We open the cottage door; another season. The air is stale. The rooms echo a hollowness, reminding me of long winter days preceding our arrival. My bed stands alone, neatly made, scattered clothes and shoes have yet to adorn it. My sister sits on the couch wishing we had a phone. The windows are jammed … More OPENING DAY
Streets feed on the language of cool and jive. Tongues of curtains slip from sides of windows as if pointing with their curves with creases to music like steam rising in waves over blacktop rumbling energy the sound moves pressing against doors and into alleys as night encourages the people … More STREET LANGUAGE
I love the scratchy voice of the jazz lady who brushes my ears clean. Words with thick washboard scuff scrape my soul to bleach white and preacher clean. Concrete rough words grasp my thoughts, causing the oceans in my head to tumble. Every song bends its tone like … More WITHIN HER VOICE
The crossroads of the beat fills the shoes of his travel under dark blankets of stars weeping at the making of jazz as the sweat of him drips over his eyes watering the seeds in his mouth forming words that river run his horn waking Gabriel as the sound walks the … More THE PLACE
Liberal portions of sun releases through an open window chasing out room shadows like thieves on the run. A light teasing wind stumbled into bushes, stirring leaves like loose sand sliding over paper. A cat sits looking out. Birds see him, calling out warnings. Flying quickly like passing storms. He watches with metronome eyes waiting … More 9 AM
The strings of stars descend from higher heavens where daydreams begin and eyes are quenched with cool water while songs sing of the forgets. The black sphere above us holds the end of something far greater than imagination; wild orchids become lost on the canvas of celestial darkness. Gardens below sleep, breathing under closed petals. … More BEFORE SUNRISE
Lazy humid Lake Pontchartrain breezes slip sideways through turquoise louvered doors past a cat, on a stool with its legs hanging like green tangled moss as the man, deep with pillow worship lays still, breathing soft, his hands open and flat holds court with dreams of last night the jazz … More PILLOW WORSHIP
Blue shirt guitar man sing me out, make my shoes tap with the drummer beating the skins to crying and sizzling the cymbals into stormy lightening. Clouded lights lift from humid whispers and smoke. Hear the bass man call out to angels in heavy clouds stirring the heavens, making rain soak their wings, forcing them … More JIVE AND JUMP
I’m living out the words from today, stretching the soul of meaning, wringing out the moisture from afternoon rains and storms. I remember the winds roughing up my hair, combing it into a mess, lifting off a few springs to tumble after green leaves and a few branches. …..and … More TODAY’S WORDS
They call him the watchman, caretaker of night air within a fenced area at the lower lip of town. He walks slowly with a slight limp, checking locked doors, marking the time, scuffing in black untied boots on paths he made. His eyes are sad, malaise filled like curtains almost closed, leaving a slight crease … More THE WATCHMAN
Roger Singer 