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 call of jazz opened doors.
A flood of colors mixed for life.

BLOWING HORN

The father of his hands
works the horn, squeezing sweet into sound,
knocking bitter skin out of
Georgia red dust;
sweat stained suspenders
shield the man and his jazz.

He lives grand in the tomorrow of his today.
Never looking back.
Never comparing scars or the weight of his
tears;
He slaps his thigh, producing a picket fence smile.

No sense waiting for a breeze he says; you
might as well dig for a rainbow with
a pot of gold.

The years blessed his horn and the man
on the other end blowing jazz.

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