21 jazz poems on the 21st of July, 2026

An ongoing series designed to share the quality of jazz poetry continuously submitted to Jerry Jazz Musician.

As always, thanks to the poets who participate in this growing community…

Enjoy!

Joe Maita

Editor/Publisher

[Note: There will not be an August, 2026 edition of “21 jazz poems”]

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photo by William Gottlieb/Library of Congress

Sidney Bechet, c. 1946

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Seeking Salvation

A young man was caught in life’s weeds:
no job, no dwelling, no family;
sounds from streets were nothing but noise;

another dweller of back alleys
introduced him, via a battered radio,
to music that reflected the truth he lived:

the passion of Parker; the dark blues
of Ry Cooder; the fierceness of Mingus,
Lady Day, and Nina Simone; the beauty

of Bach, Coltrane, and Miles; the chaotic
wilderness of Monk and Sun Ra; the prophetic
voice of a young Bob Dylan; all these and more

led him out of the weeds of despair, back into life’s
raw jungle, where he took up arms against despair.

by Michael L. Newell

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When The Sounds Call

There are bamboo chimes blowing in the wind outside the temple, in the cobwebbed corner, I am called to listen to the soothing sound unlike church bells I had heard as a child which made me think of a booth where two entered for confession. The chimes called me to listen without judgment, without the image of any nun’s index finger pointing in my face. A brief silence followed as I entered a holy place within that felt like a womb before being birthed, before robust hands grabbed my slippery amniotic scented fluid body, eyes slit taking in the bright fluorescent world.

Outside of this shell that protected me, I listen to Grant Green with his guitar playing Idle Moments, Ella Fitzgerald and Duke Ellington while she’s scatting the lyrics of Mack The Knife which had vanished from her memory on stage, Her laughter lingers in mid-scat. I absorb Dexter Gordon’s saxophone longing for Tania. He’s caressing the melody maybe to bring her back after the end of a summer affair. I embody her and swing, pirouette too like a black ballerina. All of these are miracles swirling in my mind. When my heart feels empty, dry like a well, or become little caves of peeled birch collecting rain, I close my eyes and let myself be transported in this ocean of turquoise sounds, of ears leaning on a voice of long ago but now palpating in my heart.

by Jerrice J Baptiste

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Quietude

black olive leaf
……………..yellow dried
…………………………..falling
tangled
……………..in a strand
…………………………..of spider silk
flipping from
……………..Gulf breezes
…………………………..spinning
reminiscent of
……………..Bag’s New Groove
…………………………..soft mallet Vibes
before loosened
……………..free to a
…………………………..calm descent

by Terrance Underwood

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The Scale Of Things

In the scale of things
her notes are boundless
the highs
the lows
mellow as yellow
scatting
higher
or lower
mellow as mirth
then notes
even higher
even lower
mellow as sunshine
mellow as music
when Cleo sings jazz
in time and beyond scale.

by Lynn White

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Taking Flight

She trilled,
all swishy-skirted,
a soprano stretching
her neck to sing.
Her voice fell
out of the balcony,
landed on an open hymnal.
An old man scraped
her notes from the musical staff,
with his truck-grease nails.
Pocketed them
in his coveralls,
vowed to revive
this broken bird.

by Marianne Peel

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But Was It Jazz

I have played trumpet and trombone
Including music with a modern touch
But I found jazz guitar was never easy
Especially acoustic, other than chords
The dissonance like a clash of swords
Singing in that style made me queasy
As few others ever liked it too much
But was it jazz, few would’ve known

I never did play much on piano keys
Only a few chords, sevenths mainly
But there’s one I do practice playing
Cmajor7 then Dminor7, alternating
It suggests that something is waiting
I like the progression, I’m just saying
For Summertime, it is not ungainly
I sense the haunting melody agrees

A ‘30s musical, it is also known as
Maybe a soft bassline also detected
In my head, I hear a brushing snare
Imagining from a combo, a backing
As if nothing essential were lacking
And there is also a nod, somewhere
Yet by a jazz artist, I’d be corrected
But then to me, it was a kind of jazz

by Howard Osborne

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Jazzesting

Music aids digestion
Several studies spent
Culinary rhythmic vibes
Jazzesting compliments

Auditory seasoning
Digestive tract doth peak
Gently enhancing genres
Sprinkled throughout the week

“Good Morning …” “Lady Day”
“…Like the Sunrise” Ella swoon
Delectable breakfast make
“Jazz Sandwich” munch at noon

“Coffee Time” breaks perk up
For cravings all day through
Satisfy smooth Broadway jazz
In syncopation chew

Dining “Unforgettable”
“Home Cookin’” evenings feast
“Midnight Snack” if you must
Contentment “Dreamland” peace

Choice of cuisine no matter
Jazzesting flavors flow
Sample savory listening
Attuned “Anything Goes”

by Mike Mignano

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Cool

Somehow
Kindred souls
One, a composer
The other, as yet unknown
Find themselves
Alone
Side by side
On a piano bench
Somewhere
Together
In the confines
Of New York City’s
Upper fifties
Upper East Side
Unbeknownst to them
Someday
The miracle
On West Fifty Seventh Street
They create
Will make history
It will be a story
Of nineteen fifty seven
On the Upper West Side
Something’s coming
One, pencil
At the ready
Fiddles with the notes
Making changes
Changes to the score
We’ll cherish
Forever
The other scribbles notes
That become the words
We’ll sing
Together
Anthems
Amen
Almost like praying
The beauty of love
The tragedy that is hate
The anticipation
It’s coming
Something great
Is about to unfold
Romeo and Juliet retold
In America
Born on the East Side
A West Side Story
Takes place
On the mean streets
Divided
Two gangs
Two worlds apart
Meet
A Fight
A knife
A life departs
One hand one heart
Maybe tonight
Love at first sight
Star crossed lovers
A brother
A rumble
A shot
A love lost
For naught
A labor of love
Two years
In the making
Two artists
A Maestro
A Lyricist
The Jets
The Capulets
The Sharks
The Montagues
Who knew
Tony and Maria
Two Tony Awards
A masterpiece
A musical
An opera
Jazz meets orchestra
On the Broadway stage
All the rage
Song and dance
A romance
A chorus
A place for us
A Jet all the way
Oh so pretty, witty, and gay
I saw you and
The world went away
A Broadway Show
A movie
Gee Officer Krupke
Breeze it
Buzz it
Easy does it
Take it slow
Daddy-o
Classics
Symbolic
Symphonic
Boy, boy, crazy boy
A rocket in your pocket
Boy meets girl
A boy like that
Just met a girl
What was just a world
Becomes a star
Bernstein
Sondheim
The Bard from afar
A Collaboration
A Celebration
Time to spread the word
Something’s coming
And it’s gonna be great
The most beautiful sound
I ever heard

by David Nemerov

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smooth solos
on the liquorice stick
in the jazz trio
jostling of irony
and melancholy

by Barbara Anna Gaiardoni

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Welcome Back, Pork Pie Hat
an encomium

I. Mingus

Four quarter notes adding up,
equaling one dollar note per bar.
Fingers finding the rhythm,
a foot tapping out the pace.
Strings snap against wooden body,
a stern education for enlightenment.

II. Minga

Everyone looks at the bassist,
the syncopation mystical and fervent.
Everyone’s silent from the reverberation,
the walls reflecting timeless echoes.
The loudly quiet jazz causing calm,
the wounds starting to heal again.

III. Mingum

The players begin to house their instruments,
the audience looking for the exits.
Someone looks at the fading lights,
his hands adjusting his pork pie hat.
Someone else notices this shadowy scene,
the photograph she takes stained by tears.

by Christopher Stolle

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A Jazz Musician Chooses Health
(for Yusef Lateef)

In the photo
Yusef Lateef sits
in a recording studio
looking over sheet music
finishing a peach,
taking of nutrients
from the earth
not drugs from
the consolidated evil
that stalked jazz musicians
like vampires until they
became– despite dedication and love
of the form and shape
of jazz– another tragic
dead soldier.

In the photo
Yusef Lateef sits
under a tree
spread and reaching
above him, playing the flute,
a gift to the ear
of those passing by,
the bird song answer
to the question; how
do I live my life
peacefully with the grace
of elm leaves in a breeze
or nesting birds
comfortable and well hid
from the money mad vultures
circling overhead?

by Daniel Warren Brown

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Strolling With Sonny
Reward Still Persists

those all hour notes from
a traffic of beautiful movement
leading to the Rollins-Hall Bridge
girded with Cranshaw & Riley support
weathered now over half a century
without a decomposed octave
no matter memory or mileage

getting to The Bridge
can leave an interesting track
whether starting dry
from way out west
at a St Thomas calypso
or brushing against silk’n’ satin
after a night at the Village Vanguard

arriving from the route taken
crossing over muddled water below
often on foot absorbing sharps & flats
often heading for the Blue Room
or Airegin though on occasion
in so doing ending up finding
further rhythmic things in Glocca Morra

by Terrance Underwood

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Werewolves of Athens

Two legs make a difference in this scenario.
And a saxophone, glinting and silent.
The street isn’t Greek but imagine it is.
“Enjoy yourself.” As if that were possible.
I’m following a script and I wish I could break
free of it without distorting the meaning.
I wet my lips, play for a minute, and stop.
A parasol of black hair appears on the esplanade.
No one moves under it, just for your info.
I could see myself running after it
and being tackled by men wearing fedoras.
I am not of this ark, and yet the pageantry
of the moment is all mine. I wear the quilt
sewn of many flags to disarm any revolutionaries.
I play revolutionary music: jazz.
What does he stand for? He must
stand for something? I’ll do what I can
to ward off the werewolves of Athens
but I suggest you seek shelter by the pillars.
Glowworms circulating there should not
dissuade you. Consider them a blessing,
consider them part of the scenery,
groovy stage lights, or whatever comes to you.
Let me play some Cannonball.
Yeah, that’s the ticket, that’s the gold.
Somehow I feel lighter, at ease,
as if I have managed to ward off
my demons without calling the Spartans.
They’ll come if I need them.
But I’ll need more time to play and see
what else this glossy guidebook holds.

by Sal DiFalco

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.
You Only Live Twice*

So says Bill Frisell
He of melodies
that hang from trees
that swish swirl twirl thrill

Stop everything
He’s quoting John Cage now
Just for one day
Listen to each other

It all comes down
to basics Reverie
for the harmony
Economy is lush hushed

How can one note
carry grief and joy
at the same time
Innocence resonance

We all want to take chances
It is amazing to jump off
a cliff just to see where we go
Just to see what’s possible

Frisell smiles as he plays
Because each note is sweet
Each conversation unique
Never ever say goodbye

*This poem is very loosely inspired by a 2021 interview with Bill Frisell by Joel Harrison in his book “Guitar Talk” reprinted in the MIT Reader.

by Mary K O’Melveny

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Six-String Lament

Letting the evening breathe
the hotel room finally emptied out.
A chorus of crushed beer cans
had fallen silent
beside depleted vodka bottles
lying just outside the overflowing trashcan.
The collage of voices
pasted upon one another
separated again,
vacating the space.

It had been a day
of babel.

In his eyes
you could still see
a sea of black ties
surrounding him.
Familiar faces
wrapped shows of sorrow
all come to a place
he was told all loves go
eternalized
in plot, space, and at times
stone.

It had been a day
of loss.

But in his chest
he caged the day’s comradery
like a time capsule,
to be unearthed during days
of pain and dread.
Stripping away grief
he wore his support,
standing beside
an old friend
about to begin
a new chapter.

It had been a day
of love.

Digits picked
at which
strings should sing
as he stared off
toward his repeating recap.
Emotions not tugged
but strengthened
from one end of the spectrum
to another, so fast
leaving whiplash.
Future and past
darted into one another
drowning his thoughts
like a crowded room,
his room,
about to burst.
And then,
for a moment
he found himself in it.
slipping in his chords
with no predestined plan,
no goals
but to play
and hopefully
play well.
Eyes fluttered
as if the vibrations
rocked him back
to his present
gifted by the guitar
no responsibilities,
speeches or sermons.
A restart in six strings
waiting in a moment
just for him.

It had been a day
of reflection.

by Chuck Harp

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Twelve-Bar Blues Elegy

The thrill is gone/The thrill is gone away/The thrill is gone, baby …B.B.King

Who can wrap their mind around empty, silent space?
Each night as stars begin to populate the firmament,
I try to recall what it was like to fall in love –
when hands trembled at a memory of a touch.

Each night as stars begin to populate the firmament,
there is one moment when my face turns flushed as fire,
and my hands tremble at memories of a touch
so full of passion that sparks flew across earth’s crust.

There is one moment when my face turns flushed as fire
(it can rival a sunset’s brilliant blush as dark descends,
as if passion sent sparks flying across earth’s crust).
I shout your name then beneath the growing spectacle.

It can rival a sunset’s brilliant blush as dark descends.
the sounds explode, spin upward brazen as fireflies when
I shout your name. Then, beneath the growing spectacle,
a humming happens – soft at first, then embracing all air.

The sounds explode, spin upward –brazen as fireflies. When
I listen closely, I hear each letter form like chorale notes.
A humming happens. Soft at first, then embracing all air,
each chord slowly progresses to full blues harmony.

I listen closely. I hear each letter form. Like chorale notes
shimmering in a sanctuary, your name resonates
as each chord slowly progresses to full blues harmony –
twelve-bar blues. I can picture your smile, your tapping feet.

Shimmering in this sanctuary, your name resonates.
Your presence calls. Stars reply. Take my hand. You are my
twelve-bar blues. I can picture your smile, your tapping feet.
Who can wrap their mind around empty, silent space?

by Mary K O’Melveny

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A Spoonful of Life

Driving east to the Parisian Room
Somebody told me it’s not there anymore
But that’s what I refuse to believe

I refuse to believe it

Jimmy Witherspoon
aka “Spoon…” ?

O I’m cravin’ some jazz business
O I’m cravin’ a spoonful of prestige / privilege
In a roomful of fast women & sloe gin!

What’s that you say, again?

Jimmy’s gone
& I’m left with these bar fly blues
What more do I have to lose?
It’s such a lonesome sound
All this rain / fallin’ on
The ground

& you might not still
Be around

But for now

I’ll go on living
I’ll go on living

By Connie Johnson

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blues highway

god these late-night horns
a distant thunderstorm
61 rumbling
……….parking lot symphony

but that rain ain’t come close
to Armstrong Park
the gulf got her steamy tricks
a second second line

summer mist Cuban-coffee-thick
through the black iron fence
like street wet reflecting
the brass back at you

gotta bring your umbrella son
……….come rain or come shine

by deb ewing

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The Empress

Straight from L.A.
Vi Redd on the sax
I remember Bird when I listen to you
making history! / it’s a mystery as to why
the history books forgot all about you

a soul connection
a little self-reflection
it’s the exchange needed
for a little blood / sweat
& tears

virtuosic!………. (don’t mind me
………………if I get philosophic)
just play me
some of that
red carpet
jazz

no conforming ../.. internationally
performing! / not “just a gal horn player”
you’d rather have a memory than
a dream

O lady soul
you sought some reconciliation
a little destiny / a little manifestation!
everything you did was by
popular.. demand

a woman ..in jazz
a leader…. in jazz
now’s ....the time
for us to acknow-
....….ledge you as
....…….our own
.....royalty

by Connie Johnson

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Knights At The Savoy

Elegant, eloquent, Ellington,
each of his horns trav’ling paths of their own,
trumpet, clarinet, sax, and trombone,
all meeting to ride Duke’s train.

Basic Basie the Count from Red Bank,
with Walter and Freddie and smooth Papa Jo,
Jumpin’ the beat for the dancer below,
and Billie’s soulful voice blessing the child.

Goodman and Krupa, licorice and sticks,
Gene’s boiling rhythms stirring up swing,
and tempting the crowd to sing, sing, sing,
while King Benny watched the moon glow.

Swinging little Chick always weaving his web,
Ella’s yellow basket carrying gold.
The Savoy their playground where truth would be told
when Duke, Count, and Benny came to play.

May thirty-seven Goodman met Webb.
Both bands were swinging their best.
In the end Benny and Gene would attest
when the notes cleared Mr. Webb was still king.

The very next year Basie grooved into town
with all stars and Hefti and Billie for sound.
Both bands fought hard as the crowd gathered ‘round
to watch Webb gather the win.

Then Sir Duke came rockin’ with rhythm
preparing to cut Chick’s web of gold.
With fire and elegance Duke’s music foretold
another number one at the Savoy.

Those knights of notes have long since gone.
The music sleeps on in a cloud of sound.
New music, new players can now be found
and the freedom of jazz lives on.

by Stanley Ellis

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Day By Day By Day
(For Wendell Berry)

Yesterday
the elm trees

sang against a blue sky
and I played Duke’s

Blue Skies (Trumpets No End)

Today
the elms are chilled

with cracked dark questions
against a gray cloud sky

It’s Billie singing Kern’s Why Was I Born?

Tomorrow
a day where

morning is the extraction
of all previous days

Ornette’s Tomorrow Is The Question is the song.

And as the metronome pulses
each day by day by day

some notes whisper and sustain like seeds
some notes dampen as they fade, I’ll listen to

Abbey Lincoln’s Softly As In A Morning Sunrise once again.

by Daniel Warren Brown

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Poet’s self-portrait

Jerrice J Baptiste is an artist, poet, author of nine books. Her most recent book is Coral in The Diaspora, published by Abode Press (August 2024).

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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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Poet and storyteller Salvatore Difalco lives in Toronto, Canada. He is the author of five books including Black Rabbit & Other Stories (Anvil Press). Recent journal appearances include Cafe Irreal, Fictive Dream, and E-ratio. His short story “Bluesette” was the winning entry in the 67th Jerry Jazz Musician Short Fiction contest, which you can read by clicking here.

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Stanley Ellis is a retired music teacher, artist, drummer, singer and song writer, who has had songs recorded by Mark Murphy and Rebecca Parris, among others. He illustrated and wrote his book for kids, The Whiskers On My Cat. Writer’s Journal has published two short stories, “Grand Clippers” and “A Shut And Open Case” online and in two books.

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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.” You might find deb’s short sci-fi at Coffin Bell Journal in July, or her physical person at FAR-West 2024 in Woodland Hills, CA, in October. Follow @DebsValidation on Twitter and Instagram.
.
(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 67th edition)

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Barbara Anna Gaiardoni is an award-winning poet whose Japanese-style poetry has been widely published in a vast array of prestigious international journals—including The Mainichi, Modern Haiku, The Asahi Haikuist, seashores, and tsuri-doro—and translated into twelve languages. Among her numerous accolades, she is a winner of the 7th Basho Competition, a four-time Touchstone Award nominee (with nominations in 2023, 2024, and 2026), and a recipient of multiple Honorable Mentions at the Fujisan Tanka Contest (2024, 2025). Her work is also frequently featured on The Mainichi’s Haiku in English Best list and the Haiku Euro Top 100 list. She is guided by her personal motto: “I can, I must, I want”.

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Chuck Harp is an award-winning LA-based writer who has published poetry, novels, comics, and has had scripts produced. When not writing or working with his art collective, Katcheen Tongues, to create musical poetry projects, Chuck writes about skateboard culture for multiple media outlets.

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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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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 three 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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Mary K O’Melveny, retired labor rights lawyer, lives with her wife near Woodstock, NY. Mary became a fan of Jazz as a very young girl listening to Louis Armstrong and Lester Young on her grandparents’ Victrola record player. Mary’s award-nominated poetry appears in many print and on-line literary journals, anthologies and national blog sites. Mary has authored three poetry collections. Her just-released fourth book, Flight Patterns, is available by clicking here

Click here to read If You Want to Go to Heaven, Follow a Songbird – Mary K O’Melveny’s album of poetry and music, published by Jerry Jazz Musician

Click here to visit her web site

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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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After having taught middle and high school English for 32 years, Marianne Peel is now nurturing her own creative spirit. She has spent three summers in Guizhou Province, teaching best practices to teachers in China. She received Fulbright-Hays Awards to Nepal (2003) and Turkey (2009). She participated in Marge Piercy’s Juried Intensive Poetry Workshop (2016), and her poetry appears in Muddy River Poetry Review, Belle Reve Literary Journal, Jelly Bucket Journal, among others. She is also a veteran musician, playing flute/sax and singing in various orchestras, bands, choirs, and jazz bands her whole life. She has published three full length poetry collections; No Distance Between Us, and Singing is Praying Twice are from Shadelandhouse Modern Press, and her latest collection, Untamed Arabesque, is from Act of Power Press.

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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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Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. Click here to visit her website, and here for her Facebook page.

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Click for:

More “21 jazz poems on the 21st” collections

A Letter From the Editor: On “The Weary Blues: Celebrating Langston Hughes and the Harlem Renaissance”

Information about the book Kinds of Cool: An Interactive Collection of Jazz Poetry, Vol. II (featuring women poets)

The Sunday Poem Archive

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

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