Best Transistor Poems
I took a walk down Columbia Street
Back to the place where we used to meet
Where we played as kids until after dark
And hung out together up at Dutch Hill Park
Although alone, I could hear the sound
Of laughter coming from the merry go round
Sometimes we'd meet there in the early dawn
The dance hall, pavilion and the swings are gone
I saw those pine trees and I thought of you
And all the crazy things we used to do
Like sleeping out underneath the stars
Hanging upside down from the monkey bars
A swing made from a rope and an old tire
We baked potatoes on an open fire
Squirrel nut zippers and an RC coke
Transistor radio and we'd have a smoke
We walked in the woods and we climbed some trees
We scratched our faces and we skinned our knees
Never dreaming that it would ever end
If I could, I'd do it all again my friend
Those memories I have will never part
I carry Dutch Hill Park inside my heart
And all those memories of yesteryear
Heading back home now I shed a tear.
Trying to recapture the joy of those winter days is difficult. School cancelled: sun shining through the sheer, white, curtains into an all too girlie room, the sound of a tea kettle's whistle, the ice cold feeling of oak boards on bare feet, between scatter rugs; I ran to the kitchen. The transistor radio sounded, still calling out school closings. The snow sifted down.
bright sun
sparkles on snowflakes –
the plow roars
Quick phone calls, punctuated with giggles, roused a gaggle of neighborhood girls. White skates in hand, I burst out the door. I rushed toward the swampy area behind the neighbor’s house. My rubber boots crunching crust above the powdery fluff. At the edge of the watery wood, I stood staring. Boys, I see the boys in there. They have their skates on already. Tommy Maloney, my crush, skated toward me.
his black waves
dusted with snow –
whoops of delight
A hummock of snow-topped grass served as a seat. I removed my boots from beneath the zip sides of snow pants and try to tie laces new white skates. Once done I stood wobbling, weak-ankled. Tommy laughs, as knock-kneed I attempt a glide toward him falling on my butt. Oh how his eyes sparkled, an Irish rogue at twelve. Kneeling, Tommy began to re-lace my skates. I remember wishing, so much, he would kiss me.
First Contemporary haibun online Fall 2013
Published in Winter Legends 2014
People watching, on a park bench under a ripe sun,
I sat, seemingly wasting time. My heart smiled the second hour when I saw John,
my father, in the clouds. He smiled back with arms that reached
from the past to pick the sun from the sky like a peach.
Golden light splattered,
as he bit into the fruit at high noon; with my head back
and tongue out, I tasted drops of sunlit ambrosia.
My father winked from the clouds. His eyes searched to teach
a lesson of love from father to daughter, spanning a gap in time. "God is love",
I heard on whispering wind. "Scotland". Again, he said, "Scotland". I didn't understand.
"My mom wanted to go but never did. Live, give and forgive, outlive the bad, relive the good",
like thunder from his mouth
I heard the words echo. "Time is on My Side" played
in the background on an old transistor radio as ancient
as the silent man, still like a statue, next to me. A hush fell on the park and a peace
swept over me. Men, women, spirits kept moving by for hours, yet none
were noticed as my wide eyes stared at the passing sky. I was happy.
In fact, I had never felt happier, but I knew I was running on empty,
exhaustion washed over me from the power of emotions while the sky moved north to south.
Clouds faded with daylight. Sadly, I blew a kiss goodbye "knowing the sky was feeling the same".
By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders, May 31, 2012
for Mish-Mash contest (Tracie)
Fields of stars blanket warm summer skies
Songs of crickets and cicadas overwhelm the senses
In reply, fireflies dot the lawn
Full of dandelions and buttercups waiting for dawn
Far away flashes of summer heat strike with no sound
Showing distant lands and tops of massive thunderclouds
Soft shadows decorate the walls
upon silent ears quiet murmurings fall
a transistor radio blares its tiny sound
of ballgames in concrete stadiums ,
bright lights and a pitchers mound
Overhead fans stir dark sleepy rooms
Screened in porches give way to fleeting cool breezes
Heavy lids with dreams in flight
Soften those warm summer nights
Form:
Sunday cockcrow nascent
aural essays reveal
laissez-faire raptures.
Enigmatic silken piece compost ushered in by
trenchant trademark tremulous signature.
Doe-eyed instrumentalist’s strident brass ensemble,
wakey wakey for the pier gazing loiterer whose blasé
sashay amble’s out of kilter.
Maverick antennae on a radio safari,
hawking hourglass heritage lodestone.
Closet Peter Pan’s astride transistor, literati goggle eyed and glued.
Silhouettes of wistful mint leaf tract,
navigating hoarse throat shellback allegory.
Earnest weekend welcome mat to madcap jester, laureate, bohemian.
Religiously the listener’s transported
from a humble tepee sanctum
to alluring levee inundation area,
far flung folly edifice,
nomad siren hymn sheet to mount Half Dome.
Long wave bounder in my dreams,
I limb skip oe’r fiction world simulcast entanglement,
snoop beneath rogallo-wing parachute in a Middle East plot,
“twin peaks” would be awestruck by this labyrinthine concourse.
One can flit invisibly round medieval black market cobblestone arcades,
ghost novelist’s ethereal penchant for pinch and pilfer retro-fit infringement.
Melting pot cinnamon dispenser, whiff stick fix antidote to kettledrum ennui
the blight of urban jungle setting and rural folklore.
Otherworld contortion with a shard of drama for magic carpet flight of fancy broadcast
Lineage derived from ancient epochs now assumed but for an inkling, icons I become with card shark sly booth legerdemain.
Maybe I’m that fictile clueless hiker, destitute, indigent
HOT AND SUNNY
SUMMER,
SWEATS RUNNING
DOWN .
SITTING AND
STUUDYING IN
SCHOOL ,
WE GOT A GIFT .
A GIFT OF
EDUCATION , A GIFT
OF MANNERS,
A GIFT OF
KNOWLEDGE , A GIFT
OF DISCIPLINE.
THAT GIFT IS NONE
OTHER THAN YOU ,
WHO TAUGHT US
LESSONS AND
TOLD US FACTS NEW.
YOU NEVER
THOUGHT OF YOUR
HEALTH,
CAME EVERYDAY TO
GIVE US
EDUCATION'S
WEALTH.
YOU TEACH US,
MAGNETIC EFFECT
IN CLASS,
ALSO EVIL EFFECTS
OF BAD COMPANY ,
ELECTRIC
RESISTANCE IN
ELECTRICITY,
ALSO HOW TO
RESIST PROBLEMS IN
LIFE,
AMPLIFIER ,TRANSISTOR
IN ELECTRONICS ,
ALSO HOW TO RAISE
OUR CHARACTER IN
LIFE,
CHEMICAL BONDS IN
CHEMISTRY,
ALSO OUR BONDING
IN LIFE,
MOLES AND
MOLARITY IN
SOLUTIONS ,
ALSO HOW TO
MINGLE IN ANY
SITUATION .
CAN'T COUNT YOUR
TEACHINGS,
YOUR CHARACTER ,
YOUR DISCIPLINE,
CAN'T REMEMBER
EVERYTHING,
BUT THE GOLDEN
WORDS YOU SAID,
"NEVER COMPROMISE
ON CHALLENGES"
SIR YOU ARE A "
GENIUS"!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
My physics teacher's
name is SYED
YOUSUF SIR and he
is my fav sir!
Lost in Youth
Rainbows in the clouds, walking on railroad tracks , locomotives up close
Kickball games , I am left footed, spooky reflections in a mirror, running naked
Wooden desks and chairs, kids in the classroom , the little girl across the street
Black and white T.V., Air conditioning , a new blue car, exhaust fumes
The farm, coal fired furnace , warm heating ducts
a collie , a cocker spaniel and a horse named Thunder
Dark starry nights , telescopes , comets and satellites
Northern winters, snow covered fields ,sledding, frozen lakes , and Orion
Camping in fields , mosquitoes bites , quiet dawns and heavy morning dew,
Grandparents ,riding lawn mowers , apple trees , flower and vegetable gardens
Southern Summers , warm muggy nights , ceiling fans ,open screened windows
Screened in porches, ancient toys, , tiny transistor radios, baseball games talking late into the night
Badminton , side lawns , and long rides home
Public pools , icy waters and underwater swims
Trombone , marching band and high school football games
Sleepy classes, friends , lunchroom games, and girls
High school graduation , college and final goodbyes
Minimalism grape
Hyper secret neon ring shot
Transistor star life
was sitting in a crowd but felt so all alone
No communication, everyone staring at their phone
I just wanted to return to the life that I had tasted
No more electronic robots, I guess I'm technology wasted
Back to Bobbi socks and bobbi pins
Big hellos and happy grins
Culottes an pedal pushers, Friday night dances
Back seat in the drive in, teenage romances
At the amusement park in the penny arcade
Ferris wheel rides and pink lemonade
Walk hand in hand, sometimes act like a fool
Talk to each other as you carry her books home from school
Up in the balcony with your hands on her hips
New worlds to discover, lips touching lips
Yelling from the sidewalk can Jim come out to play
Riding down a hill while standing on a sleigh
Hanging from monkey bars, climb a tree in the park
Playing ball in the street until it was dark
Roasting potatoes on a campfire at night
Running and laughing while flying a kite
The smell of a bakery with bread baking at dawn
Lying in the grass, transistor radio on
Cotton candy at the County Fair
Butch wax or Brylcreem to train your hair
Flying high on a swing and then jumping down
Medicine show at the end of town
Picking blueberries for grandma's pies
Watching Old Yeller with tears in your eyes
At the drug store for a burger and shake
Skimming stones across the lake
Hot dogs and hamburgers on the old grill
Chase tag, hop scotch and King of the hill
Hang at the diner everyday after school
Meeting your friends at the community pool
Yes, take me back where talk wasn't a crime
Take me back to a simpler time
For all this complexity. I don't give a damn
Technology wasted is what I am.
Summer nights in Centerville, sleeping on the top bunk bed;
A transistor radio playing low, lying right there near my head.
The Big Red Machine was in their prime; those boys could sure play ball;
I fell asleep every night listening to the play-by-play of Joe Nuxhall.
I entered my life of puberty with Charlie Hustle running to first;
Davey Concepcion turning two and Joe Morgan with a speedy burst.
Johnny Bench throwing out would be stealers, Pedro Borbon with a bending curve;
All happening on the summer of my first kiss – once I finally worked up the nerve.
With Tommy sleeping in the bed below – nary a care in the world,
George Foster launched an enormous shot while I tried to figure out the girls.
Jack Billingham was striking them out – an apt metaphor for my chances,
As I fantasized about dating girls while two bases Ken Griffey advances.
Tony Perez was still strapping them on; Don Gullet piled up some wins;
Cesar Geronimo owned center field while my hormones multiplied within.
Coming of age in Centerville, back in nineteen seventy-four,
Meant listening to the Cincinnati Reds while thinking about the girl next door.
It must have been around 1967, a Christmas that
feels like yesterday. Funny thing though, I don’t
remember unwrapping it, I don’t remember jumping
for joy, but I’m certain I did. With five children we
didn’t think of asking Santa for more than one gift.
Oh, there were always more gifts under the tree,
ones from our grandparents and of course mom
and dad. But that one, the one you wished for
was never knitted socks or mitts or anything
you wear, it was something special like
a toy or game. This one year the gift of all gifts
came to me. We always visited relatives and
good friends and I remember taking it with me.
I see it in my hands as I sat with my very own
transistor radio in the quiet corner listening to
the Boston Bruins playing hockey with my
hero number 4, Bobby Orr. I had a ten year old
girly crush on him and I was in heaven that night
every time the announcer said his name. Many
Christmases have come and gone since then, but
the memories of that radio with an antenna and
two turning knobs I will never forget.
Written by Brenda Meier-Hans
11.30.2014
Contest: Hush of Christmas Past
1st
My past sits on a shelf, in pictures, books and letters
Occasionally I take it down, to make the present better
Those youthful days back at home, when life was in full bloom
Taken for granted they slipped away, while I chinned myself on the moon
Nameless faces and faceless names, colors fade to black and white
Evolving with perpetual change, like days that hide in the nights
The 50's were a shooting star, for me they passed in stealth
In brotherly love on gravel roads, our dreams were untapped wealth
On a transistor radio the 60's played as social consciousness awakened
In hallucinations of free love and civil rights, faith in tradition was shaken
My long hair 70's were loud, the nation showed both sides of it's face
Personal independence led to parenthood , I failed miserably in disgrace
Finding out the hard way love isn't free, independence has a price
Again the music changed with the decade, and in life I went back for another slice
In the 80's I skied in the powder, the first half is still a blur
As I slalomed down the hill I found true love and surrendered my vices for her
The 90's were a time of gains and losses, old family died as new emerged
Struggling to climb to the top, in my family my worth was submerged
Shunning old friends and old habits, I began turning into my dad
Trying to lead a good example, so my children would make better choices than I had
The dawn of a new millennium, technology spread like a disease
My children were affected early, then poor health knocked me to my knees
My life has seen many changes, just like the times that have passed
But now broken down and depressed, I've taken my foot off the gas
For now, I put memories back on the shelf, like an old dog, I'll gnaw on the bone
But I still hold my head up high, cause I did it all on my own
an original poem by the "poemdog" Daniel Turner
People watching, on a park bench under a ripe sun,
I sat, seemingly wasting time. My heart smiled the second hour
when I saw John, my father, in lowering clouds. He smiled back
with arms that reached from the past to pick a juicy sun
from the sky like a peach. Golden light splattered, as he bit
into the fruit at high noon; with my head back and tongue out,
I tasted drops of sunlit ambrosia. My father winked from the clouds.
His eyes connected to teach a lesson of love from father
to daughter, spanning a gap in time. "God is love", I heard
on whispering wind. I strained to hear more...
"Scotland". Again, he said, "Scotland".
I didn't understand. "My mom wanted to go but never did."
"Live, give and forgive, outlive the bad, relive the good".
Like thunder from his mouth, I heard the words echo.
"Time is on My Side" played in the background on an old transistor radio,
as ancient as the man, still like a statue, next to me. A hush fell
on the park and a peace swept over me. Men, women, spirits kept moving
by for hours, yet none were noticed as my wide eyes stared
at the passing sky. I was happy. In fact, I had never felt happier,
but I knew I was running on empty or close, exhaustion
washed over me from the power of raw emotion
while the sky moved north to south.
Clouds faded, free with dusk of day. Sadly, I blew a kiss goodbye
"knowing the sky was feeling the same".
By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders, May 31, 2012 for Mish-Mash contest (Tracie)
Some call it an interruption
I see it as a great opportunity
Some call it a dumb question
I see that it masks a brilliant inquiry
Some call it a discipline problem
I see a butterfly emerging from its cocoon
Some call my classroom boring
I see and say it's so boring it's ridiculous
I have better things to do with my time, and with their time
Than to force these young mind into artificial environments of dull
Here's to mandatory nature walks, tent-pitching, berry-picking
Latrine digging, campfires, marshmallow roasts and ghost stories
And not to neglect timepiece, transistor radio, long-nose rifle
electrical circuit, and motor assembly and disassembly--and woodworking*
Now we're talking Education
Now we're talking Creation, Imagination
*So much I left out, including: Cooking, Painting, Fashion Design, Architecture,
Basic Engineering,... Let us do what we can; the kids'll do the rest! ~ gw
At the end of each summer day,
while laying there in my bed,
I placed a small transistor radio
under the pillow near my head.
Each night that the Reds did play
I listened to the baseball game;
Joe Nuxhall did the play-by-play -
youngest player ever, adding to his fame.
They were the Big Red Machine;
often in first place;
Pete Rose knocking out another hit;
Dave Concepcion fielding with grace.
Ken Griffey - the father -
roaming the outfield grass;
George Foster hitting home runs;
Joe Morgan sprinting in a dash.
Tony Perez, so consistent;
Cesar Geronimo had the perfect name;
Johnny Bench squatted behind home plate,
catching another game.
Through my little transistor radio,
Marty Brennaman and Joe Nuxhall brought it all to life,
as the sun faded away to darkness
on those hot Ohio summer nights.
And at the end of every night,
Joe Nuxhall would sign off all alone,
saying, "This is the old lefthander rounding third,
and heading his way on home. "