Behind moonface stare
communication is lost—
static staccato
fills the gaping silent holes
in the conga dance of time
Earth now slips from view
its skull-dragged behind the moon
to the other side
only astronauts have seen
lied about in lucid dreams
Back from the dark side
lost incommunicado
what phase shifts transpired
in the watcher and the watched
contemplating the dark slide
Squarely unfairly unsung young flung across the ditch flee
Happy for me to be the snitch as the rich get off scot free
Property toffs scoff as our nation’s next generation f*ck off
Another bung at the trough child’s play while we all pay GST
Fast lanes or in chains those with the reins no capital gains
No refrain from more cranes poor poured down the drains
Got wonga join the conga to Rarontonga on private planes
Our saviour.. greedy behaviour giving trees to Scandinavia
Relax those with the max keep their stacks with tax so lax
Life givers charming rivers harming for lairy dairy farming
Have observed scary what we’ve heard's absurd have a word
Got to roam can't afford a home blame Luxon's chrome dome
Uncle Fester a Stooge for every corporate Scrooge does pester
We've all been had unless you go to the bank of Mum & Dad
Undeserved the herd as endangered as our sad flightless bird
Blurred after all that has occurred society stirred then slurred..
Mad everything pricey everything dicey plea to free every KIWI
I built a grand salad of chaos and cheer
With pickles that whisper and cheese that can hear
I tossed in three noodles, a shoe, and some jam
Then sprinkled confetti on top of a yam
A carrot recited a speech to a bean
While olives formed conga lines nobody’s seen
I added cold waffles and lukewarm perfume
A pineapple slice that demanded more room
Two croutons eloped with a radish in June
And celery tried to lasso the moon
A tomato complained that the lettuce was loud
So I stirred in a cloud just to quiet the crowd
I folded in glitter and half of a map
A cucumber wearing a coat and top hat
A raisin declared it was now in command
While spinach applauded with leaves for a hand
The bowl tried to flee but I held it in place
This salad makes no sense and that is its grace
Nothing I said was close to evident
Look at me I could be president
The Jazz poem brothers, so hip and so way cool,
With their smooth jazz talk, they never play the street fool/
They snap their fingers and dance to the bass conga beat/
Their rhythm and rhyme are hip in time/man, they are kicking the verse and breaking it down/
They paint a mind collage with each word they say, Man, it just lays me out / What can I say/
Taking us on a word poem journey, in their special soul jazz spoken word way/
Get down to their word flow/ a slaughterhouse of jazz words/poetry from the jazz edge/let's go/
The brothers transport us to a place where the bebop Buddha shows his face/
Yo listen up tight, to what their jazz word orchestra has to say/
Let their words guide you to the jazz planet in the Milky Way/
The Jazz poem brothers know how to groove high/to the spoken word poetry/ in the simmering jazz Zen sky/
Their poetry word jazz will lift you/Man, it's a swingin' affair/ Miles, Trane, and Diz/ horn blowing word jazz and a gin fizz/The jazz poem brothers/in search of the new word vibe/Tossing a snow storm of words into the crowd as they wave by by/
on and on and on
we climbed on painted horses
we hitched a ride on a conga line
rode on the luggage collection airport rides
watched the slide-show cycles on endless repeats
for life's a carousel of roundabouts
on those merry-go-rounds,
on and on, on and on,
with no beginning,
end or meaning,
spinning not
to heaven,
nor hell,
dream
on
The catcher in the rye
I go and drop the ball
I lay it down and cry
I’m sleeping in the stall
Cause everyone is phony
Your company is lonely
Your animals are bony
Your everything is only
I’m underneath the bridge
Below the overpass
I’m locked inside the fridge
I’m sleeping in the grass
Cause everyone is faking
Every excuse for bailing
Your painted skin is flaking
Success story is failing
You’re spinning all around
Mascara masquerade
You’re walking without sound
A conga line charade
You’re hands and feet are bound
You’re tied into the ground
And nailed into the wall
I’ve lost sight of the ball
I’ve lost sight of the band
And buried in the sand
They’re telling me it’s fine
They’re calling me insane
They think I’ve lost my mind
They’re calling me Cobain
They’re telling me to smile
They tell me not to cry
And maybe stay a while
The catcher in the rye
Devouring wings, my drip is dramatic,
Flames ignite tongue, buds sting acrobatic.
Capsaicin conga line, thrusts are erratic,
Spicy-raised roof, heat hitting the attic.
A gourmand adventure, once mild aromatic,
Infernos erupting, eyes leaking emphatic.
Scoville scale rising, its rays autocratic,
Mouth fully ablaze, sensations hematic.
"Why eat this?" You ask question Socratic,
For flame-kissed climax, pursuit is dogmatic.
Chasing the burn, with choice democratic,
Hot-fiery yearn, a finale ecstatic.
his fingers could play a piano they are long and thin
but they like the conga drums, he plays with vim
they prance and dance over the head showing off their slim
He is the ultimate drummer, Chicago Music Man Jim.
The last organ grinder played a blinder
Intending to leave folk a reminder
To music upbeat
All those in the street
Did a conga to “Eye of the Tiger.”
It was the close of a splendid career
The organ grinder shed many a tear
As the music died
He swelled up with pride
For the crowd gave him uproarious cheer.
Follow Me
Come on, join in,
hook onto the end
of the conga line!
Hands on the hips of one ahead
all following along
in a snaky, winding, whooping line
like a centipede jiggly jiving, legs astride!
Three shuffles on the beat, step, step step,
then a high kick, to one side or the other,
all in step to the four beats to a bar, Conga dance time.
Who knows where we're headed,
Did the lemmings care?
No No No, What the Hell, Who cares?
It's follow me, follow me, follow me, follow me
on the Conga Line!
My heartbeats crying i can hear it in my soul
Left side of my heart sees my heart crying
For the right side is beating love flows the spirit
From my heart to my mind I unwind
I think of time I can hear my heart right side beating
My heartbeats crying i can hear it in my soul
Speaking sweetly no sweetened love
Sounds beating love like of a Conga drum
The dancing of the feet on top of the ground
I see it in my heart prancing around
Those the raindrops fall the drops
My heartbeats crying i can hear it in my soul
As the oceans call the waves
The trees branches they praise
With their branches fingers reaching toward the skies
And I call on my heavenly phone
I thank Him for His breath the winds to give me life from From His lungs to my chest energy provided in His image
My heartbeats crying i can hear it in my soul
I'm ignited my heart so cries for my soul
To embrace while now I'm encase in this vessel
My true Essence
Struggles because it's it my spirit needs condolences
from the fat3her who created it
My heartbeats crying i can hear it in my soul
4/9/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr 2o23
Right after lunch
I had a hunch
I’ll place some words
Into a bunch
Using rhymes
Both far and near
In whispered voices
None can hear
I’d weave them thru
Harsh sand and silt
Publish them
In mockish guilt
A subtle tear
Of onion skin
I cried once
I won’t again
The words now do
A conga dance
Some with – and without
Wearing pants
The muse is drinking
Silly sot
Upstaged by Jerden’s
Poet bot
Alas the warriors
Long past
Aren’t here to kick
It’s AI A..
John G. Lawless
©2/6/2023
Some call me a contrarian
because I shun the Conga Line
observe the strange gyrations
of a movement serpentine.
I stand alone, often dismayed
they chide me: “C’mon take a chance.”
I dare not tell them that I can’t
Cuz I never learned to dance.
John G. Lawless
©10/20/2021
While careening with Carene,
a boogie-woogie with Wanita, wow!
Then, a whirl with Pearl,
a jiggy jig with Jacqueline.
At intervals rhumba with a Rosalie.
An experimental ballet
with Bonnie, Bob, and Blaire.
Thanks, Charlie, for the Cha-cha-cha!
A quick shimmy with Shailene,
disco with a duchess
prancing with a prince,
and quickstep with a queen.
A charleston with Cherise
before long, samba with Sabrina,
a quick jive with Jennifer,
followed by a tango with Tasneem.
Pole dancing with Priscilla,
Poppy, Penny, and Pandora.
Kuchipudi with Kahini
and kizomba with Kabibe.
Conga with a coven
flamenco with old flame,
what will be my last dance?
Danzón with the Devil, I expect.
The Last Dance Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Craig Cornish
Date wrote: 13-July-2021
I know it’s coming
that urge
the pressure to perform
on queue
a conga line of the incontinent
living the Maxwell House dream
“good to the last drop”.
We wait in shuffling silence
knowing that when the dance is over
we’ll be going home alone.
7/9/2021
The Last Dance Poetry Contest
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