"transports" poems
You know, there's always a song that takes me back
To a year, so long before
It's not always a top ten song
That hits my very core
It just grabs me and transports me
Back in time while standing still
It might take me to a good place
Release a memory I should ****
But, my soundtrack is different
It's not just music in my mind
There's sounds that make my playlist up
Sounds of a different kind
A baseball smacking leather
God, that sets me free
Some good, some bad, some coaching
Some involve my ******* up knee
The click on every eight track
When it switches channels to play on
Brings back those early mornings
when the house cleaning was done
But, music, yes the music
makes a large part of my list
Some take me back to dances
And the girls I never kissed
The good songs stretch my senses
Make me smell things from the past
The memories still linger
While the music didn't last
Sirens, car wrecks, yelling
Have their place on my list too
It's not music to most people
It made my list though, who knew?
A sound as small as raindrops
Take me back to a morning when
I stood on line with a hundred others
Brave women and brave men
Cornwallis, Nova Scotia
rain and U2 take me on a track
To basic training on the east coast
Wow, that's 25 years back
A car crash and a siren
Takes me to when I met my wife
This was on the television
when Princess Di, she lost her life
So, my soundtrack is eclectic
It's not just music fuels my trips
It might be a golf ball bouncing
That takes me through a time warp slip
A song, that's just too easy
Everyone has one of those
But, can you travel back, oh, 30 years
When someone blows their nose?
There's more sounds that effect me
But, those I think I'll hide
I will write about them later
And I will take you on that ride
In 50 years of living
Lots of sounds have hit my ears
We'll sit and chat about them
One day over a few beers....
Aug 4, 2012
Aug 4, 2012 at 5:05 PM UTC
Your music is sensual, dark and languid
Mysterious and **** hypnotic and sultry
The slow tempo and rumbling bass drums are a heavenly mix
I close my eyes and let the forlorn echoes immerse me
In a sea of falsetto vocals and stuttering percussions
Your music is enigmatic, puzzling and seductive
Pacifying and troubling, calming and cinematic
Your champagne crooning is a movie in itself
Telling me the tales of a gloomy sex-infused hangover life
And it connects to the depths of my soul
Even though I've never experienced it
Narcotized slow jams filled with samples of punk and rock
Transports me to an actual dream world
Your subtly crafted harmonies and beats are celestial
And your lyrics a painkiller
That numbs the wounds in my soul and takes me higher...
Your voice is R&B; but your lyrics are ***** rap
You take such vile words and turn them into something beautiful
and I adore that.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 4:02 PM UTC
I wish the world
banana seats and ***** bars
chariots of childhood
transports to imaginary kingdoms
erasers of boundaries
freedom makers
brother bonders
vehicles of the delegates of peace
a better way.
Bolted to a heavy metal frame of
metallic green with
ape hanger handlebars
the playing cards clothes-pinned in spokes
making siren noises with our mouths
rope-lashed weapons aboard
discovering creeks
woods
forbidden backyards and
never-before-known games with
barn side lumber and pop cans
double-dog daring inedible things
teasing girls
riding to secret clubhouse meetings and
the playground.
I wish the world
our playground
summers of innocence
bottomless wells of laughter
center of the universe
June to September
ages 8 to 18
bean bags and ringers
tether ball - hand and paddle
basketball and baseball and
box hockey
(where it was encouraged
to give children axe handles and
a softball
to beat through holes
in a 2 x 6 board
defending a goal
with their life and
busted knuckles).
We liked it that way.
We lived as legends.
I wish the world
a bike ride with friends
ending at the playground.
For there has never been a bad day
on a banana seat.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 2:51 PM UTC
1153
Through what transports of Patience
I reached the stolid Bliss
To breathe my Blank without thee
Attest me this and this—
By that bleak exultation
I won as near as this
Thy privilege of dying
Abbreviate me this—
3.1k
Somehow he pulls along
He breathes
In his little width of life,
He gasps
In making that width
When moves flesh
That far outweighs
What he gets at the ride’s end,
Sweats it out in the sun
Splashes in the rain
A pedaling run
Joyless but gritty
That if can be made
Would fetch him his bread
From the rider in comfort
To the puller who transports
Mountains of loads
Knowing not to pause
Till drawn by fate
For a rest in sunset!
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 6:14 AM UTC
Why is it that Poetry has never yet been subjected to that process of Dilution which has proved so advantageous to her sister-art Music? The Diluter gives us first a few notes of some well-known Air, then a dozen bars of his own, then a few more notes of the Air, and so on alternately: thus saving the listener, if not from all risk of recognising the melody at all, at least from the too-exciting transports which it might produce in a more concentrated form. The process is termed "setting" by Composers, and any one, that has ever experienced the emotion of being unexpectedly set down in a heap of mortar, will recognise the truthfulness of this happy phrase.
For truly, just as the genuine Epicure lingers lovingly over a
morsel of supreme Venison - whose every fibre seems to murmur "Excelsior!" - yet swallows, ere returning to the toothsome dainty, great mouthfuls of oatmeal-porridge and winkles: and just as the perfect Connoisseur in Claret permits himself but one delicate sip, and then tosses off a pint or more of boarding-school beer: so also -
I NEVER loved a dear Gazelle -
NOR ANYTHING THAT COST ME MUCH:
HIGH PRICES PROFIT THOSE WHO SELL,
BUT WHY SHOULD I BE FOND OF SUCH?
To glad me with his soft black eye
MY SON COMES TROTTING HOME FROM SCHOOL;
HE'S HAD A FIGHT BUT CAN'T TELL WHY -
HE ALWAYS WAS A LITTLE FOOL!
But, when he came to know me well,
HE KICKED ME OUT, HER TESTY SIRE:
AND WHEN I STAINED MY HAIR, THAT BELLE
MIGHT NOTE THE CHANGE, AND THUS ADMIRE
And love me, it was sure to dye
A MUDDY GREEN OR STARING BLUE:
WHILST ONE MIGHT TRACE, WITH HALF AN EYE,
THE STILL TRIUMPHANT CARROT THROUGH.
2.6k
The truth is I have no idea how to begin this
because I don’t even remember
how or when exactly you began to invade my consciousness.
you were an uninvited guest, a gatecrasher, an intruder
filling my mind with paranoia and endless dilemma —
how I contemplate about going out or not
because I get overwhelmed with crowded places
like public transports, and malls, and fast food chains,
how I s-stutter whenever placing an order,
or how I could not finish one sentence without repeating
repeating a word or or two.
It might sound funny how I find a sea of people terrifying,
how I feel a dagger or a gun pointed at me every time I step
outside my comfort zone,
how I would replay failed scenarios inside my head like a broken tape,
how I would apologize for actions that demanded no apology.
I often get nightmares about being asleep and not being able to wake up
and sometimes I dream about waking up in a strange bed in a foreign room
filled with people with the strangest faces talking in tones barely audible
but when the voices would all stir together
I would run out of air and pass out,
but I still wake up though, screaming, trembling
signaling another episode of survival.
If I could drive, I would take you away with me and bring you to a sunset beach
tell you that everything’s gonna be alright
that it’s okay to knock me down sometimes
but not too hard to break me
just enough to remind me that I am, after all, human
Or maybe I would drown you or maybe not
because I get too overwhelmed with the waves
I struggle against the current,
and I am the one who gets drowned instead.
I hate you, no, I mean I love you. I should love you
because they said those we love are meant to leave
So I will love you, I will love you until you get tired of me,
until you no longer find me appealing
I will love you obsessively, until you get sick of me,
until you run out of places to run to, until you run out of air
I will love you until I run out of words and metaphors
and rhyme or reason,
I will love you with the hopes that one day I could finally say:
“My anxieties have died beautifully, with dignity,
in their sleep.”
Nov 15, 2017
Nov 15, 2017 at 3:56 AM UTC
OH ! born to sooth distress, and lighten care ;
Lively as soft, and innocent as fair ;
Blest with that sweet simplicity of thought
So rarely found, and never to be taught ;
Of winning speech, endearing, artless, kind,
The loveliest pattern of a female mind ;
Like some fair spirit from the realms of rest
With all her native heaven within her breast ;
So pure, so good, she scarce can guess at sin,
But thinks the world without like that within ;
Such melting tenderness, so fond to bless,
Her charity almost becomes excess.
Wealth may be courted, wisdom be rever'd,
And beauty prais'd, and brutal strength be fear'd ;
But goodness only can affection move ;
And love must owe its origin to love.
*******
OF gentle manners, and of taste refin'd,
With all the graces of a polish'd mind ;
Clear sense and truth still shone in all she spoke,
And from her lips no idle sentence broke.
Each nicer elegance of art she knew ;
Correctly fair, and regularly true :
Her ready fingers plied with equal skill
The pencil's task, the needle, or the quill.
So pois'd her feelings, so compos'd her soul,
So subject all to reason's calm controul,
One only passion, strong, and unconfin'd,
Disturb'd the balance of her even mind :
One passion rul'd despotic in her breast,
In every word, and look, and thought confest ;
But that was love, and love delights to bless
The generous transports of a fond excess.
2.3k
Within the nook of a dell,
a good distance
from obloquy
and inhibition,
floating on water,
listening to birdsong
descend down
the stream
of a musical scale.
Don’t need to believe
or even consent to
any critique,
any look-see,
you are free and light
on the surface,
buoyant and supple
beneath.
Languid movements,
reminiscent
of a weir,
cascade
and trickle,
springing forth
to orchestrate an overture.
This feeling is
beatific,
euphoric,
the moment one of
nonpareil,
bijou,
objet d’art,
and these transports
are yours only
to involuntarily
succumb to and relive:
Rhythmic waves
quivering
upon your shore,
as your limbs and spine camber.
It’s no wonder
you often lift
your voice in song.
Oct 19, 2019
Oct 19, 2019 at 8:01 PM UTC
I hear the piano playing softly
pulling me from these rutted plains
into a moist green meadow
a vision of a flowing brook down the hill
makes me believe the words of the Prophet:
“Your old men will dream dreams, your young men will see visions.”
yes, I am old, but I see and feel the rising gentle treble notes
lighten my leaded limbs
awaken my spirit
and ****** me into the realms.
It is the touch and glide of the pianist’s fingers
across the ivory skin of the keys
that transports me
in the waning hours of this day.
How sweet it is!
Sep 6, 2020
Sep 6, 2020 at 12:08 AM UTC
Every summer evening
I spend at home I know it
is 9 o'clock by the familiar
song from the
beat up ice cream truck
that creeps through Canton.
The truck is plain and grey-
no pictures of smiling faces
or advertisements for snow cones,
just those high pitched notes repeating
over and over and over.
It never stops.
No children sprint, ecstatic from
sweaty row homes.
No cones are coveted
by sticky fingers.
Who is this man who
drives up and down our streets
luring us in with a familiar jingle
I can't quite place as I pace
around my living room?
Perhaps he peddles magic potions
or prescription drugs to
expectant inner city addicts,
stopping only for those with
that telling shaky stammer.
Or maybe he transports
illegal immigrants
huddled behind his tinted windows
to obscure locations.
The only thing that is certain
is that it is 9 o'clock every time
I hear those notes.
Does he laugh at us as
we glance out our windows,
considering a late night treat but
always disappointed as he drives away?
Jul 13, 2010
Jul 13, 2010 at 9:44 AM UTC
And only when every prison
in the police state has
an art gallery
only when hip hop
sounds like a revolutionary
sermon
only when Congress disbands
itself for lack of moral conduct
only when condoms
are jammed tightly
into high school backpacks
only when free speech
isn’t subject to search
and seizure
only when housing projects
get gated fences
only when college
athletes use pi
to find the circumference
of a basketball in their spare time
only when food pantries
exist in old NRA hangouts
only when Monsanto scrubs clean
every black cloud
only when Noah comes back
and transports
two of everything to
a protest movement
only when a protest
movement morphs
into a diversity celebration
and only when the U.S. government
writes a 5,000,000 page
apology for every ****
****** and Bill O’Reilly
sentence uttered
will I even consider having
a picnic.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 11:21 AM UTC
We are out of eternal bliss
Let me kiss the mauve like lips
Let me kiss the cheeks like new born petals
We are out of eternal bliss
Let me lie between your two malleable hills
Oh my love! My love is out of eternal bliss
Your body- where the pearls are dancers
The pigeon’s hairs are your hairs
Let me go to meet my maker! Let me breathe my last breath! We are out of eternal bliss
I want to feel the feelings, you feel for me,
The rhythms of my lines are calling thee
Sing the heart-beat song that transports me
The rhythms of my lines are calling thee
Open your closed eyes, afraid not- the eyes of the heart are fliers
Our fortune is unfortunate we are out of eternal bliss!
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 9:59 PM UTC
I cannot not how you smell
so I project my own desire
onto your unknown skin.
Patchouli. A scent that
makes him instantly goofy
and transports me at once
to the decade before
you even drew breath.
Even now that scent
on a crowded street
turns my head in wonder.
Scent, taste and touch:
our first mammalian memories.
Do not be troubled lover,
I will love and linger
on any olfactory lingerie
you care to wear or none.
My second favorite is just
sunshine on bare skin.
But any whiff of you will
become part of my heart
and I will inhale you
deep into my soul.
~mce
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 5:41 PM UTC
~
who knows the definition of a poet?
~
*for my friend, S.Y,
who I will embrace with both hands,
both eyes, when he hands me a signed copy of a book
that answers the question*
weighty subjects deserve your best work,
expressions of affection and introspection,
need careful reflection, a proper set up for the
tumult inevitable when delving in the unopened recesses
where the answers kept
so, of course, the writing commences well after 1:00am,
when the darkness of night clarifies the process,
for I work by day but live by night,
when summoning up my one tool no one can take away,
the joy, the relief, the spectacular exultation of
rearranging the aleph bet in new ways,
when the quietude of reflection transports me
across the continents in visions of what will be
I don't know if I know the answer, perhaps, any answers,
but when this man demands
the ebb tides of soul to depart,
to make him stand alone on the shore of endings,
forcing him to acknowledge his reckonings,
lonely, only humanity and frailties
I hear a voice gruff growling and me laughing-
"cut to the chase, make your point, get out of people’s way"
so in your honor, this simp fool who asks questions
no human has any business, the answers knowing,
will one last stanza grant and give and
yours to keep,
and commence countdown waiting for that day of welcoming
*from the underground comes a chorus of voices,
in one voice but many languages, chanting:*
***all humans are poets
who acknowledge and freely confess that the
blood and stuff, the kisses and the touches of family and friends,
parent and child,
are the ***** and the egg,
the beginning and the circulation of the never ending,
the open entrance that penetrates the berm surrounding real life,
all these are the root and the stem and the blossoming,
of poetry writ large, for they who have these in their possess,
are surely by definition certainly
humans, poets***
~
5/14/17 2:05am
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 2:37 AM UTC
Choked up wonderment
still tastes like regurgitation
but numbness comes with it
It is fear
encompassing unfinished things
lump in throat
blood dropping degrees
in temperature
Chronicling this cool
deliberate **** of senses
incessant soul questioning
Worth
feasible future
nevertheless struggle
after eternal struggle
Eyeballing transports of delight
amongst wrestled trauma
morality’s cusp of change
Sacrifice or sacrifices
self-destruction
abandonment to death
Senicide
walk into icy tundra
Inuit elder casting himself away
to frozen abyss
and crystalline corpse
for good of tribe
One less to feed
left on floating iceberg
Dark day’s sunrise
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 8:33 PM UTC
~~~
*"and ev'ry stop is neatly planned
for a poet and a one-man band"
Simon & Garfunkel "Homeward Bound"*
~~~
***just one more,
for Sally B.,
who loves their music,
and all the poets here***
~~~
when best messing with perfection,
hope for a close enough
second place finish,
at best
when tendering a gift,
gotta give only your
best,
for this is how,
you will be
best
remembered
yet all our stops here,
were and we're
never neatly planned,
indeed,
as you
sail on silver girl,
through to all
of our
unscheduled ports o' call,
and though our fingers may never intersect,
they have touched,
more than once,
on this poetry river
of electrons,
this bridge
over troubled waters
no need to make a plan,
to get yourself free,
even tho' I am no more
than a poor boy from New York City,
I make no jest,
always laying low,
but not here, not now
for this job I took upon mine own,
so after changes upon changes,
mount the stage, spotlighted,
one more song,
one more poem from a one man band,
this poet~fighter composes alone,
ill prepared,
carrying a reminder of every poem that laid him down,
but
tasked and
accepting nonetheless,
this challenge bout
old friends,
he sings,
i've come to talk to you again,
for this revelation still remains,
well planted in the brain
this song, this poem
will be shared,
let us all read it aloud
to break
the sounds of silence,
in a chorus of a cappella voices,
this simple verse upon which
I cannot improve
this poem, this stop,
this hello
to an endless poetry voyage
that transports human finery,
was indeed
never planned neatly,
but here was born
a sole sufficient refrain,
contenting the writer and the reader,
all of us poets,
all of us one man bands,
all of us in one voice singing
*you are simply the
best here,
you are home,
and to you,
we are bound*
~~~
August 9, 2015
Shelter Island
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 2:12 PM UTC
Everyday I'm trying so hard to like my favorite things for reasons having nothing to do with you.
Today when I decided to drive on the meandering border of Walloon Lake,
Wildwood Harbor rd,
The canopied trees
flashing shadows of squirrels peaking through paws
reminded me of every motorcycle ride I accompanied you on.
Holding tight to your chiseled stomach,
hands cupping your belly button through your sweatshirt pockets,
you would maneuver your mobile machinery through every dip and dive,
garnishing curves with streamline, flawless breaking and acceleration.
I would lean into your spine,
imagining the path of your lower back as the map of our road ahead,
each bump and curvature a flawless representation of reality,
the living moment.
Something sensual existed about the way you and I forged a relationship on pavement,
riding the asphalt the same way your bending fingers rode my thighs.
And every time I choose to drive our road with my less than aerodynamic Marquis,
each stomach flip from the unsuspected slopes
transports me to lazy mornings-
Naked and alone in any way imaginable.
Purity and solitude,
truth, the end of it.
So I turned onto M-75
trying to forget every reason that I love Wildwood Harbor for you,
and only remember the reasons I love it for me,
but couldn't find any worthy of space.
You made everything so memorable.
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 4:37 PM UTC
I call upon their harmony
They honor me with artistry
The pupils of Apollo's
Lyre resonant inside of me
Calliope adventurous,
Intrepid in her recklessness
Emboldening my will to lead
The unenlightened on this quest
Through Clio's scrolls of history
My oracle clairvoyant
She has graced me with the vision
Of the future sky chatoyant
And a buoyant sea of Euterpe
All floating through the lyricist
That synchronizes all of this
Into a metamorphosis
Evolving as Erato's love
A heart as soft as silk
A dove, tabula rasa thirsting for
The Mother Gaea's milk
To rise from Melpomene
Masks of tragic flaws of Icarus
For I divine the comedies
Thalia simply can't resist
Polyhymnia, Terpsichore
My rarest of expressions
Still reveal themselves in forms
Of spirit guide possessions
When Urania in cosmic bliss
Transports me to the stars
Reborn again to join them
As Mnemosyne's memoirs
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 1:11 AM UTC
Could you be a vehicle?
To take me from once in the past, to right here
right now.
A vehicle,
to take me on an adventure
waking me up, making me feel alive.
Stir the soul within me, who has been sleeping
restlessly, at least…
Would you be the vehicle,
that transports me away from earth?
Because I’m tired of being grounded.
I want to live in the sky, with the stars
And look for miles, and see it all
Apr 11, 2012
Apr 11, 2012 at 7:45 PM UTC
**When a poem comes to me,
I see a mysterious maiden,
her presence thrills me beyond words,
my eyes, gaze deep in to hers, get electrified.
poems, a few of them, gently lift me up,
I remember my mom and dad doing it to me,when I was a kid,
I wanted to be lifted up again and again,
the imagery transports me to an old world,
where my eyes were curious, senses growing outwards.
And a few had hit me hard and , even hurt,
'cause I failed to hear, what needs to be heard
I reel under the impact, but when I get up,
love it, find I am not the one before, transformed!
And this one , meditative, makes me still,
lights a gentle flame within, I feel divine.
And the fun poem regales me like nothing else-
ever did, with quirkiness and humor, without limits.
A sublime poem is the one that takes me across,
either up above my mind's sky, so vast,
or depths of marine blue where whales navigate,
I am an unknown continent, waiting to be explored,
this poem is an oceanographic expedition mysterious,
I find myself a deep sea creature altogether-
a new species, none has ever found or named,
and its observer at the same time, magical!**
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 8:41 AM UTC
oh, you
you that fills every layer of me
you that stains my skin and heart just by being; you who is a part of me
you who's lips taste like the remains of last nights cigarettes and the transferred aroma of my morning coffee
and oh, those lips that brush my skin, and make my hairs stand on end; and the beat of my heart quicken
and unhealthy it might be, that you leave me unable to sleep, unable to breathe without your sweet company
but that will never cease my desire
you, with your limitless potential; never seen by your own eyes, but
oh my it is there
you that transports me to a new universe entirely by a quick glance
my sunrise; and reason for the sun rising each and every day; for what is the point without beauty for the suns rays to rest upon
my muse; for what is poetry without inspiration
me; for what am i without you
you and your imperfect perfections, of which i could never match; but still i try
and oh, there are some that write better; always use the right words
and think more deeply
but there are none who love more passionately, entirely
than yours, truly
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 3:32 PM UTC
I.
The problem is the wind: how it easily transports
from monsoons to monsoons, growling the heartaches
that smudged the letters all too easily. This is merely a reply.
II.
A flock of hummingbird escapes
the night I learned
how to sharpen a quill the way
I sharpen a scalpel. How it became sharp enough
to carve a meat. How it became good enough
for dissection.
This is the trouble with too much
skin. My skin had kissed yours so much
that it memorized how you twitch
each time we touch.
III.
This is merely a reply to reply.
Or how it should be.
Because a mound of papers filled with
poems describing how my heart yearns
to hear your voice is good enough
for silence to take over, for you
to sew your mouth and hold
your breath. This is good
enough.
IV.
I want to hear your voice,
an old song that makes my lips quiver
and sing the way you do.
V.
But you became a stifled mortuary
the way the winds came tonight.
And I’m sure, you were
Struck.
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 1:16 PM UTC
I.
Thoughts drip into short coffee mugs
Sweetly filling our cups with caffeinated experiences
We patiently sip
Until the steam transports us back in time
Pure memories replay, different scenes over coffee
II.
We must not weep over spilt milk
For our tears will dilute the contents of our mugs
And no amount of sugar or love
Can restore the substance to its original perfection
III.
Savor new tastes before the lazy hand
Drips synthetic liquids into our untended cups
Like IVs into coma patients
Pumping us full of fake chemicals
To soothe the human condition
Jan 3, 2012
Jan 3, 2012 at 2:30 PM UTC