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Dear Readers:
Poets within this community of writers are feeling this moment in time, and writing about it.
Here is another example.
If you have something you want to say about what is happening in the world and how it may be affecting you in the way of a poem, and would like to have it considered for this series, drop me an email with a subject heading “poems written in the midst of our times.”
Joe Maita
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photo C.B.P Grey/via Wikimedia Commons
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Spoonful
Delta Bluesman Charley Patton asked in his 1929 recording of his composition Spoonful Blues “would I kill a man” and answered “yes, I would”..
The human condition accentuated in a 1920’s blues,
living and dying over spoonfuls, both the victim in all of us
and the killer we also inhabit. Small moments, small actions
such destruction, such compassion.
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Nations war
over a spoonful
of dirt
people kill
over a spoonful
of lust
couples marry
over a spoonful
of hope
children grow
over a spoonful
of approval
refugees struggle
over a spoonful
of survival
millions of victims
over a spoonful
of cruelty
we exploit each other
over a spoonful
of power
yet we may be saviors
helping with spoonfuls
of kindness
we may live
with a spoonful
of breath each morning
(we are all a nation
we are all killers
we are all couples
we are all children
we are all refugees
we are all victims
we are all exploiters
we are all saviors
we are all dreamers)
by the virtue of birth
both lion and lamb
slurp the tongued stream
one sip at a time
only wet whiskered choice
and thirst remains.
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by Daniel Warren Brown
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Just-Ice Justice Reminiscent
On a crisp late January Miami morn
Hawks tree gather uninvited
Cloaked by leaf, limb & branch.
Low soaring vultures
…………….patrol cloudless skies
…………….…………….surveying a chill drop
…………….…………….…………….community landscape
For disadvantageous by blood
…………….slow to move iguanas
…………………………..Or another migrant vestige type
…………….…………….…………….To satisfy their hunger.
These agent beak & mottled predators cannot
…………….Conceal their wrathful desires
…………….…………….Given the natural order
…………….…………….…………….They possess
Granted to them from one quite well known
One we have all considered before
One some anoint as being Supreme.
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by Terrance Underwood
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After it Falls
And the bombs fall as
A mushroom cloud rises
Over the horizon, skeletons
Lying in the dust will tell society’s
Epitath
The cries of children will
Linger in the night, they
Will still be heard in the morning
They will be proof, that God was
Here
…..There will be hope, lingering in the colored
…..Flashing, lights
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by erren geraud kelly
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Happy Nation
(inspired by Ace of Base)
The young year ages fast.
We eat and breathe the chemicals
and apprehension.
This nation tells us—
“Stay alive, keep sacrificing—
pay another increase,
’cause companies are people, too.”
Money rings your bell—
leaves at the turn of the lock.
Health issues grow on dying trees—
work harder—make less.
Surviving is your animal instinct.
Your pain is your pain—
deal with it!
You live in the greatest fallacy.
The stars and stripes
wave in lies and goose-steps.
Your leader
claims he’s Christ—
the doctor that cures.
His gospel leads us into temptation.
He is heavenly delusion—
protector of the misinformed.
Some cross themselves—
the letter “T” is sacrosanct.
Some still drink his wine.
This country has gone too far—
but his choir sings for praise.
They don’t see
the children gather by the door—
blackened eyes, cut lips,
opened mouths—hushed.
The fear for the present
lives in the future.
What future?
The children gave up asking.
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by Patricia Carragon
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Jazz During Times of War
The orange-shaded so-called leader
in the White House decided he needed
a war. He haphazardly went into war
during a time when unaffordability is high,
when police violence is still entrenched in
American neighborhoods, when wages
aren’t growing like rent fees, grocery
prices, or the cost of gas.
Masked men have ravaged family life
in cities all across this country, yet he,
thinks going into war is a good thing.
He’s certainly no one’s king.
Yet, music is medicine. Music soothes.
Music moves. Music empowers. Music
impacts. Music is meditation. Music
is momentous, monumental. Music
is breath, life, essential.
Music is peace.
Music calms the
savage beast.
Music is the Most
High’s Masterpiece.
What if we all
bought turntables
and jazz records during
these times of war?
What if we drowned
ourselves in the sounds
of jazz? What if we allowed
jazz notes to coat us with
vibrations of reason, of
rational, of relentless love
formed to transform the way
war-lusting men act or think?
What if we chose to drink
jazz melodies to drown out
all of the hate filled words
about other countries, leaders,
policies protecting the way
more respectful nations
handle conflict?
War inflicts pain. War drains.
Wars create bloodstains.
War takes an unmerciful
mind frame. Those who
Create wars should be
ashamed.
I don’t know about you,
But I need a jazz record
at this moment. I need
to hear saxophones,
trombones, voices,
violens, hi-hats, taps,
tings, someone who
soulfully sings, rhythm
sections, Monk’s
perfections, Miles’
“Kind of Blue”, strings
strumming, horns,
a new style of jazz
being born, bop, Basie,
jazz of all kinds
Just so I can ease
my soul and bring
peace to my mind
in these times of
war.
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by Christopher D. Sims
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Narrow Daylight
(inspired by Diana Krall)
Narrow daylight
crosses my room.
Winter lingers—
the rain as snowflakes
Springtime hesitates—
trees in confusion,
crocuses stuck underground.
The wind, frustrated—
like those who rely on calendars.
Cameras click—
more posts on social media.
The pale ones march again,
rain or shine—
claim their pledge for justice
but do they understand
those who struggle outside their bubbles?
Their generational curses will never know.
The pale ones still point fingers
from left and to right,
and back again.
I witness them and myself.
Hope is a four-letter joke.
Another day in Paradise Lost—
cultures clash like the wind.
Prices rise—
a paycheck away
from life on the streets
We do our civic duty—
ballots cast our uncertainty.
The gilded one
watches this nation implode
and his army disperse.
Is the revolution coming,
or did 1984 transcend
from being a number?
Did kindness lose its definition?
Did love become war?
Did words get sanitized
to fit an agenda?
Spring is struggling.
Bare stems of daffodils
and tulips—
wait to blossom.
One crocus shows
its purple head.
Spring’s narrow daylight
crosses this promenade.
The gulls gather
on the rocks below.
The temperature rises—
maybe for summer
and peace of mind?
The salt air brushes my face.
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by Patricia Carragon
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History Lesson
Negro
baseball leagues
black and proud
big hitting warriors
barnstormed the edge
of white barricades—-
america’s
color coded
dream flag first unfurled
and almost imploded
slowly (like Langston’s raisin)
until… in morning sun… we began to wake up
(and negro hurlers and hitters
struck out a system…
one.. two.. three)
my god, the crackerjack teeth and beer
fans wondered, where have these
brown bombers been hiding…
How about the history of now?
in our era of orange fog terror
when bilingual brown workers among us
who serve our food and build our houses
are swept away like crumbs
and black history is raped
though ancestry can never be erased,
Is the raisin oozing sugar
festering once again
or is mycelium mask
cloak hatred so cold
the grapes freeze on the vine?
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by Daniel Warren Brown
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The Funk Zone
“…there’s no such thing as funk in Santa Barbara”
that’s what my Uber driver said & I am inclined to agree
I depart
from his car…
& I walk
& I walk
& a homeless woman asks me for change
She says bless you as I place dollars in her hand
is this the funk zone
or just a facsimile thereof?
should I entitle this The Vagabond Blues
or view it as just another
funk variation?
in a vintage store window
there’s a painting of Ella!
& she’s smilin’ at me
she’s smilin’ at me
An older man
with his equally old white dog
(& a sign that says no kings attached to his walker)
passes me by on the boulevard
he winks at me
I wink at him
& the humanity of that moment
puts me in the funk zone
I walk
& I walk
down streets I’ll never visit again
a foliage of leaves crunch beneath my feet
& the day, it hurries by
seismic uncertainty
gives way to funky clarity!
& nothin’ but blue skies
do I see
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by Connie Johnson
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Daniel Warren Brown has loved jazz (and music in general) ever since he delved into his parents’ 78 collection as a child. He is a retired special education teacher who began writing as a senior. He always appreciates being published in journals and anthologies. At age 72 he published his first collection Family Portraits in Verse and Other Illustrated Poems through Epigraph Books, Rhinebeck, NY. Daniel writes daily about music, art and whatever else catches his imagination.
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Patricia Carragon is author of Stranger on the Shore (Human Error Publishing), Angel Fire (Alien Buddha Press), Meowku (Poets Wear Prada), The Cupcake Chronicles (Poets Wear Prada), and Innocence (Finishing Line Press). Available on Amazon.com. Editor of Sense & Sensibility Haiku Journal. She is the Curator/editor-in-chief (Brownstone Poets, Brooklyn, NY).
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Connie Johnson has multiple Pushcart Prize nominations for poetry. A California-based writer, she has authored Everything is Distant Now (Blue Horse Press) and I Have Almost Everything (Boats Against the Current). In a Place of Dreams, her digital chapbook (containing audio readings/personal narrative), was published by Jerry Jazz Musician. Click here to view it.
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Erren Kelly is a three-time Pushcart nominated poet from Boston whose work has appeared in 300 publications (print and online), including Hiram Poetry Review, Mudfish, Poetry Magazine, Ceremony, Cacti Fur, Bitterzoet, Cactus Heart, Similar Peaks, Gloom Cupboard, and Poetry Salzburg.
Click here to read “Under Quarantine” — COVID-era poetry of Erren Kelly, published by Jerry Jazz Musician
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Christopher D. Sims is a writer of poetry, a spoken word artist, and a human rights activist who uses words to inform. Born and raised on the west side of Rockford, Illinois, he has been writing since he was nine years old. A published poet, Christopher wrote a poetry and memoir collection entitled I was Born and Raised in The Rock in 2020. He is a fellow of the Intercultural Leadership Institute.
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Terrance Underwood is a retired Gas Turbine Package Engineer whose career offered opportunities to work all over the world. A devoted jazz enthusiast, his first memory operating a mechanical devise was a 4-speed spindle drop record changer for his father’s collection of 78s. In 2024, he was nominated by Jerry Jazz Musician for a Pushcart Prize.
Click here to read Proceeding From Behind: A collection of poems grounded in the rhythmic, relating to the remarkable, by Terrance Underwood
Click here to read his collection of poems “With Ease in Mind”
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Click for:
Other collections of
Information about Kinds of Cool: An Interactive Collection of Jazz Poetry, Vol. II (featuring women poets)
More poetry on Jerry Jazz Musician
“Where the Music Wasn’t Allowed,” Jane McCarthy’s winning story in the 71st Jerry Jazz Musician Short Fiction Contest
More short fiction on Jerry Jazz Musician
Information about how to submit your poetry or short fiction
Subscribe to the (free) Jerry Jazz Musician quarterly newsletter
Helping to support the ongoing publication of Jerry Jazz Musician, and to keep it commercial-free (thank you!)
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