THE MONK MINGUS MOONLIGHT
In the circus mind of my dying spirit
I listen for the tinkling keys of Monk-
Yeah, Monk Mingus moonlight madness
I long to be, though tonight it’s a new
moon, meaning no moon and my madness
is on the prowl, not a touch of sadness
but metaphor to the glad hand of Monk
the pithy notes of Mingus (ah, um),
and me, together in our mad agony
as we crawl through acres of mud to
find the missing bright of the moonlight.
There are nights when
Sir Roland Hanna’s fingers,
so chubby, stubby, and wild,
seem to leave his hands and fly
off into icy piano frenzy.
R. Bremner hails from Glen Ridge via Lyndhurst, NJ. Ron writes of incense, peppermints, and the color of time in such journals as International Poetry Review, Passaic Review, and Shot Glass Journal. Some of his best Friday nights were spent at the bar of the Knickerbocker Lounge in NYC, grooving to Sir Roland Hanna.