Long Phonograph Poems
Long Phonograph Poems. Below are the most popular long Phonograph by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Phonograph poems by poem length and keyword.
Not ready to be thrown away,
like those memories made
it's not broken,
long as it's loved.
Can't you feel them?
lands and grooves in circle's run..
feels I've known you since the day you were born,
though the cover's a bit worn
we both' ve known better days
under the same sun.
Just because a record has a few scratches don't throw it away.
this goes for memories too, even the ones that skip.
There's a revival in analog warmth
with wide-eyed dynamic range,
even the phonograph'
preamp hum & hiss.
Even the ones that skip..
you just might miss,
you just might miss,
even the hum & hiss..
you just might
miss.
My love, I'm always the same man hanged by your rhymes like by a rope,
the lover who vomits poetry from his mouth like a sweet and bitter poison,
the one who will treat you with extreme hatred like the civilization trampling my nature underfoot,
raiding through my interior forests where wolves still howl at the full moon.
I erupt from night all my abyss that rhymes by itself like a broken bell,
my dream is an open wound that bleeds metaphors on the pillow where I sleep with my eyes open,
the spark that no longer illuminates beneath my bare and shiny bald head like a skull,
except for horse hooves sparking among stars like sparks of cosmic madness.
The dull clarity of morning I can no longer describe with my dead writing hand,
because it died on me in life like an unborn child falling from the womb of time,
and my bare-naked head so intensely polluted with dirty thoughts like night moths,
with my reason completely wrung of dandruff like by a disease that eats the brain.
My love, I'm always the same man who repeats himself like a scratched record on a phonograph,
the lover thoroughly hanged by rhymes that keep him alive and dead at the same time,
the one who raids modern civilization through nature like an elegantly dressed barbarian,
erupting your abyss from night that rhymes even with your cold marble silence.
My dream is an extinguished spark beneath baldness that only illuminates in memories,
horse hooves spark among stars like punctuation marks on the black sky,
the dull clarity of morning is too clear for my eyes blinded by so much crude clarity,
because my writing hand died on me in life and now I write with its pale ghost.
My bare-naked head so intensely polluted with modern civilization injected in my veins,
with reason wrung of dandruff like a wet rag from which dead logic drips,
the vomit I wouldn't want to escape from sometimes like a lover who poisons me,
until he shoves them in, my unfortunate sclerotic brain, all the normal minds into my head!
All but really all the ty thoughts directly into my skull full of garbage,
my love, I'm always the same poet hanged by rhymes that keep me alive like a gallows,
the lover who hates you with extreme love like a civilization that's collapsing,
raiding your nature through my abyss that rhymes by itself in complete darkness.
A cricket chirps, a sparrow sings
Grasshoppers glide on chattering wings.
A summer’s day in august thus begins.
Each crack upon the sidewalk
Breaks another mother’s back.
Each needle is forever lost
In some remote haystack.
A child close examines dirt
And sees the wonder of the stars.
Collects the neighbors spiders
In his mother’s pickle jars.
Such life these precious moments
Meant to be the essence of existence
Lived by you and me.
A tree really meant to be climbed
Born of purpose, just as we
Who, in the shallowness of youth
Are meant to climb, heading into sky
Leaning on a rising trunk
To gaze through leaves
Contemplate the spots of snot
Remaining on our sleeves
Searching for treasures
Seeking the perfect mulberry
To complete a perfect day.
Purple or red, green and growing,
Tiny spearlike tips of black;
Phonograph needles set to track
Sweet music from the grooves
Of any hungry tongue
Windowpane reflections
On each juicy surface shining
Growing ever larger
As it closes to your mouth.
Could this one berry fill us now?
How many can we eat?
Each one more beautiful
Than all the rest.
Each one the best.
Finger ridges purple stained
Like contours on a map.
Fingerprints of criminals
Stealing berries
From the neighbors tree.
Words speak life! Words are not mute.
They give wings to ideas and how thoughts commute.
Words take a feeling and are sent to convey
A passion or meaning in all that we say.
Words resonate power, they create an impression
They give substance to love and a voice to expression.
In their varied and intricate methods of sharing
Words define people and deserve shrewd preparing.
Words are a healer or words are a sword.
The companion of kings, and what fools can't afford.
Words are a needle, from the depths of our hearts
Like a phonograph blaring, our choice and foul parts.
Words ought to speak truth, but words can lie
They can free the accused or sentence to die.
What you say matters more than all else you possess
Words will govern your future and dictate duress.
That old blue chair doesn’t look that special upon one’s first perceiving…but, as often is the case in life, looks can be deceiving.
There’s a reason we keep that old chair in our house…a reason it will always be there…you see it has a history…it was Deborah’s great grandmother’s chair.
That chair has been in Deborah’s family for years…ours is just the latest house in which it dwells…If you chance to sit and listen…oh, the stories it will tell.
Sitting in a chair like this you realize…this chair is not just yours…as you rest your arms on the same arm rests where Deborah’s great grandma rested hers.
Memories in that old blue chair run through its frame…run deep…close your eyes and you can feel Deb’s great grandma rocking her to sleep.
Keep them closed and you can feel as she listened to her old phonograph…you can see her smile as she watched her family…you can hear her cry…her laugh.
That old chair is more than just a chair…through all these years it has survived…and the memories stored within it help keep a family’s history alive.
That chair will one day be handed down again and again and in other houses it will dwell…and to those lucky enough to sit in it…oh, the stories it will tell…
No doubt people will say that old chair doesn’t look so special upon their first perceiving…
until they sit down…
close their eyes and realize…
looks can be deceiving.
dog hears
His Master's Voice
music to a dog's ears
iconic RCA Victor's
Nipper
December 29, 2020
Contest: Trademark ~ Quintain
Sponsor: Sara Kendrick
AN: After he had finished his famous painting on 11th February 1898, Francis Barraud (Liverpool) thought to himself that maybe the Edison-Bell phonograph company would find his work useful. Sadly, the company turned down Barraud’s offer, skeptically stating Dogs don’t listen to phonographs. But soon enough, the painting would become a highly successful trademark of the RCA Victor, HMV, EMI, and its many branch companies, as a registered trademark on July 10th, 1900.
Scripted messages on a phonograph what's that reach
Letters forms uniformed text messages what preach
Believe and let live give so you'll receive, huh! reach
Received that you'll live like a messenger really preach
Shout it out post your findings on the wall what's that reach
Preach the A B C's letters fall and when you're done what preach
Everyone reading letters to the Philippians
Pick up a rotary phone and call
When nothing else left then just raise your hands and Praise Him
Praise the Lord, just
Preach
(Preach Literally
Transponder clear florescent
Invisible literally
Cold frozen on the planet
Gray to dark, brown to black
All creation created by God
The big hugh, tiny so small I love cry angels prayer I sigh they fly
Preach
Literally)
06/09/15
Written by James Edward Lee Sr.
Forty three years of marriage and still you make my heart beat strong
I never wanted to be anything else but your wife and loving song
Together we walked, jogged and trotted but most of all we danced,
to the rhythm of our first hello. Every loving act was a show of love;
When we were young we danced between sleepless nights and drank
the brew of life as if it were a fox trot of maelstrom haze;
Then the kids left home and we found ourselves alone again,
Phonographic unused cylinders of time crooned again
with love songs from Edith Piaf;
You wrapped your arms around my waist and gave me a beginners taste
Life had been good to us but oh how we lived it in such haste...,
Then we got a second chance, and we did it just so
losing ourselves on the living room floor,
we danced like newly weds on their wedding day;
That was the last time we danced together without goodbyes,
today all I own is an old phonograph, and yesterday's slow sighs.
July 13, 2021
~In A Day Like Today~
(Sonnet)
For winter,kind of cool here,yes,it was
Very nice today,completed quite some,a bit
Then just relaxed,reflected 'long,did sit
After many chores I've done,took a pause
Read in 1927 Dr.Seuss marri'd Helen Palmer
In 1927, King Tut's tomb was discovered too
Many events in a day like today
Befell.Some good,some bad,catchy scar or star.
Turn off TV.Only depressing,joyless shows
Today,writing here another new sonnet
Now,again,for a third day in a row
Mulling over,just surfing round the net.
In 1877,Edison his crank'd phonograph play'd
In 1981,famed,actress Natalie Wood died.
Dorian Petersen Potter
aka ladydp2000
copyright@2015
January,15,2015
Ben Sana Mecburum: “You are indispensable”
by Attila Ilhan
translation by Nurgul Yayman and Michael R. Burch
You are indispensable; how can you not know
that you’re like nails riveting my brain?
I see your eyes as ever-expanding dimensions.
You are indispensable; how can you not know
that I burn within, at the thought of you?
Trees prepare themselves for autumn;
can this city be our lost Istanbul?
Now clouds disintegrate in the darkness
as the street lights flicker
and the streets reek with rain.
You are indispensable, and yet you are absent ...
Love sometimes seems akin to terror:
a man tires suddenly at nightfall,
of living enslaved to the razor at his neck.
Sometimes he wrings his hands,
expunging other lives from his existence.
Sometimes whichever door he knocks
echoes back only heartache.
A screechy phonograph is playing in Fatih ...
a song about some Friday long ago.
I stop to listen from a vacant corner,
longing to bring you an untouched sky,
but time disintegrates in my hands.
Whatever I do, wherever I go,
you are indispensable, and yet you are absent ...
Are you the blue child of June?
Ah, no one knows you—no one knows!
Your deserted eyes are like distant freighters ...
perhaps you are boarding in Yesilköy?
Are you drenched there, shivering with the rain
that leaves you blind, beset, broken,
with wind-disheveled hair?
Whenever I think of life
seated at the wolves’ table,
shameless, yet without soiling our hands ...
Yes, whenever I think of life,
I begin with your name, defying the silence,
and your secret tides surge within me
making this voyage inevitable.
You are indispensable; how can you not know?
Attila Ilhan (1925-2005) was a Turkish poet, translator, novelist, screenwriter, editor, journalist, essayist and reviewer. Keywords/Tags: Turkey, Turkish, Translation, City, International, Leaving, Depression, Absent, Absence, Parting, Separation, Distance, Loss, Break Up, Soulmate, Soulmates, Love, Lovers, Companionship, Passion, Desire, Longing