roger singer | the bank of blues and other poems


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 voices to vanish tears
from the life of the visions lifted
from the porch where I sit.

My bank of blues is full. My pockets empty.
I feed the food of my song
with words. I am never hungry.


The jazz in his blood
shaped the clay of his bones,
forming a man full with sound;
a faucet of his drippings filled
hungry ears.

A shame of waste ran at his sides
with voices welling up,
names sounding like his,
shouted from clouds,
pushed through water.

He pulls down the shades of a place
far from hands known to him;
open fields, sweat stained hats,
a high cotton looking down.

The heart of his pumping gives a
life back with music; honey soaked,
wide smiled.


He loaned out
words of jazzy
delight under
lights burning
like distant hot
shining moons

He cast out
his line and hook
like a fisherman
waist high
in a pounding surf,
reeling in
wet souls
dripping with smiles,
snagged on his
brassy sound.

He angered out,
crying into
the blank face
of the microphone,
sizzling the speakers,
pushing his
burdened words
deep with measure,
stirring lovers
with passion
to search him
for answers.

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