Poetry by Roger Singer

May 26th, 2013





The words spoke
The passion into me
As I absorbed the sounds of the band,
No longer seeing them work their fingers,
As the motion of their drive
Stirred heavy within me.

Wallpaper wept,
Curling over from the corners
Where dust and cigarette smoke
Wilted into the dark
Like the faint aroma
From a first kiss.

The song directed my desires
Like a flag planted by the army of jazz,
Conquering me as a new land
To obey the call
Of its demand.





Her many lives
Wilted from the
Rose of her lips
Forming shadows
Of good and evil
As they passed through
Or possessed her.

Songs with baptism
Sprinkled the heads
Of listeners
Softening souls
With a great pulling
Of stories
She revealed.

Her eyes exposed
Black and long
Of her past
And the miles
It took to bring
The jazz out of her
Without loosing a




The stage
Is his plate
Full of meal
Hungry for him
To consume.

He sits kingly
On a stool
Touched with old paint
As his new pants
Warm to its place.

Shiny and scuffed
Black shoes,
One untied
The strings snaking
With sleep,
The other secure
Like his hands.

He passionately
Lips the sax
Cradled close
Like a fire
Warming up
As he blows
The fury of a





Someone from the ocean
Of faces
Flowing within the crowd
Yelled up to the band
“Give us the bass”
To the man
With shades leaning
Hat tilting toward the floor
At his smooth
Brightly shinned shoes
Reflecting the image
Of a man strong
With fingers waiting
About the next song
Where he and he alone
Walks the notes
To the stars
Grabbing pieces
Of a dark heaven
Pulling it,
Shoving it,
Jamming it
Into his soul
Where his hands
Release it
Into the space
He has made.





Of his faith
Played pearly
On the valves
Where release
Filled full
The need of

He pulled in
Like storms
Absorbing warm air
Then driving it
Out and away
Pushing down
Soaking everyone.

I feel the pain
Set forth
From fingers
Following a voice
Running deep
Inside of him,
Stretching with
The want of reach,
He finds me
Wherever I go.

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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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