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Poetry inspired by The Beatles for The Beatles Musical Extravaganza. |
Celebrating the magic of The Beatles. These entries are poems for "The Beatles Musical Extravaganza"  .
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| A typical day. A typical girl. A typical family. A typical home. She gathers what she can in her duffel bag, but the sorrow doesn't fit. Off to the station to catch the Greyhound; a friendlier state to shed her shame. Eighteen and barely out of school, not ready for a lifetime of poor choices saddling her future. Her parents and her Croupier beau mustn't know. Her life flashes by as she looks out the window. "How could I be so cruel and unkind?" Facing a consequence makes a different woman out of her in ways it'll take her years to see. Reaching the destination, she arrives as two destined to leave as herself, scarred but sure she's doing what's best. Maybe she'll start a new life here, should she not return but that's not for now to decide. "Just get this over with" is all that goes through her mind but the guilt gone is the one thing her money can't buy. |
| I've got a feeling, old as time. Perhaps older. Not one that sits like a stone in the bottom of your stomach, or one that wafts through your mind as a distressing smoke signal. This is more omniscient, though I don't know it yet. A tingling reality. A trope of darkness. A hard year of sunshine. A good time for moisture. Yet it remains cold to me; for all I know I'll be happy to be wrong. The feeling, a flinch that causes me to flinch. It runs deep, covered by a high sock on the foot put down. I'll know it when I see it, when I see you in all that I was looking for. |
| It's never "goodbye", it's "'til we meet again". I don't know how this works but I'm sure it wasn't supposed to be like it now is. Your troubled times are long past and maybe mine are starting up again, but Nick Cave once sang "Death Is Not The End" and that's how I keep your memory. Everyone's got their words of wisdom, for solace, for grace, but none speak as loudly as you lived. If we let things be it isn't to forget, but to accept that one day death will call whether we're ready or otherwise. If we let them be, are we inviting ourselves to be hunted, tormented? Or is the ghost benevolent? All these questions unfulfilled until after the fact. Be that as it may, I still look toward tomorrow's light shining on me, leading me on until we find out where and when we'll meet again. |
| the rain moved like smoke on the strawberry fields forever's drought soaked |
| It's not you; never was. It's me. I'm always in love with a love that stays in my head. I can't seem to make the words do their simple things and introduce myself. My eyes avert on their own. I turn into an internal, inescapable tension. And I don't want to just know you. I want to share secrets and dreams and escapes. Your very last set of firsts. But it's me; always was. Even if the only thing stopping us from being a capital U-S us is me, I still wouldn't be able to get out of my own way. Imagine me, saying everything in this entire poem, but in the five or ten seconds it takes when we pass each other. Why am I always the one to let myself down? It's the only love I've known to last forever, and it's the longest-lasting love in my past. |
| The routine remains unchanged. Workin' all the live long day, then off to the same bars with the crew, hoping we'll cross paths before last call. I know I probably should text you, but that was hours ago and maybe I'm not in the best of conditions at the moment. Besides, I don't want you to think I think you're only worthy of my time after dark. Another missed opportunity at something more substantial. Still, I can't get that first night off my mind. It plays in a movie behind my forehead as slowly burning, just like the liquor goes down and the tab goes up. Instead, I'll lazily flirt, halfheartedly, with nary a backup plan 'til I carry myself home. And I'll do it again tomorrow, and the next day, and the one after that. Work, rinse, repeat. Ya know, I'll feel alright, even if it's not you walking through my door. Or anyone else, for that matter. |
| This one time, at band camp... I was goofin' around with my fellas Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick, and Tich. We were back behind the ramshackle wooden stage, noodlin' and finger-pickin' when the fair ginger flutist strolled past, twirling her instrument like a baton. Discretely checkin' us out, I say. Now, none of us had much luck with the ladies; we became known as "The Lonely Hearts Club". It could have been pity, or a marriage of convenience, spending a couple weeks with the same people in tight quarters, that led her to approach me. To myself I admitted she was adorable, but why would she talk to me? I mean, I'm not ugly or anything, but I'm far from being the best-lookin' guy on the campground. She blew a few notes like seductively eating a banana, and I melted when she paused to ask me if I wanted to let the evening go. We broke away from the group and into the woods, singing along to songs we'd practiced and dancing made-up little jigs. As we moved in for a smooch, stupid ol' Billy Shears from out of nowhere yelled "Ewww! The flute chick is gonna make out with that dirtbag! No way!" When I turned to admonish him she bolted away quick, and began to avoid me ever since. |
| Eleanor Rigby attends the masses for all the bodies she buries. Her Instagram leaves clues that nobody notices because she's practically invisible; not even Father McKenzie remembers her last name. The people of the St. Peter's Parish Church community turn on their televisions to the news to find another stranger's gone missing. Rigby just stares. She knows the next victim may one day be herself if someone catches on and outs her as the cause of the many recent disappearings. And of all the lonely people, she knows where they have gone. |
| Fun fact: I'm an insomniac of the highest degree when I hit the sack. Turnin' and tossin' without a wink to give or a snore to escape. My dreams keep me awake and my bed is a shitshow of unintentional mistakes. Tried to count all the sheep but they're dead. The wool's been shorn. I am a mess. Pillows suffocate my sleep, choking and I wish I were joking. I'm old woke. How do I fight this off? I dunno. Nothing's on TV. No one answers their phones. It's me all alone to determine my fate. The bat is in my hand as I step to the plate. Strike one, strike two, strike three but I'm never called out and I never fall asleep. I'm tired and tattered. Nothing matters. Nightmares happen as soon as I hit the mattress. I overthink my overthinking, scattering my scattered thoughts across the fruited plains. I'm so tired that my tired is tired but it's wired and fully firing. I cannot unawake, I'm serious. No closer to sleep than I am deliriums. Almost ready, on the verge to snap. If it comes down to it, I will stab you for a nap. |
| It's nearly impossible to see under the lights of the club but I can feel her by the way the music makes her move. Precisionally possessed in 4/4 time, around 125 BPM. She has me dancing, this faceless person, as if I too have no other choice. We move in, we move out. We groove in and we shout it all about. When she dips closer our eyes lock, only to be undone by rhythm. The unforced force. A stranger no more. That last beat drops; she is a gasp away and these eyes tell me what to do. Leant in, eyelids drawn, a swallow for confident courage and lips parted for departure like she knew I would. |
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