LISA AND I
Here in our rehearsal
with its November noise
yet with its egg faced odor
of a delicious delivery
of humus and spices
where we practice for my gig
when a studio sound proof
room is available for us
and you, Lisa sing smooth jazz
by an Alladin magic lamp
of a thousand secrets
to great applause,
my smart phone rings
but it's not a windfall
from the lottery
you dreamed about in numbers
numbering 1 11 2013
but my mother is on the line
offering us gingerbread;
from the holiday windows
we see late Druid masks
on two twins
left from Haloween
near the Santa Claus store,
then a guy in lederhosen
speaks on the microphone
still with an Octoberfest gaze
the beer is always on time,
but it's my bygone hours
at these rehearsal's I enjoy
at least my mother
never forgets.
YOU WERE ALL THERE
At the Paris library
I imagine
Henry Miller
in a dark suit
Anais Nin
winks at him
but was mute,
Hemingway
claimed he was
in love,
F Scott Fitzgerald
had his manuscript
in the alcove,
here in Paris
once a lost generation
drinking wine
all night
entertained by
Gertrude Stein,
hearing an Irish
voice it was indeed
James Joyce,
and quite shy
and embarrassed
with cold tongue
turned white
is Mr. Beckett,
ever novel
and out of sight
Eliot and Auden
everyone modern
and transparent
for this poet.
BEING A JAZZ POET
Minding my own business
being shy for the cameras
on way to my gig
walking over this metropolis
without an attache case
only this cold luggage
like a pawned violin
held by four strings
containing a life's work
of quartets for alto sax
and songs for our time
with vital plays on words
a cup of java on one hand
and a murdered Danish
in the other
shaking off a coffee cup
with schnapps
on a Northern hamlet road
in a runaway midnight
of all Souls day
such as this,
you may not yet recognize
the composer inside him
in his all black cape.
Here in our rehearsal
with its November noise
yet with its egg faced odor
of a delicious delivery
of humus and spices
where we practice for my gig
when a studio sound proof
room is available for us
and you, Lisa sing smooth jazz
by an Alladin magic lamp
of a thousand secrets
to great applause,
my smart phone rings
but it's not a windfall
from the lottery
you dreamed about in numbers
numbering 1 11 2013
but my mother is on the line
offering us gingerbread;
from the holiday windows
we see late Druid masks
on two twins
left from Haloween
near the Santa Claus store,
then a guy in lederhosen
speaks on the microphone
still with an Octoberfest gaze
the beer is always on time,
but it's my bygone hours
at these rehearsal's I enjoy
at least my mother
never forgets.
YOU WERE ALL THERE
At the Paris library
I imagine
Henry Miller
in a dark suit
Anais Nin
winks at him
but was mute,
Hemingway
claimed he was
in love,
F Scott Fitzgerald
had his manuscript
in the alcove,
here in Paris
once a lost generation
drinking wine
all night
entertained by
Gertrude Stein,
hearing an Irish
voice it was indeed
James Joyce,
and quite shy
and embarrassed
with cold tongue
turned white
is Mr. Beckett,
ever novel
and out of sight
Eliot and Auden
everyone modern
and transparent
for this poet.
BEING A JAZZ POET
Minding my own business
being shy for the cameras
on way to my gig
walking over this metropolis
without an attache case
only this cold luggage
like a pawned violin
held by four strings
containing a life's work
of quartets for alto sax
and songs for our time
with vital plays on words
a cup of java on one hand
and a murdered Danish
in the other
shaking off a coffee cup
with schnapps
on a Northern hamlet road
in a runaway midnight
of all Souls day
such as this,
you may not yet recognize
the composer inside him
in his all black cape.
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