Best Crank Up Poems
Music comforts the soul, cures that restless spirit.
Some songs will make you crank up the volume so everyone can hear it....
Music can alter moods, and talk to you.
Some songs have the remedy for what you're going through....
Music is good medicine for a broken heart,
and yet some songs can turn around and tear it apart....Music has brought people all
around the world together;
And some melodies will keep playing on forever....
Music adds to the intensity of making love.
Fuels that fire, you can't seem to get enough of....
Music makes me sad, glad, happy and mad.
Some songs make me pick up a pen and pad....
Music makes me wanna pull a woman close, kiss her nose, remove her clothes,
suck her toes,
And with Janet Jackson still singing "That's the Way Love Goes;"
Me and her make our own music video until her sweet nectar overflows!!!!!
Note: To my fav. soupers, I don't know your preferred genre of music and sometimes age
plays a huge role in a persons tastes in music. Since I don't know everyone's age, I'm going
by gut feeling and the personalities I read on my comments and my soupmail. If you guys
download music; I've written one song for the following people. A song from me to you, so
to speak. Be open minded and listen to the whole song. Enjoy. #1 Marty "Devil Woman" by
Marty Robbins #2 Carol B. "These arms of mine" by Otis Redding #3 Charma "Words" by
Anthony David #4 Raiin "Undead" by Hollywood Undead #5 Patty "Insatible" by Darren
Hayes #6 Lolita "I Believe" by Blessid Union of Souls #7 Ladybug12 "Turn Back the Hands Of
Time" by R. Kelly #8 Sue M. "As of you" by Raphael Saadiq #9 Highlander "Folsum Prison"
by Johnny Cash #10 Sara "Sweet Dreams" by Patsy Cline #11 Brandee A. "I need you right
away" by Smokey Noval #12 Donna "Unchained Melody" by Righteous Brothers #13 Linda-
Marie "Bonita" by No Mercy
Sleepless, the body becomes
a mind map strung out on a bed,
color coded in degrees of pain.
Each movement sends an update,
a glowing patch of deepening red
or a lava line of heat solidifying
into a poker branding plunge
with a white hot X.
Staying still is only a temporary
reprieve, a lull for nerves to reset
and crank up for the next assault.
Inhabited space pressurizes
to send throbs pounding
on the walls of each weary cell
accompanied by waves
of relentless ache.
Thoughts clamber upwards
looking for a way out
but fall back into a dark
gravity, consumed by
that agonizingly slow countdown
when the next dose of oblivion
can be dribbled out of a pill
which, with any luck,
should get you through
until morning creeps across
your bed
with another installment.
Hurled into the desert by a beatnik pilot and dropped off just above nirvana. I find myself in a peculiar yet remarkable position. I am now alone. I look out above the high sierras and find a moonbeam shooting down on the valley below me. I follow it down and realize it is not a guiding light but that of a 747 landing at LAX. I am up here with the coyotes and jackrabbits. Equal prey once I get hungry. I have a canteen full of gin and a beretta 32 caliber pistol. No directions no map. Who cares? The other thing I have is a tin full of sardines and 4 joints of some primo sativa.
I begin to wander towards the city wondering what I will find on my way down. I crank up a joint and take a hit of gin. Another night in city for me, its just a few miles down through the valley. I’ve been here before. Messed up on crank. They keep telling me I must survive. And I keep asking them what is it that I must survive? This ain’t no homeward bound trip. I slip into between rocks of billionaire’s homes hoping not to set off the security systems. When I get to the bottom will they pick me up or have they dropped me off for the last time?
I change my mind. I head the other direction. Away from L.A. trekking towards the desert and maybe home. At least there I have a chance of a new beginning. There is nothing left for me back there. I stumble and fall but I get up and keep going. There is something and somebody there for me. I just need to keep moving.
Sometime around dawn I awake from an alcohol and drug induced stupor. I think of heading back to L.A. it would be so much easier. Then a car passes and I stick out my thumb and she stops.
“Hey where you heading?”
“Anywhere but here,” I reply.
“Hop in I am headed for Santa Fe.”
“Sounds good to me”
“You like the Grateful Dead,” she asks?”
“Hell yeah I got some conscious bud here.”
“Cool”
And the road begins to wind to our future.
I'm going to get up and dance to chase away these blues.
I will crank up the music, then kick off my shoes!
A little jazz for the soul will be just the thing,
It never fails to give me back my swing!
Well it’s one o’clock on a Tuesday
The regular crowd wanders in
There’s an old broad
Sittin’ next to me
Wonderin’ which room she’s in
She says, “Girl can you join me for bingo?
I don’t really like playin’ alone
But I’ll pay for your cards and a table
And oh yeah, turn off your phone"
Now Marge in the cafe is a friend of mine
She always brings chips for a treat
And she colors with pens and pulls up her Depends
But at three she goes upstairs to eat
She says, “Honey, this coloring’s killing me
My arthritis kicks up pretty bad
Well I’m sure that my hands would feel better
If I could just stay in my pad."
Oh, la, la-la, di-di-da
La-la di-di-da da-dum
Now Ellen is a would-be novelist
She writes things that I never read
And she’s talkin’ to Mary, who’s allergic to dairy
And swears that the roaches come here to breed.
And the manager practices jumping jacks
As the residents watch in the lobby
They’re sharing some punch
That’s left over from lunch
And they’re trying to find a new hobby
Sing us a song, you’re the Senior Brigade
Sing us a song right now
We have limited time to hear you
Cause we’re goin’ inside for some chow
It’s quite a large crowd for a Tuesday
And the manager sports a big grin
Cause she knows for a fact that it’s all been an act
And it’s really a prison we’re in
And the piano sounds like it’s out of tune
As the keyboardist tries to play
And the people sit at their tables
And say just look at Mabel
She’s talking about passing away
Oh, la, la-la, di-di-da
La la, di di dah, dah, dah
So crank up the tunes, we’ll play bingo
And who volunteers to call?
Let’s ask one-eyed Murray
Since we’re in no big hurry
He’s shy but he gives it his all
Should you vote the democratic ticket, then let the farce be with you!
All I can say is please do some serious research before you do.
It’s not just about change but this country’s future is at stake,
Check out both candidates records, times are getting too serious to make any mistakes.
Many, many men have died for our freedom and the right to vote,
Do not vote on infatuation, cause it was shed blood that bought it, I do not mean to gloat.
The issue that worries me most is our economy is rapidly falling apart,
They need to cap the price of crude it’s eroding this nations heart.
I don’t know of one thing that hasn’t increased in the last two years,
You can call it what it is but we have allowed this to happen and now we are facing our
worst fears.
We have become too dependent on foreign oil,
It’s time to crank up those drilling rigs and start punching holes right here in American
soil.
And when they need our wheat or grain,
Sell it to them at a jacked up price let them feel the hurt and pain.
No more weapons to foreign countries shall we sale,
As far as I’m concerned they can all go straight to h—l.
No more being Mr. Nice Guy let them fend for themselves,
Let us take care of what we have and start stockpiling our shelves.
I think it is time for this country and it’s people to unite for the right reasons.
Time is not on our side, the Lord is about to return, read the signs know the seasons.
The weekly bus that carries
the old ones from the village
to do their weekly shop
fills with shaken umbrellas
and eager tales of morbidity.
You know those water tablets
that Jane’s been taking for her blood?
Well they’ve affected her kidneys now,
and she’s got oedema.
You should see her ankles:
like balloons, they are.
The rain has stopped, the sun
dazzles the seats around me,
warming the air and our faces;
beads glisten down the windows;
the driver hums a tune;
the journey smiles.
Janet found a growth –
it turned out benign but
she fell and broke her wrist.
I’m doing her shopping.
And as for Billy’s verruca . . . Well!
The sun has failed to shun
the cloudy conversation,
gives up, ushers back the rain.
Rain is happy here: cheer is so obviously
no substitute for this bus-time babble.
Sickness over health is preferred.
I push my earphones further in,
crank up the volume and enjoy
that radio hospital drama
I downloaded yesterday.
Sweet satin dreams prempts peeks of sun
Through white slant eyed and dusty blinds
Sending furnance like blasts of heat at times
Yet cooled by an overhead fan.
The patter of cat paws upon my turquoise sheets
Alerts me every morning for wet food eats.
She meows and turns her head from side to side
As if to say,"Daddy its time, its time".
At first I am bothered but I give her a smile
Then cradle her in my arms, for she's my loving child.
So off to the fridge I go, without any curses or gab
While she stares at me , I know I must, quickly go wash my hands.
After that I grab a cigarette and micro wave my coffee,
Dear Rosey my sweet little female cat ,I feel is much too bossy.
Outside I go with cup in hand then search for a second lighter
Then look up at the clear blue skies, the mountains that I admire.
As I hang out and sip and smoke without any plans
Its another day in paradise and I'm a sober man.
Amongst the brush piles and leaves the handyman didn't remove.
Once inside I put down my cup then crank up my computer,
And no e mail is found.
Its another day in paradise and I wouldn't change a thing,
If I were rich or even poorer I'd stay exactly the same.
Absolutely love old Mickey Mouse
He's my all-time favourite character
No matter what my age chronologically
Can't wait to crank up the projector
As he carouses round the celluloid screen
Fills my heart with a much happiness
His squeaky voice rings out loud and clear
His hilarious antics and rowdiness
Remember the Wonderful World of Disney
One in four was from Fantasyland
Of course, I enjoyed the other three weeks
But adored Mickey Mouse and his band
Life was such joy back way back when
Figured we would be kiddies forever
Thoughts we'd get old one day in the future
Occurred almost just about never
Mickey and his band kept us chuckling all day
No worries, the world was in rhyme
Never concerned what the future may hold
Much fun from morning till bed time
Absolutely loved old Mickey Mouse
My all-time favourite character
No matter what my age is chronologically
Can't wait to crank up the projector
As he carouses round the celluloid screen
Fills my heart with great happiness
His squeaky voice rings out loud and clear
Always creating such rowdiness
Remember the Wonderful World of Disney
One in four was from Fantasyland
Of course, I enjoyed the other three weeks
But adored Mickey and his band
Life was filled with joy back then
Hoped we'd stay kids forever
Thoughts of getting old sometime in the future
Occurred to us almost never
Mickey and his band kept us chuckling all day
No worries, the world was in rhyme
Never concerned what the future had in store
Only fun till beddy-byes time
© Jack Ellison 2014
Speeding down the highway
I lament my life so far
and meanwhile Death is gleeful,
riding shotgun in my car.
So I crank up the volume,
speakers thrumming bass guitar,
but Death just seems to dig it,
riding shotgun in my car.
One child is an addict
and the other lives too far,
as Death adjusts the seat-back,
riding shotgun in my car.
My husband's soul is breaking
while his son's a big rock star,
and now Death is laughing,
riding shotgun in my car.
As I mourn my unborn grand-kids
his smile becomes bizarre,
for this is Death beside me,
riding shotgun in my car.
Crashing at 190 sure would
leave a massive scar,
and meanwhile death is grinning,
riding shotgun in my car.
©Danielle White
All the others row the boat slow while I crank up the motor....
Here we go let's start the show, I'm the show boater.
The entrance of the eminent,
with ability that's evident.
Poo fills your pants
as you now know you haven't a chance.
I've had it with those who flow with a transparent talent,
the thumpy clumpy rhyme and rhythm of an elephant,
regardless of their age they should think about retirement,
as a skill that's transparent is a skill that they haven't.
I'm the standard setter and I lack compassion,
my skills unmeasured and better than the competition.
Your rhymes are rotten,
that's why they're forgotten,
you're not the dogs bollocks
you're just the dogs bottom.
I rhyme with a rhythm representing Great Britain,
you rhyme like you've been bitten and are disease ridden.
My hyperactive mind will leave you behind,
I am not being unkind but simple minds,
can't even begin to find the words to bind,
people like you often tend to stumble blind
over the simple single syllable rhyme.
I started writing and I'm unstoppable, it's easy it's natural,
you're a hangover fart that lingers like a holocaust chemical.
I am the only poetic superhuman that's causing confusion,
it's amusing how you need the supervision to point out you're losin'.
You need to train your face to look HUMBLE when defeated,
if you feed what it needs your brain won't crumble depleated.
I'm on a mission to book first place, so when I'm awarded,
I must be applauded, stand and clap don't remain seated.
You need to accept it and expect it,
or quit while you have time to forefeit.
You will blunder under the sound of my THUNDER that goes round,
but if it's misheard,
I've got a box of frost to start biting,
but if that's squandered
and you carry on like a fighter,
I'll strike you with lightning,
one way or another you will not win top writer.
Respect the perspective that my rhyme is perfected,
and to conclude your rhymes are rejected.
Not to be rude but your seat's to be ejected,
it's not that you're bad it's that I am majestic.
I had just set my headphones
down when the intercom
buzzed and Ruben O’s
voice asked urgently:
“you ready man?”
I’m standing before the
multi-slide mixing board
in a studio dreamily
streaked in amber from
the track lights.
“Eagles Lyin’ Eyes man,
all six minutes and eleven
seconds. let’s go!” was
my reply.
this is a conversation
between two radio deejays
at two radio stations
in the same building
in San Antonio in the eighties.
it’s nearly three
in the morning and were
both bored and wanting
a “bump” to make it
through our night owl
radio shifts.
I crank up the monitor
in the control room
and swing the studio door
open and lock it back
so I can hear the song
play from thirty feet away.
Ruben O’ does the same
to his door across the hall.
this is what is happening
on the other side
of the microphone
as the
listening public
in four southern states
tunes in to hear
the Eagles on KTSA
and “Karma Chameleon”
by Boy George on KTFM.
sister stations in a
clay colored building
at the end
of a 200 yard
driveway off
Eisenhower Road
in San Antonio, Texas.
I’m already waiting outside
the back door where the
jocks park. my foot holding
the door open.
it’s a balmy summer night
and lightning silently shimmers
in the tall clouds to the north
of the Alamo City.
You can’t hide your lyin’ eyes…
You come and go, you come and go…
our dueling aired songs play
loudly and the sound
crashes through the
still air and echoes
boomingly off the
residential neighborhood
two blocks away.
we each take hurried hits
off the moistened roach.
holding the smoke in the
lungs for a few seconds.
two hits is all I need.
I’m already feeling a little
fuzzy. Ruben O’s ready
to go too.
“screw it man, that’s good
enough”
we both sprint back
down the hallway
to our respective
broadcast studios.
such is another night
as an all-night radio
deejay at twin stations
in south Texas
on a summer night
in the eighties.
Who knows whence the measurement
of time came about, though this chap
proposes the following general happen
stance. Perhaps psalm body named Judas
Priest arranged to congregate, but cohorts
restless (sans Quiet Riot), did Accept
a Mercyful Fate asper their Iron Maiden pact,
but needed to reassure doubting Tom us
(a petty detail), how to coordinate self
anointed Black Sabbath. An Idol Billy
Graham proposed a resolution (this
coincidentally enough would be calculated,
figured, and interpolated vis a vis
to happen on New Years Eve circa
unknown when. Some metal-heads
put their Smashface together, and contrived
a crude modus operandi, which in
vol vid each musician to crank up
and amplify to the max his instrument of choice.
No matter distance extant between
closest and farthest member, would be
barely faintly heard. The era re: these
bit players didst dabble with primitive
chronometers comprised hamlets a mere
shouting distance apart. Once a quasi
reliant (and affordable) methodology
evolved, one singer songwriter
upped the (space/time quantum theory)
ante by conniving, fostering (the village
people), inviting live onstage performances.
Quite a bit of fancy free footloose gimcrackery
reckoned to be sale-able to sell at audiences,
thus drawing a Crowded House. None
the less, there remained the confounding,
irksome, pesky quandary sans figuring precision
concerning how to segment morning
to night cycle. Perhaps the town nerd
might own the (get) smarts to tinker
satisfactorily until...PRESTO! The purported
impossible mission solved with refinement
propelling one geek after the other into
the klieg lights if only for a blink of an eye!
Crank up the innuendo spindle machine,
I predict an uptick
in textile conjectural manufacturing
Tabloid logs of disparaging hardcore data
come rolling on a gossip conveyor belt
Lies and self-promotion gets shaped
into a loose fitting, fabricated article
Woven for profit,
using speculative material
cheap as they come
The rumor mill is on a rickety hum
Paparazzi garment products
getting poorly reported news labels stitched on
Unreliable eyewitnesses
are making that old lying metal beast
groan as it run
Forcing half of the naked victims to get
dressed up in lawyer fancy worded injunctions
And the other nude half
racing to get their full metal jacket guns
Seems the off switch never gets turned,
as the rumor mill continues to churn
Cranking out dubious scandal grade clothing ...
Reputation buyer beware
of public paucity for consumer scarce loathing