Long Transistor Poems
Long Transistor Poems. Below are the most popular long Transistor by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Transistor poems by poem length and keyword.
Clutching
The end of my Zebco rod and reel
As the cast of tackle is flung
Like a small knot of costume jewelry
Skimming atop the caramel-colored Grand River
Dragonfly rattling awry
The vibration tingling in the palm of my hand
As if I had cupped an angry bee
Until the swivel hook and sinker
Puckers
The river’s muddy surface
Splash
Swallowed soft and thick
On the river bottom a dozen kernels of corn
Thread on hook
Weighed down by an ounce of lead
Waiting
For a big greedy carp
To come by and fight to the death.
Tim and me we got that bait
From a stolen can of corn that used to sit
In Tim’s mom’s refrigerator.
While we keep our eyes keen
To the taps and shivers
Of the delicate tips of our poles
Balanced in the crux of V-shaped sticks
Stuck in the dry embankment
Delta 88s clack across Waverly Bridge
And underneath teenagers dig the hard mud
Hitting a joint while sharing a Mad magazine
Their screeches and laughs rising and falling
Like hooks scraping against cement.
We stroke the knives slung in our socks
Wary of them.
Tim wonders to me what it means for the USA
To have lost its first war.
I don’t know.
I say that my parents think that Watergate
Was worse for us
But either way they say
Things will never be the same.
Tim says his older brother slapped his face yesterday
For parking his bicycle too close
To his black and gold-trimmed Trans Am.
We share a plot of revenge.
We listen on a transistor to Ernie and Paul
Broadcast a doubleheader from Tiger Stadium
“And he stood there like the house by the side of the road…”
We love the New York chef turned right fielder Rusty Staub.
The experienced river fishermen
To avoid snags and the false pull of current
Must trust the placement of his bait.
Sit and wait.
The Grand River makes no sound.
Has no reflection.
These kinds of friendships last in a man’s mind
For a lifetime.
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
We had wringers on our washing machines,
And four dialed numbers made telephones ring.
Transistor radios with only AM,
Vineal records to play, and you could stack them.
And, Hope entertained during our wars.
We had Jack Benny, and Rochester too,
Uncle Miltie, and Captain Kangaroo,
Milk in glass bottles brought right to our door,
With red paper caps you took off to pour.
And Hope entertained our troops.
We had prayer in school, and devotions each day.
In the pledge to our flag, “under God” we’d say.
We respected leaders, and our teachers obeyed,
Went out at night without being afraid,
And Hope entertained at our wars.
Before CD’s and Ipods, we had stereo.
Drive Inn movies were the place then to go.
We drove our Fords, and Chevrolets,
And Desoto was popular back in those days.
We had Hope entertaining our troops.
TV’s had small screens in black and white.
The entire family watched the shows at night.
Life was very uncomplicated then,
Girls became ladies and boys became men.
And Hope entertained at our wars.
From our own back yards we saw sputnik fly.
We had hula hoops, and played “I Spy”,
“Kick the Can”, and “Hide and go Seek”.
Home made ice cream , back then, was a treat.
And Hope entertained at our wars.
Back then kids rode in the front seat of cars.
Our moms canned stuff in glass mason jars.
We rode bikes without the protection of helmets.
Never heard of acid in rain, or other elements,
And Hope entertained at our wars.
We were so lucky to have lived in those days
With Bob and his funny entertaining ways.
“Thanks For the Memories”, we’ll never forget,
We will always remember without regret
Bob Hope entertained at our wars.
R J L
SEPTEMBER. 2007
when Bobby Messiah
the new kid next door
asked if I wanted to see his
Silly Putty **** collection
I know we were on the same page
It was hidden in an old transistor radio
of red plastic with a silver speaker grid
in the shape of a human foot
marred and curling on one corner
where something had pierced a hole in it
a suicide bullet from his ex-mom
Bobby said and I believed him
because Bobby was a natural born Fuhrer
a 10 year old Genghis Kahn
so opinionated he didn't even know
how he got his opinions
and I was a 9 year old breast feeder
I would have ridden the axle of a 20 wheeler
across the state line if he said it would
prove I wasn't a mud humping butt boy
it appeared to me a better bargain
to be anything than nothing.
I still hold the line on this position
even though I write from prison
with a new range of facial expressions
thanks to Bobby's sense of impropriety
and a pocket full of matches
and the result of legal malpractice
by my perfume counter mouthpiece
not finding the magic combo
told me I kept looking around too much
to be taken for an empty seat
wore a noose around my neck tendons
more times than a fish has scales
trying a little harder to separate
what is inside from what is outside
shuffling the index cards over and over
I will describe it further
this planet is an IQ test
the contained has changed
the shape of the container
it may be a 49-51 kind of world kid
but not everyone will clap and sing along
and as long as them brittle
mystic devil fire pickpockets
think they have their lips on the tuba
the free angels will sleep
with a gun in their shorts
for system redundancy's sake
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.site11.com/
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.
The flower children were in full swing, selling love, less woe.
I was not old enough for Woodstock, but wanted to go.
Hip hugger bell bottoms with navels peeking were the rage.
Boys were sent to Viet Nam, with high hopes, a surprising page.
We thought they would be back in seconds, not understanding at all.
We were innocent, sheltered, naïve, young, following no real call.
In the sixties clothing was groovy, we were allowed stripes and flowers.
Dots and stripes too, were the norm, which was just one of our powers.
White go-go boots, thanks to Nancy Sinatra’s Boots Made for Walking.
So many school lunches, where everyone was doing the talking.
Our hair was poofed up like a poodle, in the top we put a little red bow.
It might have been blue or pink, but it had to be put there just so.
We had transistor radios, and push button phones, attached to the wall.
We thought we were high tech, which now seems quite weird after all.
Dr. Martin Luther King was making his Dream speech and JFK got shot.
Not worried at all; my life was easy, in the Midwest, a tiny polka dot.
The Beatles had the first five spots in the favorite hits of the week.
I was playing “I want to hold your hand”, it was Paul that I’d seek.
Women were wearing hats and gloves, which seems silly now.
But Jackie Kennedy was setting the style, which was usually a wow.
USSR’s Valentina Tereshkova was the first woman in space.
Ku Klux Klan bombed a Baptist church, a horrible disgrace.
Zipcodes, lava lamps, and pull tabs were new at this time.
Civil rights an issue? I was more aware of a Ford Mustang in lime.
We fesat on flesh
stacking the bones
today until tomorrow
in this garden of sorrow
sickened by sicknesses
only feasts on flesh can bring
behold the apple
the illusions disappearing
cleaner to the naked eye
filthy you
filthy me
we unravel
the truth
the tower falls
slaves to salve
an hour late with a missing letter
that cannot bleed from mounds of flesh eating mouths
the apple is to blame
deny the fact the plague
we are saved from
born a second time around
after the planet drowned
in the midst of our laughter we are in bliss
the game of life evolves
Villified by ignorance
the joke youre not telling killing you
something i cannot spell
every soulbound prayer aimed toward unseen gods of society
nightly deathwish to come clean
feasts on flesh
tower of bones
mispelled words
cycle of chaos
torturous transistor user friendly media
silent dissent
the game of life
to save a life
hurry up to wait
and stand in line
punch your ticket
and see through the illusion one more time
systematic nonsense to feed the gullible
stepping out of the shadows
the altered table of perception
where we used to drink
now we smoke to interrupt one another
behind guises of three perfect arts of war
we side step the same deja vous routine
under the stairs
the angels get their wings
was something said upon them?
well that was upstairs
we're on another plane now
I'd tell you the answer to your alphabet riddle
cannot keep time with an hourglass
too late with the missing letter
and this is genesis
the second time around
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
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)
"*******" and pork pie hats
white shirts, black ties
sweat stains under their arms,
even wetter, the pressed handkerchiefs that wipe faces and necks.
Father Abraham looks down upon his children
and sees the words "I am a man" over and over again.
It is hot, and white girls with beehives and Peter Pan collars
cool their heels in the reflecting pool. Images of a monument to a slaveowner look up at them.
Somewhere a song plays
on a transistor:
"I Can't Stay Mad at You"
shoo-bee-doo-bee-doo wop.
A dream is young at 50 -- compared to the kingdoms of Europe, that wall in China.
A dream at 50 won't die. Even now, it haunts the sleepless, promising a new birth of freedom -- to let men grow old together, hand in hand,
to let immigrants walk the hot streets of Arizona, work their lawn service jobs
and not fear being sent away.
Today, in the global freedom capital, tourists stroll clipped lawns and snap pictures of order and majesty, of white, doric columns, Greek temples.
They email the images back to starved souls in Odessa and Beijing.
That Skeeter Davis song still plays. You can hear it in the molecules of the air, the bits of history that have attached themselves to His marble feet, refusing to evaporate.
The wind carries a tiny echo about a dream and freedom
and America living up to its promise.
The hope of the world?
History is sticky, heavy ... like the sultry air of summer.
It won't go;
It lives.
It makes our hearts heavy
and haunts our minds.