Best Rpm Poems
i’m vinyl baby,
easy to scratch,
easy to gouge,
prone to warping.
i’m a 45 rpm record,
single and labelled,
still got track marks.
dot dot dot
from the seventies!
you know there’s
my black side,
my dark side.
i’m a 45 rpm record,
single and labelled,
still got track marks.
you,
you’re my diamond needle.
i'm your music,
you know me,
you play me.
you,
you’re my diamond needle.
gets under my skin
rides my
grooves
you.
still,
even pass these years,
still,
when my time comes,
pack me in my jacket
bury me in your closet.
you know i’m still
your song,
your tune,
dot dot dot
you make my life neat.
spin
like a circle
i’m the black vinyl
on the roundabout
you,
your still
the only
turntable
for me.
you.
i’m a 45 rpm record,
single and labelled,
still got track marks.
play me!
14~12~2015
Maurice Yvonne
When I sit alone with my memories
My mind drifts back to the early 60s
When folk music was all the rage
The New Christy Minstrels, Peter Paul and Mary
The Brothers Four, The Limelighters, The Kingston Trio
The Canadiana Folksingers... who?????
A six member group called The Canadiana Folksingers
Included myself and my first wife Linda
Along with two guitar players and and a one-string bass
And I played the five-string banjo
Did we have a blast? Oh yah!
Made an album called “This Land Is Your Land”
And a 45 rpm single called, “Hi Jolly!”
Along with appearances on both
Of the only two Canadian TV Networks at the time
My memories of those days long ago fill me with pride and tears
We can't go back but we can dream
About when we were young
And the world was ours to explore!
© Jack Ellison 2014
I've reached beyond the age of RPM records
youthful addiction
My forty-fives tilt in a corner of the basement,
leaning tower of teenage angst,
Wrapped now in decades of neglect.
Why can't I dispose of you?
Clutter crime of nostalgia's pull
This craving for rock 'n roll renegades,
singers of weed-garden life
punishers of social rules
Ageless idols of grainy texture
in fraying fabrics, tie dyed
So many odes to love, longing, anger
Snippets of R n' R once bleeding from open windows,
like wanderers dancing in darkness
Charged rhythm once labelled
force of evil,
Musical clout like tattered boxing gloves
Limitless bliss to unstuck youth
Something to stagger to,
life's nimble recollection,
a secret world
of cherished entry
Implacable lyrics
that preserve themselves
in all that spins
(Poem revised July 2020 with 2 new stanzas added, along with a title change.)
The music begins, then the singing
I close my eyes, and even my ears smile
inhale.. humongous exhale, arms raise to the heavens
then my hands pose, lingering in jazz dancer's style
My mind begins to fly
Or perhaps as I glimpse the shadows going by
it's actually birds, yes birds fast forwarding to the rhythm
flying past majestic leafy trees beneath a dusky sky
Then the speed slows from 78 rpm
to 33 and a third
my body relaxes a bit more while I sway
becoming hypnotized to each note to each word
The clouds are outlined in smoke
a gentle breeze blows against my face
dancers appear, adorned in loosely draped gray chiffon
enchanted by the music, they swirl with finesse and grace
The wind picks up, so much so, that now, I'm flying
the shadowy scene about me is racing
it's as though I'm soaring through a vortex
unfettered, perhaps it's a virtual paradise that I'm facing
Feeling mellow with this
Byrd's band flickers in and out, the notes float and transcend
the song finishes but the music doesn't, not yet
I pen this piece as I peace out, so the music doesn't really end...
Inspiration: Places & Spaces by Donald Byrd
2/4/16
because so it is,
he says
ashtray's empty
and
Dolly Parton
cries
for
Jolene
spinning dizzy
in the
corner
in my mind
all words
leave the
paper
love laid to rest,
I can
recognize
the
smell.
© Gry W Christensen
(My take on "Relationships". My entry in the "Relationships" contest, ending Aug. 25. )
I pretend I'm alright
And put my best stance forward
Wear my brave face
Tryin to be smooth
Just tripped on my shoelace
What's a girl to do
Busted, razed, flat broke
My foot slipped off the pedal and into the spoke
Out of focus, idling, coasting on fumes
Myyyyy, mmmm, my oh my
Must retreat to my bedroom
For slumber; ugh - that noxious perfume
I sprayed on today
In the department store
I don't need to tell you
It reeks
That's a big pee you
Oh my
My plan has gone awry
I try to write
After listening to Vile
He inspires me
Perspiring
Thinking bout how to
Ink brilliance
Such as he
Slamming on the brakes
My leg itches
Ya damn flea
Bravado and all
I seem to fall
I spiral out of control
Resilience reels me back in
I'm a bouncy, buoyant, headstrong girl
Go ahead and believe what you want
Self deprecation is my defense mechanism
Keep playing
those cards close to your vest
You're bluffing fool
I know this by now
Prevaricator is a might big word
For liar
As you try to set the world on fire
I see you race away
And turn my head
Pretending not to see
When you visibly disgust me
You're not proving anything
With your ostentatious
Obnoxiously awesome self
Annnnnything
I ain't seen before
And won't soon forget
I'm a rhyming
tonight
Maybe filled with fright
Or could it be boredom
Delirious laughter
G'night
Sleep and clarity are what I desire
Slough off this crap
I know it's beyond time for a nap
My RPM is slowing
My aching for REM is growing
Copyright June 17, 2023 Lori Steindorf
Who Am I?
Sulking shoulders hold up an inscrutable face
haunted outsider with diffident fathers
preaching platitudes simply for their sweet sound
That lingers over the clacking forks at the dinner table.
The wardrobe changes nothing
As drab sneakers collect filth inside a Victorian house
and only rub clean aboard the slow spin of a Ferris wheel;
Scarlet jacket brushes past warped souls at 5000 RPM
over a cliff and under a thousand gently beckoning stars:
Moody eyes under an oil soaked Stetson
growl throaty defiance for past grievances,
Sneering the name that tried to smash his soul.
Speed and time always kill quickly and completely
Yet he roars on…
The insolent youth in quest of one honest elder.
...He swims
in two Centuries
His cold War
of water
An Aeonor, a "one-in-a-thousander"
Survives
- BabyBoomer -
Slowmotioning poisemass
Ballet-imposing-intrepid
like a colossal Pet!
Above & below
Fouled
by plastic Jellyfish, sets 'n nets,
Toxoids & the toxicrowdy polluted
"Men-O'-War"
on His Time.
The 5,200 RPM Priapus Phallus, &
Unpainless, murdermessed Terrapin
Carapace shelled & felled
from His Home of Aeon
Beached, beyond scarred & scalded Manatee,
Beyond-Endangered...
by the endangeroususers...
Left,
Right-now
to Us only
& the gathering flies - after the maggots -
for a "Glowspray I.D."-Interment-ignoble
out of The Sea -
this Thalassic Poet -
as Brethren search to the bottom
(knowingly)
for the disReptiled
of soft, red-eyed
Wisdom and
Grinalmostsmile
Stalled!
The steal strings are struck,
pulling her body and soul taut then slack.
It's a loss of inhibition,
that she feels might not come back.
The metallic sound moves her body electric.
She spins round,
without touching the ground.
The cords pull at her muscles.
As the rhythm synchronizes with her pulse,
the Tune rings into her being.
She resonates.
With each bar the Tune surrounds her,
more and more.
Each line ties her more to this feeling,
closer and closer.
Entranced in its embrace, it fills her with flame.
In this moment, there are no worries or shame.
With her soul inspired,
She lets out what is to be desired.
It starts with the shake of her hips.
It passes up, and springs from her lips.
She begins to swing her writs.
A feeling that escapes with a twist.
With the sway of her hair,
You would wish you were there.
Her world spins around at 33 RPM,
As she sings along with her heroes.
The beat will carry on,
as long as she will ever know.
Like the beat of her heart,
until there is nothing left to perceive.
12/3/15
There was a young man from Pensacola
Who chug-a-lug a bourbon high cola
Gave it try
Eyes did cry
Head swirled like he was on a Victrola.
A Victrola is a record player that used to spin those old platters, 66, 33 RPM. If you care, you can boot up a picture of one on your chosen website.
45 rpm tossed aside
spinning again no more,
old, unwanted turntable
cruelly cast out of a door;
in the attic kept away
gathering dust silently,
not unlike a transient life
to the end pointing surely;
music fading, we following,
fleeting like a crazy dream,
meaningless and forgotten,
no better than a 45 rpm.
4/27/16
Fluctuations and changes in weather
Forever and ever
Together
Through whatever whenever wherever
For the better
Throughout any endeavors
And adventures
While above and below birds of the same and different feathers
Remember
I would never treat you lesser
Anytime anywhere whether it is or is not interstellar
Near or far away from motion sensors
And the range of any metal detectors
Regardless of if anything I wrote was read
Don't forget and respect what I said
I kid you not, look and think instead
But be sure to not lose your head
Over a trivial amount of bread
While the sky and clouds are colored red
As you stand your ground for what is right in order to keep your family fed
Since way back when
And until the end
Increases and decreases in rpm
At the low and high point of the bend
Many many men
Like to say it all depends
Often, instead of now and then
But it is nothing I'd recommend to myself, family or a friend
That Woody wanted to see me ASAP,
So we done met near downtown at the KFC.
He says he wants to tell me something FYI,
About some new TFB sorta cowboy guy.
“TFB?” I asks, “You talkin’ ‘bout an IOU
Or that BYOB barn dance the boss done threw?”
“Naw,” says Wood, “TFB means tumbleweeds for brains—
I guess you fills the bill if I has to explains!”
“Cowboy,” says I, “does you sees my FIST?
Well, I’m here to tell you its for a smart SOB
That thinks talkin’ in letters is on the QT,
When all it will get is a stone carved RIP!”
Wood took out runnin’ without my RSVP,
Hopped in his SUV like a rock star on MTV.
He headed back to the ranch through BLM land
With me right behind ‘em – was more than he could stand!
I trailed ‘em to Tombstone and that OK Corral
And when I caught ‘em, I was gonna show ‘em how
My ol’ tumbleweeds for brains done brung me so far
And just why he was gonna soon need CPR!
But his mouth was movin’ a hundred RPM—
Afraid I was gonna then and there do ‘em in!
“Now, Stoney,” he says, “on one point we do agree,
I was just speakin’ plain and not bein’ PC!”
Then ‘fore I hauls back my fist and he has a BM,
I gets to thinkin’ how he had always been a friend.
Well, we had done been the best pards before this mess—
So we just shook hands and called it male PMS!
She’s into sushi and sapiosexuals,
Yogis with crystals, and vain intellectuals.
Just a flutter-by wisp with a thin portmanteau,
Who doesn’t believe what she’d rather not know.
Her porcelain features come straight off the shelf.
She plans for the future by suiting herself.
She teases the barmaid with talk about milk,
While flashing embroidered hosiery silk.
Her custom transmission is always in gear.
Neutral doesn’t stroke her RPM.
You never need to peel her grapes,
Just be sure to pluck them off the stem.
Mars is impassive. Venus is hot.
Their orbits eccentric, as likely as not.
He’s got a terribly large axe to grind,
And doesn’t ever kindly suffer fools.
To him, she’s just another barroom filly,
And he’s not the sort to follow by the rules.
He didn’t need the laurel of another top ten hit.
He’d written that song many times before.
But her magnetic eyes and tell-tale mouth
Put his better judgment on a slow train headed south.
If not for the liquor, he might have ignored her,
Instead, he laid his papers on the line.
And offered up a wary introduction,
Inviting her to share a glass of wine.
Mars is unyielding. Venus is not.
Their orbits are star-crossed, most likely to knot.
When moonlight does fade
and morning is at its best,
basking in the sunlight
that peeps above the crest.
When rainbows flirt with meadow
then aimlessly drifts away,
sprinkling silver droplets
to dampen newly mowed hay.
When rolling clouds descend
then linger within the valley,
with grey stone walls to blend
In main street and murky alley.
When summer sunset expires
begins to wane, turns to rust,
many cloudless days to ponder
before pasture mutates to dust.
These memories have followed me
through days honest and true,
an era gone, yet a moment
to share this vision with you.
“My mind belongs to yesterday
of that I have no regret,
just like playing an old ‘78’ rpm record
I forgot to remember to forget!”
© Harry J Horsman 2010