Tokyo Jazz Club
You played a solo on the bandstand but didn’t dig the sound your tenor was searching for/ something new, a note big enough to blow the whole town down/
Between sets, you caught a laugh rising from the bar/
a woman’s laugh, curling like smoke through blue light, full-bodied, bright, sweet with danger/
You heard Giant Steps inside it, each burst of joy a door swinging open/
You stole no melody—only the freedom of it/ transposing her wild laughter into a sound unheard/
raw and pure, free jazz for sure, a midnight breeze running loose through New York streets/
Now your music was hip to the score, a fusion of brass and laughter, a solo shaped for her alone/
At the end of the night, my horn held her close/
or was it you beneath those stars, where Jelly Roll Morton rolled through carnival lights glowing like flowers in the dark?
WAS IT U? Tony Adamo
Under the stars, were Jelly roll Morton rolls, carnival lights twinkling,
like flowers glowing brightly in the night.
Candy-bright sugar moments,
pop like gumdrops,
a sweet melody we all know.
Graffiti dreams paint the walls,
hip-hop rhythms,
jumping over a yellow moon,
Chet Baker's notes float,
alive in the air,
the Hammond B-3 sings its soul,
freestyle, free heart, diggin' to write a jazz chart,
we dance until dawn,
lost in the Latin rhythms of last night.
Hit 'em up! Hit 'em up!
Up, out and away
Singles, doubles, triples
and of course, the Big Bombay!
Snitker stoically managing from
the dugout
Ron Washington on third and Eric
Young, Sr. on first helping runners out
Strider, Morton, Elder, and Fried leading
the way
Chavez, Minter, Mchugh, and Iglesias closing
the day
D'Arnaud and Murphy guiding and protecting
home plate
When it's their chance in the batter box good
hitting they aptly demonstrate
Acuna Jr., Albies, Arcia and Harris II
applying the spark
Olson, Rosario, Ozuna, and Riley bomb blasting
making the park go dark
Hit 'em up! Hit 'em up!
Up, out and away
Braves win!
Hip Hip Hooray!
In hindsight, I’ve always kept my mind right,
I only lose sleep at night over the that I write,
it’s like the weight on Atlas’ shoulders, are you hearing what this rap is,
a fight against the controllers, modern day john the Baptist,
but I ain’t selling a savior, it’s too late for later,
my labor of love, Ep the revelator,
takin my time, like im taking in drugs, chill Doug,
never underestimate the evil that man do,
and never take on more than you can handle,
I got a weed based diet, along with scripting the ill ,
I am the Ecliptic, sun worship, if it don’t rhyme, don’t force it,
spray cans on the brain, Ramo on the train tracks,
’s never been the same as way back,
people fade, the brain finds a new pathway to explain,
why the fuk life is how it is,
society is aimed at making you feel powerless,
9-5, ain’t that some ,
but you do what you have to when your passionate,
Randy Orton pose like a statue, Ricky Morton arm drag,
I’m opposed to the fascist posing radical, I’m burning els with Cobra Command and Zartan,
they say I thyme like an animal, I say I’m more of a sage, ageless stoic,
but I put it down nice, that’s the meaning of a poet.
Cancer of My Soul
By: M. Morton
A cigarette sits and turns to ash
As the disease of memory grows
I twist and turn as I feel each lash
It feasts upon my suffering
That voice, a constant muttering
Staining the me that no one else knows
No cure to this
That I can find
Just a bleeding wrist
And a slumber so deep
The promise of eternal sleep
Freedom for the first and only time
it was water way
a day to play
it was fun
as the boat morton run
we rock the boat sock
we were two
old goats
having
SEX ON ABOAT
Byron McGovern (true story 1900)
At Denowan near Goodooga,
lived Mc Govern so they say,
At a Church of England mission,
Aubrey lived there anyway,
now Byron McGovern got arrested,
Black Trackers they said sure,
in jail he was invested,
his tracks came to the door,
the murderer was cunning,
tiptoed to Byrons' camp,
pulled on Byrons' muddy boots,
tiptoe running, in his dance,
Frog Morton he had no chance,
foul murder it was done,
axed to death, the Emus wept,
bad signatures on the cheque book, one,
Byron sidestepped the gallows,
no death for murder him,
the forgers face was sallow,
slip knot got tight and grim,
and the corpse did swing a swing,
and justice came ashore,
some stupid bloody ding a ling ,
got his karma bloody sure....
Don Johnson
"As early morning thunderstorms"
Bring down a pouring rain
All of nature is silent~still
Snuggled in nest remain
As early morning's lightnings flash
And thunder above rolls
The covers feel comfortable
Deep within my soul
As early morning's cold rain pours
Like Morton Salt today
Your embrace consoles me my love
The Dove is here to stay
Like the dew glistening this morn
Your love sparkles and shines
"As early morning thunderstorms"
Melts this soft heart of mine
Poet Becca Lucas' "Morning Storms" a Triolet
Line used "As early morning thunderstorms"
Contest: Pick a line/ any line
Sponsor: Richard Lamoureux
Written this 24th day of August 2013
Poet: Sara Kendrick
Form: Poulter's Measure
Ocean waters now white capping
Cool breeze 'pon the shore
Every plant drips rain water
Then like Morton salt pours
Thursday, June 06, 2013
Long, long ago and longer
When I was but a child
I read of Doctor Livingstone
Who ventured in the wild.
Dr. David had no fear
He went where few had gone.
This missionary and explorer
To Africa was drawn.
The unsophisticated natives
Didn’t know the wealth they had
Allowed Livingstone to name their falls
When he shouted out “Egad.
I’ve found what no white man has seen
I name it ‘Victoria Falls’”.
When back in England he was touted.
But lack of adventure palls.
He was sent back to Africa
To find source of the Nile.
He traveled around that continent
And became lost for a while.
Henry Morton Stanley when he found him, said
“Mr Livingstone I presume?”
He died in the heart of Africa.
Westminster Abbey holds his tomb.
morton salt girl crying in the rain
frailly under her umbrella.
Alkaline blink how she
crys when I sink.
a little lower
than usual this time.
Getting to drunk to remember
to rhyme.
So I find Find a little strength and
gather a few bones .
these ressurect my burdened
lazarus returning to you.
the right side of the bed
with my head imprint
still on the pillow
come closer she says
my morton salt girl
a grandfather clock in the corner of the
room turns its grayhead and sounds.
it is the hour of salt... it is the hour of aged reason.
and i have lost all affection for the sweet naval of
oranges, which clamor one on top of another
on the kitchen table.
perhaps if i was an expressionist
i would express in driest terms the preservation
of ramses II, or the way of the fermented dill
pickles in the back of my refrigerator.
it is the hour of the second cup of coffee,
it is the hour of the coptic eulogy, and i am
as horus or osiris in the twelfth dynasty
at midnight.
now in the kitchen three chairs sit crookedly
next to me. with crystaline hands i gather
upon the table morton salt from the cupboard
and pour it into a gray dispenser.
i set it next to the fruit bowl with ornate
green vines drawn along the sides of it.
but it is the dried antiquities of cumin and
saffron that i seek.
i seek the harbinger of life after life.
but all i have is a 15 jar tiered spice
rack sitting on a shelf across the room
and a little less time.
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