Long Jazzy Poems
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We’re frantically typing to finish our assignments
and end our Friday night homework confinement.
Chella wants to go to a frat-house soirée
I went to a few of those back in the day.
No more frat parties, I once emphatically said.
I make rules for myself, usually based on emotion
but once I calm down, rules are made to be broken,
and it’s good, I suppose, to stay in touch with the kids
Chella does this a lot, finds a trendy hot spot,
and drags me along, enthusiastically or not.
She’ll attempt, and fail, to do a Keg stand.
That’s ok, we’re not athletes, I understand.
We’re just having fun with it, hitting a beat good,
fugitives from the rough passage to adulthood
We feel like old ladies now - it's hilarious.
.
.
Mini playlist for this:
Pon de Replay by Rihanna
Little Things x Gypsy Woman (L BEATS MASHUP) by Jorja Smith
Can't Feel My Face by The Weeknd
Summertime by DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince
More Than A Woman (SG's Paradise Edit) by Bee Gees & SG Lewis
.
.
*I’ve got a Will Smith track here, I’m ashamed of how much I love his early
Fresh Prince rap years - but on the real - OJ was ‘the juice’ before he was OJ,
Michael wasn’t always hyperbaric and Will Smith pretended he wasn’t the
wifedup jesus pretenda he revealed himself to be.
.
slang..
wifedup = pu$$y-whipped
jesus = nice guy
pretenda = pretender
.
.
*We feel like old ladies because
(1) these frat boys are just lowly undergraduates and we’re master’s candidates which is vastly, vastly better. and
(2) we're Yale graduates, which is vastly, vastly better than being Harvard graduates (in our opinion).
Wonderful smart—thinking Dr. Theophrastus
Has sold poetry books the utterly fastest.
His lines are tricky. They rhyme and dance.
His words are sticky. They preen and they prance.
His rhyming books make people insanely happy.
They are whimsical and fun, powerfully snappy.
With a whistle and a wink, they go along sweetly.
With a thistle painted pink, they are cartooned completely.
They make us laugh, they tickle our funny bones.
They brighten giraffes, who are asking for bank loans.
They make crazy people smile and toot and sometimes laugh.
Keep 4-H kids company while they are lying with their calf.
Dr. T’s poems are creative and fun, lively and jazzy.
They are head-spinning works of art, done amazingly snazzy.
They take astronauts and fling them high above the moon.
And toss whirly whippsy wiggins in yesterday’s monsoon.
They are lively and quick, understood by the common man.
They keep us shiny and slick, and help us love poetry at hand.
They delight all my locked up nephews and my stocked up nieces.
They thrill the cocked up roosters and owls, who love them to pieces.
Written 34-2019 Contest: Honoring Dr. Seuss
Sponsor: Michelle Faulkner
If you see some ants, you will
A) trample them under your feet
B) feed them with leftover sweet
C) turn them into a yum treat
D) watch them catwalk down the street
If you see mosquitoes, you'll
A) swat them away with your hand
B) give them blood as they command
C) guide them back to their marshland
D) listen to their jazzy band
If you see a spider, you'll
A) watch it knit silken cobweb
B) honour it like a celeb
C) squash it with your broomstick's web
D) let it live till time will ebb
If you see a worm, you will
A) watch it wriggle and squiggle
B) poke it with stick and giggle
C) let it be free to wiggle
D) flatten it, no more jiggle
If you see cockroaches, you'll
A) let them dine on your cooked food
B) fry them deep or have them stewed
C) order them out, being rude
D) kill them and their growing brood
11th Feb 2023
For Suzanne Delaney's "Multiple choice poem" contest
Here are my instructions for when I leave this world to go into the “magic realm of possibilities”, the heaven on another plane. For it will be so much better, it will make this Earth life seem like the bowels of hell. Some of us are doing our best to create a heaven on earth here, but it’s still not heaven. Right?
When I pass through to my next adventure, I do not want sadness. I do not expect and will not appreciate wailing or whining. This earthly body which is worn out, and toothless does not want or need an expensive casket or a tombstone. Have you met me? Would I want you to give people a sad place to go and feel badly? Here are my specifications, short, sweet, and to be followed by whomever cares.
Laugh loud and hard, tell funny stories, pretend I was a comedienne. Be glad because I am in a very jazzy, graciously wonderful place. Dance and whirl and twirl and hum. I want you to celebrate my life with a “party.” If you make my grandchildren cry, I will hunt you down, and you will have the next party.
I want you to play my favorite songs –“99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall- all verses, and I mean it, “Puff the Magic Dragon”, and Cher’s “Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves.” If you really want to get carried away, you may play Liza Minnelli’s “Liza with a Z”. But be careful; this could easily hook you forever on her music.
If someone loves me enough to do this, please read Samuel Coleridge’s poem “Kubla Khan” at my celebration of life party. I guarantee I will be there, and I will love it! Thanks in advance.
Spoken Word Poetry: A Groove Through Time
Man, you’re just a real gone cat/breaking the habit and diggin’ something new/
Your world spins fast with the beat/ your music collection—a limited edition on the Acid Side of the Jazzy beat/
a gold standard Acid jazz kaleidoscope of sound/
Acid Jazz LPs dance like shadows in the street/ so you are hip to Acid Jazz, a genre born in the night, Funk, soul, and hop intertwined/
a rhythm that pulses and ignites, elements of funk, soul, and hip-hop, as well as disco, started in London’s clubs/
it began to unwind with drugs sex, and the deep beat of percussion that flows from the spin tables and the DJ mix into subcultures, including rave, acid house, and jungle that flooded the superclubs like the river’s current,
Man, it was a nu British sound that had its own records shops, and music producers/
live performance, an electric embrace, a tapestry woven with the threads of the past, an anthem for a nu sound/
ain’t it cool, man, to swing and sway? Acid cool, with words that play, each note a story, every beat a fight, against the social and political realities of the day/
from the UK to the States in the ‘90s/
broken beats, deep funk, a hip new sound, born in clubs/ a deep history resurrected/
Hip hop producers diving deep in the trunk of
old town bump de bump funk/
Electric Rhodes, guitars that gleam, Jazz-funk—triple threat, the dream, steppin’ out to that new Acid Jazz sound, Brand New Heavies, where vibes abound. James Taylor Quartet, Jazz Hole, Jamiroquai, spinning out of control all deep into the show/
Eddie Piller, the architect, of Acid Jazz Records—music to reflect/
Disc jockeys, producers, crafting the groove, adding percussion, making the old move, sampling the past with a sleazy intent, Old Skool mentality, a love that won’t relent/
Lofi vibes ride the waves of the scene, A boost of spoken word slam jazz, a dream within a dream/
So dig on brother and let the music wrap you, let it break your square mold/
In this young history of Acid Jazz, let the stories be told/ step into the rhythm, and let your dancin’ feet fly/
In this world of sound, we’ll never say goodbye, for there is always someone to meet on this Acid Jazz ride/
We have all been warned, but the sign was there
Staring in her face,
and nothing else was
The food could be drugged
But the sign said “eat me” and “drink me” and “be me”
So Alice did what she was told,
Being a curious girl.
It was her first act of compliance
Could it save her from the rabbit hole?
She was now in a world of small and tall,
life and strife, Tweedledee and Tweedledum
It was a jazzy place, and her eyes were moving fast
Trying to take in what her imagination was bringing
Was she on cocaine then? Heroin?
Let’s see, back in that day
I am going to guess opium….
It is a jabberwocky of a fix to be facing
the Queen of Hearts who is yelling
“Off with her head!” meaning you.
Soon Alice is in the full throes of imagination land
glad she followed the white rabbit.
Pink Cheshire cat, smiling, as she floats
in and out of two worlds.
Yo Bro Sound It Out/Tony Adamo
Yo bro, you got to sound it out/ let the spoken words roll/ let yourself go/your words are in and out of the rhythm track/ It’s the downbeat groove/ man, hit that word vibe hard you’re in the jazzo frame of mind/ word speak with high energy kickin’ it to the crowd/let your spirit upload/ I see you be diggin’ on that modern tempo, sync it up tight to punk jazz punchy/ bringing fire to your words that last all night/lo-fi horn breaks that make your spoken words come alive/ you be doin’ it to it on that hipster speak ride/ abstract thinking blows their minds/hey bro, take it to the edge/ neo-soul, hip hop, house, RnB, and jazz/ that’s your backing tracks for the complex word rap arrangements that smokes out the house/ are you hip to the soul train dance line with that vinyl 45-style sound/Don Cornelius was king in the programing of his dance show/ the funky rhythm and soul textured magic made the music sing out loud/ acid jazz lines push the drive in your words/ I feel the pulse, I dig the feel of the break beat delivery popin’ from your spoken wheel of feel/ You even rap speak to the radio along with the 50s and 60s soul music past/ man, you are the real deal/chilled out boppin’ hip hop, you spread your words like butter on toast/ funk music samples dance from the DJ backing you on stage, man he is the most/ beat chops kicks the words flying off the mic in a rage/ spoken word in between dusty breaks filled with jazzy baselines/ your downtempo feel in breakin’ it down/ man, your words have sex appeal/ you have the low riders cruising through time/ car hoppin’ and dancing to your spoken word rhyme/ brother this is your time/ let the world hear your shout/ hey bro, you gots to sound it out/let the triplets of jazz words you speak/ crash against the soul jazz horn section on top of the hip hop instrumental free beat/ Yeah/ now you be MCing/
Blame not the sun for daze that fires,
Echo the feel of joy that grows;
Yield that sure pun as wit now sires,
Opt thoughts that heal with jest that shows;
Name your own spice with laughter clear,
Dream upon dream of health each day.
Blindside odd vice with love right here,
Live your fine stream in visual play;
Unfurl fond zest with cheer that floods,
Notice the light where shadows flee;
Dance jazzy fest in surge of blood,
Emerge with sights that come to be;
Rouse up bold writes as love moves flight,
Set sacred cites in waves most bright.
Leon Enriquez
11 April 2017
Singapore
The CoOp featured Women and Families
and their Matriarchal Allies,
often LGB and/or T,
and even some curiously queerer,
but not meaner
in appropriate demeanor
regardless of habitat
and camouflage
and costume,
ready for a folksy ball,
come as you neighborhood are
at Three Sisters CoOp.
The Corn Sisters
first brought their good news gospel,
Christian straight through bisexual,
standing Yangish tall.
To conjoin the Bean Brothers and Sisters,
enslaved in wombs a bit too much longer
than their corny deep green sisters,
yet rich brown and red
and forest green ready
to sprout and reforest spiral,
devouring,
yet digesting appropriately just right,
what Corn could carry and bear,
before producing their Bean creolizing
jazzy song and dance performers;
sultry street reformers
resting on a corny stalk of Yang.
Pumpkin spreading shade Earth Allies
grow across the CoOp's neighborhood,
incorporating spiritual
and natural nutritions
to feed a hungry matriarchal-patriarchal world,
rich with integrative nutritional potential,
deep with CoOp integrity
to reweave,
reforest,
Three Sister CoOps,
wherever humanity blooms,
not bleeds so much,
as and where planted,
in and out,
up and down,
back and forth
TaoTime reweaving.
A Great Transitional bean-brother
and sister
stood to take the lunch microphone
first opened up this day
to say:
If you look at a flat picture of a three-sprout braid,
it looks like oppositional Yang and Yin
are bilaterally weaving in and out
in Hypostatic Union
universally alone.
Yet that same three-dimensional braid
when felt and looked at
from at least all three-sides,
unveils a secret wu-wei Trinity
of TaoTime,
a braid for Sacred Corn
as FatherSun,
a braid for Natural Beans
as Holonic Cooperative Flowing-Spiral Spirit,
a braid for MotherEarth
Squashed Down Folks and Species
spreading lovely shade and reforesting projects
and cooperative programs,
economically and politically discouraging competing weeds
while splattering growing psychologically complex rain
where it best absorbent falls.
But, which nutritional strand is which
depends on you,
the ecopolitical view you listen to most Yang-Yin deeply,
as written in sweetgrass braids
of each Three Sisters CoOp.
A row of jazzy underwear
Wafts gently in the breeze
Pegged to the clothes line
Strung between two trees.
A garden brolly provides
Shade from the evening sun,
Chickens scratch the earth
In their wire netting run.
The cockerel struts his stuff through
The chicks of this years hatch,
Beans and peas and potatoes
Grow profusely in their patch.
Veggies for the table
All home grown
In what I've always wanted
A garden of my own.
Discarded children's toys
Are scattered on the green
But the kids are in bed
Quietly sleeping so not seen.
Blue Geraniums are covered
By wasps and bees and flys
Flitting to and fro for pollen
All sights restful to the eyes.
A summer Friday evening,
A whole weekend ahead
Stretched lazily in my lounger
In my hand a glass of red
Contemplating life, counting
All my blessings one by one
Hoping the rest is as good
As as that already gone.
In my little country garden
Resting in the shade
My loved one by my side
I've really got it made.
Next week is round the corner
For now just living for the day,
This gentle summer breeze
Blowing all my cares away.