Lady Blues Jacqueline Amos's Page

When I think about the blues the ninety century, often think about the struggle of black power, and the banners upon there arms, and the corners of seventh avenue, and the juke joints and t he night in Harlem, and the blues serenest, but yet I think about the blow your horn, and the dizzy Gillespie who played the southern songs. A symposium on poetry, and jazz that featured the greasy hair, the pen stripe suits, and lady sings the blues, down on seventh avenue the performance cried, bring back black pride, I often reflect on the times, Fat domino who played the key board, and the sweat of his brow, sing black boy, as your key board flow, Sarah von steps out into the crowed, I knew she was genuinely please, strutting her style, all those ladies in their conform style, never missed the flower in her hair,
As the lady song the blues although his awkward walk and stilted gestures reflected the physical pain she was trying so hard to hide, She was a lady in deed, crying the pain, from her heart, oh in this misery of preformatted pain, and the tears that cried, as the joy she spread, perforated suicide as she cried for help, under the code of black jazz, hiding the pain. I also remember, bitter sweet, a symposium of black jazz, featured in the cry, my man he doesn’t love me treats me oh so mean. The nature of jazz, with its Anesthesia of musical and literary innovations, " is an arbitrary term at best and that allusions to jazz/blues. The day that lady died, t he ultimate confusion of pain, the soul cannot stay within the body, if it is subsided with overwhelming pain. In this mist of blues, the conception of history, that contemns the summary of slow death, but the spirit of its cause continue to live, for the voices from the grave, continue to sing, the songs of Billy Holliday, the mist of the blues. the seemingly immortal Lady Day, is gone. Through out this symmetry of blues, the soul creates emotions, of the struggles, just to stay alive, the pain and the suggestions of survival in the 19th century, to perform under all cause, it has be the struggles of those who un fold a ladder that we shall climb, never forgetting the shoulders that stood, for those to climb, the mastery of greatness.

The solitude of greatness, the death of white powder, the intimacy just to stay alive, oh the white poison, to float on clouds, And the devil who lived within, the sterilize needlepoint of death, as it retrieve greatness through the vain. The indoctrination of slave to jazz, under all odds must be played; treated less than a man, and the blues junkies, who continued

o befoul, the greatness of musicians, nevertheless they took it as a man. A plate of freedom, a moment of freedom shall enhance the liberties that have been generated through the blood of those who you stand upon their shoulders of greatness, a cup of antipathy shall enlighten all those things, of greatness that lives within you, the saddle of a warriors, proclamation that can only be, subscribed through your DNA. Oh by yet the mountains of yearnings that great endowment shall leave, prescriptions of great wealth. But oh the fistful yearning shall forever win the battles of its cause. The shield of tears, shall be.

The tears of joy, implemented through the struggles and hardships, that one day be your glory. Oh this list less journey, purpose by the struggles and commitment of change, shall bring forth great witness upon the world. Oh shields of laughter shall smile, when the journey was granted though sweat and tears. Oh but a penny is not gold, and a nickel is not silver, but the struggles of a warrior is worth a diamond of its hard work and achievement of self and soul. The burning buildings, and t he gun shot rings, the planted death chants, that live upon your door, but I shall rise in the morning, as those before me, the ghettos of the slave masters reformat, is not much different today, oh the chains are heavy upon my mind, and the weight have challenged my spiri