Poem for The Oliver Jones Trio at the Jazz Bistro 11/24/2016

Poetry is Jazz, the words we don’t say.

Missing beats and rhythms of fractured minds –

Playing the tunes that hang between our words

But the truth is, nobody listens to jazz anymore.


Rhythm, deviation, improvisation.

Squeeze tight, the world slipping between fingers

If you want for want for want, don’t say words.

Nobody cares about our missing words.


Poets and players matter to nobodies.

For life is about the notes we don’t play.

Should I say, everything will be okay


Repetition, rhythm, meter, scale.

Sifting in the dark, old scratches sing sweet,

In tune on page, nobodies have it all.


Nobodies care about the missing notes

Nobodies’ got about the words we didn’t say

Repetition, improvisation, end.