The poet celebrates the sights and sounds of the New Orleans French Quarter

Like rivers
bubbling to the surface
he brings
the vibrations
of jazz
blending into
shadowed corners
where light pushes in

        FULL OF FAT From discarded crumbs, like falling stars onto stage horns and strings form dreams from blues and tears, where fear has no place and lies provides promises past midnight while jazz makes people hungry and rhythm tops off the soul like cities next to rivers smothering the seeds of … Continue reading “Two new Roger Singer poems”

This ground is mine.
I sweat it into growing.
My eyes water the sound
while my hands grasp
the dirt,
holding its generations
of dust and stone
with a blending of

Jazz rich,

falling water
a stream of story’s
open bleeding
years releasing pain
backside alleys
whispers without words
tan and white

Jazz rained down in rivers
catching out strong soul 
and soft hands
rising to the call of music prayers
among blind angels 
who fail on color
and possess

It’s the anybody;
the horned rimmed glasses,
book reader, bus rider, bow tie,
felt hat or tattoo that holds the
jazz.  Distilled in flavor, an aroma
gentle and fierce.  Its nail scratching,

His fingers move
with sounds of rain,
while clouds roll
within eyes of long years.

Sweat marks the work undone,
A river hammer beats
streams of jazz
into his

Songs overflow from doors
opening to the sidewalk
where neon lights
baptize the weak, stirring the curiosity of
a night strung tight
while others pray in alleys
whispering their sins
under a celestial curtain as
stars cross behind the black
of space where not
a molecule is out of place

LITTLE LIZA JANE

Sing me up. Bring the jazz
for the baptizing of souls,
living strong, breathing cool
fires from river running out of
the Ohio snaking down mightily
to Louisiana where the steps
get wide and songs speak
of folks left behind, walking
river banks, looking south,

His jazz is thick,
mantled in hair
black with twists
rich with shine
absorbing the lights
as his hands
push the track of
strings
chasing
demons
of his love
while fingers

Lazy humid Lake Pontchartrain
breezes slip sideways
through turquoise louvered doors
past a cat, on a stool with its legs hanging
like green tangled moss
as the man, deep with pillow worship
lays still, breathing soft, his hands open and flat
holds court with dreams of last night
the jazz holding tight
the band cutting through