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Rap was my first love
Rap will always hold my fire

Hip Hop will always have my heart
Hip Hop will always be the one I come home too

We started together
Even when she is on some *******
Mumbling around town with technicolor hair
Crunch berry grills
looking like a cartoon villain
I get it

Rock was cool
sometimes we all need to scream
need to be sad and different
sometimes we don’t need words
just a guitar
just a bass
just a drum

It’s a funny thing to say:

The Blues made me laugh
laugh hard too
That’s why she said she left me
she said she was done.

I got so lost in Jazz
When I thought I left I realized
I’m still here

When I thought I had seen all that there is to see
When I thought I rounded the final corner
It turned out to be a street named Lombard  
The light shone on me in notes of blue
With the blessing of The Sun and Ra

I realized
off beat is the beat

She’s like Hip Hop
I may go away
but I’ll never leave.

© Christopher F. Brown 2018
Brent Kincaid Nov 2016
I like to spend my summertime
Making cheerful summer rhymes
I take a clever word and double it.
Then, that’s the start of a couplet.
I do my best at language bending
Looking for cohesive endings
For every line that crosses my mind.
That is why works the best, I find.
I just roll right on with the beat
I depend the result will be sweet.
I find if I think about it too hard
I will miss the rhythm by a yard.

My hope is the spoken word
Will make you feel what you heard
As if it were a voice in your head
That speaks for you in its stead
And moves to you to higher plane;
Makes you feel a bit more sane.
I have been rescued just that way
By understanding words that say
The things my heart truly needed
When my own voice never heeded.
I now trust that loving behavior
I know words can be a savior.

I like to parse in cold times too.
It’s such a warming thing to do
And I get to place myself inside;
I grant myself permission to hide
In my room where it’s warm
And poeticize any awful storms
Turning sentence parts to sounds
And let the harmonics surround
My head that thinks in four-four time
Writing every season’s cozy rhymes.
Then, in hopes I help more than myself
I send the poems off to everyone else.
Brent Kincaid Oct 2015
Here sits the poet
The scribe of the times
Rendering the wordless
Into heart-rending rhymes.
Listen to the poet
Who says what most do not.
Pay attention closely
And see what the poet has got.

Sometimes you listen,
Then must listen once more,
Because hidden inside
Might be the words to a score.
Only you don’t yet hear
The music it is playing
Because you are still listening
To the words they are saying.

And, sometimes you must
While reading the second time
Be careful not to penalize
Because the words don’t rhyme.
It is often about the cadence,
The way the words dance along,
That turns the words from prose
To the beginnings of a song.

The poet’s job is to treat you
With a bit more than just language
To give you all the artistry
That the spoken word can manage.
So we use things like spacing
And often joyous syncopation
To achieve your attention
And catch your imagination.

Whether in a limerick
Or in a soothing lullaby
We do our best to slip things
Like satisfaction past your eyes.
We are, after all, artists
Who take what you have heard
And use that to entice you
To fall in love with the spoken word.
Patrick H Sep 2014
Lifts a trumpet to his mouth.
Deep breaths blow notes
at right angles
into space.
The sound is worn denim.
The sound is Lauren Bacall.
The beat is urgent and syncopated
just like his last name.

Rests a trumpet by his side.
Ambrose interprets the persistence of sound;
reflections build up and decay
until the sound is absorbed
by the surfaces of this space.
pulls the trumpet
To his mouth
once again.
Ambrose Akinmusire is a young jazz trumpet player.

— The End —