Long Gossipy Poems
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My Grandmère and I have long, gossipy conversations,
where we fall into our own chatty, slumber party rhythms.
She’s met or knows everyone important, and people tell her things.
They DM her or whisper secrets of lives ordered but loveless,
of careers choked by excesses and indiscretions.
She gets stealthy, leaked business reports of purported fortunes gambled and lost or of innocence wasted in bittersweet embrace - delicious, tangled narratives that expose the gaps between facades and realities that can’t be purchased.
Sometimes we pop popcorn on our private ends of the Atlantic
watch Netflix, share secrets and laugh conspiratorially.
.
.
Songs for this:
Us by Regina Spektor
Young And Dumb by The Bird and the Bee
The unicorn magician with the slanted eye
Let out a peep, a whistle, a plaintive sigh.
Alerting two idiot villagers, name of Guthrie and Tie.
That things were changing for the worst, bye and bye
The unicorn magician is angry one said.
Maybe the village will be painted red.
Another surmised they should all go to bed.
While best dreams filled up rapidly in their little head.
The unicorn magician is excited, another one stated.
That’s what he does when life’s being extremely overrated.
If he whistles twice, the village will be minced and grated.
They listened, alarm and horror of all kinds anticipated.
I think that’s what he does when he has a dream,
A little boy said, whose name was Billy P. Ream.
The unicorn magician is fast asleep, everything is a gleam.
Probably high in the sky on a magic moon beam.
A whistle came, and the gossipers were in shock.
They began running amok, like cats in a flock.
What time is it? One yelled, looking for a clock.
If it is midnight, let’s meet down by the number two lock.
Let’s go ask the unicorn magician what the whistle doeth mean,
Said a three-year-old child, with some sense it would seem.
The gossipy rumor-mongers preferred to wail and keen,
Predicting the worst as they began to holler and scream.
The Unicorn Magician rolled over in his sleep,
Opened his slanted eye, and gave a little peep.
All was right in his world, peace he would always keep.
For he was a good guy, with a love for his sheep.
The gossipers stopped talking, waiting for the whistle.
Some hid under the porch, one hid in a thistle.
Silly sheep they were, expecting things to be bad.
Worst scenario thinkers, creating lives, so sad.
Whether I'm awake or asleep,
I walk down a diabolical dark street,
heckled by a voice in repeated repertoire
with dauntingly detestable words.
Taunted and tormented is my soul.
On and on it will dismally droll,
leaving me bewildered, lost in confusion
irritated with the infusion inside my head.
It's a plague, a dreaded curse...
a haunting that hovers as I lie abed.
I'm not demented or delusional.
If this is a callous collusion to drive me insane,
I beg deliverance from the echoing refrain
that takes me into the depths of despair,
leading me blindly as though it doesn't care
if I live or perish in the annals of an abyss.
I ask... what damnable deed have I done
that makes me bleed like this?
Is there no hope of suturing my wounds,
or eviscerating my harrowed heart?
If I could expunge the voice from my mind
would that ease the grief caused by the thief
who is hell bent on ripping my life apart?
Accusations spill from invisible lips...
from a tongue that blames me for horrid things,
leaving me grieving and bereaved
as if the voice is a goading gossipy mouth.
It's a conceived conspiracy,
a fallacious fallacy of falsehoods,
madly mocking me with condemnation.
It's branded me by burning my ears
with barbs that leave scars with its jeers.
Charred parts of me that will not heal,
my body is battered and bruised.
I'm sodden with tears as if from a deluge,
while over and over again the voice speaks out
with a commanding presence of clout.
Each tear cuts my cheek until blood seeps
from the crux of my soul.
Every drop falls at my feet in a scarlet flux.
Wracked with sobs, prostrate with weeping,
still the hissing voice berates me,
leading me further into silent shadows.
My head pounds from resounding jeers.
"I'm not guilty," I scream, even if it's a dream.
A vortex of eddies swirl at my bare feet.
I'm a helpless babe left alone on the street...
breathing shallow, but the voice will not fade.
Cold fingers reach for me
but no comfort do they bring
for the obstinate voice in the obsidian darkness
will not release its hellish hold.
When comes the hour of dappled Dawn,
I plead that she may take palpable pity on me
and touch me with golden rays of warmth.
I will linger as she softly whispers my name,
desperate that she can rid me of fear
and make the vilifying voice in my head disappear.
He saw several loving what they heard and it bothered him.
They were dancing and having a grand ole
thyme. People clapping, dancing, getting along and singing along with the music.
It bothered him , I mean it really really bothered him.
See he had been a musician; he had albums, the were musical master peices. Some even were remixed to be dance songs. But one day people just stopped requesting his songs. They bought some albums : but ales were low and remained low even when his releases were new and fresh. He never changed his style, instead he'd tag-up with different people to intro interest in his sound. The did do some culturally different things, like fusing genres and sounds ,but keeping it collectively interesting using, tones, grooves, harmonic interludes, never being depressed alway optimistic. One reporter told his I love your style: because I never hear anything gossipy in the lyrics, they are one point directed right to the audience it's catering to. I do like those universal groove that compliments the beauty of love. I reaches ever audience with out insult or tease. I love your music!"Allegro to adagio and even the andante!" I really love your sound, creativity and songs!" All I could do was say thanks! But not being included in the place I wanted to be: at the time I wanted to be there: just bothered me!
Written by:
Sonata Fugue Aria
Toggy Journalistic Groover
Me Sore Parts of Monday
Dancing Friday night
music Extraordinaire
The Cattle Coat Diplomate
And suddenly, 50 was here, all the music got
louder, all the drivers for younger. My hair
was on a farewell tour, visiting the sink and the
shower more than my head. The kids got older,
some didn't grow up, but they were older, and
living on their own, visiting when lives allowed.
Then 60 snuck in the back door, kids had kids and
the house was louder, the cars were smaller,
driving themselves, and I lived in a neighborhood
populated by dumped wives, all gossipy and lonely.
Their husbands gone to younger women, or to the
grave too soon, who knew, I didn't care to listen.
70 turned the corner and caught me across the
puss with a backhand when I looked in the
mirror and saw an older person looking back.
Everything got louder with my new hearing aids,
driving became harder, too much going on. I stay
home more often, alone, reading the obits to
find friends I had lost and I wonder,
who will miss ME when I go?
Old Mr. Nicholson
totters across the town square
to the barbershop where
Clive has cut his hair
for the last forty years or so
Not hardly needing
even a trim
but pretending
he has a reason besides
the gossip waiting within
Inside, the shop smells like hair tonic
shaving cream and old leather
and the only noticeable things
that Clive's changed
in the last forty years
are the calendar, magazines
and gumball machine
Tall and gaunt, Clive stoops and
shuffles around the shop
a bit slow and shaky, but still
the cheapest and best around
as he drawls out the latest
scuttlebutt from all over town
Harry Van Hoorn leans
sideways in the old barber chair
hanging on every word like an old hound
ears flapping in the breeze
making an odd squinchy face as he
holds back a sneeze
bits of loose hair tickling his nose
While old Arnie Bruner
broods in the corner
his usual sour-faced self
like an old prune
all wrinkled and dried up
without a single good thing to say
“Well, hello Ed!” Clive stops and says
as Mr. Nicholson sidles in
he amiably waves his comb in the air
continuing to work on Harry's hair
thoroughly ignored as he
continues to speak
“Long time, no see!” Harry sings out
even though they were both
in here just last week
“Hiya Harry!” Mr. Nicholson says
in his high-pitched little whine
“Have you heard about-”
“Oh wait, lemme guess-” Arnie breaks in
in his growly bass
“...it's about that place... next door to-”
“Jim and Grace” Harry cuts in
“No, I was going to say-”
Mr. Nicholson chirps
a bit snappily
“It must be about Jenny Mae...”
Harry chortles gleefully
“No, it's gotta be about Faye!-”
Arnie belts out grumpily
Meanwhile, they're missing
all the scorching details
of the greatest scandal
as Clive croons on
amid the din
of his gabby, blabby customers
each desperate
to get a word in
Back and forth, in and out
with bickers and shouts
hums, warbles, trills, groans
solos and accidental duets
their crazy cacophony has become
a funny (albeit gossipy) kind
of barbershop quartet!