Rain on snares meters the pace.
Smooth, rolling, blue.
The sax man wails.
A smoke-filled club . . .
And the night . . . melts . . . into yesterday.
Time flits through
On wings of an old song.
The ivory tones chase strings of gold
Through the gentle, crashing waves.
While we race the bleating brass,
The bass line leads us home.
I wrote this poem a long time ago. Sometime between 2001 and 2003 (this post’s timestamp is from the earliest digital copy I could find.) I was in an online poetry discussion and critique forum, learning some new forms and techniques, my grandmother bought me a copy of my cousin’s jazz CD. I was listening to it as background music and created this poem.
It flows better with a visual cascade through the last line of the first stanza.
Something like this, but without the underscores:
And the night
________________________________ into yesterday.