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
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
He knows trouble. and the songs and loss. The nights past mornings where the jazz patiently waits for him like a faithful dog with good eyes waiting for a chance to release. He knows about black moons and shadows whispering and back doors of places he called home for … More FAITHFUL WITH TROUBLE
The notes rattled the chains in his head; souls marching, singing the pain of long days lost to labor for another man’s dream. Tears jaggedly cut his dusted cheeks, coursing rivers equal with oceans once crossed, added up and stacked onto the forever of years lost. Dust and sand kick up from under the shoes … More WITH SONG
The molasses of sound dripped slow flavoring him since youth when jazz got onto his ear like a propeller wash of beats making a whirr and buzz like coffee all night and golden arms with trumpets slivering the truth out of him surfacing with a suddenness like food slipping from the fingers of angels into … More YOU GOT ME RIGHT
TO THIS PLACE His music shook a thundering from the sky where white and black clouds rained down in the same color splashing fast onto faces the clean washing sprit of jazz spreading arms of welcome over cities where the land lay broken, softening the eyes of some but not all as the music storm … More TO THIS PLACE
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 … More I SING THE REMEMBERS
Ears grasped for the message in her sound dripping hard and heavy with soul preaching a righteous pain she earned from long nights and bad kisses where tired eyes and wrong desires begged for the shelter of a soft shoulder listening to broken dreams rupturing from the darkness of her … More EARNING THE PAIN
The dust of towns, flat, lifeless. Cold winds and red neon’s fill the need of his searching as he walks the dirt. A song with flavor branded in his head and on his arm, marches his feet to travel; all places look the same. His guitar breathes with sound; a crooked smile slides from … More WALKING THE DIRT
From the chairs faces brightly shine like early Sunday clothed to watch and rightly bathed in song and word like baptisms sprinkled fresh over righteous hungry souls. Her jazzy words float like flowers cast on oceans where souls rest far below where lonely ears patiently wait to be freed. … More HER JAZZY VOICE
Roger Singer 