Poetry by Roger Singer

May 26th, 2013





Lively notes
Buzzed with jazz
Stir the crowd
Like chipped ice
Warming close
To whiskey and lust.

Stocking thighs
Welcome fingers
Warm with rhythm
Playfully searching
For a path
Where the music
Finally delivers.

The noisy skin
Of the snare
Rattles the bones
While ivory licks
Tease the sax
To run long
Past the moon.




Swirling breezes
Push hard
With jumpy
Hurricane winds
Slapping fast
Like mosquitoes
Flying round
Sticky music
Buzzing wild
In your head
That can’t
Be trapped
Like a
You just
Can’t reach
With itchy
Fat fingers
So instead
You start
To hum
And make
A way
For the song
To dig
A hole
In your brain
To jump
Right in
Where jazz
Lives smooth.



Rising golden
And draining warm
Onto painted houses
And wooden wharfs,
Long streaks of sun
Touch Coit’s tower
And sacred hills.

Down on Fillmore
And Columbus with class,
Where jazz sits
Strong and grows,
Pulling like lines
Of hungry fish
Snapping at sourdough.

Across the
Golden arms
And from the south,
Stray cats
Slip from Monterey
With artichoke eyes
To Frisco streets.

Once fed
The food of soul
Ears return
Thirsty for beats,
Bringing fingers
And shoes to tap,
By the bay.



Under a limitless
Black sky
Where night stars
Blink bright,
A single horn
Stretches with sound.

Long breezes
Breath short
With respect
For the brassy air
Drowning in ears
Of jazzy souls.

From the altar
Of a back porch
A man presses
A righteous sound,
Bringing the moon
To its knees.

The open stillness
Of a full night
Lays flat
In stark repose,
Lacking response
To the horns voice.



Powder dusted
With gold
And perfume
Melts sweet
And mixes in
The heat of
Jazzy stew
Where feet
Speak with
Slip and slide
Like clouds
Filled with
Noisy rain
Bursting to
Run free
Like music
Flowing rich
In waves
Knocking on
The doors
Of hungry ears
And eyes
Lusting for
The thirst
Of horns
Bubbling full
And spilling
Hot onto
Wide open
Willing souls
Sweating to
That fill
To the top.



A tidal voice
Rich with waves
Like the ocean
Spreading evenly,
Forcefully recedes
Into low depths
Mixing jazz and pain.

With each breath
A sequined dress
Sparkles without stop,
Like passing stars
On velvet black,
Void of beginning,
Shinning to end.

A singing spirit
Moans and sighs
Begging the music
To use all
Of her
As she bends
A tired head
As if death won.

The band rests
Watching her like
A breathing
Throbbing train
Refueling its strength
In silent thought,
Then steams to life.

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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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