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Sing me songs
about Nascar Nation
I don't care about
your beach vacation
I want to hear
about trucks and whisky
Not when Taylor
Swift got frisky

Give me songs
that make me cry
not songs about
a cheating guy
Let me hear
about girls and guns
about going fishing
about having fun

sing me songs of old...
sing me solid gold
songs where tales were told
just sing me heart can hold.....

Give me songs
about redneck weddings
about lonely highways
and where I'm heading
I don't care
about sand and sunshine
I just need to hear
'bout the life that is  mine

Sing me songs about
Trucks and racing
I don't care about
who's book facing
Let me hear
some Charlie Daniels
going hunting
with Springer spaniels

Sing me songs
that touch my heart
songs I'll sing
when we're apart
I don't care
about fields of flowers
or about your
secret powers

sing me songs of old...
sing me solid gold
songs where tales were told
just sing me heart can hold.....

Sing me songs
like those long ago
about broken hearts
and tales of woe
Sing me songs
that i'll remember
way past december

sing me songs of old...
sing me solid gold
songs where tales were told
just sing me heart can hold.....
PairedCastle Nov 2017
November 1 2017

He listens to the songs that are once mine
He listens to the songs as if they are his
He remembers her as the songs play
He listens to the songs just how they are here to stay
The songs are not meant to be his
The songs are somebody else's and in between
The songs are not made for his benefit
The songs are meant to express the writer's feelings
Two weeks has almost passed
He remembers how they talked in the past
He listens to the same songs
The songs he came to like because of her
He listens to the same songs without even thinking of her
He now does not associate the songs to anyone, especially, her
He now offers the same songs to the new person he knows
She is everything... his dreams, his love, his all
He now thinks of this new person every time the same songs play
This new person, she came to like the songs he makes her listen to everyday
The same songs make him think of his former love, and his present

But never will he associate the same songs to the girl that was sandwiched between his former love and his present

Everything crumbles, he falls, he stumbles
He forgets, recovers, loves again
Ah! That is life talking to him, again and again

He ends the day... listening to the songs he came to like because of the girl that was sandwiched between his former love and the present

Never will he think of this girl. Never will he fall, stumble and crumble because of this girl.

He finally recovers.
and the girl sandwiched between his former love and the present is glad that he recovers.
Background Music: Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers - The Waiting
ryan Aug 2017
Certain songs make me think of you
Soft songs mellow songs angry songs all bring some thoughts
I don't particularly know who you are
but when it comes to music you've taken many shapes
songs i like make me think of you
how you've supported and shaped me in the long time we've known each other
and how coherently you understand me even in my low jumbled life
and how we've grown together and always supported each other no matter the distance and lack of contact we may have endured
songs that make me think of you make me feel good
your songs make me feel like i can do anything if i wanted to
your songs make me feel appreciated and loved
but your songs are a different story
your songs make me think of the things ive done
the things ive blocked out and the things i regret
i dont know where i ever truly stood with you
but your songs make me feel like im back there
your songs make me feel angry and suffocated
like i need to break whatever or hurt whoever is there
in order to truly escape​
your songs make me feel smashed and unworthy and hated
but you my dear friend
your songs make me feel different
so different that the only way i can describe it is 'here'
your songs make me feel grounded and solid
like i am filled with cement but in a good way
like i am alive and like i truly exist and that i am unable to simply float away
your songs have grounded me and given me reason and hope
your songs make me feel renewed and strengthen like i can love and care again
your songs make me feel things all different types
it can only make me wonder what my songs make you feel like
i associate songs with people.
Aa Harvey Sep 2018

There's no more love for the music,
I've sang since birth about this world.
Sang those love songs in my youth,
Now your love songs make me hurl.

**** Rock 'n' Roll and the bands you think are great!
**** the police and ******* all!
**** all those people that you hate!
**** Radio 1 and **** the world!

Rock 'n' Roll is dead and gone,
Once Rokkstarr meant something great.
Once we sang these songs with passion,
Once we sang these songs with hate!
Now we stand here on stage like wankers!
So let's all sell out to the man.
He gives us money for writing **** songs;
Now moneys all we understand.

Sell out tours and groupie ******.  
Life is great?  No life’s a bore.
Been here before and it was just the same.
Same old thing again and again.
Know what to expect, no more surprise’s;
No more excitement, no meaningful trophies.

It all means nothing, now we've been here so long;
The **** record label wants another song.
Which must be written, within the month;
We have a release date, so we can sell this stuff,
Before Christmas to the kids, because they’re our target audience;
The music that they want, they can get from their parents.
Because their parents know, that they just can't say "No.",
To a kid that wants something, as much as they will.

Rock 'n' Roll is dead and gone,
Once Rokkstarr meant something great.
Once we sang these songs with passion,
Once we sang these songs with hate!
Now we stand here on stage like wankers!
So let's all sell out to the man.
He gives us money for writing **** songs;
Now moneys all we understand.

To be a Rokkstarr, you'd think would be great.
But the songs you once loved, you begin to hate.
You sing them so much, it becomes a habit;
Until one day you say "That's it! I've had it!"

I'm tired of singing these songs;
The words have lost all their meaning.
I need something new, something I can believe in.
I need music to fall in love with, I need lyrics with a real meaning;
But my hope for all that's Rock, is a memory that's slowly fading.

Soon Rock will die and be gone;
Because new Rock bands come and go.
Soon there will no longer be any hype;
About a band you heard on the radio.

Rock 'n' Roll is dead and gone,
Once Rokkstarr meant something great.
Once we sang these songs with passion,
Once we sang these songs with hate!
Now we stand here on stage like wankers!
So let's all sell out to the man.
He gives us money for writing **** songs;
Now moneys all we understand.

You never know though I could be wrong.
Maybe soon I'll hear a song;
That will move me like 'Bohemian Rhapsody' did.
That will make me appreciate new music.

Here's hoping for the future,
For Rock to come back with a vengeance.
Remember your roots in a jam-packed moshpit?  
Remember the mindless violence?
Remember when you saw your girl through the crowd
And fell in love with her there and then?
That’s love for Rock music at its finest
And believe me it will come again.

Rock 'n' Roll's not dead and gone;
Now Rokkstarr means something great!
Now we sing these songs with passion;
Now sing these songs with hate!
Now we stand here on the stage;
After finding our love for Rock!
So let's all softly bang our heads and GET THE **** UP!

(C)2005 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
neo May 2014
People are a lot like songs
there are songs that you love the first time but they grow old very fast
and you no longer care to hear them
there are songs that drive you insane,
that seem to be everywhere
and get stuck in your head so easily
no matter how much you want them gone
there are songs you can't get enough of
but you only listen to them when you're sad
because they are not the happiest of songs
there are songs everyone else loves
that you yourself don't enjoy quite as much
and there are songs you love
that no one else cares for
there are songs you feel touching your heart
that you want to learn the words to
but they lose their magic once you know
the words that were hidden
amongst the loud instrumentals
there are songs from long ago
that show up now and then
that you regard fondly and think
back to simpler times
there are songs that make you feel rebellious
ready to overthrow an unjust tyrant
and there are songs that leave you
with a strange sense of purpose
and spark inspiration and hope within you
there are songs with lyrics
profound and wise
and others with lyrics
that do not hold the least bit of sense
I personally hope that you will be a song
that never gets old
that I know each and every word to
I hope you are a song that brings happiness
whenever you come on the radio
and for a moment,
you make me forget everything
and I lose myself in your melody
I hope you are a song that is my first choice
every time I go to karaoke
because you just feel so right
and i hope you are a song
that sounds better to me
the longer I listen
that leaves me thoroughly satisfied
as the last note plays out
and the music fades to silence
(it's really dumb I wrote this when I was barely awake ok)
Deb Jones Dec 2018
I live in a large cabin
In a little valley
The wind whistles
Down this natural funnel
And shakes the trees
All their dying leaves
Rustle and ride the wind
I have 108 oak trees
I counted them once
I live in the foothills
Off the hi-way
Almost a mile down
A hidden road
I wanted to hide
When I first saw this place
It was a buying point
This beautiful valley
Me, a city girl
Over a hill
In a culvert
On my property
Is thousands of coyotes.
They surround my house
At night to sing
Their hello songs
Here we are songs
Mating songs.
Luring songs
Their teaching songs
Their pup songs
Their yipping songs
They come right
Before sunset
And go hide
As the morning
Mists and sun rises
Lightening the morning
I was scared of them at first
Terrified actually
They would come
To my large windows
And the next morning
The windows would be Covered with nose
And paw prints.
But now?
I have done all I can
To let them have
Their own space on my land
While I have mine
The road I live on
The mile long one is called
Coyote Hills
And my property
Is aptly named
Coyote Junction
Now their music
Is hauntingly
Beautiful to me
It’s a yearning sound
And when they
Surround my house
It feels ritualistically
Archaic and full of paganism
I don’t anthropomorphize
Any animals
But I sincerely believe
They all have emotions
Fears, doubts, hungers, needs
After they have sung to me
For eight years
I hear the playful songs
The crying songs
The worry songs
The fear songs
And my heart
Echoes their songs
Well met. Well met
Do you remember days gone by
When car songs ruled the radio
Think about the passing years
Where did these songs all go?
Little Honda, Duece Coupe
I miss my GTO
I miss the beach boy harmony
Where did the car songs go?

The Little Old Lady From Pasadena
My Hot Rod Lincoln...oh
Daddy took my t-bird away
Where did my car songs go?

Way back in the sixties
The car song, it was boss
Where has the music travelled
It's this generations loss

Do you remember days gone by
When car songs ruled the radio
Think about the passing years
Where did these songs all go?
Little Honda, Duece Coupe
I miss my GTO
I miss the beach boy harmony
Where did the car songs go?

Hot Rods, and dune buggies
The cars would go go go
Where are the car songs hiding
Does anybody know?

I miss my barracuda
My "Woody"  was the bomb
There's nothing out there like it
Where has the car song gone?

The music they are playing
Just puts me fast asleep
I need to hear my car song
No more "Rolling In The Deep"

Do you remember days gone by
When car songs ruled the radio
Think about the passing years
Where did these songs all go?
Little Honda, Duece Coupe
I miss my GTO
I miss the beach boy harmony
Where did the car songs go?
Classy J Dec 2019
I hate ******* happy songs.
You know the ones that encourage you to sing along?

I hate those ******* happy songs.
You know the ones that get stuck in your head all day long?

With those repetitive melodies,
That bash the eardrums like a hammer.
Those **** happy songs.
With their optimistic audacity,
That tries to infect me like a cancer.

I just don’t understand?
Talking about sunshine and rainbows.
The type of **** I cannot stand.
When the government is listening to our convo’s in our condo’s.
Selling the info on demand.

I just don’t understand?
Clapping all our hands.
Or dancing like a maniac,
Which makes me think your either high,
Or just plain mad.

I hate ******* happy songs,
You know the ones that encourage you to sing along?

I hate those ******* happy songs.
You know the ones that get stuck in your head all day long?

With those repetitive melodies,
That bash the eardrums like a hammer.
Those **** happy songs.
With their optimistic audacity,
That tries to infect me like a cancer.

I just don’t understand?
They’re not even remotely realistic,
The type of I **** I just can’t stand.
With words that are not only dumb but simplistic.
I can’t tell if they are pacifistic or sadistic?
Torturing me with things I will never have.

I just don’t understand?
Clapping all our hands.
Or dancing like a maniac,
Which makes me think your either high,
Or just plain mad.

I hate ******* happy songs.
You know the ones that encourage you to sing along?

I hate those ******* happy songs.
You know the ones that get stuck in your head all day long?

With those repetitive melodies,
That bash the eardrums like a hammer.
Those **** happy songs.
With their optimistic audacity,
That tries to infect me like a cancer.

Yeah those **** happy songs.
That are way to long.
You know those **** happy songs.
That get wedged up one’s ***,
Like some thong.
You know those **** happy songs.
That the radio puts on repeat all day long.
You know those **** happy songs.
That bounce back and forth in your head like ping pong.
Yeah, I hate those ******* happy songs!
Oh, lord please just end this song!...
Thank, you!
Aa Harvey May 2018
Songs of yesterday.

I sang those songs of love since I was a boy,
Way back before the world could ever bring me down.
Motown lead the way and music was my favourite toy,
Way before I ever knew video like I know it now.

Those songs of love that lit the way;
Those songs of love sang yesterday.
Those songs I will never forget or replace;
Those loving songs of yesterday.

Since I was a child of love,
I tried my best to turn out good.
But my life turned out to be a struggle
And I ended up in a little trouble, I guess.

I did some things I should never have done,
When I was only looking for a little fun.
But I crashed and burned like a dying sun
And landed down in the song for the forgotten.

Those songs of love that lit the way;
Those songs of love sang yesterday.
Those songs I will never forget or replace;
Those loving songs of yesterday.

Come with me and sing my songs;
I only came along to turn you on.
I only came to make you think;
So break out past your lungs and let me hear you sing.

(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Jules May 2017
Songs run through my head
playing on shuffle
sweet melodies
to dark songs of sorrow
songs with the power stick
in a overflowing overemotional mind

songs run through my head
singing all day
and all night
happy songs
sad songs
with the power to change me

songs run through my head
unphased, unaffected by everything
else happening in my brain

When the facts are forgotten
the songs remain
when nothing else is there
the songs stay

The songs save me
Music means so much to me. I don't know what id do without it.
Budding Dirt Nov 2017
"Nyamama owada in e mara ma oingo nyiri duto"-Ongoro Jakarachuonyo.

Busy listening to luo music; What a cool evening of inspiration.

I felt a lot of connection hearing my brothers defining love with such honesty.
   "Nindo otama yawa nindo tama yaye kaparo nyadundo"

The purity of rhythm was soaking my blood . Rhumba is soothing with notable songs like “Elector Nyarkano” by Madanje Perimeter.

Prezda “Igwe” Bandasson
“Nyisuba” one of his best creations. What i love most about Bandasson is that he got unique style and writing skill not like his fellow benga artists; If you like  Ferre Gola, now this the man to listen to.

My evening was going on well with some ohangla likes of ; "Kanungo".

“Kanungo is one of the song that you must have heard wherever you are in this country. Its one of the top songs of both 2014 and 2015 even though it's not my musical taste but Otieno Aloka defines Ohangla in a creative way; The drums are well arranged and composition is just amazing.

That brings me to a funny question who is Emma Jalamo?  He is not old in the game but the guy has come up with a unique Ohangla sound that takes him at par with the rhumba musicians as old fork and young people alike listen to his music with zeal. His new album, “Sherry” is a master piece with hits like “Wivu mbaya”.

Luo music is intelligent entertaining and soothing .

Tony Nyadundo is another seasoned musician who has traveled wide with his Ohangla beat which spread across the country like bush fire. He released hits like "Mapenzi Kizunguzingu".

My playlist couldn't be complete minus The bird aka Osogo Winyo;
he has taken a low profile of late, musically, but he has some of the best Ohangla sounds of this decade.

Musa Juma and Limpopo Band is so common in luo with sweet resonating songs like ; "Aggrey ,Maselina,Lake Victoria" .

It didn't stopped their; i went deep to discover heartbreak sounds likes of "Our Only John Juniour".
John juniour, is one of current trending names in Nyanza due to his sweet voice and romantic writing skills. "Nyoremo and kalisto baba" are well crafted when it comes to composition.

Another talented artist is ; Wuod Phiby who is also a producer and sound engineer at Barikiwa studio. He's the owner of hit songs like " Cham gi ****'i" and many more.

Makadem is one of the the artist signed to Ketebul music is known worldwide with a brands that precedes him as he is commonly known as the Ohangla man.

We have alot of talented luo artists but let me focus on our own few who are so creative when it comes to fusing . I'm talking of Owiyo ; She is one of the first female artists to fuse the Nyatiti beat with modern fusion and with songs like “Kisumu 100”, she still remains so relevant in the industry that her new song, “wamiel” is doing quite fine.

I've listened to a lot of modern Benga maybe ones played on the radio. I was not well informed that much on old sounds but when i dug the tapes and crates to so called luo "thum gi timbegi".
Abila gi thum machon ; I discovered names like;
1) George Ramogi
George ramogi died but left a name for himself with songs like Affline the Pretty and Wiya Chandore Malit.

2) Ochieng Kabaselleh
When we were growing up we use to hear  songs like," Zainabu,Achi Maria and Dunia mokili".  Kabaselleh and Luna Kidi Band were the voice of love within Nyanza at that time.

3) Okatch Biggie
"Nyathi nyakach atimni ang'o?"
Before his death he sold thousand of copies of the same record. He had countless hit songs like "Okatch pod ngima,Hellena nya kabondo e.t.c".

4) Osito Kale
Osito and Ogina Koko termed to bring some of remarkable songs like "Rapar Angelina" .Asembo born artist is one of luo musician with aggressive thoughts and creativity.

5) Ouma Omore
Many of new generation might not have known him but he got massive Jams like "Atwech Nyaduse" were so common in my parents mouth. He wrote many songs on him like "Perry Odhi Chuth,To Natimi Nade e.t.c".

5) D.O Misiani
The late misiani and Shirati band was and still one of the voices who spoke against corruption in moi regime with songs like "Bim en Bim,Lee tinde mor and Amolo piny Pako Te". Tanzania born Benga star rose to fame with songs like "Auma Lando and Wich Teko Ok Kony".

6) Collela Mazee
I don't have much to say about Collela but lyrics like;
"Kare piny luoro ka aleki nya john" caught my attention. Collela was a great composer with every rhyme and sense falling at their place".

We have thousand artists(some died)who did and still doing music from Nyanza i couldn't mention all even though there are different genres associated with Luo music like Benga , Ohangla, Rhumba, Afro-fusion and the likes, the musicians have always strive to be at the top of the music game. By Luo music, I mean those music sang partly or fully in Dholuo,the music is honest,creative and enjoyable.

I'm blessed to say;This artists have done great with their music and still doing it.

By Quoting The Late Ongala lyrics..."Mziki haina mwenyewe", As long as you can create;
And melodical changes a persons life don't stop doing it. Music is power. Let's support our own.

   Compiled By Budding Dirt.
Maria Rodriguez Sep 2014
Songs about Hate, about Hope.
Songs about Love, about Life.
Songs about Heartache.
Songs about Everything.
Songs that make you Laugh
Songs that make you Cry.
Songs to calm your Nerves.
Songs to heal your Aching Heart.
Songs, so many songs.
They are everything.
Giving you another chance to start over.
I'm falling apart,
So I play another song to help me fix my broken heart.
Kimberly Aug 2018
Let me take you on a magical music journey into the Souls of songs, you may get lost, scared, excited, or discover a whole different something, but, that's ok it may be fun.
Let's start with a fun song that makes you want to get up and feel like dancing, you go dance, be free, dance for fun of it. Dance until the songs ends, as the song ends, with the tapping of your foot still tapping to the fun song, as it still plays in your head, that's good, your body, your mind, How does it feel? It feels as if your body is floating, it feels as if your mind is clear, as to nothing can change it, either of them, now that was a fun start.  
Now let's slow it down just a bit, a song that you can still dance to, but you got to like it, and has a little more meaning, you got to listen though, listen closer to the words, there you have it now, you're dancing with more meaning, as to let the song tell your heart to take over your body, now as you feel this, you start to dance as to feel the song, let it go slowly, and finish your dance with heart and smoother step, now you're feeling as if something touch your heart, tug it a bit, Doesn't it feel good? It does, it's like walking, well, still dancing as if you are in the air, hold on to that, Are you lost? Dazed maybe!
If not lets get deep than...
This one might scare you, might take you into whole different world, it scared me at first, but don't worry, now we are going to take a song and slow it way down, a song with so much deeper meaning, one that means something to you, you're going to have to sit down for this one, really clear your mind, open your heart, let your body relax, if you want close your eyes, I like to close mine it's wild. You got it? Now turn that song on, breath... and go. Did I lose you? I hope so! There's a feeling like no other with this song, it's like you're light headed, listen to the words, you're feeling the words, with your heart, you're finally lost in the song, it's talking to you though, just keep listening, to feel it deep within, let it get inside your Soul, your Soul will dance like no other, isn't it great? It's like an ecstasy high, it's a rush of emotions, you don't understand, but you will in time, embrace this moment, you're at one with this song, it's yours, run away and never let it go, lost aren't you? I got lost as well.
It's ok to get lost in songs, it's good for your heart, and Soul, now that you went on this magical musical journey into the Souls of songs with me, now take what you have and enjoy the music with a deeper meaning and feeling, as for me I took all songs in as for I can get lost in any fast, slow, and songs that have deep meanings, to do this, just go back on that journey to Souls of songs, songs are more than dancing, and calling it your song, songs speak more deeply if you just listen with your heart, and Soul, not with your ears or head, so let songs guide you, let the Soul of the song in, You'll be free, Songs are the music path to our Souls...
Alexander  K  Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;

songs of freedom in Kenya are paradoxical of themselves
they have become the songs of oppressive tyranny
they are not songs that were sang by freedom fighters
in the tropical forests of aberdares and Mabanga
they are blissful carols of powers that be
mouthed by the state poets in the deadly feats
of political  sycophancy fuelled by cult of betrayal
and espionage, a real substructure of state dictatorship
they are not the true songs of mau mau
that were sang by Kimathi wa miciuri
they are the songs of the top crust of the tribal
and political powers that be in oblivion of
the cultural revolutionaries that countermanded
cultural Darwinism of European imperial gamesters
they are not the songs sang by Elijah Masinde
of Dini Msambwa that spirited up cultural aura
of cultural dignity;which cautioned certainly
an African against the cultural call of the white culturalizer
the African to balk and turn his back
and **** and spit scornfully  at cultural trickster in the colonial ploy
to dance for Dini ya Msambwa in the spirit of war and fires of war
that is to be fought in preservation of democracy and cultural freedom.
Francie Lynch Dec 2015
I can't but think of you
When those old familiar songs air;
As familiar as the friends we shared,
Songs we once grew old to,
That played as you ironed hair.
Tensions grew as the volume raised,
As your parents worried upstairs.
Songs of innocence, songs of experience,
Were on the radio,
And you'd find a station
In Daddy's car
As we drove back to school.
Lyrics I didn't know I knew
After all these years;
No photo could make you
More vivd than now;
Songs that immortalize
Those moments of our youth.
You tanning in the sand,
Transistor craddled in an alabaster hand;
The smell of beach on you.
Lips parted as you whispered words
To the ****** burning in me.
Then you dance close,
Your hair a symphony...
Some songs I hear
Are too much to bear
Beneath a firefly night,
When nothing came between us,
But the notes of songs we liked.
Blake's not the only one to have such songs.
Jon Tobias Jun 2011

I sing songs

The voice of God trembling in my belly

The songs were always for you

So much love in these hands

I could hold anything like it were a baby

Even you

I can hold you like a baby

Teary eyed and trembling

Gaze down upon you like the moonlight

Kisses the trees

I can kiss you

While you sleep

Give you chills like gentle insect feet

Make you moan like a memory


Have veins pumping so much blood

Into my heart

My heart is so big

It breaks my rib cage sometimes

And despite the pain

I can still hug you like a bear

Groan at the weight of my arms

I used to sing songs

About how my father never loved me

And how my mother never loved me

And now

I sing songs

About how much I love you


Don’t get me wrong

Sometimes smoke still billows from my throat

And I choke on the love songs

Sometimes I cough up feathers from

The birds

Beating tornadoes in my chest

And I drown

From the beer that I drink

Before I write these songs

And before I text these songs

Blowin up your phone

I wake up some days

Heart strings still pluckin’ away

Fingerpick still diggin’ into my skin

And sometimes

Because I got words

And maybe some paper

I just sing
Sing me songs I am not familiar with.
Songs of shooting stars and constellations.
Songs that are sung by drunken bellows and songs that can make me dance with the daffodils.
Songs that sound so much like the classic old times where there was enough for everybody and no one was ever greedy.
Songs of unity and appreciation.
Songs of peace and tranquillity.
My ears, they have turned deaf.
They cannot hear all this anymore.
And if you want to sing a song to me today,
please sing me a song I am not familiar with.
robin moyer Oct 2011
Inspired by the movie 'The Songcatcher' and Sheila Kay Adams

A singer sings the ancient songs
and the kinfolk sing along...
and the kinfolk sing along.

They sing old harmonies
passed generations down
from mother to daughter;
their unique mountain sound.
They sing of dying, of love, of the dead,
of long lost loves, of breaking bread.

And these songs harken back
to the lands whence they came
with little more
than their backs and their name.
There are songs for working hard during the day
and songs for thanking, and making your way.

Together they play the ancient songs
and the kinfolk sing along...
and the kin folk sing along.

Stories are told
when their ballads are sung,
and banjos played;
strings plucked or strummed.
They sing of the simple joys of life,
of good times and sad times and endless strife.

Lessons learned and stories golden,
songs of killing, of blood, and pain,
Heard endless times in front porch warmth
Connections strengthened, kinship claimed.
People bred strong as the mountain's roots
Sing their songs, their simple truths.

And all the kinfolk sing along
when the mountain sings the ancient songs...
when the mountain sings the ancient songs.
Allena Iris Dec 2016
Lyrics are things I don't wish
Lyrics gave life, though
Lyrics came from deepest ocean
Lyrics break through crevices
Of rocks
Become so poweful
When reaching the surface

Songs are things I don't wait
Songs gave home, though
Songs come from widest lungs
Songs blow melody
Of nature
Whisper charmingly
Ears to ears

Lyrics are beauty stains to my songs
Like clouds to sky
And songs are good companion to my lyrics
Like ribbon to roses
They both chasing in mind
Serve me rows of houses
Where I sleep in solid peace
I write lyrics and give melody
Thats a song
Ryan Fiore Dec 2013
I hate love songs.
It's just a sappy little tune of someone else's expectations.
I expect certain things for my life
But they'll never be what is written in a song
Love songs are like movies.
People write songs and movies about people living happily after ever.
Well that's completely false.
Because no one lives happily ever after.
We watch these movies and listen to these songs and build up our own expectations
Only to be let down when we realize that this is reality
We think "Oh I want a love like that."
When really, there's no such thing as true love.
I don't know.
That's kinda how I think of it.
Love songs ****.
Because we latch onto what that person is saying, hoping we're gonna find that someday
But look at how hopeless we are
I'm so hopeless
I don't know what to think about love
There's so many degrees of love
Finding that true person who just happens to know everything about you
And likes it.
And you like all those things about them
But why?
Everybody's all like "love is such an amazing thing."
Like there's no faults in it
Like people don't cheat on each other
And people don't break up with each other for no reason
Like there's no back-stabbing
Like it doesn't ever fall apart because you have the glue to hold it together
But what's the point of love when there's so many faults that come with it
Let's face it
Everybody throws the word "love" around like it's a baseball
"I love you" "I love you too"
Because then it ends and it's like "Oh but I thought you were in love?"
I wonder if love lasts forever.
I mean nothing lasts forever
I wonder if you can stay in love with the same person forever
I mean how's that possible?
Don't you get sick of looking at that person?
Don't you ever feel like being with someone else
I don't know. Maybe I'm saying this because I've never experienced love
With anyone special
Just meaningless relationships
From my youth that I knew would never last
Then what was the point of being with that person
It ***** to have a hopeless crush that you know will never happen
But maybe it never happens because you DON'T believe
I don't know.
People should find that one person
Everybody has a God given right to find love
They need to find it the right way
People have one night stands with random strangers
How can you honestly make love to someone and feel something called "love" to someone you just met?
Like how?
You shouldn't give yourself to someone you don't know
In my opinion, you shouldn't give yourself to anyone unless you know you're gonna spend the rest of your life with that person
And I'm not just saying that because I'm a Christian
I wasn't planning on giving myself to anyone before I was married, before I found God
Sure, that's a part of it
Because *** before marriage is a sin
But I didn't have an expectation of having *** with anyone before I was married
And the only way to know if you'll spend, "forever", "eternity"
With that person is not when you put the engagement ring on
But the wedding ring
Because an engagement ring means nothing
It's just an announcement that you're planning on a future
It's nothing set in stone
People might say, "Yeah but you can always get divorced."
When I get married, that's not an option.
Because why would I throw something away that I know can hopefully be fixed?
People might say, "How can I not have *** in this relationship?"
It's easy.
Love is so fake.
And yet, so real.
I have love songs
But listen to them all the time because I build up that expectation
But let's face it
We don't always get the fairytale we want
I hate love songs for one reason
You expect so much in your future
You're waiting for that prince to come save you
But come on.
That's fake.
I hate love songs.
I hate love movies.
I hate love.
Ahnaf Apr 2019

songs hurt

emotions flood my brain
I can't handle it
I used to not feel this way
songs used to lift my soul

but songs hurt

emotions claw at my brain
I can't do it anymore
I don't know when it happened
songs used to bring peace

but songs hurt

emotions metastasize like cancer
I can't even bear to think of it
I don't know how this happened
songs used to give me life

but songs hurt

and I can listen to them no longer
Sjr1000 Sep 2015
As poets
we listen for the songs
of the singing trees,
There is no road map as to where to go,
Our GPS, it doesn't know,
Goggle maps hasn't gotten there yet,
The internet will tell you what it knows -
Some rehab
some restaurant
some business selling shoes.

It's not on Facebook,
My phone may be smart
but it doesn't know a thing
about the songs of the singing trees.

My Twitter account was attacked by a cat,
I swear I tried to rescue it,
But it tweeted away
as it got jumped over the fence.
The t.v. drones on and on,
HD pictures explode.

Our eyes, tho, are far away from all this,
Our voices, they long to harmonize
with the songs of the eons,
The songs of the singing trees.

You and me and Thoreau
sitting by the pond, the river, the ocean,
All day long
in this solitude we know,
Watching the light dissolve,
The moon, it rises too,
While we
me and you,
Thoreau too,
Listening so carefully
for the lilting epics
the songs of the singing trees.
Bhakti Lata Oct 2016
She would
the words from
whispering winds

She would steal
the tunes from
singing birds
and would
a world of
songs around her

Indifferent to
the shackles of time,
unaffected by
the fetters of fate,
she would sing
many songs

Songs of hope
songs of love
songs of joy
songs of freedom
songs of songs


I saw
her wandering free,
free from fetters
shackles and all...

I saw
her singing along
with those birds
from whom she used to
steal her tunes,
and kissing the winds
that used to
lend her their words...

And I heard
the sky whisper
to the earth:
'She has
her dreams
into life!'
Kimi Sanchez Dec 2018
i am not a curated list of
the top songs,
the best songs,
critically-acclaimed songs,
picked with so much care
too much care
the others cease to matter
i am the songs
known and niched
borne out of an artist's dream
i exist so they could dance
in the kitchen at 3 am
i might not expand the world
in which i live
but i will persist
in careless dancers
dancers like me
the dancers after us
to my boy scouts, to 7 more years. kamsahamnida.
Aztec Warrior Feb 2016

"How long shall they **** our prophets as we stand aside and look?”    
             ‑‑ Bob Marley

Saturday morning,
the scene's the same
round and round
suds and foam,
round and round
energetic flashes of life
play, giggle and roam.
"Can I have a quarter
to play video games?
Hey mom, can I get a
soda and some chips?"
It's always bedlam,
even at 3 am,
always the same
neighborhood faces
some smiling, others
wrinkled like
clothes with a stain problem.
Clothes and lives
sharing destinies.
***** clothes, old and worn,
*****, hard driven lives.
Both, beat and torn,
both trying to get clean
fresh from this
bone weariness
reflected like patched knees,
lost buttons,
mismatched  sox
or  those brown  streaked ******,  
reflecting our brown stained lives.
Round and round go the clothes.
Round and round so goes our lives
that no matter what we do
seems always in need of mending.
Round and round
women, kids
and clothes in tow.
Men, if  there,
in the background,
but always  fighting for control.
Sometimes though the  juke wails
joyful music prevails
causing feet to tap
and lips to smile.
Maybe some Miles
or hip hop Coup
announce a new rinse cycle.
Some young'un dropped the  coin
but you can see
all are keeping time
with  these way out songs.
Finally,  eyes  reveal hidden,
no more suppressed,
clothes  are folded musically.
The kid knows his tunes,
out jumps a "classic";
"Redemption Songs".
Marley at his best
conscious style, a request.
"Won't you help me  sing
these  songs of freedom.
Redemption songs.
They're all I ever had
redemption songs."
You can see it in
lint filled air swirling,
eyes  gleaming,
kids screaming;
you can taste the hope
and dreams.
A  joyous hunger
of patched  jeans,
men and women sway
in unison. For 3 minutes, 25 seconds,
on this very early morn,
the possibilities of relations
rinsed  clean
of men and women
folding clothes
smelling fresh,
wishing for a better way.
It is only a glimpse
this Saturday morning.
A round and round
that holds promise
as old, worn clothes
and leave refreshed,
On this morn
a few eyes, alert
leave singing;
"Redemption songs,
they're  all  I ever  had,
these  songs  of  freedom."

~~redzone 5.22.99~~
(posted by Aztec Warrior writing as redzone)
This is a poem I wrote a while ago. I thought it was a different kind of Valentine's Day card. I hope you enjoy. The music is Bob Marley's "Redemption Songs"
drizzt Mar 2014
There are songs about love
And songs about it's loss.
A wise man once said
“Music is there for when words fail us.”
When our emotions clash and rage and burn
Or simply flutter about
In Beautiful Chaos.

But what to do with doubt?
There are no songs about lacking.
Stepping each step, knowing that irrationality
Hides in every corner.
You are worried for yourself.
You ask yourself "Will I?"
You ask yourself "Why Not?"
You ask yourself all,
But answer none.

Our minds are funny that way.
We can have full knowledge that we worry
About things that are pointless.
Things so unlikely that the morbid hilarity of our consideration
Of the possibilities of such things
Should be enough to stop us from believing them.

There are songs about love,
And songs about it's loss.
A wise man once said
“Music is there for when words fail us.”
But I lack burning emotions.
And thus I lack music.
And naught but words remain.

There are songs about love,
And songs about it's loss.
But there are no songs of
The worry of
Never finding it.
I'm rather good at getting my brain to stop being irrational.
At least that's what I tell myself.
LD Goodwin Feb 2013
Most every night at the Stowaway Bar,
you can catch the old lounge lizard singer.
With his head full of rhythm and rhyme,
and his fake books full of songs,
he plays his blue guitar
and dreams about a young girl.

He fell in love with the wonderful girl
when she strolled into the bar.
And as he played his new guitar
she told him he was a great singer,
and she loved his beautiful songs
that would reel and ramble and rhyme.

And with every prophetic rhyme
he would sing to the lovely young girl
all of his best love songs,
as if there were no one else in the bar,
except her, the smoke, and the singer,
and the sound of his new guitar.  

But every night when he was through, he'd pack up his guitar
and put away his rhythm and rhyme,
and for awhile he was not that love song singer.
He'd looked around the smoky room for the girl
but she was nowhere in the bar
and all he had left were his tears and his love songs.

She said she loved his songs,
and the way he would play his guitar.
But now the smoke filled up the bar,
and he was out of rhyme.
For he had lost the beautiful girl
who wanted only the singer.

But he was only the singer,
and he was only the songs.
Although he missed the girl
Every night he would tune his blue guitar
and open his sad heart full of rhyme
and fill up the Stowaway Bar 
  And the old lounge lizard singer plays his blue guitar
singing prophetic songs that reel and ramble and rhyme
to a young girl who sits alone at the bar.
Harrogate, TN February 2013
Inspired by the many years I played the Stowaway Lounge in Ft. Walton Beach , FL.  Also a poem here on HP "Breaking Mirrors"  by somethingweknewwasours ....check it out!
Daphne Jun 2016
Month one gave me the butterflies
Love songs were relevant
Soft words were exchanged, not cowardly lies
I was petrified to lose you.

Month two was more comfortable.
Love songs were a hit or miss
We spoke with only loving voices
I was petrified to lose you.

Month three, I became fully comfortable, you became distracted
Love songs were my favorite, but they were your enemy
I spoke with loving voices, you didn't speak at all
I was skeptical

Month four, I was aware of everything
Love songs were just songs
We only talked over text
I knew what was going to happen

Month five, I was just arm candy so you didn't look like a loser
Love songs made me sick
I talked, you lied
I didn't face the facts

Month six, I let you go
Love songs were never sang or played
I deleted your number
I'm confused without you

Month seven, you came back with a "You Up?" text
I only played sad songs
I looked at my phone with sorrow
You broke me

Love is a slippery *****, isn't it?
Five months, that's all
You showed me love
And you showed me heartbreak
Should I thank you for that?
When the beautiful mingles
    With more beautiful
      Makes a fair of flowers
         Brings soul to life
    Nature infuses into creation of new dances
  Then I just want to sink beneath love
 More to more!

When all the spots are removed
  You draw dreams on eyes
     Mind deserves the New Day
       Would be lost out of bounds
   Far too far
More to more!

After the end of the obscure
  Southern wind flows through the windows
    Life grows again
      The new songs
      The new tunes drive
    So far away-
More to more!

When you exist at the edge
   Of my thoughts
     Your smile
       Plays flute -
           Tiger by the tail-
     So far away-
  More to more!

When the tunes
  More tunes
    Make the rhythm -  
      Very tone of voices- how delight!
         Moving-dancing graphically on vine
      Dark light- lighting
   Songs follow Songs -
  Lifelong soul
More to more!!

Aa Harvey May 2018
All those love songs.

What is the point?  
Get to the point of all of this.
This love that I have to give, I cannot give,
Because nobody wants it.
It holds me back like a world on my back;
At last I think I can just relax
And then it all comes crashing down…
I am flattened into the ground,
Forever falling,
Forever falling,
Forever falling further now.

Now I see a light shining up from beneath,
But it is just a place to be.
Just to exist.
Just to be left waiting, in purgatory,
Leaves me contemplating, forwards or backwards,
There is no difference.
I am inclined to never try again,
But then my stupid heart kicks in with its two cents,
For what it’s worth…

I feel so worthless and helpless, when I think about her.
Her beautiful mind is what I hoped to find,
But all I ever get in this life is lie after lie
And I am denied, so I lie down to cry or sing,
Those sweet songs of misery.

Those love songs that go on and on,
About how she will be loved…
But I have cottoned on;
They are just plain wrong!
All those love songs,
She will never hear me sing…
All those songs.

(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
AJ Dec 2014
"I wanna be strong, but it's not easy anymore."*
My favorite band sings these lyrics so delicately,
and maybe I don't relate to the entire song completely,
but these nine words always catch my attention
as the song comes on the silly little playlists I make,
the few songs I put together to try and cheer myself up
on days where I all think of is drowning myself in stolen liquor.

But these songs,
these songs aren't happy,
these songs aren't sweet,
these songs shouldn't be categorized
in the category of "cheering me up"
but somehow they do.

And this is why I never believe
when someone tells me
bands and the lyrics they write,
the words they write can somehow
turn into perfect melodies,
can't save someone's life.
I used to think that was a myth

Who wanted me
to go to Chicago
on January 6th?
I did!

The night before,
20 below zero
with the wind chill;
as the blizzard of 99
lay in mountains
of blackening snow.

I packed two coats,
two suits,
three sweaters,
multiple sets of long johns
and heavy white socks
for a two-day stay.

I left from Newark.
**** the denseness,
it confounds!

The 2nd City to whom?
2nd ain’t bad.
It’s pretty good.
If you consider
Peking and Prague,
Tokyo and Togo,
Manchester and Moscow,
Port Au Prince and Paris,
Athens and Amsterdam,
Buenos Aries and Johannesburg;
that’s pretty good.

What’s going on here today?
It’s friggin frozen.
To the bone!

But Chi Town is still cool.
Buddy Guy’s is open.
Bartenders mixing drinks,
cabbies jamming on their breaks,
honey dew waitresses serving sugar,
buildings swerving,
fire tongued preachers are preaching
and the farmers are measuring the moon.

The lake,
unlike Ontario
is in the midst of freezing.
Bones of ice
threaten to gel
into a solid mass
over the expanse
of the Michigan Lake.
If this keeps up,
you can walk
clear to Toronto
on a silver carpet.

Along the shore
the ice is permanent.
It’s the first big frost
of winter
after a long
Indian Summer.

Thank God
I caught a cab.
Outside I hear
The Hawk
nippin hard.
It’ll get your ear,
finger or toe.
Bite you on the nose too
if you ain’t careful.

Thank God,
I’m not walking
the Wabash tonight;
but if you do cover up,
wear layers.

could this be
Sandburg’s City?

I’m overwhelmed
and this is my tenth time here.

It’s almost better,
sometimes it is better,
a lot of times it is better
and denser then New York.

Ask any Bull’s fan.
I’m a Knickerbocker.
Yes Nueva York,
a city that has placed last
in the standings
for many years.
Except the last two.
Yanks are # 1!

But Chicago
is a dynasty,
as big as
Sammy Sosa’s heart,
rich and wide
as Michael Jordan’s grin.

Middle of a country,
center of a continent,
smack dab in the mean
of a hemisphere,
vortex to a world,

Kansas City,
St. Louis,
New Orleans,
Mexico City
and Montreal
salute her.

A collection of vanities?
Engineered complex utilitarianism?
The need for community a social necessity?
Ego one with the mass?
Civilization’s latest *******?
Chicago is more then that.

Jefferson’s yeoman farmer
is long gone
but this capitol
of the Great Plains
is still democratic.

The citizen’s of this city
would vote daily,
if they could.

Sandburg’s Chicago,
Could it be?

The namesake river
segments the city,
canals of commerce,
all perpendicular,
is rife throughout,
still guiding barges
to the Mississippi
and St. Laurence.

Now also
tourist attractions
for a cafe society.

Chicago is really jazzy,
swanky clubs,
big steaks,
juices and drinks.

You get the best
coffee from Seattle
and the finest teas
from China.

Great restaurants
serve liquid jazz
al la carte.

Jazz Jazz Jazz
All they serve is Jazz
Rock me steady
Keep the beat
Keep it flowin
Feel the heat!

Jazz Jazz Jazz
All they is, is Jazz
Fast cars will take ya
To the show
Round bout midnight
Where’d the time go?

Flows into the Mississippi,
the mother of America’s rivers,
an empires aorta.

Great Lakes wonder of water.
Niagara Falls
still her heart gushes forth.

Buffalo connected to this holy heart.
Finger Lakes and Adirondacks
are part of this watershed,
all the way down to the
Delaware and Chesapeake.

Sandburg’s Chicago?
Oh my my,
the wonder of him.
Who captured the imagination
of the wonders of rivers.

Down stream other holy cities
from the Mississippi delta
all mapped by him.

Its mouth our Dixie Trumpet
guarded by righteous Cajun brethren.

Midwest from where?
It’s north of Caracas and Los Angeles,
east of Fairbanks,
west of Dublin
and south of not much.

who spoke of honest men
and loving women.
Working men and mothers
bearing citizens to build a nation.
The New World’s
precocious adolescent
caught in a stream
of endless and exciting change,
much pain and sacrifice,
dedication and loss,
pride and tribulations.

From him we know
all the people’s faces.
All their stories are told.
Never defeating the
idea of Chicago.

Sandburg had the courage to say
what was in the heart of the people, who:

Defeated the Indians,
Mapped the terrain,
Aided slavers,
Fought a terrible civil war,
Hoisted the barges,
Grew the food,
Whacked the wheat,
Sang the songs,
Fought many wars of conquest,
Cleared the land,
Erected the bridges,
Trapped the game,
Netted the fish,
Mined the coal,
Forged the steel,
Laid the tracks,
Fired the tenders,
Cut the stone,
Mixed the mortar,
Plumbed the line,
And laid the bricks
Of this nation of cities!

Pardon the Marlboro Man shtick.
It’s a poor expostulation of
crass commercial symbolism.

Like I said, I’m a
Devil Fan from Jersey
and Madison Avenue
has done its work on me.

It’s a strange alchemy
that changes
a proud Nation of Blackhawks
into a merchandising bonanza
of hometown hockey shirts,
making the native seem alien,
and the interloper at home chillin out,
warming his feet atop a block of ice,
guzzling Old Style
with clicker in hand.

Give him his beer
and other diversions.
If he bowls with his buddy’s
on Tuesday night
I hope he bowls
a perfect game.

He’s earned it.
He works hard.
Hard work and faith
built this city.

And it’s not just the faith
that fills the cities
thousand churches,
temples and
mosques on the Sabbath.

There is faith in everything in Chicago!

An alcoholic broker named Bill
lives the Twelve Steps
to banish fear and loathing
for one more day.
Bill believes in sobriety.

A tug captain named Moe
waits for the spring thaw
so he can get the barges up to Duluth.
Moe believes in the seasons.

A farmer named Tom
hopes he has reaped the last
of many bitter harvests.
Tom believes in a new start.

A homeless man named Earl
wills himself a cot and a hot
at the local shelter.
Earl believes in deliverance.

A Pullman porter
named George
works overtime
to get his first born
through medical school.
George believes in opportunity.

A folk singer named Woody
sings about his
countrymen inheritance
and implores them to take it.
Woody believes in people.

A Wobbly named Joe
organizes fellow steelworkers
to fight for a workers paradise
here on earth.
Joe believes in ideals.

A bookkeeper named Edith
is certain she’ll see the Cubs
win the World Series
in her lifetime.
Edith believes in miracles.

An electrician named ****
saves money
to bring his family over from Gdansk.
**** believes in America.

A banker named Leah
knows Ditka will return
and lead the Bears
to another Super Bowl.
Leah believes in nostalgia.

A cantor named Samuel
prays for another 20 years
so he can properly train
his Temple’s replacement.

Samuel believes in tradition.
A high school girl named Sally
refuses to get an abortion.
She knows she carries
something special within her.
Sally believes in life.

A city worker named Mazie
ceaselessly prays
for her incarcerated son
doing 10 years at Cook.
Mazie believes in redemption.

A jazzer named Bix
helps to invent a new art form
out of the mist.
Bix believes in creativity.

An architect named Frank
restores the Rookery.
Frank believes in space.

A soldier named Ike
fights wars for democracy.
Ike believes in peace.

A Rabbi named Jesse
sermonizes on Moses.
Jesse believes in liberation.

Somewhere in Chicago
a kid still believes in Shoeless Joe.
The kid believes in
the integrity of the game.

An Imam named Louis
is busy building a nation
within a nation.
Louis believes in

A teacher named Heidi
gives all she has to her students.
She has great expectations for them all.
Heidi believes in the future.

Does Chicago have a future?

This city,
full of cowboys
and wildcatters
is predicated
on a future!

Bang, bang
Shoot em up
Stake the claim
It’s your terrain
Drill the hole
Strike it rich
Top it off
You’re the boss
Take a chance
Watch it wane
Try again
Heavenly gains

city of futures
is a Holy Mecca
to all day traders.

Their skin is gray,
hair disheveled,
loud ties and
funny coats,
thumb through
slips of paper
held by nail
chewed hands.
Selling promises
with no derivative value
for out of the money calls
and in the money puts.
Strike is not a labor action
in this city of unionists,
but a speculators mark,
a capitalist wish,
a hedgers bet,
a public debt
and a farmers
fair return.

Indexes for everything.
Quantitative models
that could burst a kazoo.

You know the measure
of everything in Chicago.
But is it truly objective?
Have mathematics banished
subjective intentions,
routing it in fair practice
of market efficiencies,
a kind of scientific absolution?

I heard that there
is a dispute brewing
over the amount of snowfall
that fell on the 1st.

The mayor’s office,
using the official city ruler
measured 22”
of snow on the ground.

The National Weather Service
says it cannot detect more
then 17” of snow.

The mayor thinks
he’ll catch less heat
for the trains that don’t run
the buses that don’t arrive
and the schools that stand empty
with the addition of 5”.

The analysts say
it’s all about capturing liquidity.

can you place a great lake
into an eyedropper?

Its 20 below
and all liquid things
are solid masses
or a gooey viscosity at best.

Water is frozen everywhere.
But Chi town is still liquid,
flowing faster
then the digital blips
flashing on the walls
of the CBOT.

are never frozen in Chicago.
The exchanges trade
without missing a beat.

Trading wet dreams,
the crystallized vapor
of an IPO
pledging a billion points
of Internet access
or raiding the public treasuries
of a central bank’s
huge stores of gold
with currency swaps.

Using the tools
of butterfly spreads
and candlesticks
to achieve the goal.

Short the Russell
or buy the Dow,
go long the
CAC and DAX.
Are you trading in euro’s?
You better be
or soon will.
I know
you’re Chicago,
you’ll trade anything.
and Leaps
are traded here,
along with sweet crude,
North Sea Brent,
plywood and T-Bill futures;
and most importantly
the commodities,
the loam
that formed this city
of broad shoulders.

What about our wheat?
Still whacking and
breadbasket to the world.

an important fossil fuel
denominated in
good ole greenbacks.

not just hogwash
on the Wabash,
but bacon, eggs
and flapjacks
are on the menu
of every diner in Jersey
as the “All American.”

our contribution
to the Golden Triangle,
once the global currency
used to enrich a
gentlemen class
of cultured
southern slavers,
now Tommy Hilfiger’s
preferred fabric.

I think he sends it
to Bangkok where
child slaves
spin it into
gold lame'.

I think its hardy.

the new age substitute
for hamburger
goes great with tofu lasagna.

ADM creates ethanol,
they want us to drive cleaner cars.

once driven into this city’s
bloodhouses for slaughter,
now ground into
a billion Big Macs
every year.

When does a seed
become a commodity?
When does a commodity
become a future?
When does a future expire?

You can find the answers
to these questions in Chicago
and find a fortune in a hole in the floor.

Look down into the pits.
Hear the screams of anguish
and profitable delights.

Frenzied men
swarming like a mass
of epileptic ants
atop the worlds largest sugar cube
auger the worlds free markets.

The scene is
more chaotic then
100 Haymarket Square Riots
multiplied by 100
1968 Democratic Conventions.

Amidst inverted anthills,
they scurry forth and to
in distinguished
black and red coats.

Fighting each other
as counterparties
to a life and death transaction.

This is an efficient market
that crosses the globe.

Oil from the Sultan of Brunei,
Yen from the land of Hitachi,
Long Bonds from the Fed,
nickel from Quebec,
platinum and palladium
from Siberia,
FTSE’s from London
and crewel cane from Havana
circle these pits.

and Istanbul's
best traders
are only half as good
as the average trader in Chicago.

this hog butcher to the world,
specializes in packaging and distribution.

Men in blood soaked smocks,
still count the heads
entering the gates of the city.

Their handiwork
is sent out on barges
and rail lines as frozen packages
of futures
waiting for delivery
to an anonymous counterparty
half a world away.

This nation’s hub
has grown into the
premier purveyor
to the world;
along all the rivers,
and estuaries
it’s tentacles reach.

Sandburg’s Chicago,
is a city of the world’s people.

Many striver rows compose
its many neighborhoods.

Nordic stoicism,
Eastern European orthodoxy
and Afro-American
calypso vibrations
are three of many cords
strumming the strings
of Chicago.

Sandburg’s Chicago,
if you wrote forever
you would only scratch its surface.

People wait for trains
to enter the city from O’Hare.
Frozen tears
lock their eyes
onto distant skyscrapers,
solid chunks
of snot blocks their nose
and green icicles of slime
crust mustaches.
They fight to breathe.

Sandburg’s Chicago
is The Land of Lincoln,
Savior of the Union,
protector of the Republic.
Sent armies
of sons and daughters,
barges, boxcars,
gunboats, foodstuffs,
cannon and shot
to raze the south
and stamp out succession.

Old Abe’s biography
are still unknown volumes to me.
I must see and read the great words.
You can never learn enough;
but I’ve been to Washington
and seen the man’s memorial.
The Free World’s 8th wonder,
guarded by General Grant,
who still keeps an eye on Richmond
and a hand on his sword.

Through this American winter
Abe ponders.
The vista he surveys is dire and tragic.

Our sitting President
for lying about a *******.

Party partisans
in the senate are sworn and seated.
Our Chief Justice,
adorned with golden bars
will adjudicate the proceedings.
It is the perfect counterpoint
to an ageless Abe thinking
with malice toward none
and charity towards all,
will heal the wounds
of the nation.

Abe our granite angel,
Chicago goes on,
The Union is strong!


Out my window
the sun has risen.

According to
the local forecast
its minus 9
going up to
6 today.

The lake,
a golden pillow of clouds
is frozen in time.

I marvel
at the ancients ones
and how
they mastered
these extreme elements.

Past, present and future
has no meaning
in the Citadel
of the Prairie today.

I set my watch
to Central Standard Time.

Stepping into
the hotel lobby
the concierge
with oil smooth hair,
perfect tie
and English lilt
impeccably asks,
“Do you know where you are going Sir?
Can I give you a map?”

He hands me one of Chicago.
I see he recently had his nails done.
He paints a green line
along Whacker Drive and says,
“turn on Jackson, LaSalle, Wabash or Madison
and you’ll get to where you want to go.”
A walk of 14 or 15 blocks from Streeterville-
(I start at The Chicago White House.
They call it that because Hillary Rodham
stays here when she’s in town.
Its’ also alleged that Stedman
eats his breakfast here
but Opra
has never been seen
on the premises.
I wonder how I gained entry
into this place of elite’s?)
-down into the center of The Loop.

Stepping out of the hotel,
The Doorman
sporting the epaulets of a colonel
on his corporate winter coat
and furry Cossack hat
swaddling his round black face
accosts me.

The skin of his face
is flaking from
the subzero windburn.

He asks me
with a gapped toothy grin,
“Can I get you a cab?”
“No I think I’ll walk,” I answer.
“Good woolen hat,
thick gloves you should be alright.”
He winks and lets me pass.

I step outside.
The Windy City
flings stabbing cold spears
flying on wings of 30-mph gusts.
My outside hardens.
I can feel the freeze
into my internalness.
I can’t be sure
but inside
my heart still feels warm.
For how long
I cannot say.

I commence
my walk
among the spires
of this great city,
the vertical leaps
that anchor the great lake,
holding its place
against the historic
frigid assault.

The buildings’ sway,
modulating to the blows
of natures wicked blasts.

It’s a hard imposition
on a city and its people.

The gloves,
long underwear,
and overcoat
not enough
to keep the cold
from penetrating
the person.

Like discerning
the layers of this city,
even many layers,
still not enough
to understand
the depth of meaning
of the heart
of this heartland city.

Sandburg knew the city well.
Set amidst groves of suburbs
that extend outward in every direction.
Concentric circles
surround the city.
After the burbs come farms,
Great Plains, and mountains.
Appalachians and Rockies
are but mere molehills
in the city’s back yard.
It’s terra firma
stops only at the sea.
Pt. Barrow to the Horn,
many capes extended.

On the periphery
its appendages,
its extremities,
its outward extremes.
All connected by the idea,
blown by the incessant wind
of this great nation.
The Windy City’s message
is sent to the world’s four corners.
It is a message of power.
English the worlds
common language
is spoken here,
along with Ebonics,
and more.

Always more.
Much much more
in Chicago.

spoke all the dialects.

He heard them all,
he understood
with great precision
to the finest tolerances
of a lathe workers micrometer.

Sandburg understood
what it meant to laugh
and be happy.

He understood
the working mans day,
the learned treatises
of university chairs,
the endless tomes
of the city’s
great libraries,
the lost languages
of the ancient ones,
the secret codes
of abstract art,
the impact of architecture,
the street dialects and idioms
of everymans expression of life.

All fighting for life,
trying to build a life,
a new life
in this modern world.

Walking across
the Michigan Avenue Bridge
I see the Wrigley Building
is neatly carved,
catty cornered on the plaza.

I wonder if Old Man Wrigley
watched his barges
loaded with spearmint
and double-mint
move out onto the lake
from one of those Gothic windows
perched high above the street.

Would he open a window
and shout to the men below
to quit slaking and work harder
or would he
between the snapping sound
he made with his mouth
full of his chewing gum
offer them tickets
to a ballgame at Wrigley Field
that afternoon?

Would the men below
be able to understand
the man communing
from such a great height?

I listen to a man
and woman conversing.
They are one step behind me
as we meander along Wacker Drive.

"You are in Chicago now.”
The man states with profundity.
“If I let you go
you will soon find your level
in this city.
Do you know what I mean?”

No I don’t.
I think to myself.
What level are you I wonder?
Are you perched atop
the transmission spire
of the Hancock Tower?

I wouldn’t think so
or your ears would melt
from the windburn.

I’m thinking.
Is she a kept woman?
She is majestically clothed
in fur hat and coat.
In animal pelts
not trapped like her,
but slaughtered
from farms
I’m sure.

What level
is he speaking of?

Many levels
are evident in this city;
many layers of cobbled stone,
Pennsylvania iron,
Hoosier Granite
and vertical drops.

I wonder
if I detect
in his voice?

What is
his intention?
Is it a warning
of a broken affair?
A pending pink slip?
Advise to an addict
refusing to adhere
to a recovery regimen?

What is his level anyway?
Is he so high and mighty,
Higher and mightier
then this great city
which we are all a part of,
which we all helped to build,
which we all need
in order to keep this nation
the thriving democratic
empire it is?

This seditious talk!

The Loop’s El
still courses through
the main thoroughfares of the city.

People are transported
above the din of the street,
looking down
on the common pedestrians
like me.

Super CEO’s
populating the upper floors
of Romanesque,
Greek Revivalist,
New Bauhaus,
Art Deco
and Post Nouveau
Avant-Garde towers
are too far up
to see me
shivering on the street.

The cars, busses,
trains and trucks
are all covered
with the film
of rock salt.

Salt covers
my bootless feet
and smudges
my cloths as well.

The salt,
the primal element
of the earth
covers everything
in Chicago.

It is the true level
of this city.

The layer
all layers,
on which
is built,
then dies.
To be
returned again
to the lower
where it can
take root
and grow
out onto
the great plains.

the nation,
its people
with its

A blessing,

All rivers
come here.

All things
found its way here
through the canals
and back bays
of the world’s
greatest lakes.

All roads,
rails and
air routes
begin and
end here.

Mrs. O’Leary’s cow
got a *** rap.
It did not start the fire,
we did.

We lit the torch
that flamed
the city to cinders.
From a pile of ash
Chicago rose again.

Forever Chicago!
Forever the lamp
that burns bright
on a Great Lake’s
western shore!

the beacon
sends the
message to the world
with its windy blasts,
on chugging barges,
clapping trains,
flying tandems,
T1 circuits
and roaring jets.

Sandburg knew
a Chicago
I will never know.

He knew
the rhythm of life
the people walked to.
The tools they used,
the dreams they dreamed
the songs they sang,
the things they built,
the things they loved,
the pains that hurt,
the motives that grew,
the actions that destroyed
the prayers they prayed,
the food they ate
their moments of death.

Sandburg knew
the layers of the city
to the depths
and windy heights
I cannot fathom.

The Blues
came to this city,
on the wing
of a chirping bird,
on the taps
of a rickety train,
on the blast
of an angry sax
rushing on the wind,
on the Westend blitz
of Pop's brash coronet,
on the tink of
a twinkling piano
on a paddle-wheel boat
and on the strings
of a lonely man’s guitar.

Walk into the clubs,
row houses,
and you’ll hear the Blues
whispered like
a quiet prayer.

Tidewater Blues
from Virginia,
Delta Blues
from the lower
Boogie Woogie
from Appalachia,
Texas Blues
from some Lone Star,
Big Band Blues
from Kansas City,
Blues from
Beal Street,
Jelly Roll’s Blues
from the Latin Quarter.

Hell even Chicago
got its own brand
of Blues.

Its all here.
It ended up here
and was sent away
on the winds of westerly blows
to the ear of an eager world
on strong jet streams
of simple melodies
and hard truths.

A broad
shouldered woman,
a single mother stands
on the street
with three crying babes.
Their cloths
are covered
in salt.
She pleads
for a break,
for a new start.
Poor and
against the torrent
of frigid weather
she begs for help.
Her blond hair
and ****** features
suggests her
Scandinavian heritage.
I wonder if
she is related to Sandburg
as I walk past
her on the street.
Her feet
are bleeding
through her
canvass sneakers.
Her babes mouths
are zipped shut
with frozen drivel
and mucous.

The Blues live
on in Chicago.

The Blues
will forever live in her.
As I turn the corner
to walk the Miracle Mile
I see her engulfed
in a funnel cloud of salt,
snow and bits
of white paper,
swirling around her
and her children
in an angry

The family
begins to
like a snail
sprinkled with salt;
and a mother
and her children
just disappear
into the pavement
at the corner
of Dearborn,
in Chicago.


Robert Johnson
Sweet Home Chicago

Added today to commemorate the birthday of Carl Sandburg
Chad Carlstone Apr 2016
You're like an inner-city passerby,
a cold shoulder to my warm welcoming heart now covered in black,
my lungs filled with smoke every time you walked out.
For when we lied in the grass there was no need for a blanket,
we had each other.
When we stared at the sky we didn't mind that the moon was not full.

But you've cried so much in your memory of me I must flicker like a film projector.
Now the reel has ended and the celluloid snakes around the floor giving new home to the dust and the critters.
It weaves around like playground slides, a reminder of the days that I didn't have to worry about the pain that comes with love and the inevitable love that grows out of sorrow (a pretty flower, but in shattered pottery).

I can only imagine the solace my laughs and smiles created as I bathed in dirt and wood chips.  
I felt the wind in my growing hair as I went down the slides and on the swings with a beat in my heart and music on my lips.

I still sing those songs to this day --

songs of thanks,
and songs of praise.

But I don't sing them to remember I sing them to forget (if only I could).

Because the memories of you make the sad times more sad and the happy times more meaningless.  
But together we’re just song with no chorus:
verses that play in busy squares for deaf ears,
and our bridges connect to nothing (like our eyes when we look at each other).

You wanted a sacrifice you knew I couldn't give,
you wanted to mold me into something more like you
but you're not the solution you are only the instigator.
That flame was struck!
That's when the smoke filled my lungs and emptied this room we once shared.
This place where we sang songs together --

songs of thanks,
and songs of praise.

Now you sing them to remember.

You want to know there were good times,
I'd rather not remember there were times at all (and why would I?).

But you've cried so much your memory of me I must look like a water drop seen through a cracked lens.
A few weeks from now I'll be a memory of a dream and fade away.

The pain in my chest will rest and I'll finally have my peace.

You see, every drum line echoes . . .

                                                                                     but they all come to close.

And I will not be scared,
because even the rocking chairs
creek when nobody's there
and that's where I'll be singing --

songs of thanks,
and songs of praise that I will sing every day.

I pray that we think and we learn the way I hope,
because we think we learn even when we don't.
Oh Lord, please help me to remember because I never want to forget
those crescent moons and tearless eyes as long as I live.
Just as long as I live for you,
                                                                                                     and nobody else.
This is the first poem I ever wrote when I started music/spoken word project, Others Before Us. I turned it into a song on my first e.p. 'We think we learn'. I sent to Hello Poetry, which led to my invitation. For these reasons, it felt appropriate to make it the first poem I post on my profile.

If you desire further examination, I wrote a blog about what this poem means to me:
Zero Nine Nov 2017
Sad songs had their place
In the coming of age,
My songs sound the same
The sound, blase
Sad songs had their place
In the coming of age,
My songs sound the same
My songs are blase.

The answers I need, who do I ask?
Where's my fire?
Where's my immediacy?

The roof is overhead.
The walls surround my bed.
Food in the fridge.
Necessary electricity.

The ends I seek, where do I ask?
Where's my fire?
Where's my face in smoke and mirror?

Sad songs had their place
In the coming of age,
My songs sound the same
My songs are blase.

Where's my face in smoke and mirror?
Where's my face in smoke and mirror?
The End
I thought sirens were voluptuous women,
Who sat upon rocks and sang to men,
Who couldn’t think past,
The tips of their *****.

I was sure they had the longest hair,
I had ever seen,
That swore to you,
It had met with eternity.

Through rose-scented ears,
And rose-budded drapes,
I had heard of their full, soft *******,

That breathed airily beneath,
The green beads of the sea,
Speaking, softly, of impending agendas.


But, I found out yesterday,
Their hands are great,
Yielding rough spears,
Rather than white sarongs.

They’re not sitting at all -
They actually stand tall,
Looming over you,
With ***** of their own.
© 2011 Elephants & Coyotes

— The End —