Best Hi Fi Poems
Serenade Me, Julius La Rosa
His striped tie has a green tint color
And his hands are dark and bulging with blood.
I can see them gripping the steering wheel like parrot talons.
I can see from all the way up here
That one of his fingers has a golden wedding ring,
And he just sits there in that Studebaker
Looking up at my apartment window,
Like I’m some freaking captive locked in a high tower,
And he’s my guard, my sentinel,
Making sure I do not escape.
“Hey you! Yeah you! I’m talking to you!
Oh? You have a problem with me seeing the blond bombshell?
The one with the face that launched a million ejaculations?
The face that burned the topless towers
Of a million American households?”
Now he has a cigarette going inside that sleek automobile.
It’s dangling from his lips
Like a big white toothpick from Scully’s.
The Los Angeles Mirror,
The front page,
Rests forlornly on the passenger seat.
I can even see the headlines from up here –
Something about an execution,
Julius and Ethel R.
Serenade me, Julius La Rosa!
Sing to me now! ‘Eh, Cumpari!’
It’s 1953 and all’s well in the world.
There shall be a tiki torch in every back yard!
“A cocktail? Here, have mine.
I’m well stocked here in my Kasbah.
Now, sweetheart, what were you going to say?”
“When I dance with you,
I feel like I’m in Paris by the Seine,
Dancing in technicolor with Gene Kelly.
You have wonderful moves and a very masculine touch,
And I can almost hear Gershwin music,
Way off in the distance.”
“By the way, my darling Norma Jeane, who taught you to dance?”
“To be honest, my mother.
It was an emergency situation, I had a hot date, so…”
And now we are sashaying on my torn and tattered carpet,
With Perry Como crooning ‘No Other Love’ on my Hi Fi,
Over there in the dark corner.
The lights of the Big Enchilada
Glisten outside my lone window
Like a million incandescent candles
That burn with lust for us.
“Hold me closer.
I need to feel your warm blood.
I need to breathe in your luscious sweet cologne.
Mmmmmm. Kiss me.”
“I will kiss you.
I will kiss you long and I will kiss you very hard.
But first, my darling, why not some Rachmaninoff,
The second piano concerto,
Instead of Perry Como?”
“No Piggy.
Locked in your arms I’ll stay.
Waiting for you to say,
No other love have I.”
UNTITLED
A jug of wine
Pack of smokes
And Hector Berlioz on the hi-fi
Oh the vibrations
Broken rhythms
The now in perfect oblivion
Imagination in isolation
Smoke thick enough
To cloud the eyes to choke
Sips of wine revive
And elicit after a spell
Go to hell!
With this attitude
Words are thrown freely
Carelessly on the paper
Amazing the results
One wonders about the greats
How much stoned poetry?
Dave Austin
~There Was a Time~
There was a time when I would look
out over the azure glory of a Michigan lake,
or tear up from the umber-brown beauty
of Grand Canyon in the Arizona sun.
There was a time when I smelled
the fragrance of fresh baked bread
when east winds blessed us with the aroma
from our neighborhood bakery.
There was a time when I could hear
Elvis singing on my neighbor’s hi-fi
without the head shaking sound
of a wooferized bass.
There was a time when I hopped
aboard moving freight trains
or climbed the tallest water towers,
indifferent to the loss of life and limb.
There was a time when Doug and I slinked
through harvesting backyards
pilfering grapes and teasing dogs,
ever mindful of how long the leashes were.
There was a time when I could eat
a box of Girl Scout cookies
as I watched ‘Cavalcade of Sports’
and never gain a pound.
And there was a time when I never felt
the cold as I scurried up and down
the sledding hill at Bancroft Park
with my Flexible Flyer proudly in hand.
there was a proud resident
who gave her neighbours
a torrid time because she
was well-connected and big
an apologist and a menace
she was a law unto herself
none could tell her to reduce
the noise her hi-fi produced
from her children to her pets
--all did as they pleased –
her licentious dogs caused havoc
even her chicks were untouchable
when the empire of those who had been
fortifying and sugarcoating her nonsense
imploded--she also crushed on her chest
all the sense of immunity just fizzled out
it was a bitter harvest as her own dogs ran riot
--did the unthinkable: biting her like a stranger
while her own children stood aloof as if gloating
the stunned neighbours watched the fracas from afar
Smart phone - we groan without this digital backbone
Laptop - work from home nonstop
Wi-Fi - faster internet connectivity to live hi-fi
5G - advanced communication technology
GPS location - reach any destination
Artificial intelligence - computer brain takes precedence
Zoom - conduct a worldwide meeting from your room
Robot - human proxy hotshot
Virtual reality - simulated artificiality
Social media - connect with friends and share your idea
4th March 2022
For Simon Rogerson's "Let's explore digital technology" contest
Syrupy with recipe ran along brasseries
Peiping, Mags and Oasis pricey rotisseries
Sizzling sizzlers the Peter Cat’s clamor
Addled couples fending their pockets out of scarce.
Boogie with deejays rhythm along discos
Tantra, Fusion and Roxy surfaced floorshows
Mass hangout the Some Place Else’s beckon
Mini-fashioned getups makes the other to pay on.
Volumes with fictions traded along bargains
Oxford and Metropolitan are mostly visited
Cohort no bar wide-ranged music stocked at Music World
Passerby’s daily dos’ makes the guard better-known.
Xaverians with hip-hops confined along principles
St. Mary, AG and St. Augustine are teenagers realm
Scandals and hearsays are their daily boasts
Highly noetic minds makes them their daily booze.
Hotfooted with attachés bucked along clock at nine
Pushed subway, the most busiest at times
Hi-fi managers and Board meetings at The Park
Foreigners often ease themselves at the Flurry’s cake bar.
It's such a great thrill being down in our house;
There isn't a chance of being quiet as a mouse:
With guitars and tellies and hi-fi and things;
Never-ending noise, then the telephone rings.
"It's my call". "No it's not, It's for me scream the choir."
They're all trying at once to yell down the wire.
Then just as the babbling begins to wane;
A knock at the door, Oh Help! -----it's Elaine.
"Can I borrow some coffee, some milk and some bread;
I'll return it next week", well that's what she said!
She plants herself down on a dining room chair,
Her soapbox cacophony splits open the air.
I usher her quickly out through the front door,
and dash to the loo, I can't take anymore.
I've made it in time just before the stampede,
who all, of course, have a far greater need.
It's now late at night, I'm about to retire;
To repose in my bed, is my one great desire.
Head on the pillow, now almost asleep;
Thump, bang, crash, wallop, from those horrible creeps.
They've returned from a party, it's all been great fun,
I wish I were the owner of a sub-machine gun!
Yoga way of Life in ancient times
Got lost in modern materialistic times
Way of harmonising mind-body-spirit
Combination of breathing rhythm, postures, meditation, diet
Offers preventive, therapeutic, psychic cures
Not just an exercise, divine path for merging with universe
Age no bar, easy to practise any time
Simple mat, props, no need of hi-fi gym
Develops repulsive force towards flesh food for cellular quietness
Drops non-veg diet, avoids system irritation thru vegetarian dishes
No other stream renders benefits physical, mental and spiritual
Yoga, truly embodying Union of souls, Individual with Universal
Yoga, ancient healers gift to world, origin of India
In modern polluted world, Yoga the only healthy idea
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
By Hitendra Mehta
April 2011-04-22
For Members Contest – Yoga by Tahera Mannan
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When it comes to modern technology
The word “bozo” suits me to a “T”
I quiver and shake and tremble all over
When my computer asks questions of me!
Think to myself “If you're so damn smart
Why are you asking this old guy?
I'm back in the days of peck-peck-peck
On my typewriter listening to hi-fi!”
I'm at an age when the brain doesn't work
The way it did way back when
Wait a minute, I'm not sure this old brain
Was that brilliant even back then!
Some of us guys were born to be techies
I'm just happy being real simple
Totally content in my own little world
All the girls just love my dimples!
I may be a bozo but I'm a happy bozo
Not familiar with that techie talk
Made it this far without hurting my brain
Technology's a total crock!
© Jack Ellison 2013
Oh, the emptiness you leave behind -
Love is a noon-bright meadow stripped of its green,
Whose birds forget their songs: Or am I tone deaf now?
The melodies in Mahler Symphonies are monotone,
Only rhythm there suggests that Love is palpable,
A pulsing heart whose syncopation loses beat
As torrents of spring rain that could augur hope
Blur now into a mindless buzz of cheap hi-fi.
But let saddest lament, not for one instant stay your heart,
Or my selfishness, be hindrance to your dance,
For all that I so admire (that was ever holy in your smile),
Can grow only in the soil of your imagination.
Rather let me be another sun that rises, falls,
As Earth's bright star takes joy in serving,
Energize the breath of greenest leaves
And nourish blooms expressing your desire.
Long Tooth
February 5, 2017
Dame Dogwood, butterfly-dressed
in white, flitters, fine hi-fi ~
Viewing such spring leitmotiv...
A hushed opera!
(4/18/21)
Am I the doormat you wipe your shoes on?
Or the cup you drink coffee from?
Would it better if I were a cigarette between your fingers,
so you crush me when desired,
or, light me up so I know the fire and turn,
into ashes and to earth,
and live for the while I burn?
Or shall I be the bag you carry around,
to show off the people who surround,
Who am I?
The one you humiliate for I can't retaliate?
Who am I?
A robot perhaps with steel limbs and computer chips,
or, the one who would one day die?,
sealing your immortality among the hi-fi?
Who am I?
Announcement
"State the fact," he tells the board, "announce mid-
morning without warning, too late then to
retaliate. Say, 'Times change, so on your
way, redundancy accompanies age.'"
Walks easy through his fortress-grounds of trip-
alarms and snarling hounds. Youthful bride is
safely sealed from vengeful pawn and bitter
foe, and waits, consoled by views of vale and
river's-flow, gleaned through rail and safety-gates.
Mower idle on the lawn; barrow still
beside a wall; jobbing-boy holds toil in
scorn. ''We'll propel the youth to manhood with
a jolt. He'll learn the bitter-truth of how
to cope without a job or hope, collect
his due, then face his fate as men must do.''
Holding high the diamond-ring, gift for the
girl with everything – to rent her love and
smile awhile – into the room where hi-fi
croons her favourite tune then, "Christ!" Mind won't
focus with the eyes; wife on table, lips
apart, hair a-splay, radiant as her
wedding day. Boy... a man between her thighs.
I chase away the housewife's blues.
In a cabin - fever dream.
It's the little things that give you heartaches,
heart -- or headache, oh such pain.
It is seven a.m.
Six children storming out the door.
They refuse to wear their hats and their boots.
It is cold and it is starting to rain.
The driveway to the school bus
is covered with mud.
Every morning start almost the same.
Too long, that I have gotten out of the house.
A housewife's shores never get done.
I turn on the hi-fi and dance to a waltz
and pretend I am not longer alone.
Sounds of the music, bring memories of youth
and roses and wine, long ago.
I sing to myself;" one day at the time;"
fly in a jet to my homeland the Rhine
and have a party all of my own.
I sit across Henry, we solve
the foreign affairs.
I convince a sheik who has oil coming out
of his ears that love is not for sale.
He gives me a line, with an oil can of tears.
I plead for peace with all the world leaders
and make angels out of the most cruel.
All across the nation
such a celebration
people in motion…
The radio station
in my head
plays on
with Scott McKenzie this time:
Are you going to San Francisco?
Be sure to wear flowers in your hair…
I can hear every note,
every nuance,
every tone
of the song
as if there were
a hi-fi turned on in the room.
While writing this poem, while
reading others,
I hear the
song of the day
playing on my internal
radio station.
As I’m listening and writing at this
very moment,
I wonder aloud
(to myself internally
and just above the radio),
Is this
what slipping into
schizophrenia must feel like?
If you’re going to San Francisco…
Is this what the homeless man
on the street corner,
in his filthy clothes,
hears in his head
as he contorts and
telegraphs his
internal radio station?
which corner has
he turned
from which
he cannot return?
Are you going to San Francisco?
Be sure to wear flowers in your hair…
the hallway ahead
is bathed in
sterile white light.
a bare bulb crackles
around the next corner.
what’s that?
a shadow
lurks menacingly
around
the corner.
whom casts the shadow?
could be
the
Spectre
of
Madness.