AlanLovesPoetry
@alanpoetry.bsky.social
English Professor, professional guitarist…Alan is usually the annoying friend who dies first in horror movies.
Reposted by AlanLovesPoetry
An Accident by the School
In seconds
the ambulance was gone.
Twenty cars pulled to the shoulder
pulled out again,
each engine strong oxen
leaning into their harness.
We were not the wounded,
nor the one perhaps dead.
We still had a promise,
intent or a
purpose,
five hours left to
Saturday night.
In seconds
the ambulance was gone.
Twenty cars pulled to the shoulder
pulled out again,
each engine strong oxen
leaning into their harness.
We were not the wounded,
nor the one perhaps dead.
We still had a promise,
intent or a
purpose,
five hours left to
Saturday night.
November 22, 2025 at 10:34 PM
An Accident by the School
In seconds
the ambulance was gone.
Twenty cars pulled to the shoulder
pulled out again,
each engine strong oxen
leaning into their harness.
We were not the wounded,
nor the one perhaps dead.
We still had a promise,
intent or a
purpose,
five hours left to
Saturday night.
In seconds
the ambulance was gone.
Twenty cars pulled to the shoulder
pulled out again,
each engine strong oxen
leaning into their harness.
We were not the wounded,
nor the one perhaps dead.
We still had a promise,
intent or a
purpose,
five hours left to
Saturday night.
An Accident by the School
In seconds
the ambulance was gone.
Twenty cars pulled to the shoulder
pulled out again,
each engine strong oxen
leaning into their harness.
We were not the wounded,
nor the one perhaps dead.
We still had a promise,
intent or a
purpose,
five hours left to
Saturday night.
In seconds
the ambulance was gone.
Twenty cars pulled to the shoulder
pulled out again,
each engine strong oxen
leaning into their harness.
We were not the wounded,
nor the one perhaps dead.
We still had a promise,
intent or a
purpose,
five hours left to
Saturday night.
November 22, 2025 at 10:34 PM
An Accident by the School
In seconds
the ambulance was gone.
Twenty cars pulled to the shoulder
pulled out again,
each engine strong oxen
leaning into their harness.
We were not the wounded,
nor the one perhaps dead.
We still had a promise,
intent or a
purpose,
five hours left to
Saturday night.
In seconds
the ambulance was gone.
Twenty cars pulled to the shoulder
pulled out again,
each engine strong oxen
leaning into their harness.
We were not the wounded,
nor the one perhaps dead.
We still had a promise,
intent or a
purpose,
five hours left to
Saturday night.
Reposted by AlanLovesPoetry
Stationary Day
I would move there,
near the old apple tree that
no longer bears fruit and those roses
and bees with the honey-filled hive
but to lug heavy boxes
with my bad back and knees,
and to that house, hard swept and sweet,
I wouldn’t bring to it a single further ghost.
I would move there,
near the old apple tree that
no longer bears fruit and those roses
and bees with the honey-filled hive
but to lug heavy boxes
with my bad back and knees,
and to that house, hard swept and sweet,
I wouldn’t bring to it a single further ghost.
September 16, 2025 at 12:35 PM
Stationary Day
I would move there,
near the old apple tree that
no longer bears fruit and those roses
and bees with the honey-filled hive
but to lug heavy boxes
with my bad back and knees,
and to that house, hard swept and sweet,
I wouldn’t bring to it a single further ghost.
I would move there,
near the old apple tree that
no longer bears fruit and those roses
and bees with the honey-filled hive
but to lug heavy boxes
with my bad back and knees,
and to that house, hard swept and sweet,
I wouldn’t bring to it a single further ghost.
Stationary Day
I would move there,
near the old apple tree that
no longer bears fruit and those roses
and bees with the honey-filled hive
but to lug heavy boxes
with my bad back and knees,
and to that house, hard swept and sweet,
I wouldn’t bring to it a single further ghost.
I would move there,
near the old apple tree that
no longer bears fruit and those roses
and bees with the honey-filled hive
but to lug heavy boxes
with my bad back and knees,
and to that house, hard swept and sweet,
I wouldn’t bring to it a single further ghost.
September 16, 2025 at 12:35 PM
Stationary Day
I would move there,
near the old apple tree that
no longer bears fruit and those roses
and bees with the honey-filled hive
but to lug heavy boxes
with my bad back and knees,
and to that house, hard swept and sweet,
I wouldn’t bring to it a single further ghost.
I would move there,
near the old apple tree that
no longer bears fruit and those roses
and bees with the honey-filled hive
but to lug heavy boxes
with my bad back and knees,
and to that house, hard swept and sweet,
I wouldn’t bring to it a single further ghost.
Vitae Cognoscere
“He’d get, here and there,
a few hundred feet closer to the sun
one time in the Catskills
saw up on top
marine fossils in rocks
it rained across the brown mountain
he laughed and cried,
wasn’t all that much but some days he
was something”
is maybe how some will remember me.
“He’d get, here and there,
a few hundred feet closer to the sun
one time in the Catskills
saw up on top
marine fossils in rocks
it rained across the brown mountain
he laughed and cried,
wasn’t all that much but some days he
was something”
is maybe how some will remember me.
August 21, 2025 at 10:57 PM
Vitae Cognoscere
“He’d get, here and there,
a few hundred feet closer to the sun
one time in the Catskills
saw up on top
marine fossils in rocks
it rained across the brown mountain
he laughed and cried,
wasn’t all that much but some days he
was something”
is maybe how some will remember me.
“He’d get, here and there,
a few hundred feet closer to the sun
one time in the Catskills
saw up on top
marine fossils in rocks
it rained across the brown mountain
he laughed and cried,
wasn’t all that much but some days he
was something”
is maybe how some will remember me.
Reposted by AlanLovesPoetry
My current guitar/music obsession is Swing Jazz, and tonight I learned a simple chord melody version of Thomas “Fats” Waller’s 1929 classic, “Honeysuckle Rose.” Swing is such joyous music and a blast to learn and play! These tunes and their composers cannot be forgotten.
July 16, 2025 at 2:19 AM
My current guitar/music obsession is Swing Jazz, and tonight I learned a simple chord melody version of Thomas “Fats” Waller’s 1929 classic, “Honeysuckle Rose.” Swing is such joyous music and a blast to learn and play! These tunes and their composers cannot be forgotten.
My current guitar/music obsession is Swing Jazz, and tonight I learned a simple chord melody version of Thomas “Fats” Waller’s 1929 classic, “Honeysuckle Rose.” Swing is such joyous music and a blast to learn and play! These tunes and their composers cannot be forgotten.
July 16, 2025 at 2:19 AM
My current guitar/music obsession is Swing Jazz, and tonight I learned a simple chord melody version of Thomas “Fats” Waller’s 1929 classic, “Honeysuckle Rose.” Swing is such joyous music and a blast to learn and play! These tunes and their composers cannot be forgotten.
This month, I’ve been doing a deep dive into George Benson’s brilliant guitar playing (if one only knows him from his 80’s/90’s pop music, go back and listen to play “Take 5”. These are some of GB’s licks and phrases, played at around half his speed.
June 16, 2025 at 2:08 PM
This month, I’ve been doing a deep dive into George Benson’s brilliant guitar playing (if one only knows him from his 80’s/90’s pop music, go back and listen to play “Take 5”. These are some of GB’s licks and phrases, played at around half his speed.
Want to hear more self-indulgent noodling like this? If you remember that Bugs Bunny once thought he was Elmer Fudd, millionaire, who owned a mansion and a yacht, and if your back vaguely hurts all the time, this could be just your thing! Howl’n Davis, Sat night 8-12 at the Sussex Airport Pub, NJ.
May 16, 2025 at 9:42 PM
Want to hear more self-indulgent noodling like this? If you remember that Bugs Bunny once thought he was Elmer Fudd, millionaire, who owned a mansion and a yacht, and if your back vaguely hurts all the time, this could be just your thing! Howl’n Davis, Sat night 8-12 at the Sussex Airport Pub, NJ.
Reposted by AlanLovesPoetry
The Previous Tenant’s Son
in pencil
had written on the sill,
that “Brian was here,”
forty years gone, Brian,
you still are “was,”
and what I was, I mostly still am,
with the window opened wider to let in more air
and the blinds opened higher to let in more light.
#poetry
in pencil
had written on the sill,
that “Brian was here,”
forty years gone, Brian,
you still are “was,”
and what I was, I mostly still am,
with the window opened wider to let in more air
and the blinds opened higher to let in more light.
#poetry
April 10, 2025 at 6:15 PM
The Previous Tenant’s Son
in pencil
had written on the sill,
that “Brian was here,”
forty years gone, Brian,
you still are “was,”
and what I was, I mostly still am,
with the window opened wider to let in more air
and the blinds opened higher to let in more light.
#poetry
in pencil
had written on the sill,
that “Brian was here,”
forty years gone, Brian,
you still are “was,”
and what I was, I mostly still am,
with the window opened wider to let in more air
and the blinds opened higher to let in more light.
#poetry
The Previous Tenant’s Son
in pencil
had written on the sill,
that “Brian was here,”
forty years gone, Brian,
you still are “was,”
and what I was, I mostly still am,
with the window opened wider to let in more air
and the blinds opened higher to let in more light.
#poetry
in pencil
had written on the sill,
that “Brian was here,”
forty years gone, Brian,
you still are “was,”
and what I was, I mostly still am,
with the window opened wider to let in more air
and the blinds opened higher to let in more light.
#poetry
April 10, 2025 at 6:15 PM
The Previous Tenant’s Son
in pencil
had written on the sill,
that “Brian was here,”
forty years gone, Brian,
you still are “was,”
and what I was, I mostly still am,
with the window opened wider to let in more air
and the blinds opened higher to let in more light.
#poetry
in pencil
had written on the sill,
that “Brian was here,”
forty years gone, Brian,
you still are “was,”
and what I was, I mostly still am,
with the window opened wider to let in more air
and the blinds opened higher to let in more light.
#poetry
Reposted by AlanLovesPoetry
You Mean I’m Not Failing The Class?
Tom stared at his score
and then he stared some more,
his head tilted like a dog’s
holding something not a bone,
crossed eyes like he was calculating a tip,
his tongue an anteater’s far out then inside,
obviously wrapped around
his fresh, large brain.
Tom stared at his score
and then he stared some more,
his head tilted like a dog’s
holding something not a bone,
crossed eyes like he was calculating a tip,
his tongue an anteater’s far out then inside,
obviously wrapped around
his fresh, large brain.
April 8, 2025 at 6:18 PM
You Mean I’m Not Failing The Class?
Tom stared at his score
and then he stared some more,
his head tilted like a dog’s
holding something not a bone,
crossed eyes like he was calculating a tip,
his tongue an anteater’s far out then inside,
obviously wrapped around
his fresh, large brain.
Tom stared at his score
and then he stared some more,
his head tilted like a dog’s
holding something not a bone,
crossed eyes like he was calculating a tip,
his tongue an anteater’s far out then inside,
obviously wrapped around
his fresh, large brain.
You Mean I’m Not Failing The Class?
Tom stared at his score
and then he stared some more,
his head tilted like a dog’s
holding something not a bone,
crossed eyes like he was calculating a tip,
his tongue an anteater’s far out then inside,
obviously wrapped around
his fresh, large brain.
Tom stared at his score
and then he stared some more,
his head tilted like a dog’s
holding something not a bone,
crossed eyes like he was calculating a tip,
his tongue an anteater’s far out then inside,
obviously wrapped around
his fresh, large brain.
April 8, 2025 at 6:18 PM
You Mean I’m Not Failing The Class?
Tom stared at his score
and then he stared some more,
his head tilted like a dog’s
holding something not a bone,
crossed eyes like he was calculating a tip,
his tongue an anteater’s far out then inside,
obviously wrapped around
his fresh, large brain.
Tom stared at his score
and then he stared some more,
his head tilted like a dog’s
holding something not a bone,
crossed eyes like he was calculating a tip,
his tongue an anteater’s far out then inside,
obviously wrapped around
his fresh, large brain.
Reposted by AlanLovesPoetry
Rails
6:45,
December,
no one president,
nor dancing ballet,
none saddling horses
to drive cattle across plains,
just a group of us tired,
pains and aches braved
with coffee and a pill,
thoughts on work
or doing it again,
a million birthday candles
waiting seated for the train.
6:45,
December,
no one president,
nor dancing ballet,
none saddling horses
to drive cattle across plains,
just a group of us tired,
pains and aches braved
with coffee and a pill,
thoughts on work
or doing it again,
a million birthday candles
waiting seated for the train.
March 23, 2025 at 11:57 PM
Rails
6:45,
December,
no one president,
nor dancing ballet,
none saddling horses
to drive cattle across plains,
just a group of us tired,
pains and aches braved
with coffee and a pill,
thoughts on work
or doing it again,
a million birthday candles
waiting seated for the train.
6:45,
December,
no one president,
nor dancing ballet,
none saddling horses
to drive cattle across plains,
just a group of us tired,
pains and aches braved
with coffee and a pill,
thoughts on work
or doing it again,
a million birthday candles
waiting seated for the train.
Rails
6:45,
December,
no one president,
nor dancing ballet,
none saddling horses
to drive cattle across plains,
just a group of us tired,
pains and aches braved
with coffee and a pill,
thoughts on work
or doing it again,
a million birthday candles
waiting seated for the train.
6:45,
December,
no one president,
nor dancing ballet,
none saddling horses
to drive cattle across plains,
just a group of us tired,
pains and aches braved
with coffee and a pill,
thoughts on work
or doing it again,
a million birthday candles
waiting seated for the train.
March 23, 2025 at 11:57 PM
Rails
6:45,
December,
no one president,
nor dancing ballet,
none saddling horses
to drive cattle across plains,
just a group of us tired,
pains and aches braved
with coffee and a pill,
thoughts on work
or doing it again,
a million birthday candles
waiting seated for the train.
6:45,
December,
no one president,
nor dancing ballet,
none saddling horses
to drive cattle across plains,
just a group of us tired,
pains and aches braved
with coffee and a pill,
thoughts on work
or doing it again,
a million birthday candles
waiting seated for the train.
Rails
6:45,
December,
no one president,
nor dancing ballet,
none saddling horses
to drive cattle across plains,
just a group of us tired,
pains and aches braved
with coffee and a pill,
thoughts on work
or doing it again,
a million birthday candles
waiting seated for the train.
6:45,
December,
no one president,
nor dancing ballet,
none saddling horses
to drive cattle across plains,
just a group of us tired,
pains and aches braved
with coffee and a pill,
thoughts on work
or doing it again,
a million birthday candles
waiting seated for the train.
March 22, 2025 at 11:42 AM
Rails
6:45,
December,
no one president,
nor dancing ballet,
none saddling horses
to drive cattle across plains,
just a group of us tired,
pains and aches braved
with coffee and a pill,
thoughts on work
or doing it again,
a million birthday candles
waiting seated for the train.
6:45,
December,
no one president,
nor dancing ballet,
none saddling horses
to drive cattle across plains,
just a group of us tired,
pains and aches braved
with coffee and a pill,
thoughts on work
or doing it again,
a million birthday candles
waiting seated for the train.
To That 70’s Kid Starving In Africa
Why wake this way.
The pillow was fine,
why awaken to a piece of dream,
a memory of not coming down from a slide,
a small battle of wills,
a time I made my Mom count
to five,
then slid into her arms, victory mine.
I never did tell her how often she was right.
Why wake this way.
The pillow was fine,
why awaken to a piece of dream,
a memory of not coming down from a slide,
a small battle of wills,
a time I made my Mom count
to five,
then slid into her arms, victory mine.
I never did tell her how often she was right.
March 14, 2025 at 12:42 PM
To That 70’s Kid Starving In Africa
Why wake this way.
The pillow was fine,
why awaken to a piece of dream,
a memory of not coming down from a slide,
a small battle of wills,
a time I made my Mom count
to five,
then slid into her arms, victory mine.
I never did tell her how often she was right.
Why wake this way.
The pillow was fine,
why awaken to a piece of dream,
a memory of not coming down from a slide,
a small battle of wills,
a time I made my Mom count
to five,
then slid into her arms, victory mine.
I never did tell her how often she was right.
Reposted by AlanLovesPoetry
Like A Leaf
I thought
what could in a minute
first, a rush, leaving words on the Oregon trail
for thirty seconds I
looked at rocks
wondered which sky would
come after those clouds
well, this is where I get off I can’t speak for you
I thought
what could in a minute
first, a rush, leaving words on the Oregon trail
for thirty seconds I
looked at rocks
wondered which sky would
come after those clouds
well, this is where I get off I can’t speak for you
March 12, 2025 at 12:19 PM
Like A Leaf
I thought
what could in a minute
first, a rush, leaving words on the Oregon trail
for thirty seconds I
looked at rocks
wondered which sky would
come after those clouds
well, this is where I get off I can’t speak for you
I thought
what could in a minute
first, a rush, leaving words on the Oregon trail
for thirty seconds I
looked at rocks
wondered which sky would
come after those clouds
well, this is where I get off I can’t speak for you
Like A Leaf
I thought
what could in a minute
first, a rush, leaving words on the Oregon trail
for thirty seconds I
looked at rocks
wondered which sky would
come after those clouds
well, this is where I get off I can’t speak for you
I thought
what could in a minute
first, a rush, leaving words on the Oregon trail
for thirty seconds I
looked at rocks
wondered which sky would
come after those clouds
well, this is where I get off I can’t speak for you
March 12, 2025 at 12:19 PM
Like A Leaf
I thought
what could in a minute
first, a rush, leaving words on the Oregon trail
for thirty seconds I
looked at rocks
wondered which sky would
come after those clouds
well, this is where I get off I can’t speak for you
I thought
what could in a minute
first, a rush, leaving words on the Oregon trail
for thirty seconds I
looked at rocks
wondered which sky would
come after those clouds
well, this is where I get off I can’t speak for you
Greenview Park
The elderly couple
held hands in the park,
not a moment of light slipped through.
His knuckles rough and scarred,
a bandage on her thumb,
her head on his shoulder,
he hummed and she nodded in rhythm.
We had to part to let them through,
a low, blue moon come between us.
The elderly couple
held hands in the park,
not a moment of light slipped through.
His knuckles rough and scarred,
a bandage on her thumb,
her head on his shoulder,
he hummed and she nodded in rhythm.
We had to part to let them through,
a low, blue moon come between us.
March 12, 2025 at 11:44 AM
Greenview Park
The elderly couple
held hands in the park,
not a moment of light slipped through.
His knuckles rough and scarred,
a bandage on her thumb,
her head on his shoulder,
he hummed and she nodded in rhythm.
We had to part to let them through,
a low, blue moon come between us.
The elderly couple
held hands in the park,
not a moment of light slipped through.
His knuckles rough and scarred,
a bandage on her thumb,
her head on his shoulder,
he hummed and she nodded in rhythm.
We had to part to let them through,
a low, blue moon come between us.
Reposted by AlanLovesPoetry
Patter
My dad said,
“In ‘71,
I made a big sale,
a young blonde buyin’
a stairway to heaven.”
He coughed, paused and enjoyed
one last smoke before he died
I know he lied about that
and how God cried but we call it rain
I’m think while the phone is ringing,
my steak sizzling in the cast-iron pan.
My dad said,
“In ‘71,
I made a big sale,
a young blonde buyin’
a stairway to heaven.”
He coughed, paused and enjoyed
one last smoke before he died
I know he lied about that
and how God cried but we call it rain
I’m think while the phone is ringing,
my steak sizzling in the cast-iron pan.
February 9, 2025 at 2:58 PM
Patter
My dad said,
“In ‘71,
I made a big sale,
a young blonde buyin’
a stairway to heaven.”
He coughed, paused and enjoyed
one last smoke before he died
I know he lied about that
and how God cried but we call it rain
I’m think while the phone is ringing,
my steak sizzling in the cast-iron pan.
My dad said,
“In ‘71,
I made a big sale,
a young blonde buyin’
a stairway to heaven.”
He coughed, paused and enjoyed
one last smoke before he died
I know he lied about that
and how God cried but we call it rain
I’m think while the phone is ringing,
my steak sizzling in the cast-iron pan.
Patter
My dad said,
“In ‘71,
I made a big sale,
a young blonde buyin’
a stairway to heaven.”
He coughed, paused and enjoyed
one last smoke before he died
I know he lied about that
and how God cried but we call it rain
I’m think while the phone is ringing,
my steak sizzling in the cast-iron pan.
My dad said,
“In ‘71,
I made a big sale,
a young blonde buyin’
a stairway to heaven.”
He coughed, paused and enjoyed
one last smoke before he died
I know he lied about that
and how God cried but we call it rain
I’m think while the phone is ringing,
my steak sizzling in the cast-iron pan.
February 9, 2025 at 2:58 PM
Patter
My dad said,
“In ‘71,
I made a big sale,
a young blonde buyin’
a stairway to heaven.”
He coughed, paused and enjoyed
one last smoke before he died
I know he lied about that
and how God cried but we call it rain
I’m think while the phone is ringing,
my steak sizzling in the cast-iron pan.
My dad said,
“In ‘71,
I made a big sale,
a young blonde buyin’
a stairway to heaven.”
He coughed, paused and enjoyed
one last smoke before he died
I know he lied about that
and how God cried but we call it rain
I’m think while the phone is ringing,
my steak sizzling in the cast-iron pan.
Reposted by AlanLovesPoetry
After hours in the sun,
I take off my shirt and show what I’ve done,
how red burnt I’ve become,
so sharp against the white
but if I’d stayed inside
I’d have missed the circling terns,
a walk along the wrack line,
for three unbroken shells,
my sore spine bent a thousand times.
I take off my shirt and show what I’ve done,
how red burnt I’ve become,
so sharp against the white
but if I’d stayed inside
I’d have missed the circling terns,
a walk along the wrack line,
for three unbroken shells,
my sore spine bent a thousand times.
January 24, 2025 at 12:33 PM
After hours in the sun,
I take off my shirt and show what I’ve done,
how red burnt I’ve become,
so sharp against the white
but if I’d stayed inside
I’d have missed the circling terns,
a walk along the wrack line,
for three unbroken shells,
my sore spine bent a thousand times.
I take off my shirt and show what I’ve done,
how red burnt I’ve become,
so sharp against the white
but if I’d stayed inside
I’d have missed the circling terns,
a walk along the wrack line,
for three unbroken shells,
my sore spine bent a thousand times.
After hours in the sun,
I take off my shirt and show what I’ve done,
how red burnt I’ve become,
so sharp against the white
but if I’d stayed inside
I’d have missed the circling terns,
a walk along the wrack line,
for three unbroken shells,
my sore spine bent a thousand times.
I take off my shirt and show what I’ve done,
how red burnt I’ve become,
so sharp against the white
but if I’d stayed inside
I’d have missed the circling terns,
a walk along the wrack line,
for three unbroken shells,
my sore spine bent a thousand times.
January 24, 2025 at 12:33 PM
After hours in the sun,
I take off my shirt and show what I’ve done,
how red burnt I’ve become,
so sharp against the white
but if I’d stayed inside
I’d have missed the circling terns,
a walk along the wrack line,
for three unbroken shells,
my sore spine bent a thousand times.
I take off my shirt and show what I’ve done,
how red burnt I’ve become,
so sharp against the white
but if I’d stayed inside
I’d have missed the circling terns,
a walk along the wrack line,
for three unbroken shells,
my sore spine bent a thousand times.
A snippet of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas”.
December 19, 2024 at 9:48 PM
A snippet of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas”.