Mojo Flows - A Blues Poem

Mojo flows like heat, to a four four beat, as it goes. Like spit on a harmonica, like flattened fiths, like whiskey breath. Those rocking eighty eights, mojo flows through ivory, wire and mahagony too. Like sweat on those keys...

Wafting, being blasted mojo flows, like smoke, it aint no joke, through New Orleans, Memphis, through the deepest part of Dixie. Chicago's west side, down on Maxwell, on Beal. In London, on those British Isles, mojo flows, nothing can stop where it goes.

From the deepest parts of Africa, mojo sprang, as slaves sang, 44s causing sholders to get sore, you won't hear 44's train whistle blow no more. And still mojo flows. Mojo flows all electrified in churches and in jails and where ever the blues goes, mojo knows. In Europe, in America, in Africa too.

Round and round mojo flows around that girls low cut skirt and between her legs, that is where mojo goes, that is where mojo flows. Pretty girls with lips all painted red, sleep with mojo in their beds.

Mojo flows, mojo flows and where it goes no body knows. When she squeezes that lemon, and juice runs like a mojo flow, that is what I'm talking about. The devil's daughter all round and fine, was the first to pull that trick no doubt.

Flowing, flowing mojo continues to flow, no one knows where it will ultimately go. So just enjoy it now while you can, let the mojo get under your skin.

By Kelvin Cook

Earl's love for Mrs Dorothy May

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People ask me how I learned to love my wife so much,
Is it because Earl is my grandfather or maybe just luck?
I watched this illiterate railroad man compose sonnets
and soliloquies so tender that they could rest on the petal of a rose
He spoke his love letters on Fridays after working
on the Kansas City Southern line all day
Promising to never leave and to treat her right
in his garage talking about her til day slowly became night
Words like love, honey, baby, please, seemed out of place
with his back bent and hands calloused from loading cross ties
a coil of rope at his feet, a claw hammer looped at his side
My grandfather could not even write his name, but he could
tell you the exact measurements of a section of track
This man who took the time to gesture so lovingly to
my grandmother, Mrs. Dorothy May, was teaching
a young boy how to love his wife.

-by Kelvin Cook

Sonar Techs @ Work or Death From Below

Submarine Seahawk

Poster

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The other submarine's screw blade noise
called to us, like the hum of a queen bee
We had calculated her speed and only
needed to compute the lady's range

Listening for the slightest sound
range rate calculator in hand
Oscilloscopes and spectrum analysers
recreated the sound scape of the ocean

While searching for the enemy
sweat rolled down our faces
as we examined every reverberation
every sound was a clue

And just as quick we whispered "we've got the bitch"
"Bridge, this is Sonar, firing solution to follow
On our mark fire tubes two and three at will"
And now we listen for the impending implosion

- Kelvin Cook

Hey Central

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Hey Central
Give me ext. 189
Please get
Mrs. F. on that line.

Tell that woman
she better come on
Tell her, her sweet
loving man is on the phone

This is true
It aint no lie
I'm going to love
that woman till she cry

I'ma love her till she
break down and cry
And if I don't, call me
a ball face lie

This is the last thing
I'm going to say
I got to get back to
my angel some day

- Words by Kelvin Cook

The day Miss Kimberly Was Born

Miss Kimberly was born on a day the bees ran out of honey,
they needed something beautiful and sweet and just as sunny.

So they buzzed and they buzzed and wondered what could they do,
then they got an idea and off to the flower gardens they flew.

From flower to flower collecting nectar and dew they went,
buzzing right along they prayed that she'd be heaven sent.

And when they had enough they fashioned her into a baby girl,
And that is how Miss Kimberly was born into this world.

* I wrote this poem for my daughter when she was a little girl.


By Kelvin Cook

Because I could not stop for death- Emily Dickinson

There are several versions of this poem, this is my favorite one;

Because I could not stop for death

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove
At recess, in the ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

Or rather, be passed us;
The dews grew quivering and chill,
For only gossamer my gown,
My tippet only tulle.

We paused before house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.

See You Later Alligator

See you later Dad,

And it seemed that she was sad.

See you later Alligator,

After while Crocodile,

My little starry eyed woman child,

With your nappy hair and your big smile,

Go and go with style,

And when you have walked that mile,

Sit and rest a while.

When you have gone around that track,

Lugging that baggage in a big old pack,

Or if life won't cut you slack,

You may not even know how to react.

Think of home but don't look back.

Sylvia Plath Reads 'Daddy'

Sylvia Plath Reads 'Daddy'

An Answer To Mr. Williams

I've never needed a red wheelbarrow,
no mater how glazed with rain water,
and we only had one white chicken.

But now a blue sky,
all things great and small
depend on a bright blue sky.


P.S. Just trying to work that whole red, white and blue thing.

P.P.S. Oh, and the chicken, tasted like chicken, of course.




By Fitzgerald used with the permission of the poet.
All rights reserved

file under;
poetry, writing, literature,

Def Poetry - Oscar Brown Jr. - This Beach

Oscar Brown Jr. recites his poem, "This Beach" Def Poetry Jam Season 5, Episode 8

Charles Bukowski "Bluebird."

In this video the Poet Charles Bukowski reads his poem "Bluebird." I really like it because it shows what a sensitive man he was. And how even in the end he had to keep up appearances as a tough guy.

But would a tough guy write this? The pictures that accompany this video are also well selected.









There's No Business by Charles Bukowski Poster
Crumb, Robert
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