"ukulele" poems
It's nice to feel the warmth
The weather's never bad
Living surrounded by the wai
And by the sweet sounds
Of the ukulele.
Many people live aloha
Living proud of their culture
And friendly to another.
Ohana is important
And friends are part of it too.
A beautiful tradition
Giving of leis
To someone special
On a special occasion
Or just any given day.
It will be sad to leave one day
There's so much sunshine.
The mainland's all the same.
Here there's so much diversity.
I think I'll miss the food the most...
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 12:49 AM UTC
I have not been anywhere,
done anything, thought anything,
and feel nothing.
At least,
that’s what my blank, plain-clothed
T-shirt would indicate to other people.
A man walking the earth with
no visible identity.
When I put on my Hawaiian shirt, however,
they believe my mind to be full of
pineapples, hula girls swinging softly in the
ukulele moonlight, palm fronds swaying
in the dacron, or is it rayon, ripples
of my baggy upper man.
Let others think what they might
of my images, or the lack of words
and logos.
My inner tag says that
I’m size “L” and that I’m made on
factory looms in China, that my buttons
are constructed to look like the
real thing–a round slice of bone or
perhaps ivory.
I am not so much anywhere on the
outside, even though there are places
I would like to go fling my few dollars.
Inside, however, I am lost,
pleasantly lost and hiding, within the
convenience of my unprinted shirt.
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
endless
summer
trance of the cool breeze
careless
summer
dance of the palm trees
you can
catch us
singing
beside
bonfires
or maybe
surfing
the late
sunset
whilst
drinking
homemade
cocktails and listening
to the whistles of purple orchids
you can meet us by the golden shore
on sands that can't wait to get into your
toes and tell old stories about heroes
and beautiful women of the land
who had hips that could rock the
molten lava out of mauna kea
you can enjoy the moment with us
leave your worries and your cameras
and lose yourself to the gentle swing of your
hammock and to the wishful kissing of the ocean
and to the warm blackness that sings you to
sleep to good vibrations that radiate out of
the strumming of my thumb that lullabies
the little brown child i carry in my arms
who the world named ukulele
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 10:03 AM UTC
*The smell of hibiscus blooms
Fragrance the beautiful evening
From somewhere in the distance
The strings of the ukulele can be heard
Lone tropical girls dance to its beautiful melody
And I begin to play my ukulele too
And I too begin to dance
On that beautiful evening
When the sky had fallen asleep
With a faint sunset in the west
And the salty breezes blew
Across each beautiful palm tree
Such a beautiful evening I can see
Only in the silver cord
Of my mind's eye*
~Marian~
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 6:04 PM UTC
It's not even romantic
But I'm going to write a poem of every boy I met.Not romantic,
It's not that I had met a lot of men.
On that morning
you played ukulele,
I sang along with the lyrics
Creep, Blur,anything
The morning light shined through your squinted eyes
I can still see the dust swirling, dancing in front of the sun-bathed face of yours.
Naive,friendly,happily
We were singing to each other
The other two are non-existence.
You are so warm, comfortable to be around with
A Belarusian boy ,aspiring to speak good Chinese.
You paint, you cooked and made desserts
Always at ease at hitchhiking
through Kazakhstan and China
I felt that you secretly want to try to escape from what you had
from Belarus to Czech, then to this mysterious Eastern world, a bit communist.
And then to Taiwan.
This is for you Ilya, a friend for only a day and night.
You're too delicate for me to handle as you have
skin like milk and heart of seven seas
Smile like a 5 year old in a swing.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 11:25 AM UTC
There's one rotten string on my Ukulele
That holds me back from playing
Behind it, an inexplicable frustration
But the explanation goes without saying.
Strum, Strum, Buzz, Strum
Why can't I just play the chord
Is something wrong with the instrument?
Beyond repair I can afford?
Maybe it's me, that's playing wrong
Why can't I strum that string?
I can't play my freaking melody,
So I guess I'll just try to sing.
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 12:06 PM UTC
I remember playing the ukulele
A year ago
With you in my living room,
My fingers showing yours
The chords you still had to learn
(A perfect excuse
To hold your hand)
Sunlight pouring,
As the rain does now,
Through the windows
Illuminated
The carefully moving corners
Of your lips
(An imperfect
Yet somehow reasonable excuse
To kiss them).
This morning
As our noses pressed together
And our breathing intermingled
In the bed where I lost my virginity
To the girl
Who taught me those same chords
(To the girl whose lips
Mine found an imperfect excuse to kiss
This afternoon),
I wished that I still had chords
To teach you;
I wished that the sun
Would shine through the rain
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 9:06 PM UTC
I dream of a society
Where the ideals of beauty
Are less focused on superficial concepts like one's waistline
Or how decrepit their smile lines made them appear
But rather one where the focal point of unanimous adoration is,
As corny as this may sound,
One's morals and where they land on the gradient of human compassion
In this utopia,
The elderly aren't seen as catalysts for repugnance and a wrinkling of noses
But rather as symbols of eruditeness and beauty
The type of beauty that influence or money can't obtain
And it may be conceivable that instead of wasting my days squandering over my physical appearance,
I can just fritter away the days
Strumming my ukulele along to the tune of my American dream
For I have yet to actually awaken from my adolescent slumber
Breifly enough to grasp my dream from the bubble floating above my resting head
And nestle it securely in my pocket
So it doesn't forgo me
In search of someone less complacent with bewilderment about their future
Who dreams of social and economic prosperity
Instead of someone who's apathetic at best about whatever career choice they've chosen for the week
Maybe that's just it
That maybe I don't want the conventional American dream of fame or fortune or recognition
Is it feasible that maybe my American dream isn't to rise from sqaulor into a soulless mansion
Whose corridors boast success
But lack warmth and presence?
I suppose that my American dream encompasses more than just America itself
It lives in the eyes of every human being on the face of the earth
It's nestled in the gaze of a starving child
And the stare of anyone who's ever felt a tongue's razor edge
And all I'd have to do is delve into their eye sockets and plant a seed
A seed of hope and compassion
Or whatever I deem fit
Perhaps I just want to shield myself
From the world's disapproving glances,
Those fleeting moments of eye contact that convey condescending judgement
Maybe I'd just like to make a difference to things sans the media’s snide opinion
But despite my juxtaposition to society's critical assessments,
I know that I can't run away from my fears or problems
So maybe I dream of a society
Where I can remain headstrong even in the face of opposition
Because I'm aware that not everyone's going to love each other
And spout sweet nothings about peace and understanding from their hind quarters
So maybe I'd like to help be a driving force
That wards off the world's shadows
So the sun can continue to shine on my American dream
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 11:14 PM UTC
The rain pitter pattering on my window.
The strings underneath my fingers, making that beautiful pastel sound,
from my ukulele.
This is what it's like to feel alive.
The warmth of the house,
The coziness of my clothes.
This is what it's like to feel alive.
Times can be tough,
Being alive can hurt,
But that pain that I feel,
Is one of the things that make me human.
Hot tea,
The effects it can have,
Make me feel like I will never
Need to feel the pain I have felt.
A sip,
Letting the tea sit on you're tongue,
The so wonderful burning sensation,
Until it's cooled,
And is gone.
This is the beauty of being alive
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 11:56 PM UTC
Like drinking water out of mason jars
Like reading through fake plastic glass
Like dressing in your grandparents bolts of fabric
Like holding an unfiltered cigarette
Or even better a wooden pipe…
Smoke swelling in closed mouths
And nostrils blowing in sailboat clouds
Down to the next not- Starbucks
To sit on a velvet couch with
Coral painted nails and a chai in hand...
You all can be like this.
With no workout clothes and
With at least two piercings in your nose
You all are like this soon enough.
Who gave you the idea to pick up the
Ukulele anyway?
Who gave you the idea to shave one quarter
Of your head?
We all did. We all are a
Fleet of individual sameness,
A want to stand out from the
Cookie- cutter looks,
But now we’re all cupcakes
With the same story but with
Different hooks
For hands, snagging the rest
Of us along.
With your identical twin lipstick
And Birkenstock feet.
The lack of shock we absorb
Gets lonely and depressing.
So lets all move to Montreal
And French kiss and knit
And maybe real soon the
Croissants will go stale
And it’ll be cool to live
In Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan.
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 6:35 PM UTC
Today
I bought myself
a little stingray
red and flowered
I bought myself
a ukulele
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 5:42 PM UTC
There is a tendency among
those poets who may be very young
frequently to put in verse
those foreign phrases, or much worse
the now dead words of oh so ****** Latin
to boast of classrooms that they’ve sat in.
And just in case you’ve never heard ‘em,
Let’s reduce a few to ad absurdum.
It was amore a prima vista
until he left her for her younger sister
for, after all, who could resist her,
so moving on to secunda vista
he took that step and boldly kissed her,
behaviour that is hardly utopista.
The trouble with modus vivendi
is that it sometime rhymes with eye
but there are those who don’t agree
and think that it must rhyme with tea.
Who cares? It’s all the same to I.
Or should that be the same to me?
You may say it is not de rigueur
that I defend with so much vigour
what surely is no more than hubris
that I attribute to Confucius
for he surely ha detto tutto
albeit un po convoluto.
And everyone’s heard of carpe diem.
If not, then I have yet to see ‘em.
But I prefer to seize a waist
which may be thought somewhat unchaste
though far more likely to have shocked ‘em
would be to carpe in the noctem.
Perhaps you think it’s ipso facto
that I’m intolerant of lacto
unless it comes directly from the breast.
I think it’s better that the rest
of this is left to your own opinatus
for which I offer no blank cartus.
Then there’s the modus of my own vivendi
that I indulge in cacoethes scribendi
the itch to write for which I daily
scratch myself or play my ukulele
which is my form of modus operandi
before I pour myself a king-size brandy.
And thus we leave this boring dull citare,
by this time you have certainly grown quite weary
of any further venture into tedium
Or as ***** Harry might say, fac ut gaudeam
For after all a day senza sunlight
Might altrettante facilmente be night
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 6:15 PM UTC
In the middle of the chaos,
a few strummed chords
play happily on
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 7:36 AM UTC
Drown me in self pity
Fill me with gravel and confetti
And I won't scream and shout, or tell anyone about the sarcastic soliloquy
Dance me into a state of disbelief
Your unsteady heartbeat,
will without fuss or pout
Tell everyone about you and me.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 11:51 PM UTC
Under the shade of weeping willow trees
The air is filled with birdsong an anthem sweet and beautiful
The soft sweet song of the bubbling creek
The fragrance of honeysuckles drifts from the forgotten garden
Where daffodils, violets, and many other flowers grow
Mountains high and valleys low covered in the cloak of spring
Hunter-green cedars and deep-green firs sway in the dancing breeze
Even the lonesome desert and vast wilderness
With its pretty sunrises and sunsets bears its own beauty
Morning glories in the Enchanted Forest unfurl their soft sweet petals
At Dusk when all are sleep
Sunrays shining through the dew covered leaves of the majestic trees
Waves wash onto the sea of time where lots of creatures live
And where fishes and sea turtles peep up out of the ocean
Where palm trees grow their lacy-green leaves providing shade for all
Where rocky island cliffs hold treasures forgotten a long time ago
When pirates hunted for gold
Where old forgotten battleships are at the bottom of the ocean
And the people on them long since dead. . .
Pearls and treasures hidden from sight at the bottom of the ocean
Where dolphins sleep and play ready to save some swimmer
Sea-green coral and seaweed are pretty ocean plants
Seashells at the very bottom of the ocean
Seagulls sing to one another from the coconut trees and many other birds sing a
Tropical anthem blending with the sweet perfume of hibiscus and a lone tropical girl
Plays a sweet song on the ukulele
And the horse gallops on the sandy shore happily enjoying his freedom
And the world to all is beautiful
Tropical sunsets blazing dark goldish- orange with the silhouettes of palm trees
On the beautiful rocky island
And the world is hushed to sleep with the tropical lullaby of the singing waves
When the world awakes with dew the sweet hibiscus
~Marian~
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 6:34 PM UTC
The cello sings Ave Maria.
Distilled calm; blister packs
In a wet July.
There is peace in every grain,
So fine. Wore away the stone,
Three drownings in the sea.
Annihilation
To build a monument
We settle upon:
Our paradise recovery.
There is warmth after the rain.
Ukulele played on the
Gran Cervantes balcony.
Off-white scars;
Pyramids with no eyes.
Every stoner sleeps.
Every kind heart cries.
The Arc of Life sings a lullaby,
Still I cannot get calm.
In a wet July
A comfort to staying inside.
We tried, wore away our lungs,
Three renewals in the sea.
A leap of faith,
An old keepsake
We contrived upon:
Our lunatic discovery.
There is movement in death.
Pollen falls to the ground;
Exhale of recovery.
Dead-end joy,
Statuettes with no eyes.
Every criminal weeps,
Every kind heart lies.
The cello sings Ave Maria.
The strings that heal
In a wet July.
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 9:28 PM UTC
Oftentimes I find myself having these random bubble bursts of thoughts-I want to learn Sanskrit…..what? Where does that even come from? Or Hey! Learning to sew would be neat. Or you know, I could really benefit from reading the newspaper.
And the thing that I struggle to understand is that when I have thoughts like this, is this an attempt to discover more of me or is this me trying to force an idea onto myself that isn’t actually me, but what I think I would like to be...
Think about it. If you came out of the womb and you had a catalogue and could then choose carefully categorized qualities in yourself, what would you choose? Sometimes it feels like then it would be easier then having to try and discover it for yourself. And I could go on about how no, it’s great that we have to go through this struggle to find it and I’ve learned all these things from my journey, but unfortunately, that is not this poem.
No one actually knows who they are completely ever. That’s a neverending journey according to...well everyone. But why do we fight so hard to find it?
If someone paid me to try one new thing each day, I would take them up on that opportunity but if you think at the end of it all, I’d tell you what I learned about myself, then you can have your money back because I’m not interested.
Not every experience is a learning experience and not every adventure has to mean something. I like rock climbing. I like blueberries and strawberries and raspberries. I take long car rides just because I can, thank you Hybrid vehicles. But I am not a rock climber or a farm girl or a lover of cars. I know that I am a person who is going day to day doing things that I like to do. So I may pick up my ukulele this day and I may never pick it up again for another year, but I certainly won’t be selling it because of that. I own more books than I can account for and haven’t read more than 30% of them, but I hate having to take books to the used book store and I love buying more. And so what does that make me?
I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter, because that is not this poem.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
There she sits quietly in the corner,
Watching me
Longing for me to give her my attention,
Watching me
While I spend time with everyone but her,
Watching me
While I may pick up a guitar or two
Or tickle a piano every chance I get
She doesn't know that my mind lingers
And I find myself,
Watching her
Her smooth body curved oh so perfectly
To her perfect neck so long and slender
She was my first whether she knows it or not
And on the day we met
I found myself,
Watching her
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 7:49 PM UTC
*My darling little one I am tasked.
Tasked with the idea of imparting what I know.
It might not all help,
But it is what I wish I knew.
If you don’ t already;
Pretend you like yourself,
Because if people think you are untouchable
They won’t attempt to approach you and tell you the negative things that you already tell yourself.
Take the time to listen to classical music,
You will like Toccata and Fuge in Dmin,
Trust me.
Don’t regret anything;
You are who you are because of what you have done,
Even if you don’t like the person you are now,
Use the present as a catalyst to become who you picture yourself being.
Fall in love with weird people.
They are a different type of person
And you learn much about how the mind works from them.
Pick up the ukulele.
It is bright and happy.
But only do this after your long stint as a metalhead.
People can say what they want,
But you have to be talented for metal
And if anyone knows about community and looking out for their own it is metalheads.
It is okay to be unhappy-
Even now I don't have the hang of this one.
But maybe someday
Maybe someday.
My tiny shining star,
The world will be cruel to you,
But it will be kind if you let it.
Take in the little things that give you joy.
But your Mum and I cannot wait,
To see the joys you experience
And the mistakes you make,
Because I will be waiting with tea and gumboots
And your Mum will be waiting with blanket forts and chocolate
And probably a better solution.
You will be an unstoppable force in this world
And I couldn't be more excited to meet you*
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 6:27 AM UTC
Two sisters walked by the tropical shore
And gazed at the sunset the west
On an island with the silhouettes of palm trees
They sat, and watched the pretty sunset
As it faded
Like a painting being erased from canvas
After that came Night and we danced
With the Sea Fairies
We sang the prettiest Tropical songs
And hushed the world to sleep
And we played on the Enchanted ukulele
And on the prettiest harp you ever heard
We sung and danced
And played on our ukulele and harp
All Night long
The next morning the dew
Like sparkling shining jewels
Kissed the hibiscus blooms
And waked them up from sleep
And the breeze stirred
The lacy green leaves
Of the majestic palm trees
Sunrays felt lovely and warm
On our cheeks
And the ocean never
Felt cooler
When we waded through
The singing waves that morning
~Marian~
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 8:50 AM UTC
fueled by alcohol
swollen emotions,
the age of consent
and mistakenly stuck doors
the mutual understanding that comes with a singular passion
singular desire
just one time
but when the clock chimes
1:45
and curfewed kisses are few
you take my hands and sing
"i want to know you"
my fingers weave along my glowing screen
praying your given digits will be well received
and when my phone buzzes
i sigh
for i had tried to not let doubt cloud my mind
but i did not know you yet
and it rarely happens like this
when the clock chimes
6:00 Am
my rosy cheeks wait in the cold mist
a note on the table excusing my absence
a pale faced taxi driver goes through the required motions
to take me to your warm lips
with two hours of sleep
your makeshift bed is the port in a storm
and your slight frame is the sort that initially misleads
but it is powerful and exceeds expectations
the sweet sharing of bad puns
disney songs
and the unexpected "i love you"
the "you have beautiful eyes"
and the mess that is my hair do
i wake you with a warm hand to the hip
and a quick kiss on the lip
reassures me it was the right thing to do
the twang of ukulele
and its warm wood brush over my breast
its hard form against my warm chest
you sing for me
and the poetry that traverses your lips is magic
though slight
you have no trouble maneuvering through my wide rivers
and hidden valleys
my small forests
you flip me with ease
a playful tease
tracing racing and running
soon warm water runs over our shadowy forms
because though forever may be spent in bed
the real world obligates us to move
to shower
in our travels we find ourselves caught in drizzly public transportation
making our way to the place of your occupation
though we are eating for two
you order three breakfasts
making up for the meal missed
replaced with loving
surrounded by kissing
you drink coffee
a quick pick-me-up
i drink a london fog
to remind me of the sleepy morning
and a quick peck to the lips reminds me of the rest
a test of my willpower
my power to resist taking you then and there
though that may have resulted in your termination
so i resist my considered temptation
i take a slight deviation
for every story must end
every sentence
no matter how much love
we must wait for blood
because every hook up,
every sentence
must end with a period.
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 4:08 AM UTC
So I have this friend
She's pretty cool
She makes lemon bars
and plays cribbage too
We play the ukulele
and dance to Datas song
who said that teenagers
can't get along?
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 8:02 PM UTC
I sought the Lord
Beside the singing waves
Underneath a palm tree I knelt
The was shining brightly
The waves an anthem sung
The birds joined in the choir
Along with a ukulele
I felt His Presence right beside me
When I prayed I felt so happy
I read from His Word
No church was there
I just worshiped Him
Sitting in the cool white sand
The ukulele sung for me
And the birds lifted their praises
To Him
Our voices filling the air
Like angels singing in the clouds
I worshiped the Lord
Beside the singing waves
~Marian~
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 6:52 PM UTC
Sadness carried on the salty breeze
The waves dance upon the shore
The cool sand feels good to bare feet
Seashells collected in buckets
Horses galloping on the shores
Enjoying their freedom and eternal ecstasy
Golden memories carried in the wind
Forgotten thoughts linger in the breeze
Pristine palm trees standing on the shore
Ukulele songs in the tropical air
Lone tropical girls dancing
To the everlasting song of the waves
Tropical sunsets silhouetted with palm trees
Lighthouses standing on majestic islands
And I'm standing here alone
The sun kissing my brown hair
Its rays reflecting in my blue eyes
And my fair cheeks feeling its warmth
Caressing my face
This place feels sentimental to me
And I treasure it above
The hidden ocean treasures
Buried under the foamy waves
~Marian~
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 12:11 AM UTC
I broke a string on
my ukulele. It’s safe
to say, I relate.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 1:00 AM UTC