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by michal jones

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Taint of the haint-saint hangs
on air in the stairwell of his passing,
filigrees life lines
etched in youngest’s flesh –
Pops’ reach on conga’s rind.

Pops palms a stopped heart
back to work,
reaches through
that treacherous time,
spits, sweats, shines
til metal rims
reflect his father’s resurrected eyes.

Pops props drums
cradled in kneecaps,
raises ghosts to dance among us.
People of the park – his congregants –
arrive rhythmless, fall upon it,
Shook shook shaking.

Pops conguero
dip-trips the flat lines,
gives us
pulse pulse
slaps til
raw hands
raw heart
don’t ache.
Pulse pulse -
His father’s.
Pulse pulse –
His own.

© Copyright 2019


released December 6, 2019
Poetry: Michal Jones
Congas: Marcus Jones
Cajón: Jared Jones
Clave: Jaden Jones


all rights reserved



michal jones Oakland, California

Story through lyrics and melodies.
I was born into a musical household and have been handed the gift of songwriting - music and writing have always been my avenues of expression and creativity.
Get to know me through these words.

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