EARNING THE PAIN
Ears grasped
For the
Message
In her sound
Dripping hard
And heavy
With soul
Preaching
A righteous
Pain she
Earned from
Long nights
And bad kisses
Where
Tired eyes and
Wrong desires
Begged for
The shelter
Of a soft
Shoulder
Listening to
Broken dreams
Rupturing from
The darkness
Of her burdens
As the jazz
She carries
Drains from
Her.
GREATER AND STRONGER
A righteous slam
From busy hands
Stung the cymbals
Into sizzle
Driving the air
Crazy
With sound like mice
Scrambling,
Scratching to
Escape into
Unknown parts
Delivering the noise
As the music
Banged with beats
And snapped
From fingers wild
Like jungle animals
Smelling smoke
And scattering
From danger
Seeking shelter
While sparks
Of jazz fell
Burning a message
Greater and stronger
Than the wet
Of water.
THAT DAMN HORN
From the end
Of that horn
That brassy cool
Boiling over
Fat steaming
Vault of notes
Runs the pain
That makes you
Wakes you
Sets you on
Your feet.
It’s the blood
Of jazz
Flowing like rivers
From a soul
Bruised with love
Hurt with smiles
From eyes
Deep with want
And fingers hungry
With reach.
Blow that horn
And let the people
Fall under
Your breathing spell
Of music
Welling up
Big with bold
Burning sweet
Long into night
As stars
Bow to you.
WITH EYES CLOSED
She lay flat
And captured
By the unfolding
Waves of jazz
Rolling with pounding
Onto her face
With eyes closed
Her soul stumbles
Blindly in
A storm of music.
Thundering drums
Call her, lead her
Into a jungle
Deep where hands
And arms like hers
Lift up into
Loud air
Tumbling the notes
With fingers
As they pass.
Her head and hair
Drift with sway,
Loving the place
She is in.
BODYING UP
The air split to
Open
Cut fast
By notes
Hot like knives
Slipping through butter
As the band
Bright with shining
Brassy with gold
Brought the weight
Of sound
Heavy onto ears
Of dancers
Bodying up
Their arms reached with hold
And fingers grasped with tight
As legs alighted
Into the heat
Of a jazzy fire
Lifting up and over
Like hands praising
And waking
Sleeping angels
On heavens high watching the jive
Smoothly release below
Under a fat
Winking
Silver moon.
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?