Sometimes you park your car
Just when a song starts playing
And you sing along, now knowing
That your plans are worth delaying.
For some folks it’s the Beatles,
And for some the Rolling Stones.
For me it’s Wagner’s Ring Cycle
Which is why I’m a pile of bones.
Filed under Poems
Some evenings I sit in darkness
Playing a sad song on repeat
With a pillow on my head
And a blanket on my feet.
I’m don’t feel sad
Though I am devoid of laughter;
I feel sad because I hate
The song that plays right after.
Filed under Poems
“I’ve got a song for you Billy,”
The executive told Mr. Joel.
“It’s a song for the sad, lonely everyman
“And the pianist has a prominent role.”
“Sounds pretty fly,” Mr. Joel said,
“And I have but one simple request:
“I think we’ll have one short piano bit
“And let harmonica guy do the rest.”
Filed under Poems
Jimmy is our drummer
And Johnny plays guitar
And Danny knows a guy
Who knows a guy who owns a bar.
Eddy is our singer
And our charismatic face.
When we get to the venue
We’ll teach someone to play the bass.
Filed under Poems
Some people with a time machine
Would cure diseases in the past,
Kill Hitler as a baby
To stop the Jews from being gassed,
See what dinosaurs were like
Or build the pyramids.
Some would travel back in time
To relive being kids.
If I had a time machine
I’d go to a monastery
Where people sang Gregorian chant
With ye olde Tomme, Dicke, and Harrye
And play the drum and violin parts
To the Halo menu song.
Some people would go to the future
To cure cancer, but they’re wrong.
Filed under Poems
There lived a man who wished to die,
With lips malformed so when he’d sigh
The anguish that emerged was like
The first sunrise of Spring.
The humans that he’d never known
Had from all places to him flown
With no intent to comfort him
But just to hear him sing.
The singer sang, the cryer cried
To oceans deep and mountains wide
And every human listener thought
The singer read their mind.
The speaker spoke, the moaner moaned.
His sorrows said, his hopes intoned
Leaving unspoken just enough,
Ensuring seekers find.
He screamed at them in loneliness:
A girl in far too short a dress
Confused by why she couldn’t find
A man who’d stay ’til morning
And, to the men who eyed her, said
To see her heart before her bed
But all they heard were pretty words
And not the singer’s warning.
He sang to those who owned the gold,
The young who’d never gotten old,
The old who’d never been a child,
To those without a penny.
His sharing was his means to cope.
His medicine was spreading hope
Perhaps to you, the listening few
Among the mindless many.
The living listened as he cried,
He sang also to those who died,
A song for all who made mistakes
And sought to change their fate.
Some say that Satan turned to hear
And even shed a single tear.
Although the angel fell from grace
His wings might still bear weight.
No one asked the singer’s name.
To his wake no listeners came
For clouds above were pearly white
And sky above was blue.
Thus did the singer move along.
No longer needed was his song.
The singer lives forever
Even though his wish came true.
“The devil plays the violin,
The instrument of mortal sin.”
I told her this, then said hello.
#How to not pick up girls who play cello
Filed under Poems
You can tell if someone’s more likely
To play basketball or the harp
By whether they write #F
Or instead they write F#
Filed under Poems
