Showing posts with label jazz. Show all posts
Showing posts with label jazz. Show all posts

Sunday, March 2, 2014

7 Happy Poems to Welcome Spring

Spring!

I don’t care what the thermometer says. I don’t care how much snow is in the forecast. There is baseball being played somewhere.

I’m declaring spring!

And is there a better way to celebrate spring than reading some high school poetry? I think not. Poetry in general can be kind of morose, grim, and down right depressing. That’s not what we need right now.

We need happy, inspiring poetry that makes us think warmer and better days are ahead. And guess what? They are.

Here Comes the Sun
 
While I love The Beatles version of this song, I may love this live version performed by Richie Havens. I’ve been playing this song frequently since his death in 2013, so it was an easy decision to make on which one would be the soundtrack to this blog post.


Havens sings with an earnestness and hopefulness that is infectious. Here’s hoping it gets the warmer sun here a little faster.

little one
  
for Elizabeth

Elizabeth and I at S'onk Patrick's wedding

Summer winds brought
you into this big world, little one,
and you became our big angel.

You quickly captured big hearts,
dazzling with your big wondering eyes
and big open mouth smiles.

You were an instant big celebrity,
the center of the big stage, just like mommy,
even though you looked like your big daddy.

Six months into your little stay,
you face a big fight, little one,
more than just a big tummy ache.

It’s too soon, I know,
but you have to be a big girl now,
little one.

Your big friends and big s’onks
are saying big prayers,
so fear not little one, you’re not alone.

You have big life to live
and big love to give, little one;
this big world needs your big dreams and big hopes.

Winter winds are not here to stay,
but your big smiles and big laughs are, little one,
so weather the big storm and we’ll keep you safe and sound.

Saturday Morning With Dad

Raking the backyard with Pops
Back and forth does the rusty blade sway,
sweeping the rest of
the tall grass away.

The mower strays behind me,
with good ol’ Dad,
who wants to do nothing more
than run and flee.

We trudge silently along
with the sound of
the mower and the blade
as our only song.

Our muscles begin to fade
and we pause to
stare out on
what has become the Everglades.

After a stout cough
and a little chat,
we bravely set up our plan of attack
to finish it off.  

Milk

Did you drink my milk????

The milk is gone… 
because of me.

The milk you were to pour
on your strawberry covered cereal.

At one point or another,
someone was bound to drink it.

To be totally honest,
I’m not sorry it was me!

An Angel on the Bridge

The angel protecting the next generation
She waits with angelic patience
upon her arched wooden perch,
high above the harmful waters below.

All who proceed along the protected bridge
are helped along by her selfless, caring wings
and her watchful, caring eyes of sapphire.

She diligently prays each day and night
 for her dark-haired prince to come
give her peace of mind and fill her heart with joy.

Her countenance brightens as he appears,
making his way unto her safe haven.
Before her answers are fulfilled at last,
he slips upon the slippery planks
and tumbles towards the menacing waters.

Without a thought of hesitation,
she extends her affectionate wings
and catches his falling form.
She smiles as she lifts him back unto her bridge,
guiding him to her patient heart.

Take Hold of My Heart
 
Written for Judy and Michael on their wedding day January 13th, 2001 

Judy and Michael
From strangers from distant lands
to lovers not so far away,
a new and special love has been brought to life.

The beginning found them faceless on
opposite ends of a computer screen,
seeing each other only in daydreams.

Time wore on and soon friendship grew to love
and those daydream images became realities
as each braved the skies and marveled at the worlds they found.

He came from a world that
had shrugged off the bitter cold of separation,
bringing pieces of a fallen wall and a flag of black, red, and gold.

She came to him from a world
that was filled with power and might,
bringing a flag of red, white, and blue with her love.

Together they braved the dangers of disapproval
and together they conquered the scare of
losing her heart to the indifferent beings of fate.

Today, with a ring and tender kiss
she takes hold of his heart as he takes hold of hers
and a higher power leads them into bliss,
where they’ll stay now and forever more.

Family Man

Pops and I at the Alamo
He looks his best in early morning light,
trying to rub his eye’s awake, barely able to walk straight,
preparing to work all day surrounded by unknown faces.

His shirts come home with stains galore from his toil,
that are added to should mom be making spaghetti
and his eyes look more tired than in that morning light.

He still manages to smile proudly,
now surrounded by those who love him most,
even the dog who isn’t the same when he’s away.

His arms are sore beyond belief from years of labor,
but yet he never declines an invitation to roughhouse,
even when mom tells him to stop before he gets hurt.

He’s always good for a conversation,
even when he has no idea what you’re talking about,
and is always good for a laugh, even if it’s at his own expense.

He waits up patiently late into the night,
so that his son can sweet-talk his girl
and can’t help dropping a line or two of his own, just to show off.

He asks nothing in return for anything he does,
except a kiss from mom and tons of hugs from his boys
and falls asleep easy each night, despite the aches and pains,
knowing that his family loves him just as much as he loves them.

The Mouser
 
Written with Momma Ford and Patrick 

Since I don't have a picture on me of the cat in this poem, here's one of my favorite tree in Madison Square Park!
The little mouser rocks to and fro,
keeping her distance, along with her patience…
waiting…..waiting….till the time is right…..
TO POUNCE!!!

Her tail proudly swayed,
her keen eyes looked for praise and a friendly pat,
as she displayed her catch the day.

Her best views came from the
roof top of master’s domain,
where she watched the cautious movements of her timid prey.
After a sun bath and a little nap,
the bathroom window was her entrance to warmth
and a tired hrmph from master.
She raced him to bed where she slept and
had knitted her way into his heart.

Heavy scratches upon her front door scratching post
announced to all her appetite was back.
Her demands were quickly met,
not before the battle of who’s turn it was.
As quickly as it came, her appetite left her system
and with just two bites of the same ol’ chicken,
away she went to dig her face in a half- eaten ice cream cup.

She choose her quarters carefully at night’s end.
The cool cellar, upon that broken old work bench
in days of summer heat.
A window sill on a rainy spring day,
or the warmth of a car hood on a lonely winter day.
Of course, master’s bed was comfy on any occasion.
Wherever she lied her head to rest,
the little mouser clenched her eyes tightly,
let go a content purr
and feel fast asleep.

When you’re done snapping your fingers, check out: 

Monday, December 16, 2013

Scotch Required Beyond This Point: My Top 12 Favorite Jazz and Big Band Numbers

I was a band geek in high school.

I don’t want that fact to imply I had any musical ability. As former Bristol Eastern High School band directors will tell you, I had virtually no inherent talent and no desire to work hard to make the most of the minuscule talent I had. We had to play a piece of music from memory at the beginning of marching band season my freshman year. I may have gotten the first couple of notes right and then I pretty much wept in shame to the senior administering the test.

But I loved every minute I was a member of that band. I may have not been any good, but nearly every other musician surrounding me was excellent. The concert band was top notch, but the highlight of our winter and spring concerts was our jazz band. That ensemble was other worldly. I remember hearing them play at the Old U.S. Postal Pavilion in Washington D.C. Thunder and lightning were coming out of those instruments. No musical soul was untouched whenever that jazz band innovatively tore into a piece of music.

The big band and jazz genres continue to be a major part of my life. It doesn't get much better than pouring a glass of single malt scotch, sliding on the fedora my good friend Bill Furman gave me, and sitting down at a keyboard and writing something profound and inspiring (at the very least coherent and pleasing).

I recently went to see The Rat Pack is Back at the Wilbur Theatre in Boston. My girlfriend’s grandmother perfectly summed up my thoughts on why this kind of music still resonates today:

“All these guys have been dead and buried for years, but they are still alive today because of the quality of the music.”

#Amen.

Without further comment, enjoy 10 of my favorite jazz numbers, preferably with a stiff drink, nice suit, and a significant other wearing a red dress.
 
“I’ll Never Smile Again” by Frank Sinatra & the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra


Birdland” by Maynard Ferguson


“Rhapsody in Blue” by George Gershwin


“All of Me” by Benny Goodman


“Sing, Sing, Sing” by Benny Goodman


“Little Brown Jug” by Glenn Miller Orchestra


“All or Nothing at All” by Frank Sinatra with the Harry James Orchestra


"The Very Thought of You" by Nat King Cole


“Sleigh Ride” by the Boston Pops


“In A Sentimental Mood” Duke Ellington & His Orchestra


“Better Git It In Your Soul” by Charles Mingus


“Spain” by Chick Corea
 
 
For more music, check out:
 

Thursday, December 5, 2013

Cafe Rouge: 5 Poems to Enjoy a Drink With at the Hotel Pennsylvania

I wrote the majority of my poetry during my sophomore and junior years of high school. During one productive stretch, I was pumping out five poems a day.

If you've read any of my previous poetry posts, you know I hadn't lived through anything yet, so they read exactly like you'd imagine a sensitive 16-year-old boy's poetry to read. However, my classmates back then believed I could make a career as a poet. This one critique from a classmate says it all:

Not so much...
Alas, the poetry career, and the aduring harem that comes with it, were not to be (what reality presented to me was much more satisfying in the end). Maybe I'll one day write a novel about a rock star poet and live vicariously through my degenerate, but kind-hearted, protagonist.

Pennsylvania 6-5000

This song doesn’t go with any of the poetry you’re about to read, but I figured you could use something uplifting before things get grim. My high school jazz band did a rendition of this song that would knock your socks into George Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue. I find myself tapping my foot to the rhythm of that ensemble’s superior musical skill even when I don’t hear music playing. Grandma Ford loved attending my high school band’s performances because it brought her back to when she was hotel bar hopping in New York City in the 1940s.

The headline of this blog refers to the lounge the Glenn Miller Orchestra played at the Hotel Pennsylvania in New York City. The phone number for that hotel back in the day? 6-5000. So swill a single malt scotch, get your heart rate up, and enjoy yourself before reading the inner demons of a white high school suburbanite. I’d also encourage shouting throughout the song in the most public place possible as nature intended.
 

Home

Come in if you like.
Remember to wipe your feet,
I don’t have a vacuum yet.

Have a seat if you like.
There’s plenty of room
on the matching sofa and chair.

Care for a drink?
Sorry,
the fridge is empty.

I’d ask you to spend the night,
but there isn’t even a
bed for me.

Feel free to use the bathroom.
You might want to close
the windows and draw the blinds.

I’d cook you something,
but the stove doesn’t work,
and you wouldn’t want anything that was cooked on it.

I’ll admit it’s not much now,
but just you wait.
In no time at all I’ll having looking like my home!
 
No Tears to Cry

I have no tears to cry;
no tears to tenderly wipe away.

I have no tears to cry;
no tears to wash away the pain.

I have no tears to cry;
no tears to tickle my cheek.

I have no tears to cry;
no tears to cloud my weary eyes.

I have no tears to cry;
no tears to mask my fears.

I have no tears to cry;
no tears to match your own.

I have no tears to cry;
no tears to share your burden.

Lend me your tears,
so you have no tears to cry.
 
This Night

My blond beauty empties her heart this night.
On this night, her red rose petals die.
My blond beauty cries in my arms in fright.

On this night, for the rebel she cries.
On this night, in her music she hides.
My blond beauty empties her heart this night.

On this night, for the creatures she strives.
On this night, her beauty knows no pride.
My blond beauty cries in my arms in fright.

On this night, she has no room for lies.
On this night, she has no wings to fly.
My blond beauty empties her heart this night.

On this night, despair fills both eyes.
On this night, the bitter winds sigh.
My blond beauty cries in my arms in fright.

On this night, the angels weep on high.
On this night, she waves her world goodbye.
My blond beauty empties her heart this night.
My blond beauty cries in my arms in fright.

More inspirational notes from high school English class.
Her Word Say to Me, “I Love You”

Her words of compassion fill
my night with wonderful worries,
as they say to me, “I love you.”

They abandon all that she
has fought so hard to retain,
just to say to me, “I love you.”

They spell out the fabric of her gentleness and strength,
vanquishing any thoughts of misery and dank drips,
with a simple, “I love you.”

Her words cascade, cool and clear,
down the folded page of recaptured dreams of fate,
with the words, “I love you.”

Her dazzling blue baby’s find rest in the late evening,
her anxious mind uncoils around my loving touch,
as my words say to her, “I love you, too.”
 
On the Edge of Heaven

Those storm laden clouds are rushing down
and clash with that sun streaked blaze of sky
and form a nothing….and then a nothingness.

I watch those cherubs cry out loud
and met those demons groans,
both merging into a song silent.

Those divine doves toil
with deadly assassin crows
in biting air of hostile tranquility.

I feel that pleasant prairie breeze
collide with scalding typhoons
that reach in and seduce the breath of lifeless souls.

Here, the edge of heaven waits for me,
losing the virtuous on the backs of the wicked,
long waiting to be saved.

When you’re done snapping your fingers, check out:

Thursday, October 25, 2012

Birth of the Cool: 3 Poems You Can Rest Your Moon Dreams On

There was a stretch during my high school years in which I churned out a ton of poetry.

It’s hard to believe, but yes, I did actually have a girlfriend or two while penning these ballads, limericks, villanelles, odes, and haikus.

And not all of it was prompted by teenage love and angst—it only feels that way re-reading my canon 10 years later. But what else was I going to write about at that time? I hadn’t done anything yet!

When I first started this blog, I published some baseball poetry that prompted my girlfriend at the time to tell me: “Please find something to write about so you can spare everyone your teenage poetry.”

Screw that! I’m going to ignore that advice, and eventually be embarrassed and shamed that I did.

Every Thursday, I’ll post a few poems and maybe some thoughts on how and why they came about. Throw on some Miles Davis, wear dark sunglasses in a poorly lit room, snap your fingers, and jam with me.

Jazz of the Week: Birth of the Cool

There’s no better soundtrack to a poetry reading than great jazz music. Each week, I’ll include my favorite jazz tunes for your listening pleasure (as well as make it part of the post’s headline). If you have any jazz favorites you want to send along, I’d be happy to share them.

This week is one of my favorites. Miles Davis’ “Moon Dreams” from his album “Birth of the Cool.” Obviously, I wasn’t birthing any kind of cool in high school, but this is one of the first jazz albums I ever listened to and it made me feel cool. This song in particular matched so many emotions I felt then—and now—so it felt natural to make it the soundtrack to this week’s selections.


The Tremble and the Wait

waiting…waiting…waiting
a tremble buries itself inside heathen trench,
devoid of the once potent stench of luck

waiting…waiting…waiting…

the tremble lose the will to want,
the will to need and desire,
the will to feel the flower petal’s bloom

waiting…waiting…waiting

once the shiver of heavenly touch,
once the eagerness for rising sun,
the tremble is but an uneasy ache of madness

waiting…waiting…waiting…

tired of the test of truth
tired of not seeing light
tired of the wait…

waiting…waiting…waiting…
the tremble surges into awareness,
eeking its way down crowded quarters,
lusting to find the memory of a smiling face

waiting…waiting…waiting…

nothing but the gloom…
nothing but eternity…
nothing but hushed spirits…

waiting…waiting…waiting…

the tremble retreats into restless submission,
left to taste failures vapidness,
left to tingle no more,
left to wait…

Reuniting Midnight


I talk with you,
asleep,
dead to my words,
complaining of simple hunger.

The table has not been set,
or laid out with bounty or bread,
and yet you make no effort to cook,
or clean the yellowing linens for your darling husband.

I dream of feasts,
you tease with treats.
You save your food for
the table of an estranged vagabond.

Twelve chimes I hear,
as my stomach growls,
howls,
wails,
pleading with you for just a
morsel,
a nibble,
a remedy.

“No, no no, ‘tis late,” you say.
“No later than a fortnight ago,” I grumble,
thinking of the goodies
brought to midnight’s table.
“You have had your fill, be thankful for that,”
you say as you roll over and snore me away.

Alas, I choose not to
stay and wither away into my tight stomach.
I throw on my clothes
and brave out into
the frigid moonlight of
midnight.
I shake my fist at his
smirking,
eager,
well-fed smile
and scour the dark for
anything to appease my appetite.

Through my neighbor’s open window,
my watering lips come
to view an untouched meal
laid upon his table.

Luscious,
tantalizingly sweet smelling,
just what my hungry eyes
hav been dreaming of.

All the while you sleep and sleep
and give the pleasures of your
dreams something to nibble.

I think not twice and squeeze through the pane
and trip past the drunken hounds
and sink my being into the goodies
upon my neighbor’s tale.
“What a waste, a meal left in haste,”
I think.

My stomach breathes again as I
return to my pillow and blanket,
you unaware of my whereabouts.

“Would you like a snack?
I can whip something up in no time at all,”
you whistle, surely to midnight your lover.

“No, no, no, ‘tis late,” I say.
“I’ve had my fill.”

I Know I Say

The Devil’s in my corner and he’s wearing polka dots.
He’s wearing a toupee and he’s knocking down shots.
An angel’s on his lap and she’s working him slow.
I know I say I love you, but I’m outta here now.

Inspiration’s fading fast and the monkey spits on me.
Coffee’s burning down my throat and I gotta take a pee.
The buzzard’s are circling ‘round my head, smelling up the joint.
I know I say I want to live, but I think I’ve made my point.

I’m seeing changes rolling fast as I try to make you cook.
The stew’s gone cold, the bacon’s burnt, you’re giving me a look.
The walls are closing in and the paint’s peeling off.
I know I say we’re gonna try, but you’re just too soft.

I’m holding onto luck as the highway’s driving by.
I stop in for a shot of rum and a piece of Maggie’s pie.
The screams are louder than the rhythm of the jukebox.
I know I say that the ground is good, but I think I’ll keep my locks.

The devil met me down in sunny Tennessee.
He’s dropped the angel’s toupee and now’s a real big tease.
I wrote down what he had to say but I think I lost it all.
I know I say we are good friends, but I’m trying my best to stall.

He took me to the desert where the bullets began to fly.
I watched the cold silence of the young boy’s dyin’. 
The Devil took them all to Heaven’s gate to live some more.
I know I say blow ‘em all away, but get the hell out of war.  

The blindfold masks the voices of the critic and the poet. 
Nothing here is good, so don’t pretend to not know it. 
It’s tough to see with sand running ‘round in my head. 
I know I say all’s well, but that’s because I’m looking for my bed.

I’m only as important as the sleep you keep so patiently dear.
There’s no sense waking your eyes so I’ll just go down a lite beer.
The Devil’s brought me back to a home away from everywhere.
I know I say I am, but I’m nowhere here.