Rules: Write a poem for national poetry month on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month have written 30 poems for National Poetry Month.
Topic 29: Todd wanted to see a poem inspired by mis-hearing lyrics to a song. Write a poem inspired by jumbling famous song lyrics or just inspired by a favourite song. Form : any Line requirements: 8 lines or more
A hidden choir burst into song.
I thought I knew the hymn
and sang along.
Silence fell around my voice,
my singing faltered.
The church darkened,
candles sprang to life along the nave.
On the altar: a white fox skull
with empty sockets,
a page from Baudelaire
crushed in a cup of gravel,
an ivory comb missing teeth.
Little black chunks of charcoal.
Chips on the rim
of a porcelain plate.
Waiting at the rail, you
in a dragon’s black carapace.
My fingers traced your face
as it failed.
With her firm terrain
lots of money
and a jealous streak,
files her nails
as they drag the lake.
Stuart and his van
came to bust the cage
a new direction
to look for a change
tired of being 24hrs
visible shivers try to hide
from the showers.
With a face like a magnet
she pulled out his eyes
smokes a cigarette to tell her lies.
Then beats him up
when the teardrops start
takes out the knife
because shes got no heart
just two little fingers
that blew him away,
he didn't listen
to what they always say.
Mash up between Watching the detectives (Elvis Costello) and Lovely Lorraine (Girl)
If your undies fer you've been smoking through em, don't peg em out
Nice poem, Keith! "I can see clearly now, Lorraine is gone."
Bite Me, Neighbor
Screw my neighbor
and flaunting two foot green beans,
the four pound potatoes he grows
just to spite me - the bastard.
Well bite me!
No more - not this spring.
Its May and my asparagus has already surged
to century cottonwood-like status, challenging the town’s water tower
for aerial supremacy.
Robins and squirrels chatter delight from on high - room for everyone.
My chest swells. Spendy as hell, but incredible for certain
the effects
of my mail order black market water purchases
from Chernobyl.
My grin becomes fixed as I fly on my new tree swing
over and back and over
the fence bordering my bastard neighbor
up and back and up
to the sounds of my new anthem’s lyrics
blared from JBL concert speakers freshly mounted on my roof -
This is the dawning of the age of Asparagus Age of Asparagus Asparagus Asparagus
- - - - - - - -
I really did try to come up with something serious, to no avail.
Purity Ball and a Father’s Plan I lay out the white dress she will wear like any bride, finger the ring, cold in my pocket. There will be the white rose, she will place at the foot of a wooden cross, and marry God. I will be her boyfriend, and her dress will flare as she spins in my arms on pale white legs. Virginity is a fine wine that only maintains value unopened in the cellar. She will lower her eyes, a sexless doll sealed in her original packaging. ~~ Based on: Like a Virgin Touched for the Thirty-First Time
Thanks for your comment Todd.
When trolling for some inspiration I saw the Madonna lyric several times - though I am familiar with the song, I had never thought of that alternative lyric. I love it. You did well with it.
04-30-2016, 06:38 AM (This post was last modified: 04-30-2016, 06:38 AM by Todd.)
First Draft: Under The Fridge
Sometimes I feel
Like I don't have a problem,
Cocaine and Prozac
are my two friends.
I snort up the one
and I swallow the other.
I’m never lonely,
well that is a lie.
My bank account dwindles;
my charge cards extended.
I have no idea
where my money goes.
I live in the state,
the state of denial
as all my possessions
go up my nose.
Da Da Da Da Da
Da Da Da Da Da
Da Da Da Da Da
Da Da Da Da Da
[add chorus later]
It's hard to believe
that I used to have money.
It’s hard to believe
that I used to have friends.
I lie in my vomit
as they all desert me.
My wings now gone,
I forget how to fly.
Da Da Da Da Da
Da Da Da Da Da
Da Da Da Da Da
Da Da Da Da Da
[add chorus later]
Under the fridge is where
I think I left my stash
Under the fridge is where
I think I left my stash.
Under the fridge is where,
I cannot reach it now.
Under the fridge is where
my arm got stuck today.
Under the fridge is where,
I cannot get away.
~~
Song Parody: Under the Bridge Red Hot Chili Peppers
I can tell, from pictures in magazines
and images flashed across our screens
that there is a mould, golden and glorious,
slender, unblemished, with teeth white
and booty black and breasts pointing at the sky.
This is success, pressed out on an assembly line
from which we have fallen. We are factory seconds,
rejects destined not for warm, well-lit pigeonholes,
but to scrape and scurry in the dirt. The lucky
among us will be useful as spares, fail-safes in case
a part is needed for those who deserve it.
I know the walls of my world well. They are steep,
with no footholds. You do not climb out of here. By
grace alone you might be lifted, a reminder to
the beautiful ones that there are those less fortunate;
and they will gaze upon you, and know once more
that they are chosen, and special, and the world
belongs to them.
*"Here we are now, entertainers" -- Smells Like Teen Spirit by Nirvana
I learned my letters with a tune
and expected the truth from songs.
I raised my hand in school one day,
sure the teacher had it wrong.
The Liberty Bell was cracked, she said.
"But, Davy Crockett patched it up!
It says so in the song!"
I think I argued for my point
once everyone stopped laughing.
It must be true! The song said so!
He killed a b'ar when he was only three, too!
These are the lessons I learned that year:
everyone laughs if you get it wrong,
so be ready if you try.
You can't trust songs. They lie.
And as for the king of the wild frontier,
he wa'rnt no king and I hope that b'ar ate his ass.
Hmmm...I imagine this is really boring and sounds evil
I Don’t Hate U2
me so cool in the 6th grade
wearing my Joshua Tree concert-t
couldn’t have adored their songs more
distinct sound blasting from my speakers
through the years; Bono in his dark glasses
rocked my world, and when we made With or Without You
our song; it seemed the perfect choice
“a thorn twist in my side,” got that part right
“can’t live with or without you…”
actually I am doing that just fine
the song once looked forward to,
if I never hear it again, couldn’t care less
sad irony that my finger changes the station
when what was once my favorite song comes on
“You gave it all but I want[ed] more”
yep I would say so
“and I'm waiting for you”
actually that part’s for me
“…waiting for you [to die]”
"Write while the heat is in you...The writer who postpones the recording of his thoughts uses an iron which has cooled to burn a hole with." --Henry David Thoreau
(04-30-2016, 07:23 AM)bedeep Wrote: Doing it wrong
I learned my letters with a tune
and expected the truth from songs.
I raised my hand in school one day,
sure the teacher had it wrong.
The Liberty Bell was cracked, she said.
"But, Davy Crockett patched it up!
It says so in the song!"
I think I argued for my point
once everyone stopped laughing.
It must be true! The song said so!
He killed a b'ar when he was only three, too!
These are the lessons I learned that year:
everyone laughs if you get it wrong,
so be ready if you try.
You can't trust songs. They lie.
And as for the king of the wild frontier,
he wa'rnt no king and I hope that b'ar ate his ass.
billy wrote:welcome to the site. make it your own, wear it like a well loved slipper and wear it out. ella pleads:please click forum titles for posting guidelines, important threads. New poet? Try Poetic DevicesandWard's Tips
SOLOMON IN THE GARDEN OF ASTERS; The third section being taken from the King James and English Standard Versions of Song of Solomon, chapter five
1
God gave gifts
to his beasts --
wings, claws, beaks.
He gave me
wisdom,
opened
my third eye
with his hand --
I tell you, his hand
feels softer
than silk, sweeter
than sex.
Why should the other two
open again?
2
Father sowed
the garden --
I built
the house.
And as flowers wither
like stone bricks never do,
as stolen looks
murder,
I ask myself:
what is my father to me?
Am I not both hand and cheek,
son of David,
son of Bathsheba?
Bound to be
the lion and the lamb,
the hand of God
and the cheek
of his foolish people.
3
As the daisies
open in the days of angels,
so do I open
before my beloved.
Daughter of Pharoah,
who is chiefest
among ten thousand?
Whose head is as
the most fine gold?
Whose locks are bushy,
are black as a raven?
Whose eyes are as doves
beside streams of water,
bathing in milk
and fitly set?
Whose cheeks are as beds of spice,
as sweet flowers -- lips like lilies,
like lily-bowls dropping myrrh --
whose hands are golden rods,
easily bent, crusted with the beryl,
not the diamond. Whose belly
is polished ivory, naked teeth
stained blue by lapis lazuli,
glorified pebbles. Whose legs
are alabaster -- not marble,
not as old, not as strong.
Whose countenance is as Lebanon,
as her cedars -- now conquered,
now chopped down for the house
of a foreign king. Whose mouth
is most sweet -- sickly so,
desirable only to fools.
4
The essence of wisdom
is grief.
Deprived of love,
the worthiest gift,
I stumble
upon the bushes before me.
And now the lids
are glued shut,
all force
atrophied.
SONG OF SOLOMON; The third section quotes Song of Solomon chapter five, alternately from the King James Version and the English Standard Version
1 - Solomon in the garden of asters
God gave gifts
to his beasts --
wings, claws, beaks.
He gave me
wisdom,
opened
my third eye
with his hand --
I tell you, his hand
feels softer
than silk, sweeter
than sex.
Why should the other two
open again?
2 - Solomon on the rooftop
Father sowed
the garden --
I built
the house.
And as flowers wither
like stone bricks never do,
as stolen looks
murder,
I ask myself:
what is my father to me?
Am I not both hand and cheek,
son of David,
son of Bathsheba?
Bound to be
the lion and the lamb,
the hand of God
and the cheek
of his foolish people.
3 - Song of Solomon
As the daisies
open in the days of angels,
so do I open
before my beloved.
Daughter of Pharoah,
who is chiefest
among ten thousand?
Whose head is as
the most fine gold?
Whose locks are bushy,
are black as a raven?
Whose eyes are as doves
beside streams of water,
bathing in milk
and fitly set?
Whose cheeks are as beds of spice,
as sweet flowers -- lips like lilies,
like lily-bowls dropping myrrh --
whose hands are golden rods,
easily bent, crusted with the beryl,
not the diamond. Whose belly
is polished ivory, naked teeth
stained blue by lapis lazuli,
glorified pebbles. Whose legs
are alabaster -- not marble,
not as old, not as strong.
Whose countenance is as Lebanon,
as her cedars -- now conquered,
now chopped down for the house
of a foreign king. Whose mouth
is most sweet -- sickly so,
desirable only to fools.
4 - Qoheleth
The essence of wisdom
is grief.
Deprived of love,
the worthiest gift,
I stumble
upon the bushes before me.
And now the lids
are glued shut,
all force
atrophied.
When I was in high school we used to have a much ruder parody of this, but it wasn't quite so coherent.
