My Own Voice
It's fun to start a poem with an untruth.
There comes a time
even the most gifted, renowned, creative and dedicated player realizes
jazz is a young man’s game.
You are no longer young.
Your last night
you get to the club early, alone in the room away from the stage,
maintaining distance from that place where the magic begins
trying to capture the audience experience, the one piece
that was not yours to know.
You carry your horn to the edge of the stage, like on the thousands of nights in thousands of clubs, pouring your soul through the bell
into the audience, some nights fire, some nights ice,
some the sound dodged the two-three patrons in the room and bounced off the back wall in march time, some so crowded the notes had to squeeze between patrons.
But those random Mondays and Tuesdays, when the audience was into it, no matter how small,
the nights when everybody was on the ride, tasting the notes just like you did,
those were the nights you played hardest, would play for free,
lips bruised on the mouthpiece to coax the golden note never reached before.
You walk onto the stage, put your horn case in its accustomed place,
and gesture to the bartender.
There will be no special moments, the only legends or celebrities those from the past crowding your head as you put all the nights, all the notes into the horn.
Tonight you gather everything that trickled out over the decades,
and empty yourself as you did on thousands of nights in thousands of clubs.
Tonight you drive the performance, set the crimson or indigo mood.
But that is for later, in the moment, in the zone. The moment decides.
You take the horn out of the case, and flutter your fingers above the valves.
You are ready.
the poet klkz
the poet klkz scribble furiously
capture thoughts ideas
thoughts move faster than hand
hope Gabriel come back
meanwhile klkz recycle ideas thoughts
poets ask klkz why he still write
using paper pen pencil
machines so much better
clear legible easily changed
klkz say not good for klkz
klkz scribble faster than type
already losing thoughts ideas
already changing so many words
no space on paper
klkz must puzzle out best word
but likes to see choices
sometimes old original better
machine help where klkz
neither wants needs help.
by the poet klkz
first cold morning
crisp dew on grass
Mz Tillis next door get ready for work
run car get toasty warm inside
wipe water from windows
make car safe
mist float from tailpipe form big clouds
slow rise mix with slanted light from morning sun
caught in branches with bright red maple leaves
Mz Tillis zoom off
can't be late
take cloud along for ride
good start to day.