Poetry by Roger Singer

May 26th, 2013






I love the
Scratchy voice
Of the jazz lady
Who brushes
My ears clean.

Words with thick
Washboard scuff
Scrape my soul
To bleach white
And preacher clean.

Concrete rough
Words with love
Grasp the lust
Of my eyes
With evil thoughts.

Every song
Bends its tone
Like trees
Caught by storms
Within her voice.




Long arms
Breath and sway
Like dripping moss
From thick trees
As music floods
The wide porch
Where she stands.

Her head tilts
And sweeping hair
Streams into shadows,
Pasted for an instant
On a tired wall
Lustfully caressing
Brilliant beauty.

Wholesome jazz
Bubbles to the
Surface of night
As a mercury moon
Drips with silver
Onto a face
Deep in thought.




A red convertible
Owns the road
While the radio
Embraces jazz
And musical arms
Release the sounds.

Shadowed fingers
Of overhead branches
Slip with clouds
Without a sound
Like lovers lips
That pulse in lust.

Summer winds
Slicing smoothly
Through thick hair
While men thirst
And women moan
On blackened roads.

Road signs wink
With metal faces
While living music
Drowns the seats
To the top
Full of miles.



Don’t need no
Fast car
Or long
Legged showgirl
To pump
My soul
To set
My blood
To boiling hot
Just give me
The jazz
So I can
Bust open
With hope
Knowing the
Sun is up
And shining
And blackbirds
Cut the air
Like busy
Fat notes
Being squeezed
Like melons
Dripping sweet
And watering
Your eyes
With joy
Like the
First time
You fell
Flat out
Nose pressed
In love.


Oncoming headlights
Curiously splash
Onto sleeping eyes, Unbuttoned shirts
And placid frames
On the silver bus
Slipping into night.

Roads without names
Rise then melt
Like dreams
Where shadows speak
And lips are welcomed
By familiar arms
From vapory voices.

Small unnamed towns
Blur unevenly past
The streaked windows
Of the bus,
Shinning poor and weak
Onto sidewalks
Still warm from day.

Dashboard lights
Stretch like fingers
From deep waters
Onto the driver
Who searches
In the distance
For a city
Calling for jazz.





A crescent moon
Hangs on silver threads
Pasted to a black
Endless star crazed
Horizon with bits of light
Touching the horn player,
There, on the roof.

Notes slip into the night
Like foolhardy moths
Circling like atoms
Around a friendless bulb,
As if faster meant happiness
And warmth brought love,
There, on the roof.

Liquid sounds
Like raindrops
Fall randomly
Onto the street far below
Like dust from heaven
Where angels love jazz,
There, on the roof.

Songs cascade
Over the edge
Like thick rivers
Soaking evening souls
With musical cuisine
From the horn player
There, on the roof.




The bass man’s
Supple fingers
Move like
Frantic spiders
On a web
Bursting with flames.

He leans lovingly
Into the long neck
Of the bass,
A shoulder finds
Comfort where
Tears are made.

With eyes closed
His soul opens,
Exposing listeners
To the music
Spilling from
Notes in his head.

The band
Abruptly ends
Far too soon
For dancing fingers
That continue
To crawl on strings.





Music was
Driving hard
Like hammers
Spitting nails
Building sounds
As if thunder
Were knocking
At the side
Of your head
Pushing fast
On the door
Where notes
Were hiding
Like kittens
In a storm
Till the walls
Fell inward
Like Jericho
And horns
Laughed big
And hands
Quickly raised
From the
Where beauty
Was hidden
And the music
Found wings
Being born
In the air
Becoming jazz
Where it
Proudly remains
The standard
Of all sounds.

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2 comments on “Poetry by Roger Singer”

  1. Roger has a feel for Jazz–the sound, the music, tempo and jargon. Each of his poems grind out the message in resounding tones. If he is not a Jazz aficionado (which I suspect he is), he has a knack for extracting the marrow from the music he hears!

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