"strums" poems
Blind Willie Johnson strums six strings a day
He drinks with the woman who taught him to play
He spells out his secrets in the songs that he sings
And breathes his life onto six rusty strings
Blind Willie Johnson brings home the blues
Blind Willie Johnson will wail the blues to you
The brothel he grew up in is tearing down the walls
He's got so many memories of those smokey halls
His mama could be there or she could be dead
He's got no pictures, just anecdotes instead
Blind Willie Johnson said he don't know a thing
Except for the truth in the blues that he sings
Blind Willie Johnson ain't really blind at all
He's just got those gray eyes from years of alcohol
He stares into the smoke of a Friday night crowd
Who stare back at him as his stories ring out
Blind Willie Johnson doesn't cover up a thing
Listen to his pain in the blues that he sings
"Blind Willie Johnson" reads the graveyard stone
Under the blanket of the sky, Willie rests alone
Though his voice is lost underneath the ground
The world will never forget Blind Willie's sound
Blind Willie Johnson sang the way he felt
He never complained about the hand he was dealt
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 12:59 AM UTC
The concrete drum
beats two steps;
their sound signals
dear freedom
The cricket hum
drowns the day
and instills a
tranquil numb
The bare breeze
strums leaves and all
and breaks the heat
in welcome
The tonic sum
a blessed song;
allowing one
to triumph
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 7:26 PM UTC
Unmoved by your arrival from the west coast,
ten thousand little things are different.
It’s October and the trees are on fire:
a forge that you won't notice, 'til you're gold.
Your Kicks don’t leave footprints on these cobbled streets;
even the children have old, leathery hands.
Try to paddle-board the Eno and the bass go belly-up:
that river’s for scattering ashes and making moonshine.
All they sell at Aldi is ethnic shampoo,
so now your hair twists like the roots you’ve lacked
'til now, because all you’ll ever need is two hands:
for prayer, and work.
Life moves on like a cigarette’s drag,
while somewhere Hope’s fiddle strums;
Take off your headphones and
go put your ear to an oak.
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 9:27 PM UTC
Life is like a melody
Strumming to a love song
He who always smiles gently
Begins to hum along.
Sitting at one corner
She looks at him shyly
He sings his heart to her
Someone he loves dearly.
Coffee is their favorite
To share with each other
One in each episode
Of their love story together.
He strums while waiting there
Brown teddy bear by his side
Flowers placed everywhere
For proposal to his future bride.
He nervously make his vow
Asks for her hand in marriage
She kisses him on his eyebrow
Crowd cheers as they embrace.
©joieyin
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 11:37 AM UTC
When I think of all the tears and turbulence life has
given me, it sometimes makes me hard for
me to forgive this world
I usually would find peace in the solitude
and my waters would be still. I'd
honestly prefer that than to
feel alone amidst this
sea of life
But now, I've learned to dance with the
naiads by the Springs of Many Lives.
With her hand in mind, the life-stream
strums and begins to form rings
Each ripple made is a bond that
grows stronger in time
Each one beaming
with many hues
Now I see, the true beauty of life.
The waters will run hot, cold and
warm. We all will dance
different dances.
But the Naiads show me the beautiful
bonds I have made with my fellow
Kings and Queens on HP from all
walks of life who wear their
crowns with pride.
That is a life I yearn for.
For my diadem to be made of
pure starlight.
For me to have such understanding
makes me shed true
tears of joy.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 2:11 PM UTC
Kisses up and down your body
Lay cuddle start to feel naughty
Game of footsie under sheets
Probing strobing generating heat
Take my finger direct me to the good
Sun rising like my morning wood
Juices flow feel the wet
Anticipate pounding you're about to get
In your thighs staring deep in eyes
Inhibitions fly
Everything we try
Comfort there is no fear
Nibble whisper in your ear
Lap explosion need no muzzle
Sip it slow then take a big guzzle
Pulsating pleasure fills your body
Consistent pace no longer spotty
Caressing scars with healing bars
Pen will stroke till seeing stars
Let us strum like a song that's sung
Twisted like our tangled tongues
We are honey bees
Smoking trees
Tantric trigger squeezed..
Buck my shot
Push to last drop
Contorting from ******** shock
Rub G spot get three wishes
Only need one its your Morning Kisses..
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 6:22 PM UTC
“I think there’s something wrong with you and that’s okay,” she sings with all her heart
and strums the guitar with my pick.
I’m in charge of the chords,
holding the guitar so
she can reach it where she sits.
We dream it up together, but
I phone it in
I admit.
A, D, E - 1, 4, 5 -
arbitrarily chose.
She keeps it alive with her prose
Just 5 years old
A poet with her eyes closed.
You can be anything you want to be, and that’s okay as long as you’re happy.
Like she knows
The greatest longings of the whole of humanity,
Like she’s peered into the depths of the vast ocean of broken hearts,
And know this is the best place to start…
Like it’s easy.
“It’s okay”, she sings with closed eyes,
and strums the guitar in musical bliss.
And it is. For that moment. For a heartbeat.
It is.
Sep 26, 2021
Sep 26, 2021 at 9:57 PM UTC
When we walked up to the door of our favourite coffee pub
You tangled your fingers around my own
And with a twist of my wrist
We went in
We order our usual from the usuals
The baristas never changed though the drinks did with the seasons
As I pull out the exact change from my coat
You shake some melted snow from your hair
We grab a seat at a nook by the window
There was a ring of dried coffee on the table
I fill it in with my mug
You joke it’s my OCD but I say it’s my love for the unappreciated
We listen to a woman with a guitar at the makeshift stage
She strums off a couple chords and sings with her lips
She fades into the background as I turn to look at you
Your eyes are closed to turn up the volume
I close mine too and let the music direct me
My mind swims like a trapeze *******
I sway with the strings and strums
Your hand grasps mine as I fall into the safety net
The guitarist is packing up
Our coffee or what’s left of it is cold
You lean over and
Two angels kissed like sinners
Two sinners kissed like angels
Jun 20, 2010
Jun 20, 2010 at 11:16 PM UTC
Harmonica and strums sail my shores
Tell my whole clan sonny, he ain't good
That I met a troller under a sycamore
He passed me all the love as he veiled
We walked around,camouflaged by leaves
Tell mummy he was a preacher's son
A soul that was open and hid it's stick
Unharmonised in accapellas I drowned
Swingers of melodic stormy strings
Tell sassy to keep her tassels tucked
To calm her tussles and noisy gongs
Shake on the octave of the beats
Whisked dreams of the lost yesterdays
Tell Jimmy to listen to her heart raise
Tie her down, bring her back home
Liberate and let her fly like a wild bird
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 6:42 PM UTC
The luminosity breaks my cage of crepuscule as the vociferous symphony of the media obstruct the clang of injustice. A thousand eyes glare at Lucifer yet neglect the vision of purity as their hand points with each finger a spindle establishing a cloak made of stigma. The cloak, an item I am now constricted in, is in completion as the gates stance creates a void soaring over me to which I am absorbed - as on the other side lies the devils crooked tune whilst God strums the chords.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 4:58 PM UTC
Black out, fade in,
spot light on the boy with his guitar.
Dim light, dim blue flush,
she sits in the corner,wishing on her imaginary star.
Same stage, same adrenaline,
same passion but time never intended for them to meet.
She plays on her role,
and he strums away at his gig.
Sound of guitar coming from his window,
no audience and no standing ovations.
On rented wings, she takes flight,
no rehearsals, no scripts,just tucked away passion.
In his camouflaged green,
he wakes up to his responsibility.
In her traditional prints,
she's all set for the working society.
The clock strikes twelve,
it's the end of two thousand ten.
He's at the eating place
and she comes by with her friends.
He's sitting at the corner
and she's at the other end.
Their eyes met for the very first time,
when they reach out to shake hands.
No lights, no stage,
no audience and that adrenaline.
Just the boy with his guitar, strumming
and in his room she sits, watching.
She talks about the plays, the roles
and in his room he strums, listening.
No lights, no stage,
no audience, just he and her,and their spoken adrenaline.
Twenty-six February,
two thousand eleven.
He and her,
like a match made in heaven.
You know what they said about heaven and earth?
A new chapter begins
for the guitarist and the wannabe actress.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 1:04 PM UTC
Let the poetry...
Write itself....
As the ripe new moon
strums the swaying
silhouettes of the night.
Let the poetry...
Write herself...
With the vast
expanse of obsidian sky.
Pocked subtly with the shy
murmurs of the stars...
Offering solace and peaceful respite.
Let the poetry...
Write of you...
As the splendour...
Envelopes each unspoken letter.
Embedding words of warmth,
that seize my heart
in a state of enamour...
Before taking its majestic flight.
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 10:57 AM UTC
A cider and a minder
Passing time as a reminder
Pink glow and songs flow
A waxy time erodes the mow
Renegades and perspiration responds
Swimming in winded seas of Jordan
Heated in space, evicted in their pace
Libido fails as the liquor dilutes in taste
Catch an esse as the moonlight smite
Hold another to fake a romantic right
Filter to the cards of ace as the one winks
Emotive intruders farm in fields of pastures
Imbued with alcoholic waterfalls
Molehills of termites condense lose soil
A lack of connection a taunt that apes
Future anthems triumph in hungered strums
Amused by the music erupting volcanoes
A morrow blows as the candle slows
To tow the tall grassed disused straw
A spring to summer that promises sun rays
A resolve to moderation to preserve modesty
A kiss stored forever peeping the awing stars
To guard a heart and hatch uniformity
Trembles justly forgotten in termed premises
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 2:42 PM UTC
A pregnant lass with eyes of glass has never learned to cope.
Once set adrift her fall was swift, she slid a slipp’ry slope -
She casts the Curse, the Holy Verse, and shoots a shot of dope,
And stalks discreet Asylum Street her daily horoscope -
The stray was struck by random truck which was her only hope.
Well, Banjo Boy, with little joy, he strums her life entire:
“The wayward waif was never safe; her stars were dark and dire.
Born midst the rues and avenues where lack and want aspire
Where no one heeds the childish needs that little ones require;
Where faith survives in tempest lives, a swirl within the briar,
Infinity grinds as time unwinds, until the winds expire.
Her last caprice? The final peace that no one could deny her -
Whipped by the flood, stray beads of blood are spattered on the spire;
Though beads of sweat are cool and wet, cold clotted blood is dryer.”
Though broken there, she’s fled the snare with dying thoughts serene.
And now she’s dead, the rumours spread: “her age? a sweet 16,
With child, ***** her soul dyed red, her body so unclean.”
A place is sought where she can rot, avoiding churchyard scenes,
In limey pits, as well befits, behind forbidding screens;
And all the while a dirge is styled on tattered tambourines
Which echo through the human zoo in valleys of the Queens.
Without rejoice, in hissing voice, near soil that’s seldom trod
“In pious role, God bless my soul”, was mouthed with mitred nod,
Neath scarlet trim with black, and grim, behind a robed facade -
“She’ll burn in hell and sulphur smell”, spat Priest and man of god.
Well, angels sweet with cloven feet, they sing in girl’s attire,
But Banjo Boy, he’s playing coy while chanting in the choir:
“The clueless search within the church to find what they desire -
Beyond the nave, a gravelled grave, the final Rectifier”
And when he’s through, without ado, he stacks some stones nearby her.
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 8:07 AM UTC
Silently, here I lie,
And peacefully, I now must die,
And my heart beats and strums
Like the sound of a thousand drums.
Be it his way, be it his will,
I will with all my heart love him still
Because joy waits on those streets of gold,
I miss them so much both young and old.
Here I will write my legacy
As your pour out an entire sea,
Please don't mourn, dear heart, rejoice,
Don't you hear the peace in my voice?
I am pleased with what I have done
And now I can see all my loved ones
Don't steel your heart dear for it will rust
As I turn back to ashes, as I go back to dust
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 11:08 PM UTC
I know someone who finds solace in ballet shoes
A boy who strums his secrets to guitar strings
Someone that spends his waking moments with glazed red eyes
As if facing this world cold turkey
Isn’t even an option.
For boys whose fingertips shake
Like the burning end of a cigarette
And girls whose smiles resemble
Car crashes waiting to happen
A cacophony of shattered noises
And those of us who feel guilty for the
mere act
Inhaling air
And exhaling poison
So we spend lifetimes holding our breaths
Until we burn our lungs out trying
To warm our hearts
With something other than the fire
That burns out in a smoky haze
Until our eyes become rivers,
flowing oceans
That cry out a thousand melted glaciers
Our tongues speak ruined languages
We read everything backwards
Curse in Latin
Make oaths in Russian
So whatever we say sounds beautiful.
So that our hands wont have to learn permanence,
affection
consolation.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 8:58 AM UTC
And i would listen to paramore
to find those words i relate to
And i would turn the volume up
to numb the pain
The drums rock my mind
In tune with my heartbeat
As i scream out the lyrics
Those words i yearn to tell you
With the strums and guitar riffs
Which my heartstrings play out
I keep paramore on play
To express and numb it all more
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 9:25 AM UTC
Whenever my family and I,
Prepare to embark on a fair drive,
I grab my phone with my playlist along with my headphones.
Filled with excitement that nobody knows.
We set out on our excursion,
I put my headphones in,
I turn on my music,
And let the symphonies enter my head.
If I close my eyes,
I can visualize,
An ancient city filled with song and dance,
Amidst a sacred feast with the finest band.
I see the dresses swirl, and I smell the wheat in the fields,
Along with the fresh bread that they created with their yields.
The song changes to a more melancholic melody,
I envision a final stand, one with honor and dignity.
The knight fights its hardest, but is overrun,
The piano’s keys, haunting me, as it dies under the setting sun.
Another change, more upbeat, a comforting, catchy symphony.
I wish to dance, but I am confined to the car seat.
I open my eyes and look to the right,
At the sprawling landscape we’ve been passing by,
But instead of farmland and trees, guess what I see,
The same mind-boggling envisioning!
More songs play, various tones,
From joyous to somber, sacred to monotone,
Threatening to empowering, all on their own.
The drums beat to the piano’s keys,
As a rare mandolin strums in harmony.
A glorious symphony,
An undertone for creativity.
Oh, the power of envisioning!
Sep 18, 2025
Sep 18, 2025 at 7:17 PM UTC
The strums of his guitar
fall onto his lap
Trickle down my lobes
a steady dripping tap
Nov 5, 2021
Nov 5, 2021 at 9:15 PM UTC
*The eyes of the luthier are fixated
on the degrading and poorly fitted Dejacques bridge,
a small piece of wood that arches
at the top of the damaged instrument -
a prized 18th century treasure
originating from Brescia, a city in Northern Italy.
With a napkin in hand lightly
soaked in an oily substance,
he unhooks the piece,
then takes a replacement bridge
perfectly fitted for it. He cracks a smile.
This viola d'amore has seen better days,
with usage and prolonged handling
wearing the value of the instrument down.
Only an expert can bring a worn-out bird
seeking its once gracious and hypnotic voice
back to life with care and precision.
This luthier is a* surgeon,
*a master at installing a sound-post replacement,
without gouging or harming
the quality of the instrument in the process.
This luthier is a* listener;
*as he retrieves and dusts off a case
filled with a spare set of strings,
he installs and finely tunes them
but never over the desired pitch.
Tense and crucial,
like the rising crescendo of a string quartet,
he strums the new strings for evidence of life,
listening to and directing the cry of each one,
like a composer.
This luthier is a* healer,
*repairing the cracks of the violin
by implementing a tactic he learned
on his many trips to Crawley, England,
where his teacher had once trained him;
by using cubic, wooden studs and small clamps,
he gains better control at closing the cracks just enough
to lace the opening with an adhesive
with little to no force or pressure.
This luthier is an* artist,
*repairing the instruments
that yearn for the sound of music,
their very raison d'être.
His string and wooden patients
scream in agony for healing and peace
with voices unheard to the people,
but deafening to him.
He leaves his signature on each new patient
as their once damaged and lifeless souls
dance to the tune of his work,
healing them, promising the advent
of a future performance.
Let them rejoice. Let the music soar once again.*
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 2:29 PM UTC
A strum
One strum
Two strum
Three strum
All strums at once.
Then the chords
A chord
G chord
F chord
A series at once.
Then the melody
A rest
A note
A pitch
Ringing in all sincerity.
Then it increases
Louder
Faster
Stronger
Everything, all at once
Again and again
Strumming
Plucking
Playing until exhaustion reigns.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 6:18 AM UTC
I'm troubled by a broken tune,
that can't keep time and loops too soon.
Like Christmas in the heart of June,
each summer's heat a curdled moon.
It's not that I keep glancing back,
or wander down well-trodden tracks,
I've raged against a wall of facts,
interrogating every crack.
Yet still I feel its tender bass
and scrawl each lyric on my face.
I've copied out each line to trace
the meaning of this groundhog chase.
No matter which new route I choose,
this labyrinth seems short of clues.
There are no shields or string to use,
just an ageing bard that strums the blues.
And now begins another dance,
the waltz of sighs and askew glance.
It's orchestra tuned up by chance,
with instruments of circumstance.
And so returns the song's refrain.
Its endless echo back again,
to score my steps while I remain,
a different man, who's still the same.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 4:50 AM UTC
Unf give me an hour
I'll give you all my power
***** I'll devour
Lick it in the shower
Tasty and clean
I wanna **** ya like a machine
Feel my ****** pump
As my **** goes thump
Stick it in your mouth
Feel me as I grow
**** it fast...play with my balls..then slurp it slow
In your slit flicking your ****
***** slapping while ya deep throat my ****
***** tasty and so yummy
Stick up yo *** lay on your tummy
Feel my friction from behind
Pull your hair...your pussy's mine
Going in so deep
Your wetness starts to seep
Inside you I move it around
Your G spot I start to pound
Against the wall on the ground
I hear you moan luv the sound
Tie you up give you a choke
While your bound you feel my poke
***** nerves wrap around my stroke
Stop and do a line of coke
We are naughty that's no crime
Your ***** always on my mind
Best drug I'll ever find
I wanna **** you all the time
So hop up on my ****
For you it's hard like a rock
Rub it on your **** then drop
In and out so fucken hot
Use me till you ***
Twerk on my **** like a drum
Hold it there....Um...
Luv it when your ***** strums
Look deep into my eyes
Feel your ****** begin to rise
Ecstasy no surprise
We both *** while I'm inside
Hmm What more can I say
My hour has passed away
Just how I want to do you every single day..
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 2:12 AM UTC
Pax.
Pax.
Be with you.
Peace train.
Peace Corps.
Power to the peaceful.
Peace or violence?
The peace of the grave?
Shalom, amani, pagas:
Peace.
To the far off.
In the streets.
Peace child.
Peace.
Strums a guitar.
The sound of the stars.
Your face in my heart.
Blessed are those who make: peace
on earth,
between brothers,
with God.
Peace
of path.
Of mind.
Of sleep.
Peace
I leave with you.
Peace, foreigner
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 5:33 AM UTC