marching to the drummers beat
With a nod to Dylan Thomas...
I go gentle into the night
Those when moonlight fondles the sea
And those when its pallid in flight,
barely glowing through clouds at me
I go gentle into the night
without need to rage against life
nor the urge to purge from my sight
drummers who overflow with rife
I go gentle into the night
as every day comes to its end
waking before a glimpse of sunlight
mingles with dawn's blush as they blend
Potent grief exists in the paternoster
recited by exiles each break of dawn —
and they never cease to mourn with drums.
Exiles are men
with two lives,
and they often fast,
preferring to sip gently the treacly sap
dripping from the eyes of fortitude.
Riding the thin line
of the horizon,
they seek truths underneath
receding rims of the atmosphere —
the truths
of a desolated homeland
atrophied by distance.
They do not pray
only to return home,
but to meet their mothers’ funerals —
Mothers harassed to death
by ruthless authorities
whose diaries speak of languor.
How do pirates with their eye patches
count the stars,
and how do feathers of thinning clouds
react to the invasion of rioting storms?
Exiles are native drummers
gone for a festivity yonder.
Like the dead, they live in the
hearts of those who truly love them.
Potent grief exists in the paternoster
recited by exiles each break of dawn —
and they never cease to mourn with drums.
Exiles are men
with two lives,
and they often fast,
preferring to sip gently the treacly sap
dripping from the eyes of fortitude.
Riding the thin line
of the horizon,
they seek truths underneath
receding rims of the atmosphere —
the truths
of a desolated homeland
atrophied by distance.
They do not pray
only to return home,
but to meet their mothers’ funerals —
Mothers harassed to death
by ruthless authorities
whose diaries speak of languor.
How do pirates with their eye patches
count the stars,
and how do feathers of thinning clouds
react to the invasion of rioting storms?
Exiles are native drummers
gone for a festivity yonder.
Like the dead, they live in the
hearts of those who truly love them.
And what of poetry
Those muffled lies
Exposing truth
Hyphenated hucksters
Working the crowd
Barrel drummers
Echoing a distant rhythm
Hop-scotch rhymes
Keeping time
A rat-a-tat
Of Rappers rants
And what of words
Rekindled, reignited
Scorching sentences
Tortured by line breaks
Altering the meaning
Of repetitive rhetoric
Exploring the caverns
Of cryptic creativity
And what of poets
Wishfully wandering
A whitewashed wasteland
Searching the souls
Of passersby
Glassy-eyed warriors
In search of a cause
Blind believers
Sharing insight
Into a silent wind
A New Etheree Poem Any Theme Poetry Contest
Tania Kitchin
I
Dated
A sweet man
We fell in love
To a drummers beat
All was fine and dandy
Except his love for Brandy
His secret lover tore us up
He loved the liquor, hops, and spirits
And I'd fight her off and send him packing
The drum is beating still
For now the setting sun
Will set the beating heart
Now that the race is run
Beyond the moving breeze
Beyond the dying light
The phantom thunder cries
The drum rolls in the night
The shadows in the dark reveal
The moonscape of the lawn
One feels the beat percussive
Pulsing – on and on
It beats a rhythmic message
In passages beneath
The granite stones that listen
To what it will bequeath
Of music it has harbored
Of songs it dwells upon
That sing we still into our cups
For those among us gone –
Behold the moving shadow, now
Behold the fading breath
Passing through the doorway
Beyond that final step –
And now what countenances
The thunder in the sky?
We hear it in the distance
But miss it with our eyes
We miss it in our living
A spirit unfulfilled
Forever in denial –
The drum is beating still
Dedicated to Bruck, Tiz and Neil ("The Professor") Peart -> Drummers all who left their mark, and are beating still within my heart.
Drummers are no paradigm you know
Sometimes changing 4 to 2 time
like poet's words, whether free or
rhyme, can make writing a crafty
crime --
drummer's beats
dancer's feets (poet license)
guitar licks
needle holes and pricks,
Take 5 with threads sewn in the
cabaret
in the heat of the moment, coin tossed,
flip-side of a record, hearts can easily, wrongly~
dizzily be played --
I once could enjoy the songs of the ocean
The beautiful sounds of nature
Moving across the blue waters
But now i can only enjoy the breeze
That moves on my skin by the shore
I once could listen to the angry traffic
At the hooting and cursing in busy streets
Or the market seller competing at their prices
But now i can only watch as they throw hands in the air
And watch how they make faces at each other
I once could hear the clarion call of the kadhi
Calling out to worshipers to go to the mosque
Or could hear as the drummers went by during weddings
But now i can only smell the many scents in the air
Of udhu or the swahili cuisines on the fire
I once could listen to music
And let the song take me off my feet
And dance the young night away
But now i feel the beats from where i sit
And feel the rhythms echoing from my heart
Some days i miss feeling all that
But this days i enjoy the new way,
I had given up on ever feeling the excitement
While all it took was for me to listen closer
Cause it lives with me in my heart
The PO£T
The child is eight, and full of vigor
He was drumming on his desk
I knew in a few seconds I would have six drummers
Trying to outdrum each other, so I called him to me
He came right over
What’s up?
Where did you learn to drum?
My dad was a drummer
In a band?
head nod.
That is interesting!
He nods, excited, thrilled.
He sings too.
Does your mom sing?
He told me all about their wedding.
His sister got to go, she was about three.
He felt it was unfair he was not born yet.
Another child is stomping around the room.
I let this child return to his seat.
I call the stomper over.
Where did you learn to stomp like this?
The stomping stops.
He is thrilled that I have asked.
"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©
Massive strikes in Germany
Burning tires in France
Drummers pound out a war dance
But please do not worry
Real change can't be hurried
Except with a large cash advance
A thousand drummers playing drums
within my head,
like firecrackers bursting,
Rivers of (whatever) oozing out,
Trickling eyes, prickling nose,
Snee..achoo!..zing...and sneezing...and sneezing!
Every muscle aches,
Feeling fatigued and flushed,
Puffy eyes, stuffy nose,
Bouts of throaty cacophonies come out uninvoked ,
Body sore, mood sourer..
Even the bed seems uncomfortable,
Pain deludes, sleep eludes (snuffle!)
Inflamed glands fight ill-famed flu,
Tasteless food, faceless foe, endless distress,
Don't come near! This is contagious!
Life is drear, this is outrageous!
Eyes flowing, nose-blowing!
And I feel like...
Chasing this flu away.
9th Feb 2023
For Charles Messina's "I felt like" contest
So trippy pretty.
Wish there were flashing colors
Hypnotizing me
With shining imageries,
Enchanted via drummers.
What is there left for one to believe in
to trust, hold sacred, defend with one’s life.
When were beauty’s rainbow taut bowed archers
laid resting in gray holes of mindless greed?
Could not the eyes be lifted on frail wings
the heart be told the folly of its lies
as every beat became a drummers call
uncover fallen arc from darkened veil.
What was it caused the colors to so pale
that light could not refract nor reignite
the cloudless arch of chariots long past
nor darkness hide the shame of lost belief.
12/23/2021
"B" Forms, 10 Plus lines Poetry Contest
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