Chords Of Blue

This is Poetry piece is a musical 'commentary' on the times we live in, with a nod to people we have to thank for blazing the way and a reminder of where we've come from . . . and the fact we still have so much further to go . . .!

Chords Of Blue

Swing . . . swing . . . swing . . .

Notes . . . hummm . . . hummm . . .

Stories . . . stories of my history

The many chords of blue . . .

That ancestral riders

Of jazz piano riffing horses . . . suffered through . . .

Tell it brother . . .!  Make those strings . . .

Moan . . . moan . . .

Strummin’ . . . the bass . . . like the

Make like the . . . vocal chords . . . of many mothers . . .

Wailing . . . wailing . . . hoarse . . .

Warning . . . the sprouting cello’s in the

Family chamber orchestra of the . . .

Erratic . . . sub-syncopated . . . staccato-like

Encroaching crescendo of the . . .

Ku-Klux-Klan-ging . . . klanging . . . klanging . . .

They are banging away . . . with improvisational blood-lust . . .

On the tanned, stretched hide of a . . . misplaced Djimbe drum . . .

That . . . still breathes . . . It bleeds . . . droplets that sizzle in . . .

The gaze of many watching . . . halogen lamps . . .

With the timbre of cymbals . . . the high-beams present

Laugh . . . ha . . . ha . . . wah . . . wah  . . . wah . . .

Budoom . . . tssh . . . bududududoom . . . tshh . . .

Thunder . . . keeps rhythm, Lightning’s clapping along . . .

Both keeping the pace . . .

Of . . . sun-burnt, worn, fractured drum sticks . . .

As they step on note stones . . . across rivers of inter-echelon bars . . .

In this composition called . . . “Freedom” . . . a work in progress . . .

The loneliest . . . the loneliest . . . Thelonius Monks meditate . . .

On various . . . takes of this evergreen piece of music . . .

Oh . . . swing . . . swing . . . swing . . . composers

Through a forest of Negro spirituals . . . 

Where organ sounds are the tree trunks . . .

Inscribe your “X” clefs on the sheet music of time . . .

Written on pre-transatlantic orchestration papyrus scrolls . . .

In great concert halls . . . like Alexandria . . .

Ancient metronomes kept four/four time . . . like this . . .

“Zulu . . . Zulu . . . Zulu . . . Zulu . . .”

Composers of our struggle had dubious . . . dubious distinctions . . .

Dubious . . . Dubois used to jazz us . . . forward

Irresistibly . . . undeniably . . . irrepressible urges . . . to

Groove . . . to him and his Talented Tenth Players . . . which

Still inter-dimension time hop . . . binding, protecting my people . . .

Providing sonic insulation against the ever-present

Cold . . . discordant Night . . . that we walk through . . .

In . . . whitewashed pubs . . . academies for societal music . . .

Ella in every Fitzgerald tent was intent . . . to vocally bend . . .

Erroneous notions . . . that dark bands don’t . . . can’t shine bright . . .

Sing . . . swing . . . lady lyrical antiseptic . . .

Killing pale bacteria that fed on the vibrations of Jazz strings . . .

Hoping they burst . . . bits flung into distant, forgotten . . .

Mezzanines for the scavengers to feed on . . . at leisure . . .

Attempting re-composition of blood tempered compilations

That can’t ever be digested . . .!

So from the resultant indigestion . . . pockets of Rock and Roll . . .

Coursed around in them . . . and they think they’ve got soul?

Elvis missed, stepped on his blue suede shoes . . . slipped and passed gas . . .

And they inhale it . . . think they found jazz . . .

What cacophonous sacrilege . . .!?

Billy gave us a Holiday . . .

When ingestion of impolite, harsh arpeggios of lies . . .

Made us sick with . . . mental indigestion . . .

“Those who has not . . . will get . . .”

“Those who has got . . . will lose . . .”

Pills of melodious antacid to settle the acid in jazz blues . . .

Her Rhythm as erratic as the Strange Fruit Metronomes . . .

And The Trees at These Pendulums’ Concert Venues,

Wave for ‘Encores’, as they down cocktail after cocktail

Of Moor-like Bloody Mary’s, or Red Sangrias;

Their Roots silently compose intoxicated Concertos,

Whose Timing matches The Tattoos of apathetic Splashes all around them . . .!

Cry violin . . . mourn . . . mourn . . .

Call out the sorrow . . . pain . . . of an ancient Nubian goddess . . .

Accosted by lust-filled strains of music . . . from

Rhythm-less demons . . . seething . . . to bathe in the sea of her tinted juices

So her . . . melodic secretions were siphoned off . . .

By bleached, mushroomed flutes . . . that . . .

Used her Life’s wind to drive their compositional kitsch . . . afloat . . .

Letting lose an incongruous, dream-bound envy . . . and

Masculinity . . . to copulate tumultuously . . . with her . . .

The air in their primal lungs . . . cannot exert any sweat from her trumpet . . .

But they continually blow . . . cheeks billowing till they were Dizzy . . .

Gillespie never made such noise . . . they never had his poise . . .

For theirs was . . . based on an unknown, unattainable key signature . . .

They . . . were after the song book of her immortality . . .

Louie said “Armstrong black man!” you should be proud . . .

As he harmonized . . . pale-faced copycats surround shark-like . . . stealing . . .

He told them . . . “Skibble-dee-skibble-dee-bop!”  showed them how to . . .

“Skat . . .!  It’s NOT such a Wonderful World!”

Blow . . . brother . . . blow . . . make palatable our ageless anguish . . .

The Coltrane . . . we ride to recoup . . .

From the labors of liberty . . . a Love Supreme . . . given to . . .

The heart . . . as a pacifier from birth . . . till adult hood . . .

So we don’t forget . . .

Winds of a Red Summer History gust through . . .

A flute with . . . 41 holes . . .

Creating a nor’easter of Middle Passage requiems . . .

I listen, naked soul wrapped in scarves of Blue . . . and watch as . . .

Goose people tap dance applause on heaving mahogany floors . . .

While . . . Jimmy Slyde . . . slides across thick lips . . . percussion jazzin’ . . .

Interpretively . . . we talk slick . . . rolling . . .

Tongue positions . . . ‘ebonically’ . . . sisters’ necks . . .

Whip back and forth . . . in swing rhythm . . . as She’s cussin’  Him.

Speech spans octaves so shrill  . . . can be heard for . . .

Miles . . . Davis . . . gave us mournful notes of soul to . . . cling to . . .

As choir boys in blue used batons to compose concertos . . .

 Sub-par Nya-Bingi rhythms . . . on the backs of Congo Drums . . .

In a sentimental mood we swing hips . . . hands wave . . .

As this Duke takes us up black and white steps to . . .

This place . . . called Ellington . . .

An all-inclusive club of thought where . . . admission . . .

Was a . . . Non-refundable fee consisting of your musical inhibitions . . .

Tensions in race strings . . . had no place . . . but

Souls tip-toed over the keys . . . with him . . .

Followed him . . . for he told stories . . .

Of a mighty race . . . where rhythm and blues runs through . . .

Their veins . . . do-wah . . . do-wah  . . . be-bop . . . do-wop . . .

That thing . . . reverberates their vocal chords . . . strumming them . . .

Playing songs of ethnicity . . . in the orchestral African Diaspora . . .

Swinging . . . swinging . . . singing . . .

The many chords of blue that they have suffered through . . .

But wait . . . wait . . . wait . . . swing slow . . .

Ad-lib for a few . . . Solo and Reprise . . .?

My feet are still tappin’ . . .

My heart is composing diastolic-ally . . . in four/four time . . .

My voice still twirls eardrums around . . .

Stressing my communication . . . where indicated . . .

By geographic accents on the . . . manuscript of my speech . . .

Can’t you see . . . I am jazzin’ . . . or . . .

Is jazz really what I be . . .?

Status quot's thought conventions still compose . . .

Noisy notions that lighter toned compositions . . .

Which are played with only the Right Hand . . . no sharps or base . . .

Are better . . . preferred even . . .

Sharps are dark keys and the base has a lower note . . .

Sharps are Dark Keys and the Base has a Lower note . . .?!

Sharps are Dark Keys and the Base has a Lower Note . . .!!

All that is left is the higher flat ivory in the greater piano scheme . . .

But jazz  . . . has a lot of sharps and diminished sevenths . . .

And the base is vital for it to be vibrant . . .

I’m am as dark as the sharps . . .

So . . . that must mean they hate . . . Me!

See . . . society hasn’t improved their bands’ play

They can’t float . . . float out sweet sounds or . . .

Keep a steady rhythm . . . cause of the . . .

Small range of keys they choose to make music from . . .

The end result is listening boredom . . . the same notes always come . . .

In the same way . . . Me . . . I use the whole piano . . .

My bio-luminescent art form constantly evolves . . . mutates . . . ad infinitum . . .

Enharmonic . . . harmonic . . . cross cultural multi-valence . . .

Are properties of my history, my body’s music . . .

But they wish to rewind the analog tape back to . . .

An exclusive, mono-chromatically toned Cotton Club . . .

Where my Jungle Music is . . . noise pollution . . .

To be shut down . . . shot down . . . shut down . . . shot down . . .

Where they shot down Amadou . . . and me . . .

Their eyes ears fear my skin tone’s music . . .

They fear the Jazz . . . in me . . .

So they want to insulate it, absorb it, recycle it . . .

But the Jazz in me is immortal . . . its immortality . . .

Protects my people . . . becomes us . . .

Jazz is what I be!!

We are all that we have . . . and that is all

Jazz is all that we have . . . and that is all

For we . . . were the ancestral riders

Of jazz piano riffing horses . . .

Guiding them by reigns fashioned . . .

From the many chords of blue . . .

That we STILL . . . suffer through . . .