Backbeat Poems | Examples

A Capella Erotica

No need for a loud background sound,
my howl will raise you up off the ground.

I can snatch you up with my voice,
you won’t walk away again by choice.

Go spill our interstellar secrets,
share there are absolutely no regrets.

Speak of how my taste is addictive, 
dramatize every drop I have to give.

You always say ‘You have Moon skin.
Tell me tales of everywhere you’ve been.’

Fall into my depiction of a far off land, 
my words you instinctively understand. 

Savor a sip of picante’ exotica.
I’m the backbeat, a cappella erotica.

ROCK'N ROLL just my opinon c

ROCK'N ROLL backbeat dance treat

kicking the can to the curb-

Play a little diddle
Fet me some
Play a little diddle
Fer me come on boy

Give me some of that ole raz a ma taz
Play me some beat give me jazz
Air check backbeat block chords Fusion Bridge
Get down with in

Play a little diddle
Fet me some
Play a little diddle
Fer me come on boy

Kicking the can to the curb
So upturn
Boy, I am focused
Got my open-toe shoes on
And one glitter glove
In step of rhythm I am
Kicking the can to the curb



10/8/24
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2024©

OWNLA WON'T LET GO-Dedicated Verse to Shasta Simms

Ownla won’t let it go
She won’t let it go
Her rhythm break steps are
 Certainly a characteristic Oh! could Ownla could sing
Man she could dance dance traditional
Has a cute smile, and a deep soul
Boy! She would love her man so
She was a backbeat, apple sweet
Her voice softly quiet In a jazz half break 
Ownla, Ownla won’t let go
Of those the things
Boy, she would sing to her man
Ownla, Ownla won’t let go of those
Godly things, those simple dreams
He purpose is purpose steps are the ones that are normally performed at the end of the jazz In her voice
In her songs
In her feet
Her dance she wouldn’t pust it
Ahh! She would just let it fall
Yaah yeah yea yeah yea yea
Boy, she would sing to her man
Ownla, Ownla won’t let go of those
Godly things, those simple dreams
He purpose is purpose steps are the ones 
that are normally performed at the end of the jazz
 In her voice
In her songs
In her feet
Her dance she wouldn’t push it
Ahh! She would just let it fall
Yaah yeah yea yeah yea 

9/3/24
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2024©
for SHASTA JAZZ DEDICATED VERSE FOR SHASTA SIMMS ANTHOLOGY #1

But Reflection Is

Never in secluded pools they dwell,
I speak of ornate  waterfalls,
they rise and fall majestically,
near docks, wharves and piers,
sparkle, gleam, smooth flow trickle,
eye balm whirl fantastic perk on tap,
stickybeak on podium rapids,
instigator signage when our trek seems dull,
but reflection is a gem warp cataract,
kinetic rebound  ocean wave backbeat,
which in fact an upfront blissful target,
hardly ever missing opal bulls-eye,
environmental bubbles that somehow never burst,
indulge outlandish fare Promethean,
spurt  on vermillion lanyards pendant sweep,
dream paint sunrise clementine tincture,
daub acrylic spree through pale moon orb,
squeeze tube lambent hue past frail mandala,
eternal sepia a light touch pristine shroud,
that loiters over urban life force ripple,
flaunt your image rich abundant fire

Rapid Urban Belt - Anacreontic Couplets

Gilt-edged first light visions greet 
zestful horde in trendy street
Luscious coffee bouncing bean
set alight a dormant scene 
Pumpkin seeds dot fresh brown toast
eager staff cool vibrant host 
Ghetto blasters rock and blare 
raucous voices split the air  
Backbeat sold on grey stone curb
manic newsstand with the blurb 
Toil worn riser half asleep 
speed bump traffic jam’s beep beep
Noisy dockland, wharf or pier
naval fringe cry, coast is clear 
Blue horizon sky high quest
humdrum route dull second best 
Stock exchange a whirling disc
budding Gordon Gecko risk
Rapid urban belt whose rift 
spurs its city’s latent gift

The Roggenwolf

A familiar dawn of dull and sunless sky
the inconstant rattle of unlocked door, which
plays a backbeat to the buzz of dying fly.
A breath of wind blows a high, discordant pitch;
wildly rings a wind bell on a porch nearby.

I should have repaired the door a while ago
before it and I became unhinged, beside
the thing solely clatters when North Easters blow.
It’s so very nearly time to step aside;
let others tend to the house, the garden mow.

And yet, some dawns are born splendid sapphire blue
the backbeat buzz, then a rhythm of devouring
melodies we made together, me and you.
The sweet memories of passion flowering
wildly consummated in one morning’s dew.

A familiar dawn of dull and sunless sky,
the harsh singing of a curlew overhead
a Roggenwolf stealing from a field of rye
and wild wind that whistles past now empty bed;
also rings a wind bell on a porch nearby.

Sweet Shuffle

Golden beams peeking,
songs of blues by the seashore;
Aghast jaws of life 
rebuild an eroded beach;
The solace of the sea stills;

At peace you marvel 
this melody can’t be real;
Nautical backbeat 
a compass for the broken;
Soothing sorrowful band aid;

Lush foam matches drums 
keeping such a sweet shuffle;
Sunshine sings backup 
a gentle nudge on your mood;
Turquoise waters raise a smile.

Drum Beat

Enticing beat,
ancient accolades, achieving ancestry
 backbeat barrage, buoyant beats
crescendo chorus  calculations
 dulled dirges, double drumming durations
environmental echoed egos
 faint, fading fervent falsettos;
Ghost-Note grooves
 hi-hat hoop heads hued
intended isolation idio-synchrony
 jembe jaunt journeyings
kidi kick knockings
 linear lick loggings
metronome mallets magical
 nostalgic notations neurological
ostinato off-beat odd-modulationss
 paradiddle  percussive permutations,  
rudimentary rack repetitions, relentless rolls,
 soft solitary shakers, steady shredding, single stroking spurs,
tenacious, tribal tectonic tympani trance 
 udu utterance 
 vibraslap virgin, vivid vibes vile,
 wood-block whirls winging wild 
xboba, x-hat, xaern
 yearning yugen yarn 
zigzag
 enticing beat.

Musical Shed

By day the quarrymen

The music band understand
6 long month's they must wait
till their next recording session

They won't play the ashes all summer
In the winter garden 
With the shed at the bottom
Until the snow subsidies again

So pack away the grand piano
Bass drum 
Guitars
And clarinet

Time to reflect
And begin writing
A new album
New song's for a new dawn

Once the shed is brought to life again
Music rising from the rafters
Instruments in backbeat unison

Singing and playing
We haven't seen the ashes all summer
The musical shed is back in business

Back to Liverpool again
The home of working class
Musical theater

Music Haiku

Time tickling backbeat
Staccato notes warping air
Jazz like loose feathers

Brain Jewels

Mysterious brain jewel radiation chamber
Prismatic refraction blue sapphire ruby emerald amber
 
Electromagnetic spectrum distribution
Tubular nerve net staccato syncopation
 
Chameleon shape blender shifter
Kaleidoscopic genetic mutation sifter
 
Polychromatic vector generator
Infinite recombination stimulator
 
Reboot jack gray matter rejuvenation
 
Press automatic driver repeat backbeat
Feedback reverb downbeat slack beat
 
Routine maintenance check
Dream sleep mode
 
Shut down

D Street and Mayne

D street daydreams,

watered down time,
diluted with a soured lime,

streaming like faces,
caught in tour bus windows,
shading eyes from mid day light,

a winking glint on distant water,

faint gulls cry winging over,
far off sand dunes like snowy plover,

wind blown hinting,
salt and sea,
as laughter floats formless,

flotsam on warm custard breezes,

sunlit sound of summers,
backlit like animated mummers,

captured in an iced tea lemon,
told on a melting sno-cone,
thrashed with an elephant's ear,

boardwalk dusk fallow,

shadows flow down to barnacled piling,
tidal flow pounding rhythmically beguiling,

captured moths in a porchlight,
buzzing backbeat arc lamps,
forms flit on a sultry street,

walking stilted looking back,

the grinding rasp of memory's regret,
those fog bound wraiths that never forget,

a young time touched by a different sun,
warm sand hourglass that couldn't run out, 
west coast jubilee could never end...

it ends...

at the corner of D street and Mayne.

I Heard the Owl Call My Name

I heard the owl call my name,
like a backbeat in a child's voice,
etched in shadows of a father's grave,

lonely echoes on a frosted night...

at dawn I'll be immortal again,
renewed by a workaday 
and the frigid fiscal year,

my soul stays leafless in damp moonlight...

do we end days defibrillating 
in hospice and parchment or
under foreign suns twitching and fluid,

while kestrels dive as doves take flight...

why only in the dark hours,
the soul's midnight,
can we see farther, deeper,

nightdreams wander like a restless wight...

experienced or just imagined,
dreamt but never realized,
conceived yet unexecuted,

an inner eye begs keener sight...

as yellow eyed and dark skinned children, 
play with tattered banners,
laughing at rusted armor, bleaching bones,

and history cries that might makes right...

as I, stale pilgrim of no progress,
catch faint odors of war,
in the molded root cellar of my mind,

as hope catches wind like a child's kite.

Sweet Sounds

The b ba baaa backbeat of backup beeps
and the engine rroarrrrs
join the whizz of rubber wheels
and the lingering laughter of lovers
at the intersection

The beep-beep tootelie-toots
of arriving transit buses 
tickles the funny-bone of morning
waking somnambulant walkers
who dot the sidewalk below my perch,
even the slap of skate-boards
and the clinking tweeter od metal shopping carts
makes music…

Each raucous sound rattles
the single-paned windows of clap-board relics
pinging off plaster, vibrating through ancient oak floors
coming home to roost in the mingled fragrance
of brownies and mary jane.

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