Long Drummers Poems
Long Drummers Poems. Below are the most popular long Drummers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Drummers poems by poem length and keyword.
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.
I
With faces painted of edeala natural cream
With feet flourishing in undulating dance-steps
The proud dictates of the restive drums
Where the Ikolo performers are on the thrive
Each in readiness to out-pipe his neighbor –
The dancers come digging it out with the sun
With the hunters taking their spears to the sky!
Young Mbari dancers, robust, eager & joyous
Awaiting the life-panthers that must come home
After the drum-beats in the hunter’s forest –
’Tis like a gathering of spirits & humans
At the age-long esplanade of the clan, for lads
& lasses, fathers & mothers, young & old, all
Have come to the roost like a family of chickens.
Dancing in pairs, in circles & diverse angular
Movements, a genius of the earth: each dancer
Makes her to-&-fro design-gaits & flights
Like some nymphs in dream-land gardens
Their gaits are swift & in skillful harmony
Following the restive palms of the drummers!
Ah, old Emuka gets at it, the renowned piper
At his high zest, taking Mbari eagle-dancers
To the heights of lofty Iroko-dance-branches
An embodiment of every echo-throat’d piper!
& a dancer dances as if it were her last dance;
& ’tis a full sun-burnt commotion of a dance;
O, isn’t it an half-human, half-spirit dance?
Painters become artist at their canvas
They won't paint to block out the world
They won't paint with wavering soul
Their ears, their eyes becomes friend inspiring
Dancers who love to dance feel life more fully
They won't dance the dance of loneliness
They won't dance the dance of drowsiness
Their ears, their eyes becomes friend they believe in
Singers sing because music flows from their heart
They won't sing songs suppressing joy
They won't sing songs making them coy
Their ears, their eyes becomes friend with blessings
Drummers drum on anything, anywhere, anytime
They won't drum to chase frustration
They won't drum, calling condemnation
Their ears, their eyes becomes friend that leads to the Master
The painter, the dancer, the singer, and drummer understood
The poetry of art surpasses words
The natural rhythm of innocent humorous hearts is art.
*
Strands of ribbons ride the sky with suns arrival
Children watch for birds and listen for the bands
To their delight music raises up horizons on the curve
Lifted like a curtain at the circus
Curved at the ends where land meets sky
Higher than high the kaleidoscopic eye burns on
Yellow bright to helicopter heaven straight ahead
Where fireworks explode for fun and nothing
Jump at the opportunity to work for free
Licorice sticky kids eat everything in sight
Lamp posts made of chocolate come in handy
When marching bands go tootsie rolling by
They come alive with signs that never stop
Remaining stationary in their concrete red and white
Drummers borrow beats born on tomorrows slapped behind
Rhythms come from behind because bands don't travel backwards
Red rubber noses adorn clown faces
Crossed feet go stumbling over curbs
In over-sized shoes eager to please the masses
Men in clumsy gloves juggle empty air
As if someone or something were there
Missing persons of interest who disappear
Tumbling invisible in the wind gone after air
Strings hold more than helium up there
Sky balloons fly by in multicolored skins
Elastic in flight, gentle to the touch of pins
Pretty in simplicity, shining in blinding incognito
But parades do not begin without a purpose
Parades come sooner than the circus if not first
When they come they must arrive in cannons
In royal colors, living colors would be nice
And shot to make sure everyone wakes up
As children scream, demanding everything
Holding their breath until they or sky turn blue
Because only balloons can turn to purple
Which is a curse but better than becoming turtle
Turtles can not float on unknown surfaces
Or high in atmospheres from what we can surmise
And if you get the drift on flight mechanics
A compromise to fly would be ridiculous
Why does hatred bloom where two lovers stand
vowing only to cherish each other forever?
When it is love and hope that brought them together,
why do hoards of people want their union banned?
Just because it is a love they cannot understand?
Does it somehow make their lives a little bit better
keeping different drummers from marrying ever?
And here I thought we lived in a free land.
Why must we put restrictions on how people love?
Why does homosexuality scare people so?
Consenting adults should be allowed their own choice.
I’ll leave moral judgment to the heavens above,
but this is one thing that I certainly now know -
a union of any two lovers is a cause to rejoice.
Written and posted on 4/29/2014 for Craig Conrish's "Miltonic Sonnet" contest.
(for: those who fell on the hills of Liberia)
I hear a song from my hills
I hear it sound from afar;
And towards my homestead
Near those aging banks of the Niger
I feel the disturbing songs
Of drummers announcing with cannons
The ravages of Monrovia
Like ancestral funeral men
But these drummers are different:
A shadow of their ancestors?
Is it something beautiful
For Doe’s ever-haunted soul
That Sulima should breathe of
Blood-fouled air?
Does it touch the heart of Taylor
That St. Paul’s river should mirror
The dying souls of pregnant mothers
On forced premature delivery mats?
The guns are eating
New diets in broken skulls
Everywhere!
And all my kins
Are traded for the mean
Prosperity of war
The smell of their black blood
Slapping the face of our dignity:
And does this dunghill of skulls
Touch on the human side of Johnson
And those other warlords?
How long would the orphan’s bones crack?
When would a man walk freely
Across the streets?
Tell us! you noble warriors, tell us:
When the guns would stop singing;
When would fear stop celebrating?
Here as I sit in my hut
Fully fed-up with homicide news
Of thousands and countless of my kins
Dragged into early and tombless deaths
I dreamt of slow-walking hunger
Load-bend of the souls of my kins
Like ants in a dry season:
Would you tell me the number
Of black skulls cracked
On the top of every hill?
Tell me the quantity of black blood
Spilled each day along those currents
Of Mao and Sherbro rivers
And the quantity of children’s bones
And ribs ript open near Monrovia:
Would you be brave enough
To tell these and more atrocities
To the deaf ears of the world,
O! strongmen of noble Liberia?
Form:
may flowers are still beautiful
taking their resolute resolve
to shoot out
to sprout with
ever-new life
they come
home in beautiful colours
like weaver-birds
on the ancient trees
all the clan claps & sings
new songs -
the elders entoning
with tongues of new speeches
new speeches of old wisdom -
oh, come, behold their signets
her may flowers
seeking within these chambers
the merry maidens
of my niger
& her long-acclaimed drummers
whose red-caps were capped
upon old eagle-feathers
that made her clansmen
celebrate her appearance
like mbari dancers, our amazons
of years gone with the ancients
or the swahili dancers
from the east
& the matebele warriors
from the south -
for:
all the clan did clap & sing
new songs
of years a-gone with the ancients.
Form:
I've always showered
care on ungrateful trees,
the ones that bloomed
and the ones that withered.
I watered them anyway.
In this chaotic world,
compassion is made slavery,
chained with entitlement
and false lovebites,
yet my tender heart
endures through the raid
and self-inflicted questions
of why I have to succumb
to an endless tide.
Sometimes in regret of why
goodness chose me as its heir,
I flip out, leaving the throne empty.
Though I wage wars not to be
kind anymore, I find myself retreating.
In the end, it is nature's course for me.
But should I drown in empathy
that l lose my mind? My use or
willingness to set boundaries
and say No when the shoes
don't fit my legs? For I have
been in the watch house
without looking. It took me
courage and self-awareness
to glare beyond the boiling surface.
I washed my eyes in
discernment and worth,
to dive past the silent suck.
I befriended clarity and in her depth,
I learnt to work with both minds.
For kindness doesn't exist to
drain me but help me find my path.
So I dished portions of bitter
sour soups to users and
drummers without rhythm,
Just to test their intent
and they smiled at its
sweetness.
They would forge a life in
death just to drain the
remaining water in my
well. I let them go in
thirst because there's barely
a drop left for me and my heart
has now tested the rough edges
of the valleys and the shape
of my eyes have been born anew.
So conscious, it wouldn't flinch
if dust was thrown in it.
And the lovers that used to ride
on my patchless boat, they have
now drowned, since the engines only
worked in the purity of their needs.
It is not I that led them to
destruction, It is their greed.
I offered them bandages still,
I showed them the path,
I directed them through the journey,
I didn't go with them else they would
make me lose my way and distract
me from the gold mine in front.
My peace has never been this full.
Full of happiness and Bluebells.
I am a Watchman that sees
through the dark forest and
I shall live a long life setting
those standards.
Still an heir to the throne
now I sit with an eagle eye.
My soul in good deeds
will never be used again.
SHE SUM THANG LIKE JAMMA LAMMA
JAMMA LAMMA DEW1
she lovey dilly, doo- woop, samma lamma too!
she get gritty, grindin' getty-up ya'll know dat
she doo!
she get's jamma lamma, dop- do didhe too!
can't she wanna do, ever clever
ya'll know dat she do!
she get's down and gritty
grindin that fitty- sexy body too!
like the trophy she don't she real shiney
she's ah winner too!
she get's down, and jamma lamma
doop dew witty dew !
men day love her
she won night them
ya'll know what she do
she sip
he paid it
lamenated
swap numbers too
they meet getty
get down real gritty
he like what she do!
they get down jamma lamma
down to samppa
she get down jamma lamma too!
soo down jamma lamma
down to samppa
taste the that taste good too
she like down jamma lamma
to up dat jamma lamma
she get down didgo too!
SEE THE BLOOD
See the blood flow on our nation’s sands
The blood is on our government’s hands
When a piece of garbage starts to cry
Bigots are told stand down and stand by
See the blood flowing in our streets
Drummers drumming to different beats
No one wins, we all lose
Death toll announced on the nightly news
See the blood at the murder scene
Hatred preached since two thousand sixteen
No remorse as he watched the fall
I take no responsibility at all
See the blood on the Capitol lawn
Dictator at home cheering it on
Degradation since the first debate
Demeaning remarks and spreading hate
See the blood as a mother cries
Truth is twisted by bigoted lies
Politicians do whatever they choose
While the leader spouts it’s all fake news
See the blood on the evening news
To our country another bruise
Fall of a nation right on track
When on social justice you turn your back
See the blood pouring down like rain
Stop the hatred, stop the pain
Darkness overcome by light
When we stand for what is right.