Best Underwood Poems
After my father died, I moved to his old house
Donated many large items to charities
As each item was removed, tears streamed down my blouse
But some were not wanted; what would become of these?
Set up a table in the yard; sign said, “Free Stuff”
The old Underwood typewriter wasn’t set out
Parting with memories it evoked was just too rough
It symbolized Dad’s life, without any doubt
The late night hours a CPA spent at his desk
With my cat curled up next to him, evoking grins
As Dad typed away, little Prince looked statuesque
I learned to type on what is now a “has been”
This manual contraption replaced by high tech
Represented a man who worked to provide
Freely offering love, but stretching each pay check
To give us a better life, Dad’s efforts applied
The hours work took away from his family
I used to resent, but I understand more now
A sacrifice he made for my siblings and me
The thought of parting with it I couldn’t allow
The typewriter remains on Dad’s desk in the den
As a reminder of how hard he worked to please
Sometimes I still peck at the letters now and then
When I’m missing Dad most, somehow it brings me peace
The Playbill for the 9/8/01 show at Godspeed Opera House falls from my palm to the floor. Here I sit, with a drugged hangover but alive. The last thing I remember is a suicide note in the Underwood typewriter on my desk, beside an ashtray of Blanche's lipstick smeared butts. Putting back on, the bifocals that had been dangling from one ear; I frown. I can't remember arriving? A phone's ringing; I stumble toward the tone. Odd looking thing, I think, as I bend over. The note taped to it says; it's a cell phone? "What the hell?" As I flip it open, I'm tackled. My heel slips on a broken pencil; I'm down. "What did you do? You bastard," he bawls, waving an airline ticket in my face. Looking toward him, I notice the stage still lit. He grabs the cell phone, "What the hell is this? You a commie spy?"- The 'phone? screen?' says 'Fred go to the opera house by midnight or you're both dead.' The curtain parts revealing a pool of blood: a chord is struck.
It's midnight accordin' to the ticker. I have a moment's relief before my arm's wrenched behind me. I'm cuffed. There's a shout from the lobby and the sound of sirens. Lifting me, he shoves me to the wall; locks me to the door pull. The theater hall appears empty except for us. Through a door, he charges. "Back here guys." The SWAT team arrives. "Smells like the dead in here Marco's, where's the body?"
"Ask him. Take him out and open some damned windows will ya." Two of the gorillas toss me on the porch under the moth laden lights. Just when the cop was about to kick me in the head; a woman screams. The coppers run inside. I hear a crash and a half dozen clod hoppers trompin', then through the door rolls a single gold earring. I scream "Blanche!!!!!!"
The crew hollers CUT-PRINT-It's a WRAP. I smile as Blanche saunters out.
In 1925 the birth of the King of the Underwood came forth
and some 21 years later, he would grace us with his wisdom
as well as his politics, quotes, manuscripts, short stories and then deliver to us Ben Hur
and Lincoln. His name was Gore Vidal and today he still "is".
I picture him typing on his Underwood in his various villas (of which he had many)
writing his own manuscripts chiefly because he despised, like most writers, interruptions
unless it were as he said, " to have sex or a television appearance, both of which he lauded.
Today Vidal leaves us with, " We are permanently the United States of Amnesia. We learn nothing because we remember nothing."
THIS IS A SONG DONE BY CARRIE UNDERWOOD I WANTED TO SHARE WIT ALL OF YOU.
Little boy,6 years old,a little to use to being alone.
Another new mom and dad,another school,another
house that'll never be home.When people ask him
how he likes this place,he looks up and says with
a smile upon his face,
(CHORUS)
This is my temporary home,it's not where I belong,
windows and rooms that I'm passing' through.This is
just a stop,on the way to where I'm going,I'm not
afraid because I know,this is my temporary home.
Young mom,on her own,she needs a little help got
nowhere to go.She's lookin for a job lookin for a way
out,because a half way house will never be a home.
At night she whispers to her baby girl,someday we'll
find our place here in this world.
(CHORUS)
Old man,hospital bed,the room is filled with people he
loves,and he whispers don't cry for me I'll see you all
someday.He looks up and says,"I can see GOD'S face.
(CHORUS)
THIS IS OUR TEMPORARY HOME.
SONG BY CARRIE UNDERWOOD
THANK YOU FOR EVERYONE WHO TOOK TIME TO READ THIS
COLLEEN MARIE BONO
Hours after hours of practice
Making sounds that are polished pearls
Connected by a thin string made up of
Accelerando, arpeggios, and articulation
O, what wonderful colours you have!
Measures after measures of music
Playing with deep emotions that flow
Sometimes, the stream in the green meadow on a sunny day
Other time, the ruthless ocean during a thunderstorm
O, what diverse sentiments you convey!
Days after days as time passes
Never failing to sooth the heart and the soul
Inspiring in a way that builds and constructs
Confidence, courage, pride, and esteem
O, what comfort you provide!
Rehearsals after rehearsals with the full orchestra
Stepping onto the stage of the world famous Carnegie Hall
Performing in front of a full house audience, the cadenza
In Offenbach’s Orpheus in the Underwood Overture
O, what memorable experiences you bring!
The light that loses, the night that wins
And time remembered is grief forgotten
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,
and in green underwood and cover
Blossom by blossom the spring begins
Algernon Charles Swinburne
Spring Light
Depths of darkness, deep
earth, night and Winter-
these are alchemy for Spring
Plain brown,dormant bulbs
bring forth such magic things
Time and motion turning light
re-cycle joy and grief
And memories as old as time,
are formed from lives so brief
Our Mother earth
has tolerance-all things she abides
Over forgotten scars her forests creep;
her shores are washed in healing tides
Cloud and mist and miracle
bring forth the flowers of spring
snowdrop, asphodel, hyacinths
renewing every dream
A sweet millenium of Springs
like clockwork cycle round
With faith we watch for them to come,
blossom by blossom .
ODE TO COFFEE
Published Hill Rag, Eskimo Pie, Coffee with Underwood
Mistress of sacred love
Sacred lady of desire
You start my day
Setting my heart on fire
With your dark delicious brew
And throughout the day
Whenever the mean old blues come by
You chase them away
With your bitter {sweat} (sweet?) ambrosia{l brew}
Every time I inhale your {witches brew} (witch's brew)
I am filled with power, light and love
And everything is al right Jack
If only for a few fleeting minutes
I love you oh coffee goddess
In all your magical forms
In the dark coffee of the dawning day
In the sizzling coffee in the mid morning break
In the afternoon siesta break
And in the post dinner desert drink
I love you my coffee mistress
You are my refuge
From this horrid world
And you are my secret lover
Never disappoint me, ever
I've never had a bad cup
Of that I can be sure
Even the dismal coffee
Served at Denny's at 3 am
Is still sweat loving coffee
Even the farmer brother's diner coffee
Excites me and gets me going
Asking for another cup of divine delight
Coffee always is there
It is always on and piping hot
With hidden dark secrets
Swirling in its liquid essence
Coffee is my last vice
My only legal vice left
Coffee does not cheat on me
It is always faithful, always true
It does not turn on its friends
And all it asks in return
Is that you come back
Cup after cup after cup
A good cup of coffee
Is a little bit of heaven
In a cup of dark liquid hell
Coffee is like a drug
But a good drug that does what is should
And never complains
It does not get grouchy
It does not hurt you
It does not make you crazy
But allows the muse to come out
And play with it
Coffee led to the American Revolution
As patriots drank coffee
To rebel against the aristocratic English tea
Coffee started the London Stock market
And started the gossips mills running
Every great invention
Was fed by coffee's sweat brew sweet allure
All the great thinkers
All the great leaders
All were enslaved to coffee's magic
Yeah
I sing my praises
Of the great glorious coffee lady
Long may she continue
To be my sweat companion
Long may coffee continue
To rule my heart
And set my heart on fire
I love thee
Mistress coffee
And sometimes I think
You love me too
Pumped
Reams of paper sit upon my desk accordioned untidily, dimpled where the cat stood or sat too long. The wastepaper basket was full of crumbled balls, reflecting the topography of the Nepali adventure I am trying to re-count. The heavily grained desk of golden oak supports a range of dictionaries and thesaurus’s, any one of which was heavy enough to use as a doorstop in a windstorm. An old Underwood typewriter sits, holding court, in the midst of all this, enamel black, with chrome edged keys and struts which depress at the tap of a fingertip. The radio blares, God Bless the Child Who’s Got His Own…as I formulate the saga of a heroine seeker, lead by two caramel colored Nepali boys, toward the foothills of the Himalayian Mountains.
The spindles holding the black ribbon snag in the clip-like opening which holds them taunt. Adjusting the tape turns my nails blue-black. I brush the hair from my eyes decorating the tip of my nose. Dirty business this writing. I tear another sheet from the rubber roller and crumple it with a sigh. “Damn, irascible machine don’t you have a soul? Give Mama something! Anything” I whine.
Scared by the abruptness of my outburst, and the carriage's leap left, the scared-y-cat is propelled to the floor, sending a half-stack of unsullied paper to ground, covering my patent-leather pumps.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bKNtP1zOVHw
Enjoy...while you read..Billy Holiday
Thinking out loud, I thought our love was forever,
Stay with me darling, and just hold me for all night;
I have nothing, just memories to remember,
I will always love you, though you are out of sight.
Stay with me darling, and just hold me- for all night,
Angel, sad you died and flew up like a feather;
I will always love you, though, you are out of sight,
Where does my heart beat now- in the rain and thunder.
Angel- sad you died and flew up like a feather,
Dance with my father, oh, my dad would hold me tight;
Where does my heart beat now (in the rain and thunder),
My heart will go on, forever into the light.
Dance with my father- oh my dad, would hold me tight,
Jesus take the wheel, oh can you hear my prayer
My heart will go on- forever- into the light,
I'll be seeing you, in my dreams now and ever.
Jesus take the wheel- can you hear my prayer,
I have nothing, just memories of you to remember;
I'll be seeing you- in my dreams, now and ever,
Thinking out loud, I thought- our love was forever.
_________________________
May 16, 2016
Poetry/Pantoum/I'll Be Seeing You
Copyright Protected, ID 16-791-218-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Songs used for inspiration:
Thinking Out Loud, by Ed Sheeran
Stay With Me, by Sam Smith
I Have Nothing, by Whitney Houston
I Will Always Love You, by Whitney Houston
Angel, by Sarah McLachlan
Where Does My Heart Beat Now, by Celine Dion
Dance With My Father, by Luther Vandross
My Heart Will Go On, by Celine Dion
Jesus Take The Wheel, by Carrie Underwood
I'll Be Seeing You, by Billie Holiday
Old Times and New
I travel in my wandering mind
To a different day and time
Back to the mid-40's
When a cute young secretary was I.
Back when dresses marked size 14
Are current day skimpy 10s,
That's where this reminiscing poem
Is about to begin.
Copying documents or research for themes
Required an old Xerox machine;
Filled with fluid and a tray
It was the high tech of its day.
Causing just a little bit to splash,
Was an economical duress,
For even a drop of it would make a hole
In a pure silk, wool or cotton dress.
The copies had to be hung and dried,
Sometimes unreadable even then;
Remember those old yellowed pages
You see in old books now and again?
Then there was the mimeograph,
Stencils typed and clicked on a wheel,
I had a cute boy working with me,
I did my best to make him reel.
Old manual typewriters with ribbons,
Underwood, Smith Corona and Remington,
My daddy washed piece by piece in gasoline
Built BC (before computers) or electric ones.
We went through MTST machines and
Computers in air conditioned rooms with ducts,
Before arriving at desk and laptops,
Our paperless society is now recycle bins and trucks
Progress? I don't know - is this primitive now?
Will they really put a chip in our brain
Where we can think a task and still make love.
Has technology made us insane?
A few of the famous had their preferences. Jack
Kerouac went on the road with his Underwood early thirties
portable Royal Standard. Isak Dinesen, the Danish Dinosaur,
(said with love, she was my hero) used a 1918 Corona No. 3
to serve up "Babette's Feast". An Underwood Standard
Portable was William Faulkner's choice. And, Hemingway?
A portable feast, He! He chose The Corona #3.
Mine was a plain old ordinary Royal, circa 1947,
punched with vigor on its stepladder keys in typing class
under the watchful eye of Ms. Marguerite, whose
married sister shared an infatuation with my wildly handsome
teenage brother. Though no suspicious spouse aborted
his apprenticeship of love, brother and I--Thank you
Republic of Korea-- were tapped by Fate. Off to the Navy,
dallying sibling, while I, young wife two years out of school,
bereft of spouse, my life in limbo, honed my craft
under the Sisters of Saint Joseph (those voluminous
black birds) on hot summer afternoons in
a second-story convent classroom.
In the courtyard below, lantana bloomed,
buzzing with the adoration of bees, and butterflies
flew free from the straitjackets of their cocoons
to an unfettered life, like me, the Army wife.
Korea, being my betrothed.
there was a woodsman that lived in rosewood
approached a nymph sleeping in underwood
a gambler loved by the bards
sat down with a deck of cards
with sleight of hands lost his axe, boots and hood
4/11/2018
My ancient Underwood typewriter, dusty, boxy, charmingly obsolete
Missing p, x and m - still, imperfectly complete
Kept for its craftsmanship and for nostalgic retreat
I wrote my novel (unpublished, unshown) at sixteen
Upon this unwieldy, cranky, clunky, behemoth beige machine
No complaints on the convenience of the screen
But millennials will never know what it means
Feeling the tingling rush that vibrates and sings
The music of the keys striking the paper
Lifting your muse, and words, like a skyscraper.
7/10/18
Another year, another candle
Lots of beer, a little scandal
Another wrinkle, more stuff learnt
More wisdom and more fingers burnt
We’re here because we’re here because
There’s stuff to come and stuff that was
And we of the old school are still doin’ good
Rockin’ like Matthew Underwood
by Gail
I remember only too well
when years ago and once more
the clouds of my mind and soul
hung way below the horizon
pernicious weeds took well to it
infested my brain
grew roots and shooters
obstructed neuronal pathways
and pesticides only seemed
to further all negative growth
and now has come that time again
I am not talking about
a few thistles or dandelions
more like ragwort spreading
incessantly overtaking what
had been beautiful meadow
back then my wife soulmate and lover
made me clear a square meter or so
of our overgrown garden
and it seemed tedious and pointless
but almost like in prayer
I got down on my hands and knees
and fought the half acre or so
eventually the house and garden
became pleasing enough to sell and move on
thickets and malicious underwood
has sprung up again
a bracken underwood covers the ground
infiltrates me through every crevice
grinds up cracks and remorseful pores
the same cracks which are made
for the sun to shine threw
today I own an allotment
which has taken badly to
lack of care and involvement
time to move forward
with enough of the past being present
and for making every day count
in order to heal
I might keep some brambles
to harvest and even harvest some fruit
for now I must remember that one square meter
over time adds up
and that the elements are able
to cope with distress
and with myself