Poetry by Roger Singer

May 26th, 2013




Vines of music crawl over the
listening parts of me. The aroma of it
lifts from lines like everyday wash hung
from my soul; dripping the old part onto
the soil of my comfort, drying me into
a creation I thirst for.

The smoke of my thoughts curled like
lovers hair, feeding on the moisture of my
garden, the appetite within. The sound of jazz
opened suitcases of me, tossing the neatness
as if confetti; its landing lay jagged and random.

A river I feel; strong currents hold rights over me.
The songs break like waves. I sing the opening of
day. Night songs wash me new.




Morning got the bad fingers of wake up;
I rub hard the junk of last night
from my eyes.
A song lingers on my lips like moths
finding safety on street lights.
A breath of whiskey speaks of Lola
and the black of her; bright red nails
signature my skin with her wants.
She is magnolia blossom strong;
a pearl earring rests in my palm.
Ceiling fan paddles circle the lust
in the room; moans sweeten morning shadows
and clothes lay empty on the floor.
A bright sun, too bright for a dark saint,
strikes through sadly chipped green shutters;
prisoner lines paint the wall and Lola
as she rolls over in satin,
stirring the dog in me.




It was a square, a circle,
a box of flowers, a bag of words, the shape
of sounds running in my ear.

A rattling of sticks and leaves
with slide and run, banging to life
the jazz I hear living in the attic
of my head.

No shape is safe, no color too bright,
each igniting sounds of bubbling
with youths strong legs, carrying
me with courage.

My tongue rattles like drums excited.
The bend of my shoes walking
start my fingers tapping. My lips
puff out from the chimney of my
thoughts a song of red and blue,
small and long, wrapped and wrinkled……..

The shapes of sounds call me.




The edge of me rounds out
to the run of jazz,
pulling on
paper words and
twisting of hair
from a crowd
where sunglasses
hide searching souls
and feet eager for
a place to call home
like buttons spilled
rolling and slapping
round on a floor
without mercy
in a smoky room
where last names
don’t exist
and whispers
melt from corners
and chairs tilt
and heads nod to a beat
while legs jump
with heaven raised hands
in a night place
without a name
answering to the call
of sound
where blankets of brass
cool over the skin
brushing off the dust
while breathing
in the black
and letting out the light.




His sound. A bridge over sand and stone.
A language of up with the good side of life
while the downside grasps
like snakes around weak ankles;
doors unlock by voices and blood.

Sharing is the only breath rolling
from the fingers of his song.
He pulls at half listeners
and fence post sitters until struck
by the heavy of him.

He’s a father. A brother of color to
all shades of night and day.

Wild horses stomp out his enthusiasm.
His viral intervening vines of music
force flat hands together into a holiday spirit.
His dream is the coming of together.

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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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In This Issue

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