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Dear Readers:

…..For several years, the poet Michael L. Newell has been an important contributor to Jerry Jazz Musician. His poetic voice resonates wisdom and exudes warmth and character in all he writes about – music, nature, relationships, age, memory, and life’s complexity.

….. The poems appearing on this page were written since he was recently diagnosed with a concerning illness, and are published as a way for me to share his burst of creative energy I have been witness to, as well as poignant thoughts that have emerged for him during his challenging time.

…..Michael tells me that the poems in this collection “are not deliberately connected. I simply follow whatever is on my mind on a given night, and often the subject surprises me.”

…..I thank Michael for allowing me to share his personal experience with readers of Jerry Jazz Musician.

Joe Maita
Editor/Publisher

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photo by Joe Maita

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What is This Path

As I walk beneath overpasses,
eidolons from eight decades
mirror my steps and whisper
my name in a range of accents.

Fog sweeps in carrying faces
from thirteen countries. Echoes
of steps both tentative and bold
sing to me, and I clumsily

move into the future, that with arms
outstretched, summons me to an end
I know naught about, save my ignorance
and fear. Who are these voices and faces

that haunt me throughout my waning days?
My bones grow ever wearier. Somewhere
something awaits me. Somewhere on a border,
a voice sings my name, extends welcoming arms.

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Mister Smith and the Midnight Special

comes the thunderous roar of music
Mister Jimmy Smith his organ
and his wildly cooking band
searching for nothing but the blues
oh baby smoke that room

that organ could make
a sleeping man smile
after tonight nothing will ever
be the same life is
a midnight special

sober or drunk all
is alright and life is
redefined as joy joy joy
the man the band cooks
and life is good

day or night in this honky tonk
all is a midnight special
oh yeah wail away
on the theme that life
is worth the living and the giving

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Leave the Old Goat Alone

well damn me someone cried
who is that old goat embracing
the wind waving at the women
laughing at the crows as they unleash

a caw-cacophony of ribald raucous
seemingly random sound someone
replied he lives in the broken down
building at the end of the lane and loves

to shout and dance with birds dogs
and anyone as crazy as he is why doesn’t
someone call the cops ah he’s harmless
and he makes the cops laugh what the hell

is he doing now he’s talking to the squirrels
he frequently feeds leave the old goat alone

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Miles to Explore

Miles muted elicits smiles
recalls the trials of gin and jazz
joints sends notes soaring

in nights wild and free
and more painful than life
should ever be sails sounds

round the heads of eager
listeners who are intoxicated
by what he shares his horn

defines beauty transmutes
sounds in his head
brings listeners to their feet

note upon note he creates
a notable world life hurts yet is cool
swing brother swing redefine the world

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Thinking of Michael and Anna Citrino at Dusk

Limping along with my walker
through a small orchard by a creek,
I think of you both and salute you

from afar, my arms waving like leaves
in a breeze. Wind carries dusk across
my path, and I sing Stephen Foster

songs, the words sailing across
the continent like migrating butterflies
to land on your shoulders, to gently

remind you of the many years we have
been friends; although often separated
by half the world, we find paths through

virtual space to share ideas, accomplishments,
griefs, discoveries, and hopes, for whatever
future still lies before us. As the night grows

chilly, I am warmed by memory, and the knowledge
that even as life slowly slips away, we care
and hear one another across time and space.

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Supplication
(While Listening to Spiritual by Metheny and Haden)

“Please,” beseeched the old man
stretching his hand toward
the distant universe, “Please

bestow peace upon me in my
final hours, whatever that means,
in whatever form it takes, grant me

passage upon the tides of
the universe, the embrace of
the great silence, the ability

to soar in song inside my head
and recognize the beauty into
which I disappear, feel gratitude

for all I have been granted, and accept
my fate without murmur or regret.”

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Enjoying What is Left

an old man sat on a bench
only his eyes moving as dusk
swept ever nearer to the pond
and wood where the ancient
quietly watched a heron

meticulously fishing
while rabbits a squirrel
lizards and small birds
crouched near cover as
a gray owl at the top

of a large tree swept his gaze
across one after another
soon the man would painstakingly
walk home soon night would swallow
the day and those who inhabit it

soon the owl would make a choice
the old man rose to his feet
and painfully moved toward home
rain swept over him chilly driving
with the vigor of a good jazz drummer

he lifted his face to the sky and shouted
is that the best you can do and laughed
people on a nearby balcony stared and shook
their heads the man began a slow awkward dance
hallelujah hallelujah hallelujah

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Ernie as Lad and Man

was and is a will of the wisp, Puck in a carnival
outfit, a voice on the wind daring one
and all to stop him from flip, flop, and flying
through wild shenanigans, a daredevil

of body and mind, a leader who took and takes
one and all past their limitations. Even as a senior
citizen, all he says and does makes the world
a brighter, more exciting place, makes

life a whirling twirling place that is always
a mental physical challenge that makes adults
laugh and children want to tumble and dance through
an oblivious world. He’s the wind in four directions.

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The Music Never Ends

the concert was over
but the old man was not ready
to abandon the outdoor auditorium

where trumpets and saxes still seemed to fill
cool night air his head bobbing to tunes
that inebriated him his arms waving

body bouncing knees become percussion
all alone in the night the codger cooked
in memory of an evening of delight imagination

and wild improvisation damn he muttered to self
I could live off the music abandoned here
slowly he calmed as a cool breeze embraced

the land and night’s whispers crept upon him
yet still he hummed wildly rhythmic tunes to self

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An Odd Fellow Wanders

stumbling down city streets
the old fellow is fascinated
by the trivia that swirls round
him wee bairns batting balloons
back and forth in back seats
of cars adults half-turned toward
them shouting utterly ignored
imprecations the small fry laughing

uproariously as the gas-filled plastic
flies hither and thither the old chap
spies others like himself bent before
the wind and yet they are greeting
one and all they meet along their
torturous paths a drunk leans
against a supermarket door singing
a loud cacophonous obscene ditty

laughing between verses and waving
a hat in which he suggests passersby
deposit some coin of the realm
the old chap observing deposits
a dollar bill in the hat and is given
change is told his gift was too much
the song was not that good the ancient
chuckles and wanders on in search

of more of life’s trivia to fill his waning
days filled with trivial wondrous joy

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For Joseph Glaser

when he played his guitar
the notes floated across fields
into trees and clouds with serene grace
of rivers flowing down to the ocean

when we conversed words would
flow for hours all subjects fuel
for discussions that might grow
animated but never contentious

his musical training had taught him
how to actively and sympathetically
listen with conversation turning
into an intersection of streams

that merged into rivers and hours
would pass before we drifted apart

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Reach Out

ah Lady Day who so compellingly sang
God must bless the child who was damned
by a world beyond cruel beyond caring

her broken voice guiding a listener’s
vision toward seeing the destruction
of a race a culture a world of vibrant people

by the morally blind those who believed
white is a color par excellence believed
some were born to serve and others to rule

ah sing Lady sing with that voice that stripped
away moral ambiguity imparted the full weight
of a broken heart that redefined pain redeemed

all within earshot of the ravaged beauty of your voice
and face that was and is an essential image of survival

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What Awaits

Memory is filled with rivers
of grief, streams of loss,
hopes and desires blown
away on the wind;

all that comes, goes,
if I glance away;
life is a bleak serenade
I hum to night’s accompaniment;

the past is written among the stars,
where it whispers in my ears
that all is loss, thwarted desire,
that plans have no lasting meaning;

ah, for blessed possibility, generous surprise; am I merely
blind and they await me among towering forests?

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Prayer of a Sort

whoever is there please let me fly
among song in its myriad forms
when I leave in the near future
let me sail where the beauty of

thousands of voices bathe me
grant me the gift of being able
to join the choir that has lifted me
all my life let the purest of sound

shape whatever I become I beseech
who or whatever may be listening
let me let me sail forever in everlasting
beauty of the purest of sound

this is my most pitiful of prayers let me
find my way into the waters of music

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Michael L. Newell lives on the Atlantic Coast of Florida. His most recent book of poems is  Passage of a Heart.

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Editor’s Note:  Since Michael has written often about Miles Davis’ 1960 album Sketches of Spain,  I invite you to listen to “Solea” from it.  [Columbia/Legacy]

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Click here to read In a Place of Dreams, Connie Johnson’s digital chapbook (which contains audio readings and her personal narrative; published by Jerry Jazz Musician)

Click here to read Proceeding From Behind: A collection of poems grounded in the rhythmic, relating to the remarkable, by Terrance Underwood (published by Jerry Jazz Musician)

Click here to read If You Want to Go to Heaven, Follow a Songbird – Mary K O’Melveny’s album of poetry and music, published by Jerry Jazz Musician.

Click here to read “Under Quarantine” — COVID-era poetry of Erren Kelly, published by Jerry Jazz Musician

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Click for:

Information about Kinds of Cool: An Interactive Collection of Jazz Poetry

The Sunday Poem

More poetry on Jerry Jazz Musician

“Saharan Blues on the Seine,” Aishatu Ado’s winning story in the 68th 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

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