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Best Poems Written by Tony Adamo

Below are the all-time best Tony Adamo poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Funkin At the Chickin Shack

Funkin AT THE CHICKEN SHACK – Tony Adamo - 1990

Jimmy Smith was laying down an incredible riff on a wall of kinetic sound that was oozing out of my car radio. I was on my way back from a singing gig at an Indian Restaurant. Saturday night is jazz night in the City by the Bay. On my approach to the Bay Bridge, I could see the fog was cold and watery wet, as it lay low and crept along like solders on night patrol in Vietnam.

I steered my Chevy Nova like it was a priceless Lamborghini the musical transition of thought. No traffic on the B Bridge…2:00AM on the steel span and all was right with me. Jimmy smith with friends Kenny Burrell, Stanley Turrenting, and drummer, Donald “Duck” Bailey were my musical guides for the ride.

I dug deep as I had to slow down. The fog was horror movie thick. Now I had time to think to the 100th power. Sho’ ‘ nuff and came up with Don Patterson, Richard Groove Holmes,Charles Earland, George Fame, Wild Bill Davis, Shirley Scott, Big John Patton, Baby Face Willette, Larry Young, Brother Jack McDuff, Jimmy Magriff. That’s where it’s at baby. The royal bloodline of B-3 players who brought us into R&B, Pop, Rock & Roll and Soul Jazz. Into the swingin’ feature goes Joey “D”. No boundries, no limits.
Bridge:
Back at the Chicken Shack people dancin’ to a kookin’ groove.
Breakin’ out into a funk sweat
Boogie sounds brewin’ from the B-3
Your twisted sister never danced like that
Reuben Wilson and his killer sounds was a stackin’ the beat shakin’ the Chicken Shack down to its feet
(Solo)
(Bridge)
What a beautiful and dynamic management of mind, body and intellect goes into coaxing Soul Jazz out of a fat Hammond B-3 organ. Was it the foggy, misty, jazzy night? Or…was it that I actually got paid to sing Jazz? No! It was Jimmy Smith’s playin’ that was vibbin’ me along the steel rail. The joyous atmosphere that hung in dense textures of musical thought was punctuating my life like bayonets turning to thumb prints on the consciousness of my creative mind. It was in thick reference to the wet fog rippling across the bridge, like fingers on a Hammond B3, Jimmy and me……free to be.
From Tony Adamo's Miles of Blu Cd/ Hipspoken Word

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Spoken Word Poetry: Jazzed Up Afrobeat

Spoken Word Poetry: Jazzed Up Afrobeat
 Without jazz, Life would be a mistake— A symphony of silence, an empty canvas, where melodies fade and dreams escape/
 But then, oh! We jazz it up, Afrobeats lifts me high, Where the saxophone sings, and women swing, And the rhythm finds its way/
 Dancing through my veins, Like a heartbeat, An echo of Fela in the night Afrobeat sax, Jazz night ignites the stars, Riveting, absorbing, Sounds dope in my Mercedes ML350, Rolling through the city/
 Every note a pulse, Every beat jumpin’ in Afro Town, More power to you/
 Fela didn’t just bring Nigeria to the world— No, he got the world to Africa, Opening doors, Creating bridges, and Uniting souls across borders. Well, done, Sisters and brothers, this is real Afrobeat! /
 A celebration, a revelation, Joy cascading like a waterfall, Happiness flowing, A soundtrack of life, An anthem for the bold. Omo ope, You always have money to give, Your name echoes in the rhythms/ Afrobeats— The modern genre, A fusion, a blend, African rhythms collide with global sounds, Hip-hop, dancehall, pop/
 A vibrant tapestry of unity. Dominating today’s scene, It captures the high-energy vibe, The essence of African life, From hustle culture echoes, To nightlife’s embrace, We grind, we celebrate, In every track, every line, The spirit of resilience shines/
 This is it! Feel the beat, let it lift you, without jazz, Life would be a mistake, But with Afrobeats, we find our rhythm, our joy, our place, In this beautiful blend, We are alive, We are whole, We are music whole -n whole

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Iceman the Bronx

The Iceman the Bronx/Tony Adamo

I DIG THAT THE ICEMAN’S BACK, HITTING THE SPOKEN WORD STAGES IN THE BRONX AND THE OTHER BOROUGHS IN NEW YORK/AFTER ALL HE IS BORN AND BREAD IN DE BRONX/WORD SPITTER/ JAZZ SCATTER/GOT THE CITY TURNED ON IT’S LITERARY HEAD/AS THE ICEMAN WOULD SAY/ GOT TO REDUCE THE OTHER SPOKEN WORD ARTIST’S TO ASH BEFORE I DIE/ MR. B, THE BRONX BOMBER/THE BRO WHO EVERY ONE KNOWS/YOU CAN DIG THE CONGO STREET BEAT IN YOUR EARS THROUGH HIS WORDS/POPIN’ STORY TELLIN’ BREAK DANCIN’ JAZZY TURNTABLE BREAK DOWN OF WORD PLAY/MAN DIG THIS CAT’S FUSION OF JAZZ MUSIC PUT TO SPOKEN WORD POETRY/ HE LISTENS AND SAMPLES INTO HIS MIND HEAD/ THE GREAT JAZZ HORN PLAYERS SOLO’S TO BE TURNED INTO A SOUND SYNERGY OF JAZZY WORDS/ MAN ,I CAN DIG IT, THAT FLOW THE ICEMAN HAS/ FOR THE RHYTHMIC FEEL OF IMPROVISATION IN AND INBETWEEN WORDS/IS PURE WORD ART, CAN YOU DIG IT?/ ON SOME GIG’S/ICEMAN’S SPOKEN WORD JAZZ COMES OUT LIKE COLTRANE’S SOLO ON GIANT STEPS/ HIS GRAFFITI LACED VOICE INFLECTON ON CULTURE AND SOCIAL ISSUES/ WILL HAVE YOU COLLIDIN’ AND TURNIN’ YOUR THOUGHTS INTO GIANT STEPS/ ICEMAN ON THE DECK OF FREE THINKING JAZZ WORDS/A DJ WORD HIPSTER/ THE SPOKEN WORD KING OF THE BRONX/HE’S GOT THAT LYRICAL CONTROL AND NO CONTROL/ MAN, THAT’S WAY OUT/SYNCOPATED RHYTHMS DROP LIKE PAINTED WORDS SPRAYDED ON THE LEX AVE EXPRESS SUBWAY TRAIN/ HE’S NOT FAR FROM THE BEAT WORLD OF KEROUAC,GENSBERG, AND PHIL LAMANTIA/ BEAT POETS OF THE COUNTERCULTURAL MOVEMENTS OF THE 1960s/ MAYBE THE ICEMAN IS A SPOKEN WORD PLAYRIGHT OR A ABSTRACT PAINTER OF WORDS/ SO DIG THIS/HE’S NOT VINTAGE OR INDIE/ BUT WAY INTO TODAY AND TOMORROW AND GONE/DEEP IN THE CATACOMBS OF NEW YORK CITY’S SOUNDTRACK OF BLOOD ,SWEET, AND TEARS/YOU CAN CATCH HIS VIBE/ AIN’T NO WAY TO HOLD HIM BACK NOW/HIS SPOKEN WORD MUSIC DELIVERY JUMPS ON THE ELEMENTS AND COMBINES JAZZ, FUNK AND SOUL WORD TUNES/ TO LAY THE LISTENER OUT WITH HIS DISTINCTIVE WORD SPEAK, SPOKEN JUMPIN’ WORD/ HIS STORYTELLIN’ POETRY WILL BEND YOUR MIND/ THE ICEMAN BREATHS LIFE INTO THE SOUL OF THE SPOKEN WORD WORLD OF JAZZ SPEAK

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DID MONK PLAY FUNK

Thelonious Monk, In a world where he spins not just notes, but notes where bebop rides vibes/
 Monk plays funk, Groovy good-time funk, A jazz revolution, a sonic delight/
 No, Thelonious Monk did not play funk, But what if he did?/

  are you hip to the scene a smoky room filled with the beat, would it be jazz funk? Bebop of today, with a strong, rhythmic bassline, a pulse that pulls your mind strings like a JB embrace/
 a prominent drum groove, that makes your soul sway, funk chords dancing, Minor 9th chords, slipping and sliding, Dominant 13th chords, bold and inviting. Can you hear it? /
 The bebop beat, fast tempo, bandstand sweaty heat always exceeding 200 bpm/
 a race against time, a chase through sound, complex chord progressions, rapid shifts, and a whirlwind of keys, to catch you off guard, and bring you higher into the bebop ozone. C, D, E, F, G, A?, A, B/
 Man, what a drag, to think Monk didn’t play funk, what a world he might have created, If his fingers danced on those keys, In a vibrant, electric harmony, where Bebop  jazz meets funk, and the night spins on/
 A tapestry woven with sound, Riddled with the heartbeat of a genius, A world where Thelonious Monk Is the king of the jazz-funk groove/

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THE BEAT POETS BEAT

THE BEAT POETS BEAT
In the heart of San Francisco, Beat poet and publisher, Lawrence Ferlinghetti's City Lights bookstore shines bright, where words dance like shadows and the Beat poets ignite the night/
October 7, 1955 history takes a breath and five souls step onto the stage at Gallery Six, defying convention, flirting with death/
Allen Ginsberg, with fire in his eyes, unleashes “Howl” with a thunderous cry, a manifesto of madness and a rebellion against the lie/
Philip LaMantia, haunted, reads to his dead friend, his poetry, weeping, echoing a voice that refuses to bend/
Michael McClure paints images, Gary Snyder sings with the trees and Philip Whalen whispers wisdom, each line a gust of the breeze/
Jack Kerouac, a slick cat, the pulse on the side, cheering from the sidelines at the Six, his heart a drum, a ride, his “Beatitude” was full of pride/
Man, he was having a poet’s blast and wrote about that first gig of Beat poets at Gallery Six in The Dharma Bums/
Dig it people, Kerouac was a hipster and juicehead all rolled into one, his words will last into the beat of a new jazz thing/
The rhythm of jazz where poetry flows and grows, drunk poetry fans are lost in the haze, sipping inspiration, caught in the craze/
So, dig the jazz of Charlie ‘Bird’ Parker, Miles, Diz, and Monk where each note is a heartbeat, each beat a junkie’s funk/
Bebop intertwines a new vision in the structure of their poet dreams, crazed improvisational jazz solos are a tapestry of spoken word screams/
So let us raise a glass to words unchained, to the Beat Generation, where poetry reigned/
The echoes of City Lights, let their legacy shine bright, for in the lines of their verses we find our voice, our fight/

Best Poems Written by Tony Adamo

Sun Ra Rockets To Mars

Nu-Jack Kerouac

Those Meat Pies

Dig What I Say

Jb

Funkin At the Chickin Shack

Spoken Word Poetry: Jazzed Up Afrobeat

Iceman the Bronx

DID MONK PLAY FUNK

THE BEAT POETS BEAT

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