JAZZ - two poems.



BIRD                                       
(For Charlie Parker)        
 
Come blow those blues
the way you used to do
on an alto horn                              
welcoming the white snowy morn
for all those souls,
died and born,
who we in the cold world mourn.

Like a butterfly in the trees
you hung light and luminous. 
 
The moment cannot disappear.
Not then, not now, not today.

The flame of genius burns
so  play, play, play.



 ON LISTENING TO ‘JACK JOHNSTON’

Strange to think of your trumpet
silent, neglected now,
no more to be sung
in that lone voice
from distant shores,
preoccupied with electric
vibrations of life, light,
love, anger, and tears.
No more cigarettes smoked,
drinks taken with Bud, Bird,
Klook, whoever, in Paris bars,
disputes with Monk, Mingus,
looking after Bird,
failed marriages,
big yellow Ferraris,
needles and lines of snow,
humanity, intuition, sensitivity.
All of which is there
in the sound of your horn,
joining with piano, bass, drums,
other horns, you editing notes
so that we can see, feel, hear
what you saw and felt and heard,
can be there on that same street,
sea, mountain or shore.
Ah, now to know,
there will be no more.