Knew a lad from the boonies
Could really belt out sad toonies
The ladies did cry
Big tears in their eyes
Farting out loud like Mickey Rooney
Janis
I can still hear that raspy, smoky voice
that could belt out a bluesy rock song.
Every time I see a Mercedes I can’t help
thinking of you imploring the Lord for one.
A young woman from Texas who dressed
more like a hippie from San Fran.
I will always wonder if she and Bobby McGee
rode that semi the whole way to New Orleans.
She stole a piece of my heart when she left
Big Brother and went out on her own.
Sadly, she flamed out like a young sun
that goes supernova.
She joined the twenty-seven club and
passed into music history.
At some screenings of “Wicked,”
I’ve read, it’s a thing
For some audience members
To feel free to sing.
They belt out the lyrics,
Since that is their choice,
So that no one can hear
Any actress’s voice.
They got real defensive
When questioned and said
Anyone who objects
Should try streaming instead.
To sing in the theater
Brings them so much joy
That they can’t understand
Why this act should annoy.
If I buy a ticket,
All sound should exude
From the cast on the screen;
Singing patrons are rude.
A dense fog envelopes the valley today
The scene seems supernatural,
straight out of a fairy tale
Even as Nature's song plays out...
A light breeze brushes the bushes
and rows of roses regale with their refrains,
Lilies lilting to the lyrics of aurora allure the muse
Dahlias dally in a delicate dance
And merry marigolds move to the music of the morn
Chrysanthemums croon along in an enchanting cadence
Spring has arrived to perform its sonata...
Bougainvilleas belt out the blues
Cherry blossoms cheer and chant the chorus
Jubilant jasmines jive joyously in unison
Happy hyacinths harmonise in their psychedelic hues
Birdies chirp, squirrels squeak and doves warble,
adding their bit to this Spring composition
The fog lifts, lighting up the chromatic vale...
The Master Director of this orchestra is to be praised
for bringing out the best music Spring can ever produce.
I step out into the evening,
into a cloud of whispered conversations,
insect talk, birds uttering
their “goodnights” high in the trees,
the days last gossip settling
back into a more respectable
muttering of leaves.
Then other sounds,
a child’s cry sobbed out
of an open window and then,
two houses along, raised voices
from down a dark passageway
spilling into the street
in angry throbs,
and way off,
clanging railway crossing bells
bridging the distance,
the growl of a truck
changing through its gears
and a siren rasped across
raw nerves, all this
finding a willing instrument
to work the evening
with all of its discordant notes
and sounds, into a single score
for an old busker to belt out
the tune on the steps
of his own front door.
Babies galore, I tell my baby,
my youngest,
who’ve met these birthing-cousins.
Bouncing babies born
on the same day.
A boy, a girl - twinsies
and many miles away,
another boy - oh the joy!
My daughter says but
it’s been a sad day, Mom.
I ask her why, fearing
one of her in-laws,
something with the kids…
She says that Tina Turner died today.
I smile: Honey, that doesn’t trump the family news.
Babies galore. Oh the joy…the joy…joining in
for the generations spinning out.
May God abundantly bless these bundles
of swaddled happiness! May they be dressed
in white-out apparel - be the very best humans.
and as Tina would belt out, as she passed
by the freshly powdered…surely she showered
the newbies with:
You’re simply the best
Better than all the rest*
Rest in peace, Tina!
Welcome Cousins!
5/25/2023
*songwriters: Holly Knight, Mike Chapman
I take this cane with me
everywhere I go
It travels with me
from bike path to the open road
With my knife I add a notch
at each milestone
It is quite adorned now
for ways of only I would know
My cane knows that I travel
with the sorrowful blues
I strum it like a guitar
and belt out some notes, a few
You could say this walking cane
define me
But I say it's my friend
from what I can see
As for the notches...
they are my angels and my demons
speaking to my walking cane
over all the past seasons
Sunday, May 7, 2023
Poem inspired by Joe Bonamassa's song Notches
Some people call me Kenny
Because of my resemblance to Mr. Rogers
Wish I had his enormous piles of dough
I'd sure be a happy old codger
Methinks they mean before his facelift
At least that's what I hope they meant
It made him look like a real different person
Not as charming in any event
So I'll take it that's what they really meant
When Kenny was young and virile
Instead of this ageing singer of love songs
Fame can be fleeting and so fragile
Mr. Rogers can still belt out a love song
With his familiar raspy voice
For over four decades he been charming us
Was everyone's favourite choice
So I really don't mind the nickname Kenny
A compliment is how I take it
People could have nicknamed me Bela
But as Lugosi I never would have made it
There's two knights laid out before me.
I've got two knives coming up behind me.
When I stand up and belt out a warning.
These blades will show me no mercy.
I'm fresh out of ideas.
How can I master you?
I haven't got a clue.
How can you blame me?
There's no mercy.
No remorse.
No matter what you do.
Open up this bloody heart I hold in my hand.
Give me time and I'll show you my insides.
It's one less bone to chill my intestines.
Open up this bloody heart and take a look.
I'm piercing my eyes.
Open up this bloody heart and take a look.
I'm losing my mind.
Open up this bloody heart and take a look.
I've lost all my lives.
The magical bicycle takes me to the land of the elves
Where they teach me the flute, where the dinosaur dwells.
I perch on the seat and wave to animals I would like to meet.
They are eager to see if I will fall off this mystical seat.
I am standing now, with my cape blowing in the wind.
Meeting the day’s breezes, my happiness about to begin.
There are ferns full of faeries, and dwarfs blowing me kisses.
I balance on one foot and have a couple of near misses.
The land where we go is better than my midnight dreams.
The fantasy world of glow is filled with electronic moonbeams.
We are happy in our twosome, this mighty bike and me.
I have to admit that we also dive down low where I jump into the sea.
The melodic sounds of the ocean glide me back to my bike.
Where we go for a longer ride, and I grab up a karaoke mike.
I belt out a song and the elementals cheer like mad, simply go wild.
When you have a magical bike, you become a mystical child.
Can it really be June?
How’d it get here so soon?
I’m not ready to belt out
A summertime tune.
Days are long enough now
And I just don’t know how
I can fill them with all that
Restrictions allow.
Still, most folks won’t agree
Thinking summer will be
Back to how it once was
Living life Covid-free.
But my coming-out’s slow
And there’s one thing I know
That before we blink twice,
June will pick up and go.
For my second Covid birthday
Nature surely did its duty
For providing me (and others)
With a day of perfect beauty.
Did my early morning walking
As the sun began to rise,
Hearing birds belt out their greetings
Under glowing orange skies.
Spent the afternoon just strolling
Through the paths of Central Park,
Where the trees are all a’blossom
After months of being dark.
There were bicycles and children
And musicians on the sax,
Also joggers, dogs and picnics;
It was time to just relax.
I could see the city waking
From its sad pandemic dream.
There’s a long way left to go
But slowly, hope is gaining steam.
Now I’m back beside the river,
On a bench beneath the sun,
Feeling happy on my birthday
And the day is still not done!
Baseball will be back on the scene once more
For a 162 games, I'll watch all the scores
I root for the Blue Jays
My two arms I raise
As they belt out homers, and the crowd it does roar
Shh! I caution them. He is swimming right now.
They look past me trying to see.
One asks how?
Not sure I admit but it’s his world. Not mine.
Hero is holding a bird cage up.
Readying himself for a sing.
He fancies himself Mark Spitz and Adam Lambert.
That’s okay.
I want this for him
When we first got him he had no self-confidence at all
Now he has more than enough for three
I have never felt more proud
Hero wraps a pink feathered boa around his neck
and begins to belt out "Poker Face".
He might be better than Lady Gaga!
Tiny crocuses soon peep their purple heads
Above the lingering pale green foliage
In my upper yard's terraced flowering beds
Robins on my lawn will hungrily forage
Building their sturdy nests out of sticks and threads
Young folks are considering dates for marriage
Days when I open the windows for fresh air
And belt out the loudest show tune, if I dare!
Written February 11, 2021
For "Spring Poetry Contest"
Sponsored by Regina McIntosh
[Ottava Rima - eight 11-syllable lines
checked with PS Syllable Counter]
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