FIRE PATH
He pulls at the voice spirit.
A cake sweet whispering of ghost lips
fuels an overflowing youth within.
No empty or without haunts
his suitcase of jazz;
travels welcome the shoes of city nights
and oaths unfulfilled.
The blanket he covers holds the hands
of family bound in a weave
of many colors.
He is without license.
Rules are the appetite to fall under him.
Horns run with baptism
in the stream beside him.
Eyes encourage a freedom burned
in the path chosen for him.
All the signs point him out
SUBWAY SNAKES
A fever captures the chill within.
Broad with heat the piano keys fire the jazz.
A sweat rushes a river into strength,
forcing the past into swirls caught hard;
the weak drown in escape.
A great moon howls with voice,
lifting hats and fingers into a dark beat.
A flavoring of winds seasons the songs;
birthday cakes and candles stir
the fire of youth.
Subways snake the underground
while horns sound life in the above.
Angel faces full of nylon speak with pearls
and red lipped cigarettes.
Morning never arrives on time.
REFRESHED
The burn of jazz brightly
brushed my skin like a thousand spiders
crazily crawling.
I sensed the rightness of sound;
healing air released over me.
Cooler than water, it rushed the edge
of my beliefs,
leaving behind a high tide of
newness.
A panther of energy pounced the room.
Its claws of music ripped free the old;
wounds softened in the eyes of hate.
A new breath released the strength of chains.
The language of jazz storms the ears.
Refreshed fits well.
THE VOID
Never comes fast enough
the fingers of jazz.
The streams of sound,
the beginning of a breath.
Sails in open waters
unfold banners of song.
Early waking moments
search her desire to sing.
She forms words of verse.
Sleep yields to night
and day resigns to waking
passions.
A horn signals
the beat opening her.
Ocean shells absorb her voice.
Walls reflect pictures in her
eyes.
Places are warned to prepare.
She sees the void.
LOST ISLANDS
A song of broken bottles
staggers loud voices into a short lull;
anger leavens fists to rise
into smoky air and soft flesh.
A song of jazz opens shadows.
Magnolia pedals blossom over Canal Street.
A man with a hat whistles
a nervous tune, like a barge abandoned in fog.
Low muddy river power thunders nearby.
Silt holds the bones of the unlucky.
River boats pass over spirits lost to chance.
Street lights cast quiet night shadows.
Heaven weeps over lost islands.
HER FLAVOR
Her rhythms are held by open
waves of blue strength.
Faces cool under a crescent moon.
The insides of listeners turn red
with passion. The crowd reaches
for her flavor.
Words birth from her as the children
of sound. Fingers tap to the
Breathing she releases.
Ghost voices circle her. An orchard
of ripeness blossoms from the
place she holds.
Ownership fails at the flowing
of her dress.
Forests of shadows sing through her.
She is never lonely.
Pianos weep at her finish.
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?