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An ongoing series designed to share the quality of jazz poetry continuously submitted to Jerry Jazz Musician.
In this edition…Mix in poems on the blues with some Coltrane, Monk, Bix, Mingus, Miles, Art Farmer, King Oliver, Desmond, and Brubeck, and you have one hell-of-a lively and entertaining collection to take in.
As always, thanks to the poets who participate in this growing community…
Enjoy!
Joe Maita
Editor/Publisher
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photo by William P. Gottlieb/Library of Congress/adapted by Rhonda R. Dorsett
Sidney De Paris, c. July, 1947
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Imagine That (A lament)
If I had Buddy’s left hand
Or Oscar’s right
If I could stick
Jaco’s licks
Or Maynard’s double high C
If I had Stan Kenton’s penchant
For spotting playahs
Or holding a bunch
Of cool cats together
The way Bill Basie did
If I might make jazz glow
As only the Duke
Was in the know
I can only imagine
Can you imagine
What I’d do with Miles’ bravado
Marian Mcpartlands’ taste
Joe Morellos’ chops
And Billy Stayhorn’s pen
It would defy imagination
It would define imagination
Alas, until the realization
Blissful thoughts beget
Wishful thinking
But then again
I’ve been thinking
Isn’t that what imagination is
If I did
If I could
I would
Logic tells me
I wouldn’t be writing
This wistful poem
You are reading
But here it is
Imagine that
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by David Nemerov
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Jazz Paradise
I found no trace of the place on the ‘Net.
It seems so long ago, the mid ‘80s.
Spending Wednesday nights at All That Jazz and Wine Bar
in Center City, not far from Walnut Street,
with my little sister who had just turned of age.
Local musicians in trios, octets, septets played standards
like “Caravan,” “Satin Doll,” and “‘Round Midnight.”
An older gentleman in a three-piece suit drank
from his silver goblet and we sipped our red wines,
entranced with this spot whose tasteful neon sign
beckoned patrons. I’d leave my new car safely in a garage
that used parking valets. So many gifts back then.
Today my sister and I rarely speak; a family crisis severed ties.
But those jazz nights echo, blare, etched lofty memories.
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by Amy Barone
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Imagination Was All
Old chap leaned against living room window,
as autumn rain thundered against panes,
heat drained from room as years drained from old fellow.
The ancient discovered himself singing,
“Didn’t it rain, Children, didn’t it rain
all night long.” Hail swept in like a conga line.
The man found himself bouncing in rocking chair,
as though part of conga line. He imagined
ghost of Buddy Rich at controls of storm.
The old fellow could no longer walk
without assistance, but he could still bounce
and rock in his rocking chair. He imagined
himself a Nicholas Brother, the storm Cab
Calloway’s orchestra. Imagination was all.
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by Michael L. Newell
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My Voice
It speaks, it sings;
Brings forth reaction
Not for messages alone
But for the sound it makes:
Its timbre; pitch, intensity.
What influence it has,
Making foes or friends;
Responses, both sides of the fence.
Little larynx is the minx;
That takes out kinks from neck or back,
But also, links the verb-ness of a river bank.
A funny word: kink
A verb to form a twist or curve
As to be an obstacle or hinder,
Quirk of character’s behavior
As in ‘still some kinks to iron out…’
But back to voice:
To lose it would be loss of force;
Noise it sometimes may be,
But in general a source
Of pleasure and fulfillment heaven sent.
Thank you God,
For giving me this instrument,
Which as I said Is ‘heaven sent’,
Leavening intent and bent on improvising
Any note or phrase, which, in my case, is a song.
I always hope it flourishes, encouraging and nourishing
With pitch and richness, jazz its ‘is-ness’
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by Arlene Corwin
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Blue Rondo
Brubeck always surprises
The piano hits out hard
Complex chords struck
And in an unusual time
As a shouted challenge
For a listener to follow
A Desmond saxophone
Wailing, as if on its own
The snare and cymbals
Changing odd rhythms
Rushing stumbling feet
Morello, and the rest
A quartet in the zone
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by Howard Osborne
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Paul Desmond Plays “Audrey”
‘Gliding down the stair at Stockholm Airport
(More a moving floor in jazz-waltz time)
A lady requests my autograph
Off-the-cuff I sign her book
‘Best wishes from Chet Baker’
She is flustered though I add
That is where – from time to time –
I derive some of my lyrical ideas’
Eventually in NYC
I break from rehearsal and run across town
Catch one glimpse of Audrey from the stalls
And then I run right back again
Like a clockwork clown or
‘Like Someone in Love’ –
(in NYC love is a clown idea)
Though Space and Time allow
There is a place where grace and light collide
To re-assess refinement of the human-
Being which is why I keep my distance
(And Dante called her Beatrice )
Such incidents insist the mystical
Some critics call my alto ‘insubstantial’
My blues though barely evident at best
Recall a Dry Martini in a vest
Now Audrey dons her Discman for the garden
(‘Garden’ that in Islam translates as Paradise )
My ‘Audrey’ tune is top of her top ten
She plays it again and again
Until we two translate in loops of one
Art is real though love prove problematic
(Fidelity in hi-fi so intimately formal)
But though I am long vanished to the Shades
I sense her set her ‘Replay’ to ‘Forever’
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by Bernard Saint
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Capturing the Moment
Beiderbecke left the right way behind
Only to find he was progressing the right way all along
It was still the same road
Only unexplored
Making it his own way
Taking up the cornet
From the cornfields outside of Cincinnati
To the city streets of Chicago
Bringing a new set of sounds
Fluid like a river without the rapids
The sounds equivalent to the sight of a pretty woman
Moving down the street
With that warm feeling you get from liquor
As it settles both body and mind simultaneously
Though this sound is lost by the inadequacies of the recordings
Failing to capture the essence
Just like the sound of a babbling stream is
only ever truly captured at the time
Never truly captured by the memories.
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by Anthony Ward
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Easier to Fly
On gold-flecked wings
tho it’s hard to decipher distance.
I’ve traveled a long way thru rain-slicked New Orleans
with my horn of plenty & deft language / I’m so
hot in Storyville! / I speakeasy & you hear every
thing that I say / a jazz sonnet variation.
I touch stars in this elevated dimension; you
receive my litany of woe. O King Oliver!
Come join me atop a tin roof of regret &
Sugar-footed blues. Come meet me on
Canal Street. I keep it royal! & I
traveled such a long, long way
before I landed
here.
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by Connie Johnson
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Art’s Art
Fingers dance facilely along three piston valves
Lips buzz heartily against a brass mouthpiece
Breath vibrations induce soul-stirring sounds
Conducting foreign expeditions across eclectic styles
Infiltrating the deepest recesses of our crawl spaces
Articulating transcendent faith with miraculous exhales
Who we are and what we intimately desire
Comes to full formation and absolute fruition
Through his instrument,
A fully realized projection of our voice
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by Michael Russo
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Half Time Horn Men
Human symphony
…..‘Twixt heaven & hell
……….Tragic measures composed
……………Blue notes befell
Some marquee horn men
…..Unique synchronized
……….Last century jazzin’
……………Only half time
Booze/needles/hashish
…..Expressways with holes
……….On fire/smokin’ — butt
……………Paying the tolls
Stimulants poppin’
…..Try keepin’ upbeat
……….Grindin’ marathon sets
……………Crash & repeat
Brass birthday candles
…..Blown out in a flash
……….Still grievin’ but grateful
……………Recordings last
New jazzists denote
…..Extend groovin’ scenes
……….Whole rests on the Weed — Jack
……………— Amphetamines…
All artists RIP
Esp. Messrs. Beiderbecke, Miley, Navarro, Parker
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by Mike Mignano
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Sometimes Rain
he is
the root of jazz
the rain of thought
dripping under the skin
releasing a rhythm
with beat
as his fingers
and lips
tempt Gabriel
echoing within
the chambers
of his frame
a musical eruption
too great
to be withheld
fuels the roots
at the basement
of growth
pulsing to
the top
where sound
captures the
space
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by Roger Singer
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How I Got My String Bass
How I got my string bass is
a pawn uncle tapping on a counter
looks at my boots from the snow on Cass Ave
dripping off math facts
paint falling onto the vinyl runner over the carpet
acrylics man from classics
I’m taking at Wayne State with your niece
plucking along sidewalk calls leering
she’s rounding she’s punk she’s wow-wow
who painted the big fiddle
was walking with my cash on her waist
handing it over on my
be half gone
her belly a hole we’d sung
where can we get a coffee my treat
no case we carried it out into the cold.
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by Ken Been
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Bassman
………………………………………………………black
………………………………………………curled
…………………………………………..bass
………………………………………….man
…………………………………….eyes
…………………………………….full
…………………………………….of
………………………….sorrow
……………….cheeks
…………….streaked
………….with joy
Silk Cut stuck
to one pale lip
so laid back you’d
swear he’s falling
..picking notes
………like seeds
………..out of a
……………..nickel
………………..bag
…………………. .
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by John Menaghan
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Person & Carter
The Formation Of Geology
notes each rise
……………from deep
…………………………..origin
through core
……………mantle
…………………………..& crust
to surface
……………double bass
…………………………..resonant
lifting
……………tenor breath
…………………………..tone fluid
shaping with
……………a pressure squeeze
…………………………..the metamorphic
soothing
……………cool molten
…………………………..igneous
sifting smooth
……………strained
…………………………..sedimentary
creating
……………earthen
…………………………..composition
out of
……………universal
…………………………..starlight
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by Terrance Underwood
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The Blues
My father was rich, my mother was good looking,
I have never suffered and don’t intend to suffer.
But I can play the blues.
……………………………….Miles Davis
St. Louis is cold winters,
Especially where the wind
Comes off the Mississippi
And the ferries huddle.
Cemeteries are green swaths
On the map, the same as
Parks, both with benches
And gazebos.
You might get warm in a club.
By your third sip,
The ice in your drink
Is barely an allusion.
Cigarettes warm, the one
At the bar across the darkness
Pulsing intermittently
Like a radio tower
Playing this song. The smoke
Curves like slow dancing.
There is a woman somewhere
In these notes.
When you leave, the hush might be
The river, but now you can
Believe you have a chance
Of getting across.
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by Jack Stewart
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Crossroad
I was walkin’ down the alley
On a warm Sunday morning
One foot after the other
Not going no place in no hurry
Just bidin’ my time
I saw the old Bluesman
Sittin’ on his stool
Makin’ his guitar sing
Blocking chords, good Lord
That man could play
He says “Whatchya know boy”
“Get a load off, come sit by me”
I did just that and sat right down
He turned to me and his face went dark
He says, “Look into my eyes, son
Do you know what they have seen?
I seen it all from the top to the bottom
From every which a way
Beautiful ladies, and badass types
Folks you trust, folks you can’t
Heroes and cowards and all that’s in between
Good people, bad people, grace and vice
I been to the crossroad, saw the devil himself”
He took back to playin’
Strummin’ and a hummin’
As if I wasn’t there
Best be movin’ on
I get myself up and set out for nowhere
One step at a time
Goin’ no place, no place in a hurry
Then I remembered
Just what the old man said
Gonna make my way to the crossroad
I got a guitar
Can play it too
I got nothin’ to lose
I got something to prove
Goin’ to see the devil
And give him his due
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by David Nemerov
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You Better Come In My Kitchen
After Sitting On Top Of The World
In the cross hatching of Mississippi blues
Robert Johnson invites The Mississippi Sheiks
into his kitchen due to an impending storm.
The same melody is used in both songs:
It’s so much like life;
in one lyric you’ve gone through loss
of a friend, a love, a relative,
you’ve risen above it, finally
on top of the loss, on top of the world.
Then you step into the next lyric and
find yourself dreamlike, walking a Mississippi dirt road
about to become a red clay mud pit
as gray clouds, coal black clouds
come up suddenly in the east
and howling wind and rain threatens to flood the delta—
when a stranger in a shotgun shack opens his door
and shouts “come warm in my kitchen, man
it’s goin’ to be rainin’ outside”.
Delta Blues are life:
Loss, recovery, resolution;
a great extended family of tunes
passed from voice to voice,
guitar to guitar, style to style
like yesterday’s pain kindling
a kitchen stove
warming the body, ascending
beyond worry
to sit on top of the world.
And if there had been fewer sad storms
and orange glow kitchens needed
the songs of community (which became our own)
would have had no place to ramble.
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by Daniel Warren Brown
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Starr Valley
Almost a century ago, the architects of jazz
crossed paths with the KKK in this gorge—
a baby of a music complex thriving in what
historians would call the “Cradle of Recorded Jazz”—
a place struck barren for most of my youth.
We passed through this borderless amphitheater
on at least one Volksmarch with my grandparents.
Why did we never question the windowless building
or the last remaining smokestack from the piano factory?
Perhaps they were as hidden as the history born there.
Many years on, I went down there to admire
the Gennett Walk of Fame and the stone mosaics
for Satchmo, Bix, Hoagy, Autry, and many others
who stepped off trains at the bustling depot with
whispering dreams in their instruments ready to scream.
I felt my heroes speak to me and I wrote them
a poem as tribute for their magnanimous talents.
I wondered why we did little to honor their legacies
but would bellyache about crumbling historic buildings.
They razed all the wrong bellwethers of love.
Many years since, they’ve cleared brush landscapes
and put up a parking lot like Joni Mitchell predicted.
But that brought people in, as has the winterized
farmers market in that surviving administration building.
I guess we always have time to do the right thing.
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by Christopher Stolle
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Do You Remember Me?
I’m on my third re-write
of the opening scene
for my next detective novel.
Harry’s at his desk,
after a strenuously boring week
providing security
for a local rock / punk group
appearing at The Channel.
He’s pulled out
his stack of Mingus albums —
The Black Saint . . .
then Ah Um, nodding in time
with “Pussy Cat Dues”.
He moves on to the second disc
in The Great Concert
and “Sophisticated Lady,”
agreeing with Mingus,
who, it is said, once proclaimed,
“If I’m going to die, I’m ready.
But I’m going out playing
‘Sophisticated Lady.’ ”
Leaning back in his chair,
eyes closed,
he was most of the way
through “Flamingo”,
when there was a soft knock
on the door, the clack
of the knob,
a creak or groan
as the door slowly opened
and she entered,
stood in front of him and,
with a flicker of a smile,
asked,
“Do you remember me?”
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by Russell Dupont
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Moment’s Notice. John Coltrane. YouTube more…
True jazz musicians, they create.
Those other names, technicians, capture.
YouTube lists them alphabetically
by function to ensure
creators’ names fall farther down.
Prioritized are somebodies
who wouldn’t even have a job to do
without those innovators
whose transcendent sound
students imitate
with claim of honoring a legacy.
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by Catherine Lee
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Thelonious Restores A Grim Moment
Age has prevailed upon me to seek contemplative
……………………………………….Refuge if not meaning
To shelter what earned comfort remains
From the pressing weight the blessings of Creation have bestowed
Exacting such indifferent behavior among the Civilized as if
The presumption Being Civilized is known and understood
………………………………………………………………Rather than just alleged
By those who claim to be more of what others are not
………………………………………………………………Privileged and better
Perhaps civilization is the sorry attempt to cleanse
The respites between an Earth overrun by
Greater more consistent acts of meanness
(A naturalistic desire it seems only humans possess)
So how to deal with
Such meanness daily displayed
……………………………………….Me
With The Music from a Master
As it permeates my refuge
Penetrating walls
With beautifully fractured dissonance
Cornered angular smooth
This is my Civilized preference
I mean cuz
When Ben Riley does
His sticks & drumset thing
Monk arises Rhythym-a-ning
See feets of Thelonious on the move
Get lost in the majesty of sensuous groove
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by Terrance Underwood
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Amy Barone’s poetry collection, Treesongs, will be released by Broadstone Books in 2026. Her book, Defying Extinction, was published by Broadstone in 2022. New York Quarterly Books published collection, We Became Summer. She wrote chapbooks Kamikaze Dance and Views from the Driveway. Barone lives in New York City and Haverford, PA.
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Ken Been is the author of the forthcoming Opposing Thumbs, a chapbook of poetry reflecting on hitchhiking from Detroit to the West Coast and onwards during 1973. His writing has been published or forthcoming in numerous journals internationally and also can be found in anthologies including Remembering Lawrence Ferlinghetti.
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Daniel Warren Brown has loved jazz (and music in general) ever since he delved into his parents’ 78 collection as a child. He is a retired special education teacher who began writing as a senior. He always appreciates being published in journals and anthologies. At age 72 he published his first collection Family Portraits in Verse and Other Illustrated Poems through Epigraph Books, Rhinebeck, NY. Daniel writes daily about music, art and whatever else catches his imagination.
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Brooklyn-born Arlene Corwin, now in her 90’s, is a harpist, pianist and singer – a jazz musician forever. She earned her BA at Hofstra Univ. She has published 19 poetry books. In the 1950s her mother owned a jazz club in Hempstead, Long Island with Slim Gaillard. She currently lives in Sweden.
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Russell Dupont, poet, artist, novelist, has published in the albatross, Spectrum, The I, For Poets Only, The Anthology of South Shore Poets, Re-Side, Oddball, Jerry Jazz Musician, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Rye Whiskey Review, Last Stanza Poetry Journal, the new post-literate, DADAKU, One Sentence, Verse-Virtual, Lothlorien Journal, Pick-Me-Up Poetry, Poetry Porch, Concrete Formalist Poetry and the Northern New England Review. He is the author of three novels: King & Train, Waiting for the Turk, Movin’ On; a collection of short stories, Norman Mailer Walks Into a Bar; four collections of poetry: Winter, 1948, Establishing Home Plate, Jazz at the Point and One Foot in Front of the Other.
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Connie Johnson has multiple Pushcart Prize nominations for poetry. A California-based writer, she has authored Everything is Distant Now (Blue Horse Press) and I Have Almost Everything (Boats Against the Current). In a Place of Dreams, her digital chapbook (containing audio readings/personal narrative), was published by Jerry Jazz Musician. Click here to view it.
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Catherine Lee, a widely published neo-Beat, explores poetry’s percussive jazz voice. Lee’s Mentor Wonders poetic drama about mentoring “at risk” public elementary students is available at Amazon and as a Dramatic Reading video at VIMEO. Lee is currently writing a new play, Subconsciously Seeking a Maverick, about how children watching mid-20th-century TV Westerns were programmed with stereotypes about minorities and women, and led to accept open carry of firearms for intimidation. Lee’s extensive artistic biography is found here.
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Winner of an Academy of American Poets Prize and other awards, John Menaghan has published 4 books with Salmon Poetry–All the Money in the World (1999), She Alone (2006), What Vanishes (2009), and Here and Gone (2014)—as well as poems and articles in Irish, British, American, and Canadian journals, and given poetry readings in Ireland, England, Scotland, France, Hungary, Canada, and across the U.S. from New York to Honolulu. A fifth volume, composed entirely of his jazz-related poems, is forthcoming from Salmon.
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Mike Mignano, retired Ocala, FL. Hometown Ithaca, NY. Interests include: history, travel, guitar, choral singing, nature walking, viewing sports, theatre and poetry.
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David Nemerov, 75, has been writing poems for a little over 3 years. His subjects are whatever comes to mind. Along with the poetry he moonlights as drummer with an affinity for Jazz, Blues, Zydeco, and whatever catches his fancy.
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Michael L. Newell lives on the Atlantic Coast of Florida. His most recent book of poems is Passage of a Heart. Click here to read “What is this Path” – a collection of his poems published on Jerry Jazz Musician
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Howard Osborne has written poetry and short stories, also a novel and several scripts. With poems published online and in print, he is a published author of a non-fiction reference book and several scientific papers many years ago. He is a UK citizen, retired, with interests in writing, music and travel.
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Michael A. Russo is a public school teacher of 25 years. He is married and has two remarkable children. His eclectic poetry is inspired by the gritty and realistic works of the 1970s. He also takes pride in speaking for the silent, silenced, and forgotten. He has authored seven independently published poetry books.
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Bernard Saint is a U.K. poet who has published in U.K. and United States literary magazines since the 1960’s. He is a regular contributor to International Times. His most recent book is ROMA, published by Smokestack Books. He worked as a therapist and supervisor in the U.K. National Health Service in psychiatry and in addiction recovery.
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Dr. Roger Singer was in private chiropractic practice for 38 years in upstate New York, and served as a medical technician during the Vietnam era. Dr. Singer is the Poet Laureate of Old Lyme, Connecticut, and has had over 1,070 poems published on the Internet, magazines and in books, and is a 2017 Pushcart Prize Award Nominee. He is also the President of the Shoreline Chapter of the Connecticut Poetry Society.
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Jack Stewart was educated at the University of Alabama and Emory University and was a Brittain Fellow at The Georgia Institute of Technology. His first book, No Reason, was published by the Poeima Poetry Series, and his work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, including Poetry, The American Literary Review, Image, Crannóg, and others.
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Christopher Stolle has many roles: writer, uncle, partner, music aficionado, and baseball enthusiast. His writing has been published by Indiana University Press, Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra, Coaches Choice, Tipton Poetry Journal, Flying Island, and Plath Poetry Project, among many others. He lives in Richmond, Indiana, the cradle of recorded jazz.
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Terrance Underwood is a retired Gas Turbine Package Engineer whose career offered opportunities to work all over the world. A devoted jazz enthusiast, his first memory operating a mechanical devise was a 4-speed spindle drop record changer for his father’s collection of 78s. In 2024, he was nominated by Jerry Jazz Musician for a Pushcart Prize.
Click here to read Proceeding From Behind: A collection of poems grounded in the rhythmic, relating to the remarkable, by Terrance Underwood
Click here to read his collection of poems “With Ease in Mind”
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Anthony Ward chooses to write because he has no choice. He writes to get rid of himself and lay his thoughts to rest. He derives most of his inspiration from listening to classical music and jazz since it is often the mood which inspires him. He has recently been published in Jerry Jazz Musician, Synchronized Chaos, Literary Yard, Mad Swirl, Shot Glass Journal and Ariel Chart.
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Click for:
Previous collections of “21 jazz poems on the 21st”
More poetry on Jerry Jazz Musician
“Where the Music Wasn’t Allowed,” Jane McCarthy’s winning story in the 71st Jerry Jazz Musician Short Fiction Contest
More short fiction on Jerry Jazz Musician
Information about how to submit your poetry or short fiction
Subscribe to the (free) Jerry Jazz Musician quarterly newsletter
Helping to support the ongoing publication of Jerry Jazz Musician, and to keep it commercial-free (thank you!)
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