Entries Tagged as 'Roger Singer'

Thursday, August 12th, 2010

roger singer | overflowing & blowing horn

OVERFLOWING
The dark of him formed their light.
Music absorbed idle words, pushing
out angels, as jazz claimed willing souls.
Parting curtains release night’s energy
as a salve for pain.
Fingers pointed. Horns lifted. High heels
walk to the sex of appeal.
Perfume mixes with smoke, covering
a day past, while anointing evening
disciples and the parting of waves.
Lifting sounds banged into heavens
basement.
A [...]

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Tuesday, June 22nd, 2010

roger singer | with song | the air of her

WITH SONG
The notes rattled like chains in his head;
souls marching, singing the pain
of long days lost to labor
and another man’s dream.
Tears jaggedly cut over dusted cheeks
coursing rivers equal with oceans
when added together for years lost.
Dust and sand kick up from under
the shoes of the man who sings a
working song.

THE AIR OF HER
Others punish the air, [...]

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Tuesday, June 22nd, 2010

roger singer | ringside | a curious line

RINGSIDE
A lathering jab cut the smoky air.
Cigars like diving boards
rattled between stormy lips as the
fighters danced the canvas.
The boxers jazzed their arms,
striking with thuds and slaps
as loosened strings cut
faces into blood.
Ladies with pearls. Diamond ears
and high heels swoon in a
crowded sea of anger; smooth
swan necks welcome the rain
of blood and sweat.
Black and tan raise [...]

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Saturday, January 2nd, 2010

roger singer | the bank of blues and other poems

THE BANK OF BLUES
The color in me knows the blues,
it feels the hands deep pulling
to the surface the song of me.
Can’t wash away or drain out the
fullness crowding my insides
where its standing room only
in hallways and from chairs full of
listeners waiting for the pouring
over of what I got.
A song is a fingerprint, waiting for
horns and [...]

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Wednesday, December 9th, 2009

roger singer | the hurt song & other poems

Trio 3 | Oliver Lake, Reggie Workman, Andrew Cyrille | November 5, 2009 Outpost Performance Space, Albuquerque | Photos by Mark Weber
THE HURT SONG
The roots of the hurt song
snares the ankles of me, trapping me
in a tangle; the twisting binds me
tighter as the visions speak.
The arrows of my jazz strikes from
hotel room shadows; strange [...]

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