Long Congas Poems
Long Congas Poems. Below are the most popular long Congas by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Congas poems by poem length and keyword.
"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©
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
¡Ay, Borinquen!
Puerto Rico greets you first with sofrito
green pepper, cilantro, ajo
it sizzles like a drum roll,
pop-pop of oil in abuela’s pan.
Pernil hums slow,
sancocho thick as a secret kept between prayers.
The air tastes like hunger … and love.
¡Eh, tierra mía!
Listen …
the coquí keeps time with the tide,
congas talk back to the waves.
Salsa spills from open doors
bodies move like wind through cane.
A laugh- a clap- a heel to the ground
boom-boom, pa! boom-boom, pa!
The island don’t sleep … she sways.
¡Ay, mira eso!
Look how the sun kisses the sea,
painting gold over her blue dress.
Fish flash silver under glass water,
and the sky bends low to whisper,
“Welcome home, mi corazón.”
Colors here don’t fade — they sing.
¡Dale, abuela!
Her arms - soft thunder.
Her hug - drum and halo both.
She pulls you in till the world forgets its noise.
Sand trails your steps like a promise,
the sun warms your skin …
till you shine like honey.
¡Wepa!
Then comes the bite
pastelillos hot and bold,
cheese stretching like a song you don’t want to end.
Coco limber slides down sweet,
cold kiss on a summer tongue.
You close your eyes …
hear the drum again,
feel the island hum inside your chest.
¡Ay, Borinquen!
Every sense remembers you
every beat brings you back home.
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.
I have a blinded man from birth as a brother
Spent time with him first ten years.
We sat in the kitchen floor playing bongos
And congas on mom’s pots and pans
Every time my parents would go to work
I’m, I the youngest stayed at home to baby sit
Instead of flunking me for truancy
Teacher didn’t believe me
At home with mine brother
His rhymes rhythm ways he could-have been another
Stevie Land Morris a “Wonder”
Darkness shown fell on me
His blindness was always be
Looked at him as his eyes danced
The earth darting about the horizon beats
“Does he see internally, eternally?”
The lights were already out for me
But as for him he so already sees
How can a blind person breath colors breathe
Darkness shown all on him on me
He sees what God sees
Do I envision His, their Inter Vision
If I could see for him. I couldn’t see for him
He who hasn’t seen not afraid of the dark, why, so,
So shall he sees more. . . . Many views untold
Unfold the dark I’m lost from here lit in the dark?”
“Yes.” So dark I can see.
Only blinded by my living.
One of my eyes blurred. I enticed blinded by the light
Dark dances in the light
Those the skin on my pupil tight
Opeck scales covering mine eyes
Only blinded by my living.
One of my eyes blurred. I enticed blinded by the light
I have a blinded man from birth as a brother
Spent time with him first ten years.
We sat in the kitchen floor playing bongos
And congas on mom’s pots and pans
I have a blinded man from birth as a brother
Special needs, disabled
Yet instilled, still alive I wonder
Is it too late to be liked a Stevie Wonder
12/5/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2023©
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/
In Hip City/Tony Adamo
where rhythms collide, and no jive is spoken/
Guru laid down the truth, a fusion of jazz and rap/ no holds barred streetwise rap talk/ Just as Herbie’s touch on keys/ his Headhunters laid down their stretching rhythm with Mike Clark, drums, and Paul Jackson bass, (God Made Me Funky)
echoing all over the ears in the streets/
Digable Planets breathed life
into conversations, with their subgenres into rap, jazz and hip hop/
The DP’s spoken word rap jazz hit the airwaves with their debut album (A New Refutation of Time and Space)/
Brooklyn NY was the Digable Planets home base in 1993/
Donald Byrd’s trumpet bustin' out/while the Black Byrds jazz funk blows your mind sky high/ Groove Collective stirred the soul pot with afro-pop/ Latin jazz funk/and old skool hip hop till ya drop/
while Jazzhole’s sick sound wrapped us in rapid-fire bop rap jazz-a- lot dialogue
of funky bass lines and drum machine hot grooves/
Drums beat, turning our feet to the dance floor/
turntables double scratchin’ in time/
congas and the horn section called out with their sweaty beat in funky time/
we jammed under urban lights/ and held each other tight/
where the echoes of legends lingered/ into the hot New York night/
Miles, Wynton, Diz, Trane, and the Bird/ their spirit souls
and massive tones bustin’ out a thousand-fold/
we are the new jazz of today/ with new sounds and a new way to play and listen to what’s being said in our life and political ways/ Ya dig?
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/
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.