Monday, July 15th, 2013...9:02 am
roger singer | three poems
A BLACK BEAT
A moan turned up through
black pavement, a line unbroken,
Solid and straight, dripping of sweat
With a fluid of change.
Stone softened at the
shedding of blood,
as bones rattled
from graves where change is colored
and ghosts hang loosely from stars
boasting of dreams
A wine, feathered with the body of many
cold the face with words,
fueling engines, releasing fears,
raising voices and hands to a
heaven of jazz
where a black beat
bottoms hard in rivers
and twists like the fire of man
The bell has rung.
The peach basket has tipped.
The air is cracked.
to the drummers
bang and slide
ups and downs
of his rhythm
as the crowd
under lazy fans
a tall thirst
as the band
Under the skin, a motor of sound.
Molasses fingertips play dark thick jazz.
Wet soaked dirt roads kick
start the aroma of his thoughts.
Smooth perfumed skin smiles into his lust.
His mile of strong words runs like
a river engine; a power few own.
A wind moves on a sweet green growing
field. His youth, shoeless, fills his
pockets with songs.
He opens the rich burden of giving,
without taking back.