Poetry by Roger Singer

 

 

HER PRIVATE STORM

 

 

A snaky sexy look
Slithered sideways
From her eyes
Filling the crowd with
Warmth
As her words
Circled ankles,
Pushed onto hands
And ran the
Neck
Of willing souls.

Washboard scratching
Lifts from her
Throat
With the sound of
Crickets
Marching into night
Being lead by
Her calling.

Heaven rains
Bring thunder
With bursts
Of witches fingers
Crackling bright
Crawling in crowds
Crying with complaining
About that woman
Singing up loud
From her private
Storm.

 

WHERE HE’S BEEN

 

His sound was
Sweet with air
From wings of
Bees
Washing over me
Like busy hands
Of someone I know
Warming me
Flooding my chest
Stretching out
Like roots
As he vibrates
That sax
Making birds fly
And dogs growl
Kicking up dust
Into the soul
From a message
He’s pouring out
Willing and long
Wanting everyone
To grasp at a part
Of his fingers
Releasing and
Offering up
To the altar of
Man
Where he’s been
And where he is
Now.

 

 

ISABELLA

 

Into the room
The lightening of
Sound birthed
Like a baby
Crying for air
In the place
Where jazz is
Born.

I feel it
Just fine
Crawling on me
Like spiders with lively legs
Beating a
Fresh fast sound
Into the souls
Of those in need.

It breaks down
Into rolls and flowing
Like summer storms
Speaking thunder
With crash and bangs
Delivering the
Child with
Song.

 

 

A SOUND PRINT

Her voice
Placed a
Sound print
On the ears
Of weary
And wandering
Eyes.

Long fingers
Work the air
Painting a
Picture of
Her story
Dripping ocean
Deep.

She disturbs
With fever
The air
Moving aside
For her
Motion,
As she speaks
Greater than,
Never less than,
The jazz
She shares.

 

 

RISING UP THEN DOWN

 

Steady goes
The beat
  The sound
The snap and roll
With strings creaking
Slipping out
A message of sound.

Like doors
Closing and dividing
 Separating the in and out
Or stairs
  Rising up then down
With walking to and from.

The beat of jazz
Finds its way like water
 Seeping, crawling
Making a path
Until the drips run and rush
With great pushing
Catching you in the caught
Of the flow.

 

SORROW NIGHTS

Voices offer
No favor
When arms
Sit absent
Of holding
And days of
Full alone
Speak hard
Of the
Sorrow nights.

Late in evenings
When sounds call
Out on their own,
You welcome
The scare
Of any noise
While sitting
Tightly
In the dark.

When
Sorrow nights
Come knocking
On my skin
I freshen the
Strings on my
Bass
And play
The jazz
Till the breath
Of my hands
Runs out
And my
Fingers cry for
Rest.

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Tags: jazz poetry, poetry, Roger Singer

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