Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Saturday, November 26, 2011

Lepadah after the Drum March OWS


My Thursday, Friday, Saturday spent with family and friends. Some sane, some not you know how the Holiday's can bring out the Ebony hillbillies, country cousins, snobs, Bebe kids and the our elders who totally monopolize the day with complaints. But . . . I must admit the evening began with a hella smoke. Started with sprucing up the house, poured a nice big goblet (lol) of wine, proceeded to prep for Thursday. Completed all elements there of and started the ritual chopping of collards; washed, ready for the pot tada! stop! not that simple sister. Went to a neighbor for a meshed cook off, blew a little, drank some more wine and douse two ibuprofen. Returning to the nest to finished the collards which were I thought simmering on the stove. I don't remember how I managed to undress throw a sheet over the sofa and TKO. Well, I did just that forgetting all about the Holiday greens until I heard my name in the distance and the thumping at the door downstairs. Wow! this was a Cheech & Chong "Smokin" moment; as I woke slightly from a serious daze. Nonchalantly flounced to the kitchen turning the fire off and proceeded to walk in a float downstairs opening the door to witness security and a neighbor standing before me. Security "Is everything alright Miss?" without hesitation responded "of course, I'm just cooking." Closing the door and returning to my now burnt greens and a very smokey house. Very please with the final turn of events ended in a meticulously maintain Kente decorated table, fresh uprooted Autumn flowers from the front yard no money spent . . . replacing the collards for brussels sprouts. Cleaned the house thoroughly, lighting scented Apple/Cinnamon candles blending with the kitchen aromas of sage, thyme and other spices. A party of five scheduled to arrive just enough for my management and it was a great day after all. As Jazz filtered through out my important guest my daughter home for the Holiday. Thanksgiving is everyday one is able to witness another breath of life. Unfortunately this day was not such with all the violent events of our past which many history books have blatantly lied about. But I will reserve comment at point for further discussion another time.

Friday a day spent with my daughter. We made our way down to Zuccotti Park participating in the Drum March with Queen Mother and the OWS Protesters. Once again NYPD imposing presence was evident but "Power to the People." Big props for Occupy Oakland holding it down strong. Drop verses and did some taping over the weekend as well.

Peace all Lepadah

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

A Sunday, Sunday Kind of Day by Lepadah

It was one of those days
it was Saturday, no Sunday
walked the upper West side
but this time feeling very fine

stack steam streaming
from portholes in the street
giant jingle bells
spy the unlit Rockefeller Center Christmas tree

Saturday night fever strut
relaxing back on the axis
clock time hours past midnight
and I don't care
if dawn beats me to the door

only to be found standing naked
listening to water raining over lyrical jibber jabber
nothing else matters

with exception to empty drunk stomach's
meet at mama's inn
the distinguished friend
outfitted in jeans, turtle neck a wrapped shawl
mirrored gentlemen jeans, Pendleton spitting out an merino ascot

let's eat, be happy with our behavior
feast bowl of oat's
topped strawberries, blackberries, drizzle honey cream
potatoes pancake dalloped applesauce
one mug of coffee , one cup of coffee

please hold the progression of this day
there would be more to come
plenty of wine heterogeneous abaca

saddling aside
sliding a boney arm across hipbone
a Sunday, Sunday kind of day
there was runs to be made

accessing the PH
once locked into his world
"kiss me."

perfecto! drinks please . .. .
canvas rare Copenhagen, original Piccaso's
darlings strewn about
mad definition of purposeful clutter

the white room intensely lit
she straddle one leg
falling into his thigh
thump upon a baron
knotted cabal

stereophonic sounds Billie singing "My Yiddishe Mama."
one dark paranoia
kept eying the door
quick move slight of noise
satisfied answering her queries

no worry; we read Celine
pouring profusely over button accessory
drooling rage of wild laughter
improvising, reenacting vivid imagery

entrust book
as gift to a writer worth the salt
yes, yes dear one . .. .
fondle his hydroponic hands

subsequent steps akin to Siamese twins
"down for a ride."
drop to the other side
hang muse Gumi

his anatomizing anomaly of body head, hydro red
master kush, kush kush, bud and bubba
a serious strain of sour diesel and purple haze

just another Sunday, Sunday kind of day

© 2011 Lepadah

A Sunday, Sunday Kind of Day

From: kingbey (kingbey)
Last Visit: 12:14 PM
Posts: 82

To: lepadahxxx
Posted: Nov 23 11 10:45 AM

You go to the most fun places, and hang out with the coolest crowd, this walk was as much fun as the slow ride,  you always got good music, food and refreshments, my belly is full, and I'm feelin good, and had fun wathcing you and your crowd,  nice piece Lepadah.

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A Sunday, Sunday Kind of Day

From: 68degrees (68degrees)
Last Visit: Nov-27

To: lepadahxxx
Posted: Nov 23 11 09:36 PM

I spent six weeks in Manhattan a number of years ago. Used to walk on the West side from 120th down to Staten Island Ferry almost every day, sometimes twice a day.

I was there again after reading this. Thank you.


Saul Williams a serious Poet


Friday, November 18, 2011

In Other Words by Lepadah

In Other Words

Those piano keys
must be Monk tinkering at the light
awakening the we to early morning rhythms
slipping in-between slats
slit sunshine through his criss cross (pause)
over our souls new arrangements
abstract, architectural syllabus
Alpha to my Omega
you be the creator to our Pyramids
non other . . . than you lover
discover, uncover the principal
sought to walk away
but allow this love to re-lay
in other words . . .
if only for one day; per se
in other words . . . to convey
we are an air of cliche
so far removed from the rest of the world
flown, blown to celestial skies
"hear our love cries"
"hear our love cries"
sway me away
with trembling tambourines
chiming, echoed births of African spirituals
rocking you into tickled ivories, black and white
a micro nucleus burst jollying about
volley inborn; once shaded caliginous
lit by luminous liner notes and current berries
"Alleluia." the cry
balm of Gilead
snatching pearls to tempt reaping acquaintance
I yen for you . . . I yen for you
though the feelings are real
all the words that I say
all the words that I say
could not express how I feel . . .
simply ... could not express how I feel

© 2011 Lepadah


From: cumin (cumin)
Last Visit: 5:21 AM
Posts: 8112

To: lepadahxxx
Posted: Nov 18 11 07:29 PM

I have said this before...and I take those words back......this poem from you is now my favourite of all I've read from you.

So many splendid lines.... these ones especially......

"sway me away
with trembling tambourines"

thanks for the pleasure of reading yours.

From: kingbey (kingbey)
Last Visit: Nov-20

To: lepadahxxx
Posted: Nov 19 11 12:45 PM


That was a lovely song, and you say words could not express? Well, that was one beautiful instrumental, jazz instrumentals are my favorites, this poem too, I'm gonna go listen to this one again, and who knows, maybe today, per se, I could end up feeling that way. Nice piece Lepadah, nice.

In Other Words . . . Love / Spokenword

From: kingbey (kingbey)
Last Visit: Nov-21
Posts: 71

To: lepadahxxx
Posted: Nov 21 11 01:25 PM

Now that's somethin, don't run into too many E.D. fans, ur right, underappreciated, I first got into jazz in the avante garde era, and brothers like him, Ornette Coleman, Albert Ayler, not everybody could handle that, I first heard E.D. on I think a Trane album, Trane, Pharoah Sanders, Miles, were(are) favs, but yeah, like ed and monk, I'm jazz fanatic in general, sax in particular, Monk, u know, a monster, haha, that gives me a lot of insight into the way you write, haha, you play that kind of stuff, now I know why I like it so much, so keep playin that stuff, peace

From: 68degrees (68degrees)
Last Visit: Nov-21
Posts: 2723

To: lepadahxxx
Posted: Nov 21 11 08:04 PM

Anything that makes that connection to Jazz is okay by me.

I'll bet this sounds terrific being read...

In Other Words . . . Love / Spokenword
Nov 23, 2011 01:52:11 PM

Posted in Poetry
Subject: In Other Words . . . Love / Spokenword

Hi Lepadah, you are really something, I don't know if I've ever seen anything like you, you really blew my mind getting into the music, you done really messed up now (get the stimulants, you know what's up) you've really given me something to babble about now, music(jazz) is probably my deepest and most eduring love, seems like you love it too. About the last thing I ever expected to discuss on a poetry forum was Eric Dolphy, and it led to an enjoyable night of music for me. Really laid me out that you could be into someone like Dolphy, I entered jazz in the "out the box" era, and was so into it, that it took me years to appreciate classic jazz. Trane was the one that got it all started for me, where I first heard Dolphy and Pharoah Sanders. Anyway that's when I hit youtube last night and started with some Dolphy, ur right, one of many unappreciated geniuses around then, had mostly only heard him on bass clarinet accompanying others, at first, and had a couple on vinyl destroyed years ago, and hadn't listened to him in a while.. I don't know how familiar you are with Pharoah Sanders, but that is my man. He was lucky to outlive the others, and to me is one of the most unappreciated of all because he was sorta born in Tranes shadow, but carried on a lot of what the others were doing, like Dolphy, for decades, and I was on cloud nine when I heard one of his cuts that I hadn't heard, or had forgotten, called  "Our Roots Began in Africa" ooooo I love a wide range of stuff, but that, and maybe "(I)Got to have Freedom by Pharoah are what I call my mainline type jams, when I don't have time for the high to creep up ha ha, any way Lepadah you started all this by bring up Dolphy and telling me about your cool collection, so I thought since you are so nice, and so wonderful and kind(buttering u up) that you would share some of your other favorites with me and tell me a couple of cuts that really take you out, you might be turning me onto something I'm not hip to. Any way, I'm not a whole lot into the pilgrim stuff, but have a wonderful day, holiday, and weekend, and please get back when u get time about more on your collection and your ultimate get-off stuff, and thanks for not cussing me out by now, ha ha, peace       Mick ;


Hello Mick,

So glad and appreciative of your comments. Listen I've had a love affair with classic Jazz since I can remember. I grew up listening to my father playing the Blues, jamming to Parker, Mingus, Monk, MIles, Dolphy, Bud Powell, Jazz Messengers, Clark Terry and BLOW DiZZY, Lester Young, baddest drummer ever Chick Webb lol damn the list goes . . . on. Most of which my mother totally disagree with Jazz and Blues being played in the house reference them as junkies hey it is what is. But I would shake at any sound that moved my soul and fell in love with Jazz so bad I could not wait to hit the clubs in the Village and I did. With regards to Pharoah Sanders shit (stop playing) a baddddd jazz man outside the box and when he did Equinox whoa blew me away just like Coltrane take on it but Pharoah took it to a experimental height. These artist were visionaries with a beautiful intelligent twist on music, art and life. My heart belongs to Coltrane's "Acknowledgment", Miles "Bitches Brew", Wow some of the greats I had the privilege of hearing is Roy Hayes which I secretly video taped at the Blue Note. I stumbled upon Art Blakey one lonely night stepped into Sweet Basil and there he was beating the hell out those drums and only four other people in the joint years ago, Clark Terry, Reggie Workman, Dr. Billy Taylor . . . endless. One of the fondest memory was when my father singing Arthur Prysock song "I Worry About You" to me when I was little; I never ever forgot his duplicate voice reverberating in me. Listen enjoy this day off even though my thoughts about Thanksgiving is a misgiving and disillusion. But please enjoy.

Peace Blessing Lepadah

Thank you Lepadah, I am so glad to know you, and that was a journey like I've never experienced, you are so blessed, and are so free with your blessings, enjoy the holiday, that was a musical journey like I have never taken, and I thought I knew some jazz, but damn, my sistah, I bow to you, over there in New York talking about being in places, and seeing people, that I have only known on album covers, WOW! But thanks for taking time to tell me all that, I really, really, enjoyed it, and I'll talk to you soon, peace and love, mick

Cool Like Dat


Tuesday, November 15, 2011

WORDS could not fully express the Luv that I FEEL 4 U 11/17 by Dr Rok | Blog Talk Radio

WORDS could not fully express the Luv that I FEEL 4 U 11/17 by Dr Rok | Blog Talk Radio

Chime into Dr. Roks ... Computer Luv show tonite @ 8pm cst/9pm et ... Topic ... WORDS could never express the Luv I have 4 U ... CoHosted by Poetess Lepadah ... call in # 718.508.9018 ... CU There on the KKMT Radio Network ... @ ...

Monday, November 14, 2011



Tuesday, November 15, 2011 3:19 AM

"Larry Mayfield" Editor/Creative Conscious


About the author Lepadah

Words. Universally expanding outward beyond known possibilities. Spatial sporadic coagulations forming paratactic fragments. A collective archetypal inheritance expounds in the form of connected notions.
An equal expansion within. Unconscious forces seeking wholeness—the mystery of soul. Waves of resonance vibrate inward where emphasis and essence and imagination infinitely flow.
An artist’s self-sculpted personified effigy—words—shape into a finely contoured poet. Congregating episteme, a curious questioning method of elenchus seeks resolutions, just as the tightrope walker balances on the high wire sensually straddling calm and chaos, between truth and belief, encompassing reality and illusion…
Between the lines, a marinating alphabet soup of thought. Provoking pieces of nourishment, a literary tarantula translates. Spoken and unspoken images merge into discovery of repertoire as an ensemble waits in anticipation of dramatic performance, in other words, performance poetry, per se.
In lyrical soliloquy, a presentation of balanced, heart-felt harmony—prose and poetry—in other words…Le Per se.

Pussy Toes Poetry



Hare Krishna






Frida Kahlo love this woman



Couple of all time my fab Artist



Romare Bearden



Beautiful Souls









Friday, November 11, 2011

Arrived at the Court Square Diner around 8:25 am for breakfast and quiet time before work. Looking over my photos I took at ptz building earlier the graffiti writers did a fantastic job on Run DMC Jam Master J. The artist slam hard on this building unbeli

Arrived at the Court Square Diner around 8:25 am for breakfast and quiet time before work. Looking over my photos I took at ptz building earlier the graffiti writers did a fantastic job on Run DMC Jam Master Jay. The artist slam hard on this building unbelievable work from artist all over the world. Finish breakfast peace everyone enjoy the sunshine.

Thursday, November 10, 2011

Poor. . .verty, I'm Gonna Put a Face on This by Lepadah

Poverty Put a face on this
finding every corner turning ash burn
tossing bodies out into the lost and found
pushed out impoverished cubbyholes
where not enough is just not enough

I'm gonna put a face on this
we are the proletariats
clash against Philistines
they keep on coming
they keep on pressing
testing how low can you go
before you blow

it's no illusion this deliberate confusion
we're going through
a Biafra right here in America

I'm gonna put a face to this word
poor verty . . . poverty not one race
it's a human thing
an oppress thing; the haves and the have not
it's a condition cause by greed
need to bleed a society

a socioeconomic thing
political, class thing
where children's stomachs are never full
growing growls tattling of hunger

poverty is not fare
neither is welfare
but we all been there; or soon will be

poverty I'm gonna put face to this word
the miserable cycle of revolving doors
shuffling homeless through city shelter's
stratifying us from the rest
label you a loser

I'm gonna put a face on this thing called poverty
starting with me
I may not be the classification A
but I'm certainly B just below
awaiting the threshold

stole some guts
swallowed pride
held onto every bit just to get by
so they called my name
holding back the shame
I discover there was none

collected the check
signature to paper
in hand a benefit card
step to door and own my dignity
went to the nearest supermarket for food to feed my babies

poverty is knowing the elderly
can no longer afford food
where pensions, social security is just not enough
it's just simply not enough

government taxing us to death
foreclosures, irreconcilable debt
so we all gather together
millions disenfranchised
holding hands, sing "We Shall Overcome."
beat the tom tom's

monopolize the dreamer's of Zuccotti Park

Poor verty I'm gonna put a face on it . . .

© 2011 Lepadah

Monday, November 7, 2011

Message to Lover by Lepadah

Message to Lover

Our amaranthine presage
broadcasting Mile's kinda blue
with ancient ambidexterity
she left love waiting
sacrificed in a glacial heart

devoted to our love lie
easy say for an easy lay
pussy is so relevant
"I love you." ah huh . . .
arranged in each one's arms
bestir to noticeable light
bid you some sugar "good bye."

continue to ecstasize this masquerade
earmark distant lover
you are one of many
"did she jest confess?"
excuse the pun
why not go tell em
tell him your true

the night other's held onto your breast
sucking the life out of them leaving one a willow
weeping/bleating in the motor inn

next time tell how she drained that cock
donning it supreme fountain to all life
leaving a string of Blowfly songs; to sing along
right after we both said "I love you."

ah huh . . . go on baby tell em

you know "I love you." ha ha

© 2011 Lepadah

Thursday, November 3, 2011

A Slow Drive By by Lepadah

Apart from tenements, clothes line
stoop side characters
drive by; drive thru
rows of Queen Anne's
Mother, Daughter
Dutch, English tudors
gas lit Harwich Port lampposts
removed replicas from piccadilly circus

attache' full of Woody . . .
organically grown
never expected; well protected
flame to her black and mild cigar
blowing stacks to Toots brilliance
"Breakfast at Tiffany's"
we are so inconspicuous

go ahead babe . . . capture the crescent
ornament in the sky with no string
"amazing!!!" are you high?
let's do that drive by
Eddie's Sweet Shop

drop offs, pick ups
under eggshell hues
this is my friend
a wise guy and one millionaire
she is a poet; a friend of mine
we all laugh
out of our slick corner mouth's
narrow lies; twisted trues

forget Armani suits
he rather wear lee jeans; mountain boots
his Bushmaster AR-15 just in case we have to blow this gig

gather inside Pampas
a round table crowded hot pans shellfish, chicken paella
Argentine beef, oil fused wild mushrooms bedded scalloped smooth potatoes
now we eat, drink wine, pontificate
political rhetoric funding anew revolt
with Wall Street Occupied
under siege by the 99%
there she sits with the 1%

a poor poet
sourcing undercurrents of illegal interest
an evening where money really matters . . .

© 2011 Lepadah