Poetry by E. C. Jones

 

 

 

 

 

 

Terry on Bass, 1974

Tall
slim straight
long red hair
that cops and rednecks hated
he’d stride to his deep honey bass
feel its pleasure in his big hands
urge out music that turned souls to listen
his freedom plucking up down strings
warm as bourbon
bow a dark beauty
crying raw as sorrow
touch a tone tender
as the spine of a branch trembling naked on air
and the love on his face you could see it
feel his hands play his Soul
gifting out its joy

 

 

 

 

The Night Bloom

 

When I heard you had died I wept for you
for the boy of sixteen you were
so long ago

At that particular time
when the days ran fast
a whiplash
of colors
music, words
fresh thoughts
experience, experiment
riding into the future
revolution, peace- love
lots of screwing
civil rights
war howling
intensity opening
minds
gifting many
throwing others away like scraps
and the sounds, all the dope
and you

and all the things you dreamed
yourself
to be
to create
and never did

You watched the world
through eyes that hurt like shattered glass
piercing your heart
in a bleed of raw self-loathing
that took you to fix
relief through arm
until it gleamed golden
and your pain pounded numb
the song in your Soul
sagged flat and empty.

You held creation in your opening hand
of scars, obsession, rough gems
Your hand
spinning joy and grief
into music of danger and light

A traitor’s hand
with slid so smooth and sting of needle
opened your pulse
as the Night Bloom’s rich, rushing honey
invaded your hurt
with drench from her lips
and that sweet, sticky kiss
left a twist of her taste
like the quench hanging deaf
to the crave in your veins
screaming hollow for
more, more, more

I ache for you
You
Pilgrim of Dark Experience
who surrendered your wounds
to Night Bloom’s suffocating beauty
offering your broken- fingered love songs
just to curl soft in the slow steady rush
of her touch, satin hands, gently rocking
the float of your will
dangling fetal within a syringe.

And your dreams
wild, voluminous
dreams screaming gorgeous
your words, your songs
like flocks of feral angels
shameless, flawless
dreams born of love
served
to the
self
devouring
cannibal
inside you

the vampire lover
who seduced every cell in your body
your heart into one huge starving throb.

Yet, here I stand stranded
at this theme- park
of tomb stones, flowers
wind slices rain like a razor backed ghost
clouds bruised, soggy, revenant
hang like gigantic piñatas
bursting in bleed spitting tears
of storm and shout
and gone fills your space
bending empty…

Now I tuck you to rest
fold you warm in a careful place
where only love exists
or is that only an imagining.

My hand brushes finality’s stone
your feel lingers long
blooming midnight through my fingers
as I say goodbye then walk away.

And tonight I will pray
-even if nobody listens-
that the Night Flower
re-blooms
as your musical Soul
who takes your hand
warmly, familiar
when you reach the end
of your dark, dark, tunnel.

 

 

Screaming God at The Club Universe on Hot Ruby Nights!

 

Sacred
neon
music
opens whisky ears
cigarette ghosts
swirling round a tall bass
bowed deep for rich tasting
sweet molten jazz surging
sliding plucking
through the cosmos curving
reckless drums
cymbals splashing silvery
fast as light
gymnast hands
springing agile
midnight throbbings
wired straight to heart’s
quick ticking
chasing rhythms
melting listeners
drenched in music’s smoke and gold
songs of backstreet angels
holy fire felt Soul to Soul
rushing fingers
spiriting piano keys
blue note epiphanies
peeling off gravity
ravishing silence dangerously loud
wild cat saxophone screaming God
all over The Universe
jamming on hot ruby nights

dedicated to Mike Smith, Terry Plumeri
and John Coltrane

 

About E.C. Jones

E.C. Jones was raised surrounded in music. Her grandmother played boogie woogie on the piano, her mother was an opera singer and her brother a composer. She has absorbed the flavors and colors of many musical mediums, including the most authentic and accomplished of American music – jazz. She lives in Mt.Shasta Ca.