Poetry by Roger Singer

May 26th, 2013





Over them, absorbed within them,
was the cloak of song,
their curtained driving souls; a silver green
reflecting glass of running fingers
and wide smiles, breaking barriers down;
these were the “mens” of jazz.

Warm nights and lazy fat breezes
push the music hard to the under surface
of heaven;
high heels and stockings bless the earth

Rusted wrought iron gates. Long windows,
naked of shades. A black cat owns
the paths within shadows. A green cheese moon
winks silver onto cobblestone streets,
as the “mens” keep then beat.



The confluence of river bottom
and blue ocean
bedded equally
in turbulent silent currents.
Rich warming mud and the salt of man
became the engine pulsing
of a crescent city.

Late lights in Storyville whispered lust;
Magnolia burned fragrances into the
cloth of jazz.

The Eureka band stirred the dead,
raising dust; eternal rest sleeps above
ground, absent of snakes.

Horns blow night into dark.
Shadows prevail beneath masks of delight.





There was a lightness in is hands.
The rhythm of his walk set
correct the stride for others.
His voice created a wave of motion,
forcing bookends to release their

His sound weakened church bells
honoring heaven; patient hands
sooth away deep lines on troubled faces.
His jazz filled corners, freeing
dust into new adventures.

His silence released strength;
words circled near the surface
of his reach.
His listening was a rich garden
where friend’s grew.




Others punish the air, kicking it about,
filling corners with unfulfilled oaths,
speaking names of the dead,
cursing the living.
Unlike the bitter crust of them,
she pulls the air to her
like a beach welcoming a wave
or a child surrendering to sleep.
Once inside her, the air expands
into a brilliant glory of being found,
roaming freely in the halls of her beauty;
the depth of an earthly heaven.
From corners shadows resign.
Streams of hope fill spirits of loss.
Her air brought change to the jazz.



Disorder, like a carpet of snakes,
hissed and twisted at alligator
shoes with a lustful snapping
thirst. Sweaty satin faces lathered
under selfish low beating lights
holding back on its brightness,
encouraging darkness and sins.
Warnings of heat drive fast in
rivers of dance, feeding tight empty
stomachs full of greed. The pull of jazz
is a flattering spirit of air,
deepening the wrinkles of life.
Hands dance above heads, lightened
by a sway of seaweed flesh.
A sweet beating of the insides
rises from the musicians, releasing
hard black recipes onto a
midnight moon spreading fat.





The crowd, a mass of willing flesh,
absorb the fire of his sound.
Their greed is unsatisfied, unquenched,
burning with the blood of dance;
it warms cool air.

The man with great voice tastes his words,
releasing thoughts from corners and
shadows, spreading the jazz, bandaging
the hurt in the crowd.

Passionate flames of night drip like
frontons weeping from a days passing sun,
as hands gather the mood of night
into a basket full of fallen stars.

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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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