timsored's Open Salon Blog

Moonlight in Vermont

Mon, 8 Aug 2011 21:08:40 -0400

One night the moon

full as a dollar

hung around all night

I swear one time

he was speaking to me

but it's possible

I didn't get that right

Then later on

I'm sure he winked at me

and was about ready

to spill a joke

but it might have been

that bong hit I took

I know it was a powerful toke

But that damn moon

kept his light in my face

so I knew he wasn't about to turn in

And I kept thinking

if he wanted to race

he would surely win

But it was that winkin' eye

I saw again

long after the bong turned cool

that made me turn

and tip my hat

what did I care if I looked the fool

Wasn't another damn soul out here

between me the moon

and the trees

Then as I turned

to go indoors

I swear he said to me

Thanks for the tip

and the smoke in the breeze

I really had a good time

so if you want to tell

your friends about this

just mention how you love

moonshine

Alternative

Thu, 19 May 2011 13:05:05 -0400

There is always some damn humming

No matter where I am

Haunting me, chasing me

Not liking it is nothing

Doesn’t even know me

But if it does the shit

Would hit the fan

Speculation is useless

Accept if it brings another line

Crooked or short

Long true or false

It’s possibly better than the alternative

Unless it’s alternative rock

Then the question mark

Can grow to an uncontrollable size

Pick-ups scraping vibrations

Off the walls

Mini skirts manipulated

Like the volume knobs up and down

Shaking at the over exposed knees

The long leg like guitar neck

Fingerings must be precise

Whose long hair is it anyway

Mostly the girls now

Cutaway to the sun filled beach

Naval men abound

Sailing blue waters surge

Cut into the pier as they slap

My face

I laugh and then I laugh more

I step away through the soft sand

Until I discover I am standing

Atop the ferocious Marshall stack

My naked feet feel the hum

All bodies on the beach

Lean into the hum

Now they are the haunted ones

I stand clear and drive

My bulldozer across the sagging

Power cord

I reach back towards the whammy bar

And pour myself a drink

Give me time to think

Long ago and far away

My heart drew the perfect picture

It still hangs on my chest

At times I adjust it

Because sometimes it slants

Running liquid fuel into my brain

Running all night like

The overnight train

Non-stop I whistle

I arrive and I depart

I change and change again

The power cord hangs limp

The hum is history

I bite my lip

Because my gums are swollen

A drop of blood dances

On my tongue.

Have I cried the night away

Have I stayed too long

This point of view seems inappropriate

On the other hand

Either I’m right or I’m wrong.

The Flood

Sun, 13 Mar 2011 21:03:45 -0400

I enjoy posting my new poetry work here. There's something about OS that calls out to me to do it. I was attemtpting to break through a block during this writing but now it seems like it might be applied to different situations in the Middle East.

In a raining misery

I lost everything that meant

Something to me

With money being the least of it

And every time I turned my head

To have a look out the window

The ferocity of the rain increased

After a while I had no choice

But to step out side into the torrents

The wind blew while the temperature

Insisted on falling almost as quickly

As the rain

It was the pain of the landscape

Zooming in on my intimate self

Blowing, numbing the features of my face

Making my movements stiff and radical

An increasing feeling of the possibilities

Of danger and ill will fleeting and running

Across the usually staid inner most territories

A day of sunshine more and more

Like a fossil from an era

Long wiped by fate and destiny

From head to toes

From nose to nipples crying, crying

Like the rain pouring, pouring

Like the time in an hourglass

Slipping, slipping away

Away from a touch away

From a warmth and connection

Away into a frozen nightmare

Of revolts and bloodshed

Rifles and bullets blasting

New Poetry: 'Douglas Corner'

Thu, 10 Feb 2011 19:02:32 -0500

February already...

Here's the latest from my quite cool, cordless keyboard!

DOUGLAS CORNER

I want to go to Douglas Corner

In Nashville to see a show

But I doubt if I will go

It’d be cool to hear the guitars on the stage

Thinking I might like to get up there too

And I would if I knew

The right person to talk to

But I doubt if I will

I was there once

And saw them pass around the guitar

Some held it for a longer time than others

Different voices scraped across the strings

I’d like to say it brings back memories

But I’m not sure what it brings

Before things got started

I was standing in the parking lot

Maybe kicking around a stone

Maybe kicking around an idea

And then I locked the door to the

Rental car and felt for the cash

In my pockets because

I was thinking about the beer

Inside I found a seat

A better seat than I expected

And then the beer was brought

To me in my seat

I like the moment when

The fingers touch the strings

And the bottle touches my lips

But I’m not next door to

Douglas Corner

I’m not just down the street

In my distance the music is weak

Even with the microphone

I don’t hear anyone speak

And my wheels have all been tucked away

But I’d stand in the parking lot

If I could

Down at Douglas Corner

In Nashville to see a show

by Tim Young

Hunter for Something: A poem.

Tue, 4 Jan 2011 13:01:31 -0500

I had an inspiring weekend. NewYears resolutions to do, what else, write more. So far so good.

I read the booklet written by Johnny Depp and Douglas Brinkley included in the Gonzo CD of music from the film. All about Hunter S. Thompson.

Hunter for Something

So this is a place and not a place

Its run over by too many tears and killers

It’s shaking from the funky underground

And the twisting lights colored lights

That smash too bright white when broken

Broken by a black night stick

Crippled in the knees

From too many motorcycles careening

Like mad screamers flying down the

Mud slide of a hill maybe a mountain

High altitudes gone berserk

By crazy dreaming drifters

Lulled into a mundane madness

Now stripped of his colors and tied tight at

The ankles the horses stomp and curse

Exactly like their old riders through the rain

And snow when the fingers no longer move

Thunder in the snowstorm rattles the snakes

And all the horses’ men are incapable of doing shit

It’s a far cry from anything nearby

Because nearby there is absolutely nothing

The brakes fail the children wail while all

The engines lose every drop of steam

So many months ago so many long times ago

Some might call it a shame

But it’s never been eye opening

Its never been anything but a cloud

In such a tall martini shaker

Strained straight up into the glass

Filled with razor shards waiting

As silently as the night

Even gleaming seeming to sparkle

As a harmless ice cube hung around my neck

And if I can’t see ten feet in front of me

Who is going to call me

It’s my vision warped like lumber

Twisted like tornados take a tree

And my hearing like a frozen whisper

Of course it’s a place and if time is

Given a window a face might

Be revealed laughing but silently

No teeth or gums or tongue exposed

Not a ripple but deep in laughter

Think of the ocean and how many miles

Down would the laugh shatter the silence

Daddy-O I love you so

Might you ever find the time to

Sing with me like Stephen Foster

And the banjo somewhere in the

Bloody fields of Kentucky

Or maybe it was France

If it’s true only the truth matters

Doesn’t make a difference which road

Was travelled

What time was spent

But what lies are relevant

Mixed in the batter the Bisquick

Poured lumps and all on the

Steamy greasy griddle

Seared for life

Like all the ingredients

In a completely different story

by Tim Young