Narrative

The music's a 
muse 
it conjures contemplation 
it's bittersweet 
as a grapefruit... 
(with tinges of sugarcane) 
The percussions, 
back rhythms 
are made for dancing 
lulling all to their 
feet 
while the horns 
are 
mysterious, 
melancholy... 
And these Caribbean sounds 
awaken visions 
of maracas, 
of turbaned women 
sashaying on bare feet 
and bongos 
worked by the callused hands 
of 
mahogany men. 
and smiling faces, 
sweat-sheened 
gleaming in the reflection 
of a tropical sun 
on teal waters. 
The women 
sway, 
their skirts move 
like the fronds 
of palms 
ruffled by 
a 
sultry 
breeze...

1950's Cubanesque