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French Jazz
by Derek Gregory
The sound of the jazz trumpet tickled my ears.
Like the delicate wings of a bumblebee
landing on a flower.
Reverberating fast and intense.
While inhaling the bar smoke
I drank the bubbling music into my soul.
I was a tributary of the playful jazz.
It took over my fingers,
My feet, my soul.
I drifted and ebbed with the sound.
The trumpet created flashes of light.
Crashes of sounds.
Lightning emanated from
inside the dark rippling room.
The trumpet player's longhair dripped
with the perspiration of love,
not work.
The bass player a young black guy smiled and
Strummed his instrument.
Stroking it to the beat,
trying to slow it.
Control it.
The pulsation of the drums was
ferocious and accurate
fusing the
the musical stream
into a torrent of emotions flowing
from the stage.
Engulfing everything.
MAR98
03/24/2003 Posted on 03/24/2003
Copyright © 2025 Derek Gregory
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 03/24/03 at 02:19 PM I really like the descriptiveness throughout this. Puts the reader right into the picture. |
| Posted by Roger J Kenyon on 05/27/03 at 04:31 AM I am a long time jazz fan. I can relate to this poem man. A movin' poem.
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