THE APARTMENT ABOVE
Vibrations through the floor,
Minced oaths, vain reproaches,
Staggered and slurred,
Mumbled words,
Nervous laughs,
Find their way to me.
Sleepy songs with lazy ends,
Muffled horns, rasping snare,
Blended angled tunes,
Thick bass beats,
Piano slides,
Jazz played for my feet.
A singing candied female voice,
Languid words, enticing tones,
Carry to my ears,
Long legs,
Ruby lips,
Shadows embrace in lust.
Harsh deep rumbled voices,
Angry men, bitter laughter,
Fists with fury,
Tables turn,
Chairs tip,
A fallen soul accepts the floor.
In the apartment above the bar,
Drifting smoke, whisky fumes,
Music bleeds,
Finding me,
In darkness,
With tempting past life dreams.
PICKLES AND EGGS
Billiard lights,
Anvil laden smoke,
Circled stains on felt,
Where empty glasses dream.
Snake oil accordions,
Angles lost to hell,
Lonely notes on chalkboards,
Scratching into night.
Jambalaya cocktails,
Hot sauce and ice,
Salted broken peanuts,
A song of sullen jazz.
Pickles and eggs,
Soak in yellow brine,
Breakfast or dinner,
For some their only meal.
Eyes at half mast,
Slumbered yellow skin,
Untied work shoes,
Weeping underarms.
There within the bar,
Night sleeps all day,
Where clocks do not exist,
Or faces you can trust.
ALWAYS MIDNIGHT
Angels with voices,
Wings without air,
Words from abstracts,
Circle the room,
Falling on ears with souls.
Manicured nails,
Red devils from hell,
Black patent leather,
Open toed shoes,
Sway to music’s call.
Thin blackened lashes,
Frail porcelain skin,
Bare armed creatures,
Diamonds and pearls,
Languish in silver light.
A song finds a start,
A microphone blends,
Teardrops and blood,
The heart finds a soul,
Washed in salt and pain.
A trumpet finds words,
In singular notes,
That paste to the wall,
Then drip to the floor,
It’s always midnight in here.
LATE NIGHT SONG
Calloused fingertips,
Pass over bridges,
Between stringed lines,
Where music waits,
Changing to jazz.
Outlines of figures,
Surrounded with shadows,
Pausing at sundown,
Strengthened by night,
Waiting for notes to be free.
Hidden deep gifts,
Echo from windows,
Like birds that flee,
Melodies with wings,
Beating unevenly divine.
A lone weeping bass,
Speaking in comfort,
Shedding new lights,
Into soft curtained corners,
Where feet and fingers tap.
Voices with smoke,
Slip through stale air,
Past eyes with lust,
And hands with thought,
Where music finds a home.
SAWDUST FLOORS
Filaments of jazz,
Blown in the air,
Lazy half notes,
Fashioned with clefts.
Beetle back bass,
Tortoise shell drums,
Trombone snakes,
And ivory black keys.
Floating soft tunes,
Streams of notes,
Slap beneath feet,
On sawdust floors.
Smoke lines ascend,
From stained yellow fingers,
Flaked leaning ashes,
On tables lay scattered.
Flowered spring dresses,
Graters and nylons,
Bows on the hips,
And silver belt buckles.
Baptizing music,
Dips bleary souls,
Into rivers of loss,
Where dreams float away.
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!
And a last name like “Singer”–what else would one expect?