wet day

jazz drizzles October grass 

with cool melody 

an improvisation of finger snaps 

making puddles here and there 

dry ground sponge 

listening to brushes on ride cymbal 

in this mist 

mister Davis’ perfect trumpet tone 

tells our sadness 

on wet fall day 

Amber Epp sings Joni at the West End

small fall bird hangs

upside

down

on spruce branch a second or

two

needles make it tricky

but that’s what she wants

to sing

this         song      now

full-throated

free

unafraid

light as air

swaying in autumn wind

winging away

Trane

always seems leaning                    forward

you walk the park path

daffodils blooming all around

those are my favourite he says

voice clean and clear

you ask why and he smiles

bending at the knee bending     over

to touch one

the yellow flower soft in his hand

I like the random order

the way they                     announce

the wonder of life the truth of spring

the delicate way that they look                                 ahead

he stands up black jacket

casual around his shoulders

and he looks at you

eyes holding  you

and you lean with him                   towards

the next turn in the path

Monk

there’s

someone coming this way dark

coat flapping wind

stride so confident

round sunglasses and no brim hat

I meet him and we walk

along seawall gulls

calling    landing

wings battling breeze

his voice sand and gravel punctures

holes in thick air

tells of surprising swell

of ocean

rogue waves crashing

and the path that we walk

shadows lengthening

and the risks we all must take

coats like wings flying 

Christian McBride and his Big Band - NYC 2015 (2)

Manhattan skyline constructs

background

in this jazzy 5^th floor

where

barely fits band swings

McBride’s glasses

reflect the lights from outside

fingers dance double bass

his companion for years

since he was teen

now making magic with 24 cats

in sync with his

rhythmic

laugh

and we sit and

sip our drinks

at hard-edged tables

in wonder at the

perfect

night-time
              architecture of jazz 

Birdland - NYC 2015 (1)

all is suffused with

red glowing light

like truth

at a table for four

red wine poured

mouldings on the railing behind us

have been painted

and repainted

over and over again

not hiding dents and gouges 

listening Dixieland jazz winging rhythms

in free ecstatic bursts

players in casual suits

and accountant glasses

eyes closed tight in joy

for this is life

this is worthy 

this is the red glowing moment  

moments (Chick Corea at the Burt)

strides out and

bows to our happy cheers

and takes an iPhone picture of us

jazz begins

it’s all about time

infinite

and these fleeting moments

of never-againness

solos on grand like

glinty sun in

prairie                   sky

tango for ana

dances the stage

after an hour he slips off

white linen jacket

getting down to business

“we love to play”

smiles and laughs

drum beats out

three     note      portal

and we join in    journey to

forever

time tapped out by feet

under piano

playing cross duples and triples

like Winnipeg streets

wipes hands on white towel

before another

spontaneous                     concerto

moments remembered

in broad outlines by the feelings

that rise like butterflies

wings fluttering in warm breeze

colours blurring in the sun-shaped shadows

a flute floating above

chaotic chords and beats

he is here

now

in the music

and with the people

captured with a quick pic

Lester Young

all is fresh

and lush

and smells clean after a spring shower as

you wait for him on park bench

cool air pleading for warm sun

two robins hop on grass

pulling fat worms from the moist ground

and then he shows up

           wearing that pork pie hat 

pencil thin moustache

above uncertain smile 

you begin your walk

at a slow steady pace

so you can enjoy the trees

and first flowers of spring

he seems to revel in every sight and sound

and chats quickly

not missing a single important

dynamic

along the way  

he refers to the truth of

spring

in the world

the birth

the rightness of rain

the chill of the wind

the welcome warmth of sun 

and then he turns

and you see his eyes

under the brim of that hat

pleading

pleading

pleading…

Wynton

hot wind gusting street when you meet him

a sun drenched day

at the end of August

but he’s wearing blue long sleeves and pants 

you shake his hand formally

ask him where he wants to go 

he signals coffee in a downtown café

so you walk the bustle and heat

                he’s swinging his arms

                in a cool saunter

until you enter relief of air

chrome and leather cafe 

he wants to talk New York

how it all works in a kind of rhythm

of taxis and sky scrapers and lights and restaurants and parks and people walking

and how everybody can find a place there

and how it’s important to think cool

even on a hot city summer day 

and you nod your head in a steady rhythm

of content agreement

The Bean

lifts hat in greeting
black fedora
and you shake his hand
 
you begin your walk
through bustling city streets
but there is no hurry
 

purposeful slowish stride
his imposing presence creates room
as he shows you the architecture
 
each building has meaning for him
and he tells you their stories
in measured rhythmic prose
 
until it's time to part
and you say farewell
but you feel completed
 
like a head topped with a black fedora
 

Stan Getz

he is there waiting at round table in the corner

dark cropped hair

intense deep-set eyes

when you meet him for drinks at

downtown lounge

everything brown and brass

voice intimate and assured

as he orders you a smooth scotch

eyes hold you as he tells of his travels

in eloquent phrases

he loves exploring on his own he says as he talks about the

beauty of the countryside in France

or the quaint streets of Spanish towns

the truth of New Orleans

and you sip your drink and take in his

smooth

                intense
                                eloquence

Oscar Peterson

his classy white pontiac turns into your driveway

and he steps out

tuxedo ruffling in the wind

it’s a warm day but he seems to stay cool

you walk with him around back and ask him what he would like

anything will do he says

and you bring him a glass of chardonnay

sitting in the shade

he sips and begins to chat

topics range from gardening to sports

his voice clear and kind

but he doesn’t slow down

and you find it hard to keep up with his

racing

                nimble
                                mind

but you feel cool and classy

like a ruffled tuxedo

Walle Larson plays Body and Soul

my berry patch green tea cools off as I hear the

first familiar phrase coming from the tiny stage

dominated by man in bright orange shirt

tenor tones softly elegiac of coleman but also

subtly new and fresh so I close my eyes and

the trendy tea and shrill shirt fade away and

this old melody that circles the seen and

unseen in a warm authentic hug is all there is

jazz at Dizzy's - NYC poem #1

rounded colours create            space

in this third floor fantasy of

perfect tables    chairs    stools    and stage

waiting for the buzz to begin 

space    for the rounded wandering lines

of notes that intertwine with thoughts and feelings

creating the perfect martini of

tastes and treasurable moments 

moments linked by the smiling eyes of

young woman in black at rounded grand piano

fingers transferring the creative energy of

mind to the rounded circle of human community

Benny (Goodman)

with hair parted on the side and slicked back
wire rims framing intense eyes
he stays in the driver’s seat and motions for you to join him in his
immaculate black cadillac

he wants to drive where it’s all happening
so you direct him through the city places and
he talks about how people are so mesmerizing
some just lazing around all day
and others can’t stop moving/doing
he says the trick is to get things done
but feel like the guy relaxing on his front steps

it’s all in the attitude…
and in the practice
and a smile finally breaks out

and it’s only then that you notice the cat
lounging in the back seat
and you begin to get the hang of it

Bill Evans

unlit cigarette dangles precariously
from corner of mouth
as he steps inside
immaculate black suit
slicked back hair

he asks to see your home and
you do the usual tour
but he wants to see everything
even the closets
he likes to go where no one has been before

you offer him coffee
he likes it black but sweet
and when the brew is ready he begins to chuckle
belying the serious horn-rimmed eyes

he finds amusement in the little things of living
the way a rabbit tracks across a new layer of snow
the way the smell of fresh-baked cinnamon buns pervades
the way people make connections even though they are very different
the way that one cup of coffee is never enough
the way a cat sleeps on the back rest of a blue leather couch
the way closets hide secrets

he sips his last and gets up to leave
cigarette still unlit
still dangling
with a shy smile
he strides out and you follow his dignified form
but you know
you know

Dizzy

he walks up your sidewalk
silver suit glinting sunlight in the shirtsleeved afternoon

you shake his powerful hand looking through black rims to see eyes dancing

he starts the conversation
letting you respond with your ideas
but he flits from one topic to the next
his body never still
by the time you are inside, you’ve covered

how different colours should mix more
how life is a precious box – get everything in that you can
how new words are needed to say new things
how we should celebrate the uniqueness of every leaf
on every tree

and he keeps going
---------at the speed of light
every word a clear resonant dart in your ear

and you succumb to the quicksilver mood

Satchmo

cold snow flakes
drift
around yard
as he walks up the drive

he’s underdressed
and incongruous this rural north
but his white teeth shine
in that familiar smile
when he knocks rhythmically on your door

everything seems so easy
from his
pin-stripes and knife creases
to his casual two-handed shake

and you ask him
------- hasn’t it been hard?

you know what’s hard?
not doin’ what I do

as he describes a large circle
--------could it be a heart
with his arms

and he goes on for a while
------- not too long
about the rhythm of joy
the wonder of play
the smile of peace

not in those words of course
but you get the drift!

Billie

she arrives in the rain
her stylish clothes damp
revealing thin frame
but her hat has kept her face dry
and her blue eyes
-------------dart through you with a quick glance

she kisses you in greeting
and then relaxes in the living room chair
you serve her a drink
and she stirs the ice cubes slowly
talking about how she likes the rain
---------how it settles the dust
---------and smells like the world is garden
her voice carries stormy weather
of wild wind and slanting pellets of sleet
autumn leaves forced to
ground

but here she is unbowed
and beautiful

a rainy day visit
and your dust is settled

Chick Corea

walking quickly in bright streets
he’s impatient
curly hair ruffling wind
glasses flashing sun
can’t wait to get there
to show you all his stuff

but along the way he’s taking
unexpected detours
back lanes
quick corners
and he’s pointing out
wonders
graffiti and architecture
children playing in red and white
striped shirts
a perfect reflection of a cloud in a window

but he doesn’t slow down
infectious excitement
and you marvel
catching it