Today I came across a poem I wrote when I first discovered jazz. I was a junior in college, a dreamer, and a sensitive girl. Jazz was something that attracted all parts of my complicated self. At this point, no other art form had ever had that much of an impression on me. Almost ten years have passed since I put pen to paper for this poem.
And even as I cast my dusted off poem into cyberspace, John Coltrane lights my way...
Night Falls on the dusky swing of the music, as the lone horn heats my blood like the finest bourbon. The golden tune strokes my fears and loneliness into submission. The intoxicating voice offers me a dance, and I accept as we sway with the moonbeams...far away from people and responsibilities outside my door.
Sultry heat weaves into the music, casting a spell over the dimly lit room. I lean my head back, closing languid eyes, seeing nothing...hearing only the bass drum of my heart in time with the lush tunes I am breathing in and out.
The night and the soft music resume their love affair and I am glad just to feel the passionate heat. Nothing exists but the pulse of the melodic tones...not the past or future or love or hate-only the rush of the music that brings my blood to a slow boil, as I stretch out on my bed...allowing that simmering feeling to leave everything behind in its wake.
The moon glides stealthily across the sky, its inky partner -night- creeps up behind. I am oblivious to the chase above me, my toe tapping as Louie croons to the reddest corner of my heart.
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