The Little Drummer Boy

As a thin wide smile  
slides off the snare,
sketches of road beds
rests by his chair.
 
A jazzed rock and roller
sat sipping green tea
so hard to follow
when guitars take the lead.
 
In Charlie Parker he would  
pen some lost words,
a much missed ode  
to a high flying bird.
 
 

As a sorrow needs a joy
a group from early struggles  
are formed not gold but just some base alloy
 
The steady beat of hands and feet
they cast a sound  
the counterpoint, as Mic Jagger pranced around
 
Held the anchor
built the framework
the sound of calm when there was rancor
 
Great drummers have a signature to leave
its echo in the tightness
the blur of arms and sticks, only memory retrieves
 
Percussions always centre stage
and with his laconic look, we could all engage
the background cogs, head that nods
 
No one to drive. shout ONE TWO THREE
for Charlie Watts, just one last cheer.
He has left the building, RIP
 
 Still enjoy the lyrics, with a touch of sadness.
  replay the tunes that so endears,
 the encore for a great career  
 
 
 

The audience clapping in awe    
The cameo spotlight on the drummer is all we saw    
Charlie giving them a show within his own right    
Striking the cadence of that batter with all his might    
Blue lights dancing across the stage    
Cellphones flickering      
The drummer’s head turning side-to-side, sweat escaping his hair, his mind engaged    
     
Twirling his wooden sticks through the spaces of his fingers, then hitting that funky beat      
Young, old, raising to their feet    
Keith Richards stringing his guitar, blending their perfection of that engaging meet    
Women panties tossed for the souvenir of feeling that alluring funky sound    
Screams, jumping in jubilation, tears in women eyes from that enveloping charge felt all around      
Sheer pandemonium from the rush    
Losing my vocals from hollering in the moment, my face flushed    
     
Fingers snapping, beer in hand, the Rolling Stones giving us what we all came for    
Screaming for more and more    
Mick Jagger strutting across the stage wiping his face, throwing his towel out to the crowd    
Women of all ages on the prowl for that feel of fame, we all went down    
Waving in the air, jumping up and down, for that drenched dream now clutched in a teenager's hand    
That night was well worth frostbitten feet, and cold hands and the three hours we had to stand    
     
To comp those tickets for a time I must now bow my head    
The keepsakes, the neon doughnut worn around my neck and a memory of Start Me Up echoing in a sold out arena      
The afterparty and VIP backstage passes… looking sexy in that dress of lace and red    
     
Oh.. what a night,...    
RIP Charlie Watts you have been given those wings to now soar in flight

“A rolling stone gathers no moss.”  

charlie beat the hell out of skin  
        spilling not a drop of precious blood  
                membrane to his feet tamed the din  
                        of his passions raging like a flood  
 
                                paradiddle dreams crowned his head  
                                        bossa nova clavé poly rhyme  
                                                syncopation sycophant-bred  
                                                        of the gallantry of space and time  
 
charlie rode his hi hat to hell  
        landing on his polyrhythm couch  
                mozambique and french grip and bell  
                        proved the soul in him was no man’s grouch  
 
                                till the day he climbed from his stool  
                                        when his morning sun refused to rise  
                                                elegy of drums, soft and cool,  
                                                        phantoms of his music, fill the skies  
 
© Copyright 2021 September 07  
by Clyve A. Bowen♫