How deep are your songs? Do they champion the cause you carry? Inside is a passion. The reason for sunlight. The delight of morning to wake you. The day is generous; it’s an empty sack Waiting to be filled. The hope in your breath is the meadowlark waiting to release the music. … More CURTAIN RISING
Voices circled down from a red-brown rusty skeleton framed fire escape. The landings between floors offering an escape from inside heat and crying children. Men with sleeveless t-shirts drink and smoke cigarettes. Young women whisper and then giggle, drawing the leering attention of men in the alley. A cat sleeps leisurely like driftwood. … More RUSTY SKELETON
A gypsy vagabond of notes, refreshing like spring rain, lifted up with the fragrance from warm roads mixed with cut grass, a moment alive with sound from angels as the piano created a language, familiar to itself yet unknowing to many nearby, listening as they would a speech dry from paper, lifeless, missing the fluid … More IVORY FINGERS
The window releases a gasp of inside life, of half voices and doors closing. Delinquent sounds muddy the outside. A car radio lips out a samba, entertaining tapping fingers and flowered dresses swaying. Casual clouds, rugged images cast to the street, sliding into alleys, covering the homeless. Café tables stream with words … More RUGGED IMAGES
There’s a star up there next to the one on the left. Each night, when clouds find favor to be somewhere else, I witness the diamond chip, flashing its carats into my curiosity. Brighter than backyard lights, higher than my sisters hair, it lounges as if glued just beyond my reach. The perfect … More UP THERE
Real time straight jazz curved the room. Its ribbons of play formed justice to notes, releasing streams of fever. Unconnected sounds rush over a landscape of faces and whispering fingers. The pulse of breathing mists the windows as dancers and spirits of long nights course their path to dawn. Red dusted words … More THE PATH
Words slip through the boundaries of light. Between fences and past sleeping cats. Words are the strength of action, the curator of museum imaginations. Words are fathoms, the levels of thought, the passage between mountains, the stillness of lakes. Words are the home we comfort in, the language of warm blankets that … More WORDS
…And at that moment, that final moment, I’ll consciously grieve for those suffering with tears and long memories. …And words of praise will be released from loving hearts that will casually drift into the laps of angels. …And when finally called to his side in thankful praise my lips will speak of … More THAT FINAL MOMENT
I got a river standing still in my head. A half a world greets me through wet curtains. Gray walls are my thoughts without color. An old wooden floor talks back to my shoes. A ceiling fan, its life long over, brushes at cobwebs in corners. Newspapers yellow without the sun. Dust is … More FLOW OF DAY
A curtain. Formed white. Soft folded ribbons. Linen eyes lust under the handle of breezes, searching the alley below; considering heavens of gods and men walking. Strong sunlight. Warming rays. A morning of fullness surrounds summers fragrance; tar paper roofs, garbage, stagnant water. The breath of the city. Voices slip from windows. Coughing; … More FROM A WINDOW
Roger Singer 