NO FLEXIN/ Hip Spoken Word
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 is 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/
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.
Lyrics come to me by moonlight
When the power of darkness lessens
When whispers soften like overripe
Mangoes dispatched hurriedly from India,
On ramshackle East Indiamen vessels
Sailing fruitfully through consternated
Waters and heated lines of the tropics,
Selling rewardingly on busy markets
Charged with the power of buy-and-sell,
And order-and-supply.
I wonder how Bob would react to
My girlfriend’s long and big, sexy hair
Blowin’ in the wind,
Seeking answers to horizon-tossed questions,
When howling, racing gales accompany
Frightened sorrel horses, newly freed from
Spavins, and spiked by the energy of the sun,
Hurtle home happily towards old and battered
Picket fences newly mended?
I write often under the spell of night rain,
Striving much not to blend lyrics with poems,
Which, like zucchini and cucumber,
May look alike but are quite different.
I stumble upon the fraternity between words
And promises and splice them with soft, nimble
Fingers of the piano.
Gentle taps yonder come from happily sobbing congas.
And with an unseen ensemble, a song is born.
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/
"In a Silent Way"
The blackness screams;
The light is a mime;
How is it that my mind dreams;
Of those audios, things;
Just aren’t real folded ears;
Music plays dissipates;
Trumpet cries out
Tri tat tra tat tat tat toot
What’s the used Desmond’s horn;
Can’t keep up with the flow
Drummers beat, tapping feet;
As the music plays on N on;
Listen to the bongos and congas;
Repertory beat the rhythm
Of the concert follow first
Back to the new verse
The blackness screams;
The light is a mime;
How is it that my mind dreams;
Of those audios, things;
Just aren’t real folded ears;
Music plays dissipates;
8/20/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2023©
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.
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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