Dusk rallies curtains of low level mist forming pillows of rolling fog colliding silently into trees, fences and tilted tombstones. Small noises become shadow art, twisted into what could be the errors of nature or beasts that chase us in dreams. Silence along stonewalls fosters an anxiety of thoughts; fear … More ALONE AT NIGHT
The jazz rises creamy smooth, a tasteful air into a city laughing under a black moon where shadow life’s find the jive and voices crackle with scratchy rhythm and snappy fingers, jamming words, pulling and stepping knocking the plaster free where windows and doors open spreading the flames, feeding a fire from the Apple to … More OTHER SIDE
People gather on fire escape balconies clapping a beat into night winds as musicians in the street below lure the people closer with sound as the reason to reason spills from a half blood moon releasing rhythm legs to be free as a warm shower of jazz spills into humid … More DEEP OF DEEP
The town didn’t care an ocean was nearby; diamond winking waves on a waiting shoreline. Voices small; determined shovels and pails. Hot dog aroma, birch beer fizzing on ice. The place where sand and water merge. Eons of friendship between rocks and splitting mountains. Valleys lay open; byproducts of friction. Under the nose of the … More OCEAN NEARBY
The press of air lays flat onto me, drying my sweat on a life of skin, the surface flavor of salt, the product of my drifting released to run onto my face and arms, its paths random like the day of wandering under city shades and shadows from trees and buildings where streets warm with … More NIGHT BLANKETS
Lights of night blink like stars there up on the hill of Rivertown where music rolls fat down to waters edge soaking ears into smiling willing souls as they cool tired feet in the muddy dark silky quiet currents flowing with the power like the jazz rushing down to them from on high like morning … More RIVERTOWN
It’s almost time for the remembrance of summer as cool August mornings signal September’s expectant entry. The air is different, less humid, lacking early blossomed aroma, clear of humid swells that join to your skin with sweat. Clouds appear sharp and flat, thinly spread onto a less than blue sky. Afternoon rains have moved south. … More MAYBE
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
Roger Singer 