BY AMANDA HOPE

Tah, Ticka, Tah, Ticka, Tah, Ticka, Tah…
Rhythms reminiscent of African tribal drums
Bahdeebeeduhhh… Bahdeebeeduhhh… Bahdeebeeduhhh…
The cadence of melodic keys in black and ivory
Buhdidleedoodaa… Buhdidleedoodaa… Buhdidleedoodaa…
Ferocious blasts of sharp sounds emerging from tubes of brass
This is the sound of my soul
This is the sound of Jazz

Half and Quarter notes are words of poetry despite the omission of letters
Producing the harmonies of the Mo’ Better
Hot summer nights on the steps and porches of Bronzeville,
Bring memories of Miles Davis’ “Summertime” breezing through the shabby apartment windows
Giving more satisfaction than Lakeisha’s sugary lemonade

Can’t forget about those Chi-town winters that devastate the happiest of spirits
But those soothing carols of Ella Fitzgerald are warm enough to melt even the coolest of cats

Inspiration suffocates the atmosphere making it not so hard to breathe and believe how my pen just bleeds to the reed of Sonny Rollins’ saxophone.
Comprehending every note as though it were a thousand words that I’ve heard from Langston…
Hughes from heart skip beats like an old record player, just as anxious to hear more
This insatiable feel allows me to deal, to aspire, to write

Tah, Ticka, Tah, Ticka, Tah, Ticka, Tah…
Rhythms reminiscent of African tribal drums
Bahdeebeeduhhh… Bahdeebeeduhhh… Bahdeebeeduhhh…
The cadence of melodic keys in black and ivory
Buhdidleedoodaa… Buhdidleedoodaa… Buhdidleedoodaa…
Ferocious blasts of sharp sounds emerging from tubes of brass
This is the sound of my soul
This is the sound of Jazz