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Dreams of Sepia Sep 2015
Duke Ellington's not happy
his Satin doll's not shown up
' Hey have you seen my Satin doll?'
' Look Mister, I'm not ' Lost property'
& why don't you go & sleep it off'
' What?'
' You've got Whiskey
written all over your face, Ellington'
' Gee, ok, but could you spare a few
I need money to get home'
' I'll think about it, in the meantime,
sing me a song
'' Ok. WE WILL WE WILL ROCK YOU'
Based on a true conversation I had a while ago with a drunk ( probably homeless ) man. I thought it was funny because the idea of Duke Ellington singing  Queen's ' We will rock you' was kinda quirky. (I trust everyone knows who Duke Ellington is & one of his most famous musical compositions ' Satin Doll')
Unter den Linden is a particular stretch of Berlin, the name literally translates as ' Beneath the Linden Trees' due to the Linden trees growing there.
(Published in Miami Herald on May 26, 2014 Brigitte Jacobs Arnold
Obituary Guest Book View Sign ARNOLD, BRIGITTE JACOBS, 78, MIAMI. Services will be held at 7:00 pm and a viewing from 12:00 pm to 8:00pm at Maspons Funeral Home located at 3500 SW 8th Street, Miami Florida 33135 Wednesday May 28th.)


Don’t ask me why but
I went online this afternoon.
Read the Miami-Herald obituaries.
And not just the Biggies:
Maya Angelou at 86 and
A one hundred year old Herb Jeffries.
Of course we knew Maya,
Her caged bird singing
Softly in our souls,
But may not be aware of Herb Jeffries.
A former singer in the Ellington band,
Herb was known as the Bronze Buckaroo,
In a series of all-black 1930s Westerns--
His nickname evoking
His racial identity,
Quite muddled, flexible.

Although both sad passages to be sure,
It was neither Maya nor Herb
Triggering my tender tears.
But the obituary of:
ARNOLD, BRIGITTE JACOBS, 78, MIAMI,
Known as Oma, Mutti and Mama.
Well, not exactly the Brigitte obit,
My tears for her long-lived mother,
Brigitte’s mother, durable & abiding,
Still breathing at 97:
Hildegard Wolle.
Reading Brigitte’s bio—
German born, Berlin student,
Singer-fashionista &
Proud, naturalized
American citizen—
I can’t stop thinking about Hildegard.
As if the woman didn’t already
Have more than her share of trouble
On this planet nearly a century,
Having already lost her
Grandson Roland, and now,
Her daughter.
Something wacky is going on here.
Some long-distance life lesson
Being applied here.
Poor Hildegard: ungifted with Alzheimer’s,
Suffers crystal distant memories,
Some really bad karma
Stored up in past lives.
jeffrey conyers Feb 2016
Some say, we don't need black history month.
When in truth we do.
Would the contribution of African American be taught truthfully.
If we had to depend on you know who?

Obviously, they very unaware of several successful black that contributed to America's greatness.
We, very well aware they edited down facts to be turn into fiction.
Like that president that chopped down that cherry tree.

Many doesn't know the plight of Washington, Dubois, Carver.
Let alone know their first name.
It's hardly taught, if it's about us.

George Franklin, Grant-dentist
Ernest Everett, Just.-Scientist
Josh Gibson, one of the greatest baseball player.

We know very well about George, Thomas and James and John Q.

Some say, we all Americans
And in truth, they completely right.
But for reasons very well known.
We are not all equal in sights of others.

When needed, they call upon us to join in.

Some still, say-why do Black history month exist?
But all cultures knows none was eliminated through times.
Than those captured to come here and renamed after their masters.

And facts be told, this cultures lives to embrace into their children's if nothing is ever mention by certain teachers about their cultures.
Than they will keep it before them.

Matthew Alexander, Henson-Explorer
Billie Holiday-singer
Duke Ellington and Count Basie and Cab Calloway.

Greatness, we can't let fade.

Vernon Jordan
Shirley Chilsom
And hosts of present days teachers that push the issues to educate.

Those that say, we don't need Black History months.
Be crying , if we try to eliminate theirs.
Cause that's all they ever known.

Howard University.
Tennessee State and Fisk and various others came to be because of discrimination.
And has turned out some brilliant African Americans.

So our history is needed.
Cause it's about us.
Like Latin History and various others is about other cultures.
radiating
street lamps
ionized the
indigo blue
haze charging
the night air

sparking the
city’s eclectic
currents coursing
through the
abandoned raceways
and empty streets

energizing the
phantoms of
the city’s
restive spirits

the ghosts of past
Great Falls Fests came
jitterbugging back
to life

transparent
veils lifting
and falling
with it, a voltaic
indigo blue
billowed out of the
abandoned stadium
pouring smoking
oboe moans
into the cavity
of the great gorge

“I was one of the last
to perform at
Hinchliffe Stadium”
Duke proclaimed
with his usual  
distinguished air

“it was also one of my
last concerts”, he added
with a tinge of
sorrow in his voice

“the band was rockin
the Art Deco tiles,
splintering and shattering
into bits of earth toned graffiti
the last vestiges of
a bygone Jazz Age
dissolving into the
disco fizz of the
Seventies”

the indigo mood
clamoured off
the rocks absorbing
the sonorous waves
like a stand of
hallowed
sequoias

“I’m trying to
remember what
my last tune
was that night.

was it Caravan?
or a Prelude to
a Kiss?  No no
too mellow
we always ended
on an upper
a real crowd pleaser,
I recall the boys swung
a medley before the grand finale
that medley included
Mood Indigo, Caravan,
Sophisticated Ladies,
Prelude to a Kiss.
We opened with Kinda Dukish
Rockin and Rhythm
we closed with
Satin Doll
Yes I’m quite sure
I waltzed them
off the floor
that night with
Satin Doll”

Duke ran his
fingers through
his processed hair.
He grabbed my shoulders
raised his baggy eyelids
And looked me straight
In the eye

“Yes, we followed
Tito Puente, he killed it
we upped our game
He was just starting out
But at this time Silk City
was going Caribe
Juan Tizol was
out of his mind that night,
I thought him and Babs
we're gunna jump ship
and join the Salsa Circus
Yeah El Rex and Celia Cruz
were that good

El Rex had the place
jumpin and jivin
it was a glimpse of the old days
livin in the here and now
just like the old days
I couldn't compete with that
so I waltzed them off
the floor with Satin Doll
a little cheek to cheek swoon
maybe some guys got lucky that night
and maybe some girls fell in love
Yeah Paterson was changing,
the ***** Leagues long gone
the last ****** Auto Races
crossed the final finish line weeks before
when the raceways in the stadium
replaced the raceways to the factories
we knew it was coming to an end
and with it all the good paying
jobs, whatta shame
just like me and the boys
watching El Rex
the Duke was dethroned by a King
just like Silk City
we had our day in the sun too
a Satin Doll Sun
Those were some good times,
sometimes”

Duke scratched
his head,
and he looked down into
the swirling noise
of the Great Falls
“on a night like this
the mood indigo
takes you into the
darkest hues of blues”

fragment from
Silk City PIT 6:
The Great Falls

Duke Ellington, Coleman Hawkins
Mood Indigo




Oakland
3/30/13
jbm

(FRAGMENT WORK IN PROGRESS)

Part 6 of extended poem Silk City PIT.  PIT is an acronym for Point In Time.  PIT is an annual census American cities conduct to count the homeless population.  Hope and Labor is the city motto of Paterson NJ, nick named The Silk City.
(FRAGMENT WORK IN PROGRESS)

Part 6 of extended poem Silk City PIT.  PIT is an acronym for Point In Time.  PIT is an annual census American cities conduct to count the homeless population.  Hope and Labor is the city motto of Paterson NJ, nick named The Silk City.
i am a buoy of flesh and bones
my soul is cast iron steel
my heart a brass bell

i float and bob atop the morass
of flailing humanity

steeped in fathoms of angst and guilt,
tried and tired from terrible currents
of an endless midnight swim

waves of time rain over my head

through the roar of crashing surf,
and rushing rising tides,
my solemn ring pierces
the misty din to alert
attentive ears

Duke Ellington:
Ring Dem Bells

Charlie Parker
Miles Davis:
Sippin At Bells

jbm
Nantucket, MA
8/90
Dreams of Sepia Jun 2015
a love song
by O. A. Unwin

for Joseph Rembrandt Clarke
poet of the Bronte Country


Immanuel Kant
'' We are rich not in what we possess
but in what we can do without''




I.


Midnight hospital rooms flicked eyelashes
off the slow duel of hours

imagine tall lynch mob grass
or Sing a Song of Sixpence or Bye, Bye Miss American Pie forever

Today I remembered my upbringing
spoke of Turner,Ginsberg,human rights,
painted, swore,tore up a newspaper


the Nurse looked at me and said
' Not doing very well now, are we''
Dear Roman Empire, Tribunals


Otherwise this Southern town's
all hills, steeples, clouds
unsteady heartbeat of sandstone swept sideways


occasional channel fog krimi & arthouse
and lives ending whiskey half way to the sky




Welcome,set down your bags
to you I am a stranger in your land
to me you were a visitor in my town

Recently I have learnt that those who love
live life on the wrong side of the looking glass
and are forever being given speeding tickets


I also wander Redcliffe Wharf these days by the swallows' nests knowing that Angels tread the earth in the form of people like you

I have been there.
I have seen the Light.
I have drained my soul
out in tears Absalom oh Absalom
I have known the Wall
of my prodigal body a Tempest
Angel wings clipped by old ladies
on Old Market bus stops
catkin feet rotating the underdressed night
under the Arsenic Wheel of Stars
I have gambled my future
on the mere shout of your name
I have risked my very life

I should be a woman serene as a fish by now in a pond by a mansion house beneath Redwoods

this is not dignified.


Dearest, did I **** up
may I call you this
or shall we be
empty footsteps
Stasi hallways
a disconnected phone

No. Wait.
I am doing this all wrong

Dearest, gentle zeitgeist poet
of Yorkshire and the North
the way your writing
fleets me of your subtle frame
remembered briefly from one night
the inner fire of your face
and eyes mysterious as pagan gods
or lonely hermit huts and bright
as Northern Seafront lights
blinking renegade the dusk
amid the heady din of amusement arcades
the smog lilt of your lovely voice
now I know these things about you
I am a Matryeshka lost
but at least it's easier to write
of imagined boyish swagger to Elvis
or the way you might also sing jazz
I belt out Duke Ellington in the bathtub
oh lets dance lets dance


Turn, turn
Sunset on Sunset
pages, pages back
I am an August rose
in bloom over you
in Welsh view suburbs
A Brothers' Grimm fairytale
that mother cuts down
and I tie it back onto it's stalk
with a vial of water
as if it's calling to me
to say  'thanks for letting me die here'
red, red, Russian red
that's no way to make your bed
but it reminds me of my Grandmother's garden
so it's also English
and then there's the thought of you
so it must be French red,
the color of love
Existentionalism and Rousseau
Elinor and Marianne
hothouse flowers or wild
I was always the latter
wild, wild
a bold freedom of a child.




in Jane Austen's ' Sense and Sensibility'  the heroines, Elinor and Marianne's contrasting characters
are described by their love of flowers. Marianne prefers wild and this
is a tribute to her free, delicate spirit, the stern Elinor prefers hothouse.








I.I


This is bad.
I'm done dancing.
actually I was recently a mermaid
& my legs still hurt on land
I can't write good poetry about this.
It's too serious.
It's all je ne sais quoi
& unknown potential of star signs
I've read of the way you wrote
of a girl all bells and incense
and think now that oh you are Love, love
love itself-fragile and kind
beneath that manner bold
and cheek as a Sunday brass band bright
' Your name's a bit of a mouthful isn't it'
that's what you said,right?
but you can't fool me,Love
are you the all the vibrant flair of gentleness in my Soul

your trance of attention to detail
the way you've loved places and people
the thought that there is such a man
pierces me like Van Gogh's last hours




dearest, dearest
you're my drug
that's just the way that I am,
or used to be
I'm a Romantic.
Neither capitalist
Nor communist?
Me too.
Soulmate.
Yep..
Drastic.

But that's
all the word that's left.
Now I'm just in trouble
and need wine.

To think I'm usually
quite good at Scrabble.
I don't normally do Kitsch.
I promise.Be Kind.
I must remind myself of this:

Love is a house of cards.
could we just be a plane trail
a radio signal
a satellite
forbidden bliss.




I.I.I


You're right
the Southern middle classes are ****** up.
as for me Dad all kindly alcoholism
and Kolobok* frame died
Step-Dad walked out.
All my umbrellas broke.

I've tried

but it was pointless loving my parents
poetry and paleontology
just can't live together.

*
I should have been an heiress
but my mother
lazily lost the place
and kept me poor & this stings
or did till I grew a backbone.
Our landlord's in New York.
Our house
is surrounded by cypress trees

You only live once.

or so I thought.
but I've lived and lost so many times
that I'm simply glad that I just bought a typewriter
for a quid
and am proud.

* Kolobok - a character from a Russian folk tale, made out of dough.

I.I.I

**** this curiosity.
A question.
Arise, arise Atlantic dreamer.
Why are you you
America, Europe and England
and goodness knows what else



By Descartes's* fire
I beseech you
are you a dream
Am I Ariel,
or else
a marvel comic heroine
pick and choose
toss your dice


Lets face it
we are both gamblers
because we're not afraid to feel
& we are both Kafka
when I read you
I'm the Zen
of my transnational dreams
I can't help this.
Where are the boys I used to kiss in my head.
This is maybe just how the Mad are.
I'm mock bubblegum brains.
You are my roman candle


as I said
I'm not a little Bristolian
& Southerner at heart
so I'm a pirate.
that's that.

I am sewing our flag in neon thread
I am eyeing you up
the way Smugglers eye up cargo
the way Kings draw up maps
the way salt melts in water

& the way books looked and felt
has always been important
so you must know
my mother read me Ruskin as a child.



Tell me, friend
could we be Northern lights
by whom & what was the last film you saw
Woody Allen,
Wim Wenders,Gatsby.
lets make a list
have you seen
'Goodbye, Lenin'
it's hilarious.
tell me of yourself

Berlin, Berlin
einz zwei drei
no, this is not the Polizei

or Blitzkrieg grandmothers
just hide and seek
Do you like gingerbread
Why is my neighbor called  Pete.

* Rene Descartes - 1596-1650, french philosopher
* Ariel - Ariel, a magical spirit from Shakespeare's ' The Tempest'
* Ruskin is one of Rembrandt's favorite authors
* I used to live in Berlin
* One, two, three, no this is not the Police
Please be kind. This is a highly personal poem. There is more to it but it's too long to post in one go. It's the true story of my love for a fellow poet & how I wandered 3 days & nights through the town of Bristol in the rain, without sleep, calling his name & later ended up in hospital against my will for what they called psychosis just because for a while I was scared for my life. A diagnosis I hope to overturn someday. The poem starts off talking about the hospital. At about this point I told Rembrandt of my love & of my tragic experience & he rejected me. This was 2 years ago now & I'm still trying to get over it. I hope to publish this poem someday as testimony to my love for R. & this experience.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS Jul 2022
LOVE AND LOVERS

by

TOD HOWARD HAWKS


Chapter 20

"Jon...Jon," said Bian.

"Yes, Bian," replied Jon.

"Jon, you really do love everyone, don't you?' asked Bian.

Jon paused--a much longer pause than usual--then said "Yes, Bian, I do. It's because Maggie, our Black maid as I was growing up, loved me so much.  

"I love all 8 billion human beings on Earth. The problem is that I just haven't had the chance to tell each one of them this. Realizing our goal of passing CAMPAIGN FOR EARTH will be my first opportunity to do so.  

"I believe every child is conceived with the innate capacity--"the seed of love" I call it--to love, but that "seed" can only be germinated by being loved, usually, but not necessarily, by one's biological parents. If the child is not loved enough, or tragically not at all, then the child will not be able to love her/himself or others;  rather, the child will carry unconsciously varying degrees of pain caused by the child's lack of being loved for her/his lifetime, unless the child is later loved fully by someone else.

"The collective effort we are now undertaking is different from the aforementioned only by degree, not by kind.

"Earth, and the vast majority of human beings who inhabit it, suffer terribly from the dearth of love--not only emotional love, but also from the paucity of compassion, which is a form of love. Witness poverty and hunger and homelessness. Lack of universal quality education and universal free medical care. Profitting from the pain of others. Unbridled corruption and seemingly endless wars. Catastrophic climate change and the existential threat of nuclear holocaust. Life on Earth doesn't have to be like this."

Bian put her arms around her husband and gave him a big, long hug, then the two sat down together on their sofa.

"Bian, would you mind if I played my tape of MOOD INDIGO by Duke Ellington?" asked Jon. Beethoven was Jon's favorite, but he also enjoyed jazz.

"I would enjoy that," said Bian.

While they listened to the music, Jon reached in his satchel and pulled out his pen and a piece of blank paper and began writing a poem. Jon finished writing the poem as the music was ending.

"Would you like to hear the poem I just wrote?" Jon asked Bian.

"Of course," said Bian.

"The title of my new poem is JAZZ LIKE A RIVER.


JAZZ LIKE A RIVER

Jazz like a river, headwaters of ragtime
and blues, new orleans, chicago, harlem,
kansas city, armstrong and ellington, holiday
and fitzgerald, cotton club, 52 street, rapids
and rhythms, ******-induced sweetness
and savagery, swinging swing, rivulets
of cords and discords, til 3 in the morning,
mourning the demise of Bird, litany of
gillespie and davis, brubek's west coast
tributary, coltrane, roach, mingus,
ameriica's sinuous contribution to the
nile and amazon of world's music.
Mateuš Conrad  May 2016
jazz
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
i don't why, but it just happens sometimes,
one minute you're listening to Ryan Adams'
self-titled album with that pillar of
rock stay with me reading the Sunday Times
style magazine after having digested
the culture magazine and the Sunday Times
magazine, bobbing along to an article about
the singer Ariana Grande, seeing her almost
kissing a pooch on a skyscraper (*****,
that tongue's been up my ***, so said the pooch)
and you don't get Ryan Adams,
****'s a gridlock, a traffic jam, it doesn't
have a care for Pearl Jam and the wilderness of
Canada... so you switch listening material
to Herbie Hancock's cantaloupe island,
and suddenly you're in Philip Larkin territory...
it's funny to say that slavery of the africans
by the english to colonise the American continent
gave us fewer princes bored by Mozart
stating 'too many notes' - well jazz has enough
too many, notes, because there's this whole impromptu
going on; in my collection of the genre?
a decent list: sonny clark's complete works,
sonny clark's cool struttin',
cannonball aderley's somethin' else,
cedric 'im' brooks united africa,
booker t & the m.g.'s green onions (~jazz),
thelonious monk's monk's blues,
thelonious monk's criss-cross,
egberto gismonti's solo, eric dolphy's out to lunch,
donald byrd's royal flush, duke ellington's soul call,
terry callier's occasional rain, guru's jazzmatazz vol. 1,
miles davis' ******* brew / sketches of spain /
kind of blue / porgy and bess / the complete birth of the cool,
hurbie hancock's takin' off / my point of view,
steve kuhn trio's wisteria, joshua redman's back east,
freddie hubbard's hub-tones, john coltraine's blue train /
a love supreme, nina simone's nina simone at the village gate,
bobby mcferrin's spontaneous innovations,
chet baker's my funny valentine, dexter gordon's go!,
us3's hand on the torch, sonny rollins' ballads,
freddie hubbard's ready for freddie,
art blakey's moanin', kenny burrell's midnight blue,
chick corea's now he sings now he sobs,
mccoy tyner's the real mccoy, dianne reeve's i remember,
duke ellington's money jungle, horace silver's song
for my father, jimmy smith's back at the chicken shack,
wayne shorter's ju lu...
so with this mind, from bukowski the baton was
passed, don't get me wrong, i appreciate classical
music, but jazz is too much poetry,
not really the makings of coupling the two like
the Beats... just that they originate with a sentiment
best stated: 'what the **** was that?'
reverse aerodynamics: actually, no, proper
aerodynamics: you see the plane and then get the score
sheet... those European composers must have
been literally mad, so many instruments encoded,
pitches, larks, stresses of a violin's specific accenting
that wouldn't never sound like a nail scratching
blackboard... i know it's horrid to compliment
slavery... but hell... without it no jazz,
just stuck in a rut with classical whitey boys...
and no jazz no blues... no future rock or pop...
if there's anything to redeem the trade it's this music,
and, let me tell you, jazz is urbanity a soul of
frank o'hara's new york, it's amplified in
a suburban environment, never did suburbia
bordering on countryside feel so cosmopolitan,
but i'm adding this amplification to have been
aided by the number of birds i can spot, lazily
from my window...
and god, i love the fact that in jazz you can
have a specific bloom for each instrument used,
you can have a horn, a sax, a drum a bass solo
all in one go, so it's not as monochromatic as in
rock music (primarily occupied with
lead guitar solos, in the 1970s the drum solos
of john bonham) - all in one go i.e.
the tactful representation of each instrument,
the sort of football match analogy where every
player gets a touch of the ball / limelight.
Eric the Red Jan 2018
Do you remember the 3:14am train
From across town growing up?
I’d turn on the radio and someone
Had changed it
Those mornings would play some AM station out of North Dakota
Fuzzy
But it would come in
The horn of the train would
Blast
One last time five minutes
Later
And I’d drift off to sleep again
Wake
To find the radio was turned off
Attic
Cleaned it out when I was 12
Plastic Flowers
Had no dust upon them
In that attic
It’s when I saw the ghost
Of her
Put it all together as an
Adult
She
Was the one who changed
The station and turned off
My radio after I fell back asleep
She loved her jazz
Her
Duke Ellington
travelin north on rumblin boxcar trains
soft iron rails confess syncopated pains
slow rhythmic rush of spinning paddlewheels
full immersion baptism in Big Muddy swales
feint clip clop thoughts of ol Bess fade fast
hum a hue of delta blues to hard times past
I lift a quiet prayer to my Lord’s willowy ear
to quell the ugly whispers of yonder city fears

Jacob Lawrence
Panel 23
Migration Series

Duke Ellington:
Daybreak Express

Orlando
9/24/17
jbm
a snippit from a long essay The Path of Totality Part 2, "The Fire Next Time"
Em Apr 2016
It’s April,
And I am the fool.
It’s Tax Day,
And I've made my mark as “single.”
It’s Earth Day,
And you'll never give me a bouquet, so just pick me a flower.
It’s Duke Ellington Day,
And you like jazz music as much as you like when I call you my King, so why am I still waiting in line for the throne?
--------------------
It's Spring,
And I am in love.
Love me, love me, say that you love me...
Izzi  Jun 2014
A Lovers Dance
Izzi Jun 2014
Inspired by: Duke Ellington "Solitude"

The lights low
Music slow
My palm rests itself on the small of her back
My shoulder holding the weight of her head
The rhythm of "Solitude" moving the souls of our feet
With every step builds our wall of love
Taking away
All the pain we thought was here to stay

God is certainly on my side
As her eyes begin to hide
A ghosted smile upon her lips
Bring her closer, grab her hips

Tonight I fall in love
With a beauty that can only be sent from above
I take away her fear
Take away her shame
Take away her pain

Tonight we lock our hands
As we end our Lovers Dance
This is dedicated to Jake Muir for giving me hope

— The End —