GASPING FOR AIR
The band pushed
A sound
Blowing me to a
Standstill,
As the floor owned my feet,
Holding them fast
Into a stop.
The sound crawled
Into the soul of me,
Lighting up fires,
Spreading a
Whiskey warmth
Within my chest
Capturing my breath.
The music;
Jazz all tied up with pain,
Gave light to my person,
Exposing parts
Long abandoned,
Pulling these things within me
To the surface,
Gasping for air.
MY FORGETS
The dark of the
Club
Brought up and spit
Out
The evils of my
Forgets,
The empty place you
Left
Without me packed at your
Side.
Whiskey and ice cool me
Weakly
From your ghostly
Image
In the corners of my
Head
Where shadows cower
Yet respond
To my
Name.
The jazz wrings tight the
Soul
Still washing you
Out,
As I sit here drowning
Sweetly
In the booze while closing my
Eyes
Seeing
The face of you.
PULLING AT ME
It builds me
Into such a
Hot
When the coals
Of the blues
Shatter me
With a showering
Opening parts of me
Pulling out
The hiding
Of the stars and sun
Buried in the
Dirt of
Where I been
Covered by the
Tears of
Miles and highways
Where I put it
Until those
Jazzy notes
Kick open the
Doors
Rolling out
Like the tires
On my car
Picking me up
With lazy loving
Eyes
Removing me
To the places
I never been
Or coming back
From.
FINDING ITS OWN
The music
Sweet and long
Fell trapped
In the moment
Swirling fat and
Brown
Like rivers
Powerful with push
Greeting with respect
The notes released
Telling a story
Of the
Ups of down
And the down of
Being up too
Long
As the sound
Rolled around
Speaking soft
Finding its own
Way into
The wide horizon
Of people
Listening for
The call of
Jazz.
SHINY AND SCUFFED
The stage
Is his plate
Full of meal
Hungry for him
To consume.
He sits kingly
On a stool
Touched with old paint
As his new pants
Warm to its place.
Shiny and scuffed
Black shoes,
One untied
The strings snaking
With sleep,
The other secure
Like his hands.
He passionately
Lips the sax
Cradled close
Like a fire
Warming up
As he blows
The fury of a
Storm.
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!
And a last name like “Singer”–what else would one expect?