"bongos" poems
Bobo's kitchen
in the kitchen
icebergs rampage from the freezer
burying pizzas and waffles
in a glacier jungle
Bobo swings forks and knives
at the ice until the maintenance man
cusses in Polish
gallons of water
dripping downstairs
sizzling Bertalina's soul
the fiery bilingual single mom
living in fear
below his fear
of noise complaints
she sends tape recordings
to the landlord in her
cute red faced anger
loud people! and bongos!
guitars! stomping! laughter!
nightmares for her boys
who think they hear ghosts
her tight black spandex
drives Bobo mad when she runs
drifted scents of her food
sift in through his windows
knocking him out
in hungry frustration!
¿Como estás? he asks her
I speak ******* English! she barks back
back up the stairs Bobo goes
to his own kitchen where
the mice crawl out the stove tops
and potatoes grow tree roots
clear through the window
toward another life
Jake Mahaffey
Copyright (c) 2013 Jacob Mahaffey
Jan 23, 2012
Jan 23, 2012 at 12:28 AM UTC
blue bikes and bongos on a teal trap
ponderers pass through so quick
technically tech tonic plates react
as secrets shall swallow all wit
beautiful burdens trickle
between holes in my prance
blushing at my cinnamon pancakes
© 2015 Kate Volk
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 12:28 AM UTC
Bohemian goddesses stalking the coffeehouse
All wiry hair and flowing skirts
Points of view and opinions and self worth
How her soul craved to join them
Don headbands and sandals and learn to be like them
To play the bongos and be part of natures and kove what’s real
She wanted to feel her soul in the mass joining of the human spirit
She envisioned it, and it was beautiful.
May 19, 2010
May 19, 2010 at 7:11 PM UTC
Drifting....
waning, wandering away from myself....
electric pine and turquoise eyes unfold,
greeting me,
a jade leopard winks with those eyes,
an inside joke
in the new moon darkness lighting the room.....
I watch myself levitate into conscious caverns
in my gray matter canyon
wind tinkles and chimes
( ( ( ( v i b r a t i n g ) ) ) )
the moist, fleshy rocks...
memories of sativa green Canada echo--
a family of strangers
humming, buzzzing & drumming rhythms
tattooing heartbeat sigils onto each other
amidst a sonic amethyst campfire
moonbeam embers glow
indigo guitar strings sing hymns
swaying and swimming in cuddle puddles--
a new age baptism.
My wings shimmer,
visions simmer and chill
the darkness returns
left with myself again
I flight right into another lightbub storm
as trebble trouble words rain bows of colors
atop white lilies reaching for stained-glass clouds.
Distantly, native flutes flourish
like rippling water rises slowly
into incandescent tides...
sweet, filagreed foam tickling-
washing
bubbles popping over pores.
and I rejoice!
a homecoming for an ocean's drop rejoined--
rejuvenated!
berserk bongos bump 'n thump
a raucous rumpus of blissful voices
vicariously lift my visage into everyone
at once!
astral silhouette forms cajole and conjoin and
we laugh ourselves into ******
And for a fleeting moment...
I reminded of the celestial infinity
that surrounds us,
where time isn't measured in promises
and trees aren't groomed to be currency.
Here, I remember the why of my existence,
only to momentarily forget,
upon opening my eyes,
until delicate deja vu echoes intermittently remind me
once in a while.
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 3:14 PM UTC
bonkers for found bongos.
for alohas and soyu chicken and coconut milk too.
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 8:09 PM UTC
brady’s cafe
i’m doing a reading at kent state
got an interminably long wait to get on
protesters outside provoke the cops
about an after nine noise pollution law
they bang bongos and march through
the cafe
disrupting the readings
chanting
“noise is illegal noise is llegal.”
i am getting nerve racked and edgy
so i drink port from disguised juice bottle
we smoke a joint
the time drags and i get
somewhat drunk-my face a fiery blush
but no longer feel the thump of my heart
somewhere up in my neck
it’s round midnight
we smoke another
and suddenly i’m on
i totter up grabbing chairs for leverage
the crowd receptive to my words
never knew my mental anguish
or saw the slight in my left knee.
ana christy from beatnik blues
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 5:07 PM UTC
"I don't care ...
I don't care ..."
Well I would to be honest ...
I'd miss them those long-hairs
with their bongos, flowers &
hula hoops, long skirts, velvet
jackets, bells & sweet scented ****
& smiles & trying just to be happy
& leaving you all behind with your
exploitation & misery & wars & death
& sullen brown slow decay,
I would care,
"if all the hippies
cut of
all their hair"
I would.
Hendrix lives ... by sweet Jesus yes he does!
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 3:11 PM UTC
You're no good for scheduling but ideal for dancing.
While night tricks us into invincibility, whiskey tells us not to wait.
So educate me on the nonsense of foreplay to a friend's poetry,
And we'll lose our jobs over bongos and stale beer,
Trading tips for one second tears.
You stay on your side and I'll stay on mine,
I'll take a receipt for time lost between sheets,
While bruises take the place of scars.
Just as my dimples look more mature in the morning,
You sound better when your hands talk.
So I'll degrade a dollar for last night's sake
and the irony of grandpa in the morning.
Then we'll kiss what should be left on the floor,
And I'll keep you somewhere safe where I'm bound to lose you anyway.
I hope you find your keys :)
Mar 26, 2012
Mar 26, 2012 at 1:26 PM UTC
In this moment,
we are all together.
In this moment,
we are healing.
In this moment,
we release our selves
Flesh bodies sizzle
cadmium red rhythms--
thunder gourdes rumble
as everyone shouts cobalt lightning!
A few stand quietly, hands
prancing in the air feeding the one
in the center of the circle a steady diet of colors.
Drums bubble & thump beat primal heart screams--
yipps & mews & prrrrr's
fill the Shipibo patterned room.
Joyous dancing scorches the floor,
tension falls away like the clothes
of lovers laying atop each other under the bed.
Here I sit,
at home amidst the somatic chaos sounds
chanting magic storm-wolf tones,
pounding away on bongos
patter-pitter jitterbug swing jungle vine jazz
as my body rocks forth and back
mountain lion paw hands tap crystals
red eagle wings flap smiles
navy ****** tail slaps bass
brown snake-eyes snap out of reality!
In this moment,
we are all together.
In this moment,
we are healing.
In this moment,
we release our selves
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 11:26 PM UTC
He was known as the roof top poet
He was good, but he wouldn’t show it.
He wrote about everything on the streets
While listening to the Latin beat.
His upbringing inspired him
To write about crime and sin.
He wrote about street drugs everywhere
And ***** needles that they would share.
He played the conga and bongos too
This is what he had learned to do.
There was not a topic that he would not touch
For he loved life much to much.
He wrote about robberies, muggings
And ****** prostitution, gambling
Corruption and all the rest
His talent for street writing made him the best.
But there was a soft side to him
That people did not know
And where ever children needed him
He would go.
He was a volunteer in the children s hospital
And the orphanages too, which was
Something that nobody knew.
He would give them love, affection, and laughter
Wealth or fame he wasn’t after.
He gave them the key elements for the
Children to survive, HOPE, LOVE, FAITH
With hope in their hearts and faith in GOD
There was nothing that they could not do.
If to themselves they would be true.
Now if we could be such as HE
The world would be better for the children you see.
HOPE IS THE KEY TO SET YOURSELF FREE
louis rams :
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 11:41 PM UTC
The Beatnik Café’
Cigarettes, coffee, a ****** beret
Blue smoke and Blue Mountain, blue verse, blue rhyme --
O Come to the side-street beatnik café;
Here present-tense yourself; caffeine the time
Here order your Bacon very well Donne
And jam your java with croissants and Keats
Orate from Spenser; groove with Tennyson
Tap out a line of Seafarer-four beats
Tap out a manifesto; everyone does
Pulp-print Red rags yelp “Revolution Now!”
The typewriter is holy, and Up the Fuzz!
Bongo that Kerouac, and Howl, but how?
Bongo that beat, oh, yeah, it’s crazzzzy, man
Sheaffer that rhythm, cat; Parker that line
Ferlinghetti your truth to a yellow pad
Sharpen your verbs to a rebel design
Sharpen your verbs from a bottle of ink
Light up a Camel; blow intellectual smoke
Teach the ****** bourgeois how they should think
Grey-suited capitalists – what a joke!
L’Envoi – Time Slouches On
Tee-shirted capitalists joke in Mandarin
The latest chained coffee’s inside the mall
English and Apples are original sin
On glowing screens where the pale pixels crawl
And no one crawls through rhythm, rhyme, or verse,
Or bongos out an existential cry
For poetry is dead; the twitters terse
Reduce the ancient loves to I, me, my.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 6:50 PM UTC
He was known as the roof top poet
He was good , but he wouldn’t show it.
He wrote about everything on the streets
While listening to the Latin beat.
His upbringing inspired him
To write about crime and sin.
He wrote about street drugs everywhere
And ***** needles that they would share.
He played the conga and bongos too
This is what he had learned to do.
There was not a topic that he would not touch
For he loved life much to much.
He wrote about robberies, muggings
And ****** , prostitution, gambling
Corruption and all the rest
His talent for street writing made him the best.
But there was a soft side to him
That people did not know
And where ever children needed him
He would go.
He was a volunteer in the children s hospital
And the orphanages too, which was
Something that nobody knew.
He would give them love, affection, and laughter
Wealth or fame he wasn’t after.
He gave them the key elements for the
Children to survive, HOPE, LOVE, FAITH
With hope in their hearts and faith in GOD
There was nothing that they could not do.
If to themselves they would be true.
Now if we could be such as HE
The world would be better for the children you see.
HOPE IS THE KEY TO SET YOURSELF FREE
Aug 7, 2010
Aug 7, 2010 at 2:18 PM UTC
The time may come to say goodbye
Who knows when
Who knows why
But for now let's have some fun
Can I play bongos on your ***
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 4:09 PM UTC
I hear the song
of this street
a happier song
than the blues of Denver
destitution with gaiety
more hope and love,
worn souls and bodies
hoping for the
loose change that
usually ends up lost
between couch cushions
in exchange
for a simple show
instead of begging
for sympathy
carefully arranged
planter boxes
to match the seasons
and jubilance of
passers by juxtaposed
with the whitening beard
of a ***** old man
hustling for a buck
for **** or food or *****
you will never know
except for the few
honest cardboard signs
the two a.m. ***
happy and ******
eagerly striking a
conversation with
lone students
out for a simple walk
looking only for
someone to talk to
because no one
is a desert island,
we need imports
and exports of
thoughts, ideas,
and emotions
to keep the small
piece of land bearable
the man in a mask
with no skin showing
playing congas
on a hot Colorado day
hoping for a
pocket full of change,
face hidden; like
his beaten past
he is humble—
anonymously playing
for a dollar
or few without
shock or pizzazz
adults buying a drink
while a block down
children buy an
ice cream cone
both a vice
modern jazz, which flows
over the red bricked street
guitars, bongos, violins,
Home Depot bucket drums
melding together into
one, spontaneous song
improvised by the ebb
and flow of tourists
and natives with
changing verses of
a woman’s opinion
strongly voiced to a survey
while her husband
keeps the beat with his foot
—never allowed to sing
the chorus of children
shrieking and crying
in the dissonance of youth
reflected in early couples
sing infatuations
short and fleet, struggling
to keep a foot hold, but
fading like pop songs…
the experienced couples
creating movements of
pain, joy, and maturity,
dynamic blues riffs
full of emotion only
those who have felt
could understand
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 10:15 AM UTC
Can we jam, brothers and sisters?
Dare we meet at the impalpable chat room
that exists beyond our third heaven?
Dare we to speak in tongues and timbres,
our skin taut across hollow shells,
our veins strung across cadaverous bodies?
I'll grab my drumsticks if you grab the guitars,
and there's somebody on the bongos
slappin' the skins with zealous fervor--
where my tambourine girls at?
Don't worry, I haven't forgotten our forlorn hero
sitting behind the keyboards--
Tickle me those ivories with pious hands and aching fingers,
shake em down sweet Jerry Lee!
And so we begin--
I lay down the drum beat that bops heads and scatters feet,
and the bassman always on top of things
slaps and slides and skips and sizzles
hot diggity dog!
I hear that sweet guitar scream and moan,
praying for death under hazy lights
and we all coast with eyes rolled back into our skulls
and torpid lips drooped open over slack jaws.
Not a word is said from a human voice,
we speak through hands and feet,
basking in colors eking from every kick drum stomp
and the desperate wail bleeding from amplifiers.
Feedback sings and screams, fighting the silence we taunt
and hold at bay.
Around every corner the colors trail
coursing through our vesselious bodies
propelled along the dizzying venture.
We somehow spot every pothole and take detours,
embarking down backroads and backalleys--
We can turn the wheel,
but don't think for a moment we know where it's going.
And the mirror's have all vanished,
we know not from where we came.
Someone shouts from the discovery
as we exit a phrase to enter serendipity,
toying with destiny, clay in our hands,
stretching out the ****** perennially--
We laugh as the gods try to remind us we are Man.
And the screams and the moans
sensing the ****** is getting close
so there's a crescendo I ramp up the tempo
ahhhhhhhHHHhhhHhHhHhHHHHHhhhETERNITY IS NOW AND WE HOLD THE KEY TO HEAVENS GATES AND TIME STANDS STILL AT HIGH NOON IN THE TOWN'S SQUARE WHERE TRIGGER FINGERS TREMOR AND WE SPEAK TO GOD ON HIS PRIVATE CHANNEL COMING THROUGH WORN SPEAKERS CELESTIAL CREATURES IT WOULD BE SACRILEGE IF WE WEREN'T SUDDENLY SO HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY
So I say again, brothers and sisters,
can we jam?
SO I SAY AGAIN, BROTHERS AND SISTERS,
CAN WE JAM?
SO I SAY AGAIN, BROTHERS AND SISTERS,
CAN WE JAM?
So I say again,
brothers and sisters,
can we jam?
Jul 10, 2016
Jul 10, 2016 at 12:39 AM UTC
Starry nights and grey clouds
Warm blankets on the ground
I lie here,
The wind dusting over my soft face,
Hearing the Earth's heartbeat,
As I close my eyes,
And drift to Mother Nature's paradise.
But still this emptiness
Twists inside my stomach.
It reaches down all the way to my toes.
This beauty, wonderful beauty,
Is too gracious to share all alone.
I slightly grin
And lightly touch the grass on the tips of my fingers,
How I wish to share this beauty.
We could hear her heart rate pace like bongos,
*** pumpum, *** pumpum, *** pumpum*,
A gentle and muted sound.
How the wind sings and dances around us,
who even gets the leaves to dance.
The flowers hold hands and wait
for the moon to rise, before they drift to sleep.
Starry nights and grey clouds
Warm blankets on the ground.
I lie here,
How I wish to share this beauty.
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 11:59 AM UTC
Coming in like a storm, not all that bright
In movies, the lead and the light
Slow of his drawl, not wanting to fight
Flying high, as a kite
Noisy and strong, as bongos on lawn
Toking good **** so totally gone
Naked and freed, holding a ****
Singing his own little song
Escorted to jail, a lawyer-less plight
Selling Lincolns, an acting blight
Batten down your hatches, making them tight
Always saying "Alright, alright, alright"
As hurricanes go, we all wish you to know
Matthew the villain, tonight
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 2:05 PM UTC
life is an autistic boy's
shining blue eyes
of childlike innocence
incoherently slapping
the bongos
like God saying,
"and?"
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 10:11 PM UTC
Tell mother I found my way
and this time I'll stay
Tell insegnante I've got something to say
and it all still sounds the same
but I'm saying it my way
Tell my favorite songs
I think they're too long
because they contain
more than what I've seen
Yell at the devil for being too loud,
leaving me deaf, though I hear
well enough, and tell him I've heard,
well, enough of his cliche,
heavy metal crowd
Yell at the band wagon
Tell it to stop for an oil change,
and make sure it never rides again
Its passengers have something to say,
though they don't want to stay
but they don't want to go away,
though their noses are too long,
and there's no fire in their song
Tell them to say it their way
though they want to runaway
from their minds and from their hearts
while never growing apart
They can't have the best of both worlds
My mind curls
to the beat of its own bongos
and shades of pink and red and black
I find I don't lack
firm ground,
but am more abundant in frowns
sometimes more abundant in smiles.
Depends on the weather.
After the people leave, that's when
I know where I've come,
how far I've come back to them
So tell my best friend I'm still intact
Tell the crowd I'm not out-of-whack
Tell my favorite songs I've turned them into facts
Tell all poets their words aren't to blame
Tell mother that I'm okay
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 6:06 PM UTC
When we first met, we barley saw each other
We were in a space where it was so easy to look over the other
Where boxes blocked our view of the other's perfection
& the world around us caused static in channel only we belonged on.
As time went on, you began to annoy me.
Annoy me to points beyond belief but from you, it was allowed.
You made sure I smiled at your antics and I made sure to keep them in my heart.
You saw my face painted to be another person but you saw me for my true form and began to play for me.
If over 90% of human interaction is non-verbal, you're eyes are louder than anyone's I've ever heard.
Your eyelashes hit your water line harder than my pencil brush
Your lip hits the guillotine of your perfect top row every single time our bodies are within ten feet... you're good to me.
I can hear the sounds of an acoustic guitar coming form your chest
I see the reflection of violin strings in your lenses
The wind chimes grow from your scalp and sound perfect no matter how many time you cut them off and I can't get enough.
I want to hand you the key to my soul so you can know the truth
So you can find out that my ventricles play the piano while my veins strum cello strings.
My mind calls for the bongos while my feet bleed for salsa.
I want to dance.
I want to dance to the songs that you'll play for me.
The ones that only you and I will ever hear in the confines of our own studio where the walls are far from soundproof but it will never matter.
|play for me|
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 12:08 AM UTC
I've always ment to tell you
that you weren't my first love
you weren't the thing that took my breathe away
I remember my first love
it was the first time I smelt a Bonfire
and saw my friends playing there bongos and singing silly songs.
I remember them ashes dancing in the sky as I took my shirt off and felt the wine
run down my belly.
I remember hearing the fire crackle with the sound of our laughter
I remember seeing Jed throwing big *** wood logs into the fire God he was strong (dead now from a car surfing drinking and driving accident)
I remember falling in the love that moment
It was such a simple night but that night was the last time all of my friends were together
before life suffocated everyone
before school schedules and baby showers took over
before everyone turned to ******* Life Chasers instead of Dream Makers.
Now I'm sitting here and wondering
do we all just forget how to live one day
do we all just give in to the way society wants us to be
do we all just forget how to live.
I miss that night and I dream about it every night
and if I could relive that day
I'd replay it over and over and over
because we were all free that night
we were just kids singing,dancing,and laughing.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 1:05 AM UTC
A 'cuse me?
I lie, eh? I know the way, but let me be the one
to wonder why
would I lie,
do you
read or listen or look or stop when al you can do has been done
al read y
and stand
waiting
waithing
to catch a breath
Up ag'in the wall?
If Dunning Kruger is all they got to throw,
you know what
you know, wrong ain't evil,
lying ly real calling right wrong is something only
a left hand wishing to make some noise
could imagine
right
clap clap clap, and **** Feynman
on the bongos
backing us up with a little James Dean ditty from
the Naked City
Times change, reality may be
de or re ift
in a rich man with a satisfied mind.
(if you'd only known.) Take another question?
chew and swallow and wait,
this will get your guts grinding reasons
the frontal cortex always gets
chirality inhibitions about letting the right hand
do anything the left can't imagine.
You know how it is. we get by.
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 9:09 PM UTC
The sound of your voice
Approaches my vicinity vivaciously
And your common conundrum
Bangs into my cranium as bongos do
My ears and my mind may be neighbors
But they purposely put up white picket fences
My ears- although adept
Sometimes make a mess
My mind keeps a clean yard
And always takes out the trash
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 12:48 AM UTC