Blue

Blue mist, bluer stillness,
rising up
from the hollow

to the ridge where I wait
not wanting to return
to the blue house

on the hillside where
he still sits inside shaking
from the effort of squeezing

my throat until I turned
blue in the face and finally
he let go and I left with

nothing but a pair of blue
jeans, huddled here turning
blue as the night chill

comes on, night coming
to hide the guarded faces
of those who hear and know

and do nothing but sit behind
windows translucent-blue
with age and wear

and hope that someone,
somewhere, sometime
will do more than hope.

(Jazz) Note To Myself

All a musician can do is to get closer
to the sources of nature, and so feel
that he is in communion with the natural laws.
—John Coltrane

I don’t want to be
the typical doleful
poet, perpetual
frown, in-drawn,

soul-withered whether
or not the weather’s
fine, hearing
every song

in a minor key—
so get over yourself,
play the changes,
sing fortississimo,

head bop
to the jazz of life
ringing out
in earth, creek, and sky.