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An ongoing series designed to share the quality of jazz poetry continuously submitted to Jerry Jazz Musician. This edition features a handful of poets new to this publication, and in addition to a general reverence for the music, readers will find poems on the likes of Monk, Lester Young, Miles, and Oscar Peterson.
Thanks to the poets…and enjoy!
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“It’s a Bird,” by Martel Chapman
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There Are No Words
You watch them,
the guys on the sax,
the bass; on the trumpet,
the drums, the piano.
What is it inside
that rouses them?
What thunder
rises within
and roars
as it hits the air?
Sometimes
it’s in their faces,
their closed eyes,
how their heads
are back, looking
into the heavens
in joy,
in concentration.
There are no words
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by Russell Dupont
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Notes Bathed in Moody Blue
Suffering a New Orleans steamy night
Listening to cool jazz playing
The five guys tight & concise
On a raised wooden stage bathed in limelight
Drifting through, filter smooth, every note
Riding on layers of silky smoke
Delicately fine silvery-blue linen lines
Tumbling, turning, making their way on wispy threads
Held suspended like the pipework overhead
Eight note octaves & five bar staves
Making their way all around the room
Hovering gently, smoldering in the
Dimly lit music hall gloom
Crowd reveling in the round rich piece of sound
Blending effortless finesse & deliberate tenderness
A tasty quintet’s as good as it gets
Concocting a chilled Martini cocktail mix
Coming from a bight, warm, shaking horn
Taking his own sweet time, Chet phrasing freeform
Blow by blow, grasping the moment, in the flow
Touch of your lips, by a seductively cool trill trumpet
Playing a structured syncopated question
A uniquely improvised progression
Ending in the crowds rousing applause
Praised with two fingered whistles, shouts & calls
Individually separated,
Band still connected
The crowd now awaiting, anticipating
What Getz has to say
In his own off hand kind-a-way
Tapping a warm mellow Hollywood tone
Melted smooth by Selmer’s
Old tarnished saxophone
Mingus is teasing the strings
With a cheeky little slap & tickle
A smartly resounding embrace
From a voluptuous double bass
Art’s on a raw brass percussion ride,
The cymbal’s gently brushed aside
The rat-a tats hushed
As the hi-hat’s snapped flat
His rhythmic thump of
Bass and snare drum
Competing in time
with the glossy black chimes
Erroll hunched over wide open grand piano
Leaning into a brilliant solo
A melancholy melody all delicately tippy toe
Rattling a bunch of E flat keys
Uniquely off key, unsettlingly but stylishly so
The knowing heads nod & bob in the front row,
Eyes closed, open heart,
Smoking, drinking, listening intently in the dark
Hearing colors, tasting sounds
Feeling the jazz played underground
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by Jeff Dunn
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That Newest Kick of Moon (A Jazz Cento)
You saw me standing alone. Singing, I stuffed myself into your loving spaces scatted “How High the Moon” with Ella Fitzgerald. (1) My curls stretched up to the black and blazed, look this is my hair that burns the moon off. (2)
Still.
I don’t like what the moon is supposed to do. (3) Fire alive the fresh parts of my aching. Aging. Oh moon, that thing that sits high and makes me wolf-wild with longing.
The night, rageful, comes at me with the force of something I can’t understand but that is definitely fresh. Treble-sharp. Nasty/cold. You asked me to dance without asking me. Or call that my lunar concern, or rather wishful thinking.
In other words, hold my hand,
In other words, kiss me.(4)
Come come, then waltz to the songs of angel-women who fly toward knobs of light everyday, for no reason but to remind us that they are forever alive.
To the tune o’ those Weary Blues.
I heard a [Black woman] play.(5)
And the singing women who freed themselves, yes, they are still free.
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(1) Jayne Cortez, “Jazz Fans Look Back”
(2) Marcelo Hernandez Castillo, “Pulling the Moon”
(3) Brenda Shaughnessy, “I’m Over the Moon“
(4) Paul David Hewson / Adam Clayton / Larry Mullen / Dave Evans / Attrell Stephen Jr. Cordes
(5) Langton Hughes, “Weary Blues”
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by Jennifer Maritza McCauley
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Avery Fisher Hall, November 1983
The pianist was fingering
his keyboard like he was
at Mission Control as his vocalist
directed him to exit the earth’s orbit.
Fly me to the moon
And let me dream among the stars
Let me see what spring is like
On Jupiter and Mars*
She was nestled in the curve
of the grand piano
with one hand lightly placed
on the polished wood.
When her scat maneuvered
through the asteroid belt
the singer swayed with the beats
and started to stumble.
People from the wings rushed to her.
There was no acknowledgement of
her failing eyesight or wavering health.
She assured the crowd that the incident
was due to slippery new shoes.
Shouts arose from the audience.
Take them off, Ella!
Take them off!
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*Paul David Hewson / Adam Clayton / Larry Mullen / Dave Evans / Attrell Stephen Jr. Cordes
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by Laura Trigg
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Brunch on the Lawn
At The Final Arms Hotel
Accented by a temperate yellow light
& a snap in the air Duke played mind & touch
Sharps & flats opposite some Giuffre Avant-Garde
Them both picking up & laying down with trio brio
Duke breaks fast with a Mingus and a Max
Keyed brushed and plucked while
Jimmy opts for a lean platter & true juice
As Bob & Hall valve slide pick & strum
Wig Wise
In a Warm Valley
Of The Green Country
& the grass was concealed
Covered by the variety of their conversation
Each affirming their taste for the pepper
Flavoring their sustenance
Salient from the elegance of an
Africaine Fleurette eternally
Embanked alongside a Train and River
Dreams those traveled petals embellish still
Such moments as these
Are what gives wonder cause
For continuing my own room reservation
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by Terrance Underwood
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A Notable Exception
“Nothing good happens
after midnight.”
unyielding phrase
rigidly trite
……..Adage espousing
……..all gaiety shun
……..jazz musicality
……..a ♪notable♪ exception
…..……..Nocturnally rooted
…..……..enlivened gigs groove
…..……..solo trading artistry
…..……..seamlessly smooth
…..………….Recordings attune
…..………….mellow aura keep
…..………….enveloping sounds
…..………….wistfully steep
…..……….,,,,,…Downbeats deepen
…..……….,,,,…,vibes over the moon
…..……….,,,…,,lush listening oasis
…..……….,,,,,…wee hours swoon
…..……….,,,…..,,…Slides whisk away worry
…..……….,,,…..,…,riffs joys elate
……………………….jammin’ rhythms flowin’
……………………….sweet dreams create
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by Mike Mignano
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The First Night ‘Round Midnight with the Monk
That first night way back then I
Remember hearing the Monk playing
His piano so beautifully it caught my
Punk-soaked ears & made me think
‘Hey, what the fuck?’ but as my
Stoned-out mind came to listen,
And I mean really listen, I was
Caught in a spell & somehow
From that moment on life was
Never quite the same.
The next day I cornered my house
Mate and questioned him.
“What the fuck was that you were
Playing last night?” I hectored
Him as steam rose from my
Bald head.
“Thelonious Monk” he responded
& as soon as my next giro came I
Went in every record store around
Our turf looking, looking for this
Monk.
“What the fuck?” he said as I got
Home & immediately stuck the
New disc on my old record player
& as I stood I simply said
“What? I didn’t say I didn’t like it!”
& just like that a whole fresh
Obsession came and somewhere
Down the line I even found some
Punk-jazz that really rocked my
World but after all these years
It still goes back to having the
Monk playing ‘Round Midnight
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by Bradford Middleton
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Alone
Alone in a room of fifty folk babbling,
rip roaring laughing, punishing one another
with empty caresses, swallowing any available
beverages along with conversations in which
they are blindly immersed, I finally stumble
out a door into windblown, deepening crepuscule
and long for a serenade from Monk, a funky
unpredictable, stumbling, beautiful life-beat
to carry me down the street rediscovering life,
or perhaps find my way through memory’s avenues
to a wild, overwhelming dance with Coltrane
at his most chaotic, a roller coaster sonic
exploration of life’s dangers, life’s unpredictability,
life’s painful beauty, a surgical use of sound
to remind us of all we can and can’t be in this world,
in which there are so many, yet many are forever alone.
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by Michael L. Newell
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Jazz
Dig this ballad man, eloquent,
aural potions percolating from a
cauldron like horn.
Play, brother, meditative spiritual
harmonies of an arabic sorceress casting
out concoctions, vivid passages resonating
like ruby exclamations against her brown
skin.
It’s jazz sister!
Agile intonations exploiting the
privilege of cool, ethereal sounds from
deep, cerebral chasms and to be drunk
again lapping gurgles of submerged
souls.
Propel your whiskied breath across
cauterized sores, scarring a lip.
Interpretations, conversations wrought
imperfections.
A man a woman
vulnerable and intimate fucking
gracelessly are just two pieces on
clean linen; impulsive fleeting
relieved.
Yeah, that’s Jazz!
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by Rob Yedinak
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The Way Jazz Makes Me Feel
The way jazz makes me feel
is wonderful, beautiful, blissful,
intricately rhythmical.
Calm. Cool. Me it soothes. I am
moved by measures of musical
energy splendidly. A sensation
tenderly, it is gentle to me.
Jazz provides me with powerful
energy, synergy. Of being collected
when listening to jazz, I am guilty.
The way jazz makes me feel
Reveals my ability to deeply
listen. I am in another solar
system when I am listening
to jazz.
The way jazz makes me feel
is at ease, relaxed to the max
of the third degree.
Jazz makes me feel whole.
Eases my soul.
Takes hold of me sonically,
promises me a way forward
where I am always in control.
The way jazz makes me feel
No other form of music is
capable, able – I am stable
when I am listening to jazz.
The way the notes last, pass
through my ear drums, it makes
music and I one.
Jazz is healing, hopeful, happiness,
harmony, melody, telepathy, recipes
blended together to create what is
heavenly for me.
At a jazz concert, I am
Christopher the listener,
incredibly.
The way jazz makes me feel is
sophisticated, elevated, segregated
from all of the negativity in our
world.
Jazz is vibrant, vivacious, spacious,
one of the greatest firms of music
in existence.
I listen to jazz with persistence.
It is so inventive.
I need prescriptions of jazz that is
relentless.
The way jazz makes me feel
is super, is stupendous.
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by Christopher D. Sims
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Harlem To Grand Central
subway doors shut
he feels the motion
of jazz beneath
as the wheels
speak the beat
alive within him
while passing
neighborhoods
and alleys
fences with
barbed wire
as youths run
the elements of
trading eights
and rhythms
deep in pocket
as the car slips
deep underground
to the grand cathedral
where he settles into
the spirit that
sets him apart
from others
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by Roger Singer
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Synchronicity
As the train approached the level crossing
the Pips were repeating the “woo woo” chorus
of “Midnight Train to Georgia.”
At that moment the whistle sounded
creating an intersection of sound and music,
train and refrain—a surreal synchronicity.
Not as novel as Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture heard for the first time
with cannons sounding
offstage
but a more
transcendent moment.
The skeptic is unmoved.
He reasons that
if you’re traveling by rail while listening to train songs,
at some point the music and the sound of the train will synchronize.
And it will happen soon enough.
Rhythmic strumming on the guitar
will align with the clacking of wheels on rails
or the harmonica with a straining engine
or singers and the sound of the whistle.
“Woo, woo. Whoop-de-do,” he says
as the definitive put-down.
He’s not seduced by sympathetic sounds.
He hears the world as it really is,
stripped of distorting sentiment.
Synchronicity. What’s that?
A surface that hides the substance.
There’s appearance and there’s reality.
“Woo, woo. Whoop-de-do,” he repeats,
exploiting sounds with the same appeal
as the simultaneous whistle and chorus.
On the solstice
wouldn’t we all like to see the world through standing stones,
be inside a monumental timepiece
when the hands of the universe align?
The skeptic replies
with a dismissive wave
but on his wrist he wears a miniature henge.
The world is voice percussion.
Song imitating sound, sound imitating song.
The trumpet that talks,
and in reply
scat singing mimicking the instrument.
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by Peter Lavin
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Miles Davis in the Valley of the Cross
Miles’ vision fills the cabin,
muted trumpet sinuously
spilling from the speaker, on
to the floor, then out the door,
softly cascading off the deck
and down the steep slope
where dusk gathers in the
valley of the cross.
Solace reigns as
In a Silent Way plays,
the Freezing Moon lurks
below the horizon, awaiting
its time to shine through
bare trees while, to the west,
the sun calls it a day, bidding
Valle Crucis adieu. All
the pieces fitting just so,
as Miles continues to play.
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by Gene Hyde
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Oscar Peterson
dining with this gentle giant
I’m struck by his soft voice
and refined table manners
both seemingly at odds
with the earthiness of his playing
the throaty humming
the take-no-prisoners abandon
at the outer fringes
of what is possible on a piano
whether two-handed unison runs
all over the keyboard
at breakneck speed
or sequences of muscular rolled chords
stretching his large hands to the max
never a trail-blazing iconoclast
in the mold of Miles or Monk
but an era-ending traditionalist
summing up the art of titans
like Tatum and Wilson
celebrating the glories of Swing
in its prime when he was young
adding aspects of his own background
from Classical to Boogie-Woogie
as respectful of those who went before
as he is a solicitous host
discussing his own legacy
with a visitor to his home
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by Tim Maloney
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Sonny By John
Because creative atmospherics were considered
when structure first proceeded
the expression of sound throughout the wide corridors
at the Final Arms Hotel became more sensory than audible
John Hicks in his residency on many occasions
exercised the sensibility his keys produced
pressing against taut wire stretched grandly
while not succumbing to the disabling trials of youth
that emerged from Sonny Clark’s crib
His conception, his mood & all who were desirous could
infuse such dissemination with a capillary exchange
red blood cells resonating in tempo for
energetic arteries returning time from
bodies that belong to prior calendars
now settled in these open inviting surroundings
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by Terrence Underwood
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They Said You Drunk Yourself to Death
……………………………………………For Lester Young
“I stay by myself. So how do you know anything about me?” [1]
It is midnight in the empty Swing Street
& I walked all the way from Bleecker Street
Weary and loaded down with homesick burdens
I came to see where you died, Lester Young
It isn’t anymore the same,
As they changed its name
From the Alvin Hotel
To Hilton New York Times Square
I stood trembling
I lit a cigarette and drifted with the swirl
I thought of you in your flashy
double-breasted suit & pork-pie hat,
How you refused to cut your hair or wear army boots,
How you refused to fire a gun
And how they sent you to detention barracks
Since then, your eyes had a mellowness to them
Since then you kept to yourself
And nobody knew why
You always chain smoked, that wasn’t bad
But that night you lay in bed dreaming
of Paris’ late-night walks, the love you had
Your concoction of half port wine and half gin
More unopened gin bottles waited on the dresser
The empties were scattered about the room
In between you revisited your favorite tunes
With your horn tilted to the right, holding it nearly horizontal
You thought of the Lady Day singing Fine and Mellow
Bu you were far from fine,
Wistfully, you looked down at Birdland
While bleeding to death
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[1] Lester Young, in an interview with Francois Postiff, Jazz Hot (Paris) 142, April 1959
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by El Habib Louai
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Lane Street
But if I’d have met you the regular way
it would have been down at the Goodwill Store
somewhere between the pots and the pans
and the curling irons and what’s-this-for
I’d probably be musing the record shelf
You’re probably perusing my gainly ass
Hooking your cane on the wheel of my cart
pointing out Benny and Glenn as you pass
I might be intrigued as you loaded your trunk
With technical wonders from back in the day
Catching your eye as you lowered the lid
If I ever did something the regular way
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by deb Ewing
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Walk on By
……………………..(inspired by Diana Krall)
Along the promenade,
seagulls eat dried bread.
Children laugh and play tag.
Families walk together,
undisturbed by the Sunday cyclist.
A woman steals a kiss,
her partner does the same.
The sun and clouds
harmonize against a crisp, autumn sky.
Conceptual art spins into action.
My shadow’s part of it, but I’m not—
my mood, too upset to commit.
You walk on by—
that same path, now broken
under golden and red leaves.
You walk on by, and I do the same.
Our shadows fade—
the promenade remembers.
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by Patricia Carragon
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The Knock on My Door
You travel solo
You follow me home
The address never changed and
You may have lost your nerve
But you never lost me
I’m one million stories high
With a view of the world; I can
Afford to be benevolent. I control
Nothing but the words that tumble
From my lips
Transfixed
Illuminated
We sigh at every damned
Intrusion. Your soul is volcanic:
Ashes to ashes; dust to dust
You carry the world on your
Slender shoulders, a hallowed prayer
Of jazz, it’s otherworldly. You hoist
Your baggage and your brave
Expectations to my front door
You’ve been called
To this place, my name recognized
My face a lyric memorized, improvised!
And who would I even be if I had never
Met you?
Solo traveler, I’m still amazed
At how you found me; Volcanic
Jazz, a hallowed prayer! And I
Just might riff on this feeling
Until we both turn to dust
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By Connie Johnson
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Un Reve
I wish I was back in Paris,
with you at l’Hotel Floridor,
looking down from our room
at Place Denfert-Rochereau,
eating breakfast at
Cafe du Rendez-Vous,
wandering the streets
late at night, after cheese,
wine and Jazz at Le Duc,
on Rue des Lombards,
where the pianist, who
looked like Erroll Garner,
right down to the ‘stache
and soul patch, hovered
over the keys as he
played Misty, andante.
In the morning,
we strolled up Montmartre,
to Sacré-Cœur,
looked down
through clouds
on the city below.
I held your hand
and whispered “Je t’aime”.
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by Russell Dupont
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Indian Summer
That’s right, friends, it was an Indian summer.
I was sitting in the New York’s taxi, as I was
sitting in the hammock hanging on the waterfall
and I was thinking about myself on the waterfall…
“When we are not ourselves, we are killing ourselves,”
I thought. “We are the lights when we are ourselves,
but when we aren’t we are killing the lights.
The reflections of us only, remain the same.
It’s impossible to be yourself, but you can,
no one was yourself before you, you’ll be the first,
you always can be yourself.” The cab driver looked
at me in his rear-view mirror, he saw my face with
the sun behind me. The sun was going down, sinking
behind and across and under and above the Manhattan
and Brooklyn bridges and I thought of all the ideas
that maybe I, or maybe we left undone.
The cab driver turned on the radio, Billie was singing
there and the driver said to me: “Yeah bro, as a driver,
I can say that it’s not beautiful to be the second Billie
Holiday and it’s impossible too, right?”
“Exactly,” said I and smiled, of course.
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by David Dephy
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Patricia Carragon hosts Brownstone Poets and is the editor-in-chief of its annual anthology. She edits the online journal, Sense & Sensibility Haiku. Her book of jazz poetry, Stranger on the Shore, was accepted by Human Error Publishing for publication later this year.
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Martel Chapman found artistic inspiration in Francis Wolff’s cover photograph of John Coltrane’s Blue Train album, and has been creating art honoring the artistic geniuses of jazz music ever since.
Click here to visit his website
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David Dephy is an American award-winning poet, novelist, essayist, multi-media artist, with a Master of Fine Arts degree evaluated by the Globe Language USA. The founder of Poetry Orchestra and American Poetry Intersection. Poet-in-Residence for Brownstone Poets 2024-2025. He was exiled from his native country of Georgia in 2017 and was granted political asylum in the USA immediately and indefinitely. His family, beloved wife and 9-year-old son joined him in the U.S. after seven years of exile in 2023. He lives and works in New York City.
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A retired superyacht Captain and coming to jazz & poetry late in life, Jeff Dunn enjoys conveying his feelings found in jazz music
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Russell duPont is an artist and an author whose artwork is included in a number of public and private collections. He has published three novels, King & Train , Waiting for the Turk and Movin’ On, the sequel to King & Train; two books of poetry; and two non-fiction chapbooks. His essay, “The Corner,” is included in the anthology Streets of Echoes. His work has been published in various newspapers and literary magazines. He was the founder & publisher of the literary magazine, the albatross.
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debora Ewing is still doing all the same old things: peer-reviewing for Consilience Science-based Poetry Journal, typesetting for Igneus Press, painting tiny things on coins, the usual. Her mission statement remains “Art is War.” Follow @DebsValidation on Twitter and Instagram.
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(Editor’s Note: debora’s short story “Coloring Outside the Lines” was the first winning story in the Jerry Jazz Musician Short Fiction Contest, published in October of 2002. The contest is currently in its 69th edition)
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Gene Hyde lives near Asheville, North Carolina where he spends his days archiving Appalachia in all its diverse wonder. His writing and photography have appeared in Valley Voices; Tiny Seed Literary Journal; The Goose: A Journal of Arts, Environment, and Culture; Light: A Journal of Photography and Poetry; Canary: A Literary Journal of the Environmental Crisis; and Mountains Piled Upon Mountains: Appalachian Nature Writing in the Anthropocene.
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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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Peter Lavin is a writer who lives in Toronto and has been published in the Globe and Mail (Toronto) and a number of online magazines.
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El Habib Louai is a Moroccan Amazigh poet, translator, musician, and assistant professor of English at Ibn Zohr University in Agadir, Morocco. He is a contributing member of The European Beat Studies Network. Louai has been awarded the Aimee Grunberger scholarship by Naropa University to participate in the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics creative writing program, and his work has appeared in several literary magazines, journals, and reviews.
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Tim Maloney, a retired musician, author, and arts administrator, has played in everything from Dixieland and polka bands to Basie-style big bands and yuppie bar bands, has directed high-school and college jazz ensembles, and greatly enjoys listening to younger talents, such as Patrick Bartley, Emmet Cohen, Samara Joy, and Esperanza Spalding.
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Dr. Jennifer Maritza McCauley is the author of Scar On/Scar Off, When Trying to Return Home, Kinds of Grace and Neon Steel (2/26). She has received fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, Kimbilio and CantoMundo and her work has been a New York Times Editors’ Choice, Best Fiction Book of the Year by Kirkus Reviews and a Must-Read by Elle, Latinx in Publishing, Ms. Magazine and Southern Review of Books. She has been published recently in Boston Review, Columbia Journal, Vassar Review, Acentos Review, Zone 3, Obsidian and The BreakBeat Poets: Latinext (HayMarket Press). She is fiction editor at Pleiades and an assistant professor at the University of Missouri-Kansas City.
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Bradford Middleton lives in Brighton on England’s south coast. Recent poems have been published at Mad Swirl, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Blotter Rag, Dear Booze, Fixator Press and in the Acid Bath anthology ‘Night Terrors’. His most recent book came out last year from the Alien Buddha Press.
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Mike Mignano, retired Ocala, FL.
Hometown Ithaca, NY. Interests
include: history, travel, guitar,
choral singing, viewing sports
attending theatre and reading
poetry.
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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.
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Christopher D. Sims is a writer of poetry, a spoken word artist, and a human rights activist who uses words to inform. Born and raised on the west side of Rockford, Illinois, he has been writing since he was nine years old. A published poet, Christopher wrote a poetry and memoir collection entitled I was Born and Raised in The Rock in 2020. He is a fellow of the Intercultural Leadership Institute.
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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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Laura Trigg is a retired physician currently living in Missouri and enjoying caring for her granddaughter while her parents are at work. A writer since childhood, she has had poems published in several journals, including Encore, Delta Poetry Review, Medicine and Meaning, Months to Years, and Jerry Jazz Musician.
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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.
Click here to read Proceeding From Behind: A collection of poems grounded in the rhythmic, relating to the remarkable, by Terrance Underwood
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Rob Yedinak has recently returned to writing, after a 20 year hiatus, because of certain inspirations. He writes vignettes fraught with neurosis, perversion, noir, contrast, relief and an occasional inside joke only the author would laugh at.
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Click here for all editions of “21 jazz poems…”
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Information about Kinds of Cool: An Interactive Collection of Jazz Poetry
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“Saharan Blues on the Seine,” Aishatu Ado’s winning story in the 68th Jerry Jazz Musician Short Fiction Contest
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