"dancehall" poems
Oh Generational gap, a cancer of to all mankind. The father of lack of communication between the young and the old. A difference brought about the tastes and values.
The pain faced between young and aged but can’t be touched. It started by 1960’s the decades of revolutionary change. It cut across the world in values of *** religion and civil rights. The disease the emerged earned its self a name by social scientists. It then became “Generational Gap”
I would love to quote a man of great thoughts, Alexis De Tocqueville, who commented that;
“Among democratic nations, each generation is a new people” I have come to appreciate these words.
When I walk down the streets noticing the rising incompatibility existing in our society
Though I admire the old days when the old and young associated freely, working on the same farms
Grandparents telling stories to their little ones; what a lovely society they had.
With the invention of television and computers some families were bonded in communication
While others live in agony especially the illiterate.
The old desire different designs from the youth, whose trends change per living day of nakedness
Young people prefer working in executive places like offices compared to the donkey farm work considered to be for the old
Another cause of generational gap is decay in morals; the young people feel like they know everything and don’t like to be corrected thus taking information from old people as outdated, young people finding lots of hardships to great their elders
In the field of music elders prefer oldies and more preferably educative songs, and as for the youths they delight in Hip-hop and dancehall, am sure those present here can testify to this a term with no disco dances makes us dull students.
When it comes to religious issues, youth find it a burden to go to church and if they offer to go they prefer it to be in a club way. Praise and worship accompanied by jazz unlike the old days where drums are the centre of music.
Cultures in this way have greatly faded away; the trend of western culture has flamed up the world.
Drugs and *** are a hobby and celebrated amongst the youth, yet *** to the old was for companionship and co-creation.
But when we came to medical technology we all applause in general, young or old there is easy treatment, use of scanners, and medical facilities cuts across.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 7:58 AM UTC
The night starts off with a bang
She enters the room
And the spotlight starts to change.
It hits her as she walks through the door
An aisle splits down the center of the dance floor.
She starts to walk towards the stage
And then the music slowly plays.
The lights go up and the music plays
She dances around this tiny place.
The spotlight fades and she quickly turns
He’s never seen someone with such grace.
He grabs a mic and starts to pace.
His lips open up and he starts to sing
A song about a forgotten place.
Tonight we gather in this dance hall
Everyone is looking for a way to let their feelings out.
It takes two to tango and I think I’m ready
To sweep you off your feet.
We’ll count the steps as one, two, three
And act out a story between swaying bodies.
A small twist here and pirouette there
Is all it takes to make this kids heart start to race.
So let’s start this off with a twist
and end it with a dip
As we start to move you’ll feel the rhythm
Start to move you as it takes control of your hips.
They dance the night away
And he continues to sing.
All this dancing has all
But burned a ring into the floor.
They keep moving circles
Counting out the steps
As one, two, three.
That final move will be one
That will forever remain in history.
He lifts her to the sky
And then she starts to see
In his arms is where
This dancer was meant to be.
Jun 25, 2012
Jun 25, 2012 at 10:15 AM UTC
but it was only the old man
sitting there on the dock
his weathered smile and dancing eyes
when he spoke it was a rough sound
like cadence of seafarers raising sail
in the long rays of summer eve setting sun
off the ancient shores celebrated in song
he spun me a tale of uncharted lands
and beautiful maidens in tropical forests
wild nights in some forgotten port
*** and the dancehall glow in memory
they are the stories shared on the long voyage
they are the smile in this old mans memories
the scent of salt and the rhythm of
the waves breaking on the shore
surround as he weaves his story
with the years flowin like the waves neath the prow
tacking east to a rising sun
it seems like a living breathing dream
as alive as the sea herself
as alive as the sparkling beauty in the memories
of an old man
weaving his tale
by the seaside
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 7:12 PM UTC
the rain has come
finally
first in thunderous
clould burst
big fat pregnant drops landing
labouriously on
the dessicated dirt
leaving craterous footprints
as evidence of a
glorious dance
more fall to the cloud's internal beat
a steady rhythmic fall
into the mudpit dancehall
that once was dry dusty street
the rain has lessened
now wavering
between drizzle and mist stragglers late,
to raindance fall ball.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 7:17 PM UTC
Our bare, brief escape begins at the dance.
Steaming, smoking animals moving chance
that this ***** dancehall can yield loving.
Drug crazed pickers rev up their machined
Six string-ed orchestral Gibson guitars;
Yow! All the hipsters are making the scene
just now arrived in their late models cars.
Adults aping adolescents boldy down
drinks, belch bad beer and sweetly perspire
while you seething, hot and so sensuous
put my hand to your breast showing your fire.
Baby let's dance! Let's have our fun!!
Our brief escape has just begun.
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 2:19 PM UTC
the nature of this night
spreads its thin harvest upon my table
a gruel and water porridge feast
with the fanfares of her jaundiced hand
many more lined up with eager grin
for the warmth of paupers kinship
thin blanket wrapped round our shoulders
snow gathers at feet
she captures the moment on paper
the image of all of us gathered like when we were young
the grandiose illustration
with its brilliant colour fanfare with
jugglers and wine swilling laughing men blinded by drink
chorus line of female dancers who wear costumes of the hundred years war
lead the assault on the last bastions of the ignorance of bliss
all descrying that we can ill afford to be sleeping
while empires are built in our namesake
the so daintily shod soldiers whos feminine wiles misunderstood
have taken over the dancehall beneath us
and have taken up song
the grandiose illustration
caught by her pen on sketch pad
has leanings to the Marxist revolutions
and philosophys of the rhetorical
but in the end we join them and
drink the port sing the song
a thousand years of tales to be told
in the eyes of a single girls sweet thoughts
epic landscapes filled with noble men and storybook girls
the grandiose illustration
shows the two of us on the beach
with the sun racing down to touch the high towers of miami
and fill the laughing joys of thouse who toss and
tumble in the breaking waves
the nature of this night
in one small corner of the illustration
a simple window with the shade drawn
that says goodnight
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 1:03 PM UTC
vexed by the solidity of the granular surface
of this rough and tumble dream
i awaken to a forest of sunlight's in a dark world
to my sleep numbed mind
it resembles
the artwork of french revolt era
royal court damsel in distress figurines
dancing with dark-ages statues of plagues death
the starving meet the fed
and they struggle for who leads this dancehall of the marcarbe
burning the ashes of the old worlds dead flames
i look away to find her face
near mine
cut into shadowy sections
i hear within her spoken thoughts
the contortions her life has suffered
at the hands of grey faced strangers known intimately by her
i wish with heart and soul to reach out
and comfort
to remove the burden
the shadows of her face
are reflections of the world as she sees it
she is mesmerized by its ugliness
and she cannot close the door to her past
it lay like her childhoods bedroom
filled with broken teddy bears
and soiled sheets
if i could heal you
if i could even ease your moment
i would trade my living soul to have your smile
you are loved
you are so loved
a lame beggar in the rags of a monk
limps slowly from the effigy of a old world
as it burns with unspoken rages
white smoke from the roof
another chapter of history closed
with too many secrets
too many
but the beggar takes consolation
that she was given a second chance
a dove birthed from flames
here in the dust of the old world
you are loved
you are so loved
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
the folded man
sat creasing the edges of his wallet sized heart
and stared off into the romantic night
full of lovers embracing
and others who silently wished for a hand to hold
he waited for her soft footsteps
but she just sat in her bedroom mirror brushing her hair
thinking of some boy from long ago
sundown was just that kind of girl
trade your temptations today for the empty promise of yesterday
she will stay here another season
maybe he will pass this way
maybe the storm clouds gathering will go away
the harlots all dance with unacquainted tenderness
not all embraces are done with joy
call it a sundown's choice cause its a bad one
and the gambler brushes dust off his neat appearances
each detail of his solitude lie must be cared for
lest it crumble and expose hes just a green kid
from illinois
we all put the best face we can
some just take it too far
she went to the picture show
and looked for familiar faces in the crowded hall
but the folded man had already slipped away
with one of the harlots
who will make a pretty bride someday
everybody gets a second chance
they just may not want it once they get it
she brushed the ashes from her clothes
they fell like thin snowfall on spring day
a last taste of winters hand
out of the burnt shell of the dancehall at dawn we came
the thick smoke splayed out on the thin wind
wound its way past catching the dust and
making the sunlight a dull brown
she looked at me with tears for eyes
asked me to take her from this place
everybody gets a second chance
they just may not want it once they get it
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 3:44 PM UTC
I am jiggling on that stage.
The egoless strut.
The humorous tap.
The spectacular trip.
Fall over,
over. and
Over
again.
Get up,
find a ballroom
Dancer.
Find a hand holding
Partner.
Play "Spice Up Your Life".
Spice Girls,
listen to the bridge.
tells you to Salsa.
Watch that scene.
Billy Elliot,
With the pianist.
Dancing Billy.
He loves it.
Just do it,
you love it too.
Cheesy pop,
You don't need to
embellish yourself.
No grace notes.
No flat 7th.
You don't need
to sugarcoat,
the truth.
Let loose to riddims.
live on the dancefloor.
Feel the *****
and the reggae.
Feel the triplets.
Rocksteady your way.
Dancehall to sounds.
Bounce and echo.
Side to side.
Left to right.
And we'll slow it
right
down.
The ballad starts.
Your beautiful structure on the left of your head,
the one called the ear.
The that ear controls aural empathy.
Let love be the choreographer to your moves,
Play the concept album, your heart.
Place it onto the record player and watch it spin
Start the track track with an International groove.
End. Replay.
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 12:10 PM UTC
We’re all just dancing.
That’s life, an infinite and cosmic dance.
The sound waves that the world produces wanders from polka
to jazz
all the way over the Appalachian mountains
to finger picking bluegrass.
Yes, life is simply a dance
But dancing is not simple.
What is the goal?
To feel good!
But for who to feel good?
Is it enough that my endorphins rise
To the rhythm of experience?
No.
To dance alone is beautiful,
But not enough.
So the point of the dance:
To feel good!
I
and
you
and
her
and
them
and
all.
But how?
Cause that is important.
Well, first you have to hear the music
Then you have to listen to the music
Then you have to feel the music
Then you can live the music
We’re all in this beautiful dancehall
I believe it’s called, The Universe
And the music is soft
So we have to listen close
And we have to get close
Cause we wanna get each other high
But we have to watch out for each other’s toes
Happiness for the individual is only possible
When everyone is dancing to the same tempo
The song can be different
But the tempo must be the same
Everyone moves in syncopation
Toes are in tact and souls are in communion
And there it is
The cosmic dance
To get my high
I get you high
And to get us high
We get the neighbors high
And it can be a beautiful cycle
Just, when your neighbor steps on your toes
Pretend you don’t notice
Life is a dance
Dancing is fun.
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 8:47 PM UTC
I had thanksgiving with my St. Lucian family, my
loud, unapologetic,
laughs-too-loud, generation-gap
homemade *** heads in phones,
blasting dancehall music
old ladies dancing
clap-back
talk-back
family.
"Play us a song",
my cousin and I sent to my room to play jazz chords, I
finger along clumsily. He's in college and his dark eyes close, fingers
sliding up and down the frets,
frowning in concentration, cursing quietly at a missed note.
My islander family comes over and prompts impromptu drinking games,
"I'm not looking, I saw nothing",
I lick a bit of vanilla ***** from my mother's shot glass,
alcohol becomes a family affair, it
takes away the danger and the stigma and throws a friendly, lovely
light on a vice.
It's raining, it's cold,
islanders do not belong on a Kansas porch smoking cigarettes in the dark rain.
I light candles on the wall.
They all outlast their welcome, between four and a half hours of transition
from uncomfortable "i don't remember your name", put on the spot,
only-child-becomes-one-of-several to
discussing baby names and family gossip, they
all wrap up their food slaved over at nine am, they
all troop out the door, they
take their coats, they
leave their wide smiles with us until next time.
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 2:16 AM UTC
Jonathan Anderson's collections walk a confounding tightrope between naïveté and decadence. Much of his new menswear looked like clothes for a futuristic, spiritual retreat (Anderson himself said he wanted something "laid-back, Zen-like"), but the buckled patent shoes were purest dancehall honky-tonk. The fitted leather jackets were pretty flashy, too, especially when contrasted with multi-pleated pants in plainest calico or denim.
"He took himself seriously," said the voice-over that launched Michel Gaubert's stirring soundtrack (a journey all in itself), but that felt like Anderson poking a little fun at his own expense—or at least anticipating reactions to his quirky rationale. He insisted his collection was actually like an imaginary world that a child might create for himself, akin to the tree houses he and his brother used to build. The preciousness that such a boy would bestow on things that are essentially valueless was reflected in the ordinary objects—keys, tools—that were transmuted into jewelry, the board game that mutated into a constructivist jacquard, and the calico or denim artfully constructed into the pants that made up the foundation of the collection. Some of the models were carrying a small metal frame on which curious little things were suspended, almost like charms to ward off who knows what.
That subtly occult tinge has become something of an Anderson signature, the way he disturbs the refined with the raw, for instance—a thin strand of bamboo or a bandage of calico nipping the waist, or a crude smear of paint across a tulle top so fine it is barely there, or even a white feather stuck to a shoulder. Such touches feel last-minute spontaneous, but also off-kilter, which is exactly where Anderson wants to keep us. But his work is now so consistent that off-kilter is proving a rather pleasant place to be.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 2:01 AM UTC
~
*Time is a dark feeling
—the spell of a vanishing loveliness;
in the present mist
the imperatives in the wind
move less and less.
Haul away the anchor,
this is not a safe place.
Between insufficient coasts
—a land of look behind—
science is dead,
pessimism in the remaining oar,
and flies in the eyes of the Queen.
Their graves decorate the spine
on the east bank
they call Euthanasia,
each crucifix made of plasticine.
There's a discursive quality to the sea,
I can see the pearl fishermen,
the empty dancehall,
victims of latitude and eclipse.
I can see the tattered sleeves
of Edmund Fitzgerald and the pockets
of emptiness inside,
hoping to quell the hunger
of the cruelest month.
I can see an underwater country,
colonized by the unborn children
of pregnant African women
thrown off of slave ships
during the Middle Passage.
I can see myself sinking;
farewell my sorrow,
keeping precarious time
against a backdrop
of silence less and less;
its final sound being
that of seagulls
flying away into the distance
—a force of nature that’s
both solemn and inspirational
in equal parts.*
~
Dec 31, 2023
Dec 31, 2023 at 8:06 AM UTC
Is substance abuse that grim:
the instant I use you lights dim
like they want my muse to trim
her figure in darkness--
Blow the candles out with a kiss:
show a dancehall how to fill a floor with
slow hands-and-all antics
while my mind sinks in you--
Take me deep within nirvana:
make me sleep in a hug sauna
maybe I'd keep in mind on a
frigid Friday night--
So bare with me if I overdose:
Be there lines that blow over my nose,
I care not if they slide me into comatose...
The high that is you,
an ingenue but of substance,
a drug to pursue...
**** me with an overdose.
May 16, 2023
May 16, 2023 at 9:38 AM UTC
Old songs are like
A prayer; no matter the length
Of time.
No matter how long or short.
They dance.
They dance regardless of who's
Around & accept your invitation
Without you knowing.
Just when you forget.
They tap you on the shoulder &
Give you something to smile about.
Old songs are like a dancehall that scream
In silence and fill the empty with hope.
Regardless of how you felt before.
Old songs are like the remedy to the old
Person in your head who finally feels the urge
to dance again
Sep 7, 2021
Sep 7, 2021 at 9:43 PM UTC
Chewing the hard burnt bits of cheese off of frozen pizza
I am soft, I am light, I am not giving a single **** about the extra calories I'm consuming at 3 AM.
Ellios.
But from the hospital my mother works at,
must have been reheated a few times now.
I don't ******* care. It's food.
And here I am. Alone in my bed.
Listening to Russian Circles and hoping
it'll help me write something actually worth sharing for once.
Eh, I'd rather not take myself so.
I like a few guys.
I like a girl very much.
I'm starting a new job.
I'm scared of what's to come.
I'm scared of disappointing everyone.
I'm an ellios pizza stowed away as leftovers, a midnight snack.
Hoping to be worthy of praise.
Sprinkled in trader joes seasoning. I'm just so special.
I'm tasty but I'm so much more than I seem.
Cook me in the oven, if you want me crispy.
I cure hangovers.
Just with my fingertips, I promise.
Sleep with me, and see.
You'll see that I'm honest.
You'll be there in the morning.
I might decide to take a hike.
Don't ask me to stay. You don't ever mean that.
I'm fine admiring myself in my frontal camera,
on a lyft ride back home with dancehall music in the background.
I'm worth so much of my own praise that I forget to text you back.
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 2:45 AM UTC
My grandma was a basket baby.
Living through the revivals.
Held in tents.
Never dreaming of anyone else.
Outside of the farm.
Or the family.
Or the dancehall.
One small novel.
In the backwoods.
Oct 1, 2017
Oct 1, 2017 at 10:49 PM UTC
As gentle as a fawn,
when she dances in his dancehall,
remembering Vietnam.
those bedeviled eastern nights,
when she bequeaths her needs
the vices of loss are a contagion,
in contemplating oblivion,
when there's hire in his heart.
Jun 20, 2022
Jun 20, 2022 at 10:26 AM UTC
i dance to the
sound of your voice
like old heads to 90s dancehall
while swaying with shandy
there's an indescribable love
an underappreciated love story
i meet you outside the brownstone
except its not a brownstone and it's
an apartment in the P's
and you see me holding flowers
except this time around i couldn't get the flowers
but with intentions of getting flowers,
your favorite, and
we hit it off and you become
the love of my life and we do it all over again
until i wake up
Mar 24, 2020
Mar 24, 2020 at 5:58 PM UTC
I can see him crystal-clear in my dreams,
In the expansive dreamland, I reside in
Standing tall, smooth-talking, a dancehall
Of chocolate blasting bliss, a dreadhead rose
That stokes the prolific poetry in my soul
Makes me glow on the façade
With his blazing taste, his exemplary equations
Allow him to take me into selenic space
Where his lambent alliteration awakens my kingdom
Feel his earnest words as they traverse
Across my ripe, excited breast, his eyes so smoke
When he stares at me, salacious spit dripping
From his lips onto my ******* his fingers
Fondling with them, tantalizing
Each priceless, precious pearl
Sparking my nerves as I yearned for him more
To please every desire that burned in my core
Aug 17, 2021
Aug 17, 2021 at 7:48 PM UTC
The first dance
My outing into the big world was to go every
Saturday to the local cake shop eat cakes and drink coffee
But now I had to go to a dancehall
I noticed there were several women no one asked to dance
I asked one of them she said no, I asked the second one
She said not too, totally destroyed I looked for the exit.
Surprisingly there was a woman by the exit who said yes
Without being asked.
My dignity restored I danced with her several times
There was an alehouse near she wanted to go there
And I was only too happy that a woman spoke to me.
She drank several beers and when I asked to go back
She told me to **** off.
I walked home alone
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 5:08 AM UTC
All I think about is him
Covered in metaphorical euphoria
Filling me with exhilaration
In his tantalizing dancehall
Of super colossal wonders
Take him into my slender arms
Care for him, spread sheer sweetness within him
May 25, 2021
May 25, 2021 at 5:09 PM UTC
When I am with you, I feel like I am out of my mind
Spinning around in your time
Holding you
Arms in arms
A star in your charm
Drift deeper into your exquisite chocolate world
Serve your sweetness
Press my lips against yours
Feel a burst of pleasure emerge
That’s so glorious to fall into
Your seductive stroke is dope
It has been voted best all around
I love how we coast through the oceans of enchantment
On your sleek, luxurious ship
Look into your bewitching black eyes
See you crystal-clear in the innermost parts of my mind
My emotions for you are in overdrive
I wanna explore your fineness
Feel your vibrant wavy hair
Your delicate ears and youthful cheeks
I become so excited to be in your empire
You are my phenomenal prize
I am your lucky charm
You put me in a great place
You make me feel alive
You give me my wings
So that I can soar with the stars
In the bright night skies of your heartland
You vindicate my creation
You taste so compellingly delicious as Bud Light
You tip me with your delightful kisses
You touch my mind
You take me further than red hot Mars
I am in your dancehall of hotness
I am a part of your world
Your undying lover
So immersed in you
Every move you make
You are my hotshot
My jackpot with the sauce
You cop my heart
Your score shots after shots with winning my love
You intrigue me
Take me to town
And treat me to the most excellent delights
Of your city street exquisiteness
Make me blow up
Like a discovered, talented star
Jan 21, 2022
Jan 21, 2022 at 8:53 PM UTC
This joy I feel deep within my heart
exists because of you, the days when
we are together in the park, watching
the beautiful scenery shine in our eyes.
The green trees transforming into lurid
languages of romance, the exhilarating
streets full of fascinating depictions.
shimmering vehicles passing by us,
their sleek bodies a gleaming masterpiece,
a stroke of beauty curling in the air
towards heavenly perfection, steam
seeping in the breeze around prolific leaves.
Jubilant passengers jamming to jazzy
basslines, feeling the funk, heads bopping,
beats rocking, hands lost in the enchantment
as we giggled and smiled at each other.
We were two lovebirds gliding on passion,
our flesh bursting with kinetic energy,
our sparkling eyes searching the brilliant
streams within each other’s kingdom,
our lips finding pleasure in the moments
as we kissed for the first time. Our fingers
intertwined, angelic angles defined, lyrical
lines aligned within our palms, sugar
sweetness running in our blood.
The chronicles of his continent
whirling through my heart, his dancehall
wonder sparking my soft muscles,
his bright city curbs seducing my world,
his rattling engine driving me in the open air,
breathing sensuous poetry in my mouth,
his skylight beauty brightening beyond
distant galaxies, beyond Mount Olympus.
I could taste the starry moons inside his
stunning lips, the heavenly stars glowing
on his tongue, how everything amazed me,
how his glorious perfection was the plural
root of my vocabulary, his vivid songs
filled with exuberance and escape,
entering the pores of my skin, sinking
within, showering me with immeasurable
gifts, leaving glam and glitter in my grand
cityscape.
Sep 6, 2019
Sep 6, 2019 at 1:38 PM UTC