Long Conga Poems
Long Conga Poems. Below are the most popular long Conga by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Conga poems by poem length and keyword.
That Day In ‘73
That day in ‘73 was as clear and pristine as glass ice,
Torched by a brace of smitten souls falling in love.
There was no lush music to be heard in this duet,
No swiveling rhythms or conga lines for the long dance,
Nay, these two lovers found quiet shade and a fantasy,
Parked intimately beneath a black walnut tree in August.
I saw the sun peeking at us through rustling green leaves.
You and I made constant eye contact and talked
Incessantly in the dallying breeze as the hours
Strutted forward like a striking drum beating silence.
Our eyes and mouths salivated with each salty utterance.
You talked with a Texas drawl showing white lusty teeth
As you sat cross legged showing bare brown gams,
Slender and shining as polished chrome on a new statue.
Who could have known then it would end up a naked failure,
A meteoric plunge from utter infatuation to the deep abyss of
Dysfunctional love, strangled by fiascos of precision and symmetry,
Of heightened expectations canceled in the sweating darkness,
The inability of breaching the sweetened walls, the ripe walls,
Of this nineteen year old mansion hidden below the tracks, with
This well-shaped Saturday night walking around with nothing on.
That day in ’06 was as cold and overcast as icy black dirt,
Casting a pall of paralyzing grief the size of a granite temple;
There was subdued string music emanating from a boom box,
As the mother and her living sisters stepped up to see the body,
The sunken tan face that once spoke with a sultry Texas drawl,
Once lay naked in the breast-kissing darkness with eyes staring up;
Now the shining statue sleeps with Cancer there, being kissed again.
I sense life stirring once again
through daybreak's tint and mellow rain,
echoing out bohemian thrills
while nomad's pulse begin to restart--
as instinct's voice reel in my heart
The roaming swirls footsteps, long
and conga drums pound upbeat songs
that now, the hunt for newness grows
savoring gifts, old and refined:
this curious flair romps in my mind.
All pilgrims move me like a trance
in firelight's endless shadow-dance,
while eyes delight in trails not blazed
the rhythm clicks an earthy jive--
by wandering, I fly revived!
Wanderlust Contest
Carly Lalion 12 Aug 14
Listen to the Conga drums speak
Drench my soul with the spirited beat
Break the chains from around my feet
And sprinkle some rum on the street.
Listen to the conga drums speak
Penetrating mystics’ way out in the deep
Electrify the sleeping dead
Exhume innocent bodies and balm them again.
Listen to the conga drums speak
Stand up and dance to the rhythm and beat
Fling your hands way up in the air
And swing your bodies without fear.
Listen to the conga drums speak
Telling legends and tales over the years
Hearts exploding with gladness
When they hear the conga drums beat.
Take off your shoes and Join the circle
And listen to the conga drums agonizing thump
Transcend with me to the top of the mountain
And unload your heavy burden.
The Gods are calling me to unite the spirits
And seek peace in the holy mountains.
Listen to the conga drum’s cry
Lamenting the souls who have gone by
I can feel the tempo gushing through my vein
making land fall at dawn and igniting with
quiet sprits feasting on top of the mountain.
Listen to the conga drums speak
Spread out in the open meadows
Form a big wide circle around the fields
And dance out the turbulence in the pastures.
Listen to the conga drums speak
Observe every car on the busy street
Rolling vans and busy men
Camouflaging dark secrets
in old grave yards and pumpkin farm.
Listen to the conga drums speak
Catapulting rhythm under my feet
Laughter and tear romancing in the air
Mankind is blind yet making life sublime
Listen to the conga drums speak
Dance and submit to its hypnotic beat.
©2015 Christine Phillips
The Jazz poem brothers, so hip and so way cool,
With their smooth jazz talk, they never play the street fool/
They snap their fingers and dance to the bass conga beat/
Their rhythm and rhyme are hip in time/man, they are kicking the verse and breaking it down/
They paint a mind collage with each word they say, Man, it just lays me out / What can I say/
Taking us on a word poem journey, in their special soul jazz spoken word way/
Get down to their word flow/ a slaughterhouse of jazz words/poetry from the jazz edge/let's go/
The brothers transport us to a place where the bebop Buddha shows his face/
Yo listen up tight, to what their jazz word orchestra has to say/
Let their words guide you to the jazz planet in the Milky Way/
The Jazz poem brothers know how to groove high/to the spoken word poetry/ in the simmering jazz Zen sky/
Their poetry word jazz will lift you/Man, it's a swingin' affair/ Miles, Trane, and Diz/ horn blowing word jazz and a gin fizz/The jazz poem brothers/in search of the new word vibe/Tossing a snow storm of words into the crowd as they wave by by/
Dutiful discipline drives devoted diligence...
Quotidian dedication describes
das deft dude,
his promising passion
with English language
within recent past dim sum
might notice he brewed
poems about common
trials and tribulations food
for thought self sadist factorially
reasonably rhyming oft times
incorporating analogy, metaphor, simile
more so to stave
writer's block fortitude attitude
versus less to impress any
first time unknown reader,
or anonymous regular
guy/gal follower disproportionately
emphasizing burgeoning agonizing
travails analogously Druid
cursed his existence fearsome
oaf got me matt chewed
rendered into pulp fiction
subsequently spit viewed
within circle comprising
cannibalistic primate creatures
roam'n around within
makeshift amphitheater crude,
yet sophisticated as
simplistically configured, construed
convoluted edifice witnessed
snaking snarky conga line
weaving and bobbing amidst
totemic pillars where well
kneaded, muscled, oiled...
flesh glimmering while nude
on green acres, whereat
arbitrary petticoat junction etude
aired by linkedin foo fighting
beastie boys in the hood
paying homage to their
benevolent patron - Saint Jude
honoring self serving
cisco, duck, eagle - feather nesting
arrogant, bombastic, conceited...,
egos trumpeting barren airs
exuberantly keyed how
village people got royally screwed
taken to cleaners riverside,
whereby sudden deluge didst flood
courtesy of... mad
don (huh) feeling stewed,
who sought world dominance
raged at populace he should
receive nobel peace prize
and voted, nee crowned emperor
demanded cachet else...
he promised to force unglued
freedoms of life, liberty
and pursuit of happiness!
Whether the weather
necessitates to anchor
myself as a tether
when the frankenstorm
socks the east coast
shredding terrestrial
zone like soft leather
i may end up attired
in esprit de corpse
being tossed hither and yon
to and fro like a feather.
If...the forecast imbues
meteorologists flooded with folly
making a mockery
of humanity run amuck
in panic mode - by golly
this mortal male will don himself as
"the chief garbage" taster
with a garland of holly
shuffling along the
boulevard of broken
tin cans and rubbish
feigning to be melancholy.
This getup a throw
back to a costume
adorned this papa when
he attended grade school
eons ago, where corporal punishment
prevailed in case
student disavowed any rule
such as smoking in the boys' room
cigarette such
manufactured by Kent or kool
or lambasting any unlikable teacher,
(whose bookish face) at
receiving end of
pranks rather cruel.
So...presume that Halloween
will take place without any axe
of nature to grind monster
brewing at sea
and picture this poet decked
out dumpster diving
for the most fetid trash
and materiel with cracks
to be affixed upon
a heavy duty sack
with goop from
sullied foodstuffs -
a cause for glee
rotten meat infested
with maggots, shards of glass,
crushed metal cans,
et cetera to the max
will be haphazardly splayed
(Jackson Pollack like)
on this sturdy cloth
that will drape me
spurring a conga like of hungry beasts
ready go pounce – menacing
ferocious wolf packs
adding to the welter per helter skelter
of decayed detritus distributed
from head to knee
and a set of punishing
pronged antlers spiking out
in all directions upon
ma noggin-hence to tax
utmost fear in passersby, and quite
an abominable sight to see.
As I watch the
twisting line of dominoes
in a Conga line march below,
topple one by one-
they're all
Fallen flat... Fallen flat.
Way up high above them.
I'm free-falling
from a parachute jump,
flying down to meet them,
to land
fallen flat
right beside them.
Arms spread wide,
legs spread wider,
belly flat to the breeze,
I'm flying flat—
riding the air,
not.. no.. not yet
fallen flat.
Hoping not to
crash-land
go splat,
or belly-flop
on a crêpe Suzette,
served up paper thin
fallen flat
Or on a Frisbee,
spinning through the air
gliding flat and fast,
before coming to rest,
skimming to a stop
flat out.
It's Fallen Flat
Or on a pizza with the lot—
fresh from the oven,
topped up to perfection,
yet still warm,
its topping all sliding off
crest fallen too,
fallen flat.
Then someone shouts,
"Smile!"
Every photo taken of me
has the same ending—
friends all standing tall...
mountains standing high
trees reaching for the sky
all wonderful!
and there I am,
a selfie,
fallen flat.
Splat, right there
in the foreground
grinning, half-smiling,
flat-faced
saying "Cheese"
with that
"Yes! Please!"
It's Fallen Flat...It's Fallen Flat!
Have you ever wondered what music animals dance to? Could you imagine doing the bop with a kangaroo?
You could tango with a lioness or you could do the fox trot with a giraffe in a dress?
Rock and roll with some bees in their hive all dancing to the Bee Gees, staying alive
A crocodile listening to classical music, wearing snake skin shoes, or maybe a hyena that is listening to the blues
You could meet a centipede in a pair of tight pants, throwing his leg in the air, listening to River dance.
Maybe there are some rabbits chilling with some soul, really getting in the mood in their rabbit hole
There might be a snake that seems to be getting longer only to be joined by other snakes to make up the conga
Now a bat might be high up in his roost, playing Black Sabbath. very loud just to give his ego a boost
Now an elephant just likes stomping around. He doesn’t know who it is. He just liked the music sound
I have heard of an animal who seems to favour punk but stays away from that crazy little skunk
So if animals like dancing to music and dance the night away, that could explain to me why my dog sleeps all day
Oh, hear the rattle of the rolling train;
yhe clap…clap…clacking rhythm,
beating like a conga drum;
every trip it sings along,
with the tracks repeating song;
such simple, inexpensive music.
Listen to that music,
of the heart-beat, of the train.
Sing along, with its melodious song.
Come, join in the rhythm;
don’t you love, to sing along;
with the clack..clack…chugging, of that rolling drum.
Run and grab your bongo drums;
we’ll play a little music.
A grand neighborhood, sing-along,
to the rhythm of the train.
Oh, what a wondrous rhythm,
is the old, Iron Horse’s song.
In the heart’s, always a song;
the body’s beating drum.
It keeps on pounding out its rhythm;
the heart beats of its Chrystal music;
beats with tempo of the train’
just clap…clap…clacking, on along.
All the people sing along,
with the old Iron Horse’s thrilling songs.
If with instruments, you’re untrained;
perhaps you do not own a drum.
Still, you can join the music;
just clap your hands in rhythm.
Revel in that rhythm,
sing and play along.
Just be part of the music
and belt out your own song,
to your own heart’s rhythm
and that musical old train.
Lighten up that rhythm and revel in the music.
Have a glorious, sing-along, to the many beating drums.
There’s nothing quite as joyous, as the songs sung with the trains.
9-9-19
Your Choice Max 333 Words Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Caren Krutsinger
Old Poem: Toes Of Rain ...4/6/2014
August spills rains
with tapped grains, like
pearl veins on roofs
Drenched in soft hue,
toes play new songs
of blue night’s croons
~than-bauk form~
................
Makeover: Flavor Of Rain 4/5/2015
Just now, the saline flavor of rain
crawls on my cheeks , drips on hands
then sprawls out unto a wet lane
tingling like a new song
in the blue of night-time, ready to waft
through the flesh of moist petals---
rows of half-sunk blooms levitate as
if their mouths hunger for salty broth
from weeks of flushed heat.
There I am, drenched in the sudden
pour of sheet willing to partake of
such welcome…yes! wake me, melt me,
inhabit me with pearl veins...
bit by bit, the same chimes flutter on my limbs
trailing in a gait of conga strut ---tunes jumping
from a droplets’ swish---couples blending
as one porcelain-like figurine, with vapor glistening
on slippery skin…
and for all the rush and moist touch
of this fluid croon, gods laugh
as if nothing mattered.
~free verse~
Roy Jerden's Makeover
~ I wanted to write a more 'edgy' poem
using the senses as my creative handle~
4/5/2015