Best Record Poems
What made you so special my freckle faced friend..
the day I heard you singing to a record, from your window next door.
Bell bottom clad teenaged knock out, with a ballerina's step..
In huge Cape Cod two story where dreams took form.
My mom hummed a tune as she ironed my best shirt..
Fumbled with your corsage, wondering why I chose red.
Last dance I remembered was always our first,
humbled by a mirage., in a golden gown dress.
Realized too late the secret your parents kept,
all the plans they'd made for you..
plain enough to see I wasn't part of them.
Not enough coins lined my pockets to set you free,
at least not enough for them to ransom you to me.
Some days found me prayin',
some I cursed right out loud.
Wonderin' does the one you share today in,
know the goldmine he had found.
Did he bring you eyes full of stars,
and promise all his tomorrows.
Realize what heaven sent gift you are,
never lament a heart left to sorrow.
Does he read them bedtime stories,
and tuck them into bed..
Listen to child borne wonders and worries,
every wild dream that fills their head.
And did you share those freckled hands,
every time you stopped to tie their shoes..
protect them with those same plotted plans,
your parents chose for you.
Do you ever hear that record playing..
among the distant stars that shined so bright?
New days come, battles lost and battles won..
lost in heartfelt wish that I'd been born..
that lucky seventh of seventh son.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'll be honest,
I gave into anger,
I gave him what he desired,
But I played the roll of the looking glass,
Only to realize, he was blind.
Oh and if I could be a recording instead,
I would not want to be his record player,
His words cast wounds that might break me,
for breaking beautiful things is what he loves.
Scratches tarnished on my gypsy black skin,
dancing circles round and round again,
to play his words with mal intent,
- a lost cause to hope he might repent.
So no, I would not be his record player
- forced to repeat his cruel words over and over,
If his dark nails touched your skin,
break free and sing your own song instead.
My fingers are already aching,
their muscles weary, spent, and tired.
Sweat soaks through my singlet,
my eyes grow heavy, begging for sleep,
to pay back seventy-two hours denied.
Yet each of my writes lies in his bin,
the sponsor never seems to tire
of casting them there with careless joy.
Perhaps that brings him most delight—
a cross my restless heart must bear.
Would it not be better to run the race
on a track, not behind a screen?
I could have run forty-two miles
in less than two hours, breaking the world record,
instead of these seventy-two with no glory.
There’s even a method to this madness:
twenty-seven contests in a row,
each confined to less than forty-three lines,
echoing marathons run on the track.
But my ink has dried, my paper stays blank.
I restrain my heartache deep within,
lest it spill across my face,
where anger and discouragement dwell,
hidden beneath facial creams and wry smiles,
till after work removed their weary veils.
Each night, each burdened weekday,
and each night, each joyless weekend,
I do my laundry, I eat my meals,
over the silence of this same paper,
still waiting for its first word.
So tonight, I beg you, Sleep:
take away this sleeplessness.
For poems are better written in dreams.
Leave me there till I craft a masterpiece—
one no sponsor can ever deny its glory.
Two hands in folds of shoddy cotton,
in clouds of cheap champagne and cigarette smoke.
My ringing ears
Echoing the television murmurs,
but it’s the same news on a broken record,
broken record horrors.
Now the clock— It’s snickering, a thief, consuming time and stealing
the 217 kisses, the 32 chocolate milkshakes shared
in his old Porsche,
the 3 ice creams in December and the 12 shivers that followed,
the 56 morning coffees,
the 12 months of moon cycles—
I counted them one by one, refusing to let time
pass
him
by.
I remember with him
the 314 soft embraces, the 17 drops of brandy
that dripped down our chins, the 39 words
yelled then regretted, the 3 meteor showers
he slept through.
Waiting room. I try to peel the hospital scent from his skin,
but it’s a lonely phantom refusing to depart.
The summer cologne lingers its dollar’s worth on his scalp,
quickly fading, masked by Lysol, white walls, sickness.
Feverish. He closes his eyes, heart monitor beeping to a constant,
the peaks on a swift descent.
Because as time chews away
the 3 teeth bumps, the 14 letters,
19 skin tracings, 2 chalk outlines,
the 3-syllable, 8-letter words,
and the 100 times
I confirmed reality
(as he cried, in vain,
for release),
I’m forgetting already
the smell of his hair, the precise pores
and number of freckles on his cheeks.
Now. I turn car key, start engine, breathe broken- record breaths.
I’ll pretend it’s all a formula I’m confirming,
because Fate never meant us to be.
I am discovering truths:
we’re just awkward children in this adult world,
aware of waning time, unprepared, longing for youth.
His Gods have plugged us both in like variables,
and we’re no longer oblivious to the outcome,
because I’ll wrestle with Love, plead with Death,
beg and bargain with Time,
and still,
I’ll drive on.
man records events
~~ ~~
history is (0) (0) perspective --
ll
\___/
choose your favorite
Fossil on the floor…
On his BMX he’d roar
Free style dinosaur
For the Record
We are Guilty of Loving
We are Guilty of Believing
We are Guilty of Trusting
We are Guilty of Hope
We are Guilty of Dreaming
For the Record
You are Guilty
You are Guilty
You are Guilty
You are Guilty
You are Guilty
For the Record
My Baby still Cries at Night
For the Record
You Will Not Apologize
For the Record
LET THE JURY DECIDE.......
Scars on her wrists
They never to seem to fade
This will be how it is the rest of her days
A broken record,
Still trying to force its self to play
What kind of life is this
A smile on her face
But secrets hidden deep
If they knew their opinions would change
"She's crazy"
"She's a freak"
"Pathetic"
"Stupid"
All of those things they'd say
They'd wrap around her throat like a rope
Tugging and choking her life away
She stays hidden.
A record, broken but silent
Still trying to force its self to play
This will be how it is the rest of her days.
Unless she speaks.
How dare she speak?
Uttering those words.
To whom she speak?
To the people?
To the walls which upon she stares?
No one. No one is there to listen.
No one. No one is there to care.
April sixteenth is known as “The Record Store Day”,
The old “seven inch” vinyl type of music way!
Drop by those old Record shops and take a quick look!
Memories of old stomping grounds of a cool nook,
Join the groovy “nostalgia seventies” sway!
Forecasters are predicting the mildest winter yet
Won't hear ME complaining, on that you can bet
Much milder for sure
More snow which is poor
But after eighty long years, I surely won't fret
© Jack Ellison 2015
Graphite
Highlight.
Small mat
Found that.
Multi
Holey.
Life verse
Diverse.
Now found
Impound.
It's Record Store Day,
A nostalgic past visit,
Browse, look or purchase.
**support the local shops in your area on April 16th
for Record store day so they can still be around!
My father was exceedingly
intelligent and well versed
and worldly wise
Despite and inspite of his
humble working class beginnings
and lack of formal education
He used to say education and
common sense are completely
different
Smart people are often said or
are refered to as being well read
But my father was not a great
reader he drew or the source
of his knowledge
Was reading newspapers and
watching the news religiously
So much so he made my mother
tape the news everyday without
fail
But the news he watched is
so far removed from that
is served up to us today
Because the news today has
become weaponised not for
good but for nefarious use
Stealth and entertainment
triumphs over content and factual
non-baised reporting
Not so much a tool for educating
and imparting knowledge trying
to induce thoughtful debate
But rather lecture and tell us
all what we are supposed or
allowed to say and think
Freedom of speech so long as
you agree with us
And god forbid if you disagree
even if you have a valid point
to argue
You will either be cut off
shot down or labelled and
tagged or made a pariah of
Fake news
Stealth agenda
Purveyors of the most
powerful virus in the history
of humanity
Corruption of the mind
via unfettered unregulated
propaganda
A record of how it is
May suggest how it will be
A record of how it was
Shape how you’ll perceive
In this world of information
In this recorded time of day
You can review the situation
And receive a little say
I’d rather not know how it would end
Even if history repeats itself once more
I’d rather create something new
Then bow to its rule
Don’t close your mind to its thoughts
Nor your soul to its dreams
For it creates what you have meant
And that’s been all to you and me
The bar-tailed godwit
caught birddom by surprise
When word got out
just how far this bird flies
A juvenile Limosa lapponica,
satellite tag 2-3-4-6-8-4
flew nonstop from Alaska
to the Tasmanian shore!
13,560 kilometers nonstop,
eleven days and nights
A new world record for
marathon bird flights
"From Alaska to Tasmania?
The devil, you say!"
cried ravens and crows,
"Every bird knows,
claiming to fly 8400 miles
To the Tasmanian isles—
is the height of audacity!
No bird has the capacity
We protest with pugnacity
Demanding veracity!"
The godwits conveyed
a very chill groove
They had, after all
nothing to prove
having set the prior
world records in '20 and '21
A controversy was brewing
Would their achievements
be undone?
A commission was appointed
for a bird's-eye review
into the facts of the matter
the truth to pursue
Wise owls were chosen
to adjudicate this claim
To settle once and for all
who deserved the acclaim
Only item considered
had scientific backing
Since satellite data
Allowed accurate tracking
Of the tagged young bird's
ultramarathon flights
The facts indisputable
No need for bird fights,
ending investigation into
this migration gyration
Bar-tailed godwits awarded
the Oiseau de Plume
for being the farthest nonstop
flying bird in the room
The Arctic terns too
received acclamation
For flying the farthest
In their migration—pole to pole,
24,000 miles each year
causing most birds present to
stand up and cheer
in spontaneous applause—
But not all birds were willing
To concede their cause
Displaying proclivity
to resist the festivity
The crows and ravens
As they stormed out the door
vowed in unison, wings clenched,
"Nevermore!"