jazz

(beat)

this beat is movement

a soft drum and simple horn

all I need in life

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

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Fly

There is a fly in here with me,

Just me and the fly

He seems to want,

More to do with me,

Than I want with him

He seems interested in the typewriter,

Interested in what I’m drinking,

Interested in the ashtray,

And my burning cigarette

His buzz is also a little too loud

That very buzz has interrupted,

Coltrane’s live version of “Giant Step”

And as the fly lands on the rim of my glass,

Takes a sip of my drink,

And interferes with a sacred live performance,

I realize he is not a friend

He has become nothing more than a mere nuisance

Just another pain in the ass,

In this near empty writer’s room

Like the patron at the bar,

That nobody wants to sit near

Well, now something must be done

In the last five minutes,

This tiny pest has managed to take me,

From writer/drinker/music lover,

And changed me into a hunter

He has also changed, in that small amount of time

Going from useless and benign,

To a “Dead Man (Fly) Walking”

So I roll a new smoke,

Fill a fresh glass,

And calmly fold today’s sports page

The jury is out,

“Death by splatter”, is the verdict

And I wait and listen,

Listen to “Chasin’ The Trane”,

And that ever-present buzz

And then, like the fly knew time was up,

He landed on the center of the desk,

And politely sat motionless

We both took a moment,

Listened to the final notes of the song,

Then I used the roaring applause of the crowd for cover,

And lowered the boom

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

Beach Bum

Milt Jackson taps along the xylophone

And I need to rest

I’m so worn out

The sounds of the music

Fade in and out

Heavy is the night

And all soft drumming has put me

In a catatonic state

Such is the life of a beach bum

Too much sun

And now, tired eyelids hold the weight

Of a thousand men

But now is not the time to over-think

Not everyone loves the beach life

And those who don’t

At this hour

Don’t matter much to me

Today seemed pretty close to perfect

Maybe, maybe not

Maybe I’m wrong

Maybe it wasn’t

Either way

I think I’ll have another go at it

Again, tomorrow

After all,

Practice makes perfect

At least that’s what I’ve been told

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

 

Alone In This Room, With His Sounds

He was born in the month of May, 1926

65 years later, death came knocking

In a form, hidden by a stroke

I sit here, alone in this room

Watching the shadows of a candle dance

To the rhythm of his horn

The sways, the bursts, The long and sad

Drawn out notes

I’ve traveled with him, on countless mind-journeys

Too many far off lands

To sit back, listen

And just take it all in

I’ve gotten lost in the notes of Montreux, Paris and Hollywood

But I always end up

Back in this room

He grew up middle-class, just like me

He was a seeker, always evolving, just like me

We had so much in common

And I like to think

The notes he wrote, were written just for me

The candle is now almost burnt out

And he’s closing with a number I can sleep to

My last sip of scotch

In synch with the clean sadness of the ballad

I blow out the candle

And drift off

slipping in and out

Of this beautiful blue and green world

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

 

Thank Days, Great Stuff

She shuffled around in the kitchen

I was stuck on the couch

Wondering what she could be doing

She had just arrived

Came through the door like a hurricane

Speaking about the traffic

The snowbirds

The lines

All the time her simple drive took

I can hear her moving chairs

I can hear her opening and closing cupboards

I try to imagine what she’s doing

She whips back into the room

She puts two glasses on the table

And pulls a bottle of rum from a paper bag

She pulls off the top

And fills both glasses to the top

No room for soda

No room for ice

It’s going to be one of those evenings

Thank days, great stuff

She takes a strong pull and jumps off the couch

In a mere second she’s gone

She’s back in the kitchen, rummaging again

What more could she possibly need?

After a minute

The kitchen falls quiet

Just the noise from a piano and trumpet on my radio

Then I hear talking

A low mumbling which I can’t make out

If she’s talking to me she’ll have to come back in here

But she does not

She’s on my phone

No idea who she’s talking to

I guess it makes no difference

I notice her half empty glass of rum

I pick up my glass and use it to refill hers

She can drink it lukewarm

I want mine with ice

So I grab both glasses

And make my way to the kitchen

She’s seated at the table

With her head in one hand

And the phone in the other

I place her now full glass in front of her

She says nothing

She seems to be listening intently

I put ice in my glass

And head back to the couch

I think again, about who she might be talking to

But the thought passes quickly

I reach over

And turn up the volume

Coltrane is on, now

And I enjoy his company

More than she enjoys mine

© D J Loweman 2015