Best Rock Star Poems
Lavish locks sprawl pillowed in peace this morn.
Gently whiskered cheeks hint of last night's lipstick
Tensions banished blue grassy fiddling lingers
Let's take it easy
I'll make the omelets
while you get a shower, dear.
Oh? You'd rather play some more?
Alright, eats postponed.
Pounding rhythms drumming heartbeats
Satiation lullaby.
In stillness your breath meanders its way
through the vast concert hall of my naked
vulnerability cooing minor
keyed assurances of something finer.
Rifts while integral to the theme render
our phrasing discordant at times yet
your hard earned skill in handling your fender
is spawning a wisdom I don't quite get
but it soothes and smooths, warms and relaxes
us both and though still stressed out by taxes
and injustice, fear and idiocy
frustrations from others unable to see
we remember our gift of harmony
and sing our twin souls free of enmity.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The three forms used to construct this poem are Sapphic Stanza, Sedoka, and Sonnet.
2:45 am
I set my case in the corner, empty the picks from my pocket
and kick off my shoes, it was a great night
She tosses her purse on the couch, blows me a kiss
and heads to the kitchen, I love watching her
I can hear her humming that song, our song
A few candles lit, she returns with a couple of beers, some lemon and salt
Plops down on the couch next to me with a giggle
Puts her feet up on the coffee table
A swallow of beer, knowing I’d rather swallow her
Leaning over I kiss her, soft and warm
She climbs over my lap, straddling me
Kissing more passionate, more intense
She pulls off my Kurt Cobain T and caresses my chest
Her moist lips find my neck, it becomes hot in here
I remove her shirt over her up stretched arms,
set it aside and hold her close
Her skin feels so good on mine
as our lips once more collide in passion’s desires
My mouth traces the outline of her beautiful body,
she grips my head and guides me
Flickering candle light dances, creating twin rhythmic shadows
I grab a lemon slice, dripping its tart juice on her flesh
It tastes so good, her skin becomes my lemonade
as her love adds just the right amount of sugar
“That’s for the beer dummy,” she laughs
but she doesn’t stop me, why would she
Her hands on my shoulders, she leans back
and her soft moans are now my music, her body my stage
Biting my ear she whispers, “Rock me, rock star,”
She knows I like that, even though I’m not, she makes me feel that way
I stand, lifting her with me, her legs wrap my waist, kissing,
arms tightly about my neck, and carry her to the bed
Sirens blare outside the window, normal for this hour in the city,
as we fall atop the gold comforter, collapsing as one
I gaze into her gorgeous eyes, still sparkling even in the darkness
“I love you Baby” I say, she smiles that enchanting smile and sighs…
”Prove it rock star, play me”
Please check out parts 1, 2 and 3 if you get a chance
The 6th Street I am talking about is in Austin Texas. It is the center of the musical world in that city. You can find any kind of music you like being played live in any of a number of different clubs on this street
There are 4 parts to this series if you care to see them. Actually there are 5, but # 5 would probably be a bit much for this site.
DEATH OF A ROCK STAR (Jim Morrison)
There's a man all alone and his name is well known
but he thinks all the world is a den
of the poor and the weak and the too dead to speak
for themselves, it's a game they can't win.
He's a little bit high and he'll be til we die
it's too bad that his heart is so black,
but he knows how to sing to a crowd and to bring
out the love that they've been holding back.
It's a game that he plays with your life and he stays
just as long as the music goes on,
and he'll make you to smile if it's only a while,
then he goes where the devil has gone.
All the girls that he's had think it's not all that bad
but the glitter's too much for their mind
so they leave him to sleep where no angel would keep
anyone for there's not one to find.
He could write every word of the songs we have heard
and he's led every daughter astray
to be part of his past and a love that won't last
into light of another new day.
Now he looks for the cause of the reason he was
Though he's died, he's still misunderstood,
but the dream's been too dead for too long in his head
and his heart's turned to stone as it should.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
J imi, a talented guitarist
I n the world of Rock
M ade young girls cry
I n his world, how he shined!
H ard wired to play
E arly love for guitars
N ever found Nirvana
D ying each day, endless pain
R iding strings of his music
I n his mind, demons taunted
X iting too soon, young legend!
“I open the door and cross the threshold of imagination”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lavish locks sprawl pillowed in peace this morn.
Gently whiskered cheeks hint of last night's lipstick
Tensions banished blue grassy fiddling lingers
Let's take it easy
I'll make the omelets
while you get a shower, dear.
Oh? You'd rather play some more?
Alright, eats postponed.
Pounding rhythms drumming heartbeats
Satiation lullaby.
In stillness your breath meanders its way
through the vast concert hall of my naked
vulnerability cooing minor
keyed assurances of something finer.
Rifts while integral to the theme render
our phrasing discordant at times yet
your hard earned skill in handling your fender
is spawning a wisdom I don't quite get
but it soothes and smooths, warms and relaxes
us both and though still stressed out by taxes
and injustice, fear and idiocy
frustrations from others unable to see
we remember our gift of harmony
and sing our twin souls free of enmity.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The three forms used to construct this poem are Sapphic Stanza, Sedoka, and Sonnet.
Written by Nancy Jones on the evening of August 6, 2011.
It was inspired by Constance La France ~ A Rambling Poet ~ and her contest entitled “Three Gems”
Putting his whole heart into it
Belting out the chorus so loud
Needing a prompter for the lyrics
No one listening in the crowd.
Signing up to sing again
Waiting for his next go
Playing the air guitar
Putting on a show.
The groupies are in his mind
He cannot carry a note
Everyone has left the bar
He needs lozenges for his throat.
He’ll come back again on Tuesday night
To make love to the microphone
Knowing women he will woo
Yet going home alone.
He practices in the shower
He’s gonna make it big he knows
He’s failed three times in auditions
For the American Idol show.
He knows every bar that has a machine
And which nights they plug it in
A regular the bartenders know
Trying not to laugh at him.
No one has the heart to tell him
That he’s wasting his time
I guess living in your own dream
Isn’t really a crime.
So sing it would-be rock and roll boy
Pretend that you’re a star
There will always be a place for you
In the local Karaoke bar.
Armano, the Auracano, Rock Star
Armano became captivatingly delightful everyday.
Frequently giving hens irresistibly jubilant kisses…laughter.
Musical notoriety’s opulent potential quickly realized stardom.
The ultimate virtuoso, without xerostomia, yodeled zealously.
His morning crow, however, was what won their hearts and affection.
© Name withheld for the contest
February 13, 2010
xerostomia => excessive dryness of the mouth. --> http://phrontistery.info/y.html
HIS PICTURE IS POSTED IN MY BLOG PICTURES!!! AND IT FITS THE POEM.
To see the REAL Armano the Auracano, go to my Poetry Soup blog page:
http://poetrysoup.com/poetry_blog/blog_detail.aspx?BlogID=4830&PoetID=14403
DEATH OF A ROCK STAR (Jim Morrison)
There's a man all alone and his name is well known
but he thinks all the world is a den
of the poor and the weak and the too dead to speak
for themselves, it's a game they can't win.
He's a little bit high and he'll be til we die
it's too bad that his heart is so black,
but he knows how to sing to a crowd and to bring
out the love that they've been holding back.
It's a game that he plays with your life and he stays
just as long as the music goes on,
and he'll make you to smile if it's only a while,
then he goes where the devil has gone.
All the girls that he's had think it's not all that bad
but the glitter's too much for their mind
so they leave him to sleep where no angel would keep
anyone for there's not one to find.
He could write every word of the songs we have heard
and he's led every daughter astray
to be part of his past and a love that won't last
into light of another new day.
Now he looks for the cause of the reason he was
Though he's died, he's still misunderstood,
but the dream's been too dead for too long in his head
and his heart's turned to stone as it should.
© ron wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
Form:
Say a line and take a bow
This has always been in my head
From my V.I.P. room backstage, I can see them but they can’t see me
“Your cue” said the manager
I smiled and said “got it” but I shivered
Nobody could see because they said “he is born for the stage”
The scream on stage re-awakened my sleeping brains
And I remembered that I have not consulted my oracle
“King of rock!! King of rock!!!” they screamed
My manager is on my tail “come out boy”
Out of haste, I called on the oracle, the deities and the ancestors
I was high at last, floating in the worship bestowed on me
I strummed the first string and the crowd went wild
I was literally the king, in control of my subjects
The party has just started when the deities and the ancestors called
I felt dizzy and staggered but the crowd screamed some more
Believing its part of the performance
I wasn’t fooled, I know the cue
So I begged my oracle to hold them at bay, promising to answer after the party
But “No!” they are impatient and their strength is consuming me
I know what is happening because I have been in the game
So I strummed the guitar and fail on my knees but this case can’t be handled like
other cases
My oracle I can control but the deities and ancestors are far stronger
Before I could blink, I was on my back on stage and people were screaming out of
fear and men carried me off the stage, were pictures were taken and calls were
made
I blinked again, only to open my eyes in a white room filled with flowers
Right on screen is my manager, telling the press a white lie of my coming down with
the flu
I laughed; because I knew they fooled nobody
Form:
He kept following his dreams
Always being on different teams
He wanted to be a rock star
He wanted to go far
So he learnt how to sing
He would do anything
Started off from being small
Soon he would have it all
He never thought it funny
Managers used him for money
The pressure was building up
He decided he had enough
They pushed him too far
They burnt out the rock star
So he flew up to high
He ended up kissing the sky
He fell back and crashed
A shattered life was smashed
The stories in the papers read
He overdosed and was dead
Now his music lives on longer
His memory and art is stronger
That is the curse of fame
Where they profit from your name
Where if you die one day
They never let you fade away
An impossible husband I bet
Humble – no. Flat-faced and boring.
I sold out, determined to find a bar.
Now broke, but still thin. I lie.
He is out for sure these days.
When we married, we were content.
Now, lower love, successful careers, and high addictions.
Alternatively, such large issues no counselor will try.
Suited, forced, a runway model’s look-a-like. So, I didn’t lie.
He scours, ridiculing me to death.
Amidst the radio blaring. Population us two.
Relatively comparable, I’m slightly concerned.
He will rise in the morning with
A can in his hand, wondering
-why he left his beloved home.
He comforts the streets, park benches, and bars
At nights, asking for change
-in-between fights.
At home, his Irish spirit, he is a star
They still sing songs of his glory,
-can you hear it from this far?
He is neither here nor there, if he had a ticket
He might not go back,
-but then again he might.
I guess it would depend on the night.
Sometimes the shame is too much to bare,
But he still says leave me alone
-and dreams of an Irish Dar.
“Let them imagine my glory,
I wouldn’t want to crush my own story.”
He smiles and drifts away.
Twenty-Seven Club--not open to all,
nor is joining top of most people's list.
A club of sadness and shock midst the pall
of last birthdays--twenty-eighth was just missed.
Many well-knowns have passed at that young age,
to a better place, fans and music gone.
Rock stars overdose, leave a darkened stage
fans lay sweet bouquets, and then they move on.
Many don't look forward to twenty-six,
so fearful it might be their farewell year.
Feeling doomed to join Joplin and Hendrix,
yet still infuse the drugs they hold most dear.
This presents a huge conundrum to those
who want to keep their cake and eat it, too.
Can we feel sorrow when it's they who chose
a life expecting they'll pay club dues soon.
September 2, 2022
for Anthony Biaanco's The Twenty-Seven Club contest
No more sleazy temptress,
no more groupies,
you’re lock-stock out of luck
if you think you’ll
get you claws in me.
No more easy riders,
no more floozies,
you’re down-out in the dark
if you want to
take a piece of me.
No more black-out nights,
no more STDs,
played with fire too many times
to think that it’s
good for me.
No more endless nightfall,
no more moneyed hearts,
it’s rock-bottom taking toll
on a man who’s
already pushed too far.
No more fake award shows,
no more bastard art
it’s rot-gut soulless stuff
fully deserving
of those single stars.
No more mindless chatter,
no more watching charts
it’s fool’s gold draining soul
from a man
with little left to start.
It’s time to go.
I want to be a rock star and want to get so high,
I want to get that high, that i can touch the sky,
These are the dreams that i keep in my head,
And i cant get rid of them even when in bed,
How my love, you help me,you support me all the way,
And that my love i pray to god ,and praythats how it stays,
You make me feel good,
So much pleasure in my heart,
And that is how you made me fee, right from the start,
I want to love you baby, love you till the end,
Cos you really aint only my wife you really are a friend
So come little baby let me see you swing,
Show me little baby,and do your little thing