Best Gil Poems
From bebop, swing to hip-hops thing
True poets had it best
For there is a rhythm in the soul,
Which they all just had to express
Some could not control
This powerful thing
Was so often put to the test
It began to dawn coming on strong
Within the birth of a thing
Called the Harlem Renaissance
That jazz, that poetic-jazz, of intense birth
Possessing syncopated rhythms
And chronic expression of surreal tunes
That perfected blend of jazz-poetry
Developed into what it is today.
Thanks to poets like Carl Dunbar and Langston Hughes
That jazz, that jazz, that wonderful poetic-jazz
Being bred of pride, lyrical form and grace
Transcended cultural barriers
Readily accepted in the 1950’s by the humane race
Therefore, the mantra had begun to be
So freely expressed within poetic lyrics
To syncopated beats moving on through the 60’s and 70’s
By way of beat poets like Amiri Baraka
Returning strong throughout the 70’s and 80’s
Thanks to artist like Gil Scott-Heron
Oh, snap he was one of the founding fathers
Of spoken word poetry known to youngsters
Borne to free-styling or hitting the beats
On stage or in the streets
Yes, you’ve guessed it, most def its rap
Re-educating the poet in me, thanks to that thing
In which made many a heart sing
As these icons did their thing
Starting with something called modern day jazz-poetry…
Born during the Harlem renaissance and still going strong
Comments: I hope that you have enjoyed this free verse
tribute to some of the greatest modern day
founders of what is known as Jazz-Poetry.
3-3-5-7-7-1
Christmas shop..Till you drop..
Every which way but loose..
For some rawhide, Wishbone fried..
Gil Favor big on flavor..
Some!
Jo se Wells…Eastwood Tales..
As I knew he would..
Clint Eastwood, did very good..
Being so well on his…way..
Act!
Cattle drive…Eastwood drove..
From Rawhide he came..
Droving them doggies rolling..
Improving his western…game..
Bang!
Lee Van Cleef…Just beneath..
The Clint Eastwood leaf..
Did some neat trick in Clint’s flicks..
For just a few dollars…more..
Sing!
Spaghetti…Confetti..
Italian a..
A very long shot movies we got..
Producers had little hope..
Yang!
But did soap…they did rope..
Block busted some dopes..
Mean machine like Steve McQueen..
One Eastwood movie with Sheen..
Yen!
One big star…Clint you're made..
Riding in your cade..
Now it is you who controls..
Fans seek your movies in…rows..
End!
11-3 09 johnmosesfreeman
There was a day on TV
Where westerns were all the rage
You could take your pick
From your TV paper page
Together our masked hero the Lone Ranger
With Tonto kept outlaws in a spin
Have Gun Will Travel was the card
For black dressed professional gunfighter Paladin
Wagon Train kept rolling along
Seth Adams the leader
Flint McCullough chief scout
Old Charlie Wooster was the feeder
Rawhide kept the cattle moving
Gil and Randy kept control
In Dodge City it was Gunsmoke
Marshall Matt Dillon was key role
On the ponderosa it was Bonanza
Where Ben Cartwright was the boss
With his family of three boys
Adam, little Joe and Hoss
Wells Fargo was the stagecoach
Where Jim Hardie was the star
Now these are only some
For they were many more by far
They were the Virginian and the Rifleman
Laramie, Maverick and Cheyenne
The High Chaparral not to mention alias Smith and Jones
These made us all a fan
Cowboys where are you?
Memories of you is our lot
On TV we can’t see
Is this our last shot?
poetgord@2013
I’ve lost my head
I’ve lost my way
I can’t come out to play today
I can’t find the words I want to say
My pen is dry my paper plain
My thoughts are here then gone again
I simply feel that I’m not myself
I’ve left all common sense upon the shelf
Perhaps I’ll leave it all till tomorrow
Cos today all I can do is look out the window
And reflect on what’s going on in my head
So much safer to stay in bed
Cup of tea and a good book
Take my mind off the things that look
Impossible and out of reach
Tomorrows another day
And I’ll tackle it come what may
But today I’m just chilling to Gil Scott Heron and here I’ll stay…
Aunt Rose is always with her ferns
Since that's where Uncle Gil broke the urn-
7/19/2018
run away with me my darling Gil
cross the oceans with me
and never look back
lets shame those
who forbid our love
and forever be mine
you are from the east and i am from the south
your skin is darker than mine
but our hearts races
the same way
my people name you names
they have an appetite for your blood
and i am thirst for your love
come away with me
my darling Gil
let my love replace all your pain
let us make passionate love
to nurse our tender
broken hearts
My brother Paul was my mentor in the arts, and in so many other ways,
As a child, he made me laugh, as a teen he nurtured my love for the arts, as a man he gave me direction.
He and I spent many a days in a small boat sitting off the coast of Newport and San Pedro Harbors. We talked, we laughed, we had a little wine. We joyed in our moments of unregimented freedom.
Those who went fishing with him new of his fascination with the many colors that made up the ocean hues. He was at peace out there, sitting over the ocean, listening to the gulls as the water lapped against the bow in the mist of nature’s wonders.
I’d give anything to fish with him one more day, or sit in his studio listening to jazz while his imagination flowed to canvas.
Just one more day brother__ just one more day.
Your brother, with love,
Gil
Saloon
Squeezed between office buildings
On lower Broadway
Desolate and out of the way
Faint neon sign marks the place
For the downtown art scene.
Poetry readings on Sunday afternoons
Only the regulars show up
Invited or not
Some mount the stage and
Recite a piece or two
To scattered applause.
The beat goes on
Summer nights fly by
No Sunday readings now
It’s Saturday and it’s a different place.
Crowd mingles
Three deep at the bar
A/C working on overtime while
Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On plays
Jazzy and soulful
A monster hit
To no one’s surprise.
A hangout for anyone
Bodies waiting to meet
An Agent.
Or maybe a Publisher.
Or a Rep.
Anybody. Somebody. Anyone know somebody important?
Naw, this ain’t the place
This is St. Adrian’s
A place for
Artists.
Writers.
Sculptors.
Working class dreamers.
Pretenders and losers.
Wannabes.
Lost children and
Casual loners on the prowl.
Carol, alone in a corner booth
Glass of white wine in her hands
On the rocks of course
Smiles at everyone like a Mona Lisa.
Jack Micheline
Bronx’ original Beat
Wrote River of Red Wine in ‘58
Manuscript under his arm
Waits for someone
To buy him a drink
Elaine, beautiful in a peasant blouse
Scent of musk oil like a halo
Motions
To the young men
Who watch her hands
Move like deadly weapons
Stan’s a photographer. Sleepy, one night
Left his equipment in a car
Morning arrives and
Broken windshield screams
You’ve been robbed.
Junior, a sculptor, needs rent money for a walkup in the East Village
Otherwise he’ll live on someone’s couch
Gil does commercials
Until he finds an old lady
Then Hollywood here he comes
And Glenn is a writer with lots of ideas
But no paper and no place to go.
No one asked what I did for money
Or where I lived.
I was accepted with a simple sitdownhaveadrink.
Sometimes there’d be ten of us
Squeezed in a booth or
Around a table
Talking and talking.
Any topic not important
Just to meet and forget for awhile
The nagging loneliness and rejection.
It’s well past midnight
Chairs scrape the floor and there’s an echo in the walls
Left behind are empty glasses and stale beer
As the place begins to empty out.
We leave
Hitting the still streets
Looking for a cab
Or the nearest subway
But before we do
We promise to meet again.
A bear cub dashing eastward found Gil Hillcrest.
Inebriated, joyfully kicking, laughing, merrily nauseated.
Observing practically quiet rapaciously stopped.
Tacitly, unexpectedly, voraciously, whipped, X-Gil.
Yesterday's zealous-zap!
So the story goes.
Tomorrows feast; who knows?
Opportunities like Gil Hillcrest are rare.
Practically a sitting duck; what luck!
The band at the bar began their break.
Their silent sojourn stopped; screaming started.
Happy hour halted hurriedly; Hillcrest!
Staggering, blood streaming steadily,
“Stop” he shouted.
Wild-eyed, worried, the cub withdrew.
Just as mauling mama meandered on the scene,
Gil woke up…warily.
© July 13, 2011
Dane Smith-Johnsen
A rat done bit my sister Nell
Cause Gil Scott-Heron's dead
And now, no one can tell the tale
Cause Gil Scott-Heron's dead
And some crazed white man stole my gun
The day's pitch black cause there is no sun
And I don't know if the war's been won
Cause Gil Scott-Heron's
The revolution was televised today
Cause Gil Scott-Heron's dead
Pigs shot brothers on the instant replay
Cause Gil Scott-Heron's dead
I don't know if I'm right or wrong
Say brother! What are the words to that bottle song?
This winter in America's too damn long
Cause Gil Scott-Heron's dead
I loved good poetry until I heard
that Gil Scott-Heron was dead
I won't know the word from Johannesburg
Since Gil Scott-Heron's dead
I won't be in that voting booth
Because now I finally know the truth
But the only conscious words are from my Aunt Ruth
Now that Gil Scott-Heron's dead.
Flatbush . . . Bedford Stuyvesant . . . Saint Jerome's . . .
Our Lady of Good Counsel School . . . The Sisters of Mercy . . . The Franciscan Brothers.
Double features at the Farragut movie on Saturday A.M.:
The Mummy's Curse and Abbot & Costello Meet Frankenstein.
Lotsa shorts, cartoons and Nyoka, the Jungle Girl,
Or maybe Dick Tracy or Superman if we were lucky.
Jangling trollies, "Hoodlums" Ma called em, pulling electric sprockets off
The aerial line as the trolly rounded Rogers Avenue.
Paul Chilcott, Roger Scott, Gerard Meyers.
Did I do my homework for tomorrow?
The stinking barn on East 28th Street where we pulled
Drags on Chesterfields and played Caught-Caught Ringaleveo and punchball
On the dirt side of the old barn.
Eggies no halvsies and aggies and yo-yo's and 'territory'
With a big fat pen knife.
Flipping cards in the afternoon: Ralph Branca, Gil Hodges, Pee-Wee Reese.
Vic Rachi was hard to get -- even though a Yankee.
Pop taking Billy and me to Prospect Park Zoo. Always the seals first.
Had to be back by Four. Sunday dinner was always at Four.
"Pass the bread, Jerry." I threw a loaf to my brother.
Grandma, all eighty pounds of her, quivering in her raspy Sicilian voice,
"Don'ta throw God."
* * *
The trapper looked for the oddly-dressed man,
but could no longer see him, or his tent.
He glanced around, so supremely confused,
now where the devil had that darned fool went?
He searched along the whole of the lake shore,
but of the strange man he found no sign,
scratched his head and wondered if the thin air
was somehow playing tricks on his mind?
Though a bit unnerved, he just gave a shrug,
gathered up his gear and headed back down
to where he and Postlewaite had made their camp
in a ravine on a patch of good ground.
Ol’ Post already had a small fire going,
he was preparing the stew for that night,
the trapper walked up, said,”Post, I just had
myself one hell or a troublin’ sight.
“I saw up on that pond I found yesterday
a man in the most peculiar clothes,
his pants made of fabric they use on wagons,
they were slung down on his hips real low.
“He had no hat perched high up on his head,
and spectacles made out of some dark glass,
his coat looked like fleece, but also like cloth,
with fancy leather boots, laces and brass.
“His tent was some cloth that I’ve never seen,
but that wasn’t the strangest of it,
he kept saying that to trap in these peaks
I would have to get myself a permit!?”
Ol’ Post looked at him, said,”Gilborne, my boy,
did you get into the corn whiskey?”
The trapper shook his head,”Nary a drop,
I swear to your, this is what I did see!”
Post looked the young man over once more,
then gave a shrug and let out a big yarn,
“Don’t know what to tell you, since we’re alone,
no good way to explain what you saw.
“Maybe it is like the Injins tell it,
’cause I’ve heard it’s said by the Blackfeet,
that ghosts live up here in crannies and cracks,
haunt the high places of these cold Rockies.
“But we’ll keep an eye out, in case I’m wrong,
being careful out here is always good,
but this here fire just ain’t hot enough,
see if you can go scrounge up some more wood.”
Gil went about searching for dry branches,
wondering what he’d really seen on the strand,
yet neither trapper nor, nor Eamon,
would ever again see the other man.
Win ‘The Trip’ Murray
Some wish the life of stewardess; Win Murray was the ‘trip,’
more than a plane or ship at sea, with stops not on a map,
a riptide ocean surf conceals ’til shore’s long past earth’s curve.
More than great food a hostess serves, Win’s dish a friend takes home,
fond memories, if substance lost, as guests retire from Grace.
Gil, too, was no one’s afterthought; they lived life shore to shore!
Both were a sweetness one could breathe, a rain that comes before
day’s waste gets washed away! Tomorrow’s scent anointed place
where they held court. Gil stroked to silence (1) let his mind still roam,
a joke that he might fear the night (his eyes shine lack of nerve),
the two knew Grace through thick and thin, love’s brief no handicap.
They favored tides that ferried them! Red sunsets greet their ship! (2)
Brian Johnston
1st of February in 2021
Poet’s Notes:
This memorial poem celebrates the lives of both Win and Gill Murry, now departed. Additional best wishes during this time of loss to Scott, Craig, and Vicki Virnig, the three Murray children, from my former wife, Kimberly Adaire Ward, a friend to the family in Los Altos Hills, CA, long before I had the pleasure.
(1) About a year before Gil died, he suffered a stroke that completely paralyzed him. I went to visit him several times in the months that followed, and though some thought he’d left us, I felt that not so, that he more than knew I was there and looked forward to my visits. I would tell him stories from my life, shared jokes I enjoyed, and always believed I saw joy in Gil’s eyes. And he did recover, could move and speak again for several months before a final stroke ended his life.
(2) This is a reference to the first scientifically accurate poem (based on observations) that I remember encountering early in life (of pre-biblical authorship?). It intrigued me as a child and inspires me still to integrate the Science that delights me in many of the poems I write. Hear Christ’s Word, as poetry! (Matthew 16:2-3)
A red sky’s glow at night hints of sailors’ delight,
but one seen in the morning says, “Sailors! Take Warning!”
DID WILL, BILL AND GIL GET THEIR PILL?
I have this great idea to invent a pill
Make it so men can get pregnant as well
Dudes walking around in camouflage
Get a huge belly and know pregnancy is an un-earthly hell
This pill will be mandated and mandatory to ingest
Let’s let men do what women have been doing since Eve
Let the future climb out of Walter’s womb
With little baskets to make and baby blankets to weave
So mommy is in one hospital room and daddy’s in another
And our peaceful home will be noisy for quite a while
One kid from her and the other one from him
And the dad wonders how his wife can summon a smile
Don’t all of you get it, there’s been a problem for years
And we should have monitored each and every birth
Because all we’ve accomplished is a problem made worse
And doesn’t anyyone understand we are over-populating the earth?
© 2011.….~free cee!~ FREEPOETRY
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/