tusday with drums
I was on my way home form the artbar when I remembered that the drummers in exile were at lee's palace, so I stopped to feel the beat
the first time I heard the drummers I wrote a poem
really I wrote two poems I am not done with the other just yet
still working on it but this was the first
I just call it the beat.
The beat
IT was the beat of the drum that drew me
Waking that memory,
the seed planted at the begining of man,
that sound that we all know before we were born
that vibration that boils blood
and drags form deep within the untamed
which we hide
and shield behind the paper masks of civilization
Pretending we are not the children of this wild earth
it was the beat that drew me in
stopping my lonely walk on the night street
I felt it before I heard it,
that sudden jump of my heart that extra step
I wish I could say I had a choose
or that I considered not answering
the call and continuing on my way
I would be beyond pain and loss, if I did.
Some things should not be chosen
they should just be Apart of you, in out and around,
should just be there
The beat of the drum is that
I stepped without caution into the room
past the open door left by the drummers in exile
so the beat would travel uncaged form the makeshift temple
to dead gods and the forgotten sounds of first fathers voice
I stepped in to the dream of home
and saw the dancers in the fire light
moving to the rhythm that created nations
shaped the deeds of man
I stepped in to that memory
that never fads form blood,
that place found in the sound
of hearts pounding and feet stomping,
body moving in ordered frenzy
and I wake form this life of stone streets and Iron towers
Cold faces that would deny the beat,
and I am home
I stepped into Africa
I have always had a thing for drums
still can't play thow.
but I don't really need to
I was telling a friend abut a poem I wrote
a long time ago abut a child of a woman I knew years ago
I had forgotten what I called it but I was telling it and I could not remember all of it
but I found it and here it is
Artist
Jack's son nine
On the lawn outside
With care
Placed a broad before him
Wiped it clean
With strong arms
For one so young lifted a piece of clay
Form a pot beside him
Then with al look of intense
Concentration
Stock out his tongue
Tilted his head an sniffed the air
And bent to his task
Jack’s son nine
With blue eyes that could not see
Began to sculpt the sky
I still like it
the first time I heard the drummers I wrote a poem
really I wrote two poems I am not done with the other just yet
still working on it but this was the first
I just call it the beat.
The beat
IT was the beat of the drum that drew me
Waking that memory,
the seed planted at the begining of man,
that sound that we all know before we were born
that vibration that boils blood
and drags form deep within the untamed
which we hide
and shield behind the paper masks of civilization
Pretending we are not the children of this wild earth
it was the beat that drew me in
stopping my lonely walk on the night street
I felt it before I heard it,
that sudden jump of my heart that extra step
I wish I could say I had a choose
or that I considered not answering
the call and continuing on my way
I would be beyond pain and loss, if I did.
Some things should not be chosen
they should just be Apart of you, in out and around,
should just be there
The beat of the drum is that
I stepped without caution into the room
past the open door left by the drummers in exile
so the beat would travel uncaged form the makeshift temple
to dead gods and the forgotten sounds of first fathers voice
I stepped in to the dream of home
and saw the dancers in the fire light
moving to the rhythm that created nations
shaped the deeds of man
I stepped in to that memory
that never fads form blood,
that place found in the sound
of hearts pounding and feet stomping,
body moving in ordered frenzy
and I wake form this life of stone streets and Iron towers
Cold faces that would deny the beat,
and I am home
I stepped into Africa
I have always had a thing for drums
still can't play thow.
but I don't really need to
I was telling a friend abut a poem I wrote
a long time ago abut a child of a woman I knew years ago
I had forgotten what I called it but I was telling it and I could not remember all of it
but I found it and here it is
Artist
Jack's son nine
On the lawn outside
With care
Placed a broad before him
Wiped it clean
With strong arms
For one so young lifted a piece of clay
Form a pot beside him
Then with al look of intense
Concentration
Stock out his tongue
Tilted his head an sniffed the air
And bent to his task
Jack’s son nine
With blue eyes that could not see
Began to sculpt the sky
I still like it