Locks and keys are not made for honest fingers.
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Joey
Joey Keys was from my neighborhood
Some would say that he was bad and Joe thought that was good
Joey got the name "Keys" picking locks
He never really robbed no one; it sure amused the cops
Joey's parents owned a restaurant
After closing time they'd give us almost anything we'd want
I never cared that Joey Keys was slow
Though he couldn't read or write too well but we'd talk all night long.
Come on
song performed by by Bon Jovi from Bounce
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A silly poem about keys
Keys can open doors
they can lock you in
keys on a piano
but not on a Violin.
Keys to a safe
inside a vault
keys lost again
well that's your fault.
Keys on an old typewriter
and on a modern laptop
keys stolen by a thief
to break into a shop.
Keys hang on a keyring
or on a fancy chain
but how on earth can you
dropp them down a drain?
Keys for this and that
a key lying under the mat
having to rush to the Vet
it's been swallowed by the cat.
So I'll end this poem now
and try and get my key
I dropped it down a drain
oh stupid and silly me!
poem by Kevin Halls
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Locksmith At Heavens Gate
a man died in a car crash, and climbed
the stairs to heaven, and found he could'nt get in.
he said: i am a locksmith, and i could
make keys to all locks.
saint peter answered: yes, but here you have but just to knock.
in life you was a locksmith and forged many a key
but all the lives you hurt is something you did not see.
you took pride and boasted, that there
was not a door you could not open.
but here in heaven all your boasts go unheard
for in the LORD, you have not practiced his word.
you opened the hearts and souls of many a life
not caring if you hurt them, and the pain
they would go through.
when all you had to do was, was forge
the keys to the words of the LORD
and to practice what he preached.
but! you chose instead to be a common leach.
to cling on to man, and suck the blood
from their souls, then to laugh
as they went out of control.
you controlled their lives, for you said you had the keys
when you knew in your mind, with the LORD
it could never be.
you bragged that you had the keys
to all the locks around,
but! here in heaven, there's not one to be found.
so now i think it's time you turn yourself around.
descend these steps that you thought that
you could climb.
for you are condemned until the end of time.
for you are the devil in sheeps clothing
and thought that GOD would not see
the lives you destroyed
when you could have been set free.
poem by Louis Rams
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The piano chords
You play the piano chords
In this sonata as well as
In the music of Prokofiev,
Emphatically catching the music's mood.
Fingers seem to stick the keys
And the keys seem to direct the fingers,
When the thumbs move under them.
You both look like a single being,
In together.
The piano seemingly breaks the sounds.
They penetrate my soul,
Searching for the necessary words.
I understand the story of your feelings.
Dedicated to Richard Clayderman
poem by Marieta Maglas
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I Am The Only One With THESE Keys
The first question I would ask,
Of anyone expressing a wish to drive...
Through life without dues to pay.
With only desire in their eyes.
And a request from me to give them my keys,
Is this...
What makes anyone think I will turn over keys,
To something I have earned...
Because the doing of it I have made to look easy?
I've got to witness some sweat with labor done first.
With initiative that has been prioritized.
Life is not a cakewalk...
To choose what frosting to taste to then decide.
'You are not the only one with keys.'
That's true.
But guess what?
I am the only one with THESE keys.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Time-travel
at that fateful moment
when my first breath set
ripples in the river of time
i made an invisible pact
with the unseen time
the gentleman's agreement
also included:
floods
whirlpools
by-passes
locks
the keys of which
are never to be found
10nov2010
14.05hrs
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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Instead of giving a politician the keys to the city, it might be better to change the locks.
quote by Doug Larson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Liberator
Keys turning
rattling in the loose locks
opening high the doors
that close again
like death-hours coming faster
the walls are white
and the line of beds is staring
all the bars go up and down
and none of them lead outward
and leaping eyes
and stiff limbs
follow the crunch of the keys
I am powerful now
and I will break those that carry the keys
with little hammers
small hammers
which you will make for me
and hide in the porridge
I will break all their heads
and lay them in neat rows
and we shall wave high the keys
and open wide a million doors
and all of us shall dance in the snow
and that poor woman in the spiral casket
shall warm a wooden doll to her dress
&nbs p; and lean her hair in the fire
the grating shall be taken from about the fire
and the woman and the keys shall go within
all of us
shall ;dance
&nb sp; within
poem by Emily Holmes Coleman
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One-Finger Typist (Fun Poem 122)
I used to be a one-finger typist
and as the one finger wore down,
I discovered how to use two.
Finding that easy to score
and with the added bonus
of being able to play
chopsticks on the piano as well,
I decided to add a little bonus
and increased my fingers to three
and then on to four.
All on the same hand, I might add.
One day my left hand
feeling left in the lurch
decided it was going to join in
and my fingers typing doubled
to the number eight.
The thumbs then got jealous
and came into play.
Now both hands of fingers and thumbs
dance merrily across the keys,
but there I have a problem,
as they all want to press a key simultaneously.
Slowly words with three or four letters
were getting left behind
and I could only type words
with eight letters with two hyphens in between.
Confused? I was as well
as everything I typed became double hyphenated
and made no sense at all.
In desperation and frustration,
I reverted to being a one-finger typist
and now you know the story of my plight.
As for the other fingers,
well they got a new position
of multi-tasking elsewhere.
poem by David Harris
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To a Prospective Cook
Curly locks, Curly Locks, wilt thou be ours?
Thou shalt not wash dishes, nor yet weed the flowers,
But stand in the kitchen and cook a fine meal,
And ride every night in an automobile.
Curly Locks, Curly Locks, come to us soon!
Thou needest not to rise until mid-afternoon;
Thou mayest be Croatian, Armenian, or Greek;
Thy guerdon shall be what thy askest per week.
Curly Locks, Curly Locks, give us a chance!
Thou shalt not wash windows, nor iron my pants.
Oh, come to the cosiest of seven-room bowers,
Curly Locks, Curly Locks, wilt thou be ours?
poem by Franklin P. Adams
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Mechanical Angel
The Mechanical Angel
Is made of tin
Put together with screws
And mixed with sin.
The Mechanical Angel's
Paint never fades.
Underneath her perfect fingers
Hide hidden blades.
The Mechanical Angel
Must constantly grease her joints.
Her nails are sharp
And her teeth filed to points.
The Mechanical Angel's
Head is dusty.
She is uncared for,
She's getting rusty.
The Mechanical Angel
Cannot feel.
She cannot hear, cannot understand,
Her wings are made of steel.
The Mechanical Angel
Is made of tin.
She shuts the world out
And locks herself in.
poem by Tessa Marshall
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Rose lies on the piano keys....
Rose lies on the piano keys.
It still hears the sounds of music.
Hopelessly dump it lies,
Echoes of love songs arise.
Glowing petals fade by the past shade,
With the yesterday’s love groan.
Black and white keys played
To the only one and his own.
Memories of the fingers remained.
They were beautiful love skill,
A shrill cries of love and pain.
Rose lies on the piano keys…
It’s a memory of the old follies
And the fairies giving the dowries.
©Larisa Rzhepishevska
January 30th,2011
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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A Thief Of Certain Things
I am a thief of certain things:
A strand of hair
That flames with a fire
The mere photograph
Of a red dagger
That singes in the high-noon.
The wayward child’s
Brazen ballad
Underneath
A pillow of dreams.
From lost trails
From a hound’s rendezvous
To the uncovered
Secrets of the gods
That laugh
I, in this thievery, with
The tacit fires
Are one.
I am a thief
Of certain things:
A memoir of
A woman.
Her breath upon
My glasses.
The lipstick smear
Engraved on a
Dead cigarette,
The grooves
On the bed
Left after a 20-minute
Fire brigade.
The scent on
The gentle fabric.
Everything
From songs
To words
To numbers
And people,
I am a thief of certain things.
I stole everything
From them
To make myself
Whole.
They let me break
Into their windows,
Even left the keys
Underneath the
Morose grass
A heartless sex of locks
And keys
And I made it there,
Inside
And stole everything
From them
But then
They were thieves
Too.
They did the
Play very
Well.
poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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424
it must be really cold
out there
as your picture shows
my fingers on the keys
are frozen
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Living Life
i let things
come as they are
like the rain
that falls
and the river
that brings the
water out to sea
i take life
like how love flows
negotiates
its way over
every of the
piano keys
to make it to
your heart
i take life
like how
your deft
fingers go
never question
how each dribbles
over the keys
to bring out the
sweet notes of our life
i let troubles
come and go
like the rain fall
and the river that brings
the water out to sea
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Among Those Killed in the Dawn Raid Was a Man Aged a Hundred
When the morning was waking over the war
He put on his clothes and stepped out and he died,
The locks yawned loose and a blast blew them wide,
He dropped where he loved on the burst pavement stone
And the funeral grains of the slaughtered floor.
Tell his street on its back he stopped a sun
And the craters of his eyes grew springshots and fire
When all the keys shot from the locks, and rang.
Dig no more for the chains of his grey-haired heart.
The heavenly ambulance drawn by a wound
Assembling waits for the spade's ring on the cage.
O keep his bones away from the common cart,
The morning is flying on the wings of his age
And a hundred storks perch on the sun's right hand.
poem by Dylan Thomas
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Piano Bench
sun setting,
...azure tint.
the piano bench empty,
dust gathers on the keys.
the grass damp with dew,
the wind still, and quiet.
the bookshelf sags
with books long ignored.
people walk by without talking,
darkness opens its mouth... swallows.
the lamp forlorn and chilled
waits without hope for a bulb.
nothing to say that can say,
words fall like leaves to the ground.
the room empty haunted by form,
curls up inside it's own hollow.
no fingers to touch the keys!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Standing Next To You
Take me to a better place.
One more honest.
One more pure.
One that puts me on top of the heavens.
Looking down upon everything and everyone.
Keep me from saving face.
Admitting a terrible mistake that I have made.
To everything and everyone.
Why it can't be a simple dream?
One that you can simply grab out and reach.
And the one standing next to you.
Please guide me to where it is we're suppose go.
Because I just don't know yet if I am going make it.
Take me to a better place.
One more honest.
One more pure.
One that puts me on top of the heavens.
Looking down upon everything and everyone.
Let the existence be true.
Please don't let it fall through.
With hope as my prayer.
Let it take wings.
In place I've never seen and probably will never be.
For a too large a distance divides.
An impenetrable barrier resides.
Only my voice survives.
It glides through a sequence of mazes.
Sometimes I think something gets lost in the translation.
But one way or another.
Take me to a better place.
One more honest.
One more pure.
One that puts me on top of the heavens.
Looking down upon everything and everyone.
Its not any ones fault and I don't blame any of you.
I'll do what is needed.
Not because I have to.
Or in anyway need to.
Without reluctance sometimes still choices are made.
Living among life without life.
The body breaths but does it move.
Take me to a better place.
One more honest.
One more pure.
One that puts me on top of the heavens.
Looking down upon everything and everyone.
Take me to a better place.
One more honest.
One more pure.
One that puts me on top of the heavens.
Looking down upon everything and everyone.
Because right now I'm without you.
Right Now, Right Now, I Am Without You.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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I See You in Your Fingers
I see your fingers
I see you in your fingers
I see your history from your fingers
I feel your touch from your fingers
They don't tell a lie to me
They don't give me a fake smile
Or promising kiss
But they give me a warm hold
and tickling touch
I see you from your fingers
I see the truth from your fingers
I see you in your fingers
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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