THE STAGE IS MY PAGE
I don’t write poems—
I live them/
Jazz is my heartbeat/
poetry my voice/
truth my purpose/
I don’t sing the words/
I paint them/
in sound, soul/
and hip-spoken stories/
Man, that’s the vibe/
I speak the music/
all day, every day/
words, beats, people, power/
Real voices change the world.
Dreams don’t work/
unless you do/
Speak it/
Live it/
Love it/
Every verse is a movement/
a music poster for the mind/
The mic is my pen/
The stage is my page/
Black And White
We are given all the pieces
to play and indulge in life’s great feast
outrageous fortunes be dammed!
Given full reign to Ego’s unfettered beast
and the moves we make shall
establish our legacy
Why are we here?
We can either dazzle with brilliance
or baffle with bulls*it
Shameless are unleashings of doubt
only makes a lesser us grow
inhibits our muses
disables our abilities to sprout
I’m no longer vulnerable
to slings and arrows
validity with magnanimity instead of
sentiments design to disparage
are a marriage of lucidity
Opt for words that heal, and clarity!
Phrases that reveal
a simple way of life,
carpe diem, austerity
too much comfort makes a lazy lone
what a poet shall write
shall be etched in stone
in B
l
a
c k
and
W
h
i
t
e ,)
It was open mic nite
or maybe ladies night
no matter, wasn’t my scene
so I ordered a beer and took
my seat
The show was amatuer night
for sure
everyone laughed
drum roll
curtains
left my glass with the waitress
and my tip
caught a guy out in the front lot
hocking CD’s at ten bucks a pop
says hes a musician, I should hear his stuff
its gangster rap
ten spot later
blazed down the road
not my scene
but I take
my seat
You must taste just like urban art,
all that swag dripping from your smirk;
Contours of tag lines show your heart,
a masterpiece with skilled brushwork;
So stylish with that nouveau quirk,
your scent won’t abide dilution;
With a word you drive crowds berserk;
On the mic you’re revolution.
Nervous poets come and read poetry and sing songs accepting applause and feel welcomed
Does my posture hint who I am
At open mic poetry slam
I prefer to hide behind lime winged words
On my pc or tablet or pen paper if I have it
Will my message get loosely lost
As you notice the style of hair I toss
If I am short tall fat or thin
Do YOU hear my message or take my presence in
I don't always walk up to the mic
And I'm wondering this teal thought tonight
Is my heart a red paper valentine
That presents as giving up on love in time
I stand here on this stage
Full of fear desiring fuchsia praise
Seeking love of audience in my way
Unity and community follow my page
I am mistaken I am not a poet
Just a lost soul hoping to grow it
That special something the it factor
Standing on stage as a benefactor.
If you notice my shoes
You know I'm an old soul
Hearing my heart is bruised
Told you so.
I get confused with the snaps and claps
All I want from you is a spiritual tap.
I stood too long before the crowd
I read my poem in a voice so loud
I feel relief like yellow sun from cloud
Thanks for listening glad I came out.
She plays her love for me on strings,
And I, a lucky soul, am still,
And listen as she sings her heart—
A prize no other man can keep.
She takes the stage,
Her mic in her hand
She tries her best to make them all understand
It's like a feeling that takes control,
Deep within her soul begging her to let go
A voice comes from within
Explaining to her its ok to be whole again
What if she falls down or stumbles?
Will she still be able to stand her ground?
When everyone else disappears,
Will she still be there?
Will anyone be left to even care?
Or will they all just fade into thin air?
When all is said and done,
Will holding that mic make her the lonely one?
Carly Simon, songstress, big hair, and a huge smile
Cheshire cat teeth you can see across the Nile
You’re So Vain just might be about Mick Jagger
Love her Itsy-Bitsy Spider and all of her swagger
i can't
say i'm a
meat puppet
because i'm
not in the band
but i'll allow
you to put
your hand
stuff it in
and with
fingers
do as
you
co
mm
and
There is an anagram in this line.
A man named Disney drew a mouse named Mickey
Now Disney's gone, but Mickey still goes strong
In cartoons and parks from Spain to New York City
Across the globe all kids can sing his song
A melody you simply can't get wrong
Though Disney only lived to sixty-five
That mouse he drew is very much alive
Each of us is given time
To read the piece we've written -
A poem or anecdote for which
The judging group was smitten.
Though most are short, a few go on
And on ad infinitum,
Annoying to the audience
But not to those who write 'em.
But even more obnoxious are
The ones I do not like,
Who tell their whole life story
Once they're standing at the mic.
With many readers waiting,
Everyone should have the sense
To present his work and then,
As Shakespeare said, to "Get thee hence!"
I spoke and you didn't hear.
I need to turn up the volume,
Why are you so obtuse?
Hold up! Pass da mic.
You want me to listen
But you speak "at" and not to!
I hear your long words,
You are very educated.
But you have lost touch,
with people and reality.
Love and care is action.
You have forgotten how,
to connect and feel.
You look at me like I'm
another species.
Am I not human?
Let me educate you,
what is a world without
love?
It's about time you come,
to my side of the tracks.
What you will find is "you"
we all are "one" apart of
the human race.
I don't have much money
as you, but I'm still rich.
The wealth that I have
is more valuable than
all yo riches!
I'm out!
And I “dropped da the mic”
2-15-19
Alexis Y.
I spent my adolescence writing lots of teenage angst
through poetry, and stuck with it, despite it being pants.
I’ve been to Open Mic nights, and risen through the ranks.
I don’t get heckled quite so much, and even get some thanks.
I’ve had some poems published, and felt my work improve.
It’s given me some confidence when I’m not in the groove.
I watch a brand-new poet. The first time that they’ve tried.
I clap, although I’m jealous, and thinking deep inside -
Oh crikey, not another better poet on the scene.
How come even novices are better than I’ve been.
I don’t want competition from someone just seventeen.
Oh crikey, not another better poet on the scene.
Everyone’s much cleverer, and wittier than me -
I’m slipping down the rankings. I’m in the bottom three.
I wish there was a talent freeze and some kind of embargo.
I wish I had a better rhyme than using Avocado!
Oh crikey, not another novice poet doing well.
It must be genes or talent. It’s such a living hell!
Poets used to start quite poor, get better bit by bit.
I hate all bleeding poets now. I wish they were more sh..
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