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Jukebox Of The Heart

by Walter Jones (Age: 67)
copyright 08-25-2009


Age Rating: 13 +



There is a corner in my heart
Where a jukebox stands
And all the songs of loving
Play forth inside the man

Rags to riches
Sad to lonely bands
Wishes and want
Please to I can

Water to wine
Ashes to dust
Lust pretends
Love those songs so much

Comfort in silence
Plays the old face
Laugh at the new one
Hang my head in disgrace

Calluses like water over the dam
Shadows make a melody
Rain keeps the time
Mix a measure of the man


Softly hear her heart beat
Taste the love now meant for the street
Willing tapping on table bare
Cost of living jukebox still there

... and I wonder who is the maker
who placed the music strong
kiss the fragrance
she been gone to damn long

There is a corner in my heart
Where a jukebox stands
And all the songs of loving
Play forth inside the man






Visitor Reads: 460
Total Reads: 471
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        08-25-2011     Mae Futter Stein        

Hi Walter,
I ran across your poem, Jukebox of the Heart. It is a great poem to read. My husband and I have an AMI Disco 200 that we love playing the records from the 50's. Your poem is perfect for me to frame and set on the wall above. Memories are cherished and your poem is perfect. I will put your name on the poem. Thanks for the write.
Mae

        08-30-2009     Susan Brown        

Walter,
I think (many) several of us lean against the invisible bar in hopes of hearing the latest sound from this jukebox's collection. I especially enjoy reviewing the shadows from your corner.

I need to mention- I was traveling through this practically abandoned sun bleached town recently. We (my husband & I) had stopped for a refresher in an old ghostly miner haunt and I was sitting with my back to the three or four pool playing occupants "quite purposely" as they were rather grisly looking and although probably very interesting, possibly dangerous and maybe even sleep deprived or desperate. I didn't choose to meet/greet them, but they were entertaining to watch from the mirror behind the toothless lady cleaning the glasses. I noticed she talked to them like she had a circus of tigers she was keeping at the end of her leash. We didn't stay long, but before we moved on I caught a glimpse of this one gray bearded gold miner scratching his signature on his bar bill. It was taking him so long I considered he was writing a poem or drawing a map. The eyes in the back of my head rolled around to ask my husband...suppose this could be Walter? He laughed, tipped the lady (my joke lightened the mood) and we ran out the door- into the blazing heat and headed down the highway. Thanks for the fun and as you can probably tell "I was missing my P.n.P. connection" that week while traveling.
Susan

        08-26-2009     Raja Sharma        

Your cohesion of syntax sometimes amazes me:
Rags to riches
Sad to lonely bands

and then...

Water to wine
Ashes to dust

You see, these are the things which a teacher picks out like the gems of the shores of Ganges.
This one really delighted me immensely.
Sometimes I do feel that the poet is trying to hide behind the persona. Am I right, or is it just my fancy?
Wonderful work
God bless you
Rajasir



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