I was his favorite,
he always chose me first,
I could follow directions,
I aimed to please,
I never told them…
I aimed to please…
I could follow directions…
he always chose me first…
I was his favorite…
I helped him,
he was close to me,
but he left,
I helped him avoid them…
but he left…
he was close to me…
I helped him…
but I was him,
but he was me,
and now they’re coming…
We all like to imagine
that music is a universal language
musicians are no exception
but it’s as universal as all others.
We can understand it as any other language
but we do not wish to hear what we don’t want
musicians are no exception
yet we act like we are.
Maybe if we accepted
that it’s not as universal we wouldn’t care
pop, rock, country, jazz, rap, techno, and the rest
but we all like to imagine.
Music is a world of dialects
If dialects decided who you to talk to
where they rarely intermingle
and yet we call music “universal”.
I’m not saying it’s wrong I’m saying
its misunderstood
pop, rock, country, jazz, rap, techno and the rest
but we do not wish to hear what we don’t want
we do not wish to hear their stories.
But music is a universal language
or, so we wish to believe.
I look around
I see everyone that I
have,
do,
and will know
I see them all falling
no
sinking.
I look around
some stone others
others are stoned
some as thick as a stone
some carrying burdens like a stone
but we all can sink like a stone.
I look around and each stone has a feather
somewhere inside
when we sink
like a stone
we sink with a lightness and gentleness
that is cast in stone held inside
and only when we break open the cold exterior
do we fall as we are meant to
while those content with what they see on the outside fall faster and farther.
I wish I could go back to ol’ Dixieland
not below the ol’ Mason-Dixon line
I want to hear that old-timey kind of band
two hours of that music would be fine
listening to that trumpet and bone
Clarinet, piano, and the old drum
don’t expect me to pick up my cell phone
all I want to do is listen and hum
I’ll join right in and march down Bourbon Street
though I’m sitting in my car in ol’ New Hampshire
but I can’t help it, I must move my feet
I’d March down the street with both him and her
of that old Dixieland I am a fan
but I’m sitting in my car like a pan.
If all lyrics are poems
but not all poems are lyrics
why do we insist on certain forms
some believe that poems should always rhyme
others that they should never
yet still some demand they have a beat
whether it’s hip-hop
syncopated, or pop
sometimes we just have to stop…
and realize that life is in the eye of the beholder
and the beholder may make poetry their life
in their own eye they are fine
yet some make it
robotic
others too artsy and high flown
but it is all still poetry
we may not like to say that every middle schooler
writing “Edgy” poetry is a poet
it may not rhyme
it could rhyme
it may have a beat
but should we hear the music
or do say it should so we don’t leave
A comfortable bubble in our writing
the poetry awaits
many just have to ask:
should it be confined?
I ask for tips
I called him Phillup the jar
I thought it was funny
But they were quiet
A cough…
my one response,
I try my best
but people don’t want it
they want perfect
I don’t know what they came for
probably so they didn’t have to go home
and deal with their troubles.
I play and
mess up…
But they laugh
if making mistakes makes them happy
fine
I hate playing music
it’s boring
and is never enjoyed
I want to entertain
When I entertain
they talk with Phillup
Whenever they talk to Phillup
It speaks to me
“This is what we want”
and so i do as they wish
not for pay
but for the face
for the thought they had fun
and for the the chance
to do it again
I sit on the porch
looking out at the blue sky.
As the lights fade I look down
to the blue ocean in the distance.
As darkness overcomes all I can see
I look down to see your blue face
I need to get rid of your body;
It really smells in here.
For Hannah
I don’t claim to know you,
don’t claim to know what you went through.
But how…
your music taste was…interesting.
Your hair like a mirror;
Blinding in the light.
But how…
How did you affect me so?
How could you when we never said any…
words…
words that’s it…
or the lack.
Actions…
actions that I could not decipher,
actions that made us…
family…
that’s the truth, family…
no matter where
we were there.
There for you,
as you were for us.
But with the magnitude, I still ask…
how?
I sit there
ten feet behind.
You stand there
and I hope you wouldn’t mind
if I said something stupid
to get your attention.
You may not walk right,
you may not talk right,
but there ain’t nothin’ wrong with feelin’ strong.
I’ve been there too.
Now I don’t walk right
and I don’t talk right
but when I see you I…
I can’t move
I become an oven
and this may sound stupid
if I was to tell you all this
or if I were to hand you this
but all I want to hand you is myself
not some facade of adulthood
not some guise of maturity.
But I don’t know…
The others who see it
they leave me alone
or lose interest,
but I don’t think you have
at the very least you tolerate
you tolerate and realize what you
see in front of you
was there before
it was me
all along
all the same
but prior under the facade
you couldn’t tell
you couldn’t care.
You’ve done for me
what I wish others would have
you cared for me,
you shared with me
your moments of bliss
your moments of sorrow
I was your emotional punching bag
and I loved it,|
because when I saw you through punches
through the tears running down
from your eyes to your cheeks
from your cheeks to the floor,
I saw you
the real you
not the guise of adulthood
not the facade of maturity
but who you really were.
You used to be alone
I used to be by myself
but I went and said something stupid
neither of us talked right
neither of us walked right
but it didn’t matter
we were ourselves
we were in love
no…
we are in love.
Poetical Contemplation 