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Hugging the Jukebox
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Hugging the Jukebox
by Naomi Shihab Nye
On an island the soft hue of memory,
moss green, kerosene yellow, drifting, mingling
in the Caribbean Sea,
a six-year-old named Alfred
learns all the words to all the songs
on his grandparents’ jukebox, and sings them.
To learn the words is not so hard.
Many barmaids and teenagers have done as well.
But to sing as Alfred sings—
how can a giant whale live in the small pool of his chest?
How can there be breakers this high, notes crashing
at the beach of the throat,
and a reef of coral so enormous only the fishes know its size?
The grandparents watch. They can’t sing.
They don’t know who this voice is, trapped in their grandson’s body.
The boy whose parents sent him back to the island
to chatter mango-talk and scrap with chickens—
three years ago he didn’t know the word “sad”!
Now he strings a hundred passionate sentences on a single line.
He bangs his fist so they will raise the volume.
What will they do together in their old age?
It is hard enough keeping yourself alive.
And this wild boy, loving nothing but music—
he’ll sing all night, hugging the jukebox.
When a record pauses, that live second before dropping down,
Alfred hugs tighter, arms stretched wide,
head pressed on the luminous belly. “Now!” he yells.
A half-smile when the needle breathes again.
They’ve tried putting him to bed, but he sings in bed.
Even in Spanish—and he doesn’t speak Spanish!
Sings and screams, wants to go back to the jukebox.
O mama I was born with a trumpet in my throat
spent all these years tryin’ to cough it up …
He can’t even read yet. He can’t tell time.
But he sings, and the chairs in this old dance hall jerk to attention.
The grandparents lean on the counter, shaking their heads.
The customers stop talking and stare, goosey bumps surfacing on their arms.
His voice carries out to the water where boats are tied
and sings for all of them, a wave.
For the hens, now roosting in trees,
for the mute boy next door, his second-best friend.
And for the hurricane, now brewing near Barbados—
a week forward neighbors will be hammering boards over their windows,
rounding up dogs and fishing lines,
the generators will quit with solemn clicks in every yard.
But Alfred, hugging a sleeping jukebox, the names of the tunes gone dark,
will still be singing, doubly loud now, teasing his grandmother,
“Put a coin in my mouth!” and believing what she wants to believe;
this is not the end of the island, or the tablets this life has been
scribbled on, or the song.
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Tired hungry playing the geek
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Tired hungry playing the geek
at the moment havin a freak
If I had some chocolate cheese
I would ask for seconds please.
10 second poem :P
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from middle school
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from middle school
i place my hand upon my heart,
and swear we has never part.
i wonder what i would have said
if i had placed it upon my head......
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"Would you like to hear of the terrible night when i bravely fought the.......no?.....alright - The Battle, Shel Silverstein
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We Wear the Mask
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We Wear the Mask
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.
Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.
We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UuHDceDUSyU&feature=related
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UuHDceDUSyU&feature=related
Autopilot
It is January.
Another new year, another new day
What to do with the day?
The waking morning getting ready for the day
What to do with the day?
Choices that never cross our minds
What to do with the day?
The doing, The responsibilities, The chores
Choices that are never really explored
What to do with the day?
The ending of the day
The winding down, The preparing for the next day, The retiring to bed
What did you do with the day?
What choices were made?
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An Argument
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An Argument
by Thomas Moore
I've oft been told by learned friars,
That wishing and the crime are one,
And Heaven punishes desires
As much as if the deed were done.
If wishing damns us, you and I
Are damned to all our heart's content;
Come, then, at least we may enjoy
Some pleasure for our punishment!
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Roses are red,
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Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I like writing poems,
But nothing rhymes with orange...
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As the death flows through me,
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As the death flows through me,
I die.
At reach of nature's end,
I see a light yonder still,
then I gaze at thee,
He who be most high.
Until I come to full revelation:
this is not light but the Lord,
for the light is the dimness within which he stands.
I step toward the gates,
[they] shimmering in the light of the Lord.
I look upon myself.
basking in full light;
I am naught but a shadow,
A dark void in place of man.
I step toward the doorman,
ready my bribe of penance.
I stand.
Silent.
I wait.
“My son, My son;
where hath you been?
I waited, I watched you,
I saw you fall and raised you up.
You have no blemish,
you have nor hurt.
In all that you do,
you do it for me.”
The image of darkness still burdens my mind.
“COME TO ME MY SON!”
The voice, I turn;
I look for a beacon,
one that is not myself.
I look at the dimness of crowds,
I seek to see brilliance.
The voice:
Full of love,
full of joy;
He waits.
I step toward the doorman.
I step toward the gate.
I step toward the side.
Who am I that I should enter salvation?
I recount my wrongs,
I recount my sin.
“My SON!
Why do you stand at the gates?
Why do you stand before me?”
At last the judgement I deserve,
he hath spake to me,
the ultimate gift.
The Lord, whom radiates:
before him light is dark,
knowledge is ignorance,
love is hatred,
life is death.
But I am not his son.
That he should call me to the pit fires,
I am honoured.
Why do I stand before him?
Why do I stand in shame?
I ready for the fall,
I ready for the jump,
(my honour will not warrant a push).
How does one jump down,
without first rising up?
How does one jump down,
without a gap in ground?
The push.
The hand knocks me,
I fall – the heat starts to reach me,
I bask in the last feelings of comfort,
the last feelings of free delight.
For now I rightly join the damned.
“My Son, My Son.
Do NOT stand at the gates!.
Do NOT stand before me!”
I will a bow,
a face-planted humility.
I will a place among demons,
a torment with no end.
“At the gates I can not embrace you,”
To whom doth the voice speak?
“On my lap is where you sit,”
Does he seek to sadden me,
with praise for another?
I gaze in arrogance,
for his son – Christ.
I see him yonder,
outside the range of speech.
I gaze in arrogance,
for his servant – Peter.
I see him yonder,
outside the range of speech.
I gaze in arrogance,
for his daughter – Mary.
I see her yonder,
outside the range of speech.
I gaze in arrogance,
for his bard – David.
I see him yonder,
outside the range of speech.
I gaze in arrogance,
for his... – anyone.
I see all yonder,
outside the range of speech.
O! The torment hath begun.
I have yet to leave the court,
and punishment now ensues.
I re-live my death through sin,
I re-live my dim delight.
But he should speak of love,
when I am not possible to love.
The first of eternal damnants.
“My Son, My Son.
I you are perfect,”
torment continues.
“I see no sin upon your life,”
torment continues.
“You must not stand,
for a guest does not serve on foot,”
torment continues.
….
“Matthew,”
sarcasm, the lowest -
for now I shall definitely enter flame.
“You have been saved by the blood.”
now I shall definitely enter flame.
“Open the book in your hand.”
I look for a form,
I find a radiating book –
the heat source of my anticipatory fear.
I open it and therein is:
my name,
my age,
my birth date,
my family,
my friends.
everything that I've ever done,
everything that I've ever thought,
everything that I've ever experienced.
With one lack:
by the book's (false) account,
I am perfect.
….
…. ….
There is no response,
I sought to retell my sin.
I search for a pen,
in futility.
“This says I am blemishless,
this says I am free (of sin).”
“And it does not lie.”
selah.
“You are MY Son.
Mock not my mind,
I know you are my son,
I know you are to be welcomed.
Welcome home,
MY SON.”
I am positioned on the knee,
the knee of the father,
my father.
“Abba, father!” I cry.
“Call me Dad.”
~ Mentieth.
Thank you for reading. (Sorry for the length.)
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May
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May
by Sara Teasdale
The wind is tossing the lilacs,
The new leaves laugh in the sun,
And the petals fall on the orchard wall,
But for me the spring is done.
Beneath the apple blossoms
I go a wintry way,
For love that smiled in April
Is false to me in May.
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And Roger Miller:
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And Roger Miller:
Rose are red,
Violets are purple,
Sugar is sweet,
And so's maple surple.
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An Ironic And Supposedly Humorous Poem On The Nature Of My Poetry And On My Preference For Brevity In Writing Of Any Nature, Including All Forms Of Prose, But In This Case Referring Specifically To Poetry:
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An Ironic And Supposedly Humorous Poem On The Nature Of My Poetry And On My Preference For Brevity In Writing Of Any Nature, Including All Forms Of Prose, But In This Case Referring Specifically To Poetry:
I am terse
-Ryan Bailey
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There once was a fellow named Hank,
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There once was a fellow named Hank,
Whose lover, a fair nudibranch,
Laid out in the sun
Until overdone,
And dried up, to be perfectly frank.
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Sometimes with the Heart
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Sometimes with the Heart
Seldom with the Soul
Scarcer once with the Might
Few—love at all.
-Emily Dickinson
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As a beauty I am not a star
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As a beauty I am not a star
There are others more handsome by far
But my face, I don't mind it
Because I'm behind it
It's the people in front that I jar.
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This is a great. Shira Erlichman does one of her original poems.
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This is a great. Shira Erlichman does one of her original poems.
http://www.famecast.com/backstage/artist.php?artist_id=3499&video_id=6955&PHPSESSID=9c78458a4f4b455ab5ed8a9ebd097228
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I test my bath before I sit
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I test my bath before I sit
And I'm always moved to wonderment
That what chills the finger not a bit
Is so frigid upon the fundament.
- Ogden Nash
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And consequently... this is also a fav.
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And consequently... this is also a fav.
Songs of Experience- The Chimney Sweeper
William Blake.
A little black thing in the snow,
Crying "weep! weep!" in notes of woe!
"Where are thy father and mother? Say!"--
"They are both gone up to the church to pray.
"Because I was happy upon the heath,
And smiled among the winter's snow,
They clothed me in the clothes of death,
And taught me to sing the notes of woe.
"And because I am happy and dance and sing,
They think they have done me no injury,
And are gone to praise God and his priest and king,
Who make up a heaven of our misery."
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This is one of my favorite poems from the first time I read it in lit class.
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