Off Key Poems

Block Party

Double-dutch ropes slap the sidewalk -
snap - snap - snap -
braids whip air,
girls jump in, counting
uno, dos, three,
feet flick like drumsticks.
The ice cream truck jingles off-key,
icy lady shakes paper cups,
piragua man shaves ice into snow -
his knife scraping the block awake.
Pastelillos pop in hot oil -
spit, sizzle -
plastic cups clink with rum and cola,
congas crack, maracas shake salt in the air,
horns blare like chisme in heat.
Heels click-clack over concrete -
punctuating each spin,
each swirl of hips.
Whistles split the air -
one from the lifeguard at Jefferson,
two from the men on the corner,
three from abuela
when the coals are hot.
Somebody throws meat on the grill -
ssszzzz -
smoke climbs windows,
neighbors bring foil trays -
yellow rice, ribs, roasted corn -
each dish a downbeat.
Kids yell cannonball,
water smacks back,
lifeguard’s whistle cuts through splash.
Old heads tap dominoes on tabletops -
crack, slap, smack -
hands older than the stoops they sit on.
The block fills itself
the way music fills a drum -
the street hums under bare feet.
Tonight,
the moon will smell like charcoal
and sweet ice.

Knuckles

Raw,
a nubby grey knuckle-boned day,
when the wind blows through my skin
pulling at the cord
which holds my insides in,
oh infernal internal wall
keeping without without
and within within,
off key Wednesday
crashing chords that I have swallowed
not a passing thought for the blue tunes of tomorrow,
or the music I have made thus far in life
and the ones that I have begged or borrowed
as always I’ll wait for it to pass
fill the gallow glass
to fetch me a drink while I think
but no-one is near
my fault, not because I fear them
I hear them in the hall
scratching
but I don’t let them in
it would give them a chance to win
I need them on my page 
to take away the blank
fill it with ink
because being empty stinks
I don’t want the void
empty yarn from a ragged yawning hole
so I’ll sleep,
hope to feel when I wake
no idea how much more time it is going to take
will it break me or make me
perhaps I will try the fake me
the one with the smile
the one I revile
but there it is 
sat on my face
smug and satisfied,
all while I’m melting away
a Dali soft watch
on this raw knuckled day

Reeltime

I walk in,
and the air shifts 
like it knows me.
Like it’s been waiting.

Not a stage.
Not a show.
Just a room full of sound
and people who get it.

I’ve played songs here
with shaky hands and a full heart,
met strangers who became
inside-joke kind of friends.

Someone’s tuning up,
someone’s laughing too loud,
and there I am 
dancing in the middle of it all
for no reason but joy.

No one’s watching.
Or maybe they are 
but here, no one cares if you’re weird,
off-key,
off-beat,
or totally lost in it.

Reeltime isn’t perfect.
It’s better.
It’s honest.

We mess up.
We hype each other anyway.
We show up with songs,
and leave with stories.

There’s something raw about it 
how real it feels
to be surrounded by music and people
who don’t expect you to be anything
but yourself.

So yeah, I play here.
But it’s not just about the music.
It’s the being here.
It’s the everything.

Give Me The Rhythm

I am a free spirit happy and free
I travel which way wind blows
Often heard singing off key
But dancing to the beat on my toes

Words are blurred I forget them 
Often making up my own ditty
Yet in the rhythm I can swim
And match the groove so pretty

Miss Mary Mack wasn’t dressed in black
For I gave her colorful clothes
She line danced at the juke joint shack
Her best dress the color of rainbows

Give me the rhythm I’ll keep time
Dancing carefree with friends of mine

DAILY GRATITUDE CHILDHOOD INNOCENCE

Today I’m grateful that no matter how much I age
as I continue to sing…even if a little off-key…
a little bit of my childhood innocence
sings along with me.

Heavenly II

By noon, the halls throb with static, a low thrum like teeth grinding in sleep. The school, half-submerged in memory, holds its breath. Beneath a cracked skylight, a locker peels open by itself, slow as a yawn. Inside: a paper crown, soaked in ink, and a polaroid of a girl with mirrors for eyes.
In the boiler room, the janitor sketches circles on the concrete with the burnt end of a matchstick. Each loop traps a sound—laughter, crying, chalk squeaks, the metallic gasp of a vending machine dying. He hums again, off-key. The candle’s flame dances, nodding in rhythm.
Outside, the sky bruises. Rain falls sideways, stinging like questions. A new child, coat too big and eyes too sharp, stands at the school’s rusted gate. He doesn’t knock. The gate unlatches itself. The wind pushes him forward.
Inside, the crow watches from the rafters, its feathers slick with ink. It cocks its head, listening. The boy who vanished left his lunch behind—beneath desk 32B, scratched into the wood: “Don’t let it slip who you were before the dreaming.”
The monkfish, now wearing a teacher’s badge, clicks its pen and begins attendance. One name is circled in red.

Untitled

I want to write tonight
But my muse has taken flight

Can’t blame her you see
My life is quite boring 

The highlight of my day
Happens after I pray

Go to the YMCA exercise 
Then watch the news prime time

I listened to favorite songs
Off key I sing along

Tune in to Poetry Soup
For inspiration despite my mood

Today there was no pain
I’d be happy to have this day again

Paddling on an Old Canoe

Paddling on a swirling river.
Her husband takes the right.
His wife uses her powerful left hand.
Oh, what a truly serene feeling.
Gently gliding over the rippling water,
As the moon mesmerises the sweet scene,
Stars twinkle in the vast, darkening sunset sky.

They paddle in a sing-song, singing off-key.
One, two, kiss me sweet, kiss me soft.
Moonlight dances on the rippling river.
Their hearts entwined in an elated effect.

The peaceful sounds of flowing water 
Mingle with the thrushes. chirping wildlife.
But as water seems to seep into the old canoe,
They paddle to the shore and safety.
And on the dew grass, they hug and kiss,
Their old canoe is truly drowned in the abyss.

Alas, old blog

Alas, old blog, thou dost baffle me
Art thou a banjo short a cord
An off-key piano, tortured
A homeless cat meowing in the dark
A shaken not stirred literary libation
Advertising the talents of its writers
Redundantly raucous rhetoric 
Echoing down a dusty corridor
Gathering the featherless dreams
Of forlorn and wingless words

The Halfway Glass

A city block vendor chimes pleasantries prouder
than Muzak or an unseen crow in the background 
elevating alarm clock music in the caws
uncredited and angrily growing louder.

A walkway narrows between the vendor
and a building. I teeter between both
as I pass by her grill
parked beside the vape shop. A blistering warmth

whitens piled pink hotdogs and tickles my ribcage.

A parakeet on her shoulder
is flaking off the sun and feathering the moon.

Steamy sundowns moisten her saucer eyes.
One dog pops sausage through its skin. She fans
the minty menthol. I pay the price
for squinting. I've dropped my glasses. Splitting

off-key shattered glass,
the containment of what used to be
bits of me shows up digits-bloodied.
Long after the initial sweep up,
little jagged cuts still happen.

my busy bathtub drain

green snake poked his head out of the bathtub drain
singing Christmas carols off key, singing a loud refrain
i saw a turtle when Cobra slithered down and away
bear stuck his paw through at the end of the day
i am in no hurry to take a warm relaxing bath now
imagining seeing an inverted muddy hoof of dairy cow

Not Just For Sundays

What about what you want from love -
a morning brew, the steam that curls,
on Sunday cold, in blankets deep,
while outside, the quiet world swirls.

What about the flowers you choose -
soft petals wrapped in winter light,
handed to her with a silent wish,
to see her smile, your heart taking flight.

What about the song, a melody sweet -
her voice, though off-key, fills the air,
played again, for no reason at all,
just to hear her laugh, so full, so rare.

What about the quiet, shared gaze -
eyes that speak without a word,
in the stillness of a morning spent,
where love is felt, not just heard.

As a woman, I dream to be wanted like that -
to be seen, cherished, held close,
but by Monday, I’m forgotten,
left with the ache of Sunday’s ghost.

Of These Things I Sing

Ask me not to sing
of happiness, love, and pretty things
of freedom, justice, equality,
of wealth, even of friends’ loyalty.
Doubt me not. Like you
I have desired these, too, 
but their lyrics elude me,
or, I haven’t had my share
of whatever joy they bring.
Thus, try as I want,
I cannot compel my heart
to sing of things it hasn’t known
or it might go off-key
for attempting too foreign a tune.

Let me sing instead
of cloudy skies and violent winds,
of poverty, loneliness, cruelty,
of hunger, cold, and misery.
Believe me, these I am familiar with,
their notes embedded deeply
in the very fabric of my soul.
I can compose an aria
based on them which, when sung,
can bind the arena 
in a spell, and my heart need not be
impelled to do what it is most willing
to intone. Yes, of these things,
allow me to sing.

In a World where I do not exist

What a world would that be 
If I were not to exist—

A world bereft of colors 
A world where the monsoon clouds
no longer thunder across the sky
bringing refreshing rains
A world devoid of hope, of mystifying quests, 
No longing in love   
No melody in music
No rhythm, no rhyme, no beat.

No secrets, no mysteries, no tall tales
No fantasies, no legends, no fables 
The world will ring off-key
The clock won’t chime through the night
The wind won’t whistle through the trees.

For, I am my own world…
If I were not to be
Not to be there the world, either!

Roosters From Another Creek

Urban jungle roosters,
born-again scarecrow,
to untutored city eyes,
tawny pipit stonewall  nester,
jet black Inca dove bereft,
of dovetail on a croque monsieur,
idle bone grub crawl,
mother hen to sandy brown,
and velvet bill gazer,
from an nearby creak,
recent rural migrant now,
a tree house side kick,
chickadee a late date sitter,
on this air flock beaky natter,
or tweet between the  ice float,
edgy grey day species wield,
their sprightly ruffled  feathers,
as an orthopaedic surgeon,
and their spatula when  scraping,
rancid bark off windmill elm trees,
gastric bugle trenchermen ahoy,
while ogling a fellow common redpoll,
oh these tummy rumble diners,
will zoom in on every gourmet,
tangled wire mesh feeder station.
round and round they’ll  fly,
on zesty mission beetroot,
a cock-eyed scavenger‘s delight,
are they siblings of  a  noble  order?
white tale mountain bluebirds swopping,
habitat for granite boundary  habit,
off key off discordant choirboys,
six sided snow bird chorus,
ear splitter for tardy wakening,
they cheep religiously as if,
their only  valid  creed  was,
window squinting  prayer meets

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