Poetry by Roger Singer

May 26th, 2013




An open sound
of notes
thawed with heat
what was cold
and deep with loss
with waves
of warmth
from fans
in heaven
rolling to the ground
turning over
knocking around
a sound
birthed as jazz
and rich with blood
pumping and breathing
finding a breath
speaking with voice
like bread rising
the sound grew
feeding and re-feeding
until it stood
tall and walked
heavy throughout
the land
where it lives
and grows
note by note.




A thickness of quiet pulled
At the slowing of air, begging to be filled.
A big muddy of thoughts spread
Over the crowd, like the water
They were; wet collars, sweaty palms.

A low tide of moving hands
Struck a line of strings,
Releasing songs too heavy for corners,
To bright to hide.

The jazz has stolen him. A wall of faces
Protects the gold within his fingers.
All songs have felt the travel of his hands;
The ebb and flow, the start without finish.




The jazz on her lips colored red
the songs.
A blue spirited voice found wings
in her throat;
gold forms from clapping hands.

Lights pale under the diamonds
of her face;
lonely eyes find a palace of rest
in her.

The sickness of hearts, burdened dark,
escape through the sea she opens.

Muscled messages flex from the bow
of her raised arms, releasing a passage
for all.

She holds the key.





The back porch creaks of age
as feet press a voice from its surface.
A song from a guitar keeps time
with the sway of lazy moss.
Crickets hungry for noise, satisfy
the appetite of their energy.

Dusty shoes got the soul of tapping,
slapping the ground with the beat of toes
and heels; music brushes their hair
as they set back with whiskey cooling
under their skin.

The sad closed eyes of a dog waiting
for death to throw the last stick,
lifts a crooked tail when his masters
guitar breathes a song on him.




Campfires of demons circled behind her

A whirlpool of lies scratched the ceiling,
dripping of her past.

The shake of her hips walking breeds lust
in preachers.

Fashionable fingers of want require her gift;
no jewels
plant her feet.

An ocean of blue in her chest storms the
onto beaches of faces,
washed by her.





A fit of smoke rallied me,
gusting a breath from a
wilting mouth;
night arms pull at me.

Grizzled lights mooned into
the mist of hands, splashing faces
into a beating dance.

Red lips thirst
for the earth of
brown whiskey;
diamonds of ice
beg to heat the lust
smoldering to burn.

Like autumn pulling
an end to summer,
the jazz reaches the front door
of my eyes; blinking open
I walk with owning.
This is all mine.

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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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