The notes sing to me.

A grandma spiritual; warm evenings,

bugs buzzing on yellow lights,

a fever of warmth. Night solid with dark;

the breath of men gasp tired.

I see my youth. A ball of knots.

Tied up in love, broken under the

weight of tears; running eyes, inhaling

life into my soul.

The tracks on my bass; cold lines,

heated with fingers, spilling a story,

pages of pain. Fish jump in my head,

pulling me home. The river knows my name.

I cry the spiritual alive. Pull at its feet.

Knocking it down, wresting like Gabriel.

Forcing the mist of its shape to surrender

the jazz. Touching the groove in me;

I sing the remembers.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s