"soundtracks" poems
His words stitched like rail road ties
through sentiment and simile.
His fingers like slaves to emotions in his brain.
The hum of his instrument,
so rich and so right.
Constructing soundtracks to stories
about what it means to be alive.
Tapping beats from the back of his thigh,
bop-bop, doo-woop.
Turning feeling into vibrations
that shake the walls of the bus station.
What change he got shaking like a tambourine
inside his cardigan pocket.
The gold trim on his six string
shines like a locket under bright orange lights.
I called him the Musician.
his mother called him Bentley.
his father never called,
the streets called him crazy.
His audience passing cars.
Cigarette butts and trashed plastics.
The Musician waxed and waned
as the world kept on passing.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
One of my favorite hobbies
is watching people
on the train.
Some on their
daily commute,
dressed in suits,
hurriedly sipping
coffee,
checking their
wrists with
frequency,
ensuring they
arrive not even a
minute late.
So many,
myself included,
travel along to
their own
soundtracks,
earbuds helping
them to tune out
the cabin noise
around them.
Bodies swaying
back and forth,
movement in sync,
limbs dancing
the train's tango,
left, right,
forward, and back,
and for the encore,
we all jolt and jive hard
as the wheels
screech to a stop
halfway down the
green line.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC
You wanted a love like in the movies;
rain drenched white shirts, palms covered
in daisy pollen; I love you more than--
a phone call, long distance, your fingers
curling the telephone wire like you're pulling me
towards you
like a fibre optic pheromone.
Soundtracks of a jazz piano, and old jukebox hits,
flared skirts and Mary Jane shoes, square dancing.
But most of the time, we don't get to choose
the colour of the bedsheets. In this story,
I know you're going to leave me. I can sense
the zoom of your eyes, rolling away from me.
The lighting in the room, like the ones where something
awful is about to happen: a sad, sick orange
like a cheap sunset; the music, or lack thereof,
the way you bite your lip like you're about to
break my heart.
You look to the ground, and I know this is where
the narration will start;
*this is the story of the first time
someone broke my heart.
She's going to look up at me
and say the words,
It's all over-*
and in a jump frame
the thunderclap will mask the sound
of my heart shattering, the sob disappearing
into my throat.
You wanted a love like in the movies,
honey,
we all did.
But then the rain came, and the flowers
drowned in their beds.
You left your umbrella by the doorstep,
I hope you don't catch a cold.
May 1, 2018
May 1, 2018 at 10:11 AM UTC
I can’t sleep.
An endless wandering
piano strain
caught between
broken
finger
bones.
She lays
her head
against his
chest
listening
as
ships
sail
across his
heavy heart.
A sad
mourning
wail
of
wind
echoes
in
each breath
he takes.
I hope
that
soon
death will
come
like
hundreds
of arrows
in
the night.
Each aflame
with the
lies
and conceit
of the
human race.
Only then
will I slumber
content
beneath
the skies
of
moons
and stars.
Glistening in
continuum
with the chorus
of
small voices
and the movements
of the
universe.
A haunting
twisting
melody
that
reminds
us of memories
and their purpose
of nostalgia.
The notes
that
urge
us to go
on.
To hope
when hope
is gone.
Because I can’t
sleep,
I dream
of brokenness
and hopelessness.
A darkness
darker than
the night
disturbs
my unseen
eyes
and billows
beneath my
hair.
I look to them
both,
standing
so close to
the edge,
and I pray
like sweet honey
that
drips from
cultured
lips,
I pray for
them both,
The girl and the boy who haunt my sleepless nights.
I watch
as they
peril
in
my demise,
slowly
my brain
rots away
and
my limbs
deteriorate.
They have
nothing
left
of me.
Only
a fleeting
idea
that nags
at their
consciousness
each footfall
bringing
them farther
from my
soul
and closer to
their empty
air.
It was
like
they too
never existed,
as both
fall
to the
violin
that soundtracks
their never-ending
sorrow.
The girl and the boy who haunt my sleepless nights.
Now we
both
will
slumber
forever
beneath
the moons
and
the
stars
for
eternity
forever
content,
unsatisfied,
restless.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 4:13 AM UTC
I will readily be the first to admit
I heavily romanticize the **** out of life
It’s not that I don’t separate fact from fiction
But if I can find something that is beautiful in both
Then I know I have found something truly wonderful
Give me a movie moment and, for the time being, I’ll know that I’m doing okay
I’ll know everything is going to be alright
So give me summer nights
Let us run out the doors of a pizza place past midnight and drive
Standing up, top down in a convertible jeep around the back roads of a small town
Sticky stage makeup streaked by sticky wind
Overly gelled hair windswept into Picasso shapes
Let’s notice how the stars spin when you look directly upwards
And feel the swaying balance in your feet, as the air plays louder than the music
Hold out your arms like
Titanic
The Perks of Being a Wallflower
Superman
Hooking my ribcage forward over the top of the windshield so I can let my hands explore the sky
Reaching to touch low-hanging branches that are never quite near enough
Leaning bent back against the railing
And singing mismatched lyrics to whatever song I can’t quite hear
Since I’m holding my head farther above the world than usual
Standing straight and tall and
Let’s appreciate the way the laws of physics keep us from falling but not from tipping
So we’re always just on the edge of cautious
Slightly alert
But mostly lost in the magic of being
Young and free
Past midnight on the empty streets of a small town
With fireflies spinning past like low-hanging stars
And a summer breeze intensified into enveloping all five senses
Let’s forget about responsibilities and forgive the people we’re running away from
Even if just for the moment
Give me the rush of this moonlit escape
And memories that could fit with pretty soundtracks and rolling credits
Let headlights be our guide and the radio be our leader
For one night the tears in our eyes are going to be from the sting of speed
Not the empty hours of another sleepless night
For one night we are going to reach out for a hand
And actually end up holding tight to each other as we race through the darkness
Four heartbeats and a loud engine
All drowned out by a summer night being lived as it’s meant to be lived
Standing up, top down in a convertible jeep around the back roads of a small town
And romanticizing the ever living **** out of the movie moments in life
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 2:30 AM UTC
Colors, have ways of making us soar,
or fall.......they make us buoy...
they, too, can divide and isolate...
long ago, a magazine
was colored and identified for a reason.....
also,
a kind of blue-sy music, upon which i groove,
...was named for the same reason...
.............a magazine..... a music genre,
became instruments...and parts of
dark and golden moments.......recalled
and enjoyed, every now and then...they're
painted.......registered in people's minds....
life is a magazine of stories, of poetry...
life is a jukebox...filled with soundtracks
life is an album...a collection of smiles
...of colorful images and emotions
reddish brown at first...turning yellow brown,
with tinges of taupe.......mottled through the years,
turning...into fading shades of sepia...
i refuse my late summer moments on earth
............to be done in Grisaille,
painted, only in tones of grey and dark green...
...it is written...one day, life would be hued with
subdued colors...the blues, silvers and grays,
...........will be cold as winter...
but, until then,
i'd rather be consumed with liveliness
i would adorn my days with peach and lilac
blossoms, hang fuschia pink pennants
on my wall....to brighten my disposition,
i'd practice...play the guitar once again,
i'll wear my ruffled, dappled-purple skirt,
and yellow converse sneakers when i walk on
the pavement....under blue skies that enhance
greens, and gold...colors that breathe existence
transforming weariness to courage...
wherever...whenever, however possible,
i speak, whisper to God words of gratitude,
and endless thanksgiving...i pray for strength.
and acceptance........prepare myself...when,
.....i, too...would face my own moments,
...............of fading sepia.
Sally
Copyright August 6, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Aug 5, 2017
Aug 5, 2017 at 10:34 PM UTC
elephants stomping on my head
laugh as they draw blood
fragmented ideals scatter in the wind
as trampled dreams mix with dust
cemented in 'supposed to'
hiding behind other people's 'shoulds'
jackhammer disappointment
crushes bones with broken boundaries
play me a song
to make it look pretty
and I'll pretend to dance
with you in foggy yesterday's
karaoke soundtracks
to a stranger's tears
that leave the heart blind
tripping acid just to see in forgotten colors
breathing bacteria
from the soles of shoes
wiped on my forehead
as they said, 'hello'
a mosaic of skull puzzles
grouted in the remnants of the ****
left behind as everyone
just walks away
shadows smell clean in dark corners
where colors are left to die
in clouds of expectation
leaving truth buried in the ruble
...of who they thought I was
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 6:30 PM UTC
i want to be someone
who you want to
experience
not a person who
you can lose interest in
like a record you've listened to
too many times
without pausing
to truly listen to the lyrics
i want to be someone
you want to be around
add my laugh
to your favorite soundtracks
and appreciate
my company
not just flip through
my pages and skim a few lines
but actually dogear pages
and highlight your favorite parts
i want to be
worth something to someone
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
I make myself so happy for no reason then stick my own back,
melancholic acts of treason, cut and measure my own lesions;
a line between pleasure and pleasing.
Not an pessimist nor a type of optimist but a realist who has mastered the execution of delusion and illusion.
Oxymoronic, Guess I'm just human;
Apparently the semblance of a god,
so making something from nothing isn't odd,
but I was given everything from a soul to my bones, hair to my toes;
Even to me who stays in this, sinew and ivory, home the reason is unknown but I know the weight of this form has its toll.
Ties made are rarly cut
more than the material is used,
bonds spirt imbued,
that which feeds hate and love.
My soul is the ocean my form the soil my mind the heavens so it's wisdom guides the toil.
What I put on to my body will seep to the sea, be it poisons or ointments that is to be seen, my wish for foresight seems obscene,
a noxious tint colors the scene
Ah this is but a show, how else can I explain the tragedies sown.
Who wrote this play?
No
Who paid its commission,
who conscripted us to suffer, no need for permission, no fine print played off as a simple omission?
Actors with no access to backstage
so it is do or die,
freedom in a cage,
the 4th wall blocks our eyes.
we get no reactions for our performance
no real feedback,
so we face our troupe like opponents, for no real reason.
Whilst some seem to flourish in a limelight others perish in darkness
some disappear through trap doors others fly with out harness.
seasoned thespians sometimes show us a way; how to perform our parts, from when they entered the play.
We are told there is a script, so I would say some have forgotten thier lines
but honestly the script has never passed these eyes,
all I know is that somes voices are drowned out by the soundtracks of anxiety and sadness;
The polyrhythms of fear and deafening sound of loneliness and madness
How could the director have this?
That's the purpose of a tragedy; make the watcher feel like they are living lavishly.
Wanted a reason why I find it so tragic.
In the words of Life 'There, you have it.'
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 5:57 PM UTC
Sat on a train
and I gaze along
face after face
of strangers
that all share
this same moment
in time and space
and yet they're
all so vacant,
staring into space
and time bears
no relevance,
cause its the same thing
day in day out,
all of us sat there,
headphones intact
listening to our
own soundtracks
as we make our way
through tunnels
unaware of the tracks sound
as we're shuttled around
and I'm dumbfounded
by how wisdom
is found in the loss of interaction,
sat across a
man in a suit
clocking up percentages
and in a fraction,
I've took stock
and mocked up
a story for him
through his action ,
this one man
of many in this
age of distraction
Until this traction
created by volt-age
comes to a halt
as this train stops
at the station,
my station in sight,
this stationary moment
of insight interrupted
as doors open,
my form plateaus
as I step onto
the platform,
leaving this
train of thought
for another one,
adjourned as
I Journey on.
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 4:13 PM UTC
War Memorial In November
Empty Fountain Lined With Leaves
Old Town Hall, Cherry Trees
Caught In First Winter Breeze.
Solidarity
Moment Not Soon Forgot
Not As Easily Remembered
Not As Easily Shared
City and Colour Soundtracks A Storm
Down Along The Mill
Before A Sloping Upward Hill
Wind Whipped Wild At Trees Stood Still
Soaked Wet Through Clothing
Late Autumn Truants
With No Other Reason To Be
Than To Feel And Find Expression
Making Back The Way To Work
Held Hand In Heartfelt Hand
Making The Best Of The Bland
In Such Moment's Not Meant To Disband
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 2:46 AM UTC
Grab-ass is as far from **** as promiscuity
is from prostitution---
The Weinsteins move to Nigeria
to make Nollywood blockbusters
w/ kpop soundtracks---
big in China & Russia, making movie stars
of Ukrainian beauty queens driving drunk
at midnight in a country where grab-ass is okay
& homosexuality is illegal
& subject to the death penalty---
See beautiful African women
lining up to get their ***** felt
by the Jewish movie mogul
who can make them stars overnight---
Mathematically correct & joined by Chinese
& Indian beauty queens in a veritable renaissance
Of ***** men and women
who become bolder in public
than in private in speaking out against those
who promote the homosexual lifestyle;
**** them all!’ they cry
& the Nollywood industry cranks on---
American boycott the new Nollywood films
Which means nothing but free publicity
Since Asian people line up
around the block & ***** the ***** of women
in front of them & Russians
hail the resurgence of masculinity
when the life of Pushkin is made into a biopic
with a Russian cast in
a Russian-Nigerian co-production;
In Elizabethan theatre
(the height of the Renaissance in England)
Young boys played girls
& backstage got their butts dutifully reamed---
The universal irony that young boys
replaced women yet were *****
& molested as if they were---
European history has always been gay
from the Neanderthals who died out from ******
(the root of the myth of ***** & Gomorrah);
To the Greeks & Romans
to the Catholic Church---to gay marriage
to the rights of transgenders
to be treated like women & men except in reverse
which changes everything for everybody---
In Nigeria gay men are lynched by mobs
Of right-thinking citizens
who pay good dollars to see movies
Where some of the world’s most attractive women
get sodomized by rough,
burly macho male stars as if they were boys---
Nollywood becomes Nollyporn
becomes Nollyrape & sells around the world
bringing in millions & then billions---
while Americans & Europeans, Australians & Kiwis
adamantly promote the gay agenda
that is rejected by the rest of the world---
Dec 21, 2017
Dec 21, 2017 at 4:00 PM UTC
I will always pick you,
to be my partner
I will save your place in line
despite the angry people behind me
I will laugh with you on your worst days
I will laugh with you because I know it means you're sad
I will laugh with you because I will feel awkward too
I have saved up all the gold coins you have given out
the ones you hold in your otherwise empty pockets
the ones you give out when someone really needs it
they are hard to find,
most often they've come in the form of a rumor
that saved me from hating someone
because you knew I could never hate you
they've come in the form of always choosing me
when it came down to it
they've come in the form of the hard truth
even when I didn't want to hear it
I will always pick you,
to be my partner
I will always have a spare bedroom for your one day son
just like you always had a couch in the basement for me
If only, there were soundtracks of our late night conversations
about politics
and exotic biology
we might finally win something together
I will always pick you,
to be my partner
because I have seen the best of you
and I have seen the worst of you
and I choose both
I will always pick you,
to be my partner
mostly because
I am afraid of the dark
but you hold fireflies in your chest
for the days that the sun just won't come up
I will always pick you,
to be my partner
always
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 11:13 PM UTC
a fever isn't just a heated state it's a trance where an even temperature escalates into a dangerous smothering absorption of all moisture, health and grief like walking on a ceiling, I am confused and allured by your violent embraces and how they affect my fever the smile your back makes as I graze you I'm tormented by our forever through the time I've spent wandering I have gathered few things butterfly wings and summer soundtracks to sing
I'm flying
eyes closed
back arched
I'm wounded
self inflicted charms an over beating heart a piano plays through my fingertips my leg gets their heavy beating I do not own a thing I do not own my body I do not own this soul I let free the words I hold onto the moods I've always gone to
I am
I am
I am
a figment
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 4:51 PM UTC
It was as though my secrets were embedded like smile lines.
And you were the key carving out my cheek bones.
Because four shots of espresso never tasted so fulfilling.
And mediocre coffee shop soundtracks never sounded so soothing.
I listened to your tall tales that made me feel shorter.
I felt your walls gently falling like a cotton filled earthquake.
I couldn't help but watch a beautiful disaster take place.
I noticed you don’t see well.
A mirrored image doesn't suffice.
But I’m hoping a few kind words a day will help.
Because I refuse to watch an impeccable soul settle for less.
So I’ll write it down.
I’ll figure it in words.
Then I’ll crumble it up and bury it beneath the soil in your skin.
Aiming to be the water *** that helps you bloom into self-realization.
You, my dear.
Possess qualities families could make homes from.
Open your gaze, for me.
See yourself, for you are wonderful midst your darkness.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 12:42 PM UTC
I offer no useful explanation
No news flash story on the madness of my life
Cause there's sorrow and sadness, yes
and loss and
"yes and no" answers
25 years of grieving bereavement
Me at my hastily finalised funeral
Songs and soundtracks
A casket carried out
To far approaching forever
Awkward; pausing moments
The pall bearer moves, nervously
Slips
Someone
Plants an assuring hand-
Mateship stays but Death-
Death
goes on and on and on
Rattle ump thump
And the end is never near,
And always.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 7:36 AM UTC
I'd have sung to
the strum of your guitar
I'd have danced around
while you smiled crooked
and laughed like thunderclaps
I'd have held your hand
and rubbed my thumb against
freckled skin,
finding affirmations tucked in
the crevices and cracks of hard-working hands
I'd have kissed you
in the sunshine,
on the back porch,
while the sun set,
while mosquitoes flew around our heads,
in your bedroom,
listening to your favorite soundtracks,
backstage,
underneath table cloths,
next to your best friend
I'd have touched you
like lightning bolts,
caught all your storms
in jars,
worn your soft skin inside and out
and told you all my kindled secrets
if you'd have let me
I'd have loved you like a summertime
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 12:54 AM UTC
I want my love to remind you of the first stars you see during the nightfall, of the movie soundtracks you sing under the shower, of the words from a book you can’t put down, of the scenes you remember from a half-forgotten dream.
I want my love to remind of you the first sunrise we saw together from my bed, of the coffee blend that made you realize you loved coffee, and of riding buses during sunsets, and of the first flowers that came right from your soul.
I want my love to remind you that despite its harshness and sadness, there is something kind and soft and gentle in this world, darling — and that you can call it home.
Jun 30, 2019
Jun 30, 2019 at 9:58 AM UTC
Flashing lights....
Invade my sights
when my thoughts
are like...
Divorced thighs..
lips Swelled prepped
to resist my
goodbye...
Constricted hello's
while I play peek aboo
with her insides... her
breast dance to the melody's
played when satisfaction stops
to say hi...
I love her music, encouragement
for our momentary desires to
continue fusing..... Her ******
brewing, intimate temperatures
beg sensation to convert into
fluid, her appreciation
oozing...
waste that demands
a volume increase
in her music while
her legs mimic the
speech of someone
in need of a pronunciation
improvement... Her stomach
too friended that stuttering
movement.... Excitement's
introduction to the lungs
is a bit confusing altering
the amount of air needed
and what the body loses
I love her music...
Soundtracks of lust
play from our bodies
as we continue this
bonded movement...
her tones, multi pitched
moans mixed with the
bathing sound of her ocean
cruising... our boats collide
lending us such blissful
bruisings,
smooth sailing.....
her unlimited supply
of friction proofing
I love her music
Day dreaming
© 2014 viewtifulink
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
Stranded among deserted dreams she folds her hands,
Prayers whisper in weakened ears as her punishment beams,
This reckoning will magnify throughout decades for her exile awaits,
A lonesome retreat for a somber song,
Broken soundtracks repeat reconciled tunes,
A sanctum of regret welcomes her remorse,
For deeds cannot be undone and the words spoken stung;
Ghastly hours await.
Apr 14, 2021
Apr 14, 2021 at 5:53 PM UTC
I'm supposed to write of flowers
of the song that summer sings
and tell of ladies in towers
covered in luxurious things.
I'm supposed to talk of spring time
and the violets in the yard
the evergreen of the creeper vine
or the mystery of the tarot card.
I'm supposed to sing of perfumes
and the vibrant color in soft twilight
of rose and almond blooms
as they grow more lovely in the night.
But instead I find myself counting stars
in a sheep-less vision of sleepless rest
wishing on spheres of silent fury so far
to send me on some kind of epic quest.
Because, you see, the music in my life
soundtracks and the very like
have made the norm seem so amazing
that, cue the tune, and I'm ready to fight.
Against dragons or demons or wizards or harm
to win a crown of glory and charm.
But I am a nobody, in a nobody age
no Knight, no Princess, no Warrior Mage;
so don't ask me to write tales of which I know not
I am the Hero the world forgot.
Jul 16, 2010
Jul 16, 2010 at 7:17 AM UTC
I curse you
In all majesty
I curse the beat of angel wings
Float away from troubled days
Harp harmony soundtracks
I curse the demons
Un-caged and free
Purposefully torment me
I curse the sky
The sun and stars
The constant reminders of just how far
I’ve drifted from home
Rootless wanderer
Nomad without the right stride
I curse the ground
Final barrier between figurative
And physical hell
I curse the curses
I rely on all the wrong things
I curse myself
Faithless and stupid
Unwanted and lost
Looking for roots that look like
Home
Propelled by insanity
I call it faith
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 7:33 AM UTC