"sinatra" poems
Heard a beeping sound
Followed by A very old Frank Sinatra’s song
My classmates’ heads turned
Who’s phone? who’s phone?
Less chaotic when the teacher glared
Everybody put their heads down
And checked their sophisticated mobile phones
Once again...
When the teacher wasn’t looking..
Mobile phones roamed in a dull classroom
Updating facebook status,
Uploading candid photos of a snoring friend
Copy pasting assignment
Text messaging and gossiping about their stern looking teacher
In the name of advanced technology
Mobile smartphones create the impossibles...
Beyond the blackboard and the four walls of the classroom
O o Frank Sinatra’s song again...
And everybody started looking...
The teacher grabbed her mobile phone
Tried to switch it off....
When students could own smartphones..
Who needs NOKIA from the old time zone....?
~ Sharina~
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 4:26 AM UTC
Every now and then
I go deep inside my mind
Just to have a little rest
And see what I can find
I don't go in there often
It dark and I must say
That sometimes I'm afraid
That I may lose my way
There's a little corner café
Where Groucho sits alone
Stan Laurel sits there writing gags
And Greta Garbo sits and moans
Sinatra sings for all of them
John Lennon talks to God
Brian Jones gives swimming lessons
There's Liz Taylor and Mike Todd
Over in the distance
At a table in the corner
Hemmingway sells movie scripts
To mogul man Jack Warner
Elvis does a hip shake
Ruth and Gherig playing catch
Bud and Lou do Who's on First
Humphrey Bogart lights a match
Charles Dickens playing darts
A red balloon comes floating by
Andy Warhol sits with Nico
Where German pop songs go to die
Marilyn and James Dean
Sit quietly talking on the stairs
John Kennedy and his brother Bob
Just pretend that they are both not there
Chico plays piano and
Harpo with his harp
Bad jokes float around the room
being told by silent stars
Phil Everly and Phil Ramone
They're new here so they're woozy
Sit talking of the songs they'll miss
Rick Nelson sings of Susie
You see it is a mad mad place
in my head when I may wander
I don't go in too deep
And I've met Henry Fonda
There's images, and icons
Family, and friends
on a little street inside my head
That's a circle with no ends
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
trees are changing their robes;
on misty mornings
I am sitting on my porch.
a book
I've found in a vintage bookstore
at the corner of my street
is lying in my lap
drinking a tea
wrapped into my favorite blanket
and watching my neighbors
carving their pumpkins
smelling the scent
of firewood
while also listening to
Frank Sinatra
autumn, oh autumn
where have you been?
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 12:46 PM UTC
Her face, flawless and filtered, flows over
my chest, ribs, stomach, hips, fitting the curved
mounds of my body, and even within simplicity
of thread and dye, I sense her presence as her face
hangs from my frame, a statement louder than pillow-lips,
Nancy Sinatra-hair and a glamorous 60’s ***** face.
When paired with leggings and an artfully-distressed denim jacket,
I become a member of the “freshman generation of degenerate
beauty queens,” a hipster fallen to the circumstance of youth,
but I wear her face and the romance of it all reminds me:
we are not defined as Lolitas lost in the hood, or distant,
airy voices in a sea of crude jokes and half-baked skits
meant to highlight shortcomings of a person who doesn’t give
two ***** Lana fits me better than my ribbed, red
sweater and even amidst gods and monsters,
this T-shirt makes pretty last, and I am just as cool.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 12:33 PM UTC
Always a man to believe,
Always a man to dream a dream,
Always a man it seems and it seems Always a man he breaks out,
Takes his chance Always a man.
Always a man significant,
Always a man he's brave and decent,
Always a man who haves and havenots,
Favours his chances Always a man
Always a man who believe's that he can't,
Always a man a deep thinker then shalt,
Always a man in no shadow of doubt
Always a man pours out sensible,
Learns his rights Always a man.
Always a man a gambler he can,
Always a man lived life and he won,
Always a man risk, twist, stick craps up his tricks,
Always a man watches his mind all about,
A beat to his dance Always a man.
Always a man Sinatra he sang,
Always a man with a dodgy plan,
Always a man that's for sure,
Always a man short sharp ponders out,
In any circumstance Always a man.
Always a man peaceful and proud,
Always a man targets his pay,
Always a man working harder each day,
Always a man in with a shout,
To no shadow of a doubt Always a man.
Always a man he drinks lemonade,
Always a man look what he made,
Always a man with his masquerade,
Always a man with his dollar and bill
Send him on as Always a man,
Always a man not paid what to do,
Always a man to figure a fool,
Always a man safe safe and he saved
Always a man in an ocean of shout.
Sailing calms a human Always a man.
Always a man with a God given skill,
Always a man with a will and a will,
Always a man who leads a private suitcase,
Always a man with a bit of clout,
Then angel shy silence 'Always a man'
Doctors Orders.
O'Reily@21082014
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 11:24 PM UTC
Led down from the tower
Head high and hands bound
Blindfold declined against the wall
Black square pinned to his heart
Eyes afire and shining proud
He sang...
He sang of Caruso, Townes Van Zandt
Pavarotti, Bocelli, Mercury,
Carreras, he sang of Antoine,
Of Sinatra, Lennon, Morrison, Redding
He sang and songbirds paused in flight
He sang like them all
He sang a song of himself
Of leaves of grass, of second comings
Of Byron, and Bharti, and Cummings
He sang of Neruda, and Plath, Tagore
Dickinson, Kamala Das and Naidu
Oh, he sang of them all
He sang of art and beauty
Of Mona Lisa and starry nights
Girls in green dresses and pearls
He sang of Van Gogh, of Picasso
Of Rembrandt, da Vinci
He sang of Michelangelo
He sang of sadness, pain
He sang of My Lai, Sand Creek
Of Guernica and Krystallnacht
He cried and sang of Wounded Knee
Of Katyn Forest, Sabra and Shatila
Oh, he wept as he sang
He sang of history and wonders
He sang of Olduvai and pyramids
Machu Picchu, Tikal, and Angkor Wat
He sang of a great wall, the Taj Mahal
Stonehenge, Easter Isle, Mesa Verde
His song took us to them all
He sang of courage
A song of Bunker Hill, Gettysburg
Of the Alamo, Normandy, Stalingrad
Of Lincoln, Guevara and Dr. King
He sang of Bolivar, Bhutto, Ghandi
He shamed us with their song
He sang his song...
As women sighed and peasants cried
He sang until the rifles fired, he died
Songbirds fell from the sky
Soldiers broke their guns on stones
And marched into the deep blue sea.
r ~ 4/12/14
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 7:05 PM UTC
A metal frog swimming through the icy water
Words without a story
Something lighthearted
Cliché
A comet
Frank Sinatra in the background
Metaphysical relationships
Bouncing on a comet
A kettle steaming
Sarcastic bombs and sunsets
Sneaking off to drink
Future video games and bro love
Clerical errors and burnt memories
Funny people subtract lingerie
Maybe limbo
Sometimes tragedy.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 12:32 AM UTC
Frank Sinatra
En mi casa
Copy pastarino
Wearin Prada
Russian opera
Quentin Tarantino
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 3:59 PM UTC
Prisoners of their own success
Their world now micro-sized
Fan adulation to excess
Their love is just disguised
Their objects of affection
Live their lives inside a bubble
Leaving their prison, though it's self imposed
Could bring them worlds of trouble
A truck driver from Tupelo
A pop band from the 'pool
A superstar from Hoboken,
And one...the King of Cool
The superstar from Hoboken
Became the Chairman of The Board
If you made it into his 'rat pack'
You knew you'd really scored
His movies and his music
Made him the world's number one
But he had to minimize his world
When someone stole his son
His boy was kidnapped, truthfully
Back in 1965
And through his contacts in the mob
He got his son back home alive
This is the price of fame folks
Behind the glitter and the glam
They've got to have their safety
But the fans don't give a ****
Prisoners of their own success
Their world now micro-sized
Fan adulation to excess
Their love is just disguised
Their objects of affection
Live their lives inside a bubble
Leaving their prison, though it's self imposed
Could bring them worlds of trouble
The Memphis Mafia gave protection
To The King of Rock and Roll
But, by choice his world got smaller
And he went into a hole
He built a house in Memphis
To protect him from his fans
And thanks to Dr. Feelgood
He died a lonely, broken man
He couldn't live the life he earned
He was a prisioner instead
It's a shame he has more value
Now that he is dead
Prisoners of their own success
Their world now micro-sized
Fan adulation to excess
Their love is just disguised
Their objects of affection
Live their lives inside a bubble
Leaving their prison, though it's self imposed
Could bring them worlds of trouble
He'd a partner and was cool
He was suave and sang songs
And he worked with a "fool"
They conquered the nightclubs
They were known near and far
But his created alter ego
Lived his life at the bar
He ran with Frank Sinatra
He was the King of Cool
But when The Chairman started lessons
Dean was right there in his school
The Beatles broke in Hamburg
But way back in sixty two
Their bubble was just forming
There was nothing they could do
They lived their life behind the scenes
For when they did go out
The girls would all go crazy
And the world would twist and shout
Privacy came hard for them
They went four separate ways
These four young men from Liverpool
LIved life inside a maze.
It's sad that adulation
takes their freedom, makes them hide
But they're safer locked away from us
They're safer locked inside
Prisoners of their own success
Their world's now micro-sized
Fan adulation to excess
Their love is just disguised
Their objects of affection
Live their lives inside a bubble
Leaving their prison, though it's self imposed
Could bring them worlds of trouble
May 8, 2012
May 8, 2012 at 8:21 PM UTC
Rap is crap
Can be written while napping
By simply slapping words like zapping
Up alongside trapping and wrapping
And suddenly you’re a rap star
Driving an expensive car
And before your coffee is cold
You are draped with gold
Maximum bling
But it doesn’t mean a thing
Other than money because honey
If your ‘song’ lyrics are still known.
When ten years are blown by
And you are no longer a famous guy
Whose words are forgotten
It is because they are misbegotten
And liked by the current batch of airheads
Who think this is music when instead
It’s a beat they can feel in their feet
And if they don’t read the words
Printed in the album, what is heard
Is a lot of screaming and percussion
Not worth discussion in Billboard.
Someone could cut the microphone cord
And all anyone could hear would be drums
And the audience spilling their beer,
And nothing worth humming;
Lyrics for the dumbing down of the race,
A major entertainment disgrace
That destroys the ears and means nothing
That will ever be revered like Sinatra
Elvis or The Beatles have done.
It may be number one today
But when time passes away
It will be nothing but the shouts
Of a bunch of untalented louts
To an audience one has to fear
Was born with a tin ear.
Brent Kincaid
6/1/2015
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 10:52 PM UTC
Mother superior had dropped the gun,
Seeing the victim was her very own son.
There a saint was made to run
Drowned before the rising sun.
Messiah born on the first day of June,
Posing as a religious boon.
Preaching that the end is soon,
All in a tone resembling Sinatra’s croon.
Superiority held in the form of prayer,
Faith maintained at the behest of a dare.
Professor Lodz has lost his bear.
The Omega deemed this loss as fair.
Tammuz is smoking all the vegetation
Asherah has stopped all gestation,
Coming from a fit of ************
Working on a new form of taxation.
Jesus just took one huge dumb,
In the sink after snorting a quick bump.
The man had reached quite the slump.
Catching HPV from Fergies’s ****
Mohammad is eating all the pork.
Using hands, forgetting the fork.
******* chicks, with all kinds of torque,
Misinterpreting the path of a wayward stork.
Dinning on delicious swine.
And the finest forms of delicate wine.
Prophets of the world align.
And drink from the deceased Christopher Reeve’s spine.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 9:53 AM UTC
i love you when we're alone
because you eviscerate me in front of your friends
but alone you kiss the veins in my arms
press your small hips into my hips & sigh into my neck
& blink so slowly that i can hear your eyelids whispering
you won't hold my hand in public
because you blatantly want to seem available to other men
but when it's only you & it's only me
we lie on our backs letting the summer rain collect in puddles
in our bellybuttons & you swear to god
there's only one way this can end
you say i can't meet your parents
but everything i do reminds you of your father
that tall strong man of your childhood
singing sinatra to your mother in the kitchen
just like i do when i sneak behind you &
tickle your neck with my tongue you're
giggling as i carry you like a bride
into your bedroom for naptime or playtime
you only miss me when you're by yourself
like a flower hidden in a fenced-in backyard
but you ignore my texts most days
because when your friends are around you're busy
dancing toward the sun & lying to them
about where you spent last night &
the blueberry pancakes you ate for breakfast
you don't mention the ticklish new rib spot i found
or the quiet music we make together at night
or the stars we wished on with our pinky fingers tied together
i love you most when we're sticky asleep alone
you humming in turquoise ******* snuggled into my armpit
with your warm hand melting into my chest
& me in the pinstripe boxer briefs you bought with
my arm under and reaching for your exposed breast
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 8:38 AM UTC
What a pleasure it is
to be alive
at the same time as you
I could be lost in the 50s
swirling in a poodle skirt
and singing to frank sinatra
or the 60s
painting peace signs on my cheeks
thriving in a cultural decade
or i could be making my way
in the 70s or 80s
pretending i like disco
with poofy hair
i have teased my mother about.
but i am here
in the present
which is truly a gift
as im spending the golden ages
of my life
with you
when i could be
an entirely different person
in an entirely different millennium
but how lucky i am
alive and free
in the same universe as you
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 9:47 PM UTC
Walking to work, I saw Joan Rivers
Blowing me a kiss today
Through a store window on Indian
With that smirk you can't mistake
I crossed on Tahquitz Canyon drive,
Said "hi" to Lucille Ball,
and passed a smiling Elvis Presley,
rested against the Welwood wall.
This is where the ghosts of Hollywood dwell
Is this a Hollywood Heaven or a Hollywood Hell?
But this is where the ghosts of Hollywood dwell
the Shangri-La where the angels fell...
On a fountain's edge across the street,
Sits a grinning Sonny Bono,
and just north of there you'll find 26 feet
of Marilyn Monroe shadow.
and Frank Sinatra's voice is still heard
Crooning through the air at night,
while here forevermore at the El Mirador,
you'll find the pensive eyes of Albert Einstein.
This is where the ghosts of Hollywood dwell
Is this a Hollywood Heaven or a Hollywood Hell?
But this is where the ghosts of Hollywood dwell
the Shangri-La where the angels fell...
When the stars die,
they might fall from the sky,
but they never truly disappear
cuz you'll always find them here.
This is where the ghosts of Hollywood dwell
Is this a Hollywood Heaven or a Hollywood Hell?
But this is where the ghosts of Hollywood dwell
the Shangri-La where the angels fell...
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 7:15 PM UTC
lust is pink
dark and cloudy
casual in its appearance
beautiful in its persistence
as those reddish waves crash upon my shore
lust is soft
clear and winding
round the bark-less trunk of my torso
rustling the leaves of my hair
as my roots begin to stir
lust is loud
quiet but growing
symphonic in its metaphoric
crescendo to the top of the page
lick my thumb, flick back to previous sheets
and try to figure out where the music started
lust is music
slow reggae from a stereo in the morning
heavy metal blaring from a passing car in the afternoon
turntable cranking out Sinatra in the evening
tape deck cracking and splitting the indie rock
that curls around us at night
lust is strange
wistful and insistent
tugging at the corners of my jacket
as i remove the layers that protect my jawline
so you can taste the soft skin there
scarf unwinding, falling to the grass
and the cold flees from our shoulders
frightened by our moving hands
exploring the obstacles across our bodies
lust is here
obvious, apparent
even to me
in my awkward awareness of the raindrops
blistering my warm skin
and lust becomes silent
as we swallow the sound of the tension between us
put the words to our lips and bite
in your mouth i find four letters
l u s t
and i take them from you
m i n e
give them back
lust is generous
and so am i
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 3:00 PM UTC
I remember from my first memories with all senses humming waking up on Sunday mornings to the squealing seagulls. The smell of briney sea air was sharper
On most sunny sunday
mornings I would awken and lay in bed wake..dreaming for what seemed like hours.
The smells of grandma's rose and flower garden mingled with the smell of sunny Sundays.
The BBC wafted in through kitchen and bedroom windows.Mozart and Sinatra tag teamed against The Ink Spots and, Stan Getz. The Swallows flew back to Capistrano on yearning wings.
Then up and out on walk and sprint to the Caribbean sea, a gem coated shimmering twinkling dancing blanket of rising sun meets amniotic blue churning as froth and mist drifted in a sunday sermon from the water's deep and shallow.
A bubbling embrace as sprint turns to
Swan dive into the Sunday morning sea.
Seven day ritual baptism in the Sunday morning sea...at one with and free.
Now.
A sprint to the bobbing fishing boats that never drew fish from their restfull retreats of the morning Sea.
Breakfast
The sounds of tinkling teacups another ritual as granny stirred brown sugar and condensed milk into a carmel swirling with Johnny Cakes and coconut oil fried eggs waiting and wafting out
To the Sunday morning sea.
My Puppy and me then down through the flower garden.
Of we scampered with cares falling away and secrets to share while throwing stones into
The Sunday morning sea
My puppy named Ranger,barefeet and knee pants the hot sting on my ankle from a chastising fire ant rudly stabs at my reverie
As far as the horizon will let.
My imagination flees and unfetters to shores unknown that kiss and caresses my Sunday morning sea.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 1:02 PM UTC
I haven’t caught feelings in 4 years and it’s just as terrifying as I remember it.
You drive me ******* crazy. I can’t sleep, I can’t work, I can’t focus.
But **** I don’t want to be without you. I don’t ever want to leave you.
You don’t think you’re pretty and I don’t know you any other way. You’re fantastically funny and caring. You care about me, you listen to all my crazy banter.
How did you find me? How can you call me yours so easily?
I don’t deserve that.
I’m drowning in Frank Sinatra songs and sugary coffee, I am on cloud 9 with a stomach full of knots.
I have all the confidence in the world and none at all.
I’ll write all my best music for you.
Being lovestruck is as much about being struck as it is about being in love with you.
I’m scared to be crazy about you.
I think I’m more scared of you being into the train wreck I am.
But **** it you’ve got me.
They say love hurts, but I don’t really mind right now.
It almost kills me that I gotta keep you a secret. Crushes are weird like that.
I’m stuck looking at you, not knowing what to do, but incredibly happy to be where you are.
You make me better.
Stay with me a bit longer.
I love you.
And saying that terrifies me.
But I’m willing to risk being scared for awhile.
I am so neck deep in this, I might pass out.
I love you so much, it might **** me.
I feel crazy. This might be crazy.
But you say you love me anyway.
And that’s good enough for me.
Nov 19, 2018
Nov 19, 2018 at 4:20 AM UTC
How can you bare a broken promise
or loiter after a broken date?
Sad Samantha lost her chance,
no Frank Sinatra vinyl nights
serenading young lovers in,
or walks down moonlit colonnades.
She's just a victim of a steely heart whose
strung himself around someone else's waist
and dyed blonde hair
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 5:15 PM UTC
you said i had no talent:
that models have no rap.
i tried to sing Sinatra,
you sneered and that was that.
at least i went down swinging,
so what it was a miss?
Community Theater Director:
why offer a diss?
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 9:01 AM UTC
so it begins when it begins
blasé grass serrates
past herds of carabao dreaming anxiously
of the day's toil;
the countryman stilts through
mounted in gray mountain
with dippers, casserole, mirrors
with imprints of ******** clad women
and women who are (really ******** clad) ready for bathing work,
collections of red days and even
tenderly the ***** sing attenuated songs of rooming-houses —
the crunch of basil over the afternoon.
waft of a pasture's death my eyes well
up rivers and ponds of elation. dog days, feral nights limp behind rusted
kennels and makeshift asylums
there is nothing left of the world
(this small world
that only rises when bellows
of festivities harangue the many streets
bending in them, the curve)
men moving from neck to neck
of bottles — (in the north there
is only four corners of bottle: gin,
pristine brook; in the Visayas is
the redolent Vino Kulafu of the same
potency) plucked out of the vermilion
and on benched careening on half-painted gates crooning Sinatra
gets stabbed, bloodied on the floor,
named after elegies; native chicken held
upside down and beheaded as many blacker days stifled; what do you make
out of this?
carabaos, equines, hens line up
the slaughterhouse behind the
TODA; you know a fine day when
it happens — breaking eggs
against the lip of the kaldero. crumbled
archaic sensurround, barrage of
simmer round the clock cycling
before the child wakes and wails to suckle
our mothers, faster than repose
of milbrightlions of stars falling asleep
to silent radios, leaving windows
open revisited by the eve of cold.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 10:24 PM UTC
I start ghost hunting at 5 am
I catch little spirits which
I eat with some butter and jam
some days I'm lucky
I catch old souls
Cleopatra,
Frank Sinatra,
Adolf ******
reading
the Kama Sutra
If I don't eat them before
they get into
my head,
they'll make sure I am
dead.
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 2:45 AM UTC
Your presence be known, if needed,
In a pinch,
You’re here or there when summoned,
Yet never praised,
Often overlooked and misunderstood.
Always guessing where this road will end,
How backwards is over where you bend,
For all of whom claim to be your friend,
Your classiness and craftiness I will always commend.
Finding nowhere to rest my head,
You were a place to lean on,
A host when I had no place to dream,
A mentor of my bizarre fantasies,
Of all trades that you’ve mastered,
That I aimed to perfect.
Ages lightyears apart,
Yet still closely in tune,
We play the same music,
A grasshopper to your sensei,
I sail the endless seas of your knowledge,
A lighthouse to my rocky waters.
With shared poverty,
You scraped together your last,
To fill my belly with lamb,
Your cynicism of man,
Your confidence in me,
A father and son, not quite
A grandfather and grandson, hardly,
An odd couple that just makes sense.
A Sinatra-like scholar,
With more brains, ***** and bravery,
You are a man’s man for men,
Everything that I want to be,
And everything that I could need,
In a friend.
Nov 20, 2023
Nov 20, 2023 at 11:36 PM UTC
My travels start
Right here
Deep in my mind
My travels take me just where
I please I don't have
To leave my warm room
My travels start
Sixteen sun
Beating down
Sinatra's crooning Jobim
And I'm just dreaming of my
Great romance to come
I don't need a little ticket
Tells me I can take the train
I don't even to risk it
There's no blistering sun
Or driving rain
And it's here that I remain
My travels end
With a sweet
And peaceful time
I've found such sense deep within
No more will I feel
The need to go travelling again.
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 6:51 AM UTC
Lizard King, on the bar, from rooftops
and over your legacy you took a swirling a ****
drunk on blood with a treacherous witch high off acid.
Grabbing your junk and exposing your genitals onstage
passing out, failing the test of life and yet making the grade.
You became and overweight bearded *******
weary and heavy like your poetic incoherent rambles
with a voice like Sinatra when you really wanted to,
like your average intoxicated uncle when you gave less of a ****
in the studio, recording frustrations while getting ********
Opening the doors to the eyes of delusion and distortion
the crystal ship sailed without causing so much confusion
as to who you are, who you were and who you aspired to be
the next great American wordsmith,
“Light My Fire” is a fine tune, please sing it for me,
without cussing me out, calling me a sellout and everything in between.
Breaking through to the other side of madness
wheels falling off riding by your roadhouse blues
some might say Val Kilmer made an even better you
a mirror image of the decimated natives of your youth.
Abruptly moved to France to be the next Pepe Le Pew
but instead took a ****** bath to the afterlife.
Some loved your talent, others thought you made a prettier corpse
so tonight I’ll toast your legacy of leather pants
frat boy good looks, ****** off rants, Raiders on the Storm
and checking out right after Hendrix you inconsiderate ******
I still love you though, with my heart crossed
dearly dearest quintessential *******
Jim Morrison.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 2:57 PM UTC