Poetry

by Roger Singer

Poet Roger Singer

____________________________

THE GARDEN OF SKIN

An over wind pushed up a black
shirt collar; his shoes form a bond
with wet sidewalks.

His eyes absorb the night,
like a hawk searching the land.

Lines of street lights step him
from one circle to the next,
where he slides through and shadows
cool his face.

A heaven sent sky broods over his
shoulders and unshaven soul.

The filtering of jazz seeps from open doors,
mixing an aroma of smoke and whiskey,
watering the garden of his skin
with the blood of sound.






HIGH ABOVE

Paths of dust circle his name,
rising like a sun of eyes
watching a circle of moons
fall into the river of his jazz
where he pulls heavy at the waters
twisting them up into waves of air
cooling the heat of his strides
as he swaggers sweetly
while the sound crashes on a shoreline
where he stands with legs firm
and scars from travel
mixed with blood
on the letter of his face.


 

BORN TO STRETCH

The music of jazz
crawled dirty
on the ground
with notes rolling
like men fighting
hot with anger
cool with force
strung tight
like a guitar
in the hands
of an old man
with fingers black
and rich
breathing and strumming
like oceans roaring
while his story
rushes to the surface
in waves of power
as his hat tips
bouncing with life
and his eyes
circle the room
like hungry birds
flapping, turning,
diving, lifting
repeating again
that sound
born to stretch
over everyone.

BRASSED OUT

He left the room bruised
from his music; like a fighters
corner without a stool.

Strange eyes followed the linen
of his walk; the breeze he caused
and its wake smoothed into
whispered corners.

His steps owned the path to
everyplace.
No door offered resistance
to the warmth of his cool.

He shed his skin during music runs,
draining fast the blood of sound
through the voice of
sax brassed out.
 

CUP OF JAZZ

She is my midnight.
Stars resign to her glow.
I fail beneath her shadow.

Her long steady voice
streams a full liquid onto
the street,
reaching ears,
turning faces with
magnetic force.

Neon lights point direction
to her altar.
Musical fingers raise her.
Horns and strings cry the
company she possesses.
A soft pain releases to
the floor and beyond.

A voice,
a fashion full of sweet
blossoms,
tips the scales
as the cup of jazz
rises.    

FAT CREAM

The pleasure’s got his pain,
as tides rise and colors slip the doors
speaking his jazz into high corners
where names of him
reach the dogs of night, feeding their growl,
fueling the thoughts of love
lost in the leaving of shoes
and the rooms of broken visions left behind
and the darkness of smiles
painted red with words
drowned in half promises as they sink
like stones of favor to the bottom
where he picks up and strikes the high notes,
marking the place as his;
empty glasses speak of dreams.
 

ON DIVISIDERO   

A hill with faces
and sidewalks,
green shoes and sneakers
without laces,
chalkboard menus,
peppers and onions
and bicycles passing
apartments with yellow
shutters and
terracotta pots with
flowers reaching over
touching heads
as buses crawl
and street cars
sing the cables and
pulleys stretch,
the youth laugh
with tan skin and
soft faces as they walk
on checkerboard tiled
floors to diner seats
red like blood
and smooth from late night
yawns and tears
where waitresses with
crooked name tags
and broken pencils
sketch out names of meals
on green curled pads
of paper
while outside smokers pass
and dogs sniff
as a guitar
drips salt air notes
of jazz
onto Divisadero Street.

STAR WORSHIPPING

Her message encouraged
tears from hiding, like light
exposing corners; no emotion
remains uncovered.

She walked a line through resistance.
The eyes and hands of judging formed
a receiving line of welcome;
she was the start of change.

I like her push and the step of her feet;
a strong river flows from her songs.
Slender fingers lift into the flesh of
stars, circling the lipstick of her calling,
high above in a heaven of clouds
that know her.

MOIST LIPS

His voice called back the past.
A rain of words formed forests of sound.
Golden wheat heads bend under stars
when breathing his name.

Soft pearl skin yields its moon silver
to his swimming hands. Moist lips
rise from oceans, surfacing to
the life saving he offers.

Paper hearts fold like leaves of
people dropping. Secrets spill
from autumnal hearts, circling in
the corners of half dreaming eyes.

Without getting wet,
the thirst remains unquenched.

A RIVER FULL

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 blood
curing the colors
making it good and right
with sweet aroma
passing through my hair
rich with oils
thick with black,
the standard of then
and the fuel of now
as my tongue licks at fire
I breathe a river,
filling my veins
with grit and sand
and the run off of man
hot and speaking
and smacking life
into ears that hear
that this place is my
kingdom,
my altar, my place of rest,
the jazz I see
and the jazz I own.

DEEP INSIDE

The dark half sleeps off
the light.
Rising voices blanket
shared shadows,
whispering desperately,
but not wanting out.

Eye fires lift up
visionary smoke.
Burnt offerings flush
out dreams into gutters
where fallen stars
and yesterdays words
cling to a watery fear
of loss.

A guitar pushes
a change of jazz
into hungry air
where it greedily
breathes over
the rim of the
captured.

WARM NIGHTS

He forced up shadows, chasing them
to the surface, where scars from
battles bleed out the loss and the gained;
burning voices
whispered from the dust.

He holds the jazz. The birth of the pain
pushes up his sound, rising above the soup of
faces, the sidewalks of hats and the rooms
crowded with his name.

Scarlet lips dash the hope of escape. A forest
of eyes pull at his roots; moist palms
water the night while he kills off his past.

SWEET DARKNESS

From a sweat
he bled poison,
a color of dark,
staining the shirt of
his skin.
There was a howl,
a man breaking his chain
and fingernails clawing
past empty plates
of promises and oaths failed
from empty breaths.
He sees
the horizon in
his jazz,
a wide space pressing down
with a hand
on the throat
of words and feet,
on roads and in places
where the curtains of eyes
pull down on the
justice of promise
and the songs passed down.
He sets ablaze
a cruel air,
torching out the truth
into ashes
for the children
to walk over and through
holding accountable
the promise,
reviving it,
slapping alive
the changes
into forward.

A FULL ACRE

He brought a voice to stage,
stripping layers from pearls and
warming drinks.

The jazz was satin, a cool cloth of
southern dust; early morning fields
hold his sweat.

Overshadowed oaks bow righteously
as angels applaud his gift
on Canal Street.

He is the bridge, a passage into waters
where currents pull at colors,
scrubbing strong the surface of hate.

Open streets light his way
into change, as he settles in
at the front.