If you’re old enough, you might remember
Records that we played
On Hi-Fis or Victrolas;
If you’re not, I am afraid
You won’t quite understand
Exactly what this poem’s about,
Which is candy shaped like records,
Treats I cannot do without.
Each is made of strips of licorice -
The real stuff, strong and black,
Which is curled into a circle,
Like those records from way back.
I bought them for a penny in
A candy store near school
And the middle held a sugar dot,
Bright reddish, as a rule.
My husband searched for them online
And buys me three pound bags.
I have one every night I’m home
Or else my spirit sags.
They have no sugar dots, but still,
Their taste is just as sweet
As the ones I brought so long ago
On a local Brooklyn street.
Forced to learn at record rates.
How much expertise
is retained?
With every chilled cough
spring fever hits record highs,
brought down by the sea.
Asylum from Venezuela’s Instability, Had No Criminal Record
I fled a Country made of Storm—
Where Bread became a Prayer—
And Nights were stitched with Sirens’ Thread
That only Fear could wear—
My Name was clean as Morning’s Hand
When it unties the Dew—
No Shadow followed at my Heel
No Crime my Breath once knew—
The Streets forgot their Gentle ways
The Law forgot my Face—
And Hunger learned to speak in Guns
Where Children asked for Grace—
So I escaped the Trembling Door
Where Hope was priced in Gold—
And crossed the Map with nothing but
A Heart that would not fold—
O Liberty—if Thou be real—
Then open wide Thy Gate—
For Innocence is Homeless now
And knocks—before too late.
Article of Congress
Homekey apartment buildings destabilized by
state Assembly and staff
#cagovernor #asmirwin #mikeytaylor
#vcpublicdefender #venturapolice
#vcsheriff #realdonaldtrump #tonybiasotti #latimes
Case Files
Officer in construction site causes?
Injury of structure in perjury of location
Those articles are published and cannot
be legally retracted
Uppity dippitt missing econ man woman
Low grade gottas
Can't find night right
Around thousand oaks Newbury Park California
Little chance make female over come little
income able
Homekey homeless surplus fraud cause
Destabilized democracy
Trump’s stuck-up pin playing adrift,
Here’s fig leaf of his haughty brief:
‘On verge of nuclear war
How two neighbours next door
Were stopped, thanks to my trade tariff’.
Not his policy pick,
Rather personal pique
That might drive two friends off the cliff.
___________________________
Happenings | 45.08.2025 | USA, humour
Note: Trump feels that if lies are repeated umpteen times they turn into truths. Keeping this in mind he throws in statistics to support his grand policy postures. India has rebuffed him often on Indo-Pak matters, short of calling him a liar. But he goes on like a stuck-up Gramophone record.
man records events
~~ ~~
history is (0) (0) perspective --
ll
\___/
choose your favorite
All that I am I gave away
For just to come and see
The ever-dying summer day
With sunlight through your tree
You’ve gone, but on the record
Your voice remains with me
It takes about split second
To change the time, to be
Back in the endless days
To see again your smile
You’re talking through November haze
I answer from July..
You know you've hit rock bottom for sure
when you find your track
in a used record store
under a stack at the very back
of the ten pee CD rack
(does anyone buy them anymore?)
and you know you've hit the all-time low
it's a sure bet
when you don't see your song
in any list at all
on the worldwide internet
rock bottom don't get lower than that
from up to down at the drop of a hat
better to be a has-been a player in the game
than a never-was because
they may have been the best of times
and tho' memories will last
I won't spend the rest of my days
living in the past
What killed the Cat was not ‘Curiosity’
~ ‘Twas the ferocity of the Rat
Promises now fade,
Deeds of past speak volumes loud,
Future's shape is known.
©bfa050925
Deep
It's almost a hollow pain when my thoughts meet
I feel it every time I think about everything
Like the world is sitting on my back
The universe just keeps stacking new problems and adding new hurdles to my already burdened path
I don't know how much longer I want to go on
Like the world is a record that just spins, but mine has so many scratches it just keeps replaying the same old song
I'm so tired of being tired of trying to deal with it and sing along
Trying to remove scratches with sandpaper patches
But it just makes this record of living more tragic
just keeps going and going and going until
The vinyl is worn down, and the words eventually are hard to make out
But it just keeps saying the same damn thing
I'm sure I'm overwhelmed by it, by now
I've been taking advice, and I'm working on changing the song
I even wrote new lyrics to try and replace the old ones
It's been challenging, to say the least
The fact that my world still weighs so heavily on me
I wonder if I'm actually getting better a little at the very least
Or if pure delusion is just blinding me
Skip
Repeat
In a closet, stuffed in bags,
My records gather dust.
The player’s gone and speakers, too,
But keeping them’s a must.
My friend is giving hers away,
But on the other side,
My sister got my cousin’s batch,
Passed to her when he died.
I hear that vinyl’s coming back,
Yet those of us of age,
Remember our collections,
Adding groups we saw on stage.*
It was a thrill to hear a song
And buy a new LP,
Which way back then was how
We gained accessibility.
A needle on a record,
Careful, so it wouldn’t scratch,
Did provide a magic feeling that
No other modes can match.
*Often on The Ed Sullivan Show
Every single Arab death in Gaza
is attributable to HAMAS
Aided and abetted by Iran
Russia, and Mahmoud Abbas
First Hamas butchers, rapes, and kidnaps
thousands of Jews and others
Then its ‘brave warriors’ use as human shields
their so-called ‘Palestinian brothers’
When Israel dares fight back
‘Ceasefire now!’ Hamas whines
Demanding Israel release Palestinian murderers
while it (Hamas) keeps its hostages under tight confines
Today's 'potd' blames Israel for the genocide
that HAMAS perpetrates on both Israeli and Arab sides
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.
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