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.
Tesla the inventor
an eccentric Serbian
once worked for a businessman
an entrepreneurial USAnian
when Edison had an idea bright
saw the light
and invented DC electricity
positive and ground
as found in a battery
then Nikola created AC
as used in the home
by the whole family
a contest still
a power struggle
if you will
however
Tesla the car
employs both forms of energy
as does the phonograph
so tho' posthumously
looks like Thomas had the last laugh
I played on the phonograph, some serenade,
I was listening to it, while I layed.
The serenade with my feelings created a fusion,
Then I stepped into the world of my delusion.
She was holding my hand tightly,
This made me believe that this was a nuisance kind a illusion.
Then a hot fleeing piece fell on to the phonograph creating a diffusion;
Soon flames lept on me,
To save myself i took out a shove,
But no sooner covered with flames not of fire but of love.
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.
Tiny phonograph with a small turntable,
Her child toy that lights up her eyes.
As it spins and turns with its now blurred label.,
It plays the songs in Mother Goose guise.
She becomes mesmerized, unable to leave.
Her sight is fixed on the round plate.
Has it become magic? What can she believe?
Quiet time's gift is parent's placate.
One day it happens! Rising up from the floor,
Songbird machine, made to enthrall,
Lisps forth a sad song as it floats out the door.
Hushing her thoughts, she looks at the wall
Musical romance
Playing on the phonograph.
Playing with my head.
I'm dancing, playing for time.
For time to think about you.
what are they, grandma?
I laugh
My grandchildren are serious?
I dig out my old phonograph player.
They are amazed.
Thinking it is a robot.
And I am a genius!
A two-tone case of blue and white
to house euphonious delight
It graces still the table top
on which it played its first “Doo-wop”
I’m thinking of my younger days
and of a million record plays
Nostalgia grooves with every spin
to satisfy the mood I’m in
The Beatles, Kinks and Rolling Stones
“No satisfaction”, Jagger moans
And Disco lives yet with the sound
of Vicki’s ‘Turn the beat around”
For holidays and Christmas cheer
“It came upon the midnight clear”
Still resonates in lovely tones
and “Silent night” still chaperones
Although it’s aged along with me
there is no better company
For rainy days to disappear
my phonograph of old is here
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
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.
I had a phonograph and it did stick
Just at the arrival of old St. Nick
He declared it uncouth
And replaced with Bluetooth
Then asserted “This is my bailiwick!”
Westinghouse won the currency war,
but here’s what nobody can ignore:
Edison’s fame forever burns bright
for his phonograph, film, and long-lasting light!
Nov. 6, 2019
for Maureen McGreavy's Pithy Pome Poetry Contest
N/A and very few reads or comments
Now for John Hamilton's N-A Rerun 4 Poetry Contest
Young Boy in Heat
I remember when I was a kid
Maybe twelve or thirteen years old
Just on the edge of pubescence and
Becoming aware of my own sexuality
Drawn to girls for the first time and
Finding them compelling and different
Every sense jumping up when one
Entered a room I was hanging out in
Leaving me with an odd feeling in
My lower belly, confusion reigning
In my brain and emotions as to why
And it wasn’t long after my awareness
Of girls that I discovered women
I was a Libra with hormones rising
And almost anything became the fodder
For major teenage sexual fantasies
I was checking out my mother’s friends
Not to mention my friend’s mothers
I was obsessed and testosterone ran amok
The scent of perfume or powder
Scrambling my neurotransmitters
Smelling like notes from a smokey
Jazz record on an old phonograph
Prominent in a picture on the wall
I’ve chased that mystery since the
First hair appeared on my chest and
It’s rendered me a very happy man...
My walls look like a phonograph,
The words on my walls flow threw.
I look to the sky, my body naked,
weeping of the pain that I have endured.
My wings are not angel wings,
I have no halo above my head.
But instead I have devilish fairy wings.
They hold me down like bricks chained to my ankles.
My walls are like a phonograph,
They tell my story.
But if you listen real close,
You can hear me being torn apart one feather at a time.
Eventually I will bleed to death,
And all you will hear is the silence threw the phonograph.
On weekend nights he drank alone
Turning on the phonograph
and dancing with his shadow
House ablaze with light and music
Tables strewn with books and magazines.
Settling into his desk on Monday
He had dark circles under his eyes
And a contentment difficult to understand.
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