Long Tapping Poems
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ENOUGH!
I felt deaf from the ‘noise’ of information,
constantly butting, buzzing against my mantra of:
“The quieter you are… the more you… hear!”
At present, my lifestyle felt media manipulated:
tv, radio, newspaper, mobile, computer.. ad infinitum!
Besieged by endless emails, monopolizing mobiles,
beset by frenzied yaps from apps!
Enough is enough is….. ENOUGH,
I have to escape from the unrelenting hullabaloo.
Can the human brain endure so much information
and who am I, an individual thinker or group dancer?
However, relief sat just around the corner
as next morning I boarded the flight to Reykjavik.
A three-hour taxi journey with a taciturn islander,
people and communication diminishing by the mile
until finally a twig of a boat out to Ellidaey Island.
Boating and bobbing towards the uninhabited …hideaway,
an isolated jigsaw piece of land
off the southern coast of Iceland,
I appraise a small-boned building clinging to its side
with ‘RIDICULOUS’ scribbled all over it.
Someone had said Iceland was a niceland
where you could float free, peace and tranquillity!
But someone hadn’t warned me about…Mr Loneliness
Who was soon tapping me sharply on the shoulder.
So here I sit, three days into my week’s stay
in the island’s lodge, dubbed the world’s loneliest house,
where the only neighbours are passing ships and puffing puffins.
No internet, no tv, no electricity, no running nor strolling.. water
just remote, alone and contemplating my countenance
while wondering if God is lonely too!
Suddenly, clouds bump and bruise against each other
as they race away before the darkness snarls in.
Soon, night has sent in its stormtroopers
who land and splinter into shadow groups
while wind angrily sprints up to the house
bombing it with blockbuster punches.
Then rain happily joins in, machine-gunning the house
until the building begins to stagger and stumble.
I check my face and it is still in the same place
but I sit timorously trembling, tyrannised and terrified
while my eyes follow the house’s dimly lit path
as it wags its tail to the cliff’s edge
and jumps into the void of darkness.
But this poem is a broken wrist, with a twist,
as suddenly, my bones brittle and inside myself…..I faint!
What possibly could happen now?
But there it is..
the knock at the front door!
Ian Souter
I once saw a man one early misty winter morning. He was crossing at the intersection as I was preparing to make a U turn. Upon seeing him, not in worn out shoes, but completely without any shoes, I felt duty bound; so I gave him the shoes on my feet. This memory came to me as I thought about a song I heard years ago about a Mr. Bojangles who ran a string of bad times and was wearing 'worn out shoes'.
I was deeply moved when I first heard the song nearly 20 years ago, and it has stayed with me since. When I heard it on the radio being performed by Sammie Davis Jr., I fell in love with Mr. Bojangles whose life demonstrated someone down on his luck but still tugging along and doing the best he can with a little confession about 'drinking a bit'. The story also speaks to people with talent and artistic abilities, reminding them that their call, their purpose, their assignment to touch the world, is far bigger than them. Sammie's opening with a whistle was rather soothing.
Whether it's age or addictions, people or circumstances that stepped on one's life to crush them like a roach, we need not stop or give up on ourselves or our gift. If we are blue and sad, Dance! If victimized by manipulation or loss, Dance! If we have come to or toward the end of life and find ourselves feasting on bitter herbs, Dance! We still have a story to tell and one to leave with the coming generation.
The language of life is to love, to laugh, and to Dance, and need never die for any reason. I never learned how to Dance physically, but sometimes when all alone and no one is looking, I Dance. My inner spirit and attitude have learned to Dance. If not as high as Mr. Bojangles, jump as high as you can; can't jump while tapping my heels like Mr. Bojangles, but I can tap the floor.
I suspect that I have Mr. Bojangles to thank and so many others like him who over a span of years have taught me not to cry over spilled milk but to wipe it up and pour another glass. Sammie's closing with a whistle is rather telling and speaks to our approach to life regardless of what it throws at us. Yes, We keep whistling and talking, sharing our lives with whomever will listen, and move on to the next chapter, because it is never over until God says it's over.
071620PSCtest, Same Old Song, Beth Evans. 1P
(Chorus)
You think you've got swagger but really you hobble,
you've got the jet lagger and you're drunk so you wobble,
don't start on me mate 'cus I will bring trouble,
to put it into slang words I'm Barney Rubble.
(Verse)
I will ruffle trouble
'cus I'm on another level
that bombs with the base
and stings with the treble,
I'll strut face to face with any ace rebel,
and put them in their place with their constant bull.
When I rhyme with my contortionist wrist
it expels a mist that sits around my fist,
I spell magic out on paper,
I'm playing with danger,
Mr. Wizardry the word selectionist,
squiggling fiction at speeds that feed friction
into rhymes that are non stop hot and cool,
so flames don't flame on the table top,
journey with me to witness the plot,
the earth shaker creator of perfected hip hop,
starting revolutions so that mumble is forgot,
dislodging the rust and rot it coughs that clots
and instating my Barney Rubble at the top.
(Chorus x2)
(Verse)
That last verse was just a small handful,
a sample of something that you cannot handle,
a scan like a bar code,
so lets open up the road and I'll unload these words,
I can't conceal this skill that rolls like wheels,
a Rolls Royce wearing heels,
in fancy halls doing dancing drills,
with golden walls
to an old skool beat treat.
I wont get signed up by any record label,
but I'm still rhyming better than mumble's able,
just admit you're tapping your feet to the beat
while my rhyme sits on top solid like concrete,
with the dancefloor crammed full,
they're pulling at all angles,
making the memories
that'll last 'til they're O A P's,
they think they've got swagger
and they're like Mick Jagger,
they're more like Sepp Blatter
but a little bit fatter.
(Chorus x2)
(Verse)
You can call me Trimendous and true,
you thought I'd flew crashed and was screwed,
but I took it back to what inspired my act,
an old skool hip hop sick rhyme attack,
I rhymed in flight with this write
and its smile's wild with sublime delight,
there are no poetic rare words
and I don't need swear words
in this dictionary spared verse
with airstream rhythm you can't burst,
I'm wearing this deserved set of words
that pilots and surges to my re-emergence,
a certainty that was never urgent
and not an encore from behind the curtains.
(Chorus x2)
In quiet, space breaks down into insight.
Opposing the edge amidst deceit and blight.
Imperceptible resonation is reflected back.
On a hunch, or at the stroke of night track.
A lethal tree is still close in the woodlands.
The spirit was trailing on the kist of the tree.
At first, kids looked to chip with their hands.
Seep into the night in a ruddy shrunken spree.
I wake up early to the Greek myth of Zeus.
A vessel drifting on the Dal Lake in Udaipur.
The sound of a woman sobbing in sadness.
Over calm green oceans, echoes in Jupiter.
She was performing in a velvety baritone.
Pain in the midst of the tranquility of dawn.
Endeavoring to perform the icy top in June.
Mountains that frame the Kilimanjaro awn.
Ghastly calamities smash and deeply devastate.
I rightly fear that wide-open harm didn't recover.
You can expect the best, yet I will never hesitate.
My dear life depends on your choice; kindly usher.
I regularly defied to bid someone to criticize.
The one-sided truth was dazzling blindness.
My space was thwarted in the related size.
I felt as if somebody led a ruin process.
Sacredness to which humankind might relate,
With the moon sitting on edge of the world.
Mountains meet to uncover the ornate.
Smiling and radiating, from high observed.
There are times when I can feel the crests fly.
I'm being held down as my blood is drained.
Brain scars result from ruined sight and sway.
When I perish, a chasm arises in my mind.
A lean, edge-on which rests one's optimism.
Please be cautious of steps you split wide open.
In fate, a walk on shells will be optimum.
Shift much fatal shooting and be woken.
I minded my name being said in a whisper.
I was adducible of a hand tapping my forearm.
When I swung around to direct a look closer,
I found myself alone and aching for smarm.
How might a heart that dorsum and delicate,
Have the sway to bear a vast part desolate.
But we're apt despite our humble eyesight.
To discover the earth and the vast infinite.
The monstrosity of the encompassing world.
Encompassed by both the sight and the sound.
Emotions energize the heart within the darkness.
Eyes that can consistently scan such elegance.
1st Place Contest Winner.
Written: June 01, 2022
This Or That, Vol 12 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
Can you hear the thumping, thump, thump of my heart beating away?
Can you hear my whispers of love in your ear,
as you sleep the night away in your bed, laying on the virgin white sheets,
tangled in blankets?
Can you hear me sing our favorite song, as you walk down the lonesome avenue?
Can you hear my soul, cry out for a warm embrace of your sweetest hugs?
Can you hear me cry out for a simple, loving kiss upon the lips?
I don't ask for much from you, my love.
All I ask you, is if you can hear me, and to see that you still believe in me,
and I haven't became a figment, a ghost in a scrapbook.
That I am still there with you, and not a picture of a memory collecting dust in a box.
I don't ask for much from you, my love.
I just want to know if you can still hear me, deep in your heart!
Don't forget about me.
Don't move to another, without first accepting that we had something beautiful.
Don't let me go off and vanish in vain.
Admit, you loved me, but you were afraid. Of What? I ask myself.
I don't know.
Can you feel me, touch you gently on the arm?
Can you feel my embrace, as you sit there crying on your bed,
crying to the pattern and rythmn of the rain tapping on the window pane?
Can you hear me, can you feel me? Do you even know that I'm here, with you?
Do you...?
Don't destroy something beautiful.
I love you.
I don't ask for much from you, My Love.
all I ask is that you remember.
You remember the laughs, the fun we had,
the long walks, and the long talks.
Remember the Ferris Wheel at the amusement park,
where we first kissed.
And shared our first corndog together,
and I won you that purple stuffed teddybear.
On cold nights, we'd cuddle together.
I'd write you love poems and we talk for hours about nonsense.
Remember, how you'd cry and I'd hold you, and kiss you upon your sweet head.
Remember, the nights we'd sleep together,
and the mornings we'd wake up together
with a smile and a morning kiss.
Do you remember, My Love, Do you?
Remember the good times, and don't get up and leave so quick.
To jump right into someone else's arms and forget all about me.
Can you feel the pain I have for you?
Can you feel the love I give to you?
Can you hear me sigh and cry, for one more night of love with you?
Can you...?
I don't ask for much from you, My Love.
All I ask is that you remember me,
For I still and will always remember you.
That goofball husband of hers brought her to this joint to see her get drunk for the very first time. She actually plugged her nose trying to sip her first glass of beer. Good grief. 20 minutes and she barely finished it. She walked to the restroom and I felt her teetering just a little bit. She likes the feeling though, I can tell! I sure liked it when she started boogying to the beat of the band on her way back to the table. Too bad Mr. dingbat won’t ever dance with her. She keeps tapping her hands on the table to the rhythm of the music. That’s why I have to write so slow. . . .
Now she’s tryin ta drink another beer but she can hardly stand it an her husband sez come on don’t ya wanna know how it fills ta be drunk? She says well at list I fill buzzd now. . .
The nice buzz wore off. It’s at least an hour later. She and hubbie got this idea to go to the liquor store. First time she ever went to one. She thought maybe brandy would taste better so then she could drink something stronger and know how it felt to be drunk. Brandy sounded sweet and fruity to her. Boy was she wrong. She took a little taste and it burned going down. That stuff sucks just like the beer. . . .
Wow she jus finisht tha hole boddle rily fast lik mebbie ten minuts ago so she kud fil drunk an she put me down ta finnish tha boddle in one shot now she kant evin kip her eyez opun UH ohhhhhhh
Epilogue: The preceding narration was based on actual fact. Upon consuming an entire bottle of brandy in less than ten minutes, "she" immediately passed out, and I recall she awoke in the morning having forgotten everything that transpired once she fell asleep. Furthermore, when she went into the bathroom the next morning and saw some flecks of vomit on the walls, she was quite amazed. Why? Because she had no recollection of throwing up, and she realized her goofball husband had actually attempted to clean up a mess in their house for the first time in their young married life!!!
By the way, Jenny, if you happen to be reading this, Shhhh. Please do not tell her other sisters. It would surely get back to you guys’ mother, and your poor upstanding church-loving mom might have a heart attack to hear of her daughter’s one transgression with the devil’s brew! Sincerely, Her Sober (albeit sometimes fanciful) Pen
Although I greatly loved socializing, I really enjoyed being alone,
Like ebony evenings of magic, with no ringing of the telephone.
Since my young childhood, I had been, an introverted extrovert,
Like one with eyes to azure skies, for solitary sun's extra burst!
I loved my work as a museum tour guide, as blossoms love rain,
And offish Mars loves twirling alone, in the red days of his fame.
Yet, in leisure hours I was often alone, like a full, alienated moon,
Or stunning, vibrant rainbows, that won't be amassing very soon.
Friends oft invited me to parties, and sometimes I would accept,
As sun is seen coaxing roses, from the beds where winter's slept.
I lived in the house of quiet starlight, each of them roving alone,
Like solitary, jade grasshoppers, when green grass is overgrown.
My nearest neighbor was my best friend, and we were like family,
Ofttimes together, laughing steadily, in the days of golden vanity.
Pleasant summer was in high spirits, with a whistling in the trees,
And a continuous, merry humming, from hives of the honeybees.
One day, I labored in my garden, while marigold blooms sang sun;
And I saw a lone woodpecker tapping, getting his own work done.
It was not the first time I'd seen one, and they were always solo,
Like a total eclipse of the glorious sun, making of him a no-show.
Then I saw a pink hummingbird, flying backward, and upside down,
Reveling in aloof, open air dining, out on the quaint sunshiny town.
This brought to mind adorable koalas, living out serene lives alone,
Like a dramatic, lone shooting star, heading out to zones unknown.
Later I saw a pretty emerald butterfly, more solitary than the birds,
They live and usually migrate alone, past the city's outlying suburbs.
Then there is reclusive, giant panda, active at night and by twilight,
When hued skies remember and review, the golden day's highlights.
Thinking of complex nature's solo acts, I did gain valuable insights,
For being alone is only natural, circumstances defining what's right.
I am no longer feeling guilty, but am accepting myself just as I am.
As the sun accepts taking over, when heavy storms are on the lam.
I still laugh it up at joyous parties, like fireworks and confetti stars,
Yet, I require long intervals of silence, like silky nights of no chaos!
With full apprecation of all thing concidered.
In respect to all that are involved..
Its defintion becomes it reason to exsist.
To grow from the seeds: which harvested
shall be fruit to nourish, and seed again for
it's future.
We those who see these things done, now
look to create and establish this day,
the means and ways to create.
The creation of this new entity from these
new begannings. This new Entity from this start.
For thoise who wish to chore and labor. In the industry
from the support of this company,
shall do so as employees.
Some with stakes: as stakeholders and visionaries.
Some as emoyees: but all together
as members of an enitity who
wishes to change the world with the influence of creation.
Standing on the surfaced plain, stacking the walls,
and roofing the the show. Doers of works.
Research, development, rehearst,
and displayed.
"Addio Padre, Addio Padre!
Soo right, Soo, Right
ah ooh redition
Publlic presentation
addio
Padre, So right , so right!:"
Collabarations and demostrations.
In the styles of now and future.
To influence the ulture it shall create.
In recreation and creation.
With the emphasis on creation
Showcasing talents, contracting events.
Catering to the many who like what we do
and those who wish to inspire change
by research and development.
Standing topside
looking
to other venues and helping
contract business for the need
of effeincancy.
Methods and strategies:
influencing and making
new fusions in all genres, where
the opendoor
will allow new people
as consumers followers
and business oppurtunites.
Job creations in temoray and perminat positions.
Learning how to teach people to do things our way
mifght we learn to adapt to do things your way.
Ladies and Gentlemen we
Now introduce you too
Trends Elegant
The crimping edges of fashion.
Auditions for the new Orcheastra,^0 peice. Singers both male and Female
Lead singers and Background Vocalist.
all types of musicains welcomed.
Both Traditional and Folktype.
We will work together
to create a modern sound.
To move, groove,dance,
or just good ole
foot tapping music.
Creation of Audiences using Demographic Targeting.
Music, Food, Fashion and Design.
Sports Wrestling.
A world: with A world.
Championed as Best.
Courtesy of I wanna Sing this One Music Company.
Do I really need this money
as this job shall be, the death of me.
But I think that's what I really want,
when I think subconsciously.
Now such a thought I think
a thought I think much oftenly.
A thought I think is killing me
I thought I washed my hands of this
I thought I washed them worthily.
Why have things come back to this
For it gives me quite the splendid rush,
when I feel that inviting touch.
There's tapping on my shoulder,
I turn around to say, "Hello,"
but by then the feeling's over.
Why was it here, if just to go?
When it knows it could've said hello.
When it knows it could've said, "Hello,"
Why did still it, decide that it will go.
When it knows I want it so.
Not so much stalking me
more so much watching me.
Gazing with amazing
so abrasing, curiosity.
It could come by.
It could say, "Hi."
Instead it just sits right there.
While I yell back, "You know, it's not polite to stare."
Always makes me kind of,
kind of wonder why.
I kind of wonder why
of to it am thoughtless wonder I.
Right there is where
is where it sits right there.
Staring at me
It looks so happy
While I taunt it
While it knows I want it.
As it's embrace came close soon.
Right when I thought that we would meld
Right as we were about to blend us two
was right when it.
When it withheld.
I thought it knew I wanted it,
I thought it knew I loved it.
That thought I know I want it.
That thought of thinking of it.
The thought that is now growing.
The thought that is now showing.
My thought it's endless knowing
My thought now where's it going
As quickly as it's come
it's already gone away.
What is it that it's telling me?
What's it that it's trying to say?
Maybe it's trying to let me know,
that while my behavior might seem so,
it isn't quite yet
and not quite right yet
but still I might yet.
though even so
and even though
it's not yet quite my time to go.
When I say goodbye .
My last goodbye to my friend
There it is,
there it is again
Like a customer, who walks into a store.
One who doesn't buy a thing,
but the next day comes on back for more.
It knows it's not my answer
and it tells me such
It knows that it can steer me
If I'm willing much
I don't think I want this,
even while I want this.
More so I want something different
and that is what it's offer is.
When it comes to being a good father what do most young black men see?
Can they picture their fathers passing down any legacies?
Do they remember any male bonding or talks on how to be good men?
Do they have any perceptions or even comprehend?
Unfortunately too many households are single parent with only a mother in residency
Caused by incarceration, unemployment and dysfunctional inadequacies
Too many don't have a clue of what a good father should be
As the father factor in their lives was one of obscurity
But God is the ultimate father figure to each and every man
And if you desire to be like Him read His words and follow His plans
To become a good father you must examine the Holy Scriptures
And hopefully you'll be able to obtain a good father picture
Now tapping into God's heavenly Twitter account
And Facebooking the Gospel to see what its all about
Fully prepared to formulate, cultivate and stimulate your spiritual life
So that your behavior and way of thinking lines up with Jesus the Christ
A picture of a good father is a man who leaves a financial legacy
So that his children won't exist in a state of abject poverty
By showing them how to save and how to invest
Leaving a fruitful inheritance and a full hope chest
A picture of a good father is a man whose vine is rooted in a strong foundation
And structured to lift him up in godly formation
Respectful, resilient, loving, loyal and kind
Of strong moral conviction and secure in his mind
Knowing who he is and what he could be
And having healthy relationships with every member of his family
So if you're broken, bitter, angry and have any doubts
Seek God and a professional to help you work it out
And i say this to all women and I hope you receive
You need to let a man be a man to his family
Stop disrespecting him and put your anger and pride to the side
He is doing the best he can so work with him by walking stride for stride
A picture of a good father is a man concerned about his community
Who comprehends we live in a global society
A man who gets involved and not stay isolated
As we are all a part of this world that God created
A picture of a good father is a man who loves and respects his family and community
A man strongly rooted, striding humbly and secure in his spirituality