beale street blues boy

what was it ‘bout

that sharecroppin’ boy

usin’ a  guitar as a toy?

bendin’ and stretchin’

each emotion drenched note,

singin like demons and angels

tryin’ ta crawl from his throat.

made women swoon

and grown ass men cry.

my oh my,

dem blues is so sly.

left the lonely cabin,

searching for stardom,

when he was a young teen.

had less than 3 dollars in his pocket

but he was determined

to become a king.

named his woman Lucille,

a soul mate he met

during a juke-joint fire.

she was his lifetime reminder

to never lose that desire

to inspire.

lemon and prune faced

while crooning them tunes,

made people do devious things.

some of them

tossing aside wedding rings.

yet he gave us his all,

we were enthralled

by the virtuoso

at every show.

he melded jazz, blues

and pain.

a volatile concoction

that may never

be seen again.

quick witted and wry,

alternately making you

wonder why

you were in the situation

you happened to be in.

so many have gleaned

from those stretched note riffs

set blissfully adrift

on four-four time

and an occasional glass of wine.

if memories are golden,

he has given us

the midas touch

for years to come.

the thrill is gone

but his legend

lives on.

follow wurdz on Twitter & Instagram @wurdzpoet @wurdzpix
~wurdz © 2015 all rights reserved

a vulcan state of mind

i am not spock.

time?

the 23^rd century…

the place?

the hearts and minds

of every trekkie

who ever dared

raise an eyebrow,

or attempt to paralyze

a buddy

with a neck pinch surprise.

the green-blooded hobgoblin

was calm and collected,

while making bones

and others

feel agitated and dissected

more times than expected…

oftentimes disrespected.

without a smirk

or a grin,

his logic would begin.

sentient strings

of subliminal sentences,

explaining  complicated instances,

yet meeting the consciousness

on an uncluttered plane

of uncompromised confidence.

blank stare…

but it made sense

to the pointy eared

purveyor of proficiency.

i am spock.

as whiffs of smoke

turned  to solemn cries

for understanding,

we were blessed

with a man

who embraced his destiny

and shared a revelation.

being split in two

was a reality and nightmare

causing a constant battle

of the flesh and mind.

the human race

would do well

to mimic an alien

who adapted

to life

in his living hell.

he survived

because his intelligence

dominated both sides

and forced them

to live together…

as one in peace.

he lived long and prospered.

if only the denizens of earth

could do the same.

raise the v

and boldly remember

his name.

follow wurdz on Twitter & Instagram @wurdzpoet @wurdzpix
~wurdz © 2015 all rights reserved

ivy clouds

from the cotton field

to wrigley field,

a tremendous hardship

that would ultimately yield

an icon.

stuffing  those bolls

into a sack

gave him the knack

for a sweet swing

that even made

the opposing team sing

his praises.

wiggling those fingers,

on the handle

of his bat,

was imitated

by every baseball

loving kid,

even though

they never knew

why he did.

a reflex,

a memory

that kept him humble

and aware.

the cubs will shine in ’69,

the cubs will come alive in ’65,

forever the optimist

but never crowned

a champion,

yet he played

with the heart

of a lion.

swatting  balls

over those

ivy covered walls,

“bingo-bango-bilko double play!”

that’s what the announcer

would say,

back in the day.

such a smooth stride,

a heavenly glide

to the bag,

ending with a laser beam

throw to first.

but all things end

and so did the sparkle

of his career.

he had to give up

the pastime

and the cheers,

which he held so dear.

from the negro league

to the majors,

he gave his all.

mr. cub proved

the doubters wrong,

with his gracefulness

in a game

played with

a little white ball.

follow wurdz on Twitter & Instagram @wurdzpoet @wurdzpix
~wurdz © 2015 all rights reserved

the man

can I get a witness?!

hyperbole for all to see,

dangling participles

to set staunch minds free,

his legend

metamorphosed

into something cooler

than the other side

of the pillow.

like a guy smokin’

at a gas station,

his career blew up

and he politely

took us along for the ride.

he was hated on

and called a freak

because of that eye

yet few knew why

and still mocked him

on the sly.

corporate monsters

said the talk was lame,

they had no idea

he was the epitome

of this game

for four letter dominance

and reigning fame,

separating himself

from talking heads

that all sounded the same.

exuberance, eloquence

ain’t none of ‘em fresh like scott,

that boy was straight

outta the catchphrase shop.

a warrior,

who didn’t want to know

the terms of battle,

he fought with courage and dignity,

to the sounds of a timpani,

urging him onward

past pain and defeat.

the mork from ork

of the sports world

has taken a bow…

“boo-yah!”

first and ten…

ya don’t lose to cancer,

you win.

follow wurdz on Twitter & Instagram @wurdzpoet @wurdzpix
~wurdz © 2015 all rights reserved

ferguson blues

bullets

have become the norm

in the midst

of a storm

that can no longer

be kept quiet. 

body counts rise, 

while lady liberty 

closes her eyes. 

heart wrenching cries 

from mothers 

burying children too soon, 

as hecklers loom 

and the reaper swoons. 

"education is the key," 

society screams, 

as obviously being black 

makes one 

an uneducated goon. 

double standards 

are tossed about like candy, 

while the humanity 

and clarity 

are lost in translation, 

regurgitated as bile 

flung upon a garbage pile. 

...while in the middle, 

innocence sheds tears 

which crystallize 

on hearts made of stone... 

justifiable 

is nothing more 

than an excuse to execute, 

where are the black cats 

who wore berets 

back in the day? 

zoot suit wearing zombie, 

with slicked back hair, 

showing up everywhere 

begone... 

where is thou faith?! 

once in the cross hairs, 

the media is there, 

dirty laundry is aired, 

sensationalism is their only care... 

and that's what dead niggers bring. 

sit in church and sing 

because freedom 

won't ring 

from the mountain tops. 

while blood flows, 

insensitivity grows 

making black skin 

a sin... 

and willie lynch 

will prevail again. 

controlled insanity according to..

hellooooooo...
lightening fast
ad-libs,
delivered with ease,

snaking their way

inside unsuspecting

craniums,

like an overdose

of valiums.

not to be confused

with boring,

which induces snoring,

there was no time

to blink

when he was in sync

and in his element,

rising to the occasion.

drama to bring tears,

thrilling renditions

to kindle fears.

the scope 

of talent 

was amazing

and bordered

on breathtaking.

add was transformed

into a triumphant

cacophony 

of hodgepodge antics

which altered

the world of funny men.

he was the new standard,

follow or be lost

in an imaginary toke

and puff 

that was never needed.

did he roll out of bed,

with comedy rolling

from his tongue,

or was it a grand 

cover up

for the demons

which heckled

and mocked 

at every turn?

the world loves laughter...

but does that humor

pull itself

from the dark 

recesses 

which torture

and possesses 

that which struggles

to be free?

a soul in turmoil

yet willing

to share joy

with a deranged world.

you don't have to erase

the experience

from our minds.

we were thoroughly

enthralled by all

your extraterrestrial

exploits.

this is not goodbye,

it's na-nu na-nu,

because there's still

so much to learn.

shazbot...