"zeppelin" poems
Come one come all
*** inside everybody
Please do
Fill yourselves and spill yourselves
Wet your dry spots with your wet spots
Don’t sweat the petty things
But please pet the sweaty things
Dance like a warped record stacked on a broken record
So you can gyrate over a Led Zeppelin ****** of
OOOHHHHYYYEEAAAH and it makes me wonder
Soak my curiosity in your nearly naked
Let’s walk away from this mutually *****
You cantankerous carnivorous man-eating jellyfish
Stumbling to engulf me in your morphine
Lying like amazing lovers do
“No
I won’t leave you in the morning
But it doesn’t mean I will ever love you
I just want you to feel me
You feel me?”
And you left at 4 am just after I passed out
Leaving me stuck with
The wings made of chain-link handcuffs and sheets
Going from my wrists to my feet
Because you said you always wanted to make love to a butterfly
I thought I could be an angel
Or at least a stingray
So my venom might stay with you longer
But you left like I knew you would
Took the keys and I had to pretend I was wearing a white kimono
And because of the handcuff chain
I just started telling people I was the ghost
Of ***** lovers past
But you go ahead and go on back to your main attraction
I don’t mind workin’ side show
Standing like a man made *******
Pulsing at the thought of you potential
Waiting patiently like a secret
Verbal donkey show
Hollerin on the tail end of dawn
With a secret song on a broken record
When played backwards
“Don’t go”
Jan 3, 2012
Jan 3, 2012 at 12:24 AM UTC
Emerging from the darkness,
Your face is encircled with stars of Orion.
Fog surrounding your silhouette.
Overwhelming force field separating
My aura from yours.
Walk a fine street of plated gold,
Deploring plastic cores,
and camera stores.
Flying fast,
Screaming at the past.
Back down from the galaxy.
I scream with ecstasy;
"I am Shakespearean!
I am Freudian!"
You are Napolean,
King Henry and Led Zeppelin!"
Crash, smash, crack myself open.
Electromagnetic magnetism.
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 11:10 PM UTC
Along the banks of Lake Shelbyville
That’s what I think of when it’s your birthday
A camp fire burning on a cool April night
We two drinking hot mauled cider
Or better yet “Hornsby’s Draft Cider”
Talking and laughing
Making up parodies
Parodies of Zeppelin and Floyd songs
Listening to the nightingales and the crickets
And watching fire light
That almost appears to be living
Watching slow rolling clouds, and feeling the whispering wind
Rolling in and out and over and under
The engaging light of the moon and stars
And maybe some of our friends were there
And maybe it was only us
Brother and sister
Best friends forever
Retelling stories of our past
Creating memories for our future
Waxing religion and philosophy
Such philistines, think my parents
And your parents don’t get it
And yes we have separate parents
And yes we have the same parents
(Adoption is a funny thing you see)
You are my funny BIG, BIG, BIG brother
Santa Claus, Sasquatch, Cave Man, and Viking
And I am your little crazy sister
Flower Child and Sacagawea
And it is your birthday
And I love you always
Love, Sarah Jane Gillian Tiffany Michelle Whispering Wind Grider Minks Summers Jonathan George Washington Francis Fleming Greenlee Whiter Liston Hall
Aka Awesome Pagan Goddess
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 1:36 PM UTC
JEFF the Brotherhood, Metric, and Phantogram
FIDLAR, The Broken Social Scene, The Zac Brown Band
King Khan and the Barbeque Show,
Matt and Kim, Vampire Weekend, Creedence Clearwater Revival.
Jimi Hendrix, The Flaming Lips, Artic Monkeys
Florence + the Machine
Death Cab for Cutie, Bon Iver, Band of Horses, Parlovr
Kings of Leon, The Strokes, Yellow Ostrich, Cage the Elephant
*** Pistols, The Ramones, Red Hot Chili Peppers,
Bob Dylan
Young the Giant, The ** Ugly Casanova,
Modest Mouse, The Doors
Coldplay, the Beatles, Led Zeppelin, The Rolling Stones
Nirvana, Foo Fighters, Smashing Pumpkins
Titus Andronicus, Bob Marley
Queens of the Stone Age, Mana, The White Stripes:
all gnarly
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 5:56 PM UTC
/ although i'd love to go back to the cinema of, bell, book & candle from the 1950s in early technicolour... can i? don't think so... trapped the rekindled narrative of myth... i wish i could, do the supra-capitalist, drunk at 5 in the afternoon, and still pulling the strings... early nostalgia of what was late nostalgia of what was 19th century german concerning ancient greece... i chose 17th century france... because? because... why could it ever be england as primo optio?! am i either that daft, or as much stiff for waiting for eddie zee theerd?! well? well done, you guessed my thinking: write a fictive narrative, it'll last longer, like a photograph.
immigrant song, led zeppelin -
probably the only grand theatre
plus,
of thor: rangarok;
i still don't know where those
M16s came from...
and?
given they used
a led zeppelin's song?
i honestly, don't want to know.
i was honestly going to favour
a black sabbath oeuvre,
using only solitude
by the witches' congregation
ask, aspect,
or subsequent, marketing ponce
scheme.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 12:50 AM UTC
There's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold
And she's buying a stairway to heaven.
When she gets there she knows, if the stores are all closed
With a word she can get what she came for.
Ooh, ooh, and she's buying a stairway to heaven.
There's a sign on the wall but she wants to be sure
'Cause you know sometimes words have two meanings.
In a tree by the brook, there's a songbird who sings,
Sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiven.
Ooh, it makes me wonder,
Ooh, it makes me wonder.
There's a feeling I get when I look to the west,
And my spirit is crying for leaving.
In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees,
And the voices of those who stand looking.
Ooh, it makes me wonder,
Ooh, it really makes me wonder.
And it's whispered that soon, if we all call the tune,
Then the piper will lead us to reason.
And a new day will dawn for those who stand long,
And the forests will echo with laughter.
If there's a bustle in your hedgerow, don't be alarmed now,
It's just a spring clean for the May queen.
Yes, there are two paths you can go by, but in the long run
There's still time to change the road you're on.
And it makes me wonder.
Your head is humming and it won't go, in case you don't know,
The piper's calling you to join him,
Dear lady, can you hear the wind blow, and did you know
Your stairway lies on the whispering wind?
And as we wind on down the road
Our shadows taller than our soul.
There walks a lady we all know
Who shines white light and wants to show
How everything still turns to gold.
And if you listen very hard
The tune will come to you at last.
When all are one and one is all
To be a rock and not to roll.
And she's buying a stairway to heaven.
Nov 17, 2016
Nov 17, 2016 at 9:37 PM UTC
(For Harry Clifton)
I HAVE heard that hysterical women say
They are sick of the palette and fiddle-bow.
Of poets that are always gay,
For everybody knows or else should know
That if nothing drastic is done
Aeroplane and Zeppelin will come out.
Pitch like King Billy bomb-balls in
Until the town lie bearen flat.
All perform their tragic play,
There struts Hamlet, there is Lear,
That's Ophelia, that Cordelia;
Yet they, should the last scene be there,
The great stage curtain about to drop,
If worthy their prominent part in the play,
Do not break up their lines to weep.
They know that Hamlet and Lear are gay;
Gaiety transfiguring all that dread.
All men have aimed at, found and lost;
Black out; Heaven blazing into the head:
Tragedy wrought to its uttermost.
Though Hamlet rambles and Lear rages,
And all the drop-scenes drop at once
Upon a hundred thousand stages,
It cannot grow by an inch or an ounce.
On their own feet they came, or On shipboard,'
Camel-back; horse-back, ass-back, mule-back,
Old civilisations put to the sword.
Then they and their wisdom went to rack:
No handiwork of Callimachus,
Who handled marble as if it were bronze,
Made draperies that seemed to rise
When sea-wind swept the corner, stands;
His long lamp-chimney shaped like the stem
Of a slender palm, stood but a day;
All things fall and are built again,
And those that build them again are gay.
Two Chinamen, behind them a third,
Are carved in lapis lazuli,
Over them flies a long-legged bird,
A symbol of longevity;
The third, doubtless a serving-man,
Carries a musical instmment.
Every discoloration of the stone,
Every accidental crack or dent,
Seems a water-course or an avalanche,
Or lofty slope where it still snows
Though doubtless plum or cherry-branch
Sweetens the little half-way house
Those Chinamen climb towards, and I
Delight to imagine them seated there;
There, on the mountain and the sky,
On all the tragic scene they stare.
One asks for mournful melodies;
Accomplished fingers begin to play.
Their eyes mid many wrinkles, their eyes,
Their ancient, glittering eyes, are gay.
3.4k
the radiator croaks
like bourbon and Barnaby Jones huffing ******
in a lead Zeppelin; and heat clinks like a spider's tooth
on a moist towelette. and the stars hold a bounty of something deeper.
a dread helpless, in mean peace with a vital vital Truth
with no choice, as yet; but a marred County, of Big Thinker.
and you can hear the wrinkles on an Angel's *** and prove
the useless rude. and politely
unseat the morning sun
through the levolor
minds
during eclipse.
during a near
miss
from the dark-side
of a rogue
moon.
the hard way.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 6:51 AM UTC
Something so serene about standing on the pier
While a beggin' street performer sang stairway to heaven.
Although not my favorite Zeppelin.
It was magic.
The wind carried the melodic tune.
That was it.
Everything and nothing.
One moment out of a million.
I hated the wind,
And the cold but,
In that moment I could see us there,
Growing old.
Your smile gave me warmth.
The closeness set me on fire.
In that instant,
I've never been higher.
No pipe, pill, or drink
Could make me feel,
Or make me think.
And I have to say.
It was one of my best days.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 1:19 AM UTC
an old car with rusty brakes,
models, the Eiffel Tower, a zeppelin
combs, a toothbrush, muddy sandals,
posters of sunsets and other better worlds,
a souvenir mug from Venice, an unmade bed,
handwritten notes, letters unanswered,
a ghost that wamnders through my veins
and the present of your life
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 6:19 AM UTC
Tearing up I-75 like bats outta Hell
The radio jacked up to MAX
to be heard to the roaring of the wind,
Seeing as the top is off of the jeep
Zeppelin and The Who
Van Fleet and The White Stipes
Generations of rock
Shared by the elder and the young
Different problems faced
Yet shared circumstances
The pace is rapidly set
Like invaders they ride
Or gunslinger of the old west
Buying into the legends of their own immortality
Like a final ride before closing that part of the past for good
Even some of that Seattle sound trickles in
A much younger and angrier Pearl Jam
Sometimes even the garage rock get a turn in the spotlight
Their pace exponentionally increases like a runaway train
It's end destined to be in a glorious and terrible wreck
The road trip is on
These rockers of all ages are on the warpath to a good time
God help us all
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 11:51 AM UTC
Soon I'll be scaring the Blue Herons
fishing on the shore
as I ride around the lake
at lightspeeds
watching the sunrise
and listening to Zeppelin.
Alleluia...I can't wait...
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 5:43 AM UTC
When I was a child
there was an old woman in our neighborhood whom we called The Witch.
All day she peered from her second story
window
from behind the wrinkled curtains
and sometimes she would open the window
and yell: Get out of my life!
She had hair like kelp
and a voice like a boulder.
I think of her sometimes now
and wonder if I am becoming her.
My shoes turn up like a jester's.
Clumps of my hair, as I write this,
curl up individually like toes.
I am shoveling the children out,
scoop after scoop.
Only my books anoint me,
and a few friends,
those who reach into my veins.
Maybe I am becoming a hermit,
opening the door for only
a few special animals?
Maybe my skull is too crowded
and it has no opening through which
to feed it soup?
Maybe I have plugged up my sockets
to keep the gods in?
Maybe, although my heart
is a kitten of butter,
I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.
Yes. It is the witch's life,
climbing the primordial climb,
a dream within a dream,
then sitting here
holding a basket of fire.
2.1k
nobody gives a ****
about poetry
or books
charles bukowski
or siddhartha
nobody gives a ****
about the universe
or extra terrestrials
carl sagan
or that we are stardust
nobody gives a ****
about Led Zeppelin
or Pink Floyd
Joni Mitchell
or Nirvana
nobody gives a ****
except for me
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 12:27 PM UTC
*We lose so much talent to addiction
Some of you may not care, but I do
This is my tribute to them*
**Alan Wilson
Canned Heat
Jimi Hendrix
The Jimi Hendrix Experience
Janis Joplin
Jim Morrison
The Doors
Brian Cole
The Association
Billy Murcia
New York Dolls
Danny Whitten
Crazy Horse
Gram Parsons
The Stooges
Gary Thain
Uriah Heep
Elvis Presley
Gregory Herbert
Blood, Sweat & Tears
Keith Moon
The Who
Sid Vicious
*** Pistols
Lowell George
Little Feat
Jimmy McCulloch
Wings
John Bonham
Led Zeppelin
Darby Crash
Germs
James Honeyman-Scott
Pretenders
Pete Farndon
Pretenders
Paul Gardiner
Tubeway Army
Gary Holton
Heavy Metal Kids
Phil Lynott
Thin Lizzy
Andrew Wood
Mother Love Bone
Brent Mydland
Grateful Dead
Steve Clark
Def Leppard
Johnny Thunders
New York Dolls
David Ruffin
The Temptations
Kristen Pfaff
Hole
Shannon Hoon
Blind Melon
Bradley Nowell
Sublime
John Kahn
Jerry Garcia Band
Jonathan Melvoin
The Smashing Pumpkins
Billy Mackenzie
Associates
West Arkeen
The Outpatience
Nick Traina
Link 80
John Baker Saunders
Mad Season
Bobby Sheehan
Blues Traveler
Wes Berggren
Tripping Daisy
Allen Woody
The Allman Brothers Band
Carl Crack
Atari Teenage Riot
Layne Staley
Alice in Chains/Mad Seasons
Kurt Cobain
Nirvana
Dee Dee
Ramones
Robbin Crosby
Ratt
John Entwistle
The Who
Howie Epstein
Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
Jeremy Michael Ward
De Facto
Tim Hemensley
GOD
Dave Schulthise
The Dead Milkmen
Rick James
Kevin DuBrow
Quiet Riot
Ike Turner
Gidget Gein
Marilyn Manson
Jay Bennett
Wilco
Michael Jackson
The Rev
Avenged Sevenfold
Paul Gray
Slipknot
Mike Starr
Alice in Chains
Amy Winehouse**
*We are not bad people, we just have bad ways
Yet, not many understand*
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC
They wanted to build
a counter culture
a version of
whatever
needed straight from
society
I shoulda' been born in the 60’s
cause I recycle more than
I create trash and like
an acid flashback,
I don’t even have a license
just bicycle from point A
to point B
I realize,
I shoulda' been born in the 60’s
they call me a hippie but
the fringe and leather
don’t make me
it’s that I practice what I
preach
I listen and I teach
I reach out to the old
faith
Gandhi and passive resistance
tryin' to make a difference
even if peace don’t
“exist” at least I don’t
reach out to war
as if it’s at my fingertips
and just like braidin’ hemp
the center splits-
I shoulda' been born in the 60’s
I listen to classic rock
and jam to an mp3
records and tape decks
old school
is where you'll find me
Jimi and Zeppelin and
The Doors make me jive
without that music
I don’t even think I’d be alive
it’s that drive-
like man, you’re either on the bus or
off the bus
but I hopped coast to
coast
cause in love we trust
west to east in a retreat,
just to find the true me.
I shoulda' been born in the 60’s
I wear flowers in my hair
and sat on stoops
in Haight
I grew my hair long
and I sport natural waves
I don’t wear makeup or
go to raves
I try and find my grass roots
while they sport white collar jobs
and dress up in their suits
I write poetry and rhymes
I paint and I draw the line where man-
I should have been born in the 60’s
but I’m 93’
and thats ok with me.
in this current day and year
of 2014
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 2:43 PM UTC
Such sweet songs
Fall from faces full
Of open
Hearts holding hands.
Generally great groups gather
Quixotic questions,
Ponder personal perceptions,
Emulating ever entranced emotions.
Love loses leaps, leaves
Broad bruises bypassing
Catastrophically closed creations.
What wonder, what wildly whimsical
Rejoice remains?
In individualistic idioms.
As all allowed anatomical
Differences deal dictations,
Juxtaposed jesters join
Monstrous masterminds
Trivially tinkering, tryingly,
Near non-subjective nothingness
Under unusual
Vectors. Vivisecting voracious,
Zeppelin-esque, zygotes,
Xenophobic
Yodels yell,
**** **** kindheartedness!"
Mar 24, 2012
Mar 24, 2012 at 12:20 AM UTC
Grey skies
flying moor
storm in a teacup
gas cell 4
the clock hands are matchsticks
...
The letting go of everything
in hopes of trimming the airship
this seat is no longer taken
...
In love with a bad idea
the zeppelin and the magnetism
closing in beyond the minimum safe distance
...
Dim blue flame
a psalm of survival:
days and peoples and places
are transatlantic numbers
crawling from the wreckage
the clock hands are matchsticks
Jul 7, 2023
Jul 7, 2023 at 1:15 PM UTC
Flipped in the oven sun, arched like a bow
They jumped one by one
As they found their own way through the thick foam
Of the falls of Shinn
Where the rushed and glided
Flying through the air
Like dolphins in the cool
Seas of Firth Of Forth;
Trying to find home
As the ice broke free.
Sitting on the cold rock
I feel the slime,
I feel my face burn with stinging
Coldness from the water spray
As I watch them leap
Into freedom.
I also escape...
Drinking my souvenir whiskies
From my 1970's
Led Zeppelin satchel.
Above me people snap shots with their flash
Cameras
As they rise like the sun.
Children laughing and feeling happy
Except one who wants to go home;
My brother who wants to watch TV!
Right next to him was the most beautifulest girl
I've ever seen.
Rainbows were in her auburn hair
Burning with autumn sun,
Blossoming with winter snow drops.
Her hair was like the river itself.
Her eyes were as green as the four leaf
Clover I held in my hand.
Maybe I was lucky to be in love.
Her eyes for that very second floated into mine
As she smiled
And I smiled back.
God how much I wanted to kiss her.
She was utterly beautiful.
But in that very instant she was gone
And I was never to see her again....
In the autumn light
Showering shadows
Were starting to collect crystals
In the melted waters below
And the gold is beginning to spread
Upon the leaping salmon.
©Jack Aylward
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
for me it's still the memory
of travelling on the no. 86 bus
to school, really
loving robert plant's song
darkness, darkness
and morning dew reading
voltaire - both songs from the
album dreamland -
a compensation for the last album
by led zeppelin having exhausted
their togetherness of stating something,
i don't know why i sided with
collecting the oeuvre of led zeppelin
and not black sabbath -
but still that bus journey that took
about an hour and two buses -
across cold crisp green belt, just sitting
there listening to music and reading
a book, while the same of rosa parks'
effort sat in the back (as usual) jabbering
like parrots and not stoic enough
to place all our supposed origins -
rosa parks, your effort became futile -
your kindred still preferred the back
of the bus, where they could get rowdy
with girls who'd not **** me, thanks,
i can't be bothered to live a white girl,
i'll stick to the art,
now i couldn't walk down a high street
eyeing shops' content holding her hand
without being too irritated and wishing
to run into a forest
and swim in fallen autumnal leaves
smelling the sweetness of death
where death sweet, the only sweetness
of death is among autumnal leaves fallen,
this strange Aphrodite, this
strange autumnal Aphrodite sea, this sea
of leaves, and i have, fallen into it
and swam in it in the brisk cool of night
when this sea is most porous to
secrete the perfume a dead body of a man
or fox could never do;
O the sweet scented dead sea of the
autumnal Aphrodite balding and shedding leaves,
to litter the forest floor, and me
slain in it nonetheless still living -
parisian perfumeries can hide and squalor in shame
compared to the odour of the autumnal Aphrodite sea
of dead leaves beneath the craniums of alveoli
sketches of the naked trees.
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 6:49 PM UTC
Peeled a Tangerine;
The juice spat back.
Indeed,
Led Zeppelin.
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 4:56 PM UTC
There's nothing
like rocking and rolling
in a steamy shower.
Me hoisting you up,
your back against the wall
& me ravishing you
to the tune
of Led Zeppelin.
O Darling,
well of course
Mozart would work,
he's just as melodic!
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 4:10 AM UTC
1. Led Zeppelin
two.Football
3.sex
four. Kings of Leon
5.intimacy
six. Trust
7. skateboards
eight. Hazel Eyes
9. Subway
9.the sandwich shop
Ten. Love
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 3:13 AM UTC
Mr Kalashnikov I'll ask you nicely
Please don't point that thing at me
Laszlo Biro how nice to see you
Without you where would we be?
Mr Molotov may I remind you
You are in polite company
May I present the Earl of Sandwich
Do partake of his wares
And special desserts are served soon after
Presented in person by Anna Pavlova
The Duke of Wellington brought in some mud
Mr Macintosh is expecting a flood
Candido Jacuzzi and Joseph Pilates
Appear to be making friends
Henry Shrapnel and Joseph Guillotin
Who invited them?
Ferdinand von Zeppelin,
Perhaps you would like a schnapps?
Mr Winchester, Mr Colt, Mr Gatling, Mr Lewis
So many gunmen I'm alarmed I confess
May I trouble you Mr Hoover
To help tidy up the mess?
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 4:00 PM UTC