Best Congas Poems
Yes…feel me, temper my insanity,
hold my fleshed passion as I connect
with an audience to share how a night
devours monsters at the seams.
And yet, this refrain loses as the final poll
excludes my name. Why so? My lenses
run up and down the fourth time; my breath
skips : but the multitude of acclaim
from my readers inhabit my soul,
allowing me to shower my ink
with deeper hues as my inner congas
beat for another round of adventure;
this time more assured that by nourishing
my own desire to regard the heart's compass
first and foremost is what matters..
as always.
...............
Jerry T Curtis' Contest
12/30/2014
Danse Macabre
Twin Old Glorys jitterbug above the hoods as silent heralds; the motorcade
congas three-abreast along the Stemmons Freeway sleek in shiny chrome.
Long honks and short beeps unite in harmonious homage
to the office that cradles a nation in her oval skirts.
Dallas, late November blue sky framing puffy clouds, is a cabaret
bobbing in frenetic throb to the glam life-beat of its honored cortege.
As they swing onto Main, the image bounces off the dark glasses of the austere
men that line the parade route like lampposts, and beams to an adoring world.
With a blast and a life-tearing flash, a keen emerges from the
back of the shiny limousine that jumps through the light
implanting itself into the intimate memories of a generation.
The suits whirl about in impotent rage as the surge of flesh
undulates forward in grief, back in terror and commences a final march
while a distant freight train avers its dolor with a mournful whisper.
As night falls on a blood-soaked plaza the wind whips up and
the leafy trees on the grassy knoll sway a spectral dance.
By Jay Herman
For Nette Onclaud's Let's Dance contest
Las Boricuas Latinas bailan
Dance your Salsa
Dance your Merenque
Dance your history
Of conquest and survival
Las Boricuas Latinas bailan
Debajo de las Palmas
En sue colored brillantes
Against the clear white sand
In broad flowing skirts
Filled with freedom and life
Singing loud, Musica de mi
Proud people
Lifting up the sorrow soul
From depths of despair
Let the Congas rap and the
Trumpets scream;
Timbales, get out of control
Ivory keys chime along
Cantan una cancion Latina
De la Isla del Encanto
Cantamos con el Coqui'
My people, humble people,
Happy people, make your
Sound loud!
Bailan Oh! Chicas
No dejan de bailar
Cantan las historias de
Mi jente - no callan mas!
Excerpt from my book "The Big Apple Turns Briwn
When You Slice It" selected poems and shirt
strokes of my Nuyorican Culture. Published 2002
www.authorhouse.com
Monkey loves to crack the coconut,
crack de coconut wide open wide
Monkey loves to drink from the coconut cup,
all de milky white delicious juice inside
Sister monkey see what brother monkey do,
she grabs a big rock, and smashes a coconut too
She likes to drink de coconut juice as well,
so she climbs back up the coconut tree
and grabs two more ... but coming down, one fell
Aw, so sad
Brother monkey says, too bad
He grabs the fallen coconut and cracks the shell,
crack de shell wide open real fast
Then shares it with his sister like always in the past
At night, they play their coconut congas,
make de lively jungle sound
Two monkeys in a coconut tree,
having fun tossing the coconuts around
Maim the drums of Truth
And sear callous palms
To beat the congas of Lie:
Yet, Truth will make its sound
Tear; mutilate the psalms of Truth
And renew the muse of the bards
To publish the proverbs of Lie:
Still, Truth will be read
Exile; ostracize Truth to distant lands
And prepare the thorn-throne
To crown Lie the king:
Soon, Truth will be enthroned
Mask; conceal the visage of Truth
And array the countenance
To unveil the beauty of Lie:
With the veil, Truth will prevail
Imprison; confine that man called Truth
And give freedom-feathers
To that man called Lie to fly:
Surely, Truth will still soar
Mute; silence the chorus of Truth
And mobilise angelic voices
To sing the anthem of Lie aloud:
The music of Truth will endure
Lie may endure for a millenium
Truth resurrects in milliseconds
Please don’t get it twisted or take it wrong
I could be that one
You deserve that, you deserve me
But you hold back your love from me
Even going as far as hurting me.
Pretending like you don’t care
But I can feel your love go through me
That intense passion, that we share when we touch
It’s called chemistry, not just a ****
You can front and deny me all you want.
But I’ll still be here waiting to love you
When it’s me that you want
Please don’t be scared of me
Our relationship is like air to me
I can’t breathe when away from you too long.
You move like music through me
Like when you hear your favorite song
You beating the congas, I’m singing along
I’m what you need and I got what you want.
I’ll put nothing and no one above you
Just trust me and let me love you
So lets not make this complicated
From the simplest of things,
The best things begin, its called a blessing.
I’ll never disappoint you or leave you.
Unless you ask me too.
I just want to please you, I need you.
Just until I figure this out.
I know I’ll reach the sun
before I ever reach your heart
Poet: Ken Jordan
Poem: Dancing In The Round
Edit by: Sparkle Jordan
written: January/2016
I hear
the sound
of
Africa's drums
calling me
to
dance,
in
the round.
Drums -
Congas, Djembe's
and
Ethnic drums,
sounding abound
upon
the
circle of fire,
In
the round
where rituals
are
born -
I
see
the spirit
of
my ancestors,
dancing
in
the round -
Everyday
I hear
their drums,
beating
in
my heart,
and
the souls
of
my people,
dancing
in
the round -
Copyright (c). 2016 Ken Jordan
Latin sound, Latín Sound
Latin all around
and upside down
I search for you inside of me
a Nuyorican's destiny
The beat and rhythm,
Is it in my blood?
This Salsa is too spicy for me
The language too fast
The voices too rowdy
And they gather,
they always gather
My father and his brothers,
Pulling out the guitarra,
maracas, güiro and congas
and off they go
trying to sound hip
Daniel Santo escapes
From My uncle's lips
Papi songs along to Willie Colon
and Mamie waits to do her
impression of La Lupe.
On Avenue D
off the Triboro Bridge
stands a prison made of bricks,
it's metal stairs leading
up to the 16th floor or more,
My people walked on green
pastures surrounded by
multicolored flowers, laughing
as they fed their Cows,
Chickens, and Pigs
now they stare at brick walls
and climb up steel mountains
they dwell in a box, no Sun,
no Moon, no black skies filled
with big bright shinning Stars
in a stuffy crowded box, they
sweat in despair remembering
the hopes and dreams
that called them there
that tall and mighty woman
standing on the ocean floor
promised them a new life
so they sit, work, hope, wait
Tears mix with sweat in a stuffy
crowded box - not home,
just the projects!
From my book - "The Big Apple
Turns Brown When You Slice It"
www.authorhouse.com
Double-dutch ropes slap the sidewalk -
snap - snap - snap -
braids whip air,
girls jump in, counting
uno, dos, three,
feet flick like drumsticks.
The ice cream truck jingles off-key,
icy lady shakes paper cups,
piragua man shaves ice into snow -
his knife scraping the block awake.
Pastelillos pop in hot oil -
spit, sizzle -
plastic cups clink with rum and cola,
congas crack, maracas shake salt in the air,
horns blare like chisme in heat.
Heels click-clack over concrete -
punctuating each spin,
each swirl of hips.
Whistles split the air -
one from the lifeguard at Jefferson,
two from the men on the corner,
three from abuela
when the coals are hot.
Somebody throws meat on the grill -
ssszzzz -
smoke climbs windows,
neighbors bring foil trays -
yellow rice, ribs, roasted corn -
each dish a downbeat.
Kids yell cannonball,
water smacks back,
lifeguard’s whistle cuts through splash.
Old heads tap dominoes on tabletops -
crack, slap, smack -
hands older than the stoops they sit on.
The block fills itself
the way music fills a drum -
the street hums under bare feet.
Tonight,
the moon will smell like charcoal
and sweet ice.
Pleiades Shuffle - S
Sashay down the city street,
Sidewalks dance square sambas,
Sassy solo boogaloos
Swing steps sway then hand jive
Salsa steps won’t shuffle
Street dances stroll and stomp
Stage for cha cha congas
4-21-21
Contest: Pleiades S
Sponsor: Kim Merryman
Have discovered the word "shag" has taken on a different meaning through Brit Box. Omitted the word and made a change.
NO FLEXIN/ Word and Art/Tony Adamo
Iconic slick rhymes/
trumpet beats sampled/
Latin soul grooves on Bronx Street/
No flexin’, just real 90's rap/
Hip hop flows into jazz spoken word soul/
jazz whispers into Afrobeats ear/
a political word from Angela Davis and the Revolution speaks to Gil Scott Heron/
Nu jazz beats as congas play/
Bronx streets come alive with stickballs flying high/
Gil Scott’s voice/
singing for change that will never come/
a ghetto child,
runnin' wild/
hydrants spray/
cooling off the summer's day/
DJ BEND IN doin' his thing as the table spins/
John Lee's Hooker's blues N hip hop/
Hip hop and blues/ yeah that's right/
Thoughts flow free like a humming bee's sound/
Hip hop rap's musical notes make/
The Milky Way a sound system for the universe/
underground hoops play for money and dope/
Miles does do bop on his trumpet/
tasty like a Mars candy bar/
do-wop, boom bap/
what a solid remix, man!
I'm diggin' on your track/
So, relax and kickback/
This is what It means to be free/
Starring at him from across the room
All shades of brown were in his eyes
With my figure glowing in the moon it was no surprise he didn't notice me
My flowing dress was catching his attention
Every waft from that warm summer night
He wanted to read and study my native body....
Language, but wasn't bold enough
He was warming up from a cold broken heart that he suffered
Things were heating up now
The piano got me swaying from side to side
I fled from my friends
Courageously I broke out of my shell and on to the dance floor
My heels were tapping
My fingers were snapping
To sound of the congas
My head was nodding to the bass guitar
And my hips were moving
Across the room he could see that I was grooving
Temptation was setting in
He wanted to jump up and hold my hand joining me in the solo dance
and turned it in to a duet
Face to face
My eye's were scanning his well structured jawline
to his full soft lips
to his bold light brown eyes
to his fresh wavy cut
He appreciated my figure enough to touch it
His hand contoured to my hips
and we moved to the sax's sexy smooth notes
Harmonizing with the piano's light sharp melodies
No talking was needed
He was talking to me in a soft low tone
Not putting me to sleep
but waking up my mind to believe that he may be the one that sweeps
me off my feet,
dancing on the verge of passion
DANCE
Daily he watched her
a vigil of desire masked
by the suit, by the business
demeanor of the corporate
nineties, a faint tambourine
tingling the spine, kindling
a rhythm at the edge of
the mind
Daily he watched her
walking at lunch hour, bathed
in the sunlight denied other
women in the tepid, a-sensual
theater of our times
And the congas were playing
a clear primal rhythm, the
tambourine tingling the nerves
in the spine
One day he heard them
a murmur, a rumble
a great thunder growing like a
sonic volcano erupting from
soul to the center of the brain
Cymbals and snare drums,
tablas and tars, derboukas and
tom-toms, and timpani rising,
rich polyrhythms like adrenalin
and cunning somehow arming the
predator, the wild naked dancer
whirling and leaping with
flashing gold earrings and clicking
bone necklace as powerful
percussion destroyed inhibitions,
ignited the heat in the primitive
focus of his hunting and stalking
the Circean woman whom he
boldly pursued on airborne desire
as the fire of the drummers
burned hot in the city like flames
from the sun renegade in
the streets
In Hip City/Tony Adamo
where rhythms collide, and no jive is spoken/
Guru laid down the truth, a fusion of jazz and rap/ no holds barred streetwise rap talk/ Just as Herbie’s touch on keys/ his Headhunters laid down their stretching rhythm with Mike Clark, drums, and Paul Jackson bass, (God Made Me Funky)
echoing all over the ears in the streets/
Digable Planets breathed life
into conversations, with their subgenres into rap, jazz and hip hop/
The DP’s spoken word rap jazz hit the airwaves with their debut album (A New Refutation of Time and Space)/
Brooklyn NY was the Digable Planets home base in 1993/
Donald Byrd’s trumpet bustin' out/while the Black Byrds jazz funk blows your mind sky high/ Groove Collective stirred the soul pot with afro-pop/ Latin jazz funk/and old skool hip hop till ya drop/
while Jazzhole’s sick sound wrapped us in rapid-fire bop rap jazz-a- lot dialogue
of funky bass lines and drum machine hot grooves/
Drums beat, turning our feet to the dance floor/
turntables double scratchin’ in time/
congas and the horn section called out with their sweaty beat in funky time/
we jammed under urban lights/ and held each other tight/
where the echoes of legends lingered/ into the hot New York night/
Miles, Wynton, Diz, Trane, and the Bird/ their spirit souls
and massive tones bustin’ out a thousand-fold/
we are the new jazz of today/ with new sounds and a new way to play and listen to what’s being said in our life and political ways/ Ya dig?
So the day did come...
And all business we were...
Listening that day,
To local bands, and out "PR"
We got to go on about eight...
Seemed to us,
Mercifully late...
We'd told all our (my) friends
to just show up...
We'd jam if need be...
In the audience,
A great guitarist,
I knew not, he was a Billy friend...
And we heard he was hot...
Well we played, even Charlie,
On quadudes and congas...
He wasn't gona miss his
last minute glory...
We did stuff sophisticated,
Early Pink Floyd, classic rock,
The radio DJ said he was in shock...
Wanted to hire us to play for him...
Not believing the more subtle stuff we played
And when we called up that guitarist,
A sweetheart, and a geek...
His guitar blew everyone away...
Far better than we did seek...
We did our set, and were paid well
Hopped in cars, for a drive to Queens,
At three in the morn....
For famous pizza, and beers and things...
Up all night, proud of our success,
Didn't know how we did it....
was anyone's guess...
I mean we played early psychedelic
Pink Floyd well before anyone
had heard of them...
Dramatic, Billy making it ecstatic...
"Careful With That Axe Eugene..."
"Set the Controls For The Heart of the Sun'...
To me, that was the best paert of fun...
That gig was remembered long thereafter,
So sadly, Billy died in a car accident
at the tender age of 22...
My best friend... I know he knew...
We had a floral "Bass Guiter Wreath " made...
I have never been the same...
They can take my best Buddy away from me...
But , never, ever, that night, and our bond ,
Could any Demon or Angel above...
Seperate us and the music we did love
And the night we made Long Island dance...