Poetry by Roger Singer

May 26th, 2013







The dirt of jazz
roams like roads under his skin.
He feels the change
of his blood to hot.
Listeners drip words from warm
High collars and smooth
talk rolls off chairs
of night wisdom.
Eyes breathe in
an appetite of full.
A piano dresses the air
with diamonds.
Voices long like ribbons
pull at the past,
exposing places of rest.
Sleep walks with a
blanket nearby.
He pushes slumber to a
back pocket where
weakness cannot
be heard.





He speaks from the blood life.
His words live on the strings
of a guitar.
Sounds open his wounds.
Without healing there is spirit.

Thoughts crawl like snakes
escaping fire, rustling the dirt,
striking fear in the weak and unsure;
he is steady with a granite
position, grounding his past.

His tongue snaps the whip of words.
The flesh weeps.
Buttons fall to the floor. An unshaven
face holds council in wisdom.

The jungle knocks at his door.
He taps a beat to the sounds.
Strangers are the family he owns.





A spasm of notes attacked
the air like lions roaring;
a music unable to
Diamonds flash from fingers
and golden smiles
bring water to a desert
of dry words.
Jazz lifts the eyes
as the room receives a
swelling of flesh.
Chairs hold and tables serve
new listeners
fashioned in
black and white.
The walls absorb the beat
of change.
Sun glasses
hide what lays buried
beneath the skin.





Back room guitars breathe out
shadows from corners.

Men with hats tipped over cigarettes
string out songs of love
under porch lights.

Beer loses its flavor as songs rise
under fingers with heat.

Slapping soles of shoes kick life
onto sawdust floors;
the dust lifts with respect.

A woman laughs, twisting her pearls.
Her eyes crawl the room like
a spider.

The beat builds the room under song.
Strong is the foundation of desire.





The red wine of youth fills her eyes.
Braided golden hair possess
my weakness;
entwined strands casually seek my surrender.

Her sandaled foot points at me.
Language without words pulls my
inner strings.
Suitcases of thoughts open in hallways
long abandoned.

I dawned with light jealous over her.
Scented sheets bathe her skin.
I spin in the web she owns.
She is the jazz of the song.




He was a piece of the cut.
A flavor owned only by him.
A texture strong with appetite
for jazz.

He unlearned the learned notes,
creating sounds born between lines;
the pain of blues raised its head
from him.

He chiseled music from stone;
a weight without thinness of color.
Calloused hands formed his youth.

Morning enters lightly on his work.
He sets the standards
before day is full.

The tongue of the moon slips him
words at night.

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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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