Long Funky Poems
Long Funky Poems. Below are the most popular long Funky by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Funky poems by poem length and keyword.
The bridge/ Hear that?/ Snap it pop it / Not the one of stone and steel, holding cars and trains aloft/ This bridge hums/ It vibrates/ yellin’, mo’ funk and groove please woven into the boss horns strung with a bassline thick as smoke and Clyde Stubblefield holding down the fat beat/
Acid Jazz snap pop snap de beat/ tradition on one side, diggin’ for the now, for the new/ Jazz, ancient and revered, but dust collecting on the shelf, needed a spark, a jolt, a psychedelic brother a sister like no other/ Acid Jazz, the answer/
A handshake and a high five between jazz straight ahead and a synthesizer’s jazz fusion swing/
A knowing nod to Coltrane remixed into becoming the nu Acid Jazz king/Trane is way dope now to a whole new listening audience/
skillfully crafted club bangin’ acid jazz lick and samples/ the veins of hip-hop, throbbing hard and raw as DJs scratched the beats deeply rooted in the arrangements of funk jazz numerology/
Did deep house feel its pulse, its rhythmic pull/ Broken beat, fractured and funky, did it recognize its kin, polyrhymatics and the turntables… Oh, the turntables sang a different song/ a revolution spun on vinyl, a rebellion built on rhythm, Jazz and Soul/ Rap, HipHop and acid jazz as a Voice for Rebellion and Social Change / DJ Kool Herc, a sonic architect, laying foundations in the park and party basements/ Grandmaster Flash, a surgeon of sound, slicing and dicing the beat/ Afrika Bambaataa, a global sound system, uniting tribes with groove/
yo bruh, reality check/ They weren’t just playing records, they were playing the instrument/Scratching, back spinning, beat juggling – a symphony of skill/ Mix masters, beat captains, electronic alchemists, wizards behind the wheel of Hip Hop fortune/ They birthed a new language, a dialect of dance, a history rewritten in the hiss and crackle of vinyl on a HiFi Stereo/ Acid Jazz… Modern Jazz… Trip hop, Latin Tech House/ The DJ Culture… Rap, Hip-Hop, a family born from a shared rebellion, Formidable, Definitive/ Each is a testament to the power of sound, to the bridge built on a bassline, drum sample/
a thump, a bump on a low rider jam/ to the future forged in the fire of the beat/ The voyage is not over/ I have a fear of standing still…like I’m outta of here/
It's what I like about the sound of music
Especially like that of a funky drum beat
If boarder line or profound, it's therapeutic
The rhythm has you tapping your feet
So long though as it's one that soothes,
It could then be anything, like a little pop!
A song with some funky style grooves
Perhaps one with a little bit of trip hop
Ill take stock to any a track you choose
As long though as it dose give an uplift
Even rock or soul, though not the( blues!
One of those with a funky style guitar riff
To be on a higher level, reggae or techno!
Something that has catchy style melodies
Then I'll up the treble, heighten the tempo!
When looking for those sweet harmony’s
Origianl written (2004) original idea back in 2002
though thought rewrite put more emphasis
and put in better context this time round
as before did not quite know where to go with thi write
trying to stick to pattern prettymuch the same or though some words switched
around and some replaced just felt this version explains better
REWRITTEN DEC 2012 JAN 2013 BY MY SELF DAVIDSCOTT
INSPIERD BY FRIENDS PAST AND PRESENT ALSO ALL THE SOUP MEMBERS
THIS IS FOR EVERYONE OUT THERE LIKE THEY SAY MUSIC
AN INDESPENSIBLE COMPONENT OF LIFE
this was also originaly called sounds of happiness back in 2002/2003
I was movin' and a groovin'...
At my high school dance
Twist'n and a bump'n...
Wear'n wholly pants
The band had played some music...
I was feelin' kind of stuck
When I saw the kids a dancin'...
To the disco duck
I had to think of somethin'...
Had to show off a little muscle
So I boogied to the middle...
And I twisted to the hustle
In my cowboy boots...
And my hair all curled and long
I tied it in a pony-tail...
As I danced to ev'ry song
I really set the tone...
When my heels had started click'n
When they played some funky music
And I did the funky chicken
(The dances- Twist, Bump, Disco Duck, Boogie, Hustle, Funky Chicken)
3/9/2020
"Kim Rodrigues' DWM Contest
You fulfill my fantasies…
You were like a trillion trees,
Blowing in the blessed breeze
You fulfill my delicacies
You turned the cold shoulder…
And I got as hard as a boulder
Your blushing matched with my funky red pants
Falling in love with sorrow – it’s a single dance
Tell me to never let it go…let you go……
Because I am guilty for you, you know?
I’m like a river,
Always flowing
I’m like a flower,
Always growing
Feeling lower and lower
Waiting for the break of dawn
I’m as scared as ever
Don’t say “whatever”…
I can never go back to feeling down...
I will smile instead of frown…
Waiting for the eternal dusk –
That’s something I can’t deny
You fill me up with love and happiness
Y9u lift me up, though I’m totally madness
I’m not over you
I’m not over you yet
I’m not over you
Can’t stand feeling regret
I’m like a river,
Always flowing
I’m like a flower,
Always growing
I’m like the sun,
Always glowing…
I’m having fun,
Even if it’s not showing
I’m as weak as a fall leaf
I’m like an Hawaiian reef…
I’m an ocean…
Feel my emotion…
I need some relief
From this awful grief…
I hope it is brief…
Brief…
I’m like a river,
Always flowing
I’m like a demigod,
Almost all-knowing
I’m like the sky,
Feeling higher and higher –
That’s something I can’t deny
I woke up all forlorn and hollow inside of me
oh yes, I was pretty darn melancholy
all funky blue and my glass was totally empty
and I just wanted to curl up into nothingness . . .
oh, why does my hair have to be bone straight
disgusted, my eyes stare back at me from the mirror blankly, saying
maybe cut it (my hair that is) get some curls and volume
but wait, I cannot do that my wave of long hair
'cause it is my spiritual strength, okay
I want to kiss the person who invented hoodies, and
this wooden excuse for a girl is planning on hiding in one
with this river of hair and the hoodie I should be invisible to all
and any conversation will be futile and a waste of your time
oh, that's just GREAT dance class at 10-
odd, I feel quite alive now . . .
_________________________
February 26, 2018
Poetry/Free Verse/Hiding In My Hoodie
Copyright Protected, ID 18-1098-195-01
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to the contest, Late 2018 Standard
sponsor, Brian Strand
First Place
One day I asked my Mommy and Daddy if we could go to the zoo.
They said, “Sure, we will go to the zoo some day, just not today. Today we are too busy doing other things.”
Then, a few days later I asked them again.
They said, “Of course we can, Dear, some day. But right now we are too busy. Maybe some other day.”
So, a few days later I asked once again, “Mommy, Daddy, can we go to the zoo?”
They said, “Yes, Honey, we can go to the zoo some day, but Mommy and Daddy are too busy to take you there today. Maybe some other day.”
This made me mad.
I stomped my feet. I clinched my hands into fists. I made a very sad face. And, I yelled, “That’s what you always say! You always say some day! Well, when does some day get here!?”
Mommy and Daddy were not happy with my behavior. They told me I was being naughty. They told me I had to sit on the naughty spot.
So, I sat on the naughty spot.
But, I did not cry. I did not pout. I did not even feel very sad.
Instead, I went to the zoo by myself. I went to my very own Imaginary Zoo.
In some zoos there are soaring eagles. But in my imaginary zoo I saw oaring seagulls. They were in row boats in the middle of the lake.
Some zoos have snapping turtles. But my imaginary zoo had tapping snurtles. Have you ever seen a snurtle in tap shoes before? They were very good.
I have heard that many zoos have funny monkeys. The zoo I went to had money funkies. One funky gave me a ten dollar bill.
Some regular zoos have laughing hyenas. My imaginary zoo had halfing lyenas. They were chopping wood in half and then saying that they did not do it. I think that was a lie.
Sitting uncomfortably on my kitchen chair, waiting for the doorbell to ring,
I think back to past Halloweens, underlying feelings - this uneasiness thing.
Do these feelings stem from my childhood or knowledge of All Hallows’ eve,
Or is it that I live way out in the country - has my mind just taken its leave.
Historically this night was thought to be, all wandering souls’ last chance
To revenge their enemies before entering the realm of their final dance.
Costumes and masks were worn to avoid being recognized by a lost soul,
Jack-o-lanterns of turnips remembered those in purgatory, that was the goal.
Raised in a quiet little village, Halloween was always a time of high alert,
Rumors and folklore outlined of terrible fires, of animals and people hurt,
I would watch my father the town’s clerk prepare for this horrendous night,
Each sign of concealment, a whisper just added to my ever growing fright.
Store owners sat quietly in the dark waiting for pranksters to soap windows,
The farmers watched for signs of movement by barns and over meadows.
Volunteer fire fighters sat by the phone to respond covertly to any barn fire,
No sirens were used tonight, reduce the alarm, or so they tried to conspire.
My best friend lived out in the country, we would trick or treat together,
Her parents drove us around all the country roads in the stormy weather.
Pumpkins would flicker eerily on the railings of front porches as a guide,
Acknowledging someone was home with treats, you were welcome inside.
But every single cornstalk moved in different directions adding to my fear,
No doorbells to ring or bright street lights to show the masquerades clear,
Fires burned in the distance, yellow and orange flames licked at the night sky,
Now cars pull down my gravel driveway, is this a murderer, am I going to die.
With each knock, I take my life in my hands and open the front door,
This time I see a little princess and a funky monster walk onto my floor.
It is now late and I move to the jack-o-lantern to blow out the candle,
Another Halloween - the fear and fright - too much for me to handle.
Written September 7, 2012
For Gail Doyle’s Halloween Night contest
percussion hailstorm
my ears no longer bored
daydreaming about oceans
mixing memories
during power outage thoughts
an escapade my uber sunshine
nodding my head with eyes closed
to some rare 90s hip hop
candy sunglasses tastes like cinnamon
watching lightning threaten me
as i sit under a tree
remembering things like the fiddlers three
now the wind is a flute
from a funky 70s jazz song
my emotions floating on air
now its day 17
the sky has turned purple
paper thin has turned to quick thick
i find myself smiling fully
for good ole music i am a bully
now i push the Good Weight to the Pulley
Our tribute to the eighteen year old boys who were sent to Viet Nam
Was to be chill, chillin, and chillax’in as a tribute to those soon gone.
We were groov’n, and groovy, beatnik style, but we called ourselves hippie.
We were funky, groovy, and pretty nifty, copacetic, stoked, and thrifty.
Wearing our hip hugger bellbottoms, our flowered shirts and necklaces too.
Traveled the country in VWs, singing folk songs with a home fry or two.
The true hippies ran to Berkley when they left their parents’ crib.
Lucky to find shagged carpeting, pet rocks. Stoked with each other, glib.
Seventies amazing, pretty out-of-sight, our threads lasted night after night.
Fab time for us whether we were dorks, dudes, foxy mamas, putzes so bright.
Getting the low down was a bummer, but flower power was alive all summer.
Did not feel the need to rip anyone off, shared love with each newcomer.
Learned some stuff about ourselves in these days of lava lamp and Woodstock.
We could give each other skin, and keep on trucking, sharing a bong or a rock.
When boys returned from Viet Nam I am not sure they spoke the same way.
Many of the survivors put soldiers down which was an ignorant, mean play.
(DJ NO BODY MESSIN’/ leaning into the mic, dim spot light hits the face) Creative force/ That’s the hum/
Eric 2BFREE, the tone poet, here to stay/ workin’ the room/ his spoken word jazzy thread starts on the rise with a bit of cool/
And what’s beyond his instrument of choice, his voice/
a reservoir of rhythm, a festival of ad-lib words/
a-side spinnin'/ born in area code 313/
his higher level climb, etched in his spoken word history, transcending time/ he did some time/ drinkin’ wine on Hollywood and Vine/
2BFREE is a legacy retro jazz spoken word poet man, a time travel brand/
house DJs slingin’ his spoken rhymes across the dance club land/
Eric 2BFREE, lifted higher, shown and proven true/ Jaws droppin' silence as his spoken word breaks through/fresh finna/ look it up It’s true/
rhyme on time/ scorching tempo/ a SoundCloud dream/ a Spotify sway/ House mix dance beats/ lofi funk on display/ drum samples strut/ a funky organ slow/2bfree a pantheon of spoken word speak/
As a stretched vocal whispers, where do rappers go? This ain't their scene/ this ain't their gig, a spoken word groove, eclipsing their light/
Negative life online, a pressure cooker's hiss/ too complicated, too hard to dismiss/
For some rappers, a crushing weight/ as for spoken word artists/they be feelin’ the hater's weight on FB and X bout keepin’ their brand alive and up to date/
While the rhythm of the spoken takes hold/no radio edit/ no auto tune here for Eric 2BFREE/
It took him 20 years to become an overnight success/
To free up his words/ a hip dialogue in innovations in cool jazz speak/