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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 © 2024 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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