Long Downbeat Poems
Long Downbeat Poems. Below are the most popular long Downbeat by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Downbeat poems by poem length and keyword.
Andy O’(Snaps fingers rhythmically) The air hangs thick with midnight blue/And the city hums a graffiti tune/ a voice cuts through, a velvet blade/Andy O’, where stories are made/Poet, Musician, Broadcaster's soul/Navigating the sonic scroll of a downbeat that will never fade/KUVO Jazz, a haven's light/On Sunday nights, banishing the uptight/The Nightside a whispered promise kept/Where restless minds and tired souls have wept/And found solace in a whispered rhyme/A tapestry woven, defying space and time/Mr. Andy O’ cradles the jazz, a smoky embrace/And invites the poetry to find its place/A conversation, deep and low/Of saxophone sighs and verses that flow/The ongoing relationship, raw and true/Between a trumpet's cry and Gil Scott heron spoken word on heartache, hope, and dreams deferred/In every chord and every whispered word/So tune in to the hip Andy O’/ let the darkness fade/As Andy O’ builds the jazzy serenade of stars on the poetry and jazz parade/ For on the Nightside, the truth is revealed In the marriage of poetry, and how jazz makes us feel to be real in the truth of it/ Andy O’ Snaps fingers, silence/ And walks away to broadcast for another day/
Tony Adamo
The August's heat wave made streets sizzle,
in the fifties there was no air conditioning;
can we imagine the frustrutating feeling
that made bodies and minds very feeble?
Summer was fun on that noisy Mulberry Street,
no traffic went through it: such a sad downbeat;
how happy were the kids that couldn't help screaming,
getting wet in a large pool of water that was refreshing.
Blame that rascal kid that opened the firehydrant,
nobody went to school and mothers seemed moody;
some vendors were mad, but watching was so groovy...
they weren't nagging and enjoyed the scene with interest.
My books lay on the stoop, splashing water made them slide
nom brought them in giving me a naughty and disapproving look...
even she realized that's another silly excuse for me not to hide,
dipping bread into her delicious gravy while dad sliced the snook.
Copyright ( c ) 20017 by Andrew Crisci
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.
IN CONTEXT
this tension
of
intelligence
at the heart
fragments
shuttle past
the timeline
of
loneliness
a tempting place
construed
with reticencent
to reflect
& reinterpret
or explain
supplanted
by desperation
in downbeat
resilience
&tactility
ambiguity
of emotions
plunge
unresolved
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand
Sunshine undulates across verdant plain
casting dark shadows ushering twilight zone
ringing athwart tree trunks
invigorating, joyously kickstarting,
and plenti revitalizing
bountiful nature buzzfeeding
vim, vinegar and *****
caressing, massaging, and palpating with
soundlessness inducing bub bully giddy,
and sudsy spongy schmaltzy
harmonic livingsocial kerplunk
also intoxicating this perk o' late
ting teetotaler, no longer ginger
who doth oft times ale
with melancholic funk,
whereat imbibing nectar
of the Gods with fulfillment
temporarily quicken ends euphoric,
albeit 'pon firm meant soberly drunk.
Ah...nothing more uplifting
than (Anita Bryant raisin eyebrows)
plugging sunkist orange treat,
this sensate being privy,
sans front row seat
agog at orchestral, festival, viz
choral paean courtesy sweet
flora and fauna feat
bequeathed to Mother Earth,
a requiem pulsating with heartbeat
pitch perfect exultation
glorifying spring days soon obsolete
ethereal, ideal, and
sensational tonic to gin
prestidigitation, qua
natural psychological helpmeet
pleasant distraction with intent to read
temporarily placating, needling craving
for Pete sakes daily
fix this news junkie,
trembling when complete
awareness he doth accrete,
where quite glum, how
civilization didst mistreat
planet, hence feeling downbeat,
especially haunting ghosts of
Native Americans drumbeat
signal harbinger debacle
i.e. environmental doomsday
soon fated extinction
sealed and complete
inexorably inching closer to reality
necessitating superman to defeat
global warming rendering vast swaths
uninhabitable as Gaia global
temperature packs tremendous heat!
Time is the only gift that keeps giving
as it ticks relentlessly away.
It is an indifferent benefactor
brutally fair with its pennies.
Each dawn sees more hours in our account.
But it never checks the balance,
there is never any carry-over,
no borrowing, debt or overdraft.
Time is endless; it ticks on regardless.
Its account respects not its waste,
nor wise use, nor measured or frivolous use.
Procrastination is ignored.
It waits for nothing
why should it?
It catches up with us
as we catch the clock face
counting the past,
which is the one tense,
that time forgot long ago.
Time is merely a witness,
watching on CCTV.
We speak of spending time
as though we possess it,
but it never belonged to us anyway,
it was never given, only taken,
as it ticks away.
Saving time is a delusion
it ticks away.
Tomorrow is an illusion,
a tick for another day.
time well spent
is a drip drop splat
in the ocean's séance,
that ticks away, ticks away.
Time has no use at all.
It is totally indifferent.
It leaves no traces of its passage,
which we observe in tree rings, wrinkles,
scars, sediments, stories,
relics and memories.
Time knows nothing of such things.
We imagine we are moving through time,
yet we are the hourglass
through which the sands of time can move.
The past never exists.
The future does not yet exist.
The present vanishes before
we can touch a finger on it.
The past is a recollection
future is anticipation
present is participation
time has no reflection.
Yesterday, today, and tomorrow
all exist concurrently.
Time began with the Big Bang
the downbeat for existence.
It is the sound entropy makes
as it unfolds order into disorder.
It is an ever expanding passage
relentless in its ticking.
Its rhythm is indifferent
to whether we dance
or simply count the notes.
Once we were a matching pair, some days we’d get downbeat
as we both couldn't abide the stench of sweaty cheesy feet!
Our male owner would pop us in the washing machine
with warm soapy suds we’d soon smell fresh and clean
But now my ‘sole mate’ has gone missing and I am bereft
I was worn on the right foot, and he was worn on the left
Our owner removed the washing machine gasket
then checked the tumble drier and laundry basket
Alas my companion is still missing, life just isn’t fair
a single sock is useless, and I’m filled with despair
So my owner’s sock stock has now been depleted
and with my partner gone I’m feeling de-feeted!
What use is one sock, maybe one day I’ll be ‘heeled’
if the sock monster’s secret stash is suddenly revealed!
So for now I am consigned to the back of a drawer
with other odd socks and I'm sure there’ll be lots more!
Spoken Word Poetry: JAZZ ALIVE
Man alive, and this ain’t no jive, I’m diggin’ on jazz to stay alive/
East Coast rhythms from the 50’s and 60’s, in the heart of the city, where the music breaths/
Up all night to dig the modern jazz scene, and out of the cool midnight cookin’ shows at the Blue Note/Located at 131west 3rd St. NYC the place to be/
City lights flashing, hipsters, record buying, dressed to the nines in retro threads at dive bars and clubs where the real jazz magic spreads/
Catch the scene, and get hip to the latest with the 50s swingin’ jazz machine/
Bill Evans Trio, Modern Jazz Quartet, Miles Davis, Lester Young – Can You Feel the Beat/ It’s Milestones with Miles/At that recording, Davis’s bebop/hardbop music was manifesting into his future modal thing/
Milt Jackson, Chet Baker’s smooth serenade, Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five” in Five Four Time, John Coltrane’s Cascade, Cannonball Adderley, Wynton Kelly’s embrace, Paul Chamers, Jimmy Cobb, all left their trace/
The city never sleeps, no change of pace, play your gig till 2 AM/
Chase the night with grace/catch a cab, hit the jam, Sweet Basil’s swinging where the music never dims/
Women strong and fierce, oh how they loved their jazz men/
Financial support flowed like a sweet refrain/
“This Here, “Dat Dare,” and “Moanin’” what sounds, in Bobby Timmons groove/you know what I mean/
The Tenor Conclave, Hank Mobley, Al Cohn, John Coltrane, Zoot Sims/ Hi-Fi jam sessions to no end/
Max Roach on the scene, Deeds Not Words, his LP/
Abby Lincoln, Helen Humes, Sarah Vaughn, Dinah Washington – jazz voices supreme all greats in their prime/
new record companies popping, day into night: Jazzland, Riverside, Atlantic, Prestige all shining bright/
Philly Joe Jones, Blues for Dracula, man what a scene, what a feeling on Halloween’s Eve, back in the day when Everybody dug jazz, but what happened to the Five Spot Café where the legends would play? /
So dig this, I’m walkin’ to Jazz Alley, Soulmates on my cell I know so well, Ben Webster and Zawinul, their melodies swell/
In this world of music vibes, man, I find my reprieve in modern jazz rhythm and choose to believe in the downbeat of jazz to set me free
He stepped down from the stagecoach kicking dust up with his boot
He stood a while, he lacked a smile, his teeth gripped his cheroot
His Stetson it was thick with dust, his guitar case was too
He looked around this downbeat town; found no man that he knew
He’d travelled to this lawless town of which he’d gotten word
Two preachers vanished here before, but he won’t be the third
For he had brought his guitar which, to praise the Lord, he plays
And when he strums those guitar strings, the congregation sways
Had this town been a Wild West town, he’d know which way to go
But how does one say ‘Hotel’, here in outback Mexico?
A man in a sombrero, three armed sidekicks in his wake
Sauntered up and told him to be gone for his own sake
“Hey, Cowboy, we don’t want no Gringo, messing up our town,
Take yourself and your guitar before we take you down.”
The preacher said, “I’ll play for you and if you love the tune
You’ll point me to the chapel and the rowdiest saloon.”
He’d travelled to this lawless town of which he’d gotten word
Two preachers vanished here before, but he won’t be the third
For he had brought his guitar which, to praise the Lord, he plays
And when he strums those guitar strings, the congregation sways
He reached down for his guitar case, the Mexicans took aim
And with a little slight of hand, the preacher did the same
But nothing grins as wide as when a bandit thinks he’s won
And when four guns are facing one the job’s as good as done
So was it skill or was it God who played a helpful part
When each of those four bandits took a bullet to the heart
The sheriff, if you’d call him that, said, “Have you got a name?”
The preacher said, “I’ll tell you Sunday if it’s all the same.”
The sheriff, having none of it, said, “Tell me who you are.”
He said, “I’m just a gringo with my god and my guitar.
But men of God preceded me and got no help from you.
So clear your desk, I am not me… I am those other two
He’d travelled to this lawless town of which he’d gotten word
Two preachers vanished here before, but he won’t be the third
For he had brought his guitar which, to praise the Lord, he plays
And when he strums those guitar strings, the congregation sways
In the heart of the West, where the lowriders glide, Billy Bong Low stands fearless, with a swagger and pride/
Crafting beats with a jazz-funk soul, His club hits, and acid licks make the whole scene roll/
Boomin’ bass thumps, hi-hats in the air, Oldies streaming, memories laid bare/
Tommy Ruz scratches, roots music deep in the groove, each note a story, each rhythm a sonic move.
Cruising in that ’68 Impala’s gleam, through the streets of Compton, like a vivid dream. Lynnwood to Watts, the vibe’s alive/
Brown and proud, feeling the drive.
Chills run down my spine as the speakers ignite, Classic CA jams on a warm summer night/
Weed and peach wine, the neighborhood’s tune/
Old homies, beautiful girls, beneath the moon.
Mexican rappers, with that funky sample’s flow, living that good life, letting the whole world know/
Vibing, chilling, checkers, and chess in this timeless scene, where love for the streets is more than a dream. It's a downbeat to the real/Man, what a neighborhood scene/
Much love to the block, where we keep it real, in the rhythm of the city, that’s the way we feel/ From the old to the new, the spirit remains, In the lowrider’s bounce, and in the whip's soulful refrain