Poetry

The Aggie Band – NaPo 2025 Day Twenty-Eight

Today I was to author a poem that involves music at a ceremony or event.

Moved

The big deal yells when yesterday ends and today begins—
at midnight.
Some folks think it’s a myth,
but for most Texas Aggies, when the band plays
at a football game halftime, at the game or on TV,
it is a major emotional experience.
An impressive spectacle. Feelings
well up inside, a spirit rises and is felt for miles.
That lasts a lifetime,
not just for students and former students,
but for friends and family, as well.

While the music matters and memories play;
the sights, the marching, the yelling fans
participating with the school and the band.
It is magical. The drum majors.
Game scores are briefly forgotten
when the uniformed cadets rush out onto the north end,
and for ten to twenty minutes the crowd participates
with yells and singing to the marching musical repertoire.

Many fine schools have great bands
providing entertainment, excellent music,
and a unique perspective important to those schools.
But there is exactly one Fightin’ Texas Aggie Band.

Look both ways, especially into the past.
It is possible to feel those emotions again.
To be part of something not you, bigger than self,
but also part of who and what you are.
Mind the gaps and let the yell leaders lead. Stand up and yell!

Happy Birthday to a big Texas Aggie Band fan, Yolonda.

Justice Struck Me – NaPo 2025 Day Twenty-Seven

And so, today I was challenged to write a poem that describes a detail in a painting. My poem was to begin with a grand, declarative statement.

Who Was She?

It is never just the painting and the world, I know.
Each painting unites with each eye, each mind,
to make the art meaningful. Neither stands without the other.

I recall the overall picture vaguely, but it’s the setting
I remember well. An empty courtroom
except for a little girl standing with her back to me,

and a judge looking down from his bench. Authority!
I cannot see her face, but I know it is the face
of every child confronted with

the reality of the state, power, autocratic justice.
Fear. Helplessness. Hopelessness.
I felt all of that. Overpowering feelings.

A Miami artist opened emotions
hidden so deep that I denied them.
I almost cried. I moved on, hiding the real me.

Look both ways as you play the great pretender who will live forever.
Mind the gaps because somewhere out there,
an artist knows your truth and may tell you.

 

Hear That? – NaPo 2025 Day Twenty-Six

For Saturday’s prompt, I was to write a sonnet with the format of a song. So, not a proper sonnet. I used Edgar Allan Poe’s “Sonnet – Silence” as an inspirational guide or bridge to mine. My problem was that “The Sound of Silence” song by Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel, and the more recent version by the band, Disturbed, would not stop playing in my head.

I used a ten-syllable line structure and the ABBA, CDDC, EFFE, GG rhyme structure that Poe used, and likewise, I did not break out separate stanzas.

Let the Beat Go On

It is at a sound where a life begins
a sound there is but it we do not see.
In death, that silence there can only be.
It is in still silence where all life ends.
We awake to songs that we all can hear,
the smells, the tastes, and the good sights of life,
and thunder unheard marks the life of strife.
Then, this silence must have its place, my dear.
We live in life, until we bow to death.
The sound of silence that no one’s disturbed
the sounds of silence one has never heard,
with one last sound, upon our dying breath.
You hear the clap of echoes in my heart
it is alone we play our final part.

Look both ways because hearing loss in one ear confuses directions.
Mind the gaps and take care of all your senses.

Concert Bands – NaPo 2025 Day Twenty-Five

With five days remaining, today I was to write a poem about my experience hearing live music, such as in a professional or amateur concert, and to tell how it moved me.

Unforgettables

Growing up, there was often live music at the bars frequented by my family. I recall some talks I had with musicians when I was too young, but I never learned to play. Not even garages only. Concerts were free at college, and we went. Cool late sixties vibes.

Might have been at the Cash crash when drunk Johnny may have shown or not. Me too.

Mom visited us in Cowtown, downtown, to see Mom’s fav, Marty Robbins, open for Merle (Robbins called him Murial) Haggard, who my wife preferred, I think. Don’t recall if we saw Elvis there before or after, but we did.

Good lawdy, Stella, all these folks ‘er dead. But not Willie. 91. Don’t recall seein’ Willie live, but that don’t mean I didn’t. We been to Abbott. Carl’s Corner, too. We looked. Where’s Willie? I remember. Hell yeah! I was there because it won’t ever happen again.

Willie was in a suit with short hair, performing at The Louisiana Hayride in the late 60s, now that I wear my 55+ memory beanie. It was his pre-outlaw time.

I’m so damn old that all the concerts I wanna go to will be in the cemetery. Ghost concerts? Kinda goth, but what a hoot?

Look both ways and if you can afford five hundred for an old fart’s live concert,
good on ya. Mind the gaps because live music has a time limit.

This is long, but it’s an interesting story when you have the time.

New Day Mood Songs – NaPo 2025 Day Twenty-Three

My poem today was to focus on birdsong.

Melodious Mocker

I was out walking toward some goal
when at just about sunrise time,

you guys.

The day shift is here!
Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Sing the same old soprano seven song,
so mezzos cannot
harmonize with you
like angels in the morning.

My horrible hearing
and the beats over my old ears
cannot cover
your high-pitched wakeup call.

And sheesh!
You are so impatient
with your cousin, sir mourning-rain-dove,
who does male’s coo-woo in alto-tenor to match
a mocking marking starling of Spring—
in this part of what was once, Mexico.

Thanks for waking me up!
Now, what’s for breakfast?
Since you seem so damn happy
to fly and to be alive and free to be.
Well, you know what they say.

Look both ways. They don’t call it “the birds and the bees” for nothing.
Mind the gaps because when winter ends and there is no rain,
the choir still must sing on.

A Toast to the Town – NaPo 2025 Day Twenty-Two

Today I was to write a poem about something I’ve done, presumably as a child or adolescent, that gives me a kind of satisfaction. I think it is supposed to be something for which I am grateful. I had to dig for this one.

Grateful for the Grog

It wasn’t cocaine but some think it’s the same
when the forbidden froth of the fifties,
long before there were Swifties,
beer became the name of the game.

First taste was a sip, likely bogarted from
mother or father, or perhaps from my drunk-ass brother,
to wash down that salty Wise potato chip?
Hometown suds, favored by local buds
and still tastes like bad-beer today.

It was gunna happen anyway.
I learned to like it and how it made me feel.
I would have tasted beer someday,
then acquisition became part of the deal.

Tom T Hall’s song set somewhere aside,
beer became my pleasure and my problem.
I’m shocked that to some
the pleasure is none
and beer is forever denied.

“I like beer, it makes me a jolly good fellow
I like beer, it helps me unwind and sometimes it makes me feel mellow
(makes him feel mellow) … (He likes beer)”

So let me explain
in this little refrain

how grateful I am
to the woman or the man who drew me my first mug
from a spout, a bottle, or a sealed tin can I can chug.

Look both ways for the imperfect pleasures of life.
Mind the gaps and watch the taps, as the kegger is still a rite of passage.

Do It Anyway – NaPo 2025 Day Twenty-One

“Happy Monday,” she said. Today, I was supposed to attempt writing a poem in which something that normally unfolds in a set, well-understood, and organized way goes haywire; yet it is described as if it’s all very normal. Define normal?

Non-Compos Mentis*

Open mic Friday night on sixth street, Austin
and the crowd filed in silence.
First up, Gerty Stein wined if she told him
and Pablo painted her time off stage
when BEVO horns in and sings hooray for our side,
just then, Mathew Mac danced to silence
while imitating elon’s ox and Napoleon sang in locomotion.

The crowd cheered with silent finger snaps and the naked king
unzipped his pants
and played his instrument in tune
with united methodist horses chanting bite songs.

Two chickens fried the mic and mooned bleakly,
while the sober addicts ordered salad,
and the dead-beat dads cheered a silent sum.

The police up next went wet with white while swearing they were not watching her over there, and the crowd did the dead bug dong-dance on their backs.

Intermission brought AFD to wet down the APD who forgot their lines in unpaid fines.

And the crowd silently cheered in oxymoronic fight songs.

It rained in the house and the mic said nothing, time after time, and Bukowski’s ghost got booed and everybody left pitifully happy to never have loved at all.

Look both ways because mentality is a subjective call at poetry slams.
Mind the gaps, stutters, and forgotten lines because, funny or not,
silly is just a warm moist feeling.

*The title means “not of sound mind.”

Midnight Rider – NaPo 2025 Day Twenty

My Easter egg fortune was to write a poem “informed by musical phrasing or melody.” I was to employ sound play (i.e., rhyme, meter, assonance, alliteration).

I wrote a parody with new lyrics (my poem) assigned to the Alman Brothers song “Midnight Rider.” I used different words and a silly topic that fit the original song’s rhythm and phrasing, as suggested with the prompt.

Late-night Walker

Shit, I gotta go, run to keep from peein’
And I’m told to keep them from seein’
Yeah, I’ve got to trot out one more
Yet I ain’t gunna let ya see me, no
Not gunna let ya see the midnight walker

And I don’t know where the hell I’m goin’
And the flow goes on forever
And I’ll run around one more time to go
Yet I ain’t gunna let ya see me, no
Not gunna let ya see the midnight walker

And I’ll not wet the pants I’m wearing
This old fart will not be sharing
Yeah, I’ve got to trot out one more night

Yet I ain’t gunna let ya see me, no
Not gunna let them catch the midnight walker

Yet I ain’t gunna let ya see me, no
Not gunna let them catch the midnight walker

Yet you ain’t gunna see me go, oh, no
Not gunna let them catch the midnight walker

Look both ways when the humor just won’t let go.
Mind the gaps that push the prompt. Make Weird Al proud.

Lay Down, Lady – NaPo 2025 Day Nineteen

Today I was to write a poem that tells a story in the style of a blues song or ballad.

Green Eyed Blues

Loved you as they taught me to do.
Loved it all, as they taught me to do.
Duty, honor, country; I was there — to die for you.

Then, on that day came the blues, as it all withered and died.
One day what I loved just rolled over and dammed-well died.
Shit! Face down in my pillow I lay there and I cried.

I was the fool whose faith and flag I saw with pride.
I was the fool whose heart broke with a deathblow to pride.
No, I am no longer in love with you, such loss I cannot abide.

Good morning, America, how are you?
I’m true to the blue, mornin’ Murica, how are you?
Ima eating my shit sandwich with a hateful red-piss stew.

I’ve lost my world to white-hot green-eyed blues.
Nothing to die or to live for, I got me some green-eyed blues.
Sing me a song of freedom; I can’t eat, sleep, or find love in the news.

Look both ways to face the hopeless world we live in.
Mind the gaps but face the reality of nightmares on the day democracy died.

 

Austin-Healey Ride – NaPo 2025 Day Eighteen

Today my task was to craft a poem that recounts my experience of driving, and/or riding, and singing. I was to incorporate “a song lyric” into said poem. Just one?

Hit the Road, Jack!

No time for musical analysis
or explanations
for the songs that set my soul on fire.
Didn’t need to know writer inspirations,
didn’t care a dot about lyrical attire,
this meaning or that hard chord.
In desperation on the way there,
melding with music and singing my feelings
for going I didn’t care where. Just riding.

We didn’t start the fire
within the illusion
of what freedom was then.
I’ve been everywhere, man,
sung fast and furious.
Riding like the wind in my hair, I was there.
I was then.
We refused to take it easy.
Look, here comes the sun; on the road, again.
We were runnin’ on empty but full of life.
I was there with the wind in my hair,
without a care. Without one care.

We sang without a cappella—
blasting radio’s tune-after-tune,
not wanting to arrive
any too soon.
We belted songs, unrecorded;
out loud, on the road,
again and again, never stopping,
never knowing when.
Now those tunes
bring memories back,
songs and lyrics
to fire up familiar feelings of our reckless youth.

Look both ways to see back in the days when road trips meant music and friends.
Mind the gaps because we still do it, alone now, with the music turned way up.