"talkies" poems
Kevan Fuchs died today in his sleep
In a similar way as his father of one
And actually, also my father did too
Of those bitter, big cancer scourges
Which always come in unexpected
In this short enough life, a bit early
I've known him ever since first, when
We were knee high to Dad's shotgun
Throughout our small neighborhood
We would all roam to see and look
For ***** toads and such other fun
Without any known end in our sights
We often, came all together, at once
In his parent's, little Clovis back yard
In the under ground, in our deep dug
Wild little clubhouse of our new pride
Approved by our jealous Dad's stare
Made all by ourselves, with great care
Eight by eight, with three feet of deep
Shagged carpet floors, walls around
And places to hide stuff with those
**** magazines we wished to remain
Unseen by our parents, although they
Surely lived through similar wild times
Black lights , fluorescent mod posters
Fans to cool, while there in the deep
Kept the place comfy, from several
Hot summers in New Mexico's heat
Staying nights over, in conspiracy we
Came colluding, while hoping no fame
This place was our place, of known
Refuge from all of the big crazy, with
Frightening world still yet to come
Giving us our youngest freedoms
And also so much being in trouble
As kinda neighborhood hoodlums
Far up his Dad's, tall, two-way radio tower
One of us in care would climb
With binoculars to see the dark night
With our pair of walkie talkies held
Warn the others, carousing around
Of any plight, in appearing headlights
Kevan's brother, still alive, Keith
My other brother by another, Buddy
Also at first, a weird guy, named Chris
One other member, as second cousin
Who actually, was my very first kiss
When it was hard to aim, lips to miss
All bound as one, by made up signs
And part of something called PSO
Which, if you don't know well, what it
Truly means, then you were definitely
Not a part of the so very high bliss
Which we suffered through so often
Kevan's true nature is clearly proven
Finally, most completely, at his end
In the nature of his wonderful loving
All his family, who also so loved him
And all those other parties to trouble
Who also so loved, really all of him
© 2017 Jim Davis
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 9:18 AM UTC
What is artistic expression how do put my soul on a page
How do I stroke my aura’s color if I can’t see it
How do paint my humor and intentions
How do I draw my unbalanced chakras back to balanced and write the energies surging through channels
How do I chalk out my thought process when I am reminded of you
Walkie talkies hidden ontop my chalkie chakra blocked like telephone lines hit by drunk drivers or blackouts during storms
Sunshine burning mustard seething weekend breeding burnouts coming out of retirement like
My soul color bleeding rainbows with big blocks of grey in between Needing the contrast Needing the depth and blurred complications the world is not black and white we all bleed the same rainbow sparks into the same riverbeds breathing and exhaling with the time ticks of our existence of light reflected on the glitter trickled surface of the vibrations of our soul speaks ricocheting through galaxies for eternity.
Can’t phrase anything right
In come spiraling thoughts stories of me stories of we can’t help but trip I fall into thee mother Luna romanticizing the waves of the sea you rub my jaw with your hipster b
Crown king we’re being free
We’re trying queen
Forgot the beauty in the cold
Blackened hearts should walk boldly
Frozen on mountaintops trying to keep our souls warm
Broken and torn plastic bag in the wind escaping entities that block their flow
Exhausted on faking
Keep breaking from trying to make it
Ain’t no fun to be around
I keep all my words in my mouth
The devils got my tongue
I’m feeling numb
All my existence is to ***
I can’t get up out of the ******* ground
Years go by
I’m not feeling myself
Tears come out of me like a leaking spout
No drugs can bother me
My head belongs in the clouds
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
Spy Kids (the original)
A 5 dollar matinee with your mom
A box of Bunch A Crunch
Or a plastic sack of
Dip N Dots
Ninja Turtle walkie talkies
Flare denim cargo pants
Bobby Jack zip up hoodies
With blue Fla-Vor-Ice stains
And hide and seek
Now That’s What I Call Music
Volume 17
Playing from a 10in x 10in
Silver box TV
And high frequency noise
To accompany
Akon’s latest bass line
A razor scooter
The foot powered kind
When the Preacher’s Daughter
Has a shiny blue one with a motor
Weeping to Secondhand Serenade
Because your mom won’t let you have
A Wii
And your crush checked “no” on the
Note you gave them last week
Detention after pre algebra
From shooting a girl two seats over
At “close range”
With a hornet
And she was unfamiliar with the school wide
NO SNITCHIN’
policy
The words
Beastly
And epic
Used to describe what your
8th grade field trip is gonna be like
A phone call from your best friend
About finally finding Ben Franklin
In Tony Hawk’s Underground 2
Now
The OK symbol is your most used emoji
There are too many guys with long hair
And beards
White girls all have a weird obsession
With house plants
We’re all at least 50 thousand dollars in debt
And I think we all
Just really hope Donald Trump
Isn’t our next president
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 12:19 AM UTC
Make me bleed,
dig in,
shards of ancient revenge,
words of Christmas mints,
eyes of cellophane.
If I scream,
tell me I'm the last of my kind.
Sympathy is a joke,
the fire is stoked,
my misery is going for broke.
Make me believe,
the love in your eyes is earnest,
stamp it out with your apocalyptic brows,
tell the four seasons
have not been cruel enough to me.
If I bite back,
muzzle me, baby.
Tell me I'm a silent movie lost in the era of talkies.
I'm in your woods, traveling with a broken walkie.
I'm the prey your hungry mind has been stalking.
If you don't destroy me,
how will I ever create?
Nov 11, 2010
Nov 11, 2010 at 10:42 PM UTC
I don't know when it became
Such a game
To just communicate
With you
Some power play
But dang I'd choose
Cups and strings
And walkie talkies
Over this "thing"
Any day
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 12:11 AM UTC
Cell phone shield in hand,
the mirror-me peers
into a shoddy, cracked up
dream reflector-slash-protector
as I make amends with
my agitated mitochondria and
attempt to drill miniscule holes into
paper dolls without ripping them.
So screams the wall hanging!
Banshees dance, falling
into cyclical romances as
cream colored microphones peek
out around one-way windows wondering
whether or not the smiles will hold.
Eyes still,
eyes wrinkles crinkling,
spit spray sprinkling.
Connect to the dreamers.
Push your plug into
my cracking wall sockets,
pull me apart at the seams.
So cries the doorstopper!
Knees bleed from
street corner séances
and eyes green grass
that's afraid to ask
where its clover went
but heavens, it's bent for hell.
Pray tell me, burping chickadee,
when did your teeth glass over
with a film of cerulean and
your bones start sailing
through tepid reminders that
you may end this life a failure,
swallowing Uncle Ben's rice packet trash
at the dark black bottom of the Pacific?
So sighs the statue!
Broken walkie talkies
feed red back to nothing
and knick knack hoarders note
the familiar festering of deadly bacteria
in the lungs and on the
tippy top of the tongue.
Space cadets rocket
through concrete jungles containing
apartment after
apartment after
apartment filled with
mannequins filled with
sand filled with
unevenly severed hands.
So speaks the ornament!
So declares the dashboard decal!
Sensual scholarly seekers
seem so totally hip
and read feminist poetry
to dispel the myths
and spit on the irony.
I won't dare to flatter you
with the focused attention of stone
or allow the personable picture frame
to make the secrets of
the microscopic universe known.
So suggests the ship siren!
So recites the repository!
Empty yourself into me,
adopt a new philosophy,
abandon in within two weeks
so I can see and you can seep,
your fluttering robin heart to keep
and glaciers to arrive upon
a salty brown eternal sleep.
Deliver me to the melting shopping mall!
The centennial fire alarm goes off
at the tip of the cliff,
at the end of the hall.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC
So often
Going through the day
Minding my own business
and people feel the need to intrude.
Smoking outside my building
Just want silence
One of the local talkies comes over
Going on and on
Sciatica pain he says
On and on
and on and on
“Probably emotional” I tell him
He did not like that
Most people don’t
When you suggest there is something
more going on
Than they are willing to face.
But I have decided
If they want to intrude
on my solitude
I don’t have to chew it.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 10:44 PM UTC
“Can you hear me?” “Can you hear me?” …. “Come-in”
Boys with “walkie-talkies”, walking and talking, squealing and squawking
The girls were chalking – on the sidewalk
Range, one quarter mile. More over water, the box said
If all you hear is static
Run some wire in your attic
Or tie it to your gutter
“Can you hear me?” You may utter
Copper wire strung on a fence
For Russian signals the pretense
Every beep, buzz and whistle
Was that to do with someone’s missile?
A weather fax for steaming ships, “doodle doodle” sound
Deadly tips!
Vacuum tubes soft-lit for me
RCA, Westinghouse, and GE
Their glow-warm magic casting a spell
A hook set lightly - I could not tell
Gizmos, and gadgets, in crate after crate
Rolled into the business - helped shape my fate
War surplus it was, "truck's in" they would holler
Purchased for two-bits on the dollar
So thank you Dad – the hook you set
grew into a job, my needs were met
A needed change, a needed change
Courtesy, Machinery Exchange
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 4:39 PM UTC
If our love was like a movie
it will be a cheesy 80's flick
where we're at a party
and you make your way to me
from right across the room
It could set in a timeless 50's feature
where I could be Audrey Hepburn
running around idyllic places
doing things I pleasure
while being with you
Maybe we are like the 20's
where we star in the talkies
A fascination, an innovation
a breakthrough, a classic
just like me and you
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 1:20 PM UTC
I've heard the creak of the stairs
as she passes over them
for the eleventh time today,
laundry basket wrapped around her hip,
its soft plastic shape
molded to the curve of her
from the number of times she's held it close.
I've heard the silence of a muted television
when he lets the flatscreen lives pass by
as my sister starts in on another story,
laughing about children he will never meet
and looking into her
to remember how much of him she is.
I've heard the warmth of two voices joined into one
from the telephone pressed closely to my ear
both of them sitting in separate rooms,
a different receiver in each of their hands,
as if our living room is the size of this whole country
and the arm chairs in it are rooms
in which we each sit,
the phones walkie-talkies we've made
a part of this game
of pretending that we are all together,
conversing across the fireplace
of New England autumn and
the blue carpet of Lake Erie.
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 11:28 PM UTC
Looking for a plan
to homestead with honey
You find the land
and I’ll bring the money.
Start with 8 hens and
then get a rooster.
Sunlight and dirt are
the best immune booster.
community grown
no, you won’t be alone
walkie talkies instead of upgraded iPhone.
remain lean and fit
use up every bit
for excellent compost mix in chickensh!t.
swale in the roots
of a filtering lily
irrigation to grow
what I’ll use in the chilli
weeds in the cracks
seeds in the snacks
a little help from the axe
and the *** makes us stacks.
And I’ll spin what I comb
from the fellows who roam
on the sod in the loam...
All we will need is
some land and some money,
a pocket of seed,
and true love for honey.
Jun 17, 2020
Jun 17, 2020 at 5:19 PM UTC
The music was much more,
When you had nothing to say
So, whether I read or not,
I interpreted anyway,
Such a thrill it was,
Amazed I sat in the dark
So many shades of gray!
Then talkies broke our hearts
BLCostello©2021
Oct 6, 2021
Oct 6, 2021 at 2:14 AM UTC
as I come into someone else’s own, I agree to meet my brother at a clawfoot tub I hope is still there. I fill a bucket with water and leave it with my wife for good luck. I walk from the house in mild weather and become plain to you. I pass the mud my father’s eye goes without. I tire. I come to in my brother’s arms and his badge has left a mark on my cheek. sleep is like a slug I can’t overtake and then it is my tongue or in its privacy. brother roughs me into the tub headfirst so I can hear the highway. he preaches and they were followed by two sets of footprints until the footprints had to rest else they’d be too fat to die. these parts you're money or hush money.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 8:37 PM UTC
After getting off the phone with you at night
I’m reminded of when we were kids
using walkie talkies to communicate
we were supposed to be sleeping
but we stayed up watching Adult Swim
sharing our jokes and observations
until one of us would invariably fall asleep
and then the other.
Even though the calls are less frequent
I’m still interested in your favorite shows
What are your favorite scenes?
Who are your favorite characters?
Is Full Metal Alchemist: Brotherhood still cherished?
Sometimes I forget you’re just down the hall
and get so engrossed in my own experience
that asking about yours slips my mind.
So feel free to ask me if I’m still awake
and I’ll check in between episodes
because I’m afraid one of us might fall asleep
and the calls will stop coming entirely.
Aug 18, 2025
Aug 18, 2025 at 3:09 AM UTC