Best Walkman Poems
Tonight I sleep in solitude, every thought is filled with you;
And yet you would not believe the magnitude of the desire I have for you..
Tonight as I think about the comments you made,
I realize I haven't wanted a woman so bad in over a decade!
Tonight I put my pen in hand and wrote a rhyme.
About me being your man and you being my sunshine.
Tonight I wondered about the color or your eyes.
Even the curves in your hips and the thickness of your thighs.
Tonight as I layed back listening to my walkman.
I imagined you were Jane and I was Tarzan on a tropical island.
Tonight I let my imagination run free;
Of all the possibilities if you were here with me.
Tonight although I could not see your face, I created an image of profection.
You took my hand and we embraced in this heavenly connection.
Tonight is the night you will feel every inch of me.
So close your eyes and inhale the energy of my spirituality....
*14th Place Win in "Breathtaking Love" Contest
sponsored by A Rambling Poet 2010
i feel so settled in your presence
it seems so definitively calm here
i want to go on excursions never experienced with you and just discover
once upon a time i was a lonely soul yearning for any type of communication
i remember the footprints in the dust at every corner that had the scent of stale talcum powder
i remember the cable fluctuating between being off and on every other another
i remember listening to my old walkman under a few layers of cover when the power was cut off on a very cold day in winter
i recall sitting in the dark of my dusty, cobwebbed apartment letting the streetlight conceal the truth of my loneliness
i recall the draft coming into the screen in the living room and becoming painfully dizzy from daydreaming
i heard creaks on the stair steps and crackling in the walls
even introverted the darkness has a thousand eyes to truly see
even in hiding i cannot hide the from the strong stance stare of the obvious
knowing this, i decide to take a chance to makes bells ring like the freedom flapping of each wing....
....i feel so settled in your presence
it seems so definitively calm here
i want to go on excursions never experienced with you and just discover....
If you were to find an old
calendar, strap it to a hospital
bed,
tie it down by its weak ends,
and then sea section the belly
of it's pages, you'd find the
winding roads of my intestinal
past.
I used to be a ballot box filled
of everyone else's opinion
except for my own. My swagger
was like watching a Walkman
trying to swallow a DVD.
When I was a little younger,
I walked as if I were concerned
about how the ground would
feel about my footsteps. And if
I could just find a way to write
a letter to myself, when I was a
sweater with itchy sleeves that
I would someday grow out of,
I would say,
"There will be days you will feel
like a peacock with no feathers.
You will feel flightless, and
undeserving of attention."
But listen, listen to me. LISTEN.
You have to stop getting out of
bed like you are an oil spill.
You're not a flat tire at 2 am,
so stop acting like an accident.
Spenser, you are an apple on a
pine tree in a room full of
lemons, and you come from a
line of authentic Swiss army
pocket knives; Men who are
rare, sharp and dangerous
when not handled carefully.
Somedays I wish my arms were
a few years longer so that I
could reach back, grab you by
the shoulders, punch you in the
chest, and say,
"Listen. You are the main
character in a movie that I
watch every time I see the
inside of my eyelids."
I told myself a million times
that I wouldn't spoil the ending,
but I will tell you this: Your
story starts off really slow, but
it does get better.
You don't have to believe me.
Someday you'll see for
yourself.
I will see her again soon.
At the apex of her driveway
that I can now see in my
dreams,
I will ignore the washing
machine in my stomach.
I'll tell her that she looks
beautiful.
I will extend my arms like a
drawbridge to a castle no one
has visited in years.
Pressure washing my fears
from my hardened heart, I will
show her how far I've come
from the hospital bed.
That record player my older sister tried to hide,
with Foreigner, The Bangles and Madonna intensified.
Me only ten, yet in love with the sexy New Kids,
remember Z. Cavaricci pants and oversized Lids?
My journaling started; I couldn’t put my pen aside.
Scrunchies in every color for the girls to wear,
with fresh cut bangs and long permed hair.
A lunchroom mom my mother was in school,
I was unpopular and lame, called “uncool.”
For those “After-School Specials”, I didn’t care!
I was too old to love Care Bears and Rainbow Brite.
My first boyfriend made a mix-tape just right.
For Christmas I got a Walkman to jam those tunes,
and watched “Facts of Life” and “Silver Spoons.”
Folding notes in school when in another girly fight.
OHHH! The frustration with darn phone cords,
and for chores I would receive fifty cent rewards.
Do I wish to forget the eighties when in my youth?
I loved every second of it to tell the God honest truth.
Like I said... I won't forget those Madonna records.
Remembering the 1980's Poetry Contest
October 26, 2018
The bakelite disc revolved at seventy-eight
To end up in shards shattered, an inevitable fate
Heavy and brittle and full of opera
Was replaced with a vinyl at thirty-three
With covers a delight to see
Light and supple full of she loves you, yeah
And then came the cassette from nowhere
And pretty soon the Walkman walked
And less and less and less teens talked
But nodded heads as they made their beds
As Billy-Jean was not their lover
They were soon to discover
Shiny discs of digital delight
And very soon car tape decks were out of sight
But oh so quick the mp3 stick
And iPod player with iTunes click
Took over the world
And we were lost
As the pace of progress counted the cost
And the Bakelite discs became collector’s items
And the vinyl’s came back as the nightclub dims
And eight track stereo was attracted to rims
And yet we are not done, as no-one has won
But we all seem to have lost
The times that we had
When it was still turning
At thirty three
And seventy eight
Barbie, Atari, He-man
Batman, She-Ra, Ronald Reagan
Indiana Jones, and landline phones
The Dark Crystal and around 5.2 billion people
Andre the Giant’s Honeycomb commercial
Rainbow Brite, Jem, and Rose Petal
Welcome to the Jungle, Cheers! Metal
Mike Tyson, Debbie Gibson, Teddy Ruspin
And the best Christmas carolers are Gremlin
Taxi, the DMV Scene, "What does the yellow light mean?"
Young Guns, Russians, Charlie Sheen
Sony’s Walkman, Michael Jackson, and Tom Cruise
What was fake news or social media reviews?
Reebok, Converse and Keds shoes
Glo Worm, Nintendo and playdough
The Burbs, Rambo, and Willow
KB Toys, Sam Goody, And Gemco stores
Return of the Jedi and Disney’s Star Tours
Floppy disk computer and Punky Brewster
The Family Ties and spoiler alert Optimus Prime dies
Updated 5/14/2019
Back in my day shell suits were the latest fashion
And I made sure I wore my diamond socks with a passion
The only sky I knew was the one up above my head
No dvd player, just a betamax had to do instead
The only laptop I knew was the tray my dinner was served in
No sat nat to direct us, just maps and a lot of guessing
My social network involved playing outdoors with my friends
If I had an important message there was no text for me to send
Instead I would simply go and knock on the door
And enjoy a good game of hopscotch, drawn neatly on the floor
If I wanted to listen to music I held my boom box to my ear
And I felt like a millionaire in my latest pair of L.A Gear
No ipod to shuffle or touch just my sony walkman
No google to look for answers, just the library to depend on
No Ipad, no playbook, just a good old storybook
It may even be in hardback if I had any luck
No freeview, no Virgin, I was lucky to even have colour tv
And a rubiks cube would suffice, never mind an XBOX 360
It was all about hammer time and wearing those pants
And the theme tune to Fraggle Rock I would happily chant
No cyber bullying, only cyber I knew was the tamagocchi pet
No loading plates into the dishwasher as it hadn't been invented yet
No cd player, my cassettes were the in thing
And to have a sovereign ring on every finger meant you had some bling
The A Team, crossroads, tiswas and happy days was the programmes I watched
No series links or reminders to watch programmes like Lost
No rewinding the tv or pausing whilst I nip to the loo
Instead I had to ask someone and hope that they have a clue
No Adidas for me, just my trusted bum bag
My girls world doll and scrunche's were things I just had to have
In my day the only kid I wanted was a cabbage patch kid
Not a real one so that in a hostel I can live
No PS3, no Wii, no Vita or Nintendo DS 3d
Just my good old NES on my four channel tv
Care bears, the moomins, playschool and dangermouse
No crimewatch to make me afraid to be in my house
In my days if I was rude I would get a good smack
And I couldn't dare say the clothes you just bought me were whack
No microwave dinners, No chinese takeaway for me
Saturday soup was the best, one big bowl balancing on your knee
The 80's and the 90's I enjoyed it while it did last
But every now and again I take a glimpse of the past
One And Thousand
There once more it rises;
Rise with each beat.
Once more it has arose a storm,
A storm so strong can't describe.
Shaping wishes one after another, just
Like the beats that are created,
Each with its own pain, its own pleasure.
Creates in me a aroma that I,
Once prayed for, longed for, wish for;
Each with its own Resonance, Its own cadence;
Creates in me an urge to covet more, I
Once wandered for, cried for, begged for.
These endless flows of beats in rhythm
Like a wave on shore, winds on pinnacle,
Move me from Acme to Acme.
But lo! The count remains same;
One and thousand wishes, one and thousand beats,
One and thousand…
……………………………………………………………………….
Written more than a decade back, one day, when my friend came over and he was in
depressed mood, that very day I had purchased ‘Taal’ Hindi Movie audio, for which AR
Rahman gave music, and being hardcore music fan, and also that the Music of AR Rahman
grows on you and one may not like on first instance. I gave my Sony Walkman to my friend
to hear, and in few first listen he began to smile and seeing the joy on his face I took
the ‘sandwich’ wrap paper and wrote these line.
These lines are dedicated to those joyous that appear even after for some reason one does
not get them fulfilled. Celebrating the joy of finding others happy.
Don’t know where this lines stand on poetical measurements, but for me this is one of the
most memorable and valuable poems I’ve written.
.musafirs
Your Boot
I sleep in the back of your car while you drive
around the block to the shop.
Doze off as you park up for the night
and go to your bed—
mine is in your car on a piece of old sack
for a blanket and oily foam for my pillow.
Not too bad when a tramp has a box.
How did I become stuck here?
All I can do is sleep or dream of escape
when your key opens the lock.
When? Got a car jack jammed
against my ass and a spare tyre as a bed companion.
I doze for a time, fall into a deep comfortable sleep
to dream of enclosed spaces, of how I love them,
always get into predicaments like this.
Seven hours later I awake, switch on
the inner light and have a strong beer
I nicked in yesteryear.
Got four more strong ones to follow.
I turn on my old Sony Walkman cassette player
and listen to the Bangles and have a real good bop
in my your dirty old car boot.
Must get a chick and do this with a girl!
In a boot with a girl, what fun.
Imagine the positions.
When will it be the day, is this dark
place warming up – daylight?
You come and open the car and away we go.
Where will I go?
A shallow grave or another cooped up day?
"I don’t know where to go.
I just search for a friendly place to live.
The only things that I know to make are:
To love,
To feel,
And to walk.
I still search for my place.
Till I find it I have to walk.
The old walkman…"
Copyright Constantinos Grigoriadis © All rights reserved
is the tendency of the reddish sunshine
to become drenched some more
let us hear
what the milky-way seamed by pins
says
and it’s you
how much can you be able to read
the venation of the Barringtonia acutangula
can you touch the season of making apples
in the aquarium
the empty bottles without any co-ordinate
that shoulder with endless grief
the hands of the wall-clocks
in a sudden depression
they’re also making crowd
at the beauty parlour
you have promised someday
to present a flower-vase to display some drops of blood
in the circled face
do you remember it
you haven’t floated that turnip
till now
here the month of trumpet-flower
covers everything
with reedy grass
with the festival of colours of the white horses
the new leaves of bananas become associated
the total dipavali rows
along the evening-balcony
taking it as daylight
will any bird fly towards it
then send a walkman
for the bamboo plants
you must go today
in search of the source
of the hand-woven lamp-post
from the pitcher-worship to the kantha-stitch
it is a very large
twelve-horned deer
the mango-marrow
demands more land
demands more kingfisher
the breath of the Ravenala
touches the chicks of the black-pepper
in every evening
the flood that tears the button
touches the bowstring
that passes through the centre of magnolia
Things have changed worldwide today, but not the joy
Of spring. The sounds I heard when yet a child
Of cataracts tumbling with joy, the air rinsed of alloy
And magic in all things pastoral, all things wild
My son walks around the place a walkman to his ear
He will not hear the sparrow's song
Shall not know the canaries in gold are seen here
His dreams to the automaton belong.
Look at them, their feet all wrap, expensive in plastic
Shoes, they cannot feel between their toes
The water river running free, cornered in this tragic
Sense of progress, full of unbalmed woes.
Here where the sun laddles her warmth down the sky
On bowl of stoops made from concrete
They collect to laugh, as maggots lad by a fly
While green grass and park lay obsolete.
Before there was a phone, my mother called down
The mountainside and telegraphed her joy
A new grandchild swaddled in the rising sound
Was introduced by what tradition employed.
We ran to school eight miles away and never grew
Obese, that training unclogged us to learn
Something each day by nature brought to view
Wrapped in beauty, and made us yearn
For things we could not make, love, honor, freedom
A sense of greatness beyond our state
A simple ant could teach us prolific vaults of wisdom
A patterned sky could be a living slate.
‘Get the motor running head out on the highway looking for adventure’
Well it is only the council road with potholes but Oliver races his pushbike
Walkman headphones sound ‘Born to be wild’ or Attention Deficit Disorder
But there is no doubt in the bikers’ mind that winter is recycling fast time
Orange banana saddle ape hanger handle bars and Che Guevara bandana
Another day for many revolutions as the wheels keep turning in tandem
He abhors bicycle clips as Oliver needs torn jeans to be one of the gang
No leather jacket so the hand me down brown corduroy one takes its place
Pedals turning downhill at full speed hard breaks and sharp swerve to the left
Another 360 degree circle wonderful skid marks adorn his pride and the road
It was easy today because morning dew and pink purple petals greased the path
For once the corroded chain has not come off after that creaking gear change
Countenance smirks on his face because has done it again and he feels so much
More achievement than if he was doing his homework left pathetically languorous
At home where his goody two shoes brother calculates tangents and radius
Oliver is an action boy full of mettle and metal and his scent is lubricant oil
‘Take the world in a love embrace and explode into space’ and dear emotions
Run high almost octane fuelled while his well-behaved sisters play octaves
From Amadeus on Bechstein or Steinway pined to bored ebony and ivory keys
Oliver hammers down wildly as the way forward beckons driven by freedom
He is oblivious to fragrances blossoms and bloom and the sweet scent of nature
Could not care less about chirping birds and the warm temperature resides only
In his teenage blood and guts as he rides through a pile of litter in which rusty
Debris mingles with pneumatic tyres and a very loose spring punctures the air
16th March 2019
Spring Is In the Air contest
Sponsored by Emile Pinet
look at me
water shoes on
beach chair buried in the sand
feeling like an overtly energetic six year old again
acting all shy as she grabs my hand as the water freezes our feet unexpectedly
remembering the loneliness
cable off
vhs on
same movie as the last four days
wondering how i got there
not caring about freeing myself
here i am
new swim trunks on
fast food gut rumbling in continuous anticipation
staring in awe at the ocean like she is a celebrity
acting even more shy as she lifts my chin up and brushes her lips against mine
remembering the darkness in the lights
electricity off
heavy blanket consuming me
1988 walkman playing 60s reggae sounds....perfectly blinding me
mental starvation for immediate escape
verbal starvation for immediate escape
wondering when the electricity man was gonna come and turn the electricity back on
imagining a gun and a few bullets....to shoot the dream i am suffering dead
wait a minute
i am totally on vacation
got me a beautiful blessing of a travelling partner....thick in all the right places
on the next to last day....still in complete disbelief that i am actually here
acting yet even more shy as she smiles at me with a look of sincere affection....as she rubs somewhere....she considers absolute, natural fun
I see homes without men,
am courage but feared,
I can see and yet it's dark,
and now that I play my piano,
why am deaf of it's sound.
time has come by,
with picture fashioned and passion by;
I go and who is coming with me
I no way on, who is that for me.