Saturday, February 26, 2011



celebrating her death every July 17

I write jazz poetry

improvising my words to her burned voice

beside her mournful burnt candle

soulful in her spoon and magic needle

under siege from another lost love

a mystery lady day seeking freedom

from the trees that bear no fruit

and the blood stains on the leaves

from the black bodies hanging from trees

singing her encore Strange Fruit

Billie Holiday


Anonymous said...

A neat threnody for the tragic Billie, Wayne.

Tumblewords: said...

Raw images add to the mourn of this poem that celebrates a truly memorable voice. Wonderful piece.

flaubert said...

Beautifully said Wayne. She certainly died
long before her time.


SandyCarlson said...

Beautiful, raw, gripping. Totally amazing.

Deb said...

Wow, Wayne. This is incredible. Full and rich, fragrant and ragged.

Strummed Words said...

Powerful images. A nice tribute to the Jazz Lady.