#syncopation - Hello Poetry

The sacred second... When the wind has caused, a champion's roar To the eave's of love, hap and skew, in the eyes of a pout's demon I see myself, with a reaching privilege, to these the soul soars Martyrs and deliverance, in the field of guest's asking if worths fire Is a fire of rolling imaginations, and the mythic patience's of come? As the lucre of our stillness, waiting on winds our of denial... Lips of choice, if not solace, that has history's shoulder, for won Friends of paces, if not the autonomy of she's With the wit we see, in the damning air, a confessions turn Of suggestion into a lived some, a place for a question of me's... Was a harrowed silence, ours, for shrewder eyes in the earn? The sacred second, coming of age? Run duty, to the simple embrace of the sun We remember the hope, the sincerity of love's wager It's very soul, on a chosen peace, found in the steps of a common one We, never were... A habitual concern of voice and flesh, that taken share of need Has come to heed, the arduous as a way with essences fear To make the statement of a day, meant for greatness in the eyes of never's reach? Alone in the world, without a loving God? Half and notion to loosen the curse, of our problem with paradise Which to fore, and whether to war; is life a question of love's laud? Found in the heart, where a mind never saved the wind, for a friend wiser...?

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Nov 6, 2025

Nov 6, 2025 at 12:03 PM UTC

david-hilburn

Angry Enough To Ask The Wind It's Wish

The sacred second... When the wind has caused, a champion's roar To the eave's of love, hap and skew, in the eyes of a pout's demon I see myself, with a reaching privilege, to these the soul soars Martyrs and deliverance, in the field of guest's asking if worths fire Is a fire of rolling imaginations, and the mythic patience's of come? As the lucre of our stillness, waiting on winds our of denial... Lips of choice, if not solace, that has history's shoulder, for won Friends of paces, if not the autonomy of she's With the wit we see, in the damning air, a confessions turn Of suggestion into a lived some, a place for a question of me's... Was a harrowed silence, ours, for shrewder eyes in the earn? The sacred second, coming of age? Run duty, to the simple embrace of the sun We remember the hope, the sincerity of love's wager It's very soul, on a chosen peace, found in the steps of a common one We, never were... A habitual concern of voice and flesh, that taken share of need Has come to heed, the arduous as a way with essences fear To make the statement of a day, meant for greatness in the eyes of never's reach? Alone in the world, without a loving God? Half and notion to loosen the curse, of our problem with paradise Which to fore, and whether to war; is life a question of love's laud? Found in the heart, where a mind never saved the wind, for a friend wiser...?

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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 Jazz She’s like Hip Hop I may go away but I’ll never leave. © Christopher F. Brown 2018

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Feb 24, 2018

Feb 24, 2018 at 10:18 PM UTC

christopher-f-brown

Syncopation

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 Jazz She’s like Hip Hop I may go away but I’ll never leave. © Christopher F. Brown 2018

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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.

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Nov 19, 2016

Nov 19, 2016 at 2:35 AM UTC

brent-kincaid

WHEN I WRITE

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.

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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.

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Oct 31, 2015

Oct 31, 2015 at 12:02 AM UTC

brent-kincaid

THE POET

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.

40

Ambrose Ah-kin- MOO-sir-ee 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. Ambrose Ah-kin- MOO-sir-ee Rests a trumpet by his side. Reverb: Ambrose interprets the persistence of sound; reflections build up and decay until the sound is absorbed by the surfaces of this space. Inhale. Ambrose, pulls the trumpet To his mouth once again.

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Sep 4, 2014

Sep 4, 2014 at 2:02 PM UTC

patrick-h

Ambrose Akinmusire

Ambrose Ah-kin- MOO-sir-ee 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. Ambrose Ah-kin- MOO-sir-ee Rests a trumpet by his side. Reverb: Ambrose interprets the persistence of sound; reflections build up and decay until the sound is absorbed by the surfaces of this space. Inhale. Ambrose, pulls the trumpet To his mouth once again.

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