Long Drums Poems
Long Drums Poems. Below are the most popular long Drums by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Drums poems by poem length and keyword.
Like, here’s a poem, painting the mood of these vinyl-warmed, jazz-infused Deep House sessions:
Vinyl Illusions
Beneath the needle’s gentle sway, it's big city cool with uptown funk charm/ Grooves awaken dust and dreams, thumpin' for the ladies, at 118 BPA if you please/ the sound as requested by House Radio Miami/ sunrise poppin on a double shot of java brew, AM callin' the funky jazz crew/
Chords drift like fog on a DJ turntable, Jazzo fingers sketching hazy tales, Basslines thick with boom bap rap vinyl, the smell of weed curls through the air like incense trails, tangled in her hair/
We dig on the playlist for breakfast, I be tossin' a snowstorm of thoughts to come up with melodies soaked in 90s underground hip-hop/ J Dilla, DJ Premier, Pete Rock, DJ Muggs, Nas, KRS One, Rakim, The Alchemist, Griselda, MF/ Harmony rising from cracked drum breaks, high hat laced with analog drums/ man, tell bout it/ all the old ghosts and new beats spun/ Tech house, UK garage, classic techno, jungle, breaks, and beyond/ Built for lo-fi radio streams/ Like Mad Hat DJ spinnin' Dark House dance dreams/
East Side stories echo from the car radio, chopped samples with cassette hiss, shuffled piano-driven energy, and classic dancefloor spirit/ man, every loop a memory, every synth a festival of dance attitude/
Let the music linger, as a blunt cools as the sunlight shifts/ so dig this/ groove is the only language here, and today, we speak in dropin' needle riffs/
Rise, We Will Rise
Rise, we will rise.
Though we were trampled on the red dust roads of Africa,
our roots run deeper
than the ancient baobab.
The wind may bend us,
but it cannot uproot us.
Rise, we will rise.
We crossed oceans
to clean the glittering cities of Europe,
washing floors that will never know our names.
Yet every drop of sweat
waters the dreams of our children.
Rise, we will rise.
Mocked by strangers,
beaten by neighbors,
our scars are not marks of defeat—
they are the maps
that lead us back to our strength.
Rise, we will rise.
My own father wounded me,
but pain will not become my inheritance.
Like the eagle riding the African sunrise,
I choose the sky
instead of the storm.
Rise, I will rise.
The children next door despise me
for sharing the little food on their table.
Still,
I would rather be remembered
for an open hand
than a closed heart.
Rise, I will rise.
For I have heard
the drums across the savannah.
I have seen the rivers
that never stop flowing.
I have watched the acacia
stand tall against the burning sun.
Nature whispers one truth:
Endure. Grow. Rise.
We are not the dust beneath their feet.
We are the seed within the dust.
Bury us,
and we become a forest.
Silence us,
and we become a song.
Break us,
and we become a generation
that refuses to kneel.
Rise, we will rise.
Like the sun over Kilimanjaro.
Like the roar of Victoria Falls.
Like the first rains after a long drought.
Rise, Takunda, Rise
Rise, my people.
Rise...
We will rise.
Men gather
forms a circle
the tribe
gathers about
the drums
are placed
the flames
of the fire pit
centers the circle
shoots high
into the night
wood burst
fire sparkles
now all is ready
as the drums
beat onward
as the tribe
answers with
subtle moves
to the beat
of the drummin'
individually
some turns
some dance
up and down
in the same spot
not movin'
beyond but
stationery
all are chanting
dancing
turning
and beating
the drums
drummin'
unceasingly,
with the women
stamping
their feet
to the beat
of the drums
and little boys
learning the beat
of the drums
and little girls
learn the stamping
dancing
turning and both
boys and girls
all chanting
to the beat
of the drums
drummin'
into the night
with the fire
roaring high
above its
central core
amidst the
constant beat
of the drums
drummin'
what is the
tribes tradition.
Date: 06/21/2019
Home is a bright pink crepe myrtle blowing in the wind.
His giggles and laughter while placing his feet in the sand.
Christmas lights wrapped around their hands, full of wonder and delight.
A mighty father making a roar, with all of his might.
A grin so big with that first bicycle tour down the road.
Training wheels coming off for the first time, and everything bold.
His gregarious smile while playing the drums.
A planter of bougainvillea with a bit of a green thumb.
Carving pumpkins with creative flare.
Watching Ginger Rodgers and Fred Astaire.
Home is a safety net where one sleeps tight.
When you lose it, nothing feels right.
Home was a haven where I once felt safe.
Nothing has been right ever since, all out of place.
There once was a teak wood table where Thanksgiving was served.
Full of magical smiles and prayers that were heard.
Home has been lost for quite some time now.
I attempt to move on, but there is nowhere to go.
I’d rather bury my head in ten feet of snow.
Home was where love once shined on bright.
Full of grace, and kindness and magical delight.
Happy little family with little footsteps running about.
I’ve lived on the streets wondering where to find my home.
But it was stripped away from me and now I have darkness to roam.
Home was full of baby Einstein and Alan Jackson too.
With sweet summer days, and country songs blues.
Through shadows, and memories I try to go back.
To find a safe place with family in tact.
From Valhalla’s fortress of spears and shields,
Valkyrie riders make their daily runs…
Crossing Bifrost to Midgard’s battlefields,
Harvesting warriors till Ragnorak comes.
Flying from Valhalla on their war horses,
Thundering hooves beat like old battle drums,
Odin’s blond daughters watching the forces--
Harvesting warriors till Ragnorak comes.
Legionnaires, Pikemen, Hussars and Spartans;
Storm Troopers, Crusaders and Saracens;
Musketeers, Vikings, and Gladiators;
Watusi, Cossacks, and Conquistadors.
As long as men hear the sounds of war drums,
They’ll harvest the best till Ragnorak comes.
Valkyries search for those to stand vanguard,
Recruiting Odin’s Einherjar armies.
Warriors pass Valgrind to live in Asgard--
Honored to be served by the Valkyries.
Hoplites, Commandoes, and Mujahideens;
Samurais, Yeomen, and US Marines;
Guerrilas, Dragoons, and Panzer Tankers;
Grenadiers, Mamelukes, and Bezerkers.
As long as men hear the sounds of war drums,
Valkyries harvest till Ragnorak comes.
It's a far reaching stretch,
Large people has flooded in,
I am not alone,
My father has held my brothers hand pretty strong;
As he makes the path in between
I too am catching up ,
A carnival is yet to come
Huge creatures approached
as we stood in front .
Loud drums and hustling crowd
papa speaks to his friends around ,
But I did see his one hand still held
By that little guy on the ground,
Through a distance ,
there was this white eyed, black teeth shabby clothed crow like guy
Running right at the crowd ,
Wherever he went , people gasped.
And As he was approaching ,
I already took a few steps back
He came right at my brothers face,
And He curled up to my father's legs
leaving everyone awestruck
Then restoring to our places ,
People laughed .
It's a far reaching stretch,
Life is filled with strange people
I am not alone ,
But I too would love
To hold my father's hand .
Can't tie shoes. Can't read aloud. Can't memorize Latin.
IQ test, panic, shyness.
Confidence goes missing.
Ask, and you will receive.
A corner turned.
College, city planner, romance, graduation.
Paradise lost. War drums.
"You are hereby ordered to report."
Many rockets fired, crashing all around.
Fear and dread. "Grab your guns." Invasion.
Ask, and you will receive.
Deliverance! Unscathed.
A terrible war left behind.
Cheers on homeward flight abound.
Civilian life: lost and bewildered.
Just don't fit in.
Ask, and you will receive.
It all comes together.
Grad school, true love and a career.
Wedding bells, children, grandchildren.
Blessings astound.
Retirement: Spanish, softball, world travel.
All a pure delight.
But time speeds up. No, we slow down. Sunset and aging.
Microsoft 7, 10 and 11.
Accounts, passwords, applications.
Patient portals, lab tests, hospitalizations.
Masks, shots and Covid 19.
Can't keep up. There's no time. Trouble remembering.
Anger, self-doubt, then frustration.
Ask, and you will receive.
Rescued again.
True love comforts.
Eternal Love sustains.
Inspirational Christian Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
February 23, 2022
Six decades ago
the landscape of
my Little Nassau
had
places like
The Silver Slipper
The Blue Note
The Banana Boat
The Conch Shell
The Zanzibar
The Cat and Fiddle
and The Drumbeat Club
with activities like
Fire dancing
limbo dancing
steel bands
big bands
and Goombay drums
Interesting people like
Sweet Richard
Blind Blake Higgs
George Symonette
Freddie Munnings
Eloise Lewis
Paul Meeres
Chippie Chipman
and Peanuts Taylor
and songs like
Island Woman
Bahama Lullaby
Chi Chi Merengue
Goombay Papa
Guma In Exuma
Island In The Sun
and Conch Ain't Got No Bone
ignited into the atmosphere
A beautiful thing, in these small farming towns,
Is the place where we dump all our trash,
The remote little area, void of people,
Where we can rummage around for a stash,
You see, the place is divided to a few different parts,
The rubbish, the steel and the wood,
There’s areas for trees, and for building debris,
Dumped, because it’s no good,
But to this little eye, there’s treasure in there,
My treasure is the shiny brass pot,
Or the old wooden chair, with a story to tell,
Tin drums, and other whatnot.
I love the short visit once a month, or so,
Where I can leave my rubbish behind,
And search around looking for thrown out wealth,
For the abundance of old stuff to find.
Silhouettes in fume thump to a doom,
They stomp with the rhythm of drums,
They point to the sky and spread open wide,
Their wrists and fingers and thumbs,
These thousands of people joined at the hip,
Joined by a common desire,
To lose themselves in the roar from within,
As the music soars higher and higher,
To a place where they’re safe away from their thoughts,
All worries are left on the floor,
And they can exist in the happy free now,
Their mind’s been released to explore,
Life without fake, no pretend, no polite,
Life without wearing some wig,
And they can all be utterly free,
At the rock band, the concert, the gig.