Long Razzmatazz Poems
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The rain---sounds like catapults fired on our roof
drops like palm kernels---splash on the back cover
of our black pots, Stamping the roof like horse
galloping on a narrow bridge. Is it war ? we ask
ourselves. And its comes along with Jealous wind
beating trees to pulps. The plantain treesare no more
standing with their toes but lying belly faced to the
ground, the palm trees in razzmatazz dance to the
calypsos Of the wind their hips fixed but their hairs
swirls
The sound of the wind
plays the tune of an invincible piper who was well
paid and skillfully trained. The African rain Is like
a tornado sent by a weird mate to greet a foe his,
competitor So as to end the play of his dancers stop
the beat of his drums and gongs. On his feasting day
as he refuses to settle the ground
We in groups
of seven, eight, nine ten---at the heart of the town,
nooks and crannies and front of our compounds
with belly flashed open unto the maker chanting
poems in unison to tell how beautiful we love it
when it pours.
With sandy coloured panties,
we dance In ecstasies to the unrhythmic beat of
the rain drops, splashing dirty waters on each
other body parts a sign to depict our new happy
days ahead whoever misses out this fun is a loser
we dance dance!! dance!! and dance the winner
the best dancer Is carry on the shoulders with
awards of applauds and joyous loud wailing
calling loud his name in repetition.
At times we catch little fishes In the frontage
of our homes as the nearby rivers, and
streams overflow into the dirty clean streets
with drainages stock by polythene nylons---
and our joyful mothers, who sing songs of
melody In their heart for a heavenly pour
to greet their water pots for a cool drink,
are seated in poetic manner l while some
stand at akimbo thinks the disasters it
might cause them their roof to cure.
Usually at nights mother goes around
Our beautiful clayed hutmaking little
amendments to our brown blistered
basket
mouthed roof and the drops it had
sneaks through. And the prayers our
hearts we pray its rains no more---lets
little ocean is our comfort.
https://youtu.be/hdZqDP0vMfk
Written: August 10, 2023
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In the late summer's embrace, I find solace.
Bathing in the sun's warmth—nature's grace
The world apricates, as I do in kind,
A symbiotic peace, an eternal bind
Two silhouettes tested harsh jazz,
Waltzing in the field, casting a dazzling razzmatazz
In a corner stood, in an early red, earthy storm,
Whipping clouds, fluffy beds, curlicued form
A street lamp hung from the sky above,
Guiding lost souls with a gentle love
Often, in destruction, insight is found.
Into nature's secrets—profound
Observation becomes my daily quest.
Untangling nature's labels leads to a lovely conquest.
A thunderclap in a cloudless sky of blue
Clouds gather for thunder; it's surprising but true.
It also means—lightning can strike.
In broad daylight, out of view,
Whispers of late summer, a hidden clue
Nature's mysteries unfolded with my hike.
Revealing the awe-inspiring beauty that lies
In the symphony of the elements, I stand,
A witness to nature's mighty hand
As late-summer whispers surprise.
The secrets it conceals have me spellbound.
The sun's warmth embraces a soul that is found
Nature, my friend, dances by my side.
Together, we find solace in the late summer's stride.
In the harmony of life, we become one.
Immersed in the beauty that can never be undone.
Whispers of late summer guide the way.
Revealing the wonders of each raw day.
And as I wander through this enchanting land,
I realize that nature's touch is truly grand.
So let the whispers of late summer be heard.
As they carry the secrets of this wondrous world.
They say Cabernet Sauvignon pairs nicely with steak
Pinotage, they reckon, for cheese
Tempranillo is the choice for Mexican grub
But, I'm somewhat easier to please
I've tried a fair few "Reds", on a weekend night
While chilling to some melodic jazz
I've had the brave, the bold and the border-line nasty
But I've never had a "Shy Shiraz"
I once had a good round Pinot Noir
And I've tried a spicy Grenache
I've felt the cranberry burst through a daring Gamay
Which cost me lots of cash
I've had a Beaujolais, which wasn't too pretty
Bought from a dodgy guy named "Baz"
Found a corked Chianti - rather a pity
But I've never had a "Shy Shiraz"
I've had a monster of a Monastrell
And a beautiful Petit Ver
A Mataro, which did nothing for me
A Malbec, which made my mind whirr
Yes, I like a glass, on a weekend night
You may prefer beer, whereas
I must keep looking, 'cos it's quite off-putting
That I've never found a "Shy Shiraz"
A Zinfandel gave me heartburn hell
And a Claret once cleared my head
A Merlot can make me beg for more
Rioja sends me merrily to bed
Yes, I like a bottle, on a weekend night
It gives my mind pizzazz
Then sends me mellow, like a good old fellow
Who's searching for a "Shy Shiraz"
This earth is fine, for those who love wine
I've had the old world, and the new
But until I find a "Shy Shiraz"
I'll just keep trying - as you do.
For a bottle of red, on a weekend night
Is a blend of razzmatazz
You can find me drinking, while secretly thinking
"I hope I never find a Shy Shiraz"
“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” Rumi
Upon my quest for quintessence.
I was an amorist,
positive in poetic philosophies.
Elysian and empyrean effigies,
enlightened in an ephemeral existence.
Life a fragile garland
festooned with a frangipani fragrance,
meandered in meadows of melodies,
a mouthpiece to a frivolous flute
but gone are lucent lusory lullabies.
I turned to the ballad of birds.
Dulcet desires dreamed of diamond drops,
dulcifluous, dulciloquent and diaphanous.
Delusions led to an interpretation of illicit illusions.
I became a metaphor for afflicted adjectives.
Mimesis mind became brittle and barren,
aphonic and amort - a crestfallen conscious.
A wild wallflower in an orchard of opal orchids,
slowly decomposing - in silent semblance
clocks won't stop for sojourners of the soul..
I searched for footprints left behind,
upon porcelain seraphic shores,
but knavish kismet lay lamenting,
disconsolate upon a distant island,
manifesting murmurations of a
maleficent maelstrom monsoon.
My life was once a
razzmatazz of reflections
gold, ivory and bronze,
but now silver sighs slither,
releasing a soft susurrus,
as once sapphire sylphlike skies are
now vermillion and violet visions.
Haematic horizons close the gates to heaven,
yet in my ruins, I know there is fortune,
as I polish my mirror of misfortune,
hoping it glows in canorous colours.
What is class, you have the cash
Dressed to match, riches stash,
Pseudo rich and all pretence
Having no feelings or sincere sense.
Class of people bother not of poor
Look down on others, scornfully sure.
When storms hit hard and tides turn rough
There is no friend who’ll stand by tough.
But the poor once ignored by class
Will leave the gates of razzmatazz
here by your side to be
Helping you through your misery.
Look not down on another
Treat them like your sister or brother.
Don’t count friendship by size of house
Weigh not him by what, when and hows.
His heart is clean and welcomes you
Treating you well with food and juice.
Today he’s down, someday will he be high
Then your whims his class will supply.
Class is not born to time and space
Birth was not in gold and lace.
Naked was he that once crawled the ground
Attained a class by means of vile and sound.
The mirror shows a different gleam
Eyes see not what they may seem.
Class is all for show, glamour and pomp
Lost midst multitudes in a pride of swamp.
Plastic smiles with fake, shallow concern
Time, reality will soon confirm.
Razzmatazz. A long lost song
From a long lost band, Pulp
Freed from your Orange Juice,
Hailing from Scotland, who’s final king
Was Forest Whittaker, trophy winner
The only one Cleveland’s ever seen (but apparently, it rocks)
With its gray skied eyes and Factory blacked lungs,
A cancer felt but not seen-everything gives you Cancer.
Joe Jackson has a good point, and a good beat
Down this song is on your ears, like a Bullet to the Head
Courtesy of four angry boys raging against the machine
Yes you god damn library printer, lying through your teeth
To frustrated, harried people lying
In the hands of god.
John Lennon didn’t believe in you, why should I?
Why should I care, I’m out of my brain on the Train,
That two hit wonder coming to Cleveland July 9th,
Five days after the fireworks are lit
Indoors by Elvis Costello, with the cigarette
Of Ben Folds, over smoky, deep purple waters
Much prettier than Erie, that eats away the bones--
Well put Thom Yorke, unrelated to the Duke
Who built a city, then built it anew on Amsterdam
Not the kind Chris Martin locked away
With keys of Ebony and Ivory.
JACK FROST.
J ourneyer of jazzy winter in a jovial mood comes Jack
A rouses aspiration in little angels for snow fight balls
C asting crystallizing icicles on icy forest and crispy lands
K aleidoscope of frozen frost,kisses goodbye to kinsfolk of rain
F rosty,fecund,fur favouring but gets ferociously frozen at times
R hapsodic winter lovers go skiing along the snow ground razzmatazz
O odles of snow,oncoming chills,skating thrills in his strolls offers Jack
S himmering silvery snowful scenario adds to the shine of Jack's abode
T roubadour of winterland prooves to be God's trustworthy tycoon.
P.S-May GOD bless you all with a wonderful winter.
Contest:Jack Frost
Sponsor:Shadow Hamilton
3.12.2015
At the risk of coming off turgid
I offer this tale esoteric
Hoping it’s not found insipid
Nor causes one to be apoplectic
But rather received with alacrity
Without the need for paroxysm
My word there’ll be no chicanery
And avoidance of anachronism
Far from being sesquipedalian
Nor need for any razzmatazz
The tale of the slubberdegullion
Who thought himself full with pizzazz
Though being so supercilious
His affect stirred only dudgeon
Any good was so very fugacious
From this untoward tatterdemalion
Yet still he persisted a mumpsimus
If you will, and worse a panjandrum
So aggravating and rumbustious
Redeeming qualities not a modicum
An unquestioned snollygoster
Given to being quite vagary
An ill-reputed hugger-mugger
And a voice of such cacophony
But I see that you are insouciant
And consider my warning malarkey
Since you wish to be recalcitrant
My apologies for being persnickety
I end my tale of the rapscallion
Without further ado or rigmarole
Avoiding becoming ultracrepidarian
I have met my supererogatory parole
One Christmas, hubbie lost his job,
and we were feeling sad
when at the pound, we found a cat
that helped me to feel glad.
We never knew what age she was.
All we knew was that
she’d lived with dogs and had green eyes
and was a little fat!
Although her name was Razzmatazz,
instead I’d call to her:
“Come, kitty, oh so beautiful
with shiny soft black fur.”
I loved to look into her eyes,
and back at me she’d gaze.
She’d hang around us. On our bed
with us she liked to laze.
When someone came to visit us,
beside us all she’d be.
Black cats like her are not bad luck.
So sociable was she!
Five years soon passed, and Razzmatazz
was acting rather strange.
First diabetes; then her stroke
affected quite a change.
To ease her pain, we had her put
to sleep, for death was near.
Today I see black cats and think
of mine so sweet and dear.
March 28, 2022
For the Black Cat Poetry Contest of Robert James Liguori
Behind barbed-wire fences
Of security-estate isolation
The rich and the poor
Divided the nation
The lines were drawn
The cartoons were sketched
As luxurious green lawns
In shantytowns far-fetched
As the echoes of jazz
From Sophiatown
Faded razzmatazz
As we descended down
Where Rabbi and Imam, too
Tipped their hat in greeting
The moments of Ubuntu
Was there but so fleeting
A moment forgotten
As District Six was razed
Then rain mud sodden
As cattle anxiously grazed
How we danced and sang
How we felt the heartbeat of Africa
Drums beat and trumpets sang
Down, going down in Africa
The past echoes in our tears
As the soul was ripped from our ears
The beats fade as we stare
At our barbed wire, our living snare
Here we sit, in safety, in silence
Whilst we believe, we believe
That outside the world is rubble, violence
Ah, we were deceived, as we deceive