Long Jazz Poems
Long Jazz Poems. Below are the most popular long Jazz by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Jazz poems by poem length and keyword.
Amy, Amy, what a voice,
As from heaven,
You’re a jazz singer,
Of the ones we can’t forget,
Sensitive, you felt guilty,
To refuse a photo,
You had too big a heart,
We asked you a hundred times,
How to hunt these people
So they can finally understand?
My God, what a voice,
What love, what love offered,
to all who listen to you,
You said thank you, tenderly,
I say thank you,
O Amy, what a voice,
It’s hard to understand,
I would have been in Belgrade to hear you,
Bye, bye, Princess, big black eyes,
Sing what you like,
It will always be more beautiful,
Only a Bach cantata,
Amy, Amy, what a voice,
An angel, angel in heavens.
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/
My Life is a song sung in a
series of repetitive inferior notes.
I’m unable to record mellow melodies,
as my violin strings continually play
with reckless violet villains.
As I sit and replay recitals of
bleeding love harmonies.
My soul is shattered and sunken
in silent sonnets.
I'm flickering through the tears of
tainted years of hexagon heartbreaks.
Unable to trust poetic phrases from a
cedar conductor whose musical agility
makes my saxophone eyes sing.
I conceal my sunrise hope in a
chaotic chorus of anguish;
which I play to my sympathetic
amber anxiety, to justify the
lonesome path I’ve chosen to hike.
I fail to embrace the serenity
of their light rap rhymes
in my erratic brain.
Instead, I reminisce
about my sorrowful pity puddle spells,
when countless deceptive trumpets
stole my musical directives
destined for classical charts.
I am forsaken in operas of
maroon misery serenaded by
these weeping, wailing windpipes.
I desire to awaken my
ancient pop culture life.
The sangria sunrise era
when only rainbow hits escaped my pen.
I recall I wrote reams of rhythmic sheets;
filled with halo heroes,
painting electrical euphoria
upon Harvard's crisp horizons.
A time when youthful bands sang of
everlasting devotion,
glowing glee upon my ebony core.
My fuschia feet are wounded and
depleted from my frequent falls in
my ballet of ruby romances.
I aspire to dance to all the Jazz
freedom beats and not break-dance
with soprano snakes.
As I’ve detected, they are thirsty for my
rhythmic rays for their
applause and accolades to reign.
Now is the time for my piano to
recreate my platinum diamond hits.
For my lyrical pieces to thrive,
I must retire my historical woes to the
rear of my Broadway sympathy show.
I accept this is the only way
to win my desired Tony prize.
Jazz a Little Later
Unforgettable the feelings of such right
Astonishing pleasant evening nights
Hollow are the darkest shadows
All that really ever matters
Is that when we’re gone, so, so long
~
It won’t be long, for we’re settle
All that is better
When we leave it up to Him
If by chance I bid you a do
I’ll see you later in a vivid dream view
Upon this closing night bliss dim
I leave you a little better
Until the dawn, new days light…
Jazz you a little later
9/23/24
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2024©
From anthology #1 SHASTA JAZZ Dedicated verse for Shasta Simms
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
Yo. From a whisper, barely a breath, to a front-page roar/ EAST COAST JAZZ in the fifties, sixties/
Not just blowing trumpets, but blowing up the jazz scene jazz/
LPs stacked high vinyl spinnin’, cracklin' truth in every hip-to-be way. Jazz LPs, popin'’ the Truth, etched in black and white/ modern Jazz on the HIFI/
Jazz woke the airwaves up and made the radio take notice; everything felt right. Radio turned on, folks got wise and understood, and Jazz got the blood pumpin' in the mean streets day or night/
If you wanted to be hip to the now, the real, the raw, Late-night clubbing and listening was law, absolute law/
Ornette Coleman, man, a wild, horn-blowin’ free-to-be jazz king machine/ Free jazz founder/ hear his freedom RING!/
Then there's Mingus, righteous anger in his bass, Collective improv, settin' souls ablaze. Lay into "East Coasting," on Bethlehem Records, and let the music soak you down/
Starch your mind with Mingus, that ain't no stereophonic joke! No cover charge here, baby, just pure, unbridled bebop to the cool Miles sound/
A caravan of cats, late-night jams, playin’ something new and bold, Europe callin', TWA Flight 978 ready to take flight/
The Big Apple throbbed, a concrete, jazz-filled hang, Saxophone Colossus, Sonny Rollins, so raw, New York summer Hot Rollins, defying every jazz law/
Moody and quirky, a genius in disguise/ Influencing the young horns, reaching for the skies/
Sonny Rollins, deep in jazz thought on a New York big city day/
Sonny wrote a brand new Jazz Forever heavy page/
The jazz world exploded, on the silver screen, a fifty-cent ticket was your soundtrack to life, a vibrant, vital scene/
"Take Five," baby, the pulse, the driving soul on a jazz beat on stage/
I'm on the Lex Ave Trane, headin' for Groove Street! hold on, hold tight, let Abbey Lincoln sing, while we map our next gig, let’s name our new LP/ the Big Vibe/
Yeah… East Coast jazz… never really dies… spinnin’ vintage jazz LPs to keep my head alive/
ECJ morphs… and lives… in our own soulful eyes. Give me a holler give me a shout I’m talkin’ what’s It all about/ Want to be hip? Want to be in the know? Then listen late at night, and let the jazz sounds flow.
*(Lead)*
Someday you'll be sorry, dear,
*(Background)*
Oh, you’ll be sorry…
*(Lead)*
The way you treated me was wrong,
*(Background)*
So very wrong…
(Verse 2)
*(Lead)*
A drunk who taught you,
*(Background)*
Taught you all you knew…
*(Lead)*
Some of your friends have told you,
*(Background)*
Yeah, they told you too…
*(Lead)*
You treated me so wrong (yes you did!)
(Chorus)
*(Lead)*
So I wrote another song,
*(Background)*
Oh, to just (dubba-doo-ba-dat-do) to carry on…
*(Lead)*
Good luck be with you babe,
*(Background)*
Your future may end tomorrow…
(Verse 3)
*(Lead)*
But don’t you fear dear,
*(Background)*
Don't you fear, no…
*(Lead)*
There won't be another,
*(Background)*
To treat you like none other…
(Chorus)
*(Lead)*
Someday you'll be sorry dear,
*(Background)*
Oh, you’ll be sorry…
*(Lead)*
Just look at your father,
*(Background)*
Who died on Deathrow…
(Verse 4)
*(Lead)*
Someday you'll be sorry,
*(Background)*
Yeah, you treated me wrong…
*(Lead)*
A drunk taught you all you knew,
*(Background)*
And it keeps you so lonely…
(Chorus)
*(Lead)*
Good luck be with you,
*(Background)*
Wishing you the best…
*(Lead)*
May your future be one,
*(Background)*
Where you never rest…
(Bridge)
*(Lead)*
You'll never have another,
*(Background)*
To treat you like no other…
*(Lead)*
So good luck be with you,
*(Background)*
Oh good luck my dear… (you’ll need it)
(Outro)
*(Lead)*
Those fears will grow dear,
*(Background)*
Let ‘em grow, oh…
*(Lead)*
Of growing old alone…
*(Lead)*
You won’t find another,
*(Background)*
To treat you like none other…
*(Lead)*
Someday you'll be sorry dear,
*(Background)*
That day is coming near dear…
*(Both)*
Someday you'll be sorry…
*(Lead)*
And know what you did was wrong.
*(Both)*
subtle is the way she muses tonight
quietly, she pen's just for your delight
in tune with herself, her muses transpose
to boost your world with a sparkle of light
the art within has much more to propose
the language defined with creative prose
in metaphoric rhyme she soothes the soul
traversing the space keeping you exposed
by the river or the watering hole
her delicate meanings are scribed two fold
alone and unforgiving to compile
imbuing a richness to make you whole
amidst the truthfulness of her freestyle
her mind encapsulates the juvenile
her playful nature is always in tact
where expression exposes the lifestyle
she writes for amusement, yours, to distract
the greatest gift is her solemn impact
interpreting through kaleidoscope eyes
sharing her thoughts, inner concepts abstract
her poetry cannot hold on to lies
her reality worded to surmise
a brief representation of her life
she cannot hide, defile or compromise
through time she has seen humanities rife
yet she is always in the midst of strife
come forth dear memories my canvas waits
pen's the memories exacting her knife
the tools she's been given only illustrates
the world she defines as she annotates
the place of her mind is protected - as
corroboration recapitulates
and on a warm balmy evening of jazz
her smile encompasses her pizazz
writing to express her passion in form
living and breathing her art, for she has.
The sweet sound of songs
Is pleasing to the ears;
Lyrics are played over again
For days, months, and years.
The sweet sound of music
Brings back the hands of time;
List'ning to the same old lines
Recorded in the mem'ry of rhyme.
The sweet sound of hymns
Is truly great to the brain;
Making you forget pessimistic mind,
To think positive during the rain.
The sweet sound of sonata
Is refreshing to the lovers of music;
It really replenishes the soul,
Be it a ballad, pop, jazz or classic.
The sweet sound of melody
Enhances the family hour of bonding;
Cheerfully singing the chorus,
With voices of harmony and blending.
The sweet sound of lullabies
Can help you fall asleep;
To regain the lost strength,
Then rise with a promise to keep.
The sweet sound of verses
Can teach you a lesson or two;
Making you a much better person
Who thinks twice what to say or do.
Sing the symphony of love,
Hear the rhythm - short or long;
The heartwarming wave of phrases
Makes the sweet sound of songs.
Jazz on a billboard,
a flash of notes,
Urgent beats, syncopation, improvisation,
and impromptu solos but why jazz on a billboard?
What’s the hap’s on that?
Man, what is the impact of the word jazz on a billboard anyway?
Syncopation is alive,
solos breaking free,
and a temporary show,
but is jazz here to stay?
Does a billboard for Jazz tell us about all the arranging, playing, composing
finding a paying gig, radio spins, music reviews,
band members quitting to get out of the jazz life?
Cars whiz by, faces turned,
who cares about the sound of jazz anyway
The tenor horn says
"Listen up, Listen here
Jazz is everywhere,
and like nowhere to be found
So, dig this
Every jazz note,
every gig, every miss,
and every jazz player who lives jazz behind
Jazz shapes your life with a heartbreaking rhythm.
So, here’s to the journey,
to hip beats and downbeats
Jazz is life on a billboard,
is hip for some passers-by to see
to feel, to groove, to feel where you're at
To come alive, jazz is for real
and that's my dance in life