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Deep down, from the river, from the black earth
From Mississippi mud to Chi town streets
Slow, and rhythmic, ****** beats.
A man stands,  late to his own show,
and declares to the audience below
that he is a Man. Spelled M, A, N.
We believe. His mastery,  presence,
husky voice. The essence
of Man. And what the men don’t know–
the little girl understands. It’s my first show
without my parents. My brother's there.
A man sitting near us shoots up–I stare,
as smoke of cigarettes and **** fills the air.
A packed crowd, eager to see
one of the last of the greats, history.
But no nostalgic, fleecing tour is this .
One of Muddy’s last is still at the top of my list.
He died five years later. It's still one of the best concerts I've ever seen. He only sang and didn't play guitar, but the back up band was great. Georgetown University, September 1978.
ConnectHook Apr 26
A sign is planted bravely on your grass
Informing those of us who live as brutes
That tolerance abounds within your class
And that we don’t possess your virtuous fruits.
But whether you proclaim by sign or flag
Or misbegotten sticker on your car,
We note you fail to notice that you brag;
And make yourself a moral commissar.
Pride is prideful—all arrogance conceit.
Projecting your neurosis has grown old . . .
We laugh at you, not with you. Your deceit,
Ungrasped by you, is easy to behold.
The barren tree you planted in your pride
Informs the world you’ve failed to take God’s side.
PROMPT 26:
A traditional sonnet has a strict meter and rhyme scheme.
Try your hand at a sonnet – or at least something “sonnet-shaped.”
ConnectHook Apr 25
Is that you / Your eyes slowly fading?

After the stereo (flip that vinyl over)
After the **** hits (burbleburbleburble)
After the subway (next stop Bwahstan Gahden, Bwahstan Gahden)
After bolting down Burger King  (♪ Have it your way... ♫)
        We entered the garden.

Is that you / Your mind full of tears?
Is that you / Searching for a good time?
Is that you / Waiting for all these years
?

Santana looked so small way down there on stage from our upper balcony seats, especially Chepito, lit by lurid 70's arena-lights. They seemed disproportionate to the ear-splitting amplification from towering walls of matte-black speakers, amidst  sparklers, firecrackers, with **** wafting over legions of high school students. I can't recall the songs, just the rhythm. When the smoke cleared, ears dazed and ringing, the harsh lights flooded several hundred young persons exiting the garden for the subway.

Is that you / Looking 'cross the ocean
Is that you / Thinking nothing's really there
?

J. was still sitting in his seat. Come on. We gotta go.
But my friend J. looked lost, vacant.
Come on J, the trains stop running soon let's go!  
J. did not respond. He leaned forward and vomited on the cement floor between his feet.

Is that you / Waiting for the sunshine?
Is that you / When all you see is glare
?
PROMPT 25: write a poem that recounts an experience of your own
in hearing live music, and tells how it moves you.
It needs to be something meaningful to you.
ConnectHook Apr 24
Hark—nightingales sing songs of dawning spring.
The flitting bluejays banter in the trees.
A sparrow greets a dove, and both take wing,
While robins fight with cardinals. The breeze
Bears on its unseen currents feathered tribes:
The nutfinch mothers feed their new-hatched flocks.
Now crows appear: dark jesters squawking jibes;
The swooping blackbirds protest preying hawks . . .

Strangely, some younger birds attempt to moult
Confused in youthful avian revolt,
And cast off gender; ***** attempt to nest.
Chickadees chirp, proclaiming they are cats
And other fowl identify as bats.
(Their madness serves to entertain the rest.)
PROMPT #23
Birdsong is all around us – even in cities,
there are sparrows chirping, starlings making a racket.
And it’s hardly surprising that birdsong has inspired poets.
Today, we’d like to challenge you to write your own poem
that focuses on birdsong.
ConnectHook Apr 22
As the second hand slips
When you’re coming to grips
In a thrilling ecstatic last gasp,
The spasms are treasured,
The nerve-endings pleasured—
An easy, yet hard thing to grasp.

If only the wife
Could surpass this in life;
Transcending mere conjugal motion:
This private emergency;
Slippery urgency,
Panting in private devotion.

On the hot stroke of one
It’s a second to none
Passing minutes on high alert.
When all prudery ceases,
The tension releases:
Alone, as you ready to—
PROMPT #22:
write a poem about something you’ve done
that gave you a kind of satisfaction,
and perhaps still does.
ConnectHook Apr 22
That Japanese thing about ants:
Yoko Ono (but worse) at first glance,
Is an improvisation
Producing frustration
In readers, when given a chance…


I was hoping to find a bit more
In Sawako’s ridiculous Score;
But her total is zero,
This scribbling hero—
Her poem was truly a bore.
PROMPT #21:
Sawako Nakayasu’s poem 'Improvisational Score' is a rather surreal prose poem describing an imaginary musical piece that proceeds in a very unmusical way.

https://poets.org/poem/improvisational-score
ConnectHook Apr 19
Oh I lost it all, that Chinese hedge fund girl—
Yes I lost it all, **** Chinese hedge fund girl.
She done me bad, Lord this oyster lost its pearl...

My hedge fund investor— oh she done me wrong.
Said that hedge funds advisor— Lord she done me wrong.
Closed my accounts; and escaped to Hong Kong...

She took all my money, repossessed my Lexus too.
Stole all my wealth, repossessed my Lexus too.
My levee is broke—know what I have to do...

    Lord she ruined my credit—
    I lost my four homes,
    My trusted bank manager
    Won't approve me no loans—

Summer home in the Hamptons: you know she stole the deed.
Summer cottage in the Hamptons, yes she stole the deed...
Oh that hedge fund manger— I'm gonna make her bleed !

   Going to fly to Hong Kong, Lord I'll hunt that woman down.
   That female funds advisor ain't nothing but a clown;
   I'm going to Kung Pao her Mu Shu, with some poison on the side;
   That Chinese hedge funds manager—Gonna take her for a ride.


Gonna drive to the ocean, dump her body in the sea.
Yes I'll drive to the ocean, throw her body in the sea;
No Chinese hedge fund manager make a monkey out of me...

I'm going back to Newport, gonna polish up my yacht.
Think I'll go back to Newport, shine that finish on my yacht...
Then escape to Bermuda—Lord knows I won't get caught.
PROMPT 19:
write your own poem that tells a story in the style of a blues song
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