picks up attitude;
rejects, vagabonds alike;
picks up a guitar
haiku by Chris Gardner
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Backup Plan
You’re up boy
He picks up his guitar
Finds his confidence
Draws himself in
To his own world
Of tunes, lyrics and meaning
He stumbles on stage
Appearing frail and clumsy
The crowd, the judges
Wait for his beginning
Wait to be disappointed
Or sucked into his world
Behind stage are his family and friends
Supportive as ever
His fallback when all else fails
Now a boy picks up his boom box
Hides it behind stage
His right hand man
Trusting that it will not fail
Where he might
Now there is little chance
Of missing a note
He just remembers the words
Though even they can be fed to him
Through voices whispering is his ear
He doesn’t need talent
He needs technology
Yet they laugh when a boy
With only his voice and a guitar
Forgets a word, misses a chord
Oh how something robotic
Something created by us
Can control, influence and destroy us
poem by Keiren Ward
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Comparison
A bird can live anywhere.
It doesn't worry about rent.
Finds a tree. Picks one out.
Never feels that its without.
A man can't live anywhere
and worries about his rent.
Finds a house. Picks one out.
Loses his job and is left to shout
Now what?
poem by Edwina Reizer
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I was playing with steel picks on a steel guitar, and there was no amplification needed.
quote by Brownie McGhee
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Gun Play One
Gunplay 1
They don´t have guns in heaven only tooth picks,
but god has got a golden gun, given to him by
the producer of James Bond movies.
He toys with it just for fun when newcomers
arrive, but most of the time the gun is on top
of the bible he wrote once upon a time.
Not that he has copyright, he will be the first
to tell you, but with the help of strange people
who insisted he had spoken to them.
Sometimes when god is alone he put the gun
to his temple and…click... nothing happens
it is all in jest or is it? Infinity can be a burden.
Now, if you wonder about the tooth picks,
angels like to welcome you with a bright smile.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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In most places that are rich in guitar culture, everyone uses their fingers, like in Spain or Africa. In Japan there are string instruments played that way. It is not until you get in the States that you find people using picks.
quote by Kevin Eubanks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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As the Wind Blows...
As the wind blows in the
moment so blue
i say my last goodbyes to you
i let go of all my fears
i let fall all my tears
as the wind picks up
i look in the sky
as the wind picks up
i waves goodbye
so as the wind blows
in the moments so blue
i say my last goodbyes to you...
poem by Eilena Sharpe
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My Father, With His Arthritic Hands
My father, with his arthritic hands
Closes his door, picks up the bow
Tucks the bit under his chin
Tunes it real low
My father can compete with the world's best bands
My father plays the violin.
His eyes are dim but the notes are clear
His hearing is faulty but we can hear
The songs that pour out from within
People outside stop to listen
When my father plays the violin.
He opens up another world
Far from stress and pain
I become a child again
As without a word
He picks up the bow, tunes it real low
My father plays the violin.
My father with his arthritic hands
Holds a magnifying glass to his eyes to read
He sits out there under the clear blue skies
Now that he can hardly walk
(Luckily my sisters are there when he needs to talk) .
And when its dusk and he enters within
Then with his arthritic hands
Father picks up his violin.
poem by Rani Turton
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The Foot-Hill Resort
Assembled in the parlor
Of the place of last resort,
The smiler and the snarler
And the guests of every sort
The elocution chap
With rhetoric on tap;
The mimic and the funny dog;
The social sponge; the money-hog;
Vulgarian and dude;
And the prude;
The adiposing dame
With pimply face aflame;
The kitten-playful virgin
Vergin' on to fifty years;
The solemn-looking sturgeon
Of a firm of auctioneers;
The widower flirtatious;
The widow all too gracious;
The man with a proboscis and a sepulcher beneath.
One assassin picks the banjo, and another picks his teeth.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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The Boogie Man
(kinky friedman, panama red)
Well, the boogie man
Gonna get you and
Snatch you up and whip you off to boogie land.
If you dont watch out
Hell make you scream and shout,
He the boogie man.
He the boogie man.
He gonna have them ants
Crawlin in your pants
With them creatures in your seat you got to leap up to your feet you know you gotta dance
To the boogie man,
To the boogie man, babe,
He the boogie man.
The boogie man, hes got a little piece of land,
He got a mean ol lady keeps him gentle as a lamb.
He got a dog named frog and vw van,
The neighbors all think hes an insurance man.
When the moon come out, the kids all shout
hey bring him out, come on, bring him out!
He picks up his guitar, theres a change inside
From the good dr. jekyll to the bad mr. hyde.
Come on and clap your hands
For the boogie man.
He the wicked master
Of the screamin telecaster
And the one-night stand
He the boogie man.
He the boogie man, babe,
He the boogie man.
The boogie mans got a little piece of land,
He got a mean ol lady keeps him gentle as a lamb.
Got a dog named frog and vw van
The neighbors all think hes an insurance man.
But when the moon come out, the kids all shout
hey, bring him out, come on, bring him out!
He picks up his guitar, theres a change inside
From the good dr. jekyll to the bad mr. hyde.
song performed by by Kinky Friedman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Every Time Two Fools Collide
You want things your way
And I want these mine
And now we dont know
Just where you draw the line
How can love survive
If we keep cheers and sights
And who picks up the pieces
Every time two fools collide
You lay the blame on me
And I put the balme on you
But why do we keep finding faults
In everything you do
And how long can we keep right in wrongs
So cut and cry
And who picks up the pieces
Every time two fools collide
We can save our love
We still have the time
Oh, I know there must be a way
But we still havent tried
To keep our hearts from breaking
Every time two fools collide
song performed by by Kenny Rogers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dealing With Bullies
The lion picks out his gazelle for the kill,
As the herd stands around and watches.
'Well, he picked the weakest one I guess.'
The pack of hyenas pick out the Zebra to dissect,
As the rest of the herd stands around and watches.
'Well, she didn't really fit in to our group.'
The tiger picks out a weak, young water buffalo.
As the rest of he herd of buffalo approach the tiger.
' Well, we've had enough, they attack him.'
With tail in hand, he flees for his life!
poem by Barry A. Lanier
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Lapsing into bliss
He gently picks her out
Fondly holding
Making her comfortable on his lap
With his arms around her
His fingers gently work up a rhythm
And he knows which strings to touch
Creating a world of magic with a guitar
While moving to the beat of his music,
I watched, lapsing into bliss!
poem by Anita Atina
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Chick Magnet
Don’t play the cello if you want
to be a magnet for the chicks,
a guy who on guitar strings picks
is thought be far more gallant.
I learnt this fact from Yo-Yo Ma,
who probably believes that poets
have also far more luck with coeds
than cellists. Maybe many are,
but I am not, unfortunate
with poems as he is with cello.
I wish I were a magnet fellow,
and made the chicks importunate,
first for my poems, then my bod,
but since I don’t play the guitar,
my life is black as café noir,
and I am lonelier than God.
Charlie Rose on December 3,2008 interviewed Yo-Yo Ma, who accompanied on his cello the singer and songwriter from North Carolina, James Taylor, who also plays the guitar. Yo Yo explained that he has played the cello since the age of three, and that this has not made him a chick magnet. James Taylor started off by playing the cello but gave it up for the guitar, which Yo-Yo considers a wise decision.
12/4/08
poem by Gershon Hepner
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Warrior Is A Child
Lately I've been winning battles left and right
But even winners can get wounded in the fight
People say that I'm amazing
I'm strong beyond my years
But they don't see inside of me
I'm hiding all the tears
Chorus:
They don't know that I come running home when I fall down
They don't know who picks me up when no one is around
I dropp my sword and cry for just a while
(Look up for His smile)
'Coz deep inside this armor
The warrior is a child
(Aahhh)
Unafraid because His arrow is the best
But even soldiers need a quiet place to rest
People say that I'm amazing
I never face retreat, oh no
But they don't see the enemies
That lay me at His feet
Chorus:
They don't know that I come running home when I fall down
They don't know who picks me up when no one is around
I dropp my sword and cry for just a while
(Look up for His smile)
'Coz deep inside this armor
The warrior is a child
(Aahhh)
They don't know that I come running home when I fall down
They don't know who picks me up when no one is around
I dropp my sword and cry for just a while
(Look up for His smile)
'Coz deep inside this armor
The warrior is a child
(Aahhh)
poem by Sirius White
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Guitar Player
He is just a child, a guitar player
and he hits the strings of his brown guitar quickly
in a lonely kind of song,
as if he is going into the world with it.
He plays for whoever is passing, for the night
where the birds and crickets are suddenly silent
when he picks at strings with a deep sweet kind of hurt
and his hurting music cuts through all things.
Sometimes he feels the cold, the winter wind
that wants to bring him back to reality
and he is being devoured by life
where the stars shine high above him
and he searches through pockets for a marijuana cigarette,
as the last pleasure that is left to him.
[Reference: Die speelman (The playing-man) by N.P. van Wyk Louw.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Wandering Stranger
Down an old dirt road
Lives a wandering stranger
He carries a heavy load
But he means no danger
No one notices his scars
No one notices he's alive
While he picks at his guitar
Everyone continues to drive
He goes home to another night
He's all alone in the dark
He can't afford any light
Trying to avoid the shark
Getting by is getting old
Playing his guitar like a ghost
Wishing for a pot of gold
Dreaming of an ivory coast
No one understands why
He does what he does
He'll break down and cry
Wishing for what was
Looking for a contract
But living for the change
His life is off track
His way of life, strange
He lost his way and his life
Payoff for a wicked mistake
He used to have a wife
Before being bit by the snake
poem by William Mowell
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One's Temperament And Disposition
One's temperament and disposition,
Seldom are instilled as a choice one picks.
If little boys hear they are suppose to be bad,
They will head in that direction to make someone proud...
A bad boy is going to be had!
Although sad it is for the women attracted to this.
And it is difficult to decide to have a good disposition,
To let that 'funkier' side subside when given a pride.
Espcially when a dumbing down done is welcomed,
By nearly everyone.
And those wanting to show themselves to be good natured,
Grit their teeth to the point to make their gums bleed.
One's temperament and disposition,
Seldom are instilled as a choice one picks.
And although barking is never found on anyone's top ten list,
It it suggested as a remedy...
That quickly relieves,
Without prescribing to mind altering medications.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Who picks your clothes - Stevie Wonder?
quote by Don Rickles
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Nobody picks on a strong man.
quote by Charles Atlas
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ringing the Bells
And this is the way they ring
the bells in Bedlam
and this is the bell-lady
who comes each Tuesday morning
to give us a music lesson
and because the attendants make you go
and because we mind by instinct,
like bees caught in the wrong hive,
we are the circle of crazy ladies
who sit in the lounge of the mental house
and smile at the smiling woman
who passes us each a bell,
who points at my hand
that holds my bell, E flat,
and this is the gray dress next to me
who grumbles as if it were special
to be old, to be old,
and this is the small hunched squirrel girl
on the other side of me
who picks at the hairs over her lip,
who picks at the hairs over her lip all day,
and this is how the bells really sound,
as untroubled and clean
as a workable kitchen,
and this is always my bell responding
to my hand that responds to the lady
who points at me, E flat;
and although we are not better for it,
they tell you to go. And you do.
poem by Anne Sexton
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