Poetry by Roger Singer

May 26th, 2013



Long sweeping
Colorful satins full
With soulful faces
Fill the air with
Motion and magic.

Dancers play
To the sounds
Cresting on high
Then caress
The softness of low.

Fingers shake
Awake with praise
Like sleeping sinners
Full on apples
Spitting out seeds.

Run long the sound,
The jazz,
The breath,
Whispering sweet
My name.




The bass player
Was full
  Of the night
  And shadows
Of dark.

Spirits with
Emotion jumped
  From his
Sliding into ears
Where bones
Like unanswered

In a storm
Of winds running
  Wild from
  His fingers,
He draws a
Picture of
Wringing it
From his



His hat
Leaned into low
Over shaded eyes
With sharpness….

Like knives
  Fighting flesh
Weak to the push.

The brim
Tight with pointing
Suggested a path
Though not always
Where he should go….

Divided roads
  Like jazz
Called to him.

A sweaty line
Proved his work
Of music jumping
From his fingers
Kissing the strings….
Lusty lips
  Hold a cigarette
Wild with smoke.





Wisdom reached
Down heavy
Ignoring the
Dark brooding
On earth’s face.

Mighty power
Touched heavenly
Long black
Dancing fingers
With a dream.

A fat willing
Wooden bass
Fell in love
With the hands
Of his youth.

His jazzed sounds
Leaned strong
Pushing sweet
His voice
Through strings.




The music reached
With arms
Hungry to hold,
Drugged with need
To wash over
Like heavy rain
Those within reach.

Strong undercurrents
Flooded out
Of horns and
Slid from strings
Mapping paths
Onto waves
Rough and rocky.

Through smoky air
Arms swam
And legs kicked
Lifting the jazz
Shoulder high
Like Cleopatra
Owning the land.




Lights of night
Blink like
Stars there
Up on the
Hill of
Where music
Rolls fat
Down to
Waters edge
Soaking ears
Into smiling
Willing souls
As they cool
Tired feet
In the muddy
Dark silky
Quiet currents
Flowing with
The power
Like the jazz
Rushing down
To them
From on high
Like morning
When arms
And legs
Stretch hard
Shaking sleep
Into awake
As the song
Helps you kick
The blues
Right out
The door.




The piano man
Got no
Shake for
Those fingers.

Working notes
Jump walls
Like thieves
Stretching long
To escape.

Hungry air
Yields like
Trees caught
In storms
Tilting hard.

Roulette sound
Got no stop
When spinning
Into jazz
Up and out.




The juice
Of apples
Got no
Hold over
What makes
The jazz
Breathe bold
And not some
Windy city
Towers reaching
To the moon
Or Frisco bay
Winking at hills
Where houses
Tilt like the
Bass mans
Sizzling strings
Can not
To Bourbons
Marching feet
And horns lipped
By lovers
Of sound
And windows
Wide open
Letting loose
Notes up flying
Through streets
Under stars
Shinning with
Big on the

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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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