the poetry knook, the poetry of stephen m. james

Poems with the tag ‘music’

Pandora: the search for a siren

The search for a siren,
the perfect song,
to hold and
to squeeze all along
she silently sings,
bought for a harem,
that would shame Salt Lake–
even Solomon.
She’ll concubine your mind,
with the touch of a note
and the sound of a mime.

We yelled for the sake of yelling our favorite songs

warm and cold is the life.
The blue LCD lingers even with friends,
my friends-my (saving me from the) screen
savers, freezing, cold, heartless–
the silence of mp3s and IMs,
the rock concert, the heavy metal hanging from the lashes, lulling to sleep–
s l o w i n g
the beams of light from reaching my eyes:
the red cheeks of winter night out glow fire and wash over the goodbye with a
“goodbye” faded with l o n g i n g,
for the radio interferes with the conversations
and with the passenger-seated soul
beside me
gliding down the interstate, the back-roads, the melting, the remembering

Maybe the encore will save us

Slow, steady female lead holds her note (and me),
baring her soul and troubled she’s paring too much skin
the concert pilgrim cries, “Can’t remember when or where, but I know I wasn’t lost last time,”
should have worn more deodorant though it’s not as strong as your drink or theirs, the iconic chorus words:
Ahh, now I feel peace–they
tell me to pick up my mat and walk–but where?

Tickle ivories, tickle tears, get drunk on the non-words, the non-rational, the misunderstood–could God do any better? Is this what He did?
tense like sex, but the clean up’s less,
yeah, it’s a mess, and so are these lives–floundering in (y)our words:
the amp wind rattles the couples and the hardwood,
the 40′s and the 20′s wiggle in this human concoction breathing your wine song,
pull away like a closing art house movie:
the soundtrack fades in, the unknown actors fade out, the credits roll in, and the patrons yell out:
“What does it mean?!”

it’s funny what puts down the PDAs and pent up phobias,
some say it’s best to minister to those with a beer in hand,
you sting them to sleep with your microphone
as they float–over the rhine.

Greens go hunting

greens go hunting
and white glows,
the clouds signal rain,
yet none shows,
the wind carries melody
through screened in windows
to my ear space
sweet and mellow,
books cry “Read me!”
but the music screams, “Go!”

On the back of live bait

On the back of live bait receipts I scribble,
cooks and clerks swap sex stories
and tunes of bitterness–
scouring bathrooms, silverware, and ideals.
Cha-ching! the cash gods ring
up profits, down spirits for those caught en masse:
spending Bens, complaining Washingtons,
hey, they are on diversion ‘s splurge–
I–summer vacation–at work
learning what not to do in life.

Like paparazzi

Hiding in music you breathe your anger with-
fear-you try to steer clear.
It’s haunting like paparazzi
till you crash.

Easy as 1-2-3 CD Creator

These bytes eat me up inside easy as 1-2-3 CD Creator
And we pass them along and burn
Bumps on plastic discs, bumps on a moral road;
A digital dilemma of legality as we share our data.
Didn’t Mrs. Jordan tell us to share in kindergarten?
As we justify . . . it was on the radio . . .
And file-share our music on the campus networks.

© 1993-2024 by Stephen M. James.