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Marian Jul 2013
That Night by the ocean
The waves sung me a lullaby
Of palm tree silhouettes
And tropical sunsets
Of singing waves
And gritty white sand
Of lemonade sipped on the shore
Of nocturnal ukuleles singing a melody
Of sandy flip-flops left on the sand
Of little ocean seashells
And ocean treasures beneath the waves
Of hibiscus blossoms in bloom
Of tropical fruits
Of salty breezes stirring my brown hair
Of tropical Nights
And on and on their lullaby went
And hushed me to sleep*

*~Marian~
I was daydreaming about the hoverboard that was promised to me
in the sequel to Back To The Future when you big-banged my mindset
with a universe of thought that I was not ready to comprehend.
All you said was, do you think koi fish were typecast?

As if some ancient Japanese fisherman noticed that that fish in particular
was more reserved than the others. I can picture him
paddling quietly across the Caspian Sea as he notices these fish,
looks down through his own reflection and says, you seem artfully shy.

You remind me that historically and geographically speaking,
my story makes no sense. And that the fisherman would not speak English.

I remind you that at the rate we're going, we'll probably die
before we find out how this life ends.
You remind me that we're all fossils in waiting.

This was on the back porch of the house you lived at in Santa Barbara.
There was a mountain to our right and an ocean to our left.
This was in between puffs of your cigarette.

I remind you that sometimes you throw yourself out there like propellers
so I threw myself down like a launch-pad-made-for-landing-
not knowing anything about trajectory- hoping to show you
that there are some people out here who know the importance of landing whole.

You retreat to your smart phone, search Google, load a satellite image,
point to the smallest blue pixel, See that? You say.
That's Earth. Everything we will ever know happened on that dot.

I thought about Newt's completely feasible moon colony and the first moon-born human.
I thought about illegal aliens and inalienable rights.
But I didn't say anything.
We just sat there in perfect silence
like two ukuleles wanting to be acoustic guitars,
perfectly tuned, painted in moon reflection, I said, what are we doing?

And you didn't have to ask.
You knew. When I said we, I meant the species.
I.

A louse in a house
or a mouse on a blouse.
A bell that goes ****
or a gong that goes ****.
A gap on a map
or a cap on your lap.
A drink in the sink
or an ink that stinks.
A spleen on a screen
or a queen who is green.
A bow in the snow
or a crow that glows.

II.

A wash or a whip,
a lip or a lop,
a top or a tip,
a car or afar,
a bar or a war,
a door or a snore,
a bore or a nail,
a flail or a whale,
a run or a bun,
a sun or a moon,
a spoon or a bus,
a fuss or a sigh,
a cry or a cheer,
a fear or a smile,
a while or a pen,
a den or a cat,
a mat or a hat,
a bat or a glass,
a vase or a weight,
a mate or a fork,
a cork or a mop,
a cop or a stop.

III.

Apples and artichokes, ants and antelopes,
bees and beers, books and brains,
cucumbers and chimneys, ***** and coats,
dogs and drains, dots and dominoes,
ears and eejits, elephants and exams,
flies and flutes, files and friends,
grasses and guts, giants and gyms,
horrors and hiccups, horses and hills,
igloos and irons, irises and idiots,
jumpers and jackets, jodhpurs and jellies,
kings and kettles, kites and kittens,
lions and lamps, lemons and lunches,
mums and monsters, mosses and moths,
noses and notes, nightmares and needles,
oblongs and orang-utans, organs and oranges,
paintings and pennies, ponds and pants,
quiches and quizzes, questions and queues,
rainbows and rings, rascals and rabbits,
snakes and sprouts, sweets and salts,
trumpets and trains, tables and toasters,
umpires and ukuleles, umbrellas and uniforms,
violets and vests, violins and vials,
wheels and wings, windows and weeds,
xylems and x-rays, xylophones and xysters,
yachts and yoghurts, yards and yaks,
zigzags and zephyrs, ziggurats and zombies.
Written: October 2013.
Explanation: A poem in three parts written in my own time. I guess this is aimed primarily at young children - written mainly as a bit of fun. Although the language is fairly simple for a child to understand, some words will obviously be unfamiliar, but perhaps if read aloud a definition of the word could later be provided to the child. It is unlikely a child would use the word 'ziggurats' for example, but nevertheless, these more challenging words might be interesting to a child, simply because of the sound and unfamiliar nature of it.
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
If Rihanna and Bob Marley had a baby,
it would be her. She was as fierce as peace can be.
Born in the suburbs, I had never seen
coffee-colored rastas with caramel tips,
pulled back from a shaven head
into a ponytail.
She skated in an oversized hoodie
across San Marcos square — a watering hole for
porteños playing hippie.
Mad man strummed ukuleles wildly;
couples dancing interpretively; jugglers rode on unicycles,
as if they were all training for a jester convention.
Still, I couldn’t tear my eyes from her
broken strands tied in knots swinging freely.

Her sea-foam stare met my blue gaze.
I looked like a dork; my hair plastered
and sweaty. I wore a black tank top,
waiting for another bus to another city.

She dismissed her band of perros
and grasped my hand, asking me
if I wanted to sleep by the river with her.
It was late so I said yes.
We walked from the yellow lights
of the town square.
She grimaced.

No more bones for starving dogs.

I wasn’t starving, just lost,
a traveler,
dried from a bucketful of adventures,
I dreaded repeating as empty stories
over
and
over
and
over.


O Celia,
you were a coyote wearing a hoodie;
no one could tame you, refracted by the white
light of the moon that embraced each
of your steps by the shrubbery-ridden riverside.
I stumbled as we approached
an embankment sheltered by magic trees,
the glistening water chilled waves to perked ears;
reflections of villagers, we pitched tents together,
tipi-ed by the ritual
of finding niche in transition.
You built the fire; I prepared the mate;
your weary locks whispered callejero wisdom.
Your stories were everything I wanted to say,
but too timid to be.

You were dancing in my basement,
bathing in moonlight *******,
unashamed to say how good the water felt.
You probably lost your virginity in your tent;
shadows of leaves shaking a disturbed night,
unlike I, crying, semi-drunk, wishing I hadn’t.

You actually played the guitar;
you bought it yourself;
it was tied to the skateboard
you drug behind on open roads.
I got a guitar for my birthday after
watching Lindsay Lohan be a rockstar in a movie once.
I was inspired to play for a while.
Then it just sat in my room.

So you taught me your favorite song, Legalizenla
We didn’t even have a porro — you wished we did.
But all I wanted was to memorize those chords
So you listened to me play them out of tune for hours,
pressing my fingers on the fretboard like butter.
Strums shuddered my soul.
You wrote the lyrics in my journal
with the note, con mucho amor.

Now, each time I dust off my guitar,
I warm up with that song  
to remember your vibrations.
Honest opinions here? What do ya'll think?
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
i love my life, i can describe it, ok, ok
encapsulate it in one word...

                          FREE-FALL

or                 ­   BUNGEE!

                              (see what i mean
about not using diacritical insignia,
bungee v. bunji     - ji      like genie, oh ****
i.e.                  oh gee...       jive in 5...
             steps...                   is this
               a taste of alkali metals dipped into water?!
it better be! never seen a rust instrument in
an orchestra - seen a brass, but never a rust instrument.
Bowie's Jeans Genie - glue, jaded and jotted down
gluttonous - but oh gee and j, glee and Cabaret (or
Caba ray, hey, w'ah hey! Cabaré! olé! sound-eater
octopus that é is... say e, go on, say it!)
now we're talking perfectó muddles and ukuleles
(ó meaning shoved away, salute, missing H...
not a parabola this time... i.e. per-fect-oh!
the little scalpel hovering over the circle
is intended as an exclamation mark...
you're going to have to shout it!
including the silent H... the day when
diacritical marks are given equal status with
punctuation marks - the word as sentence in equality
given its punctuated status of acknowledged syllables,
diacritical marks, slits, cutting ins,
and when that day comes, i will not be here;
so when will umlaut become a colon (:),
and macron a hyphen (-)?
it's called painting on a blank canvas for the time being:
working on the skeleton, fashion, addressing
the lack of tailored attire.
Amber Grey Jul 2013
I was happy then, because there were eight.
I was happy because it smelt like ash and ukuleles;
rushing water that could very
very well break my neck.

I smiled and you smiled back
blinded by a flash of everything,
anything that happened in Decembers and Februaries
and the warm air, lying thick on the back of your neck
melted that flash clean until all I saw -
all any of us saw -
were blinking images of ourselves.
caught unaware and griping but also so very happy.

It smelt like summer, like tires speeding up, up
higher and higher until we crashed into the sky and fell down,
cratering holes as acid rain.
Aniseed Jun 2015
Hazy summer dreams of Independence Day,
Sitting in a field and an alcove of trees
Watching fireflies and fireworks
With nothing but a peace pipe and the pleasure
Of each other's company.

Four in the morning blues
Writing music inspired by
The light reflecting off her box wine,
Bird feathers and new frontiers.
Four in the morning band practice
Where the kitchen was filled with
Jaw harps and nose flutes and ukuleles.
She hated the fact that the string bassist
Parked right in front of the fridge.

Sun-drenched days of exploring
And picking mulberries from the
Fallen tree at the creek.
They tried to make pen ink from it,
Once.

Dreams of open mic nights with
Milkshake stouts and summer sweat
But never once complaining
Because the air felt so electric
And full with the sound of kindred souls.
Place closed down since then,
But she won't forget the time she was
Asked to stay on stage when her set was done.

Maybe they're all romanticized, but
These memories stick like push pins
In her mind, in her heart.
There was something more authentic
About it all -
All those days of watching
Fireworks and fireflies.
Something real, and true.
Something changed, shifted in the universe.

Maybe it was her.
Guess I'm stumbling down memory lane, tonight.
Jamie F Nugent Jun 2016
Scott Greene was a man of vast wealth, and also of vast anger and sadness. His wealth he inherited from his late father, or rather, the company that his founded, a leading manufacturer of contact lenses. His anger and sadness he inherited from his wife, Mary, or rather, an argument that they had. Mary had found a brazer not belong to her, all black-laced and in measurements suited for a slimmer, not doubt, younger woman. In the past several weeks leading up to the find, Mary had a great suspension of Scott's jilted ways, and now after cleaning under the bed, Mary had finally found tangible proof of her husband's paramour. The fight ensued the movement Scott came from his daily grind. With a livid Mary holding up Scott's lover's garment in a fist clenched so tightly it turned reddish and throbbed. The underwear was displayed like evidence like a courtroom. How Scott wished for a lawyeresque individual who would lie for him and talk his way of all this. But, alas, feeling unlucky and alone, like a Magpie, Scott just wanted to fly away from all of this, or swim, or dig and crawl away through the dirt. Scott just stood there in the high-ceilinged mansion hallway as Mary, his once lover, screamed awful and ugly things at him. Scott had stopped listening, instead wondering how long she could keep up screaming until she felt that red piercing pain in her throat and could not stand to scream any longer. However curious, Scott was adamant to find out, instead opting to leave and go anywhere that wasn't where he was right then.

Scott yelled, depressed by his own voice, that he was going for a drive. Coldly, Mary called him spineless, the worst thing she could think of. She waited for Scott to leave, then started to cry alone in the near-empty house. Scott, still dress in fine gray suit from work, walked briskly past his horses in the stable to his garage, and into his favorite car, the Rolls Royce, Phantom. Nothing but the finest. Scott turned the ignition on and turned the radio up to try and clear his aching head.

Scott drove to an all-night diner just out of the town. After what seemed like mere seconds, Scott was there. As he opened the diner door, a bell chimed. Looking around with that eyes that darted around the room left-to-right as if watching a tennis game, Scott found that his only company was the staff and a few large truck drivers who stared and made Scott feel out of place. He sat away from them, at the other end of the place. A young, dark-haired waitress came to take his order. "What'll be, sweetie?" she queried, "Coffee, black" Scott answered, looking her in the eyes. He thought her eyes very pretty, yet having a little gloom in them too. Scott got a quick look at the name-tag draped on her breast before she walked away; It read Jane. Scott watched her walk away, her slender splendor and eyeing her legs and lower thighs poking out of her seductively short work skirt. Scott flirted with the notions of flirting with her. After all, what was left to lose?

He thought to himself. But after opening his wallet to pay for the coffee, the little photo-both snapshot of Mary he kept inside his wallet make him think twice. On the reappearance of the radiant waitress, she asked Scott if that would be all he wanted. "Yeah, I'm good for everything else" Scott said. As the waitress walked away, Scott stared at the spoon on his saucer. Its contoured reflection showed his face silvery, upside-down and all stretched out and bent. Scott then looked at the design on the wall next to him. The pattern was of hula dancing girls playing red ukuleles. Scott's mind rushed back to his and Mary's Hawaiian honeymoon, years ago. How the honeymoon was truly over. Scott began to drink his coffee, it was pleasant. Scott picked up a salt shaker from the tabletop. He swerved it in his hand and looked at the salt inside, overlapping on top of itself. Suddenly, Scott felt so small and valueless, and that he belonged inside the shaker, buried underneath the salt, away from everything, he thought is surely easier than everything. Scott finished his cup and thought it time to return home.

Scott excited the tragic diner, got into his car, and drove home. While driving through the driveway, he noticed the bedroom lights still on. He thought Mary must only be going to bed just now. Scott would wait a few moments before entering and then go to sleep in the guest bedroom. Mary was a heavy sleeper. In the meantime, Scott parked the car and then walked to the stables to visit his favorite horse, April, who a colossal Clydesdale with a glossy brown coat with a snow-white mane. Scott went into the stall, he slowly began to brush her mane. He knew there was no point in talking to her, but did so, just feeling good getting the words out. Scott told the great animal his worries, fears, and hopes. After a while, Scott started to feel his eyes heavy, and thoughts of going to bed seemed satisfying. In a sleepy stumble, he reached out and suddenly touched the horse, saying fondly "Goodnight, April". Then everything went to black. Early the next morning, Mary found Scott on the stable floor, his skull in several pieces from April's startled kick.

She wept.
b e mccomb Aug 2016
i would love
to leave the house.

walk downtown
in broad daylight
find a cute coffee shop
to haunt

(with my notebooks i'd never
notice any lack of internet connection)


stroll along the moonlit
shore
dip my toes in the water
off the dock

(the only thing i'll take
advice from is a lake)


read books
all afternoon
in the stilted quiet
of the public library

(perhaps pay off my longstanding
fine like a responsible adult)


go shopping for a
brand new skirt
worn once or twice
by someone else

(and i swear i would dance
in the rain until it was soaked)


find some kind of local
museum that nobody really
cares about and go look at
something antiquated

(or i suppose i could just stay
in the secondhand shop attic)


go into a music store and
play all my worst melodies
on their guitars and ukuleles
until they kicked me out

(the discomfort on the other patron's
faces would be worth the humiliation)


oh yes
i would love
to leave the house
and i would love
to do it
alone.
Copyright 3/18/16 by B. E. McComb
(Land that doth marry mother lode
of sublime earthen land and sea).

Age of exploration
   ushered cruel fate
   against “red” men living
   in bliss by agents

   patch of eden north
   o Mason Dixon line
   latitude: 39.64839
   longitude: -75.95591 alee

perchance designed
   by divine providence
   with dyslexic humorous bents
   Cecil county Maryland

   lies like plump backward letter “e”
witnessed topographic erosion
   pocked imprimatur marked
   meteorological dents

   thru inundation of
   oceanographic propensities
   melding coastline like Galilee
in particular by Chesapeake Bay,

   that body of water
   abutting like natural fence
   first witnessed by captain
   John Smith in 1608

   mistaking himself tong tied
   in sole of Italy
learned faux pas, when crossing paths
   with Susquehannas hence,

   offered tobacco sticks to natives
   while recovering
   from injured wounded knee
said other sundry tribes curiously eyed
then (I utilized poetic license)
took smoke from packet of Kents
   which twist on actual
   historical facts manipulated by me
but more truthful account awash
   and replete with more

   than interspersed nonsense
   and incorporates tract situated
   in so called Fertile Crescent – see
settled by Europeans of English stock,

   who emigrated with nary a pence
   “taming” shrew like “noble savages”
    plied Leviathan sized ukuleles
whose might exploited for felling forests,
   which timber built cabins with vents.
b e mccomb Oct 2016
i've got a soft
spot in my heart
for a good
harmonica solo

but also strings
banjos
synths
ukuleles
and tack piano makes
my heart skip a beat

don't even
get me started
on brass sections
they turn
me into a pile
of mush

so we can
conclude that
really just music
in general
makes me
disintegrate.
Copyright 10/10/16 by B. E. McComb
Reem Nov 2018
it reminds me of the mid August heat
of his old decaying teeth
it reminds me of the smell of paint
and music that makes me happy
of ukuleles
and faint bird chirps
of sumptuous velvet by my bare toes
and icing on cake
of cereal and sunday mornings
and mom’s freckles in the sun
of thunder and lightning
and mattresses pressed against my back
of the gold he embellishes me with
and old recordings on tape
of ee cummings and maya angelou
and a time were it was easier to live, but harder to survive
of Cleopatra and reigning women
of God and answered prayers.

yellow reminds me of elation and euphoria
and a field of sunflowers aching for me to dive in.
Vic Dec 2019
I asked my friends for inspiration and here's what I got...

"Ukuleles zijn kut"

"*****"

"Ukuleles zijn vals"
A poem every day
14-12-19

We need to get back to actual poetry.
Charles Sturies Jun 2018
Old Mother McCreery
Played on her washboard.
Time for nursery rhymes
That aren't worth a dime
But seriously
Yeah steel band music
On the corners of the streets
In Miami
In the old days,
Improvised bands with
All sorts of
Improvised instruments
And little boys
Playing on their miniature set of bongo,
Ukuleles, and harmonicas
All
Music in different ways.
Dr Peter Lim Jun 2018
Pacific islands
ukuleles ev'ry where
sounds blend with the wind
Charles Sturies Oct 2018
Old Mother McCreery
Played on her washboard.
Time for nursery rhymes
That aren't worth a dime
But seriously
Yeah steel band music
On the corner of the streets
In Miami
In the old days,
Improvised bands with
All sorts of
Improvised instruments
And little boys
Playing on their miniature sets of bongo,
Ukuleles,and harmonicas.
All
Music in different ways.
the dirty poet Mar 2020
country music night was a soft adventure
much stranger and more charming than expected
the living room was microscopic
they were passing around a fifth of whiskey
"i hope you don’t mind," said our host
a heavily-bearded med school/phd student
"but i drink from the bottle"
uh, groovy…  i stuck with beer
and admired his grungy charisma
we tuned to his autoharp
which was out of tune
we sang silly old country songs
he’d printed out lyrics and chords
young hippies came and went
a banjo, a fiddle, a lute, two ukuleles
my flashy flatpicking and slide
sweet, ragged harmonizing
we’d landed on the planet of pure music
skipping from moon to moon
till way past midnight
you should have been there

— The End —