Poetry by Roger Singer

May 26th, 2013



It is the
Becoming of me;

like leaves green
and rain wet.

It is the
Becoming of me;

pain with love.
satin and whiskey.
losing the winnings.
lipstick and cigarettes.

It is the
Becoming of me;

neon arrows pointing
sidewalk shoes
into paths of hell.

It is the
Becoming of me;

the up of down.
tears with night.
hope during storms.

It is the
Becoming of me;

My jazz.





He’s got the licks.
The owner of healing.
Spreading the salve.
Anointing with fire.
Cooling with slow hands.
The man done got his jazz
up to fast.

He breaks the night.
Busting the stars.
Sending streaks falling;
Fireworks of notes.
The earth rounds out the flats,
filling needs full of wants.

His tapping foot.
A heartbeat of song.
Warm lips; the open window
Of his words.
His eyes stretch dark;
thinning the space,
releasing the message.



The notes,
Bandaged and suitcased
In river of rhythms
Flowed in his head
Forming great circles of
Softened into loose
Finger snapping
Waterfalls of jazz.

A crescent moon,
Deep brown, calling from
Bayou water,
Stirs thirsty hearts
And clapping hands
Into bright and lively
Wings of flight.

Dusty feet. Long walked miles.
Wooden steps creak a
Welcoming nod. Faces melt with
Shadows as curtains flutter.
A breeze of escape
Sits at the bar.




Fingers point from heaven.
Rivers run brown with swirl.
City lights burn sun hot,
when the groove gets on him.

Black hat tipped.
Hands speak the music.
Called up from caldrons of his youth;
stormy clouds, red clay, a guitar
slapped for soul.

Back porch chair. A lazy swing
creaks with age. Smoky cigarette eyes
see the waters of baptism.
Its high tide for jazz.




Across the alley, a deep night
holds the soul of dark.

From a weathered paint peeling
fire escape, straight with unforgiving,
two children, angel eyes fired with youth,
listen to rising jazz; cool air sends smoke
signals of music out screened windows and

Arms and legs mark the swing.
Hands and feet share the lindy
onto walls, hard with life.

Across the alley, spirited faces
capture a sight.
Their lips softly whisper.
Hearts pound the drums.
Fingers point
at shadow dancers.



He played a long line of cool.
Ivories softened into a flat world.
The universe circles his sound.
He is the center.
Stars look onto him.

Smoky storms from cigarettes roll
into faces.
Lips breed lusty eyes of

Smooth skin begs attention;
piano songs oil the hinges of souls.
A beat of life
hammers the bang in him.

Fingers run the deck.
Sails fill full of his wind.
The piano pirate captures

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2 comments on “Poetry by Roger Singer”

  1. Roger has a feel for Jazz–the sound, the music, tempo and jargon. Each of his poems grind out the message in resounding tones. If he is not a Jazz aficionado (which I suspect he is), he has a knack for extracting the marrow from the music he hears!

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