. I just kinda made my own story, but it follows the end of the poem. It's a few months old so it may not be a fresh as my new recent stuff.
In The Life Of The Blues Man
The singer stopped playing and went to bed
While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.
He slept like a rock or a man that's dead.
He tossed and turned….
He tossed and turned….
The next morning he woke broke with a pain in his neck.
Though he slept well, he ached like a wreck.
"To much pain today" he would wearily say,
"Why O' lord, O' why is my life this way?"
No sunshine….
"It's a grey sky, I gotta sing till nine,
It's rainin' all the time, I gotta survive through crime."
Clouds of rain….
Singing on stage for a cheap 25 dollars,
The blues man received tips and hollers.
"More Blues!"
"Sing it Brotha!"
The blues man gave them more weary blues
Through his slow but steady heart-breaking tunes.
Fingers hammered those flattened 7th keys
He sang his melodies with "Oh"'s and ease.
"My wife she left me
And got a brown eyed man.
She told me he gave her
What no other man can."
His audience was kinder than his much needed pay.
They puffed their marijuana joints while they watched him play.
He played weary blues for a while then quit
As he decided that jazz would better fit.
O Jazz!
Sweet Jazz!
Liven up that room full of gloom after a song or two,
Make them dance instead of tapping their tired shoe.
His heart lightened from the jazzy tunes.
The tempo sped but not a moment to soon,
Swaying lazy from left to right,
The marijuana's haze altered his hearing and sight.
Swaying to and fro….
To and fro….
He sped up his once weary piano,
To a beat that would satisfy even a rascal fellow.
Next came in as if saying "Hello"
The mellow string cello
Nice and slow.
Followed by a guitar with a pedal.
"Wah wahhh, wa wahhh"
Sang the trumpet who talked his way to leading the play.
Those dirty drums they played like a marcher in a parade.
"Tsit, ba dump, paa, pa pah"
"Tsit, bu dap, padap paahh"
The bass pounded a maddened heart beat
He would keep creeping like a killer on the street.
Altogether those separate instruments sang
Each with their own tap, pang, clap and clang.
All the while The Blues Man raged,
To the impeccable rhythm contained on stage.
"A man that ain't got no woman,
Is like a fish ready for cookin'.
He's that car without a wheel.
He's out fishin' without a reel.
A man with a woman's like a tiger on a leash
Got no freedom cus' she's ironing your crease.
If you fishin' in a pond
You be sure that she's gone
Cus if you ain't careful
She'll cast your own rod."
It was not hard for the spectators to applaud
"More Jazz!"
To the sketchy yet catchy jazz tunes.
Everyone cheered like drunken buffoons.
All through that moonlit night
They grooved while high as a kite.
The room was full of smoke and song
As they jammed all night long.
The Blues Man changed his name to The Jazzy Jester.
It was his gesture to pester those men who were lesser.
He decided his jumpy jazz was here to stay
As it made him much more mellow today.
He would throw away his old blue attitude,
And trade it in for a new green jazz mood.
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Poetry #too.
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Geck0 wrote:
You've got a great feel for rhythm and rhyme - both are qualities that tend to be viewed with caution by a lot of contemporary poets, alas. You ought to check out the sort of thing that's been inspiring my work of late if you like what I'm doing. See if you can find any work by Tristan Tzara or Richard Huelsenbeck. I'd also recommend you find some of Olchar E. Lindsann's work (he's a poet and performance artist I've been collaborating with a great deal recently) but it's not too easy to find online.