Play well the vinyl of your teenhood,
since it sounds nice like waters out of a spring,
but if not played with care and dexterity
it loses rhythm to the roars of thunderbolts.
Yet it always blooms like dawn of a bright day,
full of hopes, rewards, and aspirations
that can get blown away by veiled distractions
that may appear welcoming and comforting.
Green years plant trees with sweet fruits—
the wise sip the juice with caution.
Though sometimes so sweet the throat can’t resist,
its flavours are best savoured a bit at a time.
For those whose flowers still bloom,
take care to nurture and prune them.
Many dry seasons are ahead that can wilt them—
yet their beauty we pray to last us beyond dry weathers.
Let the record spin past its labeled side,
into the run-out groove where silence hums.
There the thunder is only a memory of rain,
and the spring, though distant, still feeds the roots.
Soulful melodious injections...
Rendering sweet salient pulsations
Scintillating sensations in the spine...
Organic rhythms of the time
Just what the doctor ordered after a
long day of hustling and bustling
I find my favorite crease in the couch
With a turntable, record, and a needle in hand...
I slowly self-administer dose after dose of natural healin'
Now, I stand and move 'cause the medicine
is working
I'm smiling and grooving 'cause the pain is
no longer lurking
The great 40s, 50s, and 60s sweetly spinning from
the turntable to my spine
Oh, let's not forget about the 70s, 80s and 90s... organic
Sounds are still spinning in my time
My, my so vital is this vinyl
Deeply in my spine and still on my mind
Had I known your betrayal,
I would have let go,
And free myself from you.
Deep down, we know the wits of love,
A poison made from the cups of romance.
I drank too much from those used ones...
I need to buy new ones to cover your spillage,
A mess in pieces on the floor of my core.
Would it have been better if you had cleaned?
Perhaps, perhaps not..
Notice your indifference...
Am stuck to be your man maid!
A hilt in my gentle hood.
an LP where a mother should be
flip and repeat
embracing divine madness
*Bette Midler, Divine Madness Concert Tour 1980
9/13/2019
MY UPCOMING BIRTHDAY (09-03) CELEBRITY - Any form Prize Poetry Contest
Sponsored by William Kekaula
reality views...
is digital here to stay...
the discrete segment...
with the analog...
the action...in a back seat...
to be forgotten...
there's start and finish...
a seen perception of time...
measured periods...
hours...minutes...seconds...
mille and micro moments...
but...time can't stand still...
accident events...
where rescuers die helping...
may last days...hours...weeks...
so...which is correct...
digital or analog...
you perceive your truth
stan sand
NO ONE WANTS TO LIVE IN A COLD HOME
from the album "Heaters for Sale"
by Not Paul McCarney
No one wants to live in a cold home, cold home
Uncle Albert says you should go home, go home
Turn the heat up or sit by the fire
Toasty as upon a funeral pyre
Oo-hoo, because
No one wants to live in a cold home, cold home
No one takes the longest road home, road home
Put your feet up next to the blaze
Toes become candles before your gaze
Ooo-hooo!
Last night I dreamed I owned a Beatles album from their break-up period that was never officially released and even most Beatles experts didn't know it existed.
I had one because I'd had a lover who had partied with Paul and he gave it to her and she didn't give a **** about it so she gave it to me (I did have a lover who partied with Paul, but the rest of the dream wasn't true).
So it popped to the top while I was sorting through storage boxes. It was vinyl, in a slip cover not indicating what was inside, just various bits of colored paper without words or imagery.
The record consisted mostly of terrible instrumentals with now and then John or someone cussing or mumbling.
Then I remembered I had a lot of similarly rare things by British invasion groups and realized if I dug them out now, I could probably sell them for a fortune.
wispy grooves of sound
playing on dusty, conical flat lungs
scratching the meat off
a chalk board of
throat burning fumes
I abuse my recall of
better days
hands at throat
contorting fingers curling up
to barbarously dig
for more required air
life seems harshly longer
when you can't inhale
the gasping sounds
play over and over
bringing tears to one's eyes
as if the power of death's tune
was invited willingly
what a master peace of sound
the echos of a squeezed life
being drawn to a
painful untimely sad death
with a spinning head
that goes around and around
till vomit runs from a embittered mouth
and leaves you with a pungent taste
the taste of murder
the kind, that plays out
playing out in some kind of illness
smelling like the dusty air is on fire
i’m vinyl baby,
easy to scratch,
easy to gouge,
prone to warping.
i’m a 45 rpm record,
single and labelled,
still got track marks.
dot dot dot
from the seventies!
you know there’s
my black side,
my dark side.
i’m a 45 rpm record,
single and labelled,
still got track marks.
you,
you’re my diamond needle.
i'm your music,
you know me,
you play me.
you,
you’re my diamond needle.
gets under my skin
rides my
grooves
you.
still,
even pass these years,
still,
when my time comes,
pack me in my jacket
bury me in your closet.
you know i’m still
your song,
your tune,
dot dot dot
you make my life neat.
spin
like a circle
i’m the black vinyl
on the roundabout
you,
your still
the only
turntable
for me.
you.
i’m a 45 rpm record,
single and labelled,
still got track marks.
play me!
14~12~2015
Maurice Yvonne
Vinyl records are still around.
They carry some amazing sound.
If you are able,
get yourself a turntable.
The music you hear will astound.
Entwining cold feet
Sticking to a vinyl seat....
Windows show the heat
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