Best Microphones Poems
It was time to visit the stars
To embrace them with my senses
Though the price was astronomic
I saved up for the expenses
Most think stars are unreachable
Due to the heat that they emit
But perhaps they’re very cautious
Just like a candle barely lit
To my delight way out in space
I manned microphones to listen
And those astral bodies obliged
With unheard of stellar hissin’
Yet as I approached a star’s sphere
After flying the cosmic trades
The brightness was so intense, that
I had to double up my shades
And I can describe what I saw:
Just imagine a sunrise view
As seen, not through a broad window
But rather in the room with you
So no doubt that shine would lead one
To coming to the conclusion
That stars are inhospitable
But my suit was safe for fusion
I attempted smelling their scent
But was honestly not impressed
As the smell was like burnt popcorn
Which is an odor I detest
I couldn’t say that star was burnt
For that flawed logic is misplaced
Yet that stench made me hesitate
To give a roasted star a taste
Sure it twinkles in the dark sky
Like a sugary cosmic treat
But just like mentioning candy
It would probably wreck my teeth
Lastly, touching a star is like
A swimming pool in the hot sun
With those spots of warmer water
Times a million degrees, plus one
Visiting the cosmos was worth
Having stars arouse my senses
Yet it isn’t for everyone
And comes with some consequences
But don’t you take my word for it
When you are traveling in space
Since stars are an acquired love
To be approached at your own pace
You’re feeling so uncomfortably
like a lobster lately,
embroiled in hot controversy
Heated debates swirling all around you,
as your deep-fried life
jumps from the frying pan to the boiling pot
Wiping the sweat off your brow,
standing before the microphones
and blazing bright lights burning hot
You feel like
you’re in a
Twilight Red Lobster Zone
You’re catching a lot of heat, catching a lot
Whew! Brother, it’s gotten really hot
You’re so embroiled ...
feels like you being boiled
Boiled alive,
living the lobster life
Scandal and blooper viral feed
has you in a steamy situation
Court cases ... mounting legal fees
Your green onions
are getting a chop-chop
caramelized sensation
Indecent public exposure, tabloid indiscretions ...
Off-the-cuff sound bytes played on a constant loop
Political incorrectness, multiple divorce messes ...
Plus anger management is your new therapy group
You got a slew of problems like a gumbo stew,
so dump your crustacean career in the roiling pot
You’re catching a lot of heat, catching a lot
Whew! Brother, it’s gotten so fiery hot
You’re so embroiled ...
feels like you being boiled
Boiled alive,
living the lobster life
Being served on a buffet platter is so undignified
All preparation had been completed
The big night was finally here
At three in the afternoon I went to dress rehearsal
Stood on the Gaiety stage for the first time - I didn’t have any fear!
Three lovely ladies
We were standing behind our microphones
Reciting our poems .. to an audience of ONE
Rows and rows of empty seats – tonight they would soon fill
Would nerves finally hit me, would I start to feel ill …
We had a few hours to kill before the show would start
Hubby and I went for a meal before I played my part
I dressed in my lovely frock – our act would all wear black and white
The theatre was a sell out, much to our delight
The performance kicked off at eight o’clock
Our slot was in the second half so we sat and watched the show
Joined in with the audience from spare seats on the back row
Time passed by so quickly once the show had begun
We rolled about with laughter the acts were such great fun
The interval came and we had to go
Soon the time would come for us to perform
It was freezing cold backstage I wore my cardigan to keep warm!
Our names were announced and we walked onto the stage
Lights shone down on the three of us
But the audience was a sea of faces in the dark
I was first to recite my poem
‘Seven men you definitely wouldn’t want to date’
Not a sign of stage fright at all
Di recited ‘The Fine’ and Irene ‘1958’
Then it was back to me with ‘Just Desserts’
It was the very first funny poem I’d written
Di’s ‘Night Nuisance’ and Irene’s ‘A Transcript’ poems followed
With poetry we are all smitten
With massive smiles on our faces we walked off the stage
Came back later to take a bow
The audience applause was rapturous – I can still hear it in my head now!
Last night I performed on stage at a charity event in front of 600 people … it was my first time on a ‘proper’ stage at the Victorian Gaiety Theatre and was the most incredible night of my life! The night raised awareness of Parkinson's Disease and Alzheimer's and raised over £6000 ($7410) from ticket sale alone - there were bucket collections too.
11~19~16
We were calculating theoretical yields on chemcollective
and somehow we ended up dancing to ”go left.”
We were finding oxidation numbers on labster
but somehow we started laughing.
We were balancing chemical equations on PhET
but now we’re singing “World we created” with hair-bush microphones.
Believe your competence - be impressed with your progress.
Attack every challenge with self-contained ease.
Armor yourself with confidence.
You’ll like the way you enjoy it.
*We started studying for school - weeks in advance of spring term - those names (Chemcollective, PhET, Labster) are tools for working out chemistry equations - like calculating theoretical yields from compounds. So we practice, practice, practice until we can do them blindfolded - or in pressurized situations like tests.
It seems, in truth, that I'm such a glutton,
For a pulsing, lighted or sliding button.
Christmas, for me? An arriving shipment,
Boxes packed full with musical equipment!
Nothing can compare with the digital glow,
Of rack-mounted processors, row-on-row.
Is there no surer proof of a world in order,
Than dancing lights on a multi-track recorder?
And how could you decorate a room any cuter,
Than guitars on the walls and a laptop computer?
Near-field monitors and microphones aplenty,
So, to whet the whistles of music cognoscenti.
Keyboards, amplifiers, drum machines, effects,
Mood lights to decide what track to add next.
Well, it may not sound like YOUR place to be,
But this shimmering scene is heaven to me!
And what's so fine about this electronic roost?
Well, it's a place where musical dreams ...
Are produced!
* SECOND PLACE in the "Meraki" Poetry Contest, Silent One, Sponsor. *
(I am and will always be, a musician/songwriter, first-and-foremost, and while performing is my second love, [and poetry a close third], there's nothing for me like the creative process - writing, recording, producing songs in the studio - laying down the tracks one-by-one, layering the instruments and voices, building and watching/hearing the song take shape, and mastering the final production - in control of every facet ... looking back at the incredible amount of time and work involved, and feeling proud of that musical piece of you that you can listen to and share with the world ... there is nothing like it, and the lights of the studio equipment are, for me, like a Christmas all my own, and the dancing pixies of a wonderland of sound and melody - my meraki, indeed!)
While all they who are aware of your massive surveillance machine,
are covering their TV, lap top or whatever screens,
for that little bit of god given privacy,
yours truly has still been not only still doing things openly,
for all those devices with cameras and microphones hidden so cleverly
now owned by everybody,
especially now that I know that the NSA is monitoring me.
I'm still living this life pretending to have privacy.
I know that through these devices in my home, Big Brother IS Watching Me.
Now that I've joined over one million naturally born American citizens,
suspected possibly of possibly being possibly suspected of terrorism.
NSA, here is what you have to look forward to from yours truly.
I'm gonna be as grossest, as a grossest suspected terrorist can possibly be.
I'm not even going to mention what these gross acts are presently,
some readers reading this might be in the middle of having something to eat,
but NSA, this I say to all of you very truthfully,
you can look forward to My Gross Show performances 24/7, indefinitely.
and if one day I begin to gain any kind of popularity,
and you release any of that footage in any attempt to smear campaign me,
you are going to have to explain to the people how you got all of this on me,
with your ever growing larger still worldwide massive surveillance machine.
I look forward to entertaining all of my new pals and gals every night and day,
at the good old U S A's NSA.
Oh yes, NSA?
One other thing I forgot to say,
You'll all be so happy to know that my show won't have any commercial breaks.
you ever heard of a Lao party?
might be one going on right now…
we Lao folks love that celebratin’
sifting through sunrise and slipping
through sunset we sing our favorite
songs in our heads
it shortens time at work
cuz we sa baiiii sa baiiii
we force ourselves to
sa bai through the weekdays
so when weekend come
we too sai bai to be sa bai while
Beer Lao gushes down as if a recession
exists in our bellies
and we must stimulate our celebratory economy
this weekend on our little cousin’s birthday
where grandpas and grandmas
get down Salavan style
Lao folks gotta play that music
gives us an excuse to pick up microphones
clap our hands and wave our wrist around
and dance like how our aunties teach us
when the right song come
when the right keys
of the khaen flute lifts our stress out
our sleepless bodies
we always celebrating something
waiting for that weekend
coasting past the jobs we hate
or waiting to grab jobs we don’t have
it don’t matter if our elders can’t speak English
they singing like they own the land
where their voices reach
rejoicing over the smallest
of happenings
and we all sa baiiiii real good
My first poetry reading on April 15, 2011 at Café Jolesch in Zittau
This evening I read the first five of my poems before an audience in the beautiful Art
Nouveau atmosphere of Café Jolesch under the direction of Karin Kayser and Rolf Monitor in
the context of the "Open Stage" for the 3rd Lusatian Culture Night. I waited for my first
appearance with a good Czech Svijani fresh draft beer. On the small stage were already
loudspeakers, microphones and musical instruments installed. From 8 pm on the room filled
with visitors. A live band playing rock music and blues and a young woman performed a
belly dance. All the tables were now occupied, and I cleared my place for some students,
listening to the sounds from the bar and watched the dance. There was much applause and
some young people shot photos with their cell phones. Then I was announced by Rolf
Monitor, stepped to the stage and read my five poems for the first time in public. It was
quiet in the room and all listened to me and when I had finished, came rapturous applause.
Rolf Monitor asked me if I could not read more of my poems, but I was only prepared to
read five. I promised to repeat my reading with more poems next time.
Note: The Lusatian Culture Night is a yearly event in April from 7 pm till midnight with
different performances, exhibits and other events. Café Jolesch is a pub in the so called
Hiller Villa.
The villa was built at end of the 19th Century. It was for decades the home of the Jewish
Hiller family. Gustav Hiller, an inventor from Großschönau, using the proceeds from his
first patent, a machine for manufacturing curtain strings, founded Zittau's Phänomenwerke.
They were known in GDR times as VEB Robur Works Zittau, in which bicycles of the brand
Phänomen, the Phänomobile and later the Robur truck were produced. During the Nazi rule,
Mrs. Hiller, could be bought off for an annual payment of 300,000 Reichsmark from
deportation. After the war the family moved into the West Zone. Today the Villa Hiller is
home for the Multicultural Center (MUK), a nonprofit organization. In 1993, the
granddaughters of Gustav Hiller, Mrs Anne Frommann and Mrs Claudia Siede-Hiller, now
living in Israel, donated the villa to the MUK. The ground floor houses the Café Jolesch.
On top of the hour
Tens of thousands of people
Talk to microphones.
Honoured to be invited to speak at a one day workshop,
I survey the audience to decide when the lecture should stop.
We all agree that 10am is a good time to take a break,
I commit to sticking to the schedule for everyone’s sake.
As a professional lecturer, I’d flown a distance to speak,
They audio and videotaped me after I gave the final critique.
We broke for morning coffee, I slipped off quickly to the bathroom,
After completing my task, I pulled up my pants and felt doom,
Seems in my rush to relieve myself, I just completely forgot,
I still had my microphones on, I guess not such a big shot!
Written September 17, 2011
For Nancy Jone’s contest
“Make Me Laugh”
Ten monitors
Nine hours
Eight safety messages
Seven binders
Six coffees
Five computers
Four clipboards
Three maps
Two microphones
One stubby pencil
At three a.m. the annoying telephone rings
“Hurricane Kate will soon be making landfall;
Drive to Panama City, start collecting your things”
Microphones and tape recorders, I pack them all
Just one week till the end of hurricane season
“Thanksgiving’s coming,” I grouse as I hit the road
Scrub pines twist furiously; I know the reason
Five months of calm weather, but now the motherload
A drive that is usually two hours now takes five
Lightning strikes everywhere, brightening the night sky
Approaching the beach, I’m lucky to be alive
I sit in fascination; the waves are so high
The fisherman’s pier collapses into the sea
A spin-off tornado tears the roof off a school
Disoriented, a man wades through the debris
I invite him to my car so we can seek safety
A vivid bolt of lightning sends him to his knees
He covers his ears as thunder roars ominously
I toss my raincoat over him, watching him freeze
He can’t tune out the noise and acts irrationally
When we arrive at the emergency center
People gather round him and I ask who he is
“We call him Crazy Mazy,” says the director,
“He served in Vietnam, many medals are his.”
With Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, he’s homeless
Living on the streets, Captain Jim Mazy seemed strange
The locals knew him well and offered him kindness
But to outsiders like me, he appeared deranged
For seventy-two hours, I stayed on the air
Talking to officials and those who assisted
As death reports came in, we bowed our heads in prayer
When I tried to talk to Mazy, he resisted
It was he I remembered most when I drove home
Members of the Capital Press Corps united
No longer on the street would this veteran roam
Compassion for a war hero had been ignited
Habitat for Humanity gladly pitched in
As did the public, when Mazy’s story was broadcast
Never again would he writhe in a hurricane’s din
Storms were behind him, Mazy had a home at last
*True account, written June 28, 2014
In Central Park the crowds were out,
New York in all its glory,
With bikers, walkers, picnickers –
The same old weekend story.
The horses clip-clopped on the road,
With carriages of tourists
While singers sang with microphones
And bands without (the purists).
But always there is something new –
Today, some art creations,
Including projects for the kids
With paint or drawing stations.
What caught my eye, though, were two birds
Which shared a single goal –
To fly into a tree trunk
And to exit through a hole.
I guess there was a hidden nest
Tucked right inside the tree,
Another sighting in the park
To bring delight to me.
Remember when we were just kids,
When we shared a bath and a bedroom,
When we used to play outside,
On tinsel-decked scooters we’d zoom.
The back garden with the sandpit and swing,
The slide that gave us electric shocks,
The plastic kitchen and toy washing machine,
The photo of you sat in its cardboard box.
Polishing wooden chairs before family arrived,
Hoping they would slip and slide off,
Magic cream for grazes and sickly Calpol
If you had a headache or cough.
The pink Barbie car and remote-controlled jeep,
Microphones and Winnie-the-Pooh drum,
And plastic blue drumsticks we hit each other with
That got hidden in a high place by Mum.
The time when you pooed on my toy rabbit,
The time I threw sand in your eye,
The times we brought all our toys downstairs
Without really knowing why…
Just hating those dreaded words: “tidy up”,
Suddenly too tired to move or hear;
Your name scrawled on the wall in pencil,
Which you denied writing with a strop and a tear.
Knock-knock jokes without punch-lines,
Games with no reason or rhyme;
Looking at the grey world of growing up,
I wish we could go back to that time.
"You know, there is still such a thing as execution."
That's a direct quote from Donald Trump
our current puppet USA president,
responding to a question,
regarding whistleblower Edward Snowden,
wanted by our government for the crime of treason,
because former NSA employee Edward Snowden,
leaked not only to the "enemy,"
but also to the entire world's population,
top secret US government security information.
What were these secrets? What was this top secret information?
"Our Government Is Secretly Spying On Its Own Citizens,
Under The Guise Of Fighting Terrorism.
Every Text Message You Send,
Every Cell Phone Conversation,
Is Digitally Recorded And Archived By Our Government.
Spyware Is Now Being Installed In Our Household Appliances,
That Government Agencies Can Access At Their Convenience.
Camera And Microphones Installed In Most Flat Screen TVs,
Can Be Activated Remotely By Any Government Agency,
Allowing Them Access To Your Most Private Moments Very Easily."
Thomas Snowden is a hero in my opinion,
and not at all a traitor guilty of treason.
He had nothing to gain but a life of martyrdom,
always on the run, seeking asylum,
fearing for his life moment after moment,
all because he shared with everyone the truth of a horrible wrong,
the unconstitutional infringement upon the privacy of everyone,
at our government's discretion without the need for a warrant.
In my mind there is no question,
Donald Trump is just another puppet USA president,
blindly following the most powerful elite global bankers' instructions,
otherwise he would grant Edward Snowden protection and freedom,
instead of entertaining the thought of this very brave hero's execution.