"songster" poems
Songster, not as sinister as they say,
she's no monster, just admittedly
a bit lost in her way.
she caves as I'm walking
down the hall.
I pick her up, off of that flooring,
the rubbery kind, whatever it is,
I guess it's rubber, but the kind that
squeaks when you walk on it after
coming in from the rain; to hell with poetry.
And so anyways I pick her up
and sit her on this bench next to me
and give her about five minutes to come to
terms with breathing and pick shimmering
auburn hair out of the tears smeared across her face,
two, mesmerizing, perfectly blue wells
the source of the streams.
And then I ask her what that
was all about and she blurts out that she
belongs in the Fine Arts Department,
and her car broke down months ago
but her father
doesn't give a **** about it,
because she can't lay up the basketball
or steal the base and so he honorably
lump summed her entire tuition
and sent her to another state
and how ****** she would be
if she had to get a job for the first
time at the age of twenty three
so she wouldn't have to be
dependent on her family and
that she was sick of wondering why
not a single guy had ever given her
a ******* flower
and that if she ever did end up liking one
two weeks later she would find out that he
was exactly the same as the others and
she had a broken look in her eyes
when she said she wondered why we were
all here in the first place, and how we were
made this way, and if people were actually
ever meant to fit together or not;
*what if there was nothing as certain
as two halves making a whole?*
She wanted to know how everyone's
mind had a different game to play,
she wanted to know why Jupiter
had to be so far away and everything in
between.
We had strolled off of the school grounds by
this time but I still looked twice before pulling out my flask.
I unscrewed the cap, handed it to her and said
*follow me to Deadbeat Hollow,
where we've already thrown
our problems out of the window*
and she said
lets go.
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 9:46 PM UTC
Nodding, nodding 'pon thy stem,
Thou bloom o' morn; nodding, nodding
To the bees, asearch o' honey's sweet.
Wilt thou to droop, and wilt the dance o' thee
To vanish with the going o' the day?
Hath the tearing o' the air o' thy sharped thorn
Sent musics up unto the bright,
Or doth thy dance to mean anaught
Save breeze-kiss 'pon thy bloom?
Hath yonder songster harked to thee,
And doth he sing thy love? Or hath he tuned
His song of world's wailing o' the day?
Doth mom shew thee naught save thy garden's wall,
That shutteth thee away, a treasure o' thy day?
Doth yonder hum then spell anaught,
Save whirring o' the wing that hovereth
O'er thy bud to sup the sweet?
Ah, garden's deep, afulled o' fairie's word,
And creeped o’er with winged mites, where but
The raindrop's patter telleth thee His love—
Doth all this vanish then, at closing o' the day?
Anay. For He hath made a one who seeketh here,
And storeth drops, and song, and hum, and sweets,
And of these weaveth garland for the earth.
From off his lute doth drip the day of Him!
3.4k
I do not see the hills around,
Nor mark the tints the copses wear;
I do not note the grassy ground
And constellated daisies there.
I hear not the contralto note
Of cuckoos hid on either hand,
The whirr that shakes the nighthawk’s throat
When eve’s brown awning hoods the land.
Some say each songster, tree and mead—
All eloquent of love divine—
Receives their constant careful heed:
Such keen appraisement is not mine.
The tones around me that I hear,
The aspects, meanings, shapes I see,
Are those far back ones missed when near,
And now perceived too late by me!
2.1k
Six Straight
The old cowboys of TV fame,
Were straight shooters,
Who carried six shooters,
Sometimes two.
When I grow up,
I want be a six straight cowboy too,
Six straight hours of sleep,
Or dem bad poems all dressed in black,
they're a gonna shoot me, holy dead.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The youniverse is getting smaller
The you-in-verse is getting smaller,
My poems, shorter,
Hemingwayesque, see!
Why use two words,
Whenonewilldo.
Warmer, too,
Somehow tho global heat
Ain't reached my woman's
Hands or feet.
When you touch my GPS,
It stands ready, at attention,
Always opens up with a prayer,
Directions to Home,
Like I said,
The you-in-verse is getting smaller.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lend Me a Tune
Wish I knew how to
Compose some love lyrics,
But can't carry a tune,
It seems that the music
Must always comes first.
So with conceit and disbelief,
Wrote words and shot 'em into space,
Hoping they'd pass thru galaxies,
Maybe a comet tail,
Find a Songster who will strum them
Into perfect, into complete.
I ain't unhappy that all I got
Was the lesser gift of
Humming words to myself,
Ain't dissatisfied, but wish they
Could be ratified, by the music
Of a voice reading them to me
Or fingers tapping, happening them
Upon the ivories upon my chest,
The chest that needs exploration.
So let's make some music
Finish these lyrics jointly,
When all finito, pointedly
Take our co-sing-song,
Dance to it with our bodies
Sing words the whole night long,
And please baby,
Don't tell me to shut up so you can sleep....
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 6:28 PM UTC
Summer singing madly
Over empty lot
The still grass
Stands near alone
Before the final crew comes
With trucks and blueprints and concrete
To slap together rent fortune
For the white cadillac man.
Summer swinging madly
Over empty lot
The post oaks
Hesitate along lot edge,
Wait to see what happens
To the few brave mesquite:
Better to stand on edges
And wait
Than venture
To vulnerable heart
Of empty lot.
Summer winging madly
Over empty lot
The birds wing madly over
Rarely dropping
To the grass for seeds;
They sit upon the postoaks
At the edge
And keep a watchful eye
Upon the road.
All wing madly to the edge:
Grackles, swifts, and doves,
The mockingbirds, all
Save one persistent meadowlark
Without a mate
That sings each morning
From the wire,
One silly songster
That loneliness has blinded
And brought to chime
Its idyll
Summer song
Over empty lot.
Summer singing madly
Over empty lot.
Sep 24, 2011
Sep 24, 2011 at 10:11 PM UTC
Lend me a tune
*(For Robert C Howard,
One of the lucky ones)*
"But I'll know my song well before I start singing". Bob Dylan
Some of us poets,
some of us musicians, and a few,
A very blessed few
Songwriters and lyricists,
Poets in sound and words,
Both.
Wish I knew how to
Compose some love song music notes,
But can't carry a tune,
Seems to me,
Comes first the music,
Must music comes first
So with conceit and disbelief,
Wrote words and shot 'em into space,
Hoping they'd pass thru galaxies,
Maybe a comet tail,
Find a Songster who will strum them
Into perfect, into complete
I ain't unhappy that all I got
Was the lesser gift of
Humming words to myself,
Ain't dissatisfied, but wish they
Could be ratified, by the music
Of a voice singing them to me
Or fingers tapping, happening them
Played upon the ivories upon my chest,
Where the lyrics are aborning,
The chest that needs
Music to be whole, and word-completing
Wish I knew how to
Compose some love notes
But can't carry a tune,
Seems to me
Music,
Must come first
So let's make some music
**** right, together,
Finish these lyrics jointly,
When all finito, pointedly
Needed your music, my darling,
Music to make them soar,
Take our co-sing-song,
Dance to it with our bodies
Sing words the whole night long
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 8:38 AM UTC
*Setting sun upon golden stage
Blessed enabler
Bury random thoughts in
milky twilight
Open the doorway to peace
this star-filled night
Songs of the forest ,
mourners of the canopy atop
moonlit chandeliers
Set the stage for a thousand years
Every nocturnal beast -
and nightfall songster
Sing to waning sunshine
To springtime constellations
Of hope before universal nations
Of the quest for dawn , rivers of pure light and salvation*...
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 9:54 PM UTC
Speckled breast,
Red berry clutched in your beak.
Mistle thrush on winter's frosty lawn.
I heard you sing two moons ago-
Storm thrush in a wind bowed tree top
In spring you came to the garden,
Fat, fluffed, child with your mother
Feasting then on hoards of leaf gorged caterpillars
Who'd rendered felty mullien leaves to shreds.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 12:19 PM UTC
A solitary Sparrow sings into the silence
a fleeting songster on its way somewhere else,
-reminds this traveller to look beyond himself,
to see the beauty that surrounds his shelter
and the shining path winding into all distance.
Feb 11, 2019
Feb 11, 2019 at 8:56 AM UTC
*A Fairy Tale Lost In Demise,
His Visions Of Lies Still Painting Her Paradise,
She Lived With Incisions Of His Force Fed Lies & Sacrifice,
With Eternal Incarnation & Immortal Intoxication,
Ethereal In Translation, Lies Her Irrational Infatuation,
Mimicked Sanguineness & Emancipated Promiscuousnesses,
Her Mesmerized Senses Enticed By His Pretenses,
Digital Fears & Artificial Screams,
Her Carnal Tears Inside Her Abysmal Dreams,
A Ray Of Her Solicitude & Her Sublime Prelude,
Shes Gleams With Platitude & Visions Of Prime Servitude,
Crystalline Waters Of Her ****** Fountains,
Like A Valentine's Songster With An Ecstatic Bloodstain,
An Emissary's Vignettes & Infatuated Ex,
Lies Imaginary Silhouettes & Intoxicated ***
A Twirling Luminaria With Metaphysical Symmetry,
Waltzing With Euphoria & Her Lyrical Tapestries,
Transcendental Memory & Reminisces Of Her Scars,
A Sacramental Story With Kisses From The Stars....
- 05:07 AM*
Jul 10, 2017
Jul 10, 2017 at 7:41 PM UTC
*Cherry , huckleberry , and peach Indian summer bouquets
glide across honey- brown sugar loam
They rattle , crackle and dance at the cue of fragrant ambergris winds , gather in splendid sheltered havens , attending by cackling red-winged mavens
Sing to me airborne madrigals , Cooper angels , Pileated conductors of the oakwood , choreographed lapping lakesides , the scrub of White Pines
Land of the pumpernickel shadows , of cinnamon needle carpet
cast adrift in the very breath of artist , lover and songster* ..
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 4:20 PM UTC
you have many personalities inside your head
face full of lead but I'm still not dead
I need love I need you I
I am no more than a blade of grass
no more than a shell
cast out of the sea
no more
than a bird
in migrant flight
nor am I less
than a star whose light
penetrates infinity
yet last night
When a half spent moon
Lay on the ***** of heaven
And day's heat pressed down
The sides of mountain peaks
To squeeze the desert floor,
And all the world was weariness
Which the stars wept to see,
Boldly
A desert songster
Insolently free, joyously
Lifted melody
To the moon, and teasing a breeze
Into cooling the night
And drifting the yucca's perfume
Bringing heart's ease to me
Aug 7, 2017
Aug 7, 2017 at 3:33 PM UTC
The clear piping of a robin rang above the quiet of the sleepy morning street
A distant conversation of neighbors drifted through the open door;
Faint voices, murmurs, tones, fell into repose.
Silence threw her cloak of repose through the trees and shrubs.
Small breezes whirled, the rushing air stirred up the silvery backs of maple leaves
Silence returned all to stillness.
Then again the robbing piped
As it had piped before
Long ago, when
In my bed as a youngster, the sweet smell of early morning hay
Drifting across the fields, freshly cut alfalfa melded into the dew.
The timeless songster sings yet to guide me to eternity.
The summer morning was broken by your song.
You called down the rain
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 4:36 PM UTC
*The oaks locale was flawless , a songster mockingbird
was in perfect pitch , her marshland retained -
waters to exacting standards , her nutrient rich feeder streams quietly meandered
The land drew me in with perfumed 'piedmont wind'
Gods blue eyes watched over me from on high ,
faces appeared in marshmallow sky
Water lashed the banks
Pine trees reflected skyward in perfect rank
Wild azalea , honeysuckle , cottonwood and river birch
guardians stood beside me
Tall brown grass danced , directing my homeward journey*
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 2:57 PM UTC
“leave ‘em laughing when you go”^
it appears that Ogden Poet and Joni Songster
have ganged up
on poor Pitch Black
to remind
that he who laughs best,
is he who laugh hardest
at himself,
and their vanity fair
the bathroom mirror chips in
with a
chiding chortle,
spasming him so hard,
mirror cracks!
right about where
the smiling mouth
and laughing rolling tears intersect,
under the nose,
landing in an open braying mouth
“Laughter is the corrective force which
prevents us from becoming cranks”
just a most excellent reminder that
gods come and go,
taste in deities is
just another fashion item*
Jul 7, 2020
Jul 7, 2020 at 8:19 AM UTC
A lone , Water Oak wonder in golden armor
Sentry of the night , of uncertain shadow
The guardian of the gate , donned in-
bucolic regal linens
Living Testament to the power of Earth ,
securing the wildwood sacraments
Platform of the evening songster , transitional buoy of red morning starlight ..
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 8:13 PM UTC
Soulful
Not a whine
Sad, though
Simple rhyme.
Standing
Held the mic
Burning
Space and time.
Strike up
Keep light
Open up
Bright eyes.
Loose notes
Dark hall
Still air
Tears fall.
Left alone
End song
Young man
Carry on.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 9:22 AM UTC
If I may be allowed to be rhetorical
In matters spiritual or metaphorical,
I have a little parable to tell.
And if permitted to wax somewhat lyrical
I’d count it no less than a flaming miracle
If my words chanced to cast a magic spell.
You make the sunshine
When clouds fill the sky;
You make the flowers bloom
Where deserts are dry;
You expand my mind
With thoughts dear and clear;
And fill up my heart
Whenever you’re near.
And now if I may choose to be empirical
And build a dream that’s simply atmospherical,
To emphasise the points you’ve overheard.
They’re really not the least bit evangelical
Or even meant to drive someone hysterical,
As long as you’re both shaken up and stirred.
You light up my face
Whenever you smile;
To see it I’d walk
Full many a mile.
I’d go anywhere
For beauty so fair;
Honesty so true,
Fidelity rare.
So, summing up a treatise categorical,
And drawing to a close this tale historical
I’ll add one chorus to this final word.
In case for you it has been too intense, I call
Attention to much other verse nonsensical
And lyrics that are equally absurd.
My verses avoid
June rhyming with moon;
Search much as you will
You’ll not find a “spoon”.
And hard as you try
You simply won’t swoon
Over a songster
Whose style is to croon.
My task completed has not been incandescent
But is rather now revealed as evanescent.
And certainly it was not made of chrome.
So set aside these verses allegorical;
I hope you didn’t seek the Delphic oracle;
It’s time to pack up and to just go home.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 11:49 AM UTC
Close to the gate
you lay
there, on the pathway’s edge
all blue bone
unopened beak
and closed and sightless eyes
your fragile legs forever fixed in death
your tiny body unfledged
fallen offspring of some
now forlorn and feathered songster
I could not resurrect you
so with my foot
I simply nudged you
to lie beneath the sheltering hedge
hearing inside my soul
your unsung song
seeing, that night with
the dreaming eyes of mind
your feathers fully fledged
your exultation in soaring flight
towards a sunlit dawn
May 3, 2021
May 3, 2021 at 1:42 PM UTC
From the fingers of first
misty light,
rays
of morning shatter
dark chains,
and usher
in daybreak unrehearsed.
Black songster displays
agenda for
mating
by ringing the ether
in trilled carol,
shakes off
damp night and flies away.
Smiles become partner
to awe
after
first heard
feathered dawn-bird's
wordless praise
as life again makes its start.
Raise the eyes for more
and view
nature
revealing truth
that only by such glories
can Love be
understood in unvoiced talk.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 6:13 AM UTC
It can be a flimsy connection a would be poet has with words
and at other times the songster is almost welded to poetry
poems heated in the furnace and hammered out on the anvil
all that blood sweat and tears for a few fleeting lines
then without warning its back to holding things together with string
wrapping up efforts with duct tape and singing in silence.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 5:23 AM UTC
flint is abundant in the chalk hills from whence I came from
and here there is no natural deposits
you can find flint though, washed up after a storm on the beaches,
being a heavy stone it was used for ballast in bygone days and leaches from the many wrecks to be found around our archipelago.
My Father built garden walls with the stuff, and many a cottage has flint as building material back in our Shire.
Flint is mentioned in the Psalms, ' I will set my face like flint' says the psalmist, the poet, the songster, the very Human spirit inspired by the Holy Spirit, to be single minded, that mind, of course, being love.
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 7:19 AM UTC
A wren at the window was telling me the news
He's waving to every songster along -
the way
Whistling a song and a rhyme on a perfect day
Scribbling a write in his new hideaway
Inviting his friends and elders to come out--
and play ....
Aug 21, 2021
Aug 21, 2021 at 8:11 PM UTC
I have a friend
she plucks poetry
from trees
and memory.
I look out for her,
listen out for her songs.
She is a poet
my sister
a songster
a person
I love.
Feb 6, 2019
Feb 6, 2019 at 2:20 PM UTC
the internal songster
sings with joy
is a happy soul
alive and well
knows freedom
knows peace.
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 8:00 AM UTC