tagel
---------------
in reference to the prevouis
I think such is to be said
that bodyworshippers
and music
stems from the lack of concern
of love
a relationship involes
understanding a persons needs
not there desire to attract
it is in conflict of a respectful union
grounded in mutual dignity
fair treatment, and collective solidarity
------------------------------------------------
Are you a salloon goon?
or are you a part of a Goon Gang
taking your women to salloons
do you fuss all the time
are you really happy?
Love makes relationships happier
it makes loving happiest.
Jouhikko
-----------------
By: Ardor Futanari and
Ahegao Bellissifah
The only thing the rest of the world
has in common with us, is the birds,
bees, the sun and moon.
We are that special he told her.
strumming her ego and
assuring his stedefæst, to her.
She kissed him in gratitude.
her words were Libretto and there
relationship solid as they viewed there
togetherness as a work in progress.
"whence there are nought
might the edges of tomorrow
have us coupled together
as lovers friends and associates"
"then before God and man
" shall we stand together
hand in hand
woman and man
Amorous toward the people
that they may envy our togetherness"
Lush the evening a night spent with you
that such a gathering is an orchestrator backdrop
that heightens the emotional and sensual senses
eros, philia, and agape: love makes ordinary days feel magical
even in the worst of times it's special and meaningful.
----- Written by: Torum Durchkomponiert-
---------------------------------------------------
---Chi cena con il diavolo deve avere un cucchiaio lungo!-------------
rolls and paradiddles
The-guy-who-carries
-the-heavy-stuff
Basher / Pounder
the snares and Kettler's
--------Ambergris Caye----------------------
La Xtabai, they come here to see you!
-------Da how yu di du?----------------------
La Xtabai , vengono qui a vederti:
mettiti il ??costume, sorridi, sorridi, sorridi!
Non vuole essere sfruttato; perché è qui?
Perché è qui?
Un sorriso o due, niente di più: niente di più!
Auh say ooh auh
auh say auh ooh we
il tuo bacio mi stuzzica
devo tirarmi indietro
non con te, non così
sai come sono fatto
perché sei qui?
Perché sei qui?
Cos'è l'amore, mi chiedi? Io rispondo
tra i singhiozzi, con mot prive di cuore:
le parole d'amore sono mot senza significato,
come canzoni, un suono da adorare.u ask
,Amami, ti prego
Io sono sia banano che strofa
tu, contadino sciocco
Ti vedo come un insignificante
un lungo cucchiaio
Ti nutro come un contadino
perché sei qui visto che non desideri
non essere sfruttato Weh yuh naym?
Weh yuh naym?
LATIN grooves FLATTEN SATIN
Cafe. FATTEN our joy. HOUSEWIVES, LOWLIVES
rest their carving KNIVES down. HIPS rise and sink as SHIPS.
A body becomes an ELLIPSE to ROCK away on this dry DOCK.
BANDOLEROS sway dames, CABALLEROS with cozy BOLEROS.
VAQUEROS LOSE HORSESHOES,
even REFUSE the courtship of LIQUOR that makes man liable to BICKER
and unheeding of señoritas who FLICKER or TEASE, mushing up KNEES.
But the TREBLE of the single note samba, sweet JEZEBEL, a PEBBLE
on a silken sea births a REBEL, flying FREE from a square CITY.
It overcomes EASILY. CONNECTS me with hidden mirrors, FACETS.
REDIRECTS this tan ITERATION to its ORIGINATION.
Fulani slippers, flamenco SKIRT, I FLIRT in my sticky pink SHIRT.
ALERT. Primal rhythms arouse EMOTIONS like alchemy's POTIONS.
LOCOMOTIONS of SAMBA-JAZZ unblanching my wan TOPAZ,
turn it afro-blue PIZZAZZ. CONFOUND the EARTHBOUND.
I swayed to your bamboo flute
delicate
hollow purity reverberated
into marrow sallow
tenacious sounds sent forth
healing
peeling
seedeaters, woodpeckers
finches —
inches upon inches
who harboured in bamboo’s unstinting growth
their arbour …
witnessed I a wakeful field from which
spaciousness sprouted
into a bamboo life
inviting tranquility
rooted into inscrutable
golden loam —
they stood flexibly erect
waiting to serve …
____________________________
4th Placement: Premier Contest
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Oct 26
____________________
[ Poet’s Note :
This poem is an expanded version
of my Brevity Poem : Bamboo ‘26 :
Gold Placement Winner :
Allpoetry Oct.26]
Great Uncle was a musician
He chased his dream on a mission
He never penned a song
Folks knew him well down in Nashville
Though music paid no big gas bill
He had true ambition
His songs found a sweet rendition
He played with open admission
His true love was lifelong
John picked his guitar with goodwill
With joy, the music he instilled
Sharing tunes, his mission
To make music his tradition
Spontaneous compositions
If I could string along
I'd play it with my own free will
John Craig showed such a master skill
He strummed strings all day long!
John Craig rode as a musician
With grit and a deep ambition
Just pickin' it along
John would pluck out his chords at will
With six-strings he'd ride and travel
Playing good tunes, headstrong!
He was a slick string technician
A musical aesthetician!
He played for trav'lers all night long
I'm not sure he knew a playbill
His playin' was a sweet earful
John Craig's songs still roll along!
[Even if in my mind!]
Great Uncle was a musician
He chased his dream on a mission
He never penned a song
Folks knew him well down in Nashville
Though music paid no big gas bill
He had true ambition
His songs found a sweet rendition
He played with open admission
His true love was lifelong
John picked his guitar with goodwill
With joy, the music he instilled
Sharing tunes, his mission
To make music his tradition
Spontaneous compositions
If I could string along
I'd play it with my own free will
John Craig showed such a master skill
He strummed strings all day long!
John Craig rode as a musician
With grit and a deep ambition
Just pickin' it along
John would pluck out his chords at will
With six-strings he'd ride and travel
Playing good tunes, headstrong!
He was a slick string technician
A musical aesthetician!
He played for trav'lers all night long
I'm not sure he knew a playbill
His playin' was a sweet earful
John Craig's songs still roll along!
[Even if in my mind!*
Regular practice developed
Strong muscle memory
To strum three chords on
A guitar roughly in key.
Take an empty tea chest
Broom handle, boot lace
And you’ve the makings of
A basic double bass
Mam’s old washboard
Four fingers that were nimble
Each finger capped with
A sturdy metal thimble.
It was home made music
Called Skiffle style.
It dominated the world
For just a little while
It brought popular music
From the realm of the elite
Into the willing hands of
The man on the street.
It was country it was jazz,
Folk, rhythm and blues.
In fact from any style
A player wanted to choose
Many a successful rocker
Will now openly say
It gave them the impetus
To learn to sing and play/
These days its seldom
If ever heard of or seen
Except maybe on
The odd folk club scene
But don't mock skiffle,
For while it held sway,
It helped lay foundations
For the music of today.
If I go to see a concert,
I want music that I like,
So what I expect to hear
From a performer with a mic
Is a new or old song, maybe with
Some background to be shared
On the way the lyrics came about,
In case somebody cared.
What I don’t want to experience
Is politics on stage,
Despite the fact the audience
Might want to so engage.
A show with an agenda
Should be advertised that way,
So ticket buyers are prepared
For what the stars will say.
Though some venues might be fitting
For performers speaking out,
At a music concert, that’s not what
The evening is about.
Moon shadows
danced
a partnerless
waltz
As the sun
lay asleep
in its
cave
Sashaying
in place
to flirt
in the night
Spinning
and twirling
alone
on parade
To dance
until morning
when light
will emerge
And usher
them
into
the past
Where time
beats a
cadence
its metronome wound
With only
the
music
— to last
(Dreamsleep: October, 2026)
Pity the poor syllable in the phrase that pops these days
It's stretched and bent until it's rent in oh so many ways
It's hard to see the melody in the score that's tortured so
It's an attack that hails from way back in days of yesteryear
If opera is what led to this, I guess that's why we're here
But Chuck was full of word play in his day and yet instructed
Improvisation shouldn't lead to the point where melody's obstructed
Vocal coaches in the ballpark should leave us thus reminded
Warm-ups are for stretching… lest technique's lost to the wind-up
Perfect O’s
Bright smiles form lipstick O’s.
Operatic brunette and blond bonding.
Vibrato’s and vibrations shining.
Holding notes in guileless breath.
Shimmering shaking, shoulders and hips.
Nineteen fifties blue sweater and plaids.
Saddle shoes and necklace pendulums.
Sweet sounds reverberating exaltations.
The music of the deck could go on and on.
Their premiere performance sends me
To pearly gates and beyond. Crimson O’s
flying like angel wings welcoming paradise.
Build up of crescendo waves, body curls.
The ebb and flow of flowery pearls.
Knees bob and hide under yonder skirts.
The buttons show but little of their tilt.
Toothy wins, white and innocent, impress.
Pure and wrinkleless faces, precious steps.
Operatic brunette and blond friendship.
Perfect smiles hold bright opulent O’s.
OLD SKOOL FOREVER
Needle drops/
dust rises from the ghost in the turntable groove/
Intro hits hard/ then the bassline thumps on your chest/
The move is old skool ’n’ raw with lo-fi beats that will jack your jaw/
Drums cracked like thunder/
Popin' drum machine is mixed under/
Rare underground jewels pulled up from crates of old skool wonder/
Boom bap soul beat, truth in the snare/
Street-corner poetry hanging in the air/
From Dre and Snoop to Pun and Fat Joe, Legends lit the path, where rare 90's hip-hop mixtapes go/
Obscure tracks spin in underground pop-up hip hop shows/
Mainstream kings, underground lords/
Sharp-cut samples and lyrical swords/
No plastic shine/just rhythm and soul/ that brings back the essence of real underground Hip Hop blow/
Classic beats making broken nights whole/
DJ Smokin' Joe Keep ’em coming/pure heat to their dancin' feet/
No disguise, trends may fade and die/
but the culture survives. Hands to the sky, let the whole world know—Real hip-hop and old skool never dies/
The orchestra marches on in Gothic dark
The guitar brigade lights the night with a spark
The ***** angels with furled black wings
Take flight as the alto sopranos screams
The tenor tangent scratches the stage lights
The overloaded cannons shoot at the sky
And the backup witches writhe with the king snake
And the decibels start the earthquake
At the demon soiree plays each heart string
As the masses are swayed by each catatonic ring
And the charging bull, the rhythm section
Pounds to the misery of each predilection
Bombast and bomb blasts
I've not seen a crescendo like that
The smoke clears and the arena comes into view
With the bodies spent and strewn
And the vixens and sirens screaming
Like a queen who’s king died in the war
Splashes and crashes
As the debris floats to the shore
And the conductor (that ******)
Can’t keep a beat
The beast has now had enough
As he begins his retreat
War torn and forlorn
The stage lights finally go out
But not before the medieval four
Sound the trumpet blast, Ahh! at last
We met in nineteen-seventy-seven.
I was eighteen, you were twice eleven.
I was a young man, out on my own.
You made me feel much less alone.
Roommates back in Hollywood,
we walked on stars. You understood...
what it meant to be different,
Eighty dollars apiece was our rent.
Songs were our soul's connection.
You had such a record collection.
Though you were from another mother,
you, my friend, were my true brother.
We had to shuffle on our feet,
or take a bus to get down the street
to coffee shops or burrito stands,
talking about our favorite bands.
We took odd jobs, got caught in rain,
and shared the experience of life's pain,
but, for you, my friend, it was too much.
Alcohol, and other drugs and such,
slowly, but surely, dragged you down
in the decades since Hollywood town.
We met in nineteen-seventy-seven,
I hope to see you once more in heaven.
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