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I fell off the bandwagon in the middle of this month-of-May song-title poem challenge (so wonderfully contrived by Writer Pilgrim by So Elite) but I’m dedicated to catching up as the month dwindles down! I’m following the rules and limiting myself strictly to song titles (with some poetic license applied to capitalization and punctuation) and I’m making them into fourteen-liners, which you could therefore loosely call sonnets. I’m also creating, as best I can with what’s available, Spotify playlists that correspond to the poems.
So, without further undo, here are the poems and the playlists for last four letters of the alphabet.
(I intend to circle back to the earlier letters I missed, so stay tuned!)
Whiskeytown Excuse me while I break my own heart tonight dancing with the women at the bar, waiting to derail, too drunk to dream. Take your guns to town, Captain Smith, the rain won’t help you when it’s over, pawn shop ain’t no place for a wedding ring. Somebody remembers the rose, black arrow, bleeding heart. 16 days, yesterday’s news, reasons to lie, don’t wanna know why.
X Your phone’s off the hook but you’re not, Los Angeles. I’m coming over, riding with Mary. In this house that I call home, we’re desperate, we’re having much more fun under the big black sun. I see red, painting the town blue. What’s wrong with me? I’ll stand up for you, drawn in the dark Alphabetland.
Neil Young Cinnamon girl, cowgirl in the sand, the old laughing lady, the loner, the emporer of Wyoming — I’ve been waiting for you. After the gold rush a man needs a maid — old man out on the weekend down by the river, southern man lookin’ for a love. Everybody knows this is nowhere. Powderfinger tell me why only love can break your heart. Are you ready for the country heart of gold? The needle and the damage done? My my, hey hey (out of the blue) harvest moon, I believe in you.
[E] Zolita 20 questions for the both of us: Somebody I f*cked once? Small town scandal? All girls go to heaven? Fight like a girl, hurt me harder, drug me now, drag me to hell, evil angel. Shut up and cry, come home with me, ruin my life — I f*cking love you.
You do a great job!
I think I might drown in Whiskeytown. The Neil Young is superb with all my favorites. Thanks, Jonathan!