Best Ticket Stub Poems
She gave the man her ticket stub
To see the 'Doors' perform
She always liked to hear them sing
'Riders on the Storm'
She got lost in the melody
As the music took her higher
The rhythms ignited her passion
As they played 'Light my Fire'
She loved lead singer Jim Morrison
His poetry kept the music alive
The band then took her for a musical ride
With 'Moonlight Drive'
Then the music reached a fever pitch
As rhythms began to spew
She went wild when she heard
'Hello I Love You'
Then the concert ended....the music, died,
Some weeks later, she heard the news....she cried
Jim Morrison had given the Reaper his ticket stub
And joined the infamous '27 club'
He went away on a Crystal Ship with silver wings
Sailing on waves of guitars strings
In the distance, dark clouds began to form
And Jim soon became, a 'Rider on the Storm'.....
4-28-19
Writers On The Storm Contest
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This poem was written in response to an assignment in my online poetry class: “Why does an ordinary life feel like a failure in today's world?”
Because Instagram is a museum,
and we are the unpaid janitors
of our own lives~
mopping up the spillage
of seemingly
unremarkable mornings.
Because someone’s balcony
is always brighter,
their coffee more artful,
their sadness more cinematic.
Our sadness arrives
in discount sweatpants,
unphotogenic.
Because the algorithm whispers:
You could be the main character,
but the plot demands
a montage, a twist,
a soundtrack swelling
as you jog toward redemption.
You are still tying your shoes.
Because the word ordinary
has been hijacked and laundered
into something suspicious~
like a plain envelope
in an age of glitter bombs.
Because we forget
how the spine of a day
is built from quiet commas,
not exclamation marks.
How the heart keeps
its most sacred receipts
in the pocket of an old coat~
a ticket stub,
a note that says come home soon,
the way the light looked
when it was enough.
Sitting at the very top of my closet,
a small cedar chest, with treasures I did deposit.
It was Christmas gift my sweet cousin gave,
for years it has sat there, as if in a grave!
With broken hinges and a defective lock,
I will now open it; take reflective walk!
Amongst my treasures, is my grandma’s script;
written May fifth, Nineteen-seventy-six.
It must have been sent just before she died.
Because that was the year, my daddy cried!
Withered, torn, and barely legible,
to part with it, seems unethical.
Some special notes from Marie,
That date back to eighty-three.
She and I were the best of friends,
and we kept up with all the trends.
Eighties hairstyles: yea, we did rock,
To ACDC, and not ever to Bach!
A faded card from a stripling lad,
my high school sweetheart, I must add!
A ticket stub from a real Pecos rodeo,
I suppose this was kept for braggadocio!
A red toy convertible Volkswagen bug,
My dream vehicle, when I was young and smug!
In this wonderful stack of silly riches,
A valentine note puts me in stiches.
Penned by my husband’s masculine hand,
he expresses his love sure is grand.
And that is why he feels me up,
I think I’ll save this loving cup!
There is a chart I do recall,
It prepared me for something small.
A little prayer written down,
nine months later she came around!
With a baby girl I was blest,
As she feed upon my breast!
A Western Union telegram,
I took a second to exam.
The name written in black ink,
is to me my missing link!
Her presence always made me calm,
She lives heaven, she is my mom!
You asked me what’s in my treasure chest,
precious memories; who would have guessed?
Thanks for this time of reminiscing,
Oh’ how this life is sure worth living!
It might be time to toast some champagne,
To the future, and to memory lane!
The Soul-train was leaving the station,
Believers were gathered on board.
Their hands were all reaching for heaven,
And happily praising the lord.
But someone was left on the platform,
A ticket-stub fell from his hands.
He waved as the train was departing,
As Jesus said strike up the band.
The train rolled from station to station,
A star-man looked down from above.
Some Hindus were busy complaining,
That one God is never enough.
The clairvoyant spoke in a whisper,
This supper it may be my last.
A methodist minister kissed her,
And said you're a pain in the ****.
The passengers drunk with excitement,
Were having a whale of a time.
Cajoling and laughing and singing,
While guzzling down gallons of wine.
The Muslims were barracking bishops,
The party was hitting its stride.
A Cardinal minced with the choir,
Who just came along for the ride.
While paupers were wedged in the gangways,
With other unfortunate souls.
Their betters had cosy appartments,
All furnished in leather and gold.
The train climbed the stairway to heaven,
Agnostics all cheered from below.
St Peter was holding a sermon,
And God was the star of the show.
The clamour rose to a crescendo,
With rumours that God would appear.
The Pope stuck his head out the window,
And said I believe that he's here.
The saints held the hands of the sinners,
While Gabriel was singing above.
The train lurched across the horizon,
Then crashed in the tunnel of love.
The pearly gates took such a beating,
Reporters descended in droves.
The wreckage was charred and disfigured,
As heaven began to explode.
Old newspapers scattered in Eden,
Said one day somebody will pay.
While British rail made an announcement,
To say that the train's been delayed.
All you can eat Stellar Buffet
Location: Lumera 3 in the Andromeda Galaxy
Sector: 377.21
Come all or come one
But don’t forget your ticket stub
The only place in our Galaxy
You can get Klingon grub
We have Vulcans to serve you
If you want, yes with a tray
We have the latest replicators
So you eat hyper hardy all day
The Borg will defend you
With “Q” as our master cook
The Ferengi will take your payment
While the Romulans give you a dirty look
So come one or come all
To The Galactic Gorge your Stellar buffet
Soon to be opening in
The Galaxy called the Milky Way.
Sept.07.2016
My imaginary restaurant - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
Poetry and popcorn.
I'll take mine warm,
popping over a slow burner,
not with hot air.
Buttered up,
salty and full of fat.
Poetry and chocolate.
I'll take mine sweet,
not sugar-coated.
100% cacao.
No artificial flavors,
no artificial sweeteners, please.
Poetry and a picture show.
I'll take mine free,
with lines that keep moving
for a reason,
for a rhyme.
I'll take mine simple
in black and white.
Torn pages, a ticket stub
in my book
of memorable scraps ...
would you guide me?
be my golden thread, lead me through the labyrinth of my own mind,
help me travel through the deadly twists and turns,
would you protect me from the beasts inside?
i am empty, a shell, an apparition
a ghost
i lurk in the corners; invisible, transparent
you’ll never see me
but it’s ok,
i am used to pain and terror,
used to being used,
comfortable with being uncomfortable,
ok with not being ok,
but maybe you could fix me?
even if it’s temporary,
give me a band aid and a butterfly kiss,
just to hide the wound, to make it pretty
cover it up, conceal it
conceal, conceal, conceal
never show them anything, honey
hide your feelings, honey, hide every last one
the depression, the angst, the sorrow,
dig a hole in the sand box,
use the plastic shovels and cover them all up,
bury them down, deep, deep, deep
but could i give you some of my demons?
could i transfer a few to you?
could i give you a little piece of me,
a souvenir, a little keychain
thanks for visiting the desolate, foreign lands of my thoughts,
hope you had a nice stay
could you clip it to your backpack?
look at it sometimes and think of your trip
think of me,
remember me, maybe
even if it’s only for a second
baby could you think of me?
because with you, the words come easy,
with them, they stick in my throat
a ball and chain around my tongue,
forcing it down my throat
‘shut up, honey’ the shackles hiss
‘shut your ugly mouth’
i listen
i swallow them down
i won’t throw those words up in front of them
i’ll purge them tonight
when i’m alone in my room, lights off, pen in hand
i’ll throw them all up, every dirty confession
spit them up in the bathtub,
wash them down the drain
i’m a mess, honey
a tangled spool of thread
unknot me, baby
pull apart every loop, smooth me out
take me and sew something pretty
something sentimental, something meaningful
oh god, i’d love to be something meaningful
a movie ticket stub from a first date,
a lock of baby hair,
a letter to a first love,
take me, all my tangled mess
and create something amazing
we could be beautifully stitched together, baby
-e.g.
They got too high to come back down
And journeyed beyond the sky
Too many pills can make you drown
And we are left asking, why?
Her big song was "Piece of my Heart"
Which was a big hit on the charts
But Janice Joplin took a trip
With a one way ticket on a needle's tip
Hendrix knew how to play a guitar
Strumming away, rocking the stars
But he took that 'stairway to heaven'
When he was just twenty seven
Many more were like " Riders of the Storm"
A song Jim Morrison used to perform
But he too turned in his ticket stub
And joined the ever deadly, 27 club
8-27-2022
The 27 Club Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Anthony Biaanco
Creation
way of creativity
Some how - strange
I feel
Destroys In me
surrounding
Peace
Those, strong hold (friends)
when
I feel creative - fear
The end
First:
let me explain
of Time
my Time
Relation to…
the object and the turn
Return (trade)
My youth
truth is;
I do escape
from this dimension
indulge (hate)
Fantasy
Love, but real
Love,
has a number
ticket, stub
still, to the point
creative sparks
must retain
the lonely
dark Spark known - (seen)
contrasting
only shown
when
darkness
known
See that vessel back there
Just claimed by the storm
The whole crew is expired
Some had not yet been born
There’s no sense parsing gestures
Or mincing words this day
Times like these, the best you can do
Is bundle up and walk away
I know you’ve heard the story
The news rolls on and on
The pulse of irritation
Grips you some time around dawn
And your fingers are like drumsticks
But there is no tune to play
Moments like these, you seal up your beat
And start to walk away
The curtain has been lowering
For quite a while by now
Generations pass in grief
As the eras will allow
It all blurs into one façade
One miniature shadow play
Shows like these, you grab your coat
And your ticket stub and walk away
I don’t know if I’ll make much sense
I’m pretty sure I won’t
On the fields of isolation,
Some break the fence and some don’t
I hope your crop grows sky-high
May fertile winds go your way
As for the rest of us in the bowl of dust,
Let us pack up and walk away.
I jumped on the train, feeling bad.
It cost me all the money I had.
Is that seat empty, tell me bub?
I asked, clutching my ticket stub.
I knew not where it was going.
The man across from me looked knowing.
Will it take me to a safe haven?
Through the window, I saw a raven.
The man marked down one more tally
as the train bogged down in a valley.
The low sun cast a shadow dark
as I was forced to disembark.
The knowing man, he would not talk,
but I was going to have to walk.
I felt I would not be afraid,
as I looked to the sky and prayed -
and breathed my last earthly breath,
in the valley's shadow of death.
NORA
Carefree-spirited, wild at heart she sped down the steep streets of San Fransisco
Racing heart torn to pieces pounding from her chest, even after a bottle of Cisco
Wiping copious tears, but the dam burst, the outpouring she won’t control
Deep was their love, despair had broken her and stolen her spirited-soul
No stopping the storms of thoughts, she cries out to the sky, we were a pair
The night you didn’t see her, but she saw you with her, was too much to bear
Off to her lover’s concert gig that night at the club, numb to the world
No need for a ticket stub, she’s cool, Nora is the guy in the band’s girl
She parks her motorcycle and removes something from the saddle bag
In a hurry to carry out her goal, tonight is the night, there’s no time to lag
Distraught, destroyed, defeated, and numb she strolls on through a crowd
Pushes her way to the stage, edging closer in front of him, the music is loud
Left hand reaches into jacket pocket, she places gun to head
My beautiful cousin, at only nineteen she fell to the floor dead
At my age it was so painful, I kept it inside, nowhere to run, hiding my strife
I didn’t want to burden my mother over a broken heart, so I took my own life.
They took a leisurely stroll amidst the gardens of the Ferndale Park
Nora’s auburn braided hair resembled the clustering of cedar tree bark.
With their smooth silky lustering texture, flickering golden highlights.
As sunlight filtered through the branches, twigs and leaves, it ignites.
Aunt Olivia and Nora walked away hand in hand up the busy dirt trail.
It’s not the last time I’d see Nora, but this memory makes me wail.
They tell you what to love,
and who to hate
Their EM waves
dictate
when to have feelings of
disdain cut-rate
Callousness is the mental diss-ease
that permeates the air —
Pharaoh moans ...
toxic fumes of vapor crossbones,
they Caesar Palace dicey sell
Mood marketers
always swill toga do,
owe so pyramid scheme well
Create your con-sumer reality
with jingo slogans
as the purchase item guide
Ad hocking violent buy-products,
guaranteed to keep
your gunpowder tears dry
Sob heavy metal tales
of forged wails
is the pitchfork tongue cry
They tell you what to hate,
and who to love
Bend the knee,
profess unwavering loyalty
To the money sign satellite
passing up above
Feel free to
empty inventory please
those remote control, Mood marketers
Let the gold chain ticket stub
be the glass ceiling snub
worth of
your commercial existence
Nil grieve to
never promissory leave
the debt dole, repo soul carpetbaggers
Quote:"True nostalgia is an ephemeral composition of disjointed memories."--
Florence King
In the quiet folds of memory's embrace,
Where whispers of the past find their place,
There lies a fragment, ephemeral, yet profound,
A cherished relic in life's intricate mound.
Old aerogrammes, yellowed with age's flight,
Postage stamps, memories in paper light.
In their fleeting touch, a nostalgic sight,
Ephemeral relics, lost in time's might.
Or perhaps it's a ticket stub, worn and frayed,
From a concert where melodies forever played.
In the echo of music, I find solace sweet,
As notes of joy and sorrow gracefully meet.
There's a photograph, yellowed with age,
Capturing a moment, frozen on life's stage.
Smiles preserved in sepia, a snapshot in time,
A treasure trove of emotions, bittersweet and sublime.
These ephemeral fragments, fleeting and frail,
Are threads in the tapestry of life's tale.
Though transient they seem, they hold memories dear,
Anchoring us to moments, both far and near.
I've heard of the Circus Of The Damned;
By all accounts the rumors are true;
The graffiti makes it seem so grande;
Filled with copper and turquoise blue
billboards have you longing to attend;
In the French Quarter stories continue;
St. Louis boasts a fantasy alive and well;
Vampires perform in this fiendish hub,
gothic striptease mixed with a carnival;
More intense energy than any club,
blood will surely soak your ticket stub.