I was up until all hours of the night, listening to stories, meeting great old comedians.
quote by Joely Fisher
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Grapevine
every morning i put
landmarks
after having surveyed
night's domains
meeting people and
hearing their own stories
taking notes where i can
possible situate my feet
my hands are not fists
they are tributaries of fingers
i have seen worlds
compared it with mine
there is this empathy
that somehow redeems my losses
how wonderful is the listening
about the travails of suffering
it lessens mine
grapevine
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I'm Always There
Should the world tumble into chaos
More then it already has
The sky is black with smoke and ashes
And the oceans are of boiling nature
Remember me
Or just when you can’t find your left shoe
In the morning
When the kids have just made you
Spill your hot coffee all over you
Remember me
Or even when you forgot your umbrella
And are soaking wet for an important meeting
And everything else bad seems to happen
Remember me
Remember me embracing you after the long hours
Sitting you down in your favorite chair
Bringing you dinner
Listening to your stories of hell
Remember me smiling at you in understanding
Agreeing your boss is a prick
Remember me as your rock
But then softer and warmer
poem by Zarina Binda
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Stories
Through every window, we look out
what we see on the other side
holds many stories waiting to unfold.
Stories of great achievements
within someone’s life.
Stories of gathering love
found with in open arms.
Stories of perusing heartaches
where someone has gone away.
Stories a million fold
that surround every living thing.
Stories we are not aware of,
but happen before our eyes.
Stories to share with all
from those who can see them unfold.
The next time you look out a window
try and see what is really there,
the stories that are everywhere.
26 July 2009
poem by David Harris
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The two hours onstage is great. But I can only play a show and then take a night off. I have to sing for two hours, and then I've gotta rest it for a night. So it's the other 46 hours that are just boring as heck.
Straight Back
Words and Music by Stevie Nicks
what can i say this time
which card shall i play
the dream is not over
the dream is just away
and you will fly like some little wing
straight back to the sun
the dream was never over
the dream has just begun
the dream has just begun.........dream....
my fingers find the ivory keys
ans a song begins to begin
like a wolf...on the run
and you will find
while in the wind
something that you lost
the dream was never over...no...
the dream was only lost
(hours and hours of waiting for you, so strong and so fleeting)
the dream has just begun
(and hours of waiting for you...in hopes of meeting)
the dream has just begun
(meeting this way)
well, the dream has just begun!
she remembers how good it can be...
he remembers a melody....
ah...in the shadow of my shadow....in a gleam...
he remembers how good it can be....
she remembersa melody.....
well...in the shadow of my shadow....in a dream...whoa....
(hours and hours of waiting for you...so strong and so fleeting)
the dream has just begun
(hours and hours of waiting this way...meeting me...)
and hours of waiting for you
(so strong and so fleeting)
the dream has just begun
(i'm tired of meeting this way)
straight back now
(hours and hours of waiting...so strong and so fleeting)
hours and hours of waiting this way
hours and hours of waiting this way
straight back
straight back
straight back......yeah!!
he remembers a melody...
he remembers how good it can be...
straight back
straight back
straight back......yeah!!
***********************************************************
song performed by by Fleetwood Mac
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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This Poem This Afternoon
this poem
has nothing much to give you
some words
discarded that i
keep again
on this monitor
perhaps garbage
or dust or pieces of
scratch papers,
but somehow
i go on writing,
without any purpose
at all
in mind, just
to let the hours pass
by
the minutes wasted
for having to wait
on something else,
the next scene
another event
of my life
a meeting in
another room
a riding of
a vehicle to the city
and then
wait again for the
students in the
university
i talk much
and write too
little
for hours and hours
until it gets so dark
at the late hour
of the night
and then i go home
drive my car
no talking now
just paying attention
to the road
meeting my face
and the faint sound
of the aircon
of the car until i
arrive on the side
of the house
the gate opens
i turn on the light
and go inside the room
to sleep
on this chilly evening.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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It's also that comedians don't have the kind of narcissism that actors have. They're writers who perform their own material. It's more interesting. And they're sexy because they risk more. Stand-up comedians risk more than anyone.
quote by Rachel Weisz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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0008 A Ghazal
I lie awake as the light night-rain falls, listening
to its irregularities, listening
as the breeze blows it now and then
against the window and the curtain flutters; listening
and wondering if I can hear
the rain listening
to itself, as if – I sometimes think I hear this –
there’s a moment just before it stops as if listening
to its own decision to stop, as if it sighs,
thinks, that’s enough; it could be listening
to the gratitude of the closed flowers, the wet earth,
the ecstasy of roots which are themselves listening
to the flowers sleeping, sighing in their sleep.
But do you wonder why I’m listening
instead of sleeping, this warm rainy night?
What’s so important that it needs my listening?
It was the rain that woke me; and as I turned, sighed,
it was the thought of you last night here next to me, listening
not to me, but to your own dreams – which I may never share;
though I may share you in my listening
to your sweet sleep’s breath, felt faintly on my shoulder;
and so, there’s a question in my listening –
did you awake at the same night rain, you so far away,
awake, sigh, and in your half-awakened listening
know that I too, thought of you?
Sighed that sweet thought, of our shared, single listening? …
As the perfume of a rose may be more evocative than the rose,
So sweeter, steadier than thought, dream, memory – the listening!
[A ghazal has a rhyme scheme aa ba ca da >]
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Staight Back
Written by stevie nicks.
What can I say this time
Which card shall I play
The dream is not over,
The dream is just away
And you will fly like some little wing straight back to the sun
The dream was never over
The dream has just begun
The dream has just begun
Fingers find the ivory keys
And a song begins to begin l
Like a wolf on the run
And you will find while in the wind something that you lost
The dream was never over, no
The dream was only lost
(hours and hours of waiting for you,
So strong and so fleeting)
The dream has just begun
(and hours of waiting for you...
In hopes of meeting)
The dream has just begun
(this way)
Well, the dream has just begun
She remembers how good it can be
He remembers a melody
Ah, in the shadow of my shadow in a gleam
He remembers how good it can be
She remembers a melody
Well, in the shadow of my shadow in a gleam
(hours and hours of waiting for you
So strong and so fleeting)
The dream has just begun
(hours and hours of waiting this way...
Meeting, me)
Hours of waiting for you
(so strong and so fleeting)
The dream has just begun...
(meeting this way)
Straight back now
(hours and hours of waiting
So strong and so fleeting)
Hours and hours waiting this way
Hours and hours of waiting this way
Straight back
Straight back
Straight back... yeah!
He remembers a melody
He remembers how good it can be
song performed by by Fleetwood Mac
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Time (How Original)
Time
is life and deaths little joke
which is understood when we're provoked
To escape the arms of hours hands
And act ourselves as comedians
poem by Kevin Patrick
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This Fun
it's fun
in fact it's more fun
being here
i am thinking
a lot
about people that
i've met
that i barely know
there are only
glimpses
outlines of their lives
in such
a short conversation
it makes me feel
so elated
comforting me that
i am not alone
in this...
say,
sorrow joy
sweet-sour memories
like fish and sauce
on a platter
this fun thing
it's more fun really
on these islands
i am taking more
hours of my life
on the plane
hopping from one island
to another
threshing out stories
of real people
that i met
and talk with
in such a short
witting hours
i do not care
anymore
if what they are
telling are true
does not really matter
sort of
short stories themselves
that they are
weaving
like spiders
in the far corners
of the cities
it's more fun
to be frank with you
merely listening
somehow
the words that travel in my ears
make my senses full
i am not alone
all of them
are telling me
this world is a place
of stories
sounds and colors
it is real
they are all telling me
how come
that i did not really know that?
must i be dumb?
or was i just sleeping for all those years
or simply pretending
to know a lot
from books and pages of the newspapers
?
i am seeing a big river
i put myself inside a wooden boat
take the paddle
and start my way
in the water
i stop a while
to touch the ripples
and then
we are going
into something that we have
never know
under the moon
my shadow speaks
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Black Bruises II
I can ponder upon the blackness,
the garrulous of silence
placated by benign solitude
I can endure the ostracizing
listening to lulling lullabies,
listening to trembling metals,
listening to enraptured echoes,
listening to a soundless shattering,
listening to nothingness,
listening to guffawing crows,
listening to diffident clocks,
listening to the waning time;
but am I the only one listening
to these black bruised whispers?
poem by Norman Santos
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We learn best to listen to our own voices if we are listening at the same time to other women - whose stories, for all our differences, turn out, if we listen well, to be our stories also.
quote by Barbara Deming
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sleepless in suburbia
Sleepless in suburbia
~
quiet little thoughts
play out in a suburban town
hours pass by unnoticed
day becomes night
and thoughts continue
sounds of strangers passing
beyond the window
beyond the walls
traffic and daily life
a crescendo of noise
fills out the soundtrack
a handful of stories echo
into their own lives
pieced together not entirely
by a restless mind
sleepless and listening
sleepless and imagining
while suburbia is thriving
quiet little thoughts
prevent sleeping
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Meeting Jim
Meeting Jim for the very first time,
he had a smile a mile wide.
He knew I would do comedy on the stage,
he knew I was half his age.
For Jim was 40 years older than me,
it didn’t matter he had integrity.
He said he would show me the ropes,
he felt some comedians where just dopes.
Jim protected me from all the wolves,
don’t mess around, it was understood.
Jim was hilarious that first night,
he was trying to impress me and get it just right.
afterwards at Blue Martini where he drew the line,
The line with a guy who wanted to dance with me,
he said “hey, did you buy her a drink, let’s see? ”
It was very funny, for we where only drinking water,
not even ice tea.
Funny times more to come,
Jim was hilarious and really fun.
Written By Suzae Chevalier on January 24,2012
poem by Christina Sunrise
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Stories We Could Tell
By: john b. sebastian
1974
Talkin to myself again
Wonderin if this travellin is good
Is there somethin else a doin
Wed be doin if we could
Chorus:
But ah, the stories we could tell
And if it all blows up and goes to hell
I wish that we could sit upon a bed in some motel
Listen to the stories we could tell
Stared at that guitar in that museum in tennessee
Nameplate on the glass brought back twenty melodies
Scars upon the face told of all the times he fell
Singin all the stories he could tell
Chorus:
Ah, the stories he could tell
And Ill bet you it still rings like a bell
I wish that we could sit upon a bed in some motel
And listen to the stories it could tell
So if youre on the road trackin down your every night
Playin for a livin beneath brightly colored lights
And if you ever wonder why you ride the carousel
You do it for the stories you can tell
Ah, the stories we could tell
And if it all blows up and goes to hell
I wish that we could sit upon a bed in some motel
Just listen to the stories we could tell
Coda:
Yes, I wish that we could sit upon a bed in some motel
Listen to the stories it could tell
song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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As We Spoke
As I was listening, your lips they were glistening
I remember that day that we spoke
I smiled and I agreed, your words I did heed
As I took them seriously, and never as a joke,
All your words I did hear, about your life and career
I was anxious and excited from every word you said
So I waited for your words, as though listening to songbirds
As you spoke, I listened to your feelings instead.
I began to converse, sometimes in text or in verse
What was going through my thoughts and my brain
You just nodded your head, from the stories that I read
As though I was alone and I talked from pain,
With me you were bored, so my stories you ignored
I felt so sad that I almost began weeping
You just didn't care, if I was here or over there
But then when I looked at you, you now were sleeping.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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I woke up find a rather noisy multi-lingual meeting going on. This was great as everyone could participate and even though everything had to be translated into about four different languages it never became boring. After a while the meeting broke up and everyone went for food.
quote by John Blair
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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One thing that is almost always said to me is, I grew up with you. They are meeting me and feel that they actually grew up with me. I was with them during their play hours and thinking hours. I was a part of their childhoods. That's one of the most amazing things.
quote by Mark Goddard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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0419 Tribute to a Listening Man (George Steiner)
The TV studio set for a prestige production
of the sort that wins renewed network contracts
if not viewers, late on Sunday night:
the subject, a weekly series on
The History of Christianity -
worthy discussion leader, impressive panel
mingling ecclesiastical robes of
a glowing spectrum of faiths with the
open-necked, for open-minded,
dress-down of young freethinkers, but
respectful of their elders, with it;
subtle lighting on the semi-circular panel
and the background, tastefully designed
with hints of the history of otherworldliness
and among the assembled voices
of faith and reason in their polite battle,
the great intellectual guru of the Western world
himself – would his searing intellect, his daunting
global dimensions of mind, dominate
this gathering?
Life can have its glorious surprises even
on a dozy, precious-last-weekend-hours
of a Sunday night – George said his piece,
then, challenged by the other speakers,
sat there listening: as if, without a resistant, reacting,
or self-regarding thought in his head –
listened rapt in full attention, as if expecting
to listen to a further, deeper truth from
those who argued against him – his face
benign, almost smiling
I have never seen such intellectual humility –
as if, way, way beyond the personal, a mind
was listening constantly, for truth, to truth itself..
listening to that listening,
I felt proud to be
a human being.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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