Best Recording Poems
The farm
and the porch light hums
the sound of another
orange dawn.
Burnt up – crisp
aching new reaches
of the imagination turn
from corn
to wheat
to the pungent shade
of dried blood on hands –
kissing corners of a mouth
never kissed.
Sweeping ‘cross in whispers
two thousand years
and more, come
words on the flat-line horizon,
dripping sideways,
like a red cat's eye marble
on a circular seesaw
that knows no bounds;
rolling infinitely back
and forth -
ringing through ears that were once
in that ago (can you hear it?)
hearing the coming of a storm
being heard
by another set of ears,
in some other when –
some other marble.
When, speaks the unspoken.
When, treads where none may tread.
When, grips the barren outcroppings of space –
playing the unending moments –
where no other question hence forth
can grip.
Night sounds come in floods
of mauve,
and quiet apricot;
slicing through oceans,
unsung,
where no ears hear.
The farm: echoing, lowing and fawning –
Trying to stay true
to form,
bleeds into the fibers of a dream
once lived –
recognizing its existence
through the act of a moment,
lived.
The girl turns to face
the enormity
of all she has yet to hear upon
the brazen, blazing horizon;
she strips down to goose bumps
on the skin
that God gave her;
opening her mouth to hear all
that she is –
breathing in the dawn
as it breaks.
The farm notes this coming.
The sky knows;
The wind knows.
The earth knows - relaxing
at her feet
exhaling
through her soles,
resounding through the mouth
of the un-kissed,
breathing through this land;
humming through porch lights,
spinning through atoms,
sifting though heavens,
recorded through lifetimes,
and through into another’s
open mouth.
© Kristin Reynolds 1/9/09
In the entertainment field, I have a familiar face.
In movies and TV, I have been all over the place.
There are some memorable parts that I can call my own.
A doll named “Talky Tina” tripped me down the stairs in “The Twilight Zone”
I have been an actor for quite a few years back.
Most folks know me best as television’s “Kojak”.
Mr. David Gates has written a pretty song.
He and his group called “Bread” could do no wrong.
Their song went very high on Billboard’s charts.
The beautiful melody and lyrics won some hearts.
A lot of records have been sold by David Gates and Bread.
Perhaps the public would like to hear something else instead.
There’s another side of me most people don’t know.
I think it would be good to enter a recording studio.
I will do an oration with musicians and a chorus.
I have a feeling what I do will be fabulous.
If my recording gets some air time on the radio,
I believe my rendition will have far to go.
I got to perform my version on another television show.
My record will be going places; I know.
shadows of buddy
two rockers from the old school
marvin plays holly
© Harry J Horsman 2021
Die, and the chirping of the bird.
I while being surrounded by the birds
on the edge of a cliff
on the island of the hippocampus,
was a recording of the 100 hours of radio drama.
High time i did their studio voicing
To ignite a genuine rejoicing
Over verses dismissed like Virus
And by Sun Magaz The Mysterious,
Poet making out as The Deleterious.
For all he might seem Boisterous...
But Good Producers gasp for cash,
Here in Nigeria ‘dying to smash;’
Rare knocks at their doors for sought job,
Even as they bear he names like Bob,
Planning to it complete with Marley
Or if it’d trouble cause Barley…
Yet, Reader can The poet’s Voice pick
Theirs quite likelier for The Task click;
Wasn’t there A Dolly Parton’s song
A Whitney Houston’s gave Bigger throng?
these songs are about wizards (mostly)
the untroubled child sleeping peacefully
and when the new washing machine
arrives at the same time as the food delivery
you do wonder if the men at the door
exchanged pleasantries
did they make eye contact
did they ring the door separately or
one honk of it was agreed
non-verbally, or verbally
or with a wink, fist bump
or a hand sandwich
drive over a cliff listening to these songs
you won't feel a thing
If I were a Heavenly Recording Angel,
I would probably be a recording scribe.
Writing down each and every littlest
Detail of peoples' lives on planet
Earth below.***
If I were recording the effectual righteous
Deeds of men, women, and children,
My heart would leap loudly for joy!
But if the deeds were evil and sinful,
I would shake my head with sorrow!***
I would be recording each and every news
Headlines long before the morning, noon
And evening news broadcasts. Sometimes
The news can be humorous enough even
To make an Heavenly reporter angel laugh!***
If the news broadcasts were horrific instead,
I would sadly shake my head at man's and
Woman's inhumanity to mankind. Especially
When it done in my beloved Master's Holy Name!***
If men and women blaspheme my Faithful Master's
Holy Name, my eyes would flash! With thunder and
Lightening in mine angelic wrath! Cures shall come
Upon and follow those who profane His Holy Name!
They are headed in the direction of eternal damnation!***
If people blaspheme His name carelessly, I would still
Become angry and so would my Master. Even though
They profaned His name in ignorance! My Master
Would still try to reach out and touch all of them.***
All in accordance of His Divine and Holy Will!
And all of those sinners who repented would not
Become convicted and judged! But they would receive
My Master's pardon in these closing and final minutes
Of His age of mercy and grace!***
In Jesus Christ Holy and Righteous Name,
Roxanne Lea Dubarry
Roxy Lea 1954
Roxy 1954/ October Country
January 21, 2021
It is one hell of a risk
Away The Cops could Stan whisk,
By Jeff's window with a disc
They'll think he's there to things frisk,
Although, slow Stan's moves not brisk...
Stan means recording a rape;
He's gone there, too, with a tape
Any funny noise Clean Escape;
He's learnt to jump like an ape...
But Jeff has got a shot gun;
If he sees Stan, end of fun!
He, sure, shall blow Stan's brains out,
As he thinks of getting out
All gun's cartridges fire,
All idle killers hire!
The idea is damned risky,
Stan suspect of downed whisky.
as the world spins,
a needle’s placed upon vinyl
endless tracks
12/28/2017
What is the human
perception of time
If measurement stops
and clocks will not chime
Seconds to minutes,
minutes to hours
Pendulum still
—Big Ben disempowered
(Dreamsleep: February, 2021)
Trace your body upon mine with pen
Tracing each moment in time
Recording each sound we make
Keep these pictures of sound
Safely locking them away
For If we lose one moment in time
Forever it will be gone
Erased from our memories
Place me upon your easel
Array me with many colors
Brushing with each stoke of our love
Creating this moment of time