Best Maracas Poems
The maracas of leafy trees
whisper rhythms to the wind,
a quiet song of December.
Four days---- left to go---
till the year ends,
and time spills forward,
its hands brushing past us,
softly, relentless.
You and I,
counting moments,
the weight of years
settling like dew-----light, inevitable
somethings are done, a lot many left undone
but the ceaseless march of time moves forward.
But here in the enchanting garden,
under the sun’s gentle gaze,
age is a story written in roots and petals,
a bench painted green with memories
What is there to grieve,
when old feels like this-----
and life hums softly
in the company of trees?
My rhino can play the flute
And is good at the maracas to boot
Alas he is quite forlorn
For his flute bangs into his horn
So now he has a saxophone to toot
the water pounds on the asphalt like a drummer to a drum
and the wind blows in a mobius pitch whistling tunes through its hum
the tin can joins in the whimsical that we lovingly call rain
and the rooftop offers dancing lessons like the taps on the window pane
the trees shake like maracas when the wind starts to sway
and the tires of a car plays symbols as it drives the other way
thunder cues the lighting flash as it rolls across the sky
but if i could hear one last song i would listen to the rain before i die
the soothing peace, that inner sense that is brought on by the rain
releases tension and calms my spirit and helps to keep me sane
A is for Accordion, squeezing air with bellows
B is for Banjo, five strings plucked by bluegrass fellows
C is for Clavichord, keyboard with a metal sound
D is for the Drums which percussionists will pro-pound
E is for the English horn, using a double-reed
F is for a brass French horn, three valves is all you need
G is for Glockenspiel, metal bars arranged in rows
H is for Harmonica, both in and out she blows
I is for Ingoma, on which skins or hides are drummed
J is for Jinghu, just two strings that are bowed not strummed
K is for the Keytar, keyboard guitar held upright
L is for the Laser harp which plays on beams of light
M is for Maracas, their rhythm shaken by pros
N is for Nguru, Maori flute blown through the nose
O is for the Oboe with a mouth-piece that looks bewitched
P is for the Piccolo, a half-sized flute, high pitched
Q is for the Quena, a notched flute from the Andes
R is for the Rattle, maracas for the babies
S is for the Shofar, a Jewish horn hard to blow
T is for the Tuba, largest horn and tough to tow.
U is Ukulele, four-string Hawaiian gee-tar
V is Viola, a fiddle tuned a bit deeper
W is the Washboard, just for rhythm, understood?
X is a Xylophone, a glockenspiel made of wood
Y is Yotar, a guitar with four strings grouped in threes
Z is Zither, played on the table or cross your knees
This alphabet of instruments just breaks through the top
The're hundreds more to know, but Z's a good place to stop.
March 11, 2013
Allright Poet's ABC Poetry Contest
Dedicated to Henry Miller
She floats to me towards, like a Jazz...
Defiantly jumps in my green back yard.
She’s waltzing through the fence in Sunday morning.
I’m having cup of coffee with a joy.
My cigarette is melting far away.
I’m singing K.D. Lang with puffy smoking.
Just fly, my robin, fly, up to the sky
And bring me youth from 70-s “Convention”.
“Oh, She is so beautiful !”, - I’d say.
I’m looking at My Angel with delight
And watching her brown hair in the wind:
It flutters like white sails in the ocean.
Her eyes are calling me with sunshine light.
You came to me ! My Muse ! My Inspiration !
I’ve waited here so long for you
By dreaming in the late dark endless night.
I am playing you this Bossa Nova song
When sundown touches sunrise in the morning.
I’m making every sound like a craft
And stitch-by-stitch my melody is playing.
My voice is low and gentle, cricket’s sound.
Oh, Bossa Nova... Portugal...Brazil…
My soul groans under Argentina...
Guitar and maracas are touching my heartbeat.
Hiroko Tokuda and Henry Miller, I
Became the captive of your “Water Colors” dreaming.
I wish I’d start the paintings by my heart.
He woke up at 3 o’clock, at once,
And cracked the shadows of imagination.
His timeworn brush was touched by magic hands.
Musician… Artist…Writer…All in One…
He’s got so many talents in one person.
Why can’t I take a brush and start explode
Myself upon the canvas on the cloud ?
Is Kundalini still asleep in my poor mind ?
Am I a frozen Snow Queen with no movement ?
Gomen-Nasai ! Please, forgive, My Muse !
I do not justify your expectations.
But I have hopes that, one-day or night,
I will wake up and take my brush and colors
And Bossa Nova will be dancing on the wall.
Black Canvas Capricorn… White Tropic of December...
Original version – August 2006
Fixed Version – August 2008
From all over they coming
See them parking every where
All kinds of food they bringing
Rum, sweet drinks and cold beer
See them on the beach walking
Under the Trinidad sun
And when you hear them talking
Its trini people having fun
See them in the sea bathing
Salt water in their hair
Some by the coconut tree drinking
All around a friendly atmosphere
And though they don’t know each other
They all has a positive attitude
Trinidadians are free sprit people
They are always in a happy mood
In beaches all around the country
This is the scene everywhere
Trinidad people like their beach lime
They coming from far and near
Shirley in the front seat eating
Chicken pelau and potato salad
Rianna making mango chow
That girl like her pepper to bad
Riad get drunk in a party last night
Now he drinking coconut water
Roger tells him “boy drinks some carib
If you want to recover
And with the trade winds blowing
Dry coconut falling on the ground
And you hear all kind of music playing
Soca, chutney, and Indian song
A woman Curry Duck cooking on a fire
Gosh it smelling good from over here
She takes out some in a plate and calls me
Trinidad people like to share
Chacachacare, Chaguaramas, Chagville
Blanchisseuse, Las Cuevas, Maracas Bay
Quinam, Cedros, Manzanilla,mayaro
Just a few beaches, people go to everyday
Trinidad and Tobago is a paradise
With the most friendly people in the world
The islands of the caribs and the arawaks
Of which lots of stories have been told
Some welcome all you visitors
And enjoy the mysteries of the islands
It’s the country I was born in
And I’m proud to be a Trinidadian
Space Hoppers, Power Cuts, Texan Bars & Playschool,
Record Players, Tiny Tears, Ford Capri’s (I thought were cool),
Bag Puss, Mrs Thatch, Wonder Woman, Rainbow,
George, Zippy, Rod & Jane, Bungle - have I got them all?
Dial A Disc & Rotary phones, Vinyl Records, Space Dust,
John Travolta, Happy Days, Dolly Parton’s HUGE bust
Tape Recorders, TDK’s, Top 40 taped on Sundays
(Chatting ‘bout what’s Number 1, when back at school on Monday)
Baby Cham, & Chopper bikes, lava lamps and Spangles,
Fondue Sets, & Mateus Wine – (you tried your best to wangle)
Nitty Nora (the bug explorer), Izal toilet tissue -
(was unforgiving on your bum, and gave you ‘other’ issues)
J.R., Dallas, Dynasty, shoulder pads & bitching,
AIDS, the brand new STD, much more than just an itching
Grange Hill, Zammo, Heroin, ‘Just Say No’ they sang
Jools and Paula on The Tube, with up and coming bands
Rubik Cubes, & great big hair, Roller Boots & Pac Man,
New Romantics everywhere – Spandau Ballet, Duran Duran
Frankie Says, & Ra Ra Skirts, odd Fluorescent socks
Red Hot Chillis, posing nude, (‘cept socks upon their c**ks)
MADchester & Afflecks Palace, Bez in Happy Mondays,
Shaking his maracas - (looks like every day’s a fun day)
Acid House, illegal raves, yellow smiley faces
The strangest craze in 89? – Grolsch tops on Brosette’s laces
So many happy memories, you took for granted then,
A shame you can’t go back in time, and live it all again,
Will our kids look back in time with fondness like we do?
It seems that culture lost its way some time in '92...
Claire Bowl © 2014
When down San Fernando
See my cousin on Coffee Street
I said “hey what’s up cousin
Been a long time we haven’t meet
“Man you change your number
tell me How have you been?
The last time I saw you
Was at rianna and Mackie wedding
Then we take a bus ride
Going to maracas beach
Drink out a six pack
By the time we reach
Under a coconut tree
We watching girls passing by
try to talk to one
She said “don’t even try
We know Sometimes
A little communication is good
Time and distance
Can be misunderstood
Went to see my brother
Down penal at powergen
Hey”long time no see brother”
How is the wife and children?
Soon after lunch
We went to shoot some pool
Then hang out in the gallery
Until the kids come from school
Time to leave now
Walking out of the gate
My sister in law gives me some food
To take home in a plate
We know Sometimes
You got to go see your family
Because blood is thicker than water
We all are leaves from the same tree
Me and my brothers
We all get in Rogers car
and Visit the families
From Indian trail to marabella
And in the evening
We gone to lime in la romaine
with bobby ,teddy and daughter
Next week we plan to do it again
We know sometimes
A little fun is good
Because time and distance
Between families can be misunderstood
Sunday morning in 2nd street
Playing cricket and football
Shirley cooking lunch
and Send riad to give us a call
Curry duck and bush up shut
Black label rum and cold beers
Eating drinking and laughing
Sugar boy” says let make a cheer
We know Sometimes
Having a good time is good
This is what we need
Life can be misunderstood
EDIBLE MUSIC
The garlics are on grand piano in the corner,
Playing alone because of their halitosis.
After making each other’s mouth water,
Clever lemons blowing their trumpets by osmosis.
Onions on sad violins making each other cry.
Mushrooms working in the dark but giving it a try.
Near the open window, beans - small but cute :
Those classic wind instruments , the musical fruit.
Latin rumba from Caracas with coconut maracas.
French grapes can-can in chorus;
Smiling bananas can’t-can’t, but just enjoy the scene.
Tangos with an Argentine tangerine.
Mangos mounting melodies on drums in Afrikaans
Peas piping on piccolos for an Italian folk dance
Rushing polka dots in a Russian borsch whirl.
Oyster shell castanets for a Spanish flamenco girl.
Asparagus dessed in ballet shoes always on tips,
And of course as always, Rose shaking her hips.
All rhythmic foot-tapping fruit
Forever looking for a new recruit.
Arsenals of axes brought by the crate
Pedals increasing experimental
Trashy dissections of raw cityscapes
NYC rockers gone transcendental
Static blasts shredding the off-key high pings
Maracas hit toms to keep structured pace
Drum sticks wedged under alternate tunings
Meted by contrasting booms of the bass
Dissonance anteed raises the ceiling
Shaping sound by analog disruption
Searching/defining an urban feeling
Stark layers of beautiful corruption
Sweet ballads sung without being pretty
Growls and screams about something gritty
Chicken wang, chicken wang
Just hangin with my homies...
Eatin some baloney
Freaky thang, freaky thang
Just hangin with my groupie
Eatin something fruited
Orangutan, orangutan
Just hangin in da jungle
Try in a make a hustle
Shake that thang, shake that thang
Just playin with tha maracas
Tryina make a dolla
Band that thang, bang that thang
Just bangin on tha bongos
Tryina do da Kongo
Swang that thang, swang that thang
Just like a shoe strang
Eatin me some noodles
Tryina train a poodle
Shake em, baby
There was a young man from Caracas
Who proved very good with maracas
He played them so loud
Pleasing the crowd
But eventually, he drove us crackers
Accordion, keyboard for the Highland Fling
Bell, an idiophone in percussion sing
Clarinet, of woodwind joys
Drums, so loud for the noisiest of boys
Ektara, from India the one stringed piece
Fiddle, of old in toe tapping increase
Guitar, my favourite for Rock n Roll
Harmonica, blues my soul
Ipu, from Hawaii for Hula dancing beats
Janggu, a drum used in Korean traditional treats
Kettle Drum, in thunderous pound
Launeddas, from Sardinia, used in ceremonial sound
Maracas, rumba shakers as we cha cha along
Nyckelharpa, from Sweden playing fiddle type songs
Organs, of many in musical bloom
Piano's, elegantly classical grace any room
Quatro, so Latin, played in many a place
Recorder, in schools where many a pupil embraced
Saxophone, that solo in " Baker Street "
Tubular Bells, made " Mike Oldfields " album complete
Ukulele, from the guitar family
Violins, assembled from species of tree
Washtub Bass, graces American Folk
Xylophone, musical wooden bars, the trees have spoke
Yu, of ancient China now no longer used
Zither, all the above in my orchestra, my music is fused
My entry into Deborah's " Do You Know Your ABC's? " contest
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/poetry-soup-3.php
The story of the unknown
Has been unravelled
And now the weak, strong and fearless
Have all fled on their heel
Leaving that blameless child in a shattering state
To fight for his guiltless life
He cried so loud
As the blade of the knife fast approaches
We spit on the grave of our posterities
For telling the hidden stories of our past
To those from the far land
And now they use it as a weapon against us
Our people have all fled our land
The land they once cherished
And fought for with their blood, tears and sweat
Their lives they now carry as golden eggs
Never looking back to dear motherland
The land that once flowed with milk and honey
But that blameless child in our mud house
Died without knowing the stories of our existence
Dig the grave of our ancestors
Pray their bones come back to life
For they cannot stay in their silence
Pretending all is well with us
They must tell us the hidden stories of our past
Our generation must know the unmodified
Stories of our existence and dwelling
Wake up forefathers of our land
You have slept too long
Wake up and tell us why you sold our hoes and cutlasses
And now our farmlands have lost all its nutrients
Leaving our people hungry
Wake up and tell us why you took cola nut and a bottle of schnapp
And gave our young gorgeous women into slavery
Wake up and tell us why we now drink from the cup
Instead of the calabash
We have too long stayed in exile
Now is time to return to the home of the forgotten soul
Play the frontonfrom drum
Tune the xylophone
Jingle the maracas
Tell the tree fellers to play the flutes
For the sweet melodies our past
Must welcome us back to the deserted home
Of the forgotten soul
Home is where we belong
For we have long stayed in that far land
Wake up spirits of our ancestors
Wake up posterities of our past
Wake up from your perennial sleep
You have slept in silence for too long.
How long must I be in the dark room?
Staring into emptiness
Thy feet is treasured
Roll on the floor with me
Expressing love intoxicated
with sexual touch
Dance with me my fair lady
Search thy heart
And flow with the rhythm
Jingle the maracas
It does not matter where we stand
The music of our heart will remain the same
Dance with me
Oh! Dance with me
For the sweet scented aroma
Of our ageing love is gaining strength
The grope is sensational
The atmosphere is evoking
And the feeling is mutual
Hold me tight
Stroke lovingly thy hand
Through the soft part of my skin
Tapping thy feet steadily
To the rhythm of my heart
Groove me under the disco light
And let’s spend night
Under the moon light
Dancing the hours of darkness out
Let our bodies welcomes each other
Lemme run my hand
Through thy curly hair
Touch thy fragile skin
Interact harmoniously with thy heart
Flow with me
Follow the rhythm
Side by side
Let’s groove on
With the melody of our heart
Harmonize with the beat
Move my coeur
Tickle me with thy appealing looks
Let’s join our hands together
Driving each other to the dancing floor
Dance with me,
Oh! Dance with me my fair lady.