He left the room bruised from his music; like a fighters corner without a stool. Strange eyes followed the linen of his walk; the breeze he caused and its wake smoothed into whispered corners. His steps owned the path to everyplace. No door offered resistance to the warmth of his cool. He … More BRASSED OUT
Satin coated drops of water course randomly off green canvas awnings outside my bedroom window. A summer morning filled with rumbling and capricious winds stirs me in my warm cotton cocoon. As I open half dreaming eyes, the aroma of wet grass welcomes me. The fragrance of coffee wafts through the rooms. … More CANVAS AWNINGS
A guitar fills a soft space between soul and need releasing petals of sound merging into the blood of day. Wounds are healed within the weave of notes closing out loss strengthening bones and heart with growth. The sounds continue, watering unfolding blossoms as darkness retreats. The guitar soothes the moment, opening a chance beyond … More UNFOLDING
The rock of his fingers scratches out, pounds out the language of jazz, spreading over fast hearts and soft skin. A wretched smile, crooked with time, boiled in emotion soup, spreads him out as he releases the scars of high and low, winds of cold and years remembered with trouble. His fingers swim … More BOILED UP
The flavor of evening circled the island, holding ancient rocks within faint gray mists, as ominous shadows pressed silently onto waters smooth face. A timid quiet descended, pushing out the undersurface of day in retreat. The occasional random sounds from creatures moving about, makes little impact to the surroundings as night becomes … More THE ISLAND
A seclusion moon splits between clouds, sheading onto flat fields, fence posts and tombstones. A feather soft wind song plays the leaves. Birds cease their inflight bickering. Stars reflect around the edges of sleeping lily pads. A prevailing mist covers everything like gauze, draping over stonewalls and stiff brush topped ferns. The echo of an … More COLD HANDS
My blood is dirt. Open crushed ground of footprints. Songs filter through ages of gravel, into stories, forming well worn paths. Ancient voices. Father’s I never knew. Messages on stone; the year of coming and then the last. Brothers, sisters, the images continue beyond the stone, covered below in dark and dust. … More SOMEPLACE
The jazz of his well overflows. The wetness of long images drip fluid hot from fingers playing the burn. A sweet pleasantness follows him. Years of heads turning form great waves behind him; the applause reaches distant galaxies. He is a cat. A prowler of music forests, yet tamed. Open souls are consumed without resistance. … More SINGLE FILE
It was a day without sun. A full thickness of gun metal clouds separated fallowed fields from heaven. In longtime past, the ground was harvest strong; abundant colors of growth, the standard of success. Watered words promised planting. The seeds are long forgotten and folded away. The weather changes out. Sometimes late, never early. Next … More NEXT YEAR
Finger strumming finger picking the lively index finger of the bass man becomes his best friend taking him where others ain’t never going with strings from stars held over bridges like rainbows connecting mountains from valley to valley where waters run clean into pools where jazz finds its way to the surface like wood made … More INDEX FINGER
Roger Singer 