick rubin do with johnny cash?! and there was nothing original about it for most of the time... just the covers... we parted in good spirits and... oh **** yeah... snogging that girl... i still don't know how i'm somehow appealing, when i have the chance to... charm.

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