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VD Lee Jul 2017
Baby why you hit me up
At three am?
Greet me with a lazy sup
And break my heart

Oh
Darling did you think this through
Darling didn't you know I'd miss you

And for all this time
I thought we'd still be in love
All this time
I thought we'd never be done

But life carries on

And now I can do things
I couldn't do before
I can pick my nose
And slam the door
You may not be here
But I still can breathe
You may not be near
But I am still me

So I'm dancin' on my own!
(Foxtrot, jive, samba)
And I know more than I've ever known
(Charleston, swing, salsa)
See me dancin' on my own
(Foxtrot, jive, samba)
My heartbreak has made me grown
(Charleston, swing, salsa)

And baby!
I'm puttin' you in a corner
And baby!
I ain't gonna be a mourner
When sunrise come knockin' on my door
Baby, you won't be on my mind anymore

Got my mind on an electric buzz
Got me drunk on a dizzyin' high
I'm spinning dusk to dawn
And I'll forget we'd ever said hi

So I'm dancin' on my own!
(Foxtrot, jive, samba)
And I know more than I've ever known
(Charleston, swing, salsa)
See me dancin' on my own
(Foxtrot, jive, samba)
My heartbreak has made me grown
(Charleston, swing, salsa)

And baby!
I'm puttin' you in a corner
And baby!
I ain't gonna be a mourner
When sunrise come knockin' on my door
Baby, you won't be on my mind anymore

Oh, anymore

Baby you took my heart
Ripped it apart
And I'm just pickin' up the parts
Part of me wishin' that we'll be together
Another part knowing that we shall never speak again

But now you can do things
That you want to do
Hit up that girl
You'd always talk to
Hope she eat you well
Like I use to
Hope she is just as good
As I was to you

Still, I'm dancin' on my own!
(Foxtrot, jive, samba)
And I know more than I've ever known
(Charleston, swing, salsa)
See me dancin' on my own
(Foxtrot, jive, samba)
My heartbreak has made me grown
(Charleston, swing, salsa)

And baby!
I'm puttin' you in a corner
And baby!
I ain't gonna be a mourner
When sunrise come knockin' on my door
Baby, you won't be on my mind anymore
K Balachandran Mar 2014
Intense eyes, a majestic eagle,
                 circling high, is the air she carries,
a samba dancer luscious, who strikes
                    blow after blow with her belly button,
central stage always is hers
                   a bird of pray elegant on the look out,
the heightened awareness from
                   a sense of clear danger present,
is the reward she assures,
                 to him every minute for being her escort.



Rub her right, rub her wrong,
                      find what it would bring was his itch
the eagle woman conceals nothing,
                     keeps her eyes keen, wide open,
her mind a radar, focused on
                    what is to happen the moment next,
from mid air like a missile she swoops down,
                    stand still for a moment and then strikes,
she is on her prey, but he has
                      slipped away, at the precise moment.




Both are in awe of each other, but smiles,
       on the dance floor they are glued to each other,
he now plans a daring plot,
                 named "The sword of Damocles"
she is of two minds, love this game,
                    finds him fitting the bill,
yet the bird of prey awaits time for the next raid
                        "He is made of dainty stuff".
A protracted, slightly dangerous, courting game
a siren, and more a femme fatale and her wily suitor
play a game of one-upmanship.....whoever wins, it will complicate the problem
Colleen Brown Oct 2014
When two people, so different in taste, look at each other from across the dance floor, a secret sparks out of their eyes like electric rays of romantic notation. Words have yet to be exchanged, but the slow steps towards one another make time slow to an unearthly crawl. Those dancing are nothing more than hues of grey, for the two ash-stricken lovers cannot see more than those they are attracted to. Hearts pound to a rhythm that can no longer be found within the upbeats of the swaying samba. As she longs to be in his arms, he stops only inches in front, his breath caught in his throat. The increasing amount of love being released from just his simplistic gaze makes her want to run as far as she can. With him of course, though it is not a realistic approach to the turmoil surrounding their troublesome secret. A secret that increases as he gently slides his fingers against her cheek, resting the palm of his hand on the back of her neck. Feeling the contrasting temperatures of the cool evening and her racing heartbeat, her head begins to get foggy with the vision of love that is shortly about to engulf her every fiber. The kiss, so gentle and sweet, brings back the times of innocence that was not thwarted by the interruption of time and changed lives. If only they could run away…
I feel like discussing the movie that inspired this would desensitize the raw emotions behind it. Nevertheless, it is The Great Gatsby. The movie that has my feelings wrapped around every line, regardless of how many times I've seen it.
Geno Cattouse Mar 2014
Driving down the main this eveningI heard happy music playiing but

radio had the news. It was the girl going south with a cell phone to her mouth. Samba, merengue.played
loudly .

No one was singing.I swear.flowery,earthy beat to pat my feet.
From where ? Just out of thin air.. no im pleased to report the girl going south had a roll and sway in the way she walked, I swear I heard music as she walked I swear I heard a samba mambo.how beautifull.and sweet.
The hot stepper took the music with her but my day was complete.
Flower Scent Nov 2010
I wanna dance the mambo,the cubin cuba mambo,

I wanna dance the cha cha,hips movement with the cha cha!

or maybe try the salsa, deep ,sensual, is the salsa.

I wanna dance the samba,the fun brazilian samba,

or maybe the lambada,brazilian hot lambada!

My favourite s' the tango,intense ****** tango,

Lost in  the  flamenco,ardent spanish flamenco.

May even try the polka,high energy in polka,

the Czech bohemian polka!

I wanna go and party,good time ,dancing the rumba,

latino americano,cubano, africano.

I wanna do the hip hop,hip hop,hip hop,don't stop.

Dance reign  in the ballroom,

as I dance the Ball Room,under and above,

With you ,I dance my last dance,the classic dance of love.



Are you ready partner ?
This is one of the first poems i ever wrote..thought i share it with you,by reposting it here,thankyou :)  Lyrical poem
I'm too reserved for samba but I can see it's fun,
some of your band look happy though some look rather glum.
There's some of us can do that stuff
and some of us who can't;
however much we'd wish it, rhythmical we aren't.
If you make me stand up and exhort me to dance,
you won't like what you'll see chum
so don't give me the chance.
Arcassin B Oct 2014
By Arcassin Burnham



Dancing,
Singing,
Listening,
Enjoying,
An island,
The people,
Brazilian,
Their laughing,
Their making,
Love,
Love,
Love,
Touching,
Kissing,
Feeling,
In the streets,
There's a party,
Full of hottie's,
Everybody,
Speaks Brazilian,
Getting down,
Getting naughty,
This is *** night.

Dancing,
Singing,
Listening,
Enjoying,
An island,
The people,
Brazilian,
Their laughing,
Their making,
Love,
Love,
Love,
Touching,
Kissing,
Feeling,
In the streets,
There's a party,
Full of hottie's,
Everybody,
Speaks Brazilian,
Getting down,
Getting naughty,
Don't tell nobody,
Keep it a secret,
Fulls of smiles,
Taking shots,
Popping,
Ecstasy.
:)
MJL Feb 2019
Milling masses
Elbows grinding
Sidewalk shuffling
Wake walking
Crack jumping
Necks craning
Shark, bait, and coral reefing
Hunting, hiding, gauking
Go, go, go
Foamy human froth
Eddies to and back again
Twill, tweed, leather, denim, skin
Petrol, perfume, sweat, tar, bread
Everything honking
Glass, brick, stone, and steel
Awesome color
Vertical sway Samba style
Boom-boom tide
Rush hour
Rolling in
Magnificent


© 2019 MJL
Arianna Darshani Sep 2015
My last trip out of the country
Was Carnival in Rio

The Samba parade in Rio,
It is truly the 8th
Wonder of the World

The most physically amazing
Yet, intensely ******,
Thing I've ever seen.

So many beautiful women
Such a celebration of their form

Some in feathers
as large as my living room
Others, only in a thong.

All because of Lent?

Not a Brazilian,  
My memories
still make my blood hot
enough to melt the snow

And I realize
I need to see the
Amazon again

I'm reminded, also
That I am,
my mother's daughter

The Samba was so hot
It melts your clothes off.

Save your pennies
And go.
Diverseman2020 Jun 2010
She was independence
An importance
Born
Mostly from the highland
Her climate exceeds on the equator
Beauty beyond the Amazon Basin
Which no one can resist
A woman whom I loved
In the tropical rain forrest
Arousing so abundantly
Her sources superlative
But largely unexploited
An ethnic mixture
The vitality of her arts
Owes so much
The Samba we showcase
Thriving with crafty influence
Her language craving
To charm my heart
As time expired
A woman with cultural succession
Leaving her
But feeling breathless
My lady Brasilia
As I depart
From the lovely beaches
Of Rio de Janeiro
Her remembrance
Carving our Samba love
Alys Jun 2010
'Neath canopy of paradise
Super troupers' shafts of light
Illuminate his terpsichore;
***** he struts, the impresario
Gyrating on spindle shanks;
Needle thin and knock-kneed
He dances a samba
On stage of verdure;
Midst Elvis blue-black thrusts,
Steel rimmed amber orbs
Seek admiring and desirous glances
From the dour drab hen,
Mousy in her beige twin set
And mottled tweed skirt;
With nonchalant disinterest she exits
The arena; audition over.
The stage was  set the little untalented ***** monkeys gathred
like bizzar attention seeking ******  all for the title
of  Hello Poetry's top poet.

But enough with the weird named carbon copy poets
who now **** the charts im just saying im a little bitter.
Lets take a look at the judges you silly little donkeys.

It was a who's who of people who actully were something
that what in the real world we like to call original.
Jack  yes the loveable kinda ******* ****** who deep
down would probaly have more in common with Jack the Ripper
than Lord Byron  im just saying.

Baths  yes the queen of Hello  and i'd  be a smart *** now but im scared she'd hurt me  and not in a good way  not that im into
pain dam you Marv  Albert    i never knew the tijuanna brass were so freaky.

Chris Smith  the poet  the model  the all  around  hansome devil
with a heart of gold  you go girl.

Phil Roberts  the silent  yet  down right evil  arch enemy of
all things  sweet and pure finally off probation and his meds.
Still the restraining  order was in full effect thank God  Barney
that devil worshiping dinosuar was no where in site  and as long as the voices in Phils head were happy we were all safe.

And the man the myth the pervert drunken *******  of Hello.
Just back from his recent vist   to  Shady Pines  resort slash mental
institution.
Gonzo  along with his court ordred doctor .
Dr Jerry  Who held many degree's in bartending,Massage therapy with happy endings,And chemistry yes  he was a real busy ******* slash drug fiend okay dealer.
What a girl has her needs.

Sitting at the judges table it was the usal chatter how are you.
Nice ***'s  hey Phil  put down the knife.
Jack  wear did you get that muzzle and straight jacket?
Baths  reminding me she didnt wanna have to use the pepper spray
like at the Hello christmas party.

Gonzo pouring his wild turkey.
Dr Jerry yelling  hey just what do you think your doing?
What are ya drinking by yourself?
Good point  you silly *******  so after four strong drinks
some lines of uhh  sinus powder from Columbia they dont just
make records  to my suprize we were off like lindsy lohan
on a drug I mean  well a drug run.

The first couple of guys read there genitic poems all of which
were like taco bell food.It  pretty much  would either give you food poisening or the ****'s.

Person after person read there poetry the drinks poured
people gave there opinions  Chris well the poem was great just maybe pace it better.

Baths giving another deep comment that was always welcome
that and the contestants outta sheer fear knew not to cross her
cause **** happens after dark around here and the Hello dumpster
is filled with not just bottles of wild turkey yeah remember Drew?
Exactly.

Jack gave a long muffled  comment  that must have surely been brillant someone should really remove that dam muzzle.

Phil  goddamed dinosuar  i'll teach him for playing hard to get.
oh yeah he'll like it he'll like it real good  oh look
a puppy dog.

Okay kinda weird  but well yeah.

Then the  attention turned to the attention grabing little *****
of Hello  no not  Gary ****** man.
the only G that matters beside's spot  Gonzo.

Well I think you need to lean more into the microphone  when you
read  and um well to relax  show more clevage.
And may I say if that was a samba   it totally ******
1 star.

The room and other judges must have been amazed by my depth
for they were all silent.
Dr Jerry aplauded  dam he really knew how to fill out that cheerleading outfit   we really needed to take a fishing trip im just saying
male bounding is okay sometimes  just ask Phil.

The people kept rolling in i slept through most of the mens readings
the women  because im a gentleman  and a scholar I had DR Jerry give my card  cause if Ican help inspire and guide maybe cuddle  fresh hot
young poets im all for it   I know what your saying yes I am  
giving back to the Hello community and not just STD's and hangovers.

But enough with the foreplay  finally  with the tension built up
like little catholic school girls waiting for there savior Justin Bieber to make a appearence   it was time.

Who was Hello's top new poet.
The short little **** *******  slash  napoleon of hello walked to the mic.
And after several  attempts at reaching it  one of his many  
assistants slash  friends with benfits of staying on the charts forever
assumed the possition.
So he could stand on there back and talk in the mic.
Get your mind outta the gutter.

The winner is  for there poem the Gentic.
There began a rumble beside me ******  Dr Jerry
stop jerking off were public man.

But it wasnt my dealer I mean doctor .
It was My fashion forward amigo Jack.
The rumbling continued slowley the straps began to snap
as his color changed to red once would have been to green
if not for copyright infrigement dam you king kong.

The red devil burst from his restraints  like a  stripper off
a four week ******* binge let loose  at Macdonalds.
tables flew  clothes were ripped.
Bathe's yelled  at the top of her lungs  look ****** I have a tazer
so if you try to cop a feel i'll use it.
Must have been talking to Phil or Chris.

I knew what to do  in this chaos i quickly ran with the special talent of Hello  to my dressing room  DR Jerry  emergency bring  wild turkey duct tape  a video camera  a inflatable swimming pool  some jello mix and  a Kenny G  cd  and some roofies .
Im kidding  I never listen to Kenny G.

The screams were that of a german shapard ripping a smurf to shreads.
Help me  plaese  mommy I almost felt sorry for Eliot.
But i did what a true gentleman slash long winded journalist does in these time's. Sat back with some cocktails and enjoyed some jello
wrestling  opps  I think  the tickle monster is loose.

Me first  me first  ******  Phil  well if it keeps the voices at bay
why the **** not.
We laughed we danced  Jack Horner  bathed in Eliots blood.
While Chris said please  stop including me in these ****** stories
Gonzo.
    
While Baths  kept her tazer in hand  and dry white wine in the other.
Much like  a bad habbit I grow on you.
Jack looked at me as old brothers in shared insanity often do.
Hey Gonzo  when ya  gonna end this one mate?
Hey amigo  as soon as ya get that  *** on stage and close the show
with a lady gaga  preformance.

The *****, the *******,  the Brits,And Gonzo,
With his doctor slash roadie slash personal man servant bartender
who could ask for anything more than a purple dinosaur's head on a platter but enough about Phil.

Untill next time Stay Crazy  Kids.
Gonzo.
Im back *******   and  back to being a true gentleman of Hello.
Okay more like the lovable **** slash drunken perve you all love
okay tolerate cheers
datanami Feb 2019
Organic Simili Samba
Orchestra Electronica
Writing TV, Watching Music
Reality Distortion Field

It Becomes Like Another World
Giant Gutter from Outer Space
Artificial Intelligence
Intergalactic Existence

-

Open Gates of Ancient Knowledge
Archetypal Architecture
Low Resolution Universe
Dark Pineapples & Chocolate

New Operative Perspective
Unbreakable Circuits of Love
Dance the Spiral Never Ending
And the Colours Made the Earth Sing
16/64 Psytrance song titles, sorted in mirror alphabetic (ascending by last letter)
The youth



Youth is weird,
Somewhat interesting.
An adult pop rock mix
With child soda pop.

Youth is Coca-Cola,
Marlboro, whiskey and energy,
The eternal monologue of life,
ID number, property tax and Netflix.

Youth is John Lennon,
Che, Fidel and Hendrix,
Contemporary history,
ancient and medieval history.

Youth is pants ripped jeans,
Popsicle, lollipop, painted face,
Chicle, coffee and french fries,
Point G, miniskirt and condoms.

Youth is the Dalai Lama,
Techno, rave and rasta,
Drugs, drops and guitar,
Punk, samba and hopefully that-fall.

Youth is the opposite of the opposite,
It's a Friday at midnight,
Mustard, ketchup and mayonnaise,
X-salad, ham and cheese sandwich and X-men.

Youth is D-Day,
Vietnam, Hiroshima and Nagasaki,
Testosterone, Woodstock and Waterloo,
Afghanistan, TPM and MTV.

Youth is a pressure cooker,
Isis, Syria, sukiyaki,
Anonymous, Al Qaeda, rice and beans,
Genesis, Revelation and mint candy.

Youth is weird,
Somewhat interesting.
An adult pop rock mix
With child soda pop.
What is youth?
Edna Sweetlove Dec 2014
When I was a little lassie my Grandad and I
were very fond of each other indeed
(although not sexually I must add
before you suspicious buggers start complaining).

Over the hills and fields we used to wander just like, er,
...let me think of a nice metaphor here...
er, like a man and his granddaughter or
like a couple of not so lonely clouds.

Oh how joyfully we would seek out rare birds’ nests
so as to smash the eggs to bits in a frenzy of joy,
which we both enjoyed a lot as it was, er, reet good fun
and a statement of individual choice we both appreciated.

Sometimes we would noisily take a steaming **** together
(although ABSOLUTELY NO ****** contact ever took place
I really must reiterate that for all you ***-abuse-obsessives,
but he had a stupendously big ***** for an old codger).

When we got home in the evening dear old Grandad
would usually make us a nice *** of builders' tea
and some ****** great doorstop sandwiches, but
even at that tender age I would have opted for a good stiff whisky.

Or, come to think of it, a large glass of chilled Chardonnay,
and a plateful of smoked salmon or some oysters,
but the old ******* was teetotal (at least in public) -
either that or just plain ******* mean as Hell.

Darling wizened Granny would make us some toast
out of leftover stale Mother’s Pride white bread,
but, being half blind, the silly fat old cow usually managed
to burn it to a sodding inedible cinder.

On Sundays they would get the gramophone out
and put on some tango 78 records
as they loved Latin American dancing and a good old *****
of each other's flaccid, age-withered buttocks.

How happily I remember the old couple tangoing away
just like a couple of wrinkled whirling ****** dervishes
to 'La Cumparsita' recorded by Mantovani & His Tipica Orchestra
on 20th June 1940 and issued on the Decca label.

They also taught me how to do the rumba
(oompah, oompah, stick it up your jumpah)
and I became quite an expert at the Cuban samba
(which my beloved Grandad wittily called the *****).

How joy-filled were those faraway times of my golden childhood.
but one day I went round only to find an ambulance outside
and the paramedics told me the old pair had been found dead in bed,
their boudoir resembling an abattoir at closing time.

Grandad had bashed the old *****’s brains out
with a red-hot poker during some depraved *** session
and then shoved it eighteen inches up his own *******
which must surely have stung his piles quite a bit.

But what a creative way to go - I bet he danced a bit
as the steaming poker seared his poor back passage.
And thus my grandparents ascended up into the sky -
may they stay forever young in the company of the angels.

Let me again emphasis our friendship was purely platonic
because this was in the rare old times of yesteryear
when widespread paedophilia was not yet a gleam in the eye
of some trash newspaper editor eager to engage with the plebs.
Eat from the ground, all the different colours of the food,
autumn comes, pain for the leaves, death dyes the life,
  Earth gives, slippery sometimes, stuntman fall on the floor for a film
nutrition beneath our feet, kaleidoscope of tastes and sensations, good,
trees that grow and give life splinter skin,
carnival of motions reaching from the ground in an infinite cascade,
hope for the future,
baseball players in a stadium, the crowds and players all wrapped around the same pleasures for a little while,
for some it's sugar,
and others ******.
  Fluffy colours fades,
samba, world feeling;
Cake at a party finger dipping from bowl to bowl of party foods refined from all recognition from the ground first manufactured by nature,
glass spilt over and sticky hair,
slither of glass on the table, children spin around on the grass,
blood, a nail from a plank of wood left on the grass, pain like the bite of a snake,
activity carries on despite the tears, dance, sponge deprived of it's fondant,
  the sun is going, the ground remains warm a while.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2013
Fed me an omelette for dinner, oven-roasted tomatoes,
Smoked mozzarella, my fav, sliced so thin and layered in.
A focaccia roll, watermelon dessert.
It was her poem for me.
But that love devil kept refilling my glass, with her beloved
Summer rose wine.

I cleaned up for that's our deal, the one she never asked for, but is only
Fair in love.

Made it to the bed and Pandora.

About 30 seconds later, someone took my tablet from my arms, from my closing eyes, kissed me, and when I awoke at 4:00am, I recalled this from my sewing box.
Now, the poem*

There are kisses to keep

(Oct. 2010)

as I am laid to sleep,
there are kisses to keep,
gently placed on my
neck and head,
as I am tucked into bed,
travel packed,
well stored,
like important facts, safe kept,
as into the nether world
of the subconscious I am swept

Mid eve, tween nine and ten,
this runner's forward motion
is stopped short of the goal line,
but his mates, second surgers,
carry him on her shoulders,
his body do they extend,
victory celebrated with
eyes shut and
body prone,
his dream skills
well honed,
with kisses to keep,
he, dispatched to the battlefield,
Poetry Gods to meet,
daily actions,
submitted for peer review,
and perhaps!
promoted and gifted a daily add-on or
perhaps! Death's tenure secured?

Unwavering to sounds of song,
ancient paths retread,
till the front edge
of danger reached,
the TSA soul search commenced,

the child of ten times six,
drugs taken,
memory enhanced whispers of
revolution(s), circularity,
in headset stereo whispered.

his comrades George and John,
wounded to the death,
nighttime friends
greet this nightly stalker,
sojourner to the middle nether-lands,
with water and refreshments

Doth he survive,
Doth he return?

Of course he does,
dear friend and **** fool,
this nighttime essay,
his just reward
and another curse for
your forbearance

His safe return,
wounds
In need of tending,
kisses he receives from a
grateful nation of one,
kisses to keep safe as he
forwards on into
daytime battle of
interest rates,
to multiple fronts dispatched
and in ten long hours
he passes thru Ontario,
turns round, heads down
to samba in Rio De Janeiro,
and on his way to
New South Wales n' Sydney,
stops for herring
on the wharves of Oslo,
washed down with a pint
from his favorite pub in London town

He is short and caught?
He is long and wrong?
For sure he is stressed,
head messed, and when the whistle blows,
the words of his
prior excursion, the night version,
call and comfort,
for he attended again with the relief
of fresh and new
kisses to keep

Words of this ilk
have been penned before, by me, I am sure,
but too bad for you
and me too,
newer versions will continue
to appear, in order that
I may deserve
fresh kisses
to keep.

This will end when one of us dies.
August 2013
zebra Apr 2017
a knuckled skull
with no where to go
made of mud and blood
took a needle to sew

made her
during a blood moon
her parts for pleasure
some one to spoon

did it in shadows
so angels couldn't see
fashioned detritus
scraped a dead tree

gave her toes
and a small chin
played a samba
and shaped her thin

after i wove her
from spiritous mist
she called me god
i did insist

i wanted her ****
incantations and ****
made to do the who-la
resurrection did come

in barbarous tongue
enshrined truth on her head
she animated
and got out of bed

who am i
she begged to see

my lover always
i said with glee

what is love
she did inquire

its feelings of warmth
that do inspire

where are they, where is it
is it in this room
i have nothing in me
where does it loom

i pulled down my pants
she looked up with shock
oh my god she cried
what a beautiful ****

she came at me
unbridled and mad
grabbed me and broke me
and called me dad

she starved for a stuffing
and ****** like a pig
huffing and puffing
my **** got so big

we lived together
til i dropped dead
she lives forever
still waiting in bed
In Jewish folklore, a golem is an animated anthropomorphic being that is magically created entirely from inanimate matter (specifically clay or mud).
Steven Hutchison Apr 2013
Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Mata los timbales
Go Tito

Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Mata los timbales
Go Tito

Oye como va...

the neighbors voices climbing out of windows left and right.

Is that you Tito?
Put down those pots and pans.
Make better use of those hands.
Don't you know those hands were made for working?
Follow your father to his factory grave shift,
Make razorblades to sell.
We'll always have hair on our faces.

Is that you Tito?
Knock off that racket.
Here I am trying to sleep
And you've got my feet to moving.
The night was made for dancing Tito,
And dancing was made for Harlem,
But that's bastante on a Wednesday mijo.

The young king packs up his studio,
Whistling dixie like she's never been whistled before.
Twirling the melody from royal lips,
Showing her how to use those God given hips.
Where did you find that groove you in your neck?
And do the words Puerto Rico still give you the chills?

You have walked on too many streets in New York City
And the Afro-beat is shacking up with the Cuban.
You can hear their children playing in the barrio allá,
And aquí they're blowing horns of imagination.
Make those wooden sticks tap your telegram, Tito.
Let the world know about this message brewing inside you.
They hate.
They yell.
They love to see you dancing,
But your ankles told you that wasn't right for you.
Your hands never have been able to keep still.
Maybe it's because they feel the future.
Do you realize where your bridge will lead?

You are the future Tito.
Do what you got to do to be where you got to be.
Play in Uncle Sam's band but don't you go to Normandy.
Follow your hands back to the big apple,
Take a bite out of this place they call Juliard.
When you sleep at night are they still screaming…
Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Go somewhere where the floor is on fire
With the fusion of jazz and samba.
Make it bigger Tito until it looks like it did in your dreams.
Pick up those sticks and mata los timbales.
Have the decency to wink when they name you king.

What is it that you mixed in that ***?
Your alchemy giving birth to new species.
Have mercy Tito.
Your music is feasting on the ears of the public,
Your hands are drumming on the ecosystem.
They call it salsa, and you laugh
Because they can't taste the carne.
Shine those pots and pans.
Tip your hat to Spanish Harlem,
Where windows stay open to let the dreamers dream big
And the red brick walls are soaked with memories.
Babarabatiri Tito,
Teach the world how to dance.

Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Mata los timbales
Go Tito

Oye como va...

a legend.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
the greater technique in writing poetry,
is not really associated with the
scholastic, well at least not with poets-in-residence
at university institution, esp. with the current
curb on free experience of expression
having to walk a ballerina sort of walk on
tip toe, even though a ballerina walk on
hard surfaces is an elephants stomp (swan lake?
the drumming of the ballerinas deafens the
music, what a crude sadistic art-form),
and should ballerinas practice the art-form on
cushions they couldn't do their tip-toe...
a ballerina sort of walk to not cause usurping
apathy by the bullish heart is a paradox...
because hard topics with a ballerina tread will
still become a piano hitting the ground...
and soft topics with a ballerina tread will
only become the agonising loss of firm footing,
and a torture of the trivial having to be danced
upon with such seriousness as the samba would
otherwise allow... the tip-toe having not firm
rooting... if that makes a sensual impression on you,
so be it, it's hardly senseless to write such words,
since you see the symbolic encoding with you words,
so unless these arrangements don't make you blind,
i'm assuming you will not allow anti-geometrics of
certain painters... and instead you're embracing
satisfaction with squares and triangles...
a rigid narrative of pre-planning an expedition to
Antarctica asking for the right provisions of fur,
tents and water and food... it's not up to me to play with
these words for interpretation, i've made the interpretation
a freedom only you can behold, i can't always be found
willing to interpret the arrangement for you,
i'm not into thought ******* and shackling,
and if you're into that... then you're just plain ******* lazy;
i mean, if i was a poet-in-residence at a university
and told to mind recognisable poetic technique
in the range of onomatopoeia and metaphor
and not accept a higher technique, the digression
via the kaleidoscope, the many diversion,
changed subject matters... i'd bore myself to death...
of course there's the rambling technique of
a poetic narrative, a sudden caffeine injection of
the elevated moment, but that technique calls for
a single subject matter - i'm talking explosions...
a return to ballerinas, if poets mind hard subjects,
heavy subjects, and they want to treat on them
gracefully like ballerinas in agony
they will have to embrace the fact that such
"grace" is actually an elephants stomp...
it's no good asking ballerinas to practice their
art by dancing on cushions... the two graces -
one of dance and the other of grace will never allow
you to walk around on tip-tope...
oh come on, interpret it with images of some sort
of comparison, like a ballerina on a tightrope...
i'm not going to be spoon-feeding you
anywhere from the page.

spring clean, the boiler-man came for an annual
check-up, i was working and kept my room
a bit un-kept...
cleaned the windows, hoovered the floor,
steamed it, cleaned the bookshelves from dust,
it smelt like a mint-conditioning comic after,
changed the bedsheets,
took all the empty cups from the shelves,
spotless clean...
but i'm telling you, if i get to see 2015's
best film *inside out
by pixar i'd give you
a clear analysis on the specific points,
at the moment i have this **** of thinking
about how the optics of man
only start engaging in memory after 4 years
upon birth...
spending nine months in the waters of the womb
(imagine coal miners trapped in
perpetual coal-mine for nine months,
they'd re-enter the light of day like moles,
having to wear sunglasses for the same number
of months before the eyes adjusted) -
it's no wonder that the parts of the body
passing fluids (well, **** in the form of
diarrhoea is pigeon ****) are weak...
why the ***** i'm saying...
why the mushy pulp of the apple purée
because the oesophagus is weak too and needs
to develop like bones, become hardened,
indeed these soft tissues need to become firm
paralleled with bones, baby bones are undeveloped
in terms of how we can't walk at the beginning
but crawl... forget the drawings of darwinism
of shortened historical explanation...
our's isn't with tail and hunched spine...
we're crawling...
but the pixar film inside out i will write a detailed
analysis when i see it again...
at first i can only relate one fascination...
the way we only become to actually consciously
see aged ~4... prior to that we have no
optical impression of the world with memory...
memory and seeing only enjoin
aged ~4... prior to that all the senses are based
in the unconscious, once the senses emerge from
the unconscious, actual faculties develop,
sight develops with memory...
i could say that speech develops with sounds...
but ba ba goo goo ma ma da da is actual
gibberish to consider since we become so eloquent
after, aided by the fact that we capture sounds
with phonetic optics of letters...
i'll stick my ground,
the first symbiosis is that of sight and memory,
which also becomes a symbiosis of
sight and memorising-imagination, or memory-in-itself...
and the clash of these two symbioses
creates a paradox of what actually happened
and what happened upon re-imagining...
like i said, i could expand on the theories within
inside out, with my re-evaluation as alt. outside in,
and i can say about a 1000 child psychologists could
be spawned from this single film...
but you never know, i might even theorise further
tonight once i drink enough and get a toilet break;
and bear in mind i'm about to cross the threshold
of being awake for 24 hours, after i miscalculated
my doctor's appointment for an amitriptyline (25mg)
prescription; the depth of the film is immense,
but i think it's harsh for so many psychological
undertones to be shown t children,
i think that it's a film for adults, even though
it's rated U... and indeed, more like a U-turn in
terms of thinking about life than suitable for
the under-aged
,
at first you get the early stages of child development,
by the end of the film of hopefully seeing adolescent
development, but that's cut short when
puberty obstructs sensitive sensible matters that
lead into sadomasochism in certain cases,
and in others into ****** carelessness as documented
by grooming examples in societies, like the ones
in england... or two girls today in mini-skirts with
the still cold spring nights, one ******* crouched
in an alley, the other trying to ease her on
while i walk past to finish it quickly...
i could, really could bombast you with my little
theory tool-kit... when joy becomes jealous of
sadness and wants to rob sadness of a prime memory...
the simple cutting of the umbilical chord of
being born in one place, but moving to another...
the sheer thoughtless release of tears in a classroom...
then the imaginary friend encounter...
never take short-cuts with that third cat,
third elephant, third dolphin character leading
you into the world of imagination,
the imaginary friend is actually a placebo figure in
this realm, he can't have imagined it all,
we couldn't have been the first prize pundit in it all...
he's the thief of ownership...
and then dragged into the cyst pit of those
characters real in life, celebrating your third birthday,
still blind to the world... the rainbows of life
and the darkness of the foetal mine...
the clown who's less horror but more a 5 year
student of acting reduced to cheap party tricks...
distorted not in life, but in your dreams,
as proof that you really didn't see the world
so early... you couldn't have, because if you had,
the dream world would not distort so profoundly...
and upon re-entry into the foetal position of sleep
your first 3 years are reflected in sleep...
such that when joy and sadness walked into
the realm of the imagination i thought they'd wake
the girl up by going to the cinema to watch a horror movie
like the one joy tried to block when the family
first moved to san francisco...
oh indeed the over-layering of the five crude expressions
of thought, memory and imagination...
i wonder why these chose those five...
and there was no hope among them - and hope's
triplet shapes of hope itself, love, and fear...
and when suddenly the imaginary friend dragged
the poor girl into the abyss of forgettable memories,
it dawned on me how the girl sat there holding
memories she wished to remember, a motherly
narcissism as to say: my own child...
but it felt so strange to imagine this child
holding onto memories like that, when in reality
without the five crude impressions of feelings
she would be unable to do so... this melancholic
reflection of joy suddenly dawned upon her
that the real sadness was the it too was sadness,
for if natural selection exists... so too much
cognitive selection, however dear some things are
to us... some of us have to remember
being able to give surgery, learn to drive buses,
teach mathematics... to be truly enjoined with humanity,
and not simple childish solipsists;
even as such... write poetry and weep.
Brent Kincaid Dec 2015
It was a throwback party
Of the Bossa Nova
Staying up late until
The dance was over.
The Latin beat pounding,
The music was everything
It was so happy sounding.
Bossa Nova was king.

It is the cousin to samba
And in Brazil it is the way
To party with your amigos
Partying the night away.
Dancing like the music
Lives inside your soul.
Much livelier than cha cha
Twice as hot as rock and roll.

It was a throwback party
Of the Bossa Nova
Staying up late until
The dance was over.

Time to wear **** clothing
Girls in dresses up so high
Men in calças they can dance in
Oba! How the hours fly.
Music, sometimes words
And a strong and ***** beat
Drive away the daily worries
And put the rhythm in the feet.

It was a throwback party
Of the Bossa Nova
Staying up late until
The dance was over.
The Latin beat pounding,
The music was everything
It was so happy sounding.
Bossa Nova was king.
Brian Oarr Oct 2012
Toss away sheltering umbrella,
Seek to samba triumphant in the rain.
Edit dramatic doldrums from the novella,
Relate an easy tongue of the urbane.

Call a friend as helpful lifeline,
Castle Queenside for defense,
Debate the speed of light with Einstein,
Let love be your sixth sense.

Swim out through the breakers,
Surf the hurricane back home,
Reject the quackery of fakers,
Let rain cloud be your geodesic dome.

Vilify politics of standstill,
Wink the lowlands of the moon.
Pitch an idea to the gristmill,
Sing impromptu to typhoon.
between wrinkled sheets
and a week in september,
her voice swims through my dreams,
a misty fusion of exotic blues,
samba and a tropical breeze
from rio;

smitten by the  melody,
dripping promises of ****** delights,
lazy  days and long steamy nights,

I plunged in,
arms of impulse,
***** of steel,
eager for a spin 
on her heavenly wheels;

and my head's been spinning
ever since,
stuck in a vortex
of blissful regret,
memories I'll never forget,
of that tropical breeze
from rio..

~ P (#PabloATBFR)
(8/17/2013)
Brent Kincaid Dec 2017
Let the music reach you,
Let the rhythm teach you
Make it sweet at the start
Like the beat of your heart.
Inside each soul is a song
Listen and follow it along.
Let the music reach you,
Let the rhythm teach you.

It’s more than just a lyric
It’s a story of your spirit
At times you really need to
Just let the music lead you.
It’s part of what it makes us
If we let the music take us.
We can talk with our feet
If we just follow the beat.

It’s yourself you have to please
Who cares of someone sees?
Maybe be brave and shout
And let your inner soul out.
Nobody should begrudge you
Nor really should they judge you.
It’s yourself you have to please
So, bend your back and knees

So, come on take a chance
Cone on, let your body dance.
Shake your **** and wiggle
And bust out in a giggle.
Make words to your own song
Maybe others will sing along.
Show them and yourself how,
And why not do it now?
Can't you almost hear the music?
Lazhar Bouazzi Aug 2016
Writing is
the frozen music
of an ellipsis,
the silent song
of a lonesome poet
who sings in the dark
among howling winds
crossing swords
in the white shades
of unseen things -
a winter on the Pole
on whose  obverse side
there's Rio,
and the Sun,
and the Samba
and the revenge
of the color.


© Lazhar Bouazzi, May 31, 2016; revised, August 5, 2016
My contribution to the Olympics in Rio.
Drifton A Way Apr 2013
Responsibilty
I dance away from thee
Why can't you just let me be
Escape with some poetry
and voy age for free

A void created
my feet elated
As the A-Voy Dance
is celebrated

We all know this game
As we tango with shame
Find something to blame
Time went and now came

Tax day approaches
Conscience coaches
mind scatters like roaches
A Voy Dance encroaches

Merengue away my tasks
Sip from all of life's flasks
Eye's wide shut with masks
Sick again? your boss asks

Avoid dance, and die in a box
No Samba dancing underground
Alive I feel richer than fort Knox
Lost but now A Voy dance is found...
MJL Mar 2019
Dawn casts her long line for spring
Days linger to catch the angel irises bloom
Enveloped by early chirping chitter-chatter
Lightly crusted sleep argues for lids to remain closed
Black perking wake-me oil makes a strong cups case for compromise
A nudge to join the living
- On negotiated terms -
Somewhere between another dream and lavender bubbles
The contract will begin
Foggy feet shuffle onto the wheel
Spying steps creak tattle-tale floorboards alerting all on your way
Pleading thoughtfulness
You beg for silence as the Ra room comes into view
Brightly checkered yellow-brown mustard window patterns
Cut diagonal boxes across maple hardwood
Stained glass dots of emerald, violet, and red raspberry
Dance on lemon washed walls as they turn and wink for a smile
Your morning chair sets at the edge of the warming sun pond inviting you
Join them
You listen to the ripples of space
Your cushioned dock perfectly positioned for a loving embrace
You sit
And slowly dip legs into the glowing pool
Drenched limbs cocoon in the heavy webbing of golden rays
Bathing
The chickadees celebration is known
Immersed
Lids succumb to the orange haze
The Girl from Ipanema sings
Young and lovely
You feel wonderful
No risk of drowning here...
Only in happiness
One radiating breath
Before the Samba plays again


© 2019 MJL
Sunrise. Before the day begins. Time in the window. Like a cat.
The Terry Tree Oct 2014
Will you dance with me?
Even in the stormy seas
Will you dance with me?
Let our spirits soar and swing
Can we hold on
While letting go
At the same time
Of everything
Throwing our cares
Like brilliant kites
Into the wind
Watch the sunrise
Never looking back
Again
Watch the sunset
Our inhibitions
Free to
Bend
Will you dance with me?
Illuminating

Follow me into the sky

Reaching out beyond the top
Our hands are linked
We cannot stop
Can we spin
And fall
And sink
Can we glide
And blaze
Within the blue
Twisting and turning
Like eagle lovers
Often do

Will you dance with me?
Let our inhibitions chime
Across the heavens
A storm of flames
All brilliant-like
We are
The sound
Of lightening
As we
Tango through the stars
Exploring galaxies
And Mars
There is no limit
To how far
We will frolic
In our waltz
The universe
Is ours

Will you dance with me?
Vibrate from head to toe
Rhumba and foxtrot
With our hearts
Whirl and sway
A feather dance
Of native love
In
Every
Way

Will you dance with me?
Can we spin
And fall
And sink
Can we glide
And blaze
Within the blue
Oh, how I want to be
Twisting and turning
Here with you
Like eagle lovers
Often do

Will you dance with me?
A dance for all time
A samba, a strut
A step where
We unwind
Releasing our fears
Painting our tears
Watching the sky
Become the canvas
Of our eyes
No longer
Dreaming
Of your
Spirit
Catching you
Catching me
Catching you
Eternally

Dance with me...

tHE tERRY tREE
K Balachandran Mar 2014
On the blue black paper, western sky spreads,
mirthful white storks in a formation write-
a poem that steals every heart in an instance.
When the colors of dusk infuse meaning, it gleams,
cumulus clouds above are flush with goosebumps,
below, the green trees  start a spirited samba dance,
evening breeze translates it, in to a jaunty song.
Oh! celestial poet, thy immortal verse, comes alive
rings aloud, without words and none reciting it.
Natalie Wood Dec 2013
My brain is dead and I am a burnt rubber tire,
I could say I slept, but I would be a lier, lier,
It doesn't make a difference, I am already on fire.

My heart beats a tango, a ballet, a samba,
It plays a tune, it daces to a mamba, mamba,
Someone please let me be, let me feel the rhumba.

I want to sleep forever and ever,
But it feels like forever will be never, never
And I've run out of rhymes, I lost my clever.
I'm really sorry about this; I have not slept in over 36 hours.
Sally A Bayan Oct 2015
lovely Saturday morning....
      might we dance a bit today
         to ease off some sadness?*


DANCE
(A repost...some editing done)

The neighbor's stereo was playing tango music
      too loud, it made me  look at my red painted toes...
i realized, my feet hadn't even swayed
for so long now,
they've grown timid...and wary
  
All i want is to dance,
to be safe, warm,
close to one, as close as
cheek to cheek,
go left, then right,
lean, cling, then hold hands,
be held on the waist,
dip, then circle gracefully,
and step, a stretched arm away,
be brought closer once again,
hearing clearly the sighs
as the music reaches a high.

But, it was a chicken dance i had joined then,
the shaking and jiggling were so
repulsive...convulsive...confusing.
it mattered not who fell out of the beat
the desire waned,
fires die,
fires died, alright.

My feet are raring to swing back,
to be alive once more
on life's dance floor
no more falls, trips or missteps this time
just steps with a slower beat
with more grace now,
who knows,
this could be my best dance
ever!

This has got to feed my jazzy mood
play my chosen music
maybe do the shimmy for a while,
then shift to the bossa nova,
swing to its cool, hip-py rhythm.

Whatever the beat may be,
my partner and i,
we shall blend in while we do the mambo,
the rumba, cha-cha, even tap dance,
to celebrate this new chance on life.
I only  wish that on our first dance together,
we may dance the samba on the wide floor,
let the hours fly by.

Then, with a waltz,  we'll take it easy
until we finally get weary,
until we decide....to slow drag
the night away.

***


Sally

Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
K Balachandran Apr 2016
"Amour is the most intense kind of sweet fever,I can vouch that
When it's clandestine, the effect on victims is much more acute"

As the trembling example of that condition, she whispers in his ear,
Between adventurous  samba steps, every one watches agape.

"Don't you know merciless girl,that's what makes me go pale quickly
in your presence,this illness is mutually induced, that's for sure"
K Balachandran Dec 2012
We stilled the ghosts of the past,
after a prolonged dog fight.
Targets obliterated
thanks to our fighter pilots,
with their swords of light
and skillful maneuvers.

Remember it like yesterday,
the phantoms danced
an ecstatic samba,"Let's eat poppy flowers"
the chant rang throughout the dance.
The river of fire, we reached at midnight,
inner light flowed and we wept,
that was a night of silver blasts,
sky lit in brilliant white,
deep silence of the stars froze in to diamonds.

Find me meditate in the thicket of clouds,
we heard winged angels of peace ringing
silver Christmas bells, aloud.
When  the stars winked at me my being came alive
with the boundless light of cosmic pyhrotachics.
*The big dolphin jumped up  braking
the frozen sea mind,
Come now, we'll walk the whole distance smiling.
Mike Hauser Feb 2014
By the order of something or another
Came from the village in between
Passed onto the royal subjects
By the buzzing of the bees

Princess Pantry would attend
The vast masquerade ball
Where wine, larger, and lemonade
Would be dispersed by waterfall

Jolly Jasper was flabergastered
When he was invited too
He now had a chance to wear his party hat
He'd pick up in Kalamazoo

His dancing partner would be
None other than Sombrero Sam
Who'd been dancing the Samba
Since she was in a pram

The Tulip Twins will bring party favors
They'd picked from the garden that day
Where their exploding Snap Dragons
and Popping Pansies
Are bound to blow the guests away

Plus their homemade whoopie  cushions
With all the sounds that they secrete
Are sure to leave the party guests
Without an appetite to eat

Between all the snickers and the giggles
From those that are there by chance
Will be oblivious to the Royal Procession
As they continue on in dance

By the order of something or another
Came from the village in between
Passed onto the royal subjects
By the buzzing of the bees
Collaboration with Melissa  Blair
Robert Zanfad May 2010
I fear too much of life
Has been spent living in our
Mismatched silverware drawer.
While knives are always fine,
Never noticing much
What they might cut
Because they haven't sharp eyes;
So accustomed to close quarters,
They just lay there, as
Blind soldiers in wait of orders.
But I'm wary when they
Come out to speak,
Seeking blood, too often it seems.
Nicer when it's just
Butter must be spread
To warm toast instead.
Forks carry their own dangers.
In time, tines disentangled
From secret stainless dustups
That go on in the tray
While attention's drawn away
Can be wielded like daggers,
Impaling olives - or fingers -
That happen to fall in the way.
So painful, though rarely fatal
For those with shots up to date.
It's the others need worrying over;
Sad spoons that never nestle
As they did when they were new.
Uncomfortable now with one another,
Like wishes kissing cold lips,
Smooth hips never swaying to music
As they must have done once before,
Arranged in deranged patterns
In plastic compartments.
I'd rather take them all out,
Line them along the kitchen floor
For lessons in ballet or the samba.
I might learn to dance, again, too.
Sometimes, I wish we could eat with
The still-perfect gold set
We save for those who don't live here;
Drink fine wine every day from those
Dusty gilded glasses
Stocked in the corner cabinet.
It might feel more real then,
If they eventually get here...
We'd be prince and princess
Everyday, then, wouldn't we?
When garnet sunset
dances across a panorama
ribbons of fire aflame
add to the drama
majestic, splendid
as hot molten lava
then too soon concludes
the sun's samba
Sunsets are glorious to me

— The End —