Art Blakey

Art

In jazz Is A bass plus a  horn or two,

A preachin' pianist

And a driven jazz drummer,

Yours truly, 

I set the time whilst

Simultaneously

Turning the tide

And parting the Red Sea.

A complex metronome, 

I'm a pulse deconstructed

4/4 time on acid.

I took in Lee Morgan, 

Until he became 

Reduced; a blurred replica

Of his true self

Imperfectly altered;

A diminished seventh chord;

Melancholic as a

Puppet. 

Strings of his pulled by the dope,

He had to sell his trumpet. 

Lord knows I prayed

For him to return to the fold

Like a father

I grieved

My prodigal son.

I'm a leader of this band

The Jazz Messengers 

embodying the mystery of Malachi

I drum them fervently

Away from darkness

Rescuing black sheep from the crossroads. 

I'll go wild with these sticks

Beating rhythms until my hands cry the

Blood of struggle 

Moanin'

MY utter disdain

Like a sturdy ironsmith,

I'll beat out their sin

I'm Art Blakey

I measure out time BAR BY BAR

Like a Sierra Leonean miner counting diamonds

into a jar, 

Preciously rough like his cracked hands

Stones refracting truth like a Gospel

Destined to link rich men's cuffs 

I AINT GOT THE TIME 

To waste on a pact like the pact that 

Lee made

Deep in the humid dirty South. 

'n I sure as hell 

Ain't got a single semi-quaver' s rest

To search my soul for any

Flickering ember of sympathy 

I might have had

Once 

As a wide-eyed yout

For the Devil.