Bang my bongos and I'll pluck your big bouzouki
or shake your maracas at me
and I'll rattle my tambourine for you
it's all it takes to make beautiful music together
undeniably the right thing to do
which in and of itself is an ambitious endeavour
but as the tectonic plates in my fate all shift
I'm starved for intelligent conversation
in this intellectual wilderness there's a rift
how long can I hold my breath in negation
living here among losers in the land of make-believe
where they can only relate to characters on television
and rude loud local yokels dumb everything down
Lord I'm not truly grateful for what I am about to receive
from these ignorant arrogant violent clowns
Double-dutch ropes slap the sidewalk -
snap - snap - snap -
braids whip air,
girls jump in, counting
uno, dos, three,
feet flick like drumsticks.
The ice cream truck jingles off-key,
icy lady shakes paper cups,
piragua man shaves ice into snow -
his knife scraping the block awake.
Pastelillos pop in hot oil -
spit, sizzle -
plastic cups clink with rum and cola,
congas crack, maracas shake salt in the air,
horns blare like chisme in heat.
Heels click-clack over concrete -
punctuating each spin,
each swirl of hips.
Whistles split the air -
one from the lifeguard at Jefferson,
two from the men on the corner,
three from abuela
when the coals are hot.
Somebody throws meat on the grill -
ssszzzz -
smoke climbs windows,
neighbors bring foil trays -
yellow rice, ribs, roasted corn -
each dish a downbeat.
Kids yell cannonball,
water smacks back,
lifeguard’s whistle cuts through splash.
Old heads tap dominoes on tabletops -
crack, slap, smack -
hands older than the stoops they sit on.
The block fills itself
the way music fills a drum -
the street hums under bare feet.
Tonight,
the moon will smell like charcoal
and sweet ice.
I'm a baby.
I move constantly. Amazingly constantly.
And I flutter hard. Amazingly hard.
Why?
Because I'm rehearsing.
I'm rehearsing moving like I mean it.
I'm rehearsing being strong like oak trees.
I'm rehearsing dancing like butterflies.
I'm rehearsing for rolling.
I'm rehearsing for sitting.
I'm rehearsing for crawling like little explorers.
I'm rehearsing for walking like big kids.
My arms pump like tiny engines.
My legs kick like happy swimmers.
My brain lights up like Diwali morning.
Why?
Because I'm rehearsing.
I'm rehearsing coordination like orchestra music.
I'm rehearsing balance like tightrope walkers.
I'm rehearsing grace like flowing water.
I shake like maracas.
I wiggle like puppies.
I flutter like spring leaves.
Amazingly joyful.
Amazingly determined.
Amazingly ready.
Why?
Because I'm rehearsing for the moment
when I get to stand up
and dance through the world.
The maracas of leafy trees
whisper rhythms to the wind,
a quiet song of December.
Four days---- left to go---
till the year ends,
and time spills forward,
its hands brushing past us,
softly, relentless.
You and I,
counting moments,
the weight of years
settling like dew-----light, inevitable
somethings are done, a lot many left undone
but the ceaseless march of time moves forward.
But here in the enchanting garden,
under the sun’s gentle gaze,
age is a story written in roots and petals,
a bench painted green with memories
What is there to grieve,
when old feels like this-----
and life hums softly
in the company of trees?
Can you hear them? The tribal chants
Chanted only when a member advance
Can you feel it reverberating in your bones?
Can you hear the distant tribal people's tones?
With binoculars - watch the tribal daughters dance
There's the chief with a headdress and mask
There's the tribal elder - concocting a potion
There's the diplomatic princess - with all of her devotion
There goes the knights and warriors - ready for the hunt
You can hear the distant fanfare - the trumpets trump
Stop and listen to the maracas bells
Gather 'round the campfire - listening to the stories they tell
Speaking Navajo to the chief - you will soon find
He's marrying off his daughter - 'cause now it's her time
Shake em, baby
There was a young man from Caracas
Who proved very good with maracas
He played them so loud
Pleasing the crowd
But eventually, he drove us crackers
shaking maracas
in the pale yellow moonlight
dancing with the stars
The wind crashing against my eardrums,
drumming the most beautiful beat.
Birds chirping in the distance,
Sing such a sweet melody.
Lightning crashes down on the cymbals.
Could this be the song of my life?
Leaves begin to rustle beside me,
Like they're playing the maracas.
Crickets sound like they're playing the worlds smallest violin.
Nature surrounds us and plays their favorite orchestrated song.
Will we stop to listen for a minute?
09/16/2020
My rhino can play the flute
And is good at the maracas to boot
Alas he is quite forlorn
For his flute bangs into his horn
So now he has a saxophone to toot
Arsenals of axes brought by the crate
Pedals increasing experimental
Trashy dissections of raw cityscapes
NYC rockers gone transcendental
Static blasts shredding the off-key high pings
Maracas hit toms to keep structured pace
Drum sticks wedged under alternate tunings
Meted by contrasting booms of the bass
Dissonance anteed raises the ceiling
Shaping sound by analog disruption
Searching/defining an urban feeling
Stark layers of beautiful corruption
Sweet ballads sung without being pretty
Growls and screams about something gritty
Chicken wang, chicken wang
Just hangin with my homies...
Eatin some baloney
Freaky thang, freaky thang
Just hangin with my groupie
Eatin something fruited
Orangutan, orangutan
Just hangin in da jungle
Try in a make a hustle
Shake that thang, shake that thang
Just playin with tha maracas
Tryina make a dolla
Band that thang, bang that thang
Just bangin on tha bongos
Tryina do da Kongo
Swang that thang, swang that thang
Just like a shoe strang
Eatin me some noodles
Tryina train a poodle
You can shake them and they bounce
Heavy or light, pounds or ounce
Men will always stop and stare
Sometimes even women glare
At these fascinating features
On heavenly lovely creatures
Being held up by a holder
That will go around your shoulder
Or they can be out and free
Causing much insanity
Itty bitty or full size
They'll always be a surprise
Different shapes on everyone
Always causing lots of fun
If your young they're high and firm
But getting older they will turn
To softness and start to sag
On the ground where they will drag
So get as much enjoyment that
You can before they get a flat
Shake those maracas while they are
Still pointy just like a star
the water pounds on the asphalt like a drummer to a drum
and the wind blows in a mobius pitch whistling tunes through its hum
the tin can joins in the whimsical that we lovingly call rain
and the rooftop offers dancing lessons like the taps on the window pane
the trees shake like maracas when the wind starts to sway
and the tires of a car plays symbols as it drives the other way
thunder cues the lighting flash as it rolls across the sky
but if i could hear one last song i would listen to the rain before i die
the soothing peace, that inner sense that is brought on by the rain
releases tension and calms my spirit and helps to keep me sane
EDIBLE MUSIC
The garlics are on grand piano in the corner,
Playing alone because of their halitosis.
After making each other’s mouth water,
Clever lemons blowing their trumpets by osmosis.
Onions on sad violins making each other cry.
Mushrooms working in the dark but giving it a try.
Near the open window, beans - small but cute :
Those classic wind instruments , the musical fruit.
Latin rumba from Caracas with coconut maracas.
French grapes can-can in chorus;
Smiling bananas can’t-can’t, but just enjoy the scene.
Tangos with an Argentine tangerine.
Mangos mounting melodies on drums in Afrikaans
Peas piping on piccolos for an Italian folk dance
Rushing polka dots in a Russian borsch whirl.
Oyster shell castanets for a Spanish flamenco girl.
Asparagus dessed in ballet shoes always on tips,
And of course as always, Rose shaking her hips.
All rhythmic foot-tapping fruit
Forever looking for a new recruit.
Maracas off beat
Warm aroma of butter
Drums bouncing down stairs
By Robb A. Kopp
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