"timey" poems
Reminiscing
Nature’s way of showing
Those old-timey memories
Your first true love
Your first heartbreak
Your third-grade strait As
Your ninth grade strait Ds
Reminiscing
Those old-timey memories
The picture is terrible
All faded and stained
The sound is choppy
And voices drained
But yet we long to be transported
Back to those old times
So we relive the past
Or get on track
Reminiscing
Nature’s way of showing
You are who you are
So don’t long to change the past
Oct 21, 2010
Oct 21, 2010 at 8:20 PM UTC
Reminiscing
Nature’s way of showing
Those old-timey memories
Your first true love
Your first heartbreak
Your third-grade strait As
Your ninth grade strait Ds
Reminiscing
Those old-timey memories
The picture is terrible
All faded and stained
The sound is choppy
And voices drained
But yet we long to be transported
Back to those old times
So we relive the past
Or get on track
Reminiscing
Nature’s way of showing
You are who you are
So don’t long to change the past
Mar 30, 2011
Mar 30, 2011 at 8:20 PM UTC
There once was a man with a bowtie
And a little redhead girl
I'm gonna tell you the truth now
She loved him and he loved her.
They sat around the table
With fish fingers and custard, ice cream
They talked about his big blue box
And her family
In the middle of their midnight snack
An alarm rang from TARDIS, blue
He told her he would be back
In just a minute, or two
He accidentally missed his mark
Twelve years had gone by
But he just sauntered out
Waving and saying "Amelia, hi!"
Twas the first time they saved the world
When Amelia was just nineteen
Two years later he picked her up
On the eve of her wedding
But then the cracks in the universe
And all of space and time
Consumed the Doctor, all of him
But that's not the ending rhyme
The night she and Rory wed
Amy jumped out of her chair
"I remember you!" She shouted
And the Doctor appeared there
And so the Raggedy man came back
No more in the crack in the wall
Amy's imaginary friend
Bowtie, suspenders, and all
Later came an astronaut
Her name was River Song
She lifted her hand and against her will
Killed the Doctor, gone.
But, hooray!
The Doctor wasn't dead
It was wibbly wobbly, timey wimey
Stuff messing with their heads
And Amy had a daughter
Name? Melody Pond.
But the only water in the forest is rivers,
So she was really River Song.
Subtract love,
Add hate
Daleks scream
Exterminate!
Angels, Angels everywhere
Take a little blink
In the ground and in the air
And then they took Rory
"Come along Pond, please!"
He said with a cry
She turned to him and said
"Raggedy man, goodbye!"
"No!" He shouts in despair
"It can't be true!"
He stands over their grave
Oh Ponds, he loved you
He sits on the steps
Letting River fly
Too grief stricken to hurt
Or even to cry
Dreams are broken
Time stands still
The Doctor runs up
A small rocky hill
Afterword, it reads
By Amelia Pond
We love you Doctor
And we're sorry we're gone
There's a girl waiting in a garden
She'll be waiting for a while
So go to her
She needs a smile.
Tell her she's a fairytale
Known by many, loved by more
Not best in the universe,
But most important in the world.
She went with him and took his hand
He showed her the stars and distant lands
Together they ran, their spirits high
Until they day came when they said goodbye
Goodbye, Ponds.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 3:35 PM UTC
Joe wants to know
how'm I doing?
an innocuous query,
little can he know,
bye bye is my merry,
marooned on a skerry,
noxious fumes in the aerie,
currently inhabiting my foreheady,
worry waves, rolling thunderous tides,
have myself beside
thus the answer to your toll,
something bad, on me, got a hold
Joe,
life is,
more than a tad
concerting
concerting?
surely you meant
converging, or perhaps,
concatenating, or concaving?
discombobulating, or more likely,
plain ole disconcerting?
indeed, all of the above,
fit like a glove,
but best combinated in steaming mug of
concerting
"to contrive or arrange by agreement: to plan; devise"
the world is secret contriving,
the world is secret devising,
a plan for my demising,
forces are concerting re me...
most concerning,
as trends converging,
concave hollow chains clinking,
a concatenating chorus
voicing their displeasure,
at my happy existence,
which now gone,
its loss, wept for, in great measure
life dissing me, in a manner
concerting and dis-concerting,
my composure,
decomposing,
the ides of depression,
hip hop discombob-
(undu)lating throb
but then again,
what's in a word,
what's in a rhyme,
jes that old timey R&B;,
rhyming and blues,
of a verbal kind
so, Joe, how'm I doing?
now that you are knowing,
as men of distinguished letters,
students of history,
part time poets,
Your Reply
must only be:
"Oh no, Natty,
say it ain't so"
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 5:03 AM UTC
My big headed people said ity, i trusted, 'hiriz' has never dissapointed themy,
my hatred for non conformity, enormous, i surely hated the conformity truly,
i almost lost it for 'hiriz' sakey, **** it, ill never have wanted to lose this beauty,
i had it weirdly thinking ablazey, loozing?, no, i hadnt and you n they didnt realize fastly,
loosing soo fast about lowly sinking sinly,curse all day i ,ever had thee meeting to lyfy,
wit all the a vitue TRUELY INVESTMENT *** no lievly, forget me darl; once and for ever dony
one more what you waznyt quetly, cool openly, man must lively sweetly
that a day woud spoily truely, madly mey, sooooooo losty i had made a choisy,
refusing my being theiyyyyy, lucky me doing, buty, i love thater that am no longy
your timey was wanting by virtuey, truey. luck **** spyty this shiety oul
endy began truely sure truelly, fukciey, its thats badyy, me lost it shortlley
man must livevy or diiey, truely, gotta ity, man look for bread i wannaity
withought even hiriz it all worked welly, herey, i am. fu**** like ity
dead
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 12:28 PM UTC
The jukebox plays that old time swing
What a wild sound, a jumping fling
I've got it bad today, a fever for you
Think of us, when I'm feeling blue
Sinatra say that having it bad,
Well it ain't good and I'm so glad
So when I'm down and out, I'll turn you on
That old timey jazz, for me it's the only one
Art Tatum I'll turn you up loud
Swanky Szabo, amasses a crowd
Slim Gaillard, that crazy sound
Teagarden's trombone all around
Mingus and Ayler, Rollins and Miles
Dalindeo and Niechęć all those styles
I'll dance the moonlight serenade
and these hepcats, will never fade
Dry up daddy-o and focus on sanity
Sonny still struttin' with such vanity
Wayne Shorter quartet on a starry night
Jazz has me goofy but feeling alright
I've been feeling grummy for far too long
Remedied with an old Billie Holiday song
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 10:34 AM UTC
Turning all of the lights off and pretending like there's nothing due.
Conditionals, conjuncts, and disjuncts to name a few.
The condition is that my naked body has been revealed to you,
uncomfortably in the light
and confidently in the dark.
The conjunct is musky, old-timey undertones
of Sam Beam's voice.
Dr. Pepper, eventually, convinced me to be reckless
and rot my teeth, and give myself a stomach ache
for the sake of making out upstairs,
in a chair,
next to home-ade sound absorbers, made of fiber glass.
The disjunct:
deciding between two and a half hours of utter hell,
driving a broken down dust buster van in the middle of
hell's ******* half acre, chugging up frosty hills and into a town,
a foreign town,
to be greeted with, "Hel-low,"
Versus, not having to do that.
The biconditional is that I will be with you if and only if I can be with myself first.
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 1:00 AM UTC
In old New Orleans
Musical lumberjacks
Legitimizing their axes;
Just piano, clarinet,
Bass and the drums.
Bringing jazz back
And then some.
The cat could play
That skinny long black horn,
Hotter clarinet than
Anybody ever born,
He kept hitting notes
So pure and high
We felt each note
In our eyes!
And, if you chance by
Remember this,
They don’t allow dancing.
But when the drummer
Makes works those skins
And makes them talk out
There is plenty of toe-tapping
And nobody ever walks out.
Then, when the guy
Plays that bass fiddle
He adds an underscore
To top bottom and middle.
It’s an underbeat of grace
That will fill the rest space
And the hearts of all
In this overcrowded place.
Vintage jazz roars out
Of an old, old piano
Played by a happy madman
With fingers afire, he knows
He’s got them hooked;
He’s making them wild
As he wails on those keys
He looks out and smiles
And he puts the Satchmo touch
On those old-timey songs
And once in a while
They ask us to sing along.
For the past forty-six years
Those ugly plastered walls
Have never hear so many
Gratefully rendered curtain calls
From an audience of clerks and swells.
On Bourbon Street’s Fritzel’s.
Through hurricanes and beers
Like stepping back a hundred years.
Fats is still playing, Bessie singing
Original jazz music is still swinging.
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 6:50 PM UTC
I got this glittery, ruby-red, smudge-proof lipstick the other day
and I really have to say technology is what separates us from the apes.
Well, technology and hair.. and.. - ok, let’s not dwell on the ape thing.
Remember when lipstick smeared like news-print? Well, neither do I - it was one of those old-timey things you hear about somewhere like phone-booths, CDs and smart republicans.
What about the young teenage girls who aren’t supposed to wear lipstick - who put it on, in the morning, at their locker, at school only to discover - seconds before their mom picks them up - that it's practically non-removable? Try hiding your lips from your mom.
I want breath-freshening, pizza flavored, jerk-repelling, morning-after-pill lipstick - that glitters, irresistably, like cotton candy ***
snort If men wore lipstick I’m sure we’d have all that by now.
Dec 6, 2021
Dec 6, 2021 at 8:26 AM UTC
Time or the essance of Death
distilled.
No matter the who -
Someone , some force
snowballed.
The greatest daylight robbery -
that of our TIME.
TIME.
is not money
"At least in my books"
-me.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 5:44 PM UTC
rainbow grocery,
a couple bait shops,
novelty trap parlors,
all dotted south fork.
everything was made in
old-timey, wooden cabin
fashion,
and the town knew no symmetry.
we pulled into the grocery store parking lot.
the store’s awning welcomed customers by
sagging without mercy.
we crossed the threshold,
entered into another time, space, culture.
the first sense to be stung was smell.
it smelled like cancer.
the kind that eats our grandparents
everyday in their stale, locked homes.
the woman at the register was ancient.
too old for retail.
she was clearly bitter, but
well polished in rustic hospitality.
and if i wasn’t already uncomfortable enough,
there were basketballs above the jellies on
aisle 8.
who does that?
Jun 1, 2010
Jun 1, 2010 at 10:12 AM UTC
A dear friend once told me my love flows like a windmill.
Another that I have an old-timey love.
And to myself I have a fool's love.
Because when you loved, no matter what you saw a goddess.
When you loved, you showered them in affection and gave them all your time.
And called it modern love, for being a monotheistic prayer.
This is a dangerous love to give, when you needed a breath from all from all those hail mary's & asked for a little in return, that's when it starts.
Like a spoiled child with a god complex they react with distance, or abuse, or leaving. It didn't matter, Because I deserve so much more
So I say to myself drop that old-timey love & treat your lover a god and yourself a deity. Time to go polytheistic.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 11:05 PM UTC
your thoughts and prayers ****
highly ineffective,
bluntly,
they are defective
ain’t rendering no mo’ to god
and his good old timey thing,
righteous slaughtering of the innocents,
such fun for what does He care
what we got to do is do
something about on it earth,
time has come up,
the hurricane has begun,
and world is shaking from the movements in our bones,
for now is the hour
when we sail to the shore,
and until we are done,
the sun will not respect our faces
accept this introspective invective,
politely keep them guttural BS noises to yourself,
you know who’s the guilty ones,
that would be me and you
write to the congressmen,
who have been shot,
asking what ya got, forever protection,
the crazies know where you live,
state senators from places they don’t you represent,
all that we adjudged them lazy guilty, guilty of laziness,
and don’t forget to add a p.s.
we adjudge ourselves guilty as well,
too many knew in advance, the dangerous ones, who were
lurking, them waiting, us in desperation hoping,
it wouldn’t be happening then delaying one more time
all over again
*”Oh the foes will rise
With the sleep in their eyes
And they'll **** from their beds and think they're dreamin'
But they'll pinch themselves and squeal
And know that it's for real
The hour that the ship comes in.
Then they'll raise their hands
Sayin' we'll meet all your demands
But we'll shout from the bow your days are numbered
And like Pharaoh's tribe
They'll be drownded in the tide
And like Goliath, they'll be conquered.”* (Bob Dylan)
8/4/19 12:10
there is no shelter anywhere from madness for the madness
is ours, inside, and we have learnt to live with it’s reoccurring.
Why?
Aug 4, 2019
Aug 4, 2019 at 12:17 PM UTC
Let’s go, you and I.
And sweat beneath the African sky
Watch the lions lazing
And the wild dogs playing.
We can sip Amarula
And listen to the hyenas laugh and cry
As the mythical sunset
Silhouettes giraffes and Acacia trees.
Let’s go, you and I
And walk the streets of old town Barcelona.
Find old timey cafe and luxuriate
In sangria and itty bitty tapas
Stroll by Sagrada and gawp
At Gaudi’s home.
Maybe we’ll stop for some ice cream
Maybe we’ll just go back to the hotel
Let’s go, you and I
And swim the blue blue seas of the Bahamas
Nervously Play with the nurse sharks
Hoping they’re not the other sharks
Take those long walks on those beaches
That everyone likes.
We’ll sit on Jankanoo and drink sky juice
Until we can truly reach the heavens
Let’s go, you and I
And ski the Slopes of the Swiss alps
We can stop at small cabins and drink
heartwarming schnapps
Take trains that slink around mountains
And sprint through white capped forests
We can put snow down the backs
Of each others jackets and
Squeal in furious delight.
Let’s go, you and I.
And squish our way through the streets of New York
Relieved when we can pop into a shop
To escape the crowds.
Necks sore from looking up
Small town people in the Big Apple City
Central Park for pretzels and Snapple
Times Square later, neon addiction sated.
And a boat ride to see lady liberty
Let’s go, you and I
And bare our feet in Balinese temples
Speak to the monks in broken English
And then retire to our curtained gazebo
To indulge in the sins they can’t
We’ll get massages and champagne
Then ride our bikes along pothole
Ridden dirt roads.
Let’s go, you and I
And get Nuevo Chic in London’s west end
We can catch a show in tux and evening gown
Then head to the pub and catch a pint
We can walk the trail, hunt Jack the Ripper
And visit The Tower.
Cross the Thames and maybe
No definitely
Another pint in some quaint little place.
Let’s go, you and I
And lie in bed late on lazy Sunday mornings
I’ll poach the eggs and make the hollandaise
You can put some upbeat daytime jazz on
Then we can go sit in the garden
Under the oak tree and read
Each other poetry
Until it’s much much later
...
Mar 20, 2018
Mar 20, 2018 at 8:33 AM UTC
Playin’ on the back porch, got an old dog
Chewed my toy car from the ten-cent store
Scared my dear momma with a green toad-frog
When she told my daddy I got my britches wore
(If you see a log truck you’ll have good luck)
Early get the cows up, early off to school
Running up the lane to catch the yaller bus
Paddled by the principal for actin’ like a fool
Hours in the classroom hearin’ Teacher fuss
(If you see a log truck you’ll have good luck)
Then in the afternoon to the locker room
With hardly any time for a ***** stop
Coach-Bubba’s rolling bassy voice of doom
Bellowing “I WANNA HEAR THE LEATHER POP!
(If you see a log truck you’ll have good luck)
Runnin’ the roads in an old-timey Ford
A fifth of Jack Daniels underneath the seat
Stupidly standin’ on the running board
Singin’ to the radio, O so sweet!
(If you see a log truck you’ll have good luck)
Runnin’ the roads on graduation night
Well, hello, great big world, and here I am
They say I got to get a job now, sure, that’s right
Say, buddy, what’s this place called Viet-Nam?
But
If you see a log truck
you’ll have
good luck
Jul 26, 2019
Jul 26, 2019 at 3:57 PM UTC
Carbon slides furiously over pad
Mad as a Hatter only angrier
Scribbling circles and stabbing the paper
It's so obvious, ******* it!
It's right there in front of you!
Look! Can't you see?
You gesticulate wildly
Silently cursing and trying to send the answer psychicly
Pictionary that ******* game
By any other name would not be any less infuriating
And yet we play it every day
When I say "I think..."
And she says "I feel..."
And we wheel around in circles
To get our point past our own noses
Guessing what the other's prose is
Until we think we know and then...
That's irrational!
This doesn't feel right...
So where do you go
When your words makes sense
But your concepts are lost in translation
When your language fails to convey meaning?
There's an old saying I heard somewhere
If a lion could speak English we would not understand it
Without being underhanded you have to hand it to them
Those old timey folks knew a thing or two
About me and you and the breakdowns in syntax
That afflict us on these occasions
Maybe the only answer is to sit with it
Will you think on it
While I come to terms with how it feels?
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 2:01 AM UTC
It’s Saturday morning, and even though it’s Thanksgiving break, Lisa and I are in her bedroom, in NYC, studying.
“Ok,” Lisa stops, looks up and says, “give me a *** symbol.”
“I.. I don’t have one on me.” I say, apologetically.
“NAME one.” she clarifies.
“Are there *** symbols” anymore?” I say, with air-quotes, “Who’s “Marilyn Monroe” today - Kim Kardashian - oooo - or Kendall Jenner?”
“I read Emily Ratajkowski refer to herself as a *** symbol the other day.” Lisa says.
“Is that the model that said she was groped at a naked photo-shoot?” I ask, as I google her.
“Yeah,” Lesa nods, “but it was a naked music video shoot.”
“Do you think I could model?” I ask, as I pose vampingly. “Be unflinchingly honest.” I request.
“Hhmmmm,” she considers, framing me in a finger rectangle pretend camera. “You’re like Marilyn Monroe,” she says, “in a training bra.” We burst out laughing
“Back to the subject,” Lisa says, “name a guy you think of as a *** symbol.”
“Humphrey Bogart!“ I say.
“Humphrey Bogart?? No!” she rejects him, wrinkling her nose, “too old-timey and dead, besides, he was a MOVIE star - come ON, a real one - SAY!”
Michael Gandolfini!” I offer.
“Michael Gandolfini??” she says, sounding stumped as her fingers google him.
*I make a dreamy “mmmm,” yummy sound.
“Oh, my GOD,” she says, and looks up for confirmation. “Humphrey Bogart and Michael Gandolfini - HONESTLY, you have the WEIRDEST taste!”
I was shocked, “No, seriously, don’t you think Michael looks kind of soft, cute and.. LUVable?”
She groans, “You’re going to marry an ugly man someday - aren’t you?” She pronounces, shaking her head.
“AM NOT!” I responded, throwing a pillow at her head (a pillow fight ensues).
Nov 20, 2021
Nov 20, 2021 at 9:02 PM UTC
i like it when my vision fills with color
kaleidoscoping into hybrid hues
or when skinny fine lines
grow into weathered wrinkles
i like it when borders border on nonexistent
and everything blends together
unseparated
unsegregated
i like it when lines grow bold
the strokes of a paintbrush gaining confidence
with every motion
i like it when lines are crossed
over and over
into a tangle of yarn
everything connecting
dissolving
into
a ball of wibbly wobbly timey wimey stuff
i like it when lines are blurred
and reality breaks down
letting my imagination roam wildly
i like it when things don't make sense
because i always know
that i can find that line
that leads me back home
Feb 28, 2019
Feb 28, 2019 at 10:02 PM UTC
Not sublime, not so fine. These old-timey rhymes cost nine a dime.
A blue-collar scholar, a photogenic schizophrenic.
The big voice preaches, but I'm eating peaches. In Spanish class, the dog teaches.
Really hot with a funny thought, mice get caught climbing a lot.
The day has ended, with laughs intended.
The sunset is orange...
...is orange...
...uh...
****
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 3:17 AM UTC
He packed the remaining slightness of her
tightly into an old timey suit case the same
color as his home made heart
to catch a red eye out of Arizona
Brass buckles caught his pant leg
as he ran, throwing him to high traffic carpet
made of things that burned
his face to slow him to a stop
Sitting up, he noticed she was spread
about in pieces again and understood
saying goodbye would be more difficult
than an old timey suitcase could be packed into
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 12:43 PM UTC
Spitting cherry seeds by the roadside. Late night Rocky Horror on the back patio.
When we listen to jazz on an old timey-radio, we don’t hear echoes of the past, not our Great Depression.
We hear disillusioned violence, a turn of the century.
They want to turn it on you, rest your body on the side of the road, the world a sepia photograph.
It develops slowly, darkness clinging to monotone like the smell of gin under the juniper trees.
In the morning the world will seem so bright, flamingos on the green
screaming at the technicolor tv fuzz as teens gut them with penknives. We won’t join in.
When I look at my face in the mirror, all I see is radio silence.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 9:11 AM UTC
i remember when the trickling sound of rain frightened me; pattering against the windowpane in the dead of night like creaky fingers belonging to my fears.
first, they were the dark, and roller coasters with skittish tracks from old-timey days, and monsters under the bed with long arms waiting to wrap me into them.
those changed, quite how most everything does, into those of melancholy love, and unrequited love, and the constant worry of fairytale endings rattling in my mind until it turned into gunk and spewed out my ears, doing anything i can to get it out, out, out.
my dear, i await the days where there is nothing to be afraid of, though they may not come soon.
we are impatient beings not designed for the way the world works on its own; outside of who we are.
and yes, my fears remain, but no longer am i afraid of the rain.
Dec 30, 2017
Dec 30, 2017 at 6:24 PM UTC
Nailbed, hot stone.
A simmering anger, old.
Heavy.
Some battling debate of
loss thrown away.
A small, gray key.
Join them on a ring and
give back, give back, give back.
See now, new currents drag my pennies.
Down.
I'm an octopus penning idiocy.
The counter, brown.
Such a small counter.
But this small key, so heavy to give away.
Is it loss or thrown away?
If so, who did it?
Mind never grasped the sorrow,
the secrets, hid in serpent of glimmered italics
and windfalls left fractured for years
rediscovered in haste of other dilemmas.
Ok, it'll be three dollars (and a bit).
That's all it took a heart to turn.
Ashen walks and stale apple pie,
unstately promise.
It needn't rhymy.
I have no more timey.
Another chunk of sanity slides
(and that bit).
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 11:38 AM UTC
I want the old timey things
from the county to the city
clicking and clacking type
swooping letters in the mail
I want the old timey things
delicate stitches along hems
cuffed and curled hair
skirts whirling and pearls
But most of all I want
that sweet old time love
brush hands and kiss cheeks
sweep your feet up love
Dec 7, 2019
Dec 7, 2019 at 11:34 AM UTC